Spy Games (10 page)

Addis Ababa, Ethiopia

“Hoddinott.”

“It’s Philip. Mangan.”

“It’s very late.”

“I know, I’m sorry. It’s urgent.”

“Well?”

“Something you need to see.”

A pause.

“Can it wait until tomorrow?”

“No.”

“Is this for a story? You’re filing?”

“This is… something else.”

“You’re sure.”

“I’m afraid I am, yes.”

Mangan heard a breath at the other end of the phone.

“I’ll come and pick you up at your flat.”

Mangan walked to the window. The white car was still there.

“No. Come to Mauritius Street, corner of Pushkin Street.”

Another pause. Hoddinott spoke slowly.

“Are we quite sure?”

“Sure enough.”

A sigh.

“All right.” Hoddinott hung up.

Mangan put the two pages back in their envelope, and then, for some reason, in a polyethelene bag. He put the bag in a money belt, which he strapped around his waist under his shirt. He put on a dark jacket and a floppy sun hat to cover his hair. Leaving the lights on, he slipped out of the front door and crawled along the landing, below the level of the concrete balustrade, the floor cool and filthy against his hands. Once in the stairwell, covered from view, he ran two steps at a time to the ground floor. It was midnight now; the streets still thronged with people, shadows, snatches of music, cigarette smoke on the air. He walked to the rear of the building, pushed open a peeling wooden door that squealed in objection, stepped out into a filthy courtyard; the rustle of rats amid the rubbish bins, a stench of rot. He walked along the exterior wall in the darkness, slipped into an alleyway and stood, breathing hard.
Philip Mangan once again turns operational. Bravely crawls from apartment for no discernible reason
. He could just see the rear end of the sedan, still static. He waited. No one came. He circled around the block, away from the car, and made for Mauritius Street.
Philip Mangan, secret agent, prepares to meet British Intelligence, make fool of self.
Jesus Christ.

Oxford

Kai sat on the grass in the quad under limpid sunlight. Grandpa’s memoir was becoming portentous, working up to something.

Kai stopped reading, a memory billowing upward, breaking the surface.

His grandfather and his father, at a table strewn with the remains of a meal, dirty crockery, chopsticks, chicken bones, the air thick with cigarette smoke. They are looking at photographs, tiny black and whites. They are intent on the pictures, which have something to do with the war. Kai, a boy, walks around the table to them, asks to see the photographs. His grandfather waves him away and says, “You wouldn’t understand.” And in that instant a child’s realization takes hold that these two men have in common lived experience of
great profundity. They have seen war and revolution. They have seen their country transform itself from bleak and bitter privation to the glossy prosperity of today. They have in common a shared knowledge that he, with his expensive education, his spoiled ways, will never possess.

He thought for a moment about these distant men, then read on.

Pages of suffocating pap about his grandfather’s conversion to communism, told in treacly anecdotes of kind-hearted, gravel-voiced cadres correcting his mistakes and enlightening him as to the realities of landlordism. Grandpa was reborn, and in a sort of salvation, sent back to his home province, Shaanxi. He ended up in Yan’an, the redoubt of the Communist movement, Mao’s headquarters. There, for the duration of the war, he was assigned to the communications department. He watched as the Party’s technicians, advised by an affable, absent-minded Englishman, built China’s first international broadcast service. They strung copper wire between two mountain tops for an antenna, and sent out news bulletins in Morse, with no idea if anyone was listening. Crucially, Grandpa tinkered with radios and learned how to lay telephone cable, how to splice it when it was cut.

Kai dropped the book on the grass and dozed.

Addis Ababa, Ethiopia

Hoddinott came in a white SUV, bouncing in and out of the potholes beneath the dim streetlights. The car slowed. Mangan stepped from a doorway, jogged across cracked, uneven pavement, dodging passersby. Hoddinott saw him and stopped. He climbed in. Music was playing—thick, heavy, classical music, Mozart or something, music for all frequencies. Joanna was in the back wearing a fleece, stony-faced.

“Phone,” said Hoddinott. Mangan switched off his mobile, took the battery out, stowed it in the glove compartment.

They drove in silence for a few minutes, Hoddinott checking the mirrors, Joanna turning in her seat, craning her neck. They took the ring road, picked up some speed.

“All right. What was at the flat?” said Hoddinott. He wore a T-shirt, looked dishevelled, as if he’d been in bed.

“Look, I’m not sure, but I think I was being watched.”

“Who?”

“I didn’t go and fucking ask them.”

Hoddinott shook his head.

“It was a car,” said Mangan. “I had a weird encounter with a Chinese guy, and then this car turns up and sits outside my block.”

“Is that it? Is that why we’re here?”

“No. You need to look at these.” Mangan unzipped the money belt, took out the plastic bag, the two sheets of paper.

“Give them to Joanna,” said Hoddinott.

Mangan turned around and handed them to her. She took them, switched on the overhead light.

“What is this?” she said. “I don’t bloody read Chinese.”

“I think it’s an agent report,” said Mangan.

“Oh, an agent report,” said Hoddinott. He raised his voice. “It’s an agent report, Joanna.”

“Well, could you possibly enlighten us as to its contents, Philip?” she said.

He swallowed.

“It says Mat Naim is in Somalia and it gives his exact location. A grid reference.”

Silence.

“Do you know who Mat Naim is?” said Mangan.

“Yes! Yes, I know who Mat fucking Naim is!” Hoddinott shouted. “What do you mean he’s in Somalia?”

Mangan waited a beat. He turned in his seat, spoke to Joanna.

“Your husband’s a bit of a drama queen, isn’t he?”

Joanna leaned forward, and there was a set to her face, a look, that reminded him of someone: another handler, in a different place, at a different time. A woman who’d held herself like a soldier, who’d sent him into China. She’d had the same obdurate, evaluative look, the look that searched for threat.

“Now listen, Philip,” Joanna said. “Just what the hell is going on here? Is this real? Where did you get it? And just so we know, are we playing out some little fantasy here, a bit of attention seeking? Missing us, are you? Want to get back in the game?”

“I’ll tell you…”

“Did we, in fact, just make this whole fucking thing up? What do you think you’re doing, actually?”

“Christ, if I knew what I was doing I wouldn’t be here talking to you two hysterics.”

Hoddinott thumped the steering wheel.

“Tell us where you got this. Now.”

Mangan took a deep breath, slowed his speech down.

“Over the last few weeks, I’ve encountered this Chinese man a number of times. He’s been watching me, somehow. He’s taken photographs and emailed them to me. He’s wanted me to know that I’m being watched.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this?” Hoddinott snapped. “Anything out of the ordinary, I said.”

“I was going to, but there was a bloody great bomb blast, if you remember, which led to a moment of preoccupation.”

Hoddinott pursed his lips, squinted into the oncoming headlights, shadow sliding across his face.

“Go on.”

“Earlier this evening, he turns up again in the bar at the Jupiter Hotel and gives me this. Tells me to report it, but through the right channels. He says it’s for my
guanxi
, my connections.”

“What does that mean?” said Joanna. “Why did he say that?”

“It means he knows. He knows that I’m linked… to you.”

“How?”

“He knows.”

“And did he by any chance offer words of explanation as to why he was peddling this material to you?”

“He said, ‘we have something to contribute.’ Those were his words.”

“So you are suggesting that a Chinese operative has chosen you,
you
, as a channel to contact us, because of your… history?”

“It would be an explanation.”

“I mean rather than going through the proper channels, say, like intelligence agencies usually do when they have crucial, time-sensitive, actionable intelligence to share,” she said.

“I have no idea why he is doing what he’s doing.”

“You haven’t been tarting yourself about, have you, Philip? Showing a bit of leg?”

“I’m a journalist, not a recluse.”

“Jesus Christ,” said Hoddinott.

“I want to speak to Trish,” said Mangan.

“And who might she be, Philip?”

Mangan looked from the car window, saw the darkened city, its millions of buried lives.

“She was my case officer. Before.”

Patterson was eating an egg banjo hurriedly in the staff cafeteria when Hopko leaned over her shoulder.

“It’s time,” was all she said.

Patterson wiped ketchup from her mouth.

“When you’re ready,” said Hopko.

Patterson stood, still chewing, and followed Hopko from the canteen. Hopko walked quickly, her gait assured, polished, that of a politician, or an executive. In her wake, threads of some expensive perfume Patterson did not recognize.

“So can I know what this is about?” said Patterson, catching up.

“Very soon,” said Hopko.

“Am I in trouble again?”

“Not exactly,” said Hopko. She paused, half-smiled. “It seems your man has done it again.”

“What? What man?”

Unexpectedly, Hopko grabbed her upper arm, and Patterson for an instant found herself having to suppress the urge to parry and strike. Hopko steered her into a ladies’ cloakroom, checked quickly to ensure they were alone, and turned to face her. Hopko spoke quietly.

“Philip Mangan.”

Patterson felt a flash of anticipation. She hid it.

“What’s he done?”

“They are going to grill you, Trish. It’s a very tricky situation and they need to decide, fast, what the hell to do. So stay on point, yes? I’ll be with you.”

Patterson nodded. They left the cloakroom and took the lift to the fourth floor in silence. Hopko walked with her into a conference room. The room had the thick air of an all-night session, the table littered with discarded coffee cups, sheaves of paper, computer cables. Two gray-faced men sat jacketless and silent. Patterson recognized them. Weekes, Controller/Counter-terrorism, and Vezza, one of the Targeting Officers in the Africa Controllerate who had lectured on her New Entry Course, young, dark-haired, a wryness to him, a quickness of eye. Vezza smiled, nodded to her. Weekes spoke.

“Trish. Yup. Thanks for coming, especially on a Saturday. We need to talk to you briefly about Philip Mangan. Please sit.”

She sat. Hopko had taken a place at the table.

“You handled Mangan last year, correct? Tell us a bit about him.”

“Some context would be helpful,” said Patterson.

Weekes looked up at her.

“Just talk to us, please. Tell us what he’s like.”

“Well, he’s quietly spoken, retiring, sometimes. Though he can get angry, if he summons the energy. He’s lanky, sort of rangy, tall. He has red hair, which makes him noticeable. He’s disorganized, but he’s not unreliable. He’s very competent in important ways.”

“How? Be specific, please.”

“He knows how to elicit information. He asks questions like a reporter, because he is one. He finds things out very quickly. There were moments during the operation when he really shone. His first operational contact with the asset was remarkable.”

“Did you have a relationship with him?”

“I was his handler, so, yes, I had a relationship.”

“Answer the question.”

“I…”

“What he means is,” said Hopko, her voice tight, “did you screw him?”

Patterson paused, caught herself. They are just trying to unsettle you, she thought.

“No, I did not,” she said brightly.

Weekes was looking at a file.

“What is it that you really want to know?” she said.

“What I really want to know? What I really want to know is if your Mangan is a faker. A pathetic little wannabe.”

There was a silence.

Patterson cleared her throat.

“I don’t know how to respond to that,” she said.

Vezza sighed. He picked up a sheet of paper and slid it across the table to her. It was in Chinese.

“Trish, this came in seven hours ago from Addis station. Mangan passed it to station officers. He fancies it an agent report. A Chinese agent report, if you please. Not that we knew the Chinese had agents like this one, but there you are. And it gives a pinpoint location for Mat Naim, the bomb maker.”

Patterson swallowed.

“What did Mangan say by way of explanation?”

“That he had been targeted,” said Vezza. “A Chinese man in Addis. We don’t know who he is. This man passed him the papers, said to report it to his… what, connection? What was the word, Val?”

Hopko was looking directly at Trish. Those unmoving, brown eyes.

“He said it was for Philip’s
guanxi
,” Hopko said.

Patterson sat very still.

“We have to decide, right now,” said Vezza, “whether we send this on to the Americans.”

“Mat Naim could be long gone by now, and Mangan may be a fabricator,” said Weekes.

Vezza’s voice was raised.

“And he could still
be there.
We are
not
in a position to withhold this.”

“And Mangan is no fabricator,” said Patterson.

“How the hell do you know what Mangan is?” snarled Weekes.

“He has strong instincts. He is a reporter, as well as an agent.”

“He
was
an agent. And he’s not much of a bloody reporter.”

“He is good at gauging these things. If he passed it to station, it means he feels it’s for real.”

“Very bloody civilized of him. That’s enough. Get out,” said Weekes.

Vezza had raised his hands in exasperation. Hopko rose and followed Patterson out of the room. In the corridor, Patterson turned to her, but Hopko spoke first.

“They don’t know what to do, and Weekes seems to have a problem handling stress,” she said, smiling.

“Val,” said Patterson.

“Oh, I know. Sounds familiar, doesn’t it? ‘For his
guanxi
,’” said Hopko.

“What is this?”

“Someone wants to talk. And they are bringing gifts. Wouldn’t you say?”

Patterson just shook her head.

“Tell you one thing, though,” said Hopko, matter-of-factly. “Mangan’s a bloody natural.”

The two pieces of paper were sent two hours later, festooned with caveats. They went via liaison to the National Counter-terrorism Center, just outside Washington DC. There, they created considerable excitement and no small degree of bafflement, given their unusual origins.

But their specificity was very persuasive.

For, it transpired, the Americans had already placed Mat Naim somewhere in the Horn of Africa some twenty-six days previously. Through a hideously expensive and complicated combination of
cyber surveillance—a penetrated laptop—and satellite surveillance, they had him in Zanzibar, arriving by boat. And they had him moving up into Somalia. And there, a local asset in Baraawe, a boat captain, flickered providentially into life, using an encrypted phone to relay the gossip surrounding a farmhouse on the edge of town. A known transit point, this farmhouse.
And now
, said the captain,
movement
. Convoys of SUVs going in and out, deliveries. Extra checkpoints on the roads, dead-eyed boys lounging in pickups, sparked up on
chat,
cradling their AKs
. A frisson in town, you could feel it. Someone big is here.

Finally, the kicker. The captain had heard a fellow sailor refer repeatedly to
al-Malisi
—the Malay.

And now, late in the day, collateral and grid references from a Chinese source via the jolly old Brits. The Chinese appeared to have an asset inside the target’s circle, said the Brits, obliquely. Well, who knew? And a long and fascinating list of phone numbers, some of which matched known numbers for Mat Naim’s southeast Asian handlers.

The numbers were planted in the servers at Fort Meade to see the gossamer web of contacts and associates breathe and grow.

And from there things began to move very quickly, for Mat Naim’s full name already resided in the Disposition Matrix, alongside the contingency plans laid for a moment when he might slip into view. Capture, or kill, said the Matrix.

Within hours, from a small airbase at the edge of a lake in southern Ethiopia, a drone lifted off the tarmac, an MQ-9 Reaper, piloted remotely by an air force officer in Nevada. The officer’s commands took one point two seconds to reach the drone. The officer pointed the drone’s nose southeast. A little more than two hours later, the drone was over the town of Baraawe. It loitered at thirty thousand feet, listened, then eased down to a lower altitude to paint the target.