The Kremlin's Candidate: A Novel by Jason Matthews (27)

An Outhouse Door in a Hurricane

The signal from Boothby’s agent came two days later, sooner than anyone expected. Zhong Jian Fang, Lieutenant General Tan Furen of the PLARF, had landed after midnight at Macao International Airport on a PLA Air Force Xian MA60 short-range turboprop, and had been driven to his usual hotel, the Conrad Macao on the Cotai Strip, one of three luxury hotel-casinos stacked side by side like shimmering neon bookends along the traffic-choked Estrada do Istmo.

General Tan was shown to a VIP suite—his status as a PLA general was subordinate to his casino designation as a high-stakes whale—and after an hour in his room with a favorite escort from South Africa known as “Air Jaws,” went down to the gaming floor where, in the wee hours of the morning, he lost an additional $50,000 at blackjack and fāntān, an obscure Chinese variant of roulette. As usual, his ardor for gaming was suddenly eclipsed by visions of the firing wall, and he summoned Boothby’s agent to his suite at 0500 hours to urgently beg him to arrange a meeting with his Russian “friend” who, the general hoped, would agree to become his benefactor. There was need for haste, the general blubbered, because casino officials that evening had displayed a marked reluctance to honor his gambling markers, an ominous indicator that scandal was around the corner.

Boothby’s agent—his cryptonym was CAESAR—had immediately texted yǒu yuán qiān lǐ lái xiāng huì to Bunty’s nonattributable ops cell phone, the Chinese proverb meaning “Fate brings people together no matter how far apart they may be.” It was the signal that the meeting with the general at Fernando’s Restaurant on Hac Sa Beach was on for tonight at 1900. A flurry of ops cables at 0600 local to Canberra (where it was 0800) and Langley (1800 the day before) kept the encrypted channels glowing cherry red throughout the morning. ASIS South China Chief FIGJAM dictated a brace of niggling, futile cables warning about “ambush and provocation,” while CIA Chief of China Ops Elwood Holder sent a one-line message of “Good luck, good hunting.” Not to be outdone, CIA Chief of Counterintelligence Simon Benford released a two-word cable that simply said, “Scare Me.” Game on.

Bunty and Nate met at the Macao ferry terminal in Kowloon at 1000 and boarded the stubby burgundy-colored hydrofoil for the hour-long dash past sugarloaf islands of the South China Sea, their peaks cloaked in a humid haze. The two officers slipped on board in the midst of a crowd of chattering Chinese day-trippers, and sat apart on airliner seats with cloth covers on the headrests, listening to the grommets in the overhead panels chittering with the vibration, as the hydrofoil skimmed over a dead-flat sea, throwing a rooster tail of white spray behind it. Nate wore a lightweight summer suit and a shirt with a long pointed collar; a florid necktie in a vertigo-inducing pattern favored by fashion-challenged Russian officials worldwide was in his pocket. He had slicked his dark hair down with a perfumed pomade supplied by Marigold, and wore wire-rimmed eyeglasses with lightly smoked lenses. The light disguise would break up his profile.

They took care to exit the Macao terminal in the middle of the same gaggle of tourists, and walked several blocks before flagging a random cruising taxi on the street. With Bunty speaking passable Chinese, they hired the driver for the day, and proceeded on a meandering sightseeing tour, crisscrossing the thirty-square-kilometer island of Taipa looking for indicators of trailing surveillance. They stopped at the Macao Giant Panda Pavilion, took a winding mountain road through the rain forest to the A-Ma Cultural Village, then angled southwest to the Portuguese colonial village of Coloane, and walked among the pastel villas and storefronts, ending up in the quaint Marques Square, paved with cobblestones of black and white set in a wavy pattern, a vestige of the colony’s maritime past. They stepped into the cool recesses of the canary-yellow chapel of St. Francis Xavier, the royal-blue front apse painted with clouds and seagulls. Nate peeked out a window and snapped his fingers softly to attract Bunty’s attention.

A short Chinese man dressed in black slacks and white shirt loitered under an arch of the flanking colonnade in the square, the first “possible” they had seen the entire day. So far, inconclusive, but time to stretch him a little to see what he’d do. They meandered through the narrow streets of the village, executed two natural reverses, and entered three separate stores, but the man did not reappear. Was he a spotter? Was a bigger team watching from the wings? Were they stuffed in a bottle and didn’t know it? How could coverage be that good? This was the familiar hell of surveillance detection: not seeing anything, not knowing. Keep going.

Back in the taxi they drove around the southern end of the island, past the black volcanic beaches on sweeping horseshoe bays, then off the main road again onto a rutted winding road up to the A-frame Chapel of Our Lady of Pain. “Fucking appropriate,” Bunty muttered, his shirt stuck to his back. Unlike the Panda Pavilion, this mountaintop clearing was deserted. No vehicles appeared, no pedestrians came out of the trees. Leaving the taxi driver in the parking lot, Bunty and Nate followed an overgrown and curving cement walkway into the stinking jungle, and in three minutes came to a clearing and a cluster of five small derelict houses in the Portuguese colonial style with columns and porticoes, and a magnificent view of the sea below. Broken stone stairways led up to crumbling porches and fallen lintels. Ragged window frames were choked with jungle creeper. The ruined interiors were green with moss and dripping in the sour air. The middle house in the semicircle of the five villas had a splintered balustrade along the once-elegant porch, rusted iron poking out of the flaking cement. A large ornamental stone urn stood to one side of the splintered front door, its matching twin long since tumbled and smashed. Bunty and Nate looked carefully into the deep urn, then looked at each other. “Dead drop,” whispered Nate, and Bunty nodded. They now had at least one Macao drop site for use with the general.

Back in the taxi, Bunty asked about the five abandoned villas in the jungle. This prompted an extended explanation in agitated Chinese from the driver, who several times turned around to look at his passengers, usually as the taxi was entering a hairpin curve, and was accompanied by a violent brushing of hands, and a remarkably loud pantomime of violent sneezing. Bunty sat back in the seat and laughed.

“What’s so funny,” said Nate. “What did he say?”

“Jesus Christ, the bloody place was a leper colony in the twenties,” said Bunty. “The driver suggested we wash our hands before dinner.”

“Dobry vecher, good evening,” said Nate, behind his smoked lenses. “My name is Dolgorukov.” He felt like Peter Lorre in a noir film, holding a cigarette between thumb and forefinger.

General Tan sat down in the nearly empty dining room of Fernando’s Restaurant. The twelve tables in the room were covered in red cloth and set with terra-cotta plates and big-handled water pitchers. The high-backed chairs were of woven rattan and creaky on the red-tile floor. Bunty sat at a table at the other end of the room, behind the general and in sight of Nate. They had agreed on two simple signals: if Bunty tapped the face of his wristwatch it would mean Nate should bring the dinner to a conclusion in the next fifteen to twenty minutes; if Bunty, however, mimed snapping a chopstick in his hands, it would mean some sort of emergency and for Nate to instantly break off contact and physically hustle the general out the French doors, across the pergola-covered flagstone patio, and onto Hac Sa Beach, where Bunty’s agent CAESAR hopefully would bundle him into his car and clear the area.

After an interminable day of touring in 85 degree heat with 90 percent humidity, the officers were tired and sticky, but provisionally satisfied that they were black. They had paid off the driver, and sat out of sight on a bench by the beach, waiting for the dinner hour. They reviewed what they had minutely discussed several days before in the Australian Consulate. In his persona as a exploitative SVR officer, Nate had to strike a delicate balance—he had to be sympathetic and mindful of the importance of letting the general save face, while simultaneously informing him with unalloyed Russian coarseness that financial deliverance came with a cost. Nate’s “superiors” would release the money only on receipt of classified information about the PLA Rocket Forces, and only after that information had been validated by experts in Moscow.

Bunty’s agent CAESAR had been coached to suggest to the general that a preliminary offering of PLARF secrets would not only demonstrate good faith and pave the way to a deal, but also eliminate dangerous delays. “Qiān lǐ sòng é máo,” CAESAR had told the general, “bring a swan’s feather from a thousand miles away,” an insignificant gift that nevertheless declares the sincerity of the sender. The general, now approximately $1.1 million in the hole, got the message.

Nate had also memorized a short list of priority requirements drafted by Defense Department analysts on the PLA Rocket Forces, an alphabet-soup list of Chinese weapons the Pentagon worried about most: the CJ-10 long-range cruise missile with its shark-like pectoral fins; the developmental WU-14 hypersonic glide vehicle; the stubby JL-2 submarine-launched ballistic missile; and the twenty-meter-long DF-41 ICBM, as big as a factory chimney when upright on its mobile launcher.

There had been vigorous debate between CIA and ASIS leadership on the best way to “set the hook” to ensure the general would become a regular reporting source. FIGJAM insisted that only $500,000 be given to the general initially, to maintain positive control. China Ops Chief Holder argued that it was critical that the general’s malfeasance be covered as quickly as possible: “If his misuse of official funds is discovered, his career as a reporting source will come to an immediate, kinetic conclusion. As for positive control,” said Holder, “he’s stolen PLA money; he’s had undeclared contact with what he thinks is Russian intelligence; he’s accepted our money; and he’s provided classified information in return. The hook is well and truly set. He’s in no position to renege on the agreement. And Nash will not so gently remind him of that fact. We can give him the whole suitcase of money.” With the clock ticking, FIGJAM in the end had reluctantly agreed, but not before saying it would not be his fault if there was a flap.

General Tan Furen was short and stocky, with the ruddy complexion of a Southerner from Guangzhou. His face was flat and rugged, with a broad nose and a thin-lipped mouth. His jet-black hair was clipped short up the sides and finished in a thick flattop, which accentuated his already square head. He was dressed in an ill-fitting suit, a starched white shirt, and a plain red necktie. He held the edge of the table in both hands and looked at Nate, clearly struggling with a situation in which he was subordinate to a much younger man.

“Our mutual friend tells me you have met with misfortune not entirely of your own making,” said Nate, in flowery Russian, keeping his voice low so the general would have to listen carefully. “It is a shame that a leader of your rank and prestige has been put in this position by unscrupulous usurers. I agreed to meet with you to offer any assistance, and to state my great admiration for your country.” General Tan nodded once, his eyes searching Nate’s face. Saving face. It’s not your fault, you old cockchafer.

“You are able to help me?” said the general.

Nate poured a glass of water for the general from the pitcher, an act of respect. “My superiors in Moscow charged me with finding a solution to your troubles,” said Nate.

“You are aware of the amount?”

Nate nodded, sucking his teeth as if bored. “What currency is preferable?” said Nate. “Renminbi, euros, dollars?” General Tan blinked. This was too easy. He had expected the Russian would attempt li yong ruo dian, to exploit his vulnerabilities.

“Dollars would serve,” said the general, quietly. The exchange rate with Chinese yuan would net him a small surplus for his own pocket.

“I will communicate your request with the Center,” said Nate, grandly. “We could meet again in, say, thirty days.” The general’s head snapped up. Now comes business, now comes the snaffle bit in the mouth.

“Thirty days!” said General Tan. “That is unacceptable. I mean to say, it is problematic. Time is of the essence in this situation.”

A waiter brought two heaping plates of ayam masak madu, Indonesian red honey chicken, fragrant with curry, ginger, and cinnamon, and two bottles of ice-cold Zhujiang beer. Ignoring the general, Nate/Dolgorukov began eating, mopping up the spicy sauce with a heel of country bread. His plate untouched, General Tan watched Nate, a line of sweat on his upper lip. The waiter hovered, and asked whether there was something wrong with the general’s food. The general snapped in Chinese, telling him to get the hell away from the table. He took a deep breath and fought the inclination to bellow at Nate.

“You see, Comrade, I am concerned that with the passing of time certain irregularities may be discovered. I was led to believe that a speedy resolution of the situation was possible.” General Tan wiped the sweat off his lip. Nate put down his fork.

“A speedy resolution?”

“Yes,” said the general. “My position is somewhat precarious.”

“I understand that,” said Nate. “And I am confident that quick action is possible if I with confidence can assure the Center that a mutually beneficial protocol can be agreed upon.” He was being as ponderous in Russian as he could. Tan’s Russian was basic, at best.

“It can, it can,” said the general. Moment of truth.

“You are currently assigned to the People’s Liberation Army Rocket Forces?”

“Yes,” said General Tan, softly. He knew what was coming.

“There is great interest in Moscow regarding the PLARF,” said Nate. “The disposition of assets, research and development, strategic doctrine. I could go on, but I’m hoping that you can discreetly provide authoritative information, captioned information, on topics of interest to Moscow.”

“That is easily done,” said the general, clearly uncomfortable. “Anticipating such a request, I took the liberty of bringing along a sample.” He took a plastic cartridge out of his inside coat pocket and slid it across the tablecloth to Nate. “This is a magnetic storage tape from the archives, a broad overview of the unit’s operations, leadership, and weapons development programs.” Nate had seen this kind of data storage cartridge before—a sticker along the edge read IBM 3590.

“This is a welcome and farsighted offering,” said Nate, putting the cartridge in his pocket. “Do you need it returned to you?” The general shook his head. “Of course our experts in Moscow will wish to evaluate the information.” Just in case you’re trying to peddle chicken feed, you old rhinoceros.

“I believe your people in Moscow will be pleased with the contents,” said the general. “There is data on weapons storage and management at 22 Base in the Qinling mountain range in Qinghai Province, near the city of Xian.” Jesus Christ, thought Nate, Chinese nuke storage. “But forgive me if I repeat that time is critical.” As if he had heard, Bunty at the far end of the room tapped the face of his wristwatch. They had been in the restaurant for ninety minutes; time to separate.

“Experts in Moscow will immediately review the contents of the tape,” said Nate finishing the last of his beer. “If it is satisfactory, I will indicate as such to our mutual friend and meet you at the pavilion at the north end of this beach tomorrow evening with a roller suitcase that you will find weighs quite a lot. At that time we will discuss the manner in which we continue to meet, the perishable information—not archival—I require, and the substantial salary I will propose to the Center, in addition to this “introductory bonus,” for your continued friendship. Is that satisfactory?” The general nodded, on one hand relieved that he probably would now avoid charges of corruption and malfeasance, but on the other hand swallowing the leaden realization that in the course of a spicy chicken dinner, he had become a traitor to the State.

That was how Lieutenant General Tan Furen of the PLARF—jointly encrypted SONGBIRD by exultant Headquarters managers in Canberra and Langley—became the most prolific reporting source on the Chinese military in the history of China Operations. FIGJAM was put on the short list for selection as ASIS deputy director general; ASIS case officer George “Bunty” Boothby was given a two-grade promotion and became engaged to Marigold Dougherty; CIA’s Hong Kong Station received a unit citation; and Nathaniel Nash was sentenced to death by the politburo of the Communist Party of China.

Trouble was, Nash didn’t know it yet.

“Is that a real diamond?” asked Nate, holding Marigold’s hand up in front of his face to admire her ring. “What’s that discoloration inside the stone? Have you taken the ring in for an independent appraisal?” Marigold laughed, and Bunty flipped him the bird.

It had been ten days since Macao. They were having drinks in the rooftop bar of the Felix Restaurant, an elevated circular bar with beige padded bench seats and curved windows looking out onto Hong Kong Harbor, to celebrate the successful turnover of SONGBIRD to a joint ASIS/CIA internal handling team that had successfully deployed the new BRAINBAG satellite communications system to enable SONGBIRD to transmit gigabytes of information from the comfort of his new Beijing office in Zhōnghuá Rénmín Gònghéguó Guófángbù, the Ministry of National Defense of the People’s Republic of China, where he had been newly assigned inspector general, a position that gave him unlimited access to every facet of the Chinese military. Not that it mattered, but General Tan continued to believe he was reporting the intelligence to fraternal communist allies in Moscow—even the BRAINBAG burst transmitter had switches and buttons labeled in Cyrillic.

The timely introduction of a satcom system had thankfully relieved Nate of the handling responsibilities in personally meeting SONGBIRD in Macao. Nate planned to finish his paperwork and conclude his TDY assignment to Hong Kong in a week. The future was unclear: he could return to London to finish his tour, or wait for a separate assignment, or be stuck in the Puzzle Palace. It would be up to Simon Benford. With the recruitment of SONGBIRD, Nate’s stock with Benford presumably would improve. Could that mean he would be reassigned to the DIVA case? Would Benford let him see Dominika? Or would the quarantine continue, with his being assigned somewhere far from Russian operations to preclude even the remote possibility of a reunion with her? He thought idly of requesting a posting to a domestic Station—flashes of Agnes in a hammock in Palos Verdes—or perhaps losing himself in South America Division.

He saw Marigold’s face change, and turned to see assistant general manager Grace Gao standing beside their table. She was dressed in a clingy black ribbed knit dress with a high collar and fitted long sleeves, which revealed only slightly less of her longbow curves than had she dipped herself naked in chocolate sauce. Her hair was up, revealing delicate silver huggie hoop earrings, and she wore a vintage Chinese silver cuff studded with salmon coral stones on her left wrist. Her glossy lips were the color of pink grapefruit.

“Do I see a ring? Is this a celebration?” said Grace. “Permit me to offer you a bottle of champagne.” She nodded to the bartender behind the doughnut-shaped bar, then looked at Nate. “I’m glad to see you again at the Peninsula. Please let me know if you need anything, Mr. . . .” Nate smiled.

“Nash, but please call me Nate. The hotel is magnificent,” he said. “You do a great job running it.”

Grace smiled. “We’re very proud of the ‘Pen,’ ” she said. “Are you aware of its history? Perhaps I can give you a tour someday.”

“I’d like that,” said Nate.

“Call my assistant anytime,” said Grace. She smiled at the table, turned, and walked out of the bar. Utter silence. Marigold and Bunty were staring at Nate, trying not to laugh.

“What?” said Nate.

“Quite a change of behavior,” said Marigold. “She suddenly likes you.”

Nate spread his arms. “Not hard to believe. She finally came to her senses, that’s all.”

“That’d be a cheeky root, mate,” said Bunty.

“Which means . . .”

“Having sex when it’s a really bad idea,” said Marigold.

“I’m thinking about recruiting her, not seducing her,” said Nate, all lofty and righteous.

“I thought it was the same thing,” said Marigold.

“Look, Nate,” said Bunty. “I can’t put my finger on it, but there’s something shonky about young Grace; she could be a bunny boiler, like in that crazy girlfriend movie, what was it, Something Attraction? Why risk it? You’re leaving Honkers soon; let me introduce you to Rhonda from our office. Registry clerk. Red hair. Lots of fun. Bangs like a dunny door in a gale.”

Marigold groaned, shook her head, and held out her hand, wiggling her ring finger. “Men are pigs. Take your ring back.”

Bunty ignored her.

“Just have a care,” said Bunty. “That’s all I’m saying.”

“I’m just thinking about work,” said Nate.

“Again with the American slang,” said Marigold.