Spy Games (33 page)

The rapping on the steel gate made Patterson jump. She leaped from the bed and hurtled down the stairs.

Cliff was there before her. He held his hands up to her.

“I’ll deal with it,” she said.

“Let me,” said Cliff.

Irritated, she snapped at him.

“I will deal with it.”

“Boss, let me. I look the part.”

He was fresh from a shower in baggy shorts, flip-flops, a vest which showed his shoulders and arms, thought Patterson, to alarmingly good advantage. A prominent clavicle, smooth chest.

She breathed out.

“All right. Go.”

He nodded, as if accepting an order. Deftly done, she thought.

More rapping, loud, urgent.

He ambled across the courtyard, dragging his feet, slowing everything down. From outside, a voice in broken English, the accent Thai.

“Open, please. Police here.”

“Coming, coming,” said Cliff. Patterson watched from the doorway.

He worked the bolt on the door, creaked the gate open about a foot. Patterson could see a Thai police officer on the other side, the tight brown uniform, the cap. Cliff spoke, a tone of languid Kiwi surprise.

“Well, hello, officer.”

“Sorry to disturb.”

“Not a problem. What can I do to help?”

“We receive report that you are staying here, this house, but not registered with police.”

“Not registered with police,” said Cliff, blankly.

“Yes. All aliens must register with police. Local police station. You rent this big villa, so you must register with police.”

“Oh,” said Cliff. The police officer had one hand on the gate, was pushing it open. He was plump, bull-necked. He looked straight at Patterson, then scanned the courtyard. Behind him, Patterson saw a squad car and another, unmarked car. At its wheel, a man in plainclothes, craning his neck to see into the courtyard.

“Well,” said Cliff. “I do apologize. I had no idea. We will come and register at the police station tomorrow. What time should we come?”

“OK, so we come in please.” The policeman gestured.

Cliff waited a beat. The man was getting out of the unmarked car. And another. Both in jeans, polo shirts. One chewed gum.

“Would you like us to come now, to register?”

The policeman just gestured with his chin. Cliff opened the gate. The policeman walked into the courtyard and the two in plainclothes moved to come in behind him, but Cliff had taken a chance and shut the gate on them. The police officer glanced over his shoulder for them, but he was alone. He frowned, looked at Cliff, but something in Cliff’s movement, his face, dissuaded the officer from complaining.

“How long you stay?” he said.

“Six days,” said Cliff, with a smile, making it up.

“Passport.” Patterson handed him her passport. Cliff walked into
the house, took his from a table, came back out. The officer gave them both a cursory glance.

“I look inside.”

“Be my guest,” said Cliff, a look to Patterson. Nothing to be done. The policeman walked into the villa, through the living room, stuck his head in the kitchen, then looked down the gloomy passage toward the annex. Where a small arsenal, lovingly cleaned and oiled, was laid out on the bed.

They came back once more as the evening progressed and the cell darkened, kicking the door open, the Clown barking at him. The Clown hauled him to a sitting position, didn’t take the cuff off this time. They made him kneel and tap in the passwords one finger at a time. Rocky stood over him smoking, trembling. Nothing from London. Nothing from Patterson. Rocky turned and paced, one hand in the air gesturing his fury. He spun and shouted at Mangan.

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why they not answer?”

“I don’t fucking know. Let me message them again.”

“What will you say?”

“I’ll… I’ll ask for clarification. Something.”

“Tell them they must respond.”

“I will tell them.”

Rocky was looking straight at him, exhaling smoke through his nose. He pointed at Mangan.

“I am disappointed,” he said.

“Not as disappointed as I am. But what did you think they were going to do?”

“I think they should cooperate.”

“Why? Why would they cooperate with you?”

Rocky’s eyes were widening. He leaned over as he spoke, as if forcing the words from his body.

“Because we are the future. We can be.
We
can be the face of China.”

He was breathing heavily.

“A
humane
future. You know that word, humane? In Chinese we say
ren
.”

He had steadied himself, lifted a finger.

“From Confucius.”

He was rubbing his eyes, mumbling.

“Very important, this
ren
. It is how the ruler must rule. With
humaneness
. Just like the parent with the child. Like that.”

You are repeating yourself, thought Mangan. You are falling back on what you think you know. You, the attacker, the insurgent, are now on the defensive. He shifted on the concrete floor.

“Let me message them.”

Rocky’s head had fallen, he was staring at his feet.

“Nothing to say.”

“When’s the General coming?”

“He’s not coming.”

Mangan swallowed.

“Why not? Why is he not coming?”

“Because he is too good. He gives himself for this. And we have failed here.”

“How have we failed?”

“Because of your people!” Rocky was screaming now, the muscles in his neck taut as cable. Mangan could smell him, saw his spittle flecking the air. “Your people. They betray us, maybe. Did they?”

Mangan turned his head away.

“What are you going to do?”

“What should we do?” Rocky spat. “What we do with you? Shoot you maybe?”

And as he spoke the Clown gestured for them to be quiet. And they found themselves listening to the
whump whump
of rotor blades pulsing on the air.

The Thai police officer walked purposefully down the passageway, the light failing now. Cliff was behind him, moving easily in a way
Patterson knew well, the shoulders dropped, arms loose, hands open, ready to move very fast, very hard.

The police officer slowed before he reached the back room, put his hand on the butt of his sidearm. Patterson saw him, silhouetted against the light, poke his head around the doorway, then enter the room. Cliff stayed close to him, Patterson followed.

The police officer had stopped in the middle of the room, hand still on his weapon. Mac lay on one of the beds, reading a magazine.

No sign of the weapons, the ammunition, the body armor, the duffel bags. A faint smell of oil on the air, windows open.

Mac lowered the magazine, glanced up at the police officer, a surly expression.

“What’s this?” he said.

Cliff cleared his throat.

“The officer says we need to register. Which of course we shall. At the station. He is just checking up on the house.”

Mac looked the officer up and down, nodded, went back to his magazine.

“You stand up,” said the officer.

Mac lowered the magazine again, slowly swung his legs off the bed, stood. His every gesture exuded knowingness, one-upmanship. Why do they do this, these men? thought Patterson. Why do they act out these little scripts?

“Passport.”

Mac walked to the end of the bed, a half-smile, reached into a jacket pocket, gave him the passport. The policeman took it, barely glanced at it, threw it on the bed.

“What you are all here for?”

“Vacation,” said Patterson. “We are going to do some trekking, in the hills.”

The policeman looked at her, then walked toward her.

“You are going on trek,” he said.

“Yes,” she said.

He turned to Cliff.

“You married to her?” he said. “This woman?”

“No,” said Cliff. “Just friends.”

“Girlfriend, yes? You have a nice black girlfriend?”

Cliff gave the warmest of smiles, said nothing.

“What are you doing here?” said the policeman. Cliff shrugged.

“Like she said, officer. Holiday. Some trekking.”

The officer walked to a sideboard, ran his finger along its surface, lifted the finger to his nose, sniffed. He walked to the bathroom, looked inside. Then, without a word, he left the room, walked quickly back to the living room, out into the courtyard, to the gate. He opened it. The two other men were waiting for him. They spoke Thai. One of the two men, the gum-chewer, was insistent, snappish, tried to pressure the policeman to do something. But the officer shrugged, pushed past them and walked back to his car. Patterson, mouth dry, walked over to close the gate, and the gum-chewer gave her a look of pure hatred.

“
Huanying lai Taiguo
,” she said, quietly. Welcome to Thailand. The man, hearing Mandarin, looked at her sharply, shook his head and went back to his car. She closed the gate.

“Who were they? The other two?” said Cliff.

“China,” she said. Cliff arched his eyebrows.

Inside, Mac stood waiting for them, a triumphant look on his face. He made a magician’s
ta-da!
gesture.

“Where are they?” she said.

“In the duffel bags and over the back wall, sharpish,” he said, pleased with himself.

She forced herself to give him a nod of acknowledgment.

“We leave. As soon as it’s dark. Start loading,” she said, too curt, too quick.

They went to the back of the house. The bags had fallen into a thicket of some ferocious gorse-like plant, and Cliff picked his way through the thorns, swearing. They loaded the weapons into the SUV. Mac insisted on having one of the MP7s under the driver’s seat. The darkness was coming on. Patterson jogged the road outside their
house, half a mile in both directions, looking for surveillance. She couldn’t see it, though she was sure it was there. She stopped in the road, listened to the whir of the insects, the jabbering of some night bird in the trees, felt the warm movement of air against the sweat on her face.

A Chinese team was in bed with Thai law enforcement.

So
move
, now. Be a hard target.

Mangan, if he is to get out, will come by the river, or by road through Myanmar. If he sets foot in China, it is over for him.

She bent double, breathed deep, tried to still the quaking in her chest. What was this? Fear? She’d never been frightened before a fight. Fear of failure? Perhaps. Fear of inadequacy. That’s the fatal kind. She’d seen it in soldiers, in Iraq. Wild-eyed second lieutenants way out of their depth as the smoke cleared and some boy bled out by the side of the road. They’d make absurd decisions, demand their orders be followed.

She jogged back to the villa.

They sat in the kitchen, ate instant noodles and drank coffee in silence. Just before midnight, they drove slowly out of the gate, lights off, Mac at the wheel, Patterson with a satnav in the front seat, Cliff in the back with a pair of night-vision goggles. They bumped onto the road and made their way northeast, towards the Mekong.

Rocky and the Clown moved for the cell door, ran out into the corridor. The Clown turned and slammed the door shut. The noise of rotors had grown louder. Mangan estimated them to be a mile away. Had they landed? He sat, his back against the wall, listening. He raised his swollen hands, the cuff biting, placed them against his lips. They pulsed with heat. He wondered if they were infected. The skin on his fingers felt distended and tight. It hurt to move them. He wondered at his own deterioration. They had done so little to him, but his strength was fading astoundingly quickly, replaced by something timorous and shaky. He forced himself to stand, tried to get ahold of himself. He jumped up and down, rolled his head on his shoulders, shook out his legs, breathed.

He listened again. The rotors were still chattering. He walked to the door and kicked it, kicked it again, put his shoulder into it. The door juddered but did not give.

And then the door was flying open and there was Rocky. He wore a golfing jacket, a backpack slung over his shoulder, his sunglasses on, failing to mask the panic. He ran to Mangan, an old man’s splay-footed run. He took Mangan’s arm, spoke in Mandarin, and Mangan smelled the alcohol on him.

“Listen. We leave now. And we go to your people. Yes.”

“Tell me what is happening.”

“We leave. I have a way.”

“You need to tell me.”

“Two helicopters. I don’t know. They are coming. Someone is coming.”

“Who?”

Rocky’s face creased in an agony of frustration.

“I don’t
know
. How they find us?”

“You’re not making sense. For God’s sake. Who has come?”

“Listen to me. This will make sense. We go now, back to the river. I have a way. We go to your Service. I come with you. I have so much to give. So much.
Networks
, Philip. I give them to you, to your Service. Whatever they want. You remember? The J-20? How we stole the skin from the Americans? Yes? I can tell you. I can tell them. The agents, everything. Protocols, finance.
Everything!
But if we stay here, I think the next ten, fifteen minutes become quite… unpredictable.” He gave a ghost of a grin, but the look in his eyes, behind the shades, was imploring. Mangan saw the pulse in his neck, the sweat on his lip.

“Get me out of these.” He put his hands out.

Rocky looked confused, pulled at the plastic cuff, then fumbled in his backpack, brought out a sponge bag, a pair of nail clippers, and worked at it until it snapped. Mangan tried to flex his fingers, but they were bloated, tight.

Rocky looked like an expectant child.

“You do not get out without me, Philip, you know this. So, now we go, yes. Together.”

“You’re a shit.”

“Together. To your people.”

“I’m not making you any guarantees.”

“My guarantee is what I know.
That
is my guarantee. Very valuable. Your Service will want everything. Everything.”

Mangan swayed slightly. He felt suddenly dazed, sick. Rocky took his arm again, began pulling him toward the door.

“Come, I have a way. You come, and then we go to your people.”

Mangan lurched out of the cell, struggled to think clearly.

“We need the laptop. My bag. We need them.”

“No time.”

“We need my passport. Handheld. Laptop. To contact the others.”

Rocky swore, yanked Mangan to the lift, then changed his mind. They took a dark emergency staircase, emerging four floors lower, in a hotel corridor. Rocky stopped, looked both ways, moved quickly to a door, waved an entry card.

In the room, the Clown stood at a window, watching the lawns, the illuminated fountains, the black river. The rotors were loud—close. The Clown turned and glanced at them, seemed unconcerned.

“
Qu nar?
” he said. Where are you going?

Rocky didn’t reply, tried to assert himself, walked across the room to where the laptop and Mangan’s bag lay on a bed.

“What is happening out there?” said Mangan.

“They are coming for us,” said the Clown. “That is what is happening.”

Rocky was putting the laptop in the bag. Mangan saw his own retro pistol lying on the bedside table, the star on the butt.

“What has
happened
? Will somebody bloody explain?”

“We thought we were coming for
them
. We thought we were coming for the Fans, for all their whores and cronies and bastards. But it turns out, in an unexpected irony, that they are coming for
us
,” the Clown said. He gestured out across the grounds. “However the fuck they found us. Two helicopters. About twenty of them, twenty-five maybe. Maybe more coming by road.”

“Where’s your… your general?” said Mangan. Rocky stopped, looked up.

The Clown shrugged.

“Somewhere outside Beijing. They picked him up at the airport. Took him to some facility, a villa, maybe. State Security has plenty of those places. Interrogation places. Very quiet. They took him yesterday, it turns out.”

He turned and looked at Mangan.

“Oh, and his daughter disappeared, too. In England, of all places. Just gone. That’s why we had to move, to set everything in motion.”

He had cocked his head to one side.

“Madeline. No sign of her anywhere. Did you have anything to do with that?”

“Don’t be bloody ridiculous.”

The Clown stood very still.

“We have Fan Ping of course, emperor of CNaC. And the bitch of a sister, Charlotte. That might buy us something, some time, maybe.”

Rocky had his hand over his eyes.

“But I wonder,” said the Clown to Mangan, “if you are still worth anything? What you might buy us. I suppose we’ll have to see.” His eyes flickered across the room, to the door.

Mangan lunged for the bedside table, the weapon, brought it up. Its weight told him it was loaded, the butt cool against his reddened, swollen hands. He levelled it at the Clown, whose expression remained unchanged.

“We are leaving,” said Mangan.

From behind him, Rocky spoke.

“Shoot him.”

The Clown’s gaze shifted to Rocky.

“You fucking whore,” he said.

“Shoot him!”

Mangan sighted on the Clown, saw the foresight wavering across the man’s face and neck, felt the trigger tensile beneath his forefinger. The Clown didn’t move, just stared, his eyes black as carbon.

Mangan brought the trembling foresight to the Clown’s neck, his chin.

I have murdered before.

“Do it, Philip.”

I murdered a man by a highway, at night, as the cars roared past.

“Do it.”

I didn’t even know his name.

The Clown’s eyes, the contempt in them.

The foresight was sliding down the Clown’s chest, stomach, groin, pulling away to the side when Mangan squeezed the trigger. The weapon barked, tried to kick free of his hand and the report clanged around the room. The Clown lurched sideways, his feet stuttering, but the round smacked harmlessly into the wall. Mangan brought the weapon up again, and the Clown was shouting something at him.

Rocky had slung the backpack and was going for the door. The Clown turned and spat at him. Rocky didn’t stop, wiped the saliva from his face with his cuff. Mangan followed him, keeping the pistol levelled at the Clown.

“You little fucking whore,” the Clown shouted. And then they were running down the corridor, Rocky leading. Another emergency staircase, down six floors. Mangan was nauseated, out of breath, knees weak.

“We need to stop. To signal.”

Rocky calculated, then pushed open a fire door. They knelt in a corridor, Mangan fumbling with the laptop, opening it, booting it, barely any charge to it. He searched for a power socket, tried to plug it in, realized he didn’t have an adapter.

“For God’s sake, faster,” said Rocky.

He found the wireless signal, went to the darknet site. His hands were shaking.

“So where? Where will we be? What do I tell them?” he said.

“Tell them I am bringing treasure.”

“Where?”

“You tell them. I have so much. They must take me. Please tell them, Philip.” His voice had taken on a wheedling tone. Mangan was repulsed by it, angered even.

“Jesus Christ. Where?”

“Tell them the same place we left from. By the river, the dock. Chiang Saen. Tomorrow.”

Mangan paused. Did he have it in him? He did, apparently.

“What treasure?”

Rocky stared at him.

“Forgive me, Philip, but perhaps we do not have time for this right now.”

“What treasure?”

Rocky shook his head, adopted a flabbergasted look.

As artificial as every other face you show to me.

“Networks, Philip, I will give them
networks
. I told you before.”

“What do you have, Rocky?”

Rocky leaned into him, close. Mangan could smell his breath, see the panic behind his eyes. Rocky was starting to gabble.

“I will give them the threads, and then they pull on those threads. They pull on them. And… and they watch the networks unravel. Europe, Japan, even America, Philip! Military, State Security operations, things I know, things I’ve heard about. Leads. Threads. I will give them this.”

Mangan looked at his colonel, this man coated in betrayal, then typed, dropped it on the site.

They crashed through a pair of double doors and were back on the casino floor, in the blue light, the golden glimmer of the tables, the air thick with perfume, cigars.

The clients were streaming for the exits, the girls in black at the poker tables were unplugging their headsets. Someone was shouting, on the very edge of panic. One of the sex show girls stood on the stage, naked, her hand up to shield her vision from the spotlight, trying to make out what was happening.

Rocky began to run across the floor, Mangan behind, the weapon stuck in his waistband. Rocky was elbowing people out of the way, and some were starting to get angry. He pushed a woman in a white silk sheath, and her ankle, perched atop absurdly high heels, suddenly gave, and she went down onto her knees with a shriek, dropping a sequined purse. Mangan felt a hand on his arm, which he flung off. People were becoming disoriented. A Russian was shouting, waving his phone in the air. A Chinese man in a gray suit was
scooping up chips in great handfuls from a table. And then they were out into the atrium lobby, and Rocky was running ahead, making for huge glass doors. The heavies in cream suits were jittery, looking for direction, murmuring into their walkie-talkies.

Mangan felt it first, rather than heard it, a wave passing through the air, the panic rising, a surge of voices, a scream, and behind it a clatter, a crackle. Breaking glass. He turned. On the other side of the atrium, just leaving the casino floor, six or seven men in black fatigues, body armor, ski masks, were moving along the walls. They were loose-limbed, fit, Mangan could see. They carried machine pistols and moved easily. One was down on a knee, giving orders with hand signals. The clientele were backing away from them, some raising their hands, but the men in black ignored them.

Rocky gave a kind of squeal of fear, and they were crashing through the doors, out into the night.