“Barber was the company commander?” Joe was starting to put the pieces together.
“Yes, Mr. Richards. Major Barber.”
Major Malcolm Barber, an ambitious, physically imposing Black Watch officer with impeccable contacts in the local military, was known to SIS as DICTION. He had been feeding regular gobbets of information to Waterfield and Lenan for three years on the tacit understanding that he would be offered a position within MI6 when he resigned his commission in 1998. To my knowledge he was last seen wandering around the Green Zone in Baghdad, trying to hatch plots against the local insurgency.
“And he believed the story? Got on the phone to Mr. Lodge and had him brought south for questioning?”
“That is correct. Mr. Lodge send a car to Sha Tau Kok. Had to make sure police and immigration know nothing about it. Every detail is in the report.”
Joe thought the whole thing sounded ludicrous and briefly considered the possibility that he was being wound up. Professor of economics? Dawn swims across Dapeng Bay? A defection? It was the stuff of fantasy. Why would Lenan or Waterfield take it seriously? And why would they consider RUN for such a job? Surely by presenting himself to an unidentified eye-eye Joe was running the risk of breaking his cover. If most of his colleagues were up to their eyeballs in port and Stilton at a Stonecutters function, why not keep Wang overnight and have them tackle him in the morning? What was the hurry?
Lee handed the file to Joe, let out an exhausted breath and took a respectful step backwards. It was like marking a change of shift. Joe said, “Thank you,” and sat on the bed. Barber had typed a covering letter, written in a tone which suggested that he shared the broad thrust of Anderson’s conviction. Nevertheless, he had been wise enough to cover his back:
I would be very surprised if Professor Wang turns out to be bona fide, but he is natural defector material, highly intelligent, immense charm and perfect English, clearly knows his way around the Chinese political structure, claims to have been tortured at Prison No. 3 in Urumqi sometime between 1995 and 1996. Has the scars to prove it. At the very least he may have the sort of local information in which HMG might be interested. Suggest you hold him for 24 hours, then we can spit him back to Shenzhen with no awkward questions asked. No harm in finding out what he has to say, etc. Of course always the danger that he might be a double, but that’s your area of expertise. As far as the central claim regarding defection is concerned, I’m afraid I can’t be much help. Wang is a sealed vault on that. Insists on speaking to CP in person. But he hasn’t been difficult about it. In fact, rather grateful to us for “taking him seriously,” etc. Best of luck.
“Has he said anything to you?”
Lee was sipping a glass of tea. Joe’s question caught him off guard.
“About what, Mr. Richards?”
“About anything? About SIS setting up the defection? About swimming to Cambodia?”
“Nothing, sir. We talk about general Chinese political situation, but very little connected to the report. The conversations have been recorded in accordance with instructions from Mr. Lodge.”
“And is that tape still running?”
“The tape is still running.”
Joe gathered his thoughts. He had no experience of this sort of interrogation, only those particular skills of human empathy and intuition which had been recognized, and then nurtured so successfully, by SIS. He had left Isabella alone in a restaurant with two close friends whose good intentions towards his girlfriend he could not guarantee. He was very hot and craved a shower and a fresh set of clothes. It was going to be a long night. He followed Lee into the sitting room.
“Professor Wang, this is Mr. John Richards from Government House. The man I tell you about. He has come to see you.”
Wang had not slept for twenty-four hours and it was beginning to show. The spring had gone out of his step. Rather than leap to his feet with the effervescence that Anderson would have recognized, he lifted himself slowly from an armchair in the corner, took two steps forward and shook Joe Lennox firmly by the hand.
“Mr. Richards. I am very glad to make your acquaintance. Thank you for coming to see me so late at night. I hope I have not been any inconvenience to you or to your organization.”
What can you tell about a person right away? What can you take on trust? That Wang had the face of a man who was decent and courageous? That he looked both sharp and sly? Joe studied the broad, Han features, absorbed the power of the squat, surprisingly fit body and considered that last phrase: “ Your organization.” Did Wang already suspect that he was British intelligence?
“It’s no trouble at all,” he said. “I’ve very much been looking forward to meeting you.”
Wang was wearing the same blue jeans and black shirt into which he had changed on the beach. His tennis shoes were resting on the floor beside the armchair, a pair of grey socks balled into the heels. He looked to have made himself at home. Sadha, the burly Sikh charged with guarding Wang, nodded at Joe and excused himself, following Lee into the kitchen. In time Joe heard the bedroom door clunk shut. The sweat and the humidity of the hot Asian night had combined in the sitting room to leave a stench of work and men and waiting.
“What do you say we get some fresh air in here?”
Wang nodded and turned to open the window. Joe made his way across the room and parted the curtains to help him. It was as if they understood one another. Outside, the still night air remained stubbornly unmoved: no breeze ventured into the room, only the permanent cacophony of traffic and horns. To preserve the take quality of the microphones installed in the safe house, Joe decided to close the window and to begin again. The return of the heat and the silence seemed to act as an ice breaker.
“You are hot,” Wang said. It was a statement more than a question.
“I am hot,” Joe replied. Wang had the sort of face in which a man would willingly confide: eyes without malice, a smile of seductive benevolence. “Are you comfortable? Have you eaten? Is there anything that I can get you before we begin?”
“Nothing, Mr. Richards.” Wang pronounced the name pointedly, as if he knew that it was not Joe’s true identity and wished that they could dispense with the masquerade. “Your colleagues have looked after me far better than I could ever have anticipated. I have nothing but good things to say about British hospitality.”
“Well that’s wonderful.” Joe gestured Wang back into his chair. There was a bottle of Watson’s water resting on a low coffee table between them and he filled two white plastic cups to the rim. Wang leaned forward and accepted the drink with a nod of thanks. Joe settled back into Sadha’s fake leather sofa and wondered how to kick things off. It seemed to be even hotter in the room at this lower level. Why couldn’t Waterfield stretch to a fan? Who was running the safe house? Us or the Americans?
“So I would say that you are a very lucky man, Mr. Wang.”
The professor frowned and a squint of confusion appeared in his eyes.
“How so?”
“You survive a very dangerous swim. You are surprised on the beach not by Hong Kong immigration, who would almost certainly have turned you back to China, but by a British soldier. You claim to have information about a possible defection. The army believes your story, contacts Government House, we send a nice, air-conditioned car to pick you up and less than twenty-four hours after leaving China here you are sitting in a furnished apartment in Tsim Sha Tsui watching Lawrence of Arabia. I’d say that qualifies as luck.”
Wang looked across the room at the small black-and-white television set, now switched off, and his face elasticated into a broad, wise smile. He sipped his water and looked over the cup at Joe. “Seen from that point of view, I of course share your opinion, Mr. Richards. May I ask, what position do you hold within Government House?”
“I am an assistant to Mr. Patten’s senior political adviser.”
“But you are still very young, no? Young enough to have been one of my students, I think.”
“Perhaps,” Joe said. “And you are old enough to have been one of my professors.”
Wang liked that one. The professor’s delighted expression suggested the intense relief of a cultured man who, after a long hiatus, has finally encountered evidence of intelligent conversation.
“I see, I see,” he laughed. “And where did you study, Mr. Richards?”
“Call me John,” Joe said, and felt that there was no harm in adding, “Oxford.”
“Ah, Oxford.” A Super 8 of dreamy spires and pretty girls on bicycles seemed to play behind Wang’s eyes. “Which college, please?”
“I studied Mandarin at Wadham.”
