Charlie’s Apprentice

Twenty-four

The apprehension settled deep within him during the long outward flight. Gower went through the pretence of trying to sleep but couldn’t, lying cocooned in an airline blanket for hours in the darkened, droning aircraft, trying instead to exorcize the unformed ghosts: to put everything in order in his mind and anticipate what he was likely to encounter. Had he been told to do that, or not to do that, during the final, street-wise training sessions? He couldn’t remember. At once fresh anxiety flared, because that had certainly been one of the edicts, always to remember, always to be aware. The scruffy man who’d refused to be identified had told him it was all right to feel nervous. But how nervous?

Nothing in the training had equipped him to work in Beijing. Apart from the two inadequate briefing sessions with the deputy Director-General and from what he’d learned from the equally inadequate file in the few days prior to his visa approval, there’d been no preparation or guidance whatsoever.

He had to take hold of himself: accept the nervousness but not the panic. It could, in fact, be an easy operation. Certainly one upon which, by specifically obeying London’s instructions, he was always going to be protected, beyond the reach of Chinese seizure.

He wasn’t bringing anything dangerous into China: the incriminating photographs of Shanghai and all the file material and the methods and locations for clandestine contact were arriving in the untouchable diplomatic bag.

And again following London’s instructions, he was forbidden to make any contact with the Jesuit priest outside the diplomatically secure embassy compound. Safe again. So why the stomach-emptying fear? Twenty per cent first-time nerves, eighty per cent uncertainty at being in Beijing, Gower decided.

It wasn’t going to be a difficult operation, he determined, positively. He would always have the protection of the embassy, literally all around him. And the awkward priest – confronted with the ultimatum of the photographs – had no alternative but finally to get out, as he should have done weeks earlier.

Beijing airport was a maelstrom of people and noise and confusions: Gower thought it was like being in the middle of a river full of debris constantly colliding and bruising into him. Only occasionally did the flow slacken, as people swirled off at the last moment, not to avoid bumping against him but to regard him curiously, as an oddity. As he queued through immigration and Customs control, Gower thought wryly back to another lecture in those final sessions, about awareness of people surrounding him. Recognizing the colonial cliche before it completely formed, he decided it was another lesson difficult to follow here: in a crowd in which there were perhaps only another twenty or thirty Westerners, everyone else did look identical to his unaccustomed eye, making it impossible to isolate one from another.

Gower had been told he would be met but not precisely how. He stopped and looked uncertainly around him directly outside the official arrival area. At once he saw an almost unnaturally tall, sharp-edged man moving easily through the crowd that still bewildered and jostled him.

‘Peter Samuels,’ introduced the man. ‘Political officer. Your photograph’s a good likeness. Good flight? Goes on forever, doesn’t it? Car’s outside. Come on.’ The man was turning practically before the handshake was completed, uninterested in any reply: Samuels loped rather than walked and Gower had difficulty keeping up, constantly obstructed by people.

Gower was caught by the oddness of the other man’s speech. It was as if the words were glued together and had to be prised apart at the moment of delivery.

The car, an English Ford, was parked almost directly outside. Samuels left Gower to open the boot himself to dump his suitcase, continuing on around to the driver’s side. There were a reasonable number of cars in the immediate vicinity of the airport, but almost as soon as they got out upon the road they became immersed in bicycles, some engulfed in produce or wrapped bundles. Curiously Gower turned, to look behind them. Another gap in the training, he reflected, remembering the motorway avoidance trick: how was he supposed to identify a bicycle that looked the same as every other bicycle ridden by a man who looked the same as every other rider?

‘According to what we’ve been told from London, you’re not going to be here very long?’ said Samuels.

‘No,’ agreed Gower, shortly, letting the other man lead.

‘Meeting new arrivals is the usual custom,’ announced Samuels. ‘But normally by a chauffeur.’

Gower began to concentrate inside the car. ‘Yes?’

Samuels jabbed his finger impatiently on the horn, staring directly ahead at the two-wheeled melee through which he was manoeuvring. ‘Important to understand the way things are here.’

‘I’d welcome any guidance,’ said Gower, politely but still cautious.

‘Probably the most difficult diplomatic posting in the world,’ said Samuels. ‘But it is opening up. Very slowly. There was a trade delegation here recently that could bring in orders to Britain well in excess of?300,000,000.’

‘That’s impressive,’ agreed Gower. Despite his concentration on the other man, he found himself looking curiously at the wooden houses with their curled roof corners by which they were driving. He thought of fairy tales and gingerbread houses.

For the first time Samuels turned briefly but directly to Gower. ‘Important nothing is done to upset relationships.’

Gower supposed the political officer would be one of the diplomats aware of his true function. Trust no one, he remembered. And then another edict: In an unknown situation, you take, never give. ‘I understand the point.’

There was another snatched look. ‘We don’t want anything to sour relations.’

‘I can understand that, too.’ He wished he’d managed to sleep on the plane, to avoid the tiredness dragging at him. There was no sun getting through the low, sullen yellow clouds but it was very hot, his shirt already clinging.

‘The ambassador wants to see you as soon as you’ve settled in.’

‘Entirely at his convenience,’ said Gower.

They drove carefully, slowed by the unrelieved congestion, for several moments in complete silence. Abruptly Samuels said: ‘Your first overseas assignment?’

Gower considered lying, not wanting to concede his inexperience, but he didn’t. ‘Yes.’

Samuels nodded, an impression confirmed. ‘Very necessary you know exactly how people feel.’

Gower had expected the distancing attitude – could recall the actual warning – but he hadn’t anticipated being confronted by it literally within an hour of getting off the plane. He felt an edge of temper but quickly curbed it. There was still no reason for him to be cowed by the overbearing manner of a man who rolled words around in his mouth. Intentionally difficult, Gower said: ‘Feel about what?’

Samuels’ face creased into a confused frown. ‘Thought that was obvious.’

‘I would have thought it to be equally obvious that my function here is not to create problems, that I’m fully aware of that fact and that London would not have sent me to such a sensitive place as Beijing if they imagined for one moment there was the slightest danger of my doing so!’ Towards the end Gower was running out of breath, only just finishing with his voice even. He’d spoken throughout turned directly to the diplomat, intent upon a reaction.

Samuels’ already furrowed face coloured, but oddly, two sharply defined red patches appearing on his cheeks, like a clown’s make-up. Stiffly he said: ‘I think it is essential for you not to forget that I am a senior member of the legation here!’

‘I won’t,’ promised Gower, just as stiffly. He believed he had made the necessary correction, but it was important for him not to become too cocky.

They were in the city now, and after the curly-tipped traditional houses on the way from the airport Gower was surprised at the row after row of modern concrete blocks, some almost skyscraper-high. The streets were wider, too, enabling them to move slightly faster.

‘You speak any Chinese languages?’ demanded Samuels.

‘No,’ confessed Gower.

There was a grunt from the other man, as if the admission was confirmation of another undisclosed impression. ‘There are English-language maps at the embassy, with places marked to show their positioning to the legation. Don’t go wandering off without one. You’ll get lost.’

Gower reckoned the other man found it difficult to be anything other than patronizing. ‘I won’t.’

‘Do you intend moving around the city a lot?’

‘Not a lot,’ said Gower.

‘Good.’ There was another quick look across the car. ‘Always remember the embassy is very closely monitored by the authorities.’

‘I won’t,’ repeated Gower.

‘Some material has arrived for you, in the pouch,’ announced Samuels. ‘It’s in the safe, in the embassy vault.’

‘I’d appreciate it remaining there, until I might need it.’

‘Not for too long,’ said Samuels.

‘It’s not causing any inconvenience, is it?’

Samuels didn’t reply.

The residential compound was at the rear but separate from the legation itself, a range of low, barrack-type buildings. The quarters allocated to Gower were at the end of an apparently empty wing. It consisted of a living area furnished with a basic three-piece suite, very old-fashioned in style and hung in Paisley-patterned loose covers. An unsteady-looking table with four chairs stood in a dining annex with one wall almost completely occupied by a dresser-type piece of furniture with drawers and cupboards below and a latticework of shelves and standing places above a long, flat display surface. There was a television, with compatible video-playing equipment beneath, on a fitted television table. The carpet directly in front was oddly threadbare in one place, as if someone had intentionally rubbed away the weave. Everything was covered with a faint layer of dust. The dust continued in the bedroom, with just a bed, a bare dressing-table and fitted wardrobes along one wall and a strangely sized bed, wider than a single but not big enough to be considered a double. The kitchen was narrow, without any appliances on the Formica working tops. The kettle was an old metal type that had to be placed on heat to boil, and the refrigerator was small and bow-fronted, from the same era as the suite in the outside living-room. Gower thought it looked like a forgotten furniture repository rather than a place to be lived in.

‘Temporary accommodation; that’s all you’ll need, after all,’ said Samuels, defensively.

‘It looks very comfortable,’ lied Gower.

‘Be pointless your trying to watch Chinese television,’ said the political officer. ‘Rubbish anyway. There’s a video selection in the embassy library: pretty old stuff, though.’

‘I’ll remember that.’

‘Ian Nicholson’s the official housing and hospitality officer. Anything else you need to know, ask him.’ He paused. ‘An hour, for the ambassador?’

‘I’ll be waiting.’

The shower was hot, although the water came unevenly and in spurts, juddering loudly through the pipes: Gower forgot to wipe the dust from the bottom of the stall and initially, mixed with water, it formed a faint mud scum. As he dressed, Gower made a mental note to ask Ian Nicholson about clothes-washing facilities, which shouldn’t be a problem in a country that had given the world the Chinese laundry. All the hangers in the wardrobe were metal wire. Remembering the instruction to trust no one, wherever he was, Gower set his traps. He put one jacket away in the wardrobe facing in the opposite direction to the other three, fastened the right clasp of his suitcase but not the left, and closed the bottom drawer of the dressing-table with just an inch protruding.

Samuels telephoned precisely on the hour.

The interior of the embassy was a marked contrast to the barely functional sparseness of the living accommodation. Everything gleamed from polish and attention: there were Chinese carpet wall hangings and a lot of Chinese carvings and sculptures in niches and on display pedestals. There were revolving fans in the ceilings of all the rooms and corridors through which Gower passed, but he guessed at additional air-conditioning from the coolness, which was practically chilling compared to the outside courtyard across which he had walked, with worsening perspiration, to reach the main building.

Peter Samuels was standing beside Sir Timothy Railton when Gower entered the ambassador’s office. The man nodded to the formal introductions but offered no handshake. It was Samuels who gestured to an already positioned chair: the political officer remained standing.

The ambassador nodded sideways to the other diplomat and said: ‘You’ve talked? So there’s no misunderstandings? You know your position here?’

‘I did, before I left England,’ said Gower, surprised both by the staccato questioning and by the man himself. The ambassador was immaculately dressed, although the suit was light grey and discreetly checked, and with a waistcoat, despite the outside heat. The tie was Stowe, the shirt-collar hard and starched. Gower couldn’t see but he guessed there was a monogram somewhere. There was a signet ring, although he was too far away to see if it carried a crest. Railton was a very smooth-faced, narrow-lipped man, his hair black but thinning and combed directly back from his forehead, flat against his skull. Although the ambassador was so much smaller in stature, Gower decided at once from their demeanour and attitude that he and his political officer were very much a matching pair. Gilbert and Sullivan could probably have written a convincing duet for them.

‘Most ambassadors choose not to be aware of you people in their embassies,’ declared Railton. ‘I’m not one of them.’

Gower couldn’t think of a reply.

‘I regard you as a questionable but not a necessary evil,’ declared Railton. ‘Don’t want you thinking, no matter how little time you’re here, that you’re welcome. You’re not. Don’t want any nonsense, any difficulties, while you are here. Am I making myself clear?’

Gower hesitated. ‘I have already assured Mr Samuels that I am fully aware of the sensitivity of this embassy.’

Railton gazed unconvinced across the heavy, inlaid desk. Decorative carpets hung from two of the walls and on a display stand to the left of the desk was a stampede of high-necked Chinese horses. Behind the man, through an expansive window, Gower could see three conical-hatted Chinese bent over ornately created, almost barbered lawns and flowerbeds. Railton said: ‘I’ve no intention of having this embassy compromised. Any nonsense and I shall complain to London. And I want you to carry out your supposed function here: don’t want staff gossip about what you’re supposed to be doing. Certainly not gossip spreading outside the embassy.’

‘I will do everything I have to do as discreetly as possible,’ guaranteed Gower.

‘The sooner you’re gone, the better,’ insisted Railton.

‘I agree,’ said Gower, sincerely. Whatever happened to diplomatic niceties?

‘Nothing more to say,’ dismissed Railton. He nodded sideways again. ‘Anything you’re not sure about, don’t decide for yourself. Talk with Samuels.’

‘Thank you,’ said Gower, unsure precisely for what he was expressing gratitude. Taking his guidance from the political officer, who started forward, Gower stood to follow from the room.

In the corridor outside Samuels said: ‘Sorry about that.’

Gower was intrigued by the sudden change of attitude and at once further confused when the political officer went on: ‘Expressed what we all feel, of course: but I think he went much too far.’

‘He was certainly very direct,’ said Gower, curiously, hurrying as he’d had to at the airport to keep up with the striding diplomat.

‘It’s his first ambassadorial appointment. Father was an ambassador before him: four prestige embassies. So Railton sees himself having to keep up a family tradition. Makes him naturally nervous of any problems.’

They halted at a side entrance but still behind the closed doors, within the fan and air-conditioning coolness.

‘I can’t get involved in whatever you’re going to do,’ said Samuels. ‘Know you wouldn’t let me, even if I asked. But if there is anything I can do other than that, then of course I will. Just ask.’

‘That’s very good of you,’ said Gower, at last genuinely grateful. ‘All I want to do at the moment is sleep.’

‘Don’t forget an orientation map, when you first go outside the compound. The city is like a maze: certainly if you haven’t got the language. I’ll ask Ian Nicholson to contact you in the morning.’

‘I hardly need another diplomatic lecture,’ said Gower.

For the first time since they’d met, Samuels smiled, a strained, difficult expression. ‘Just to see if you need any help settling in.’

The air-conditioning was much less effective back in the residential section. Gower was aching with exhaustion but still did not fall immediately to sleep. He wasn’t gripped by the nervousness he’d known throughout the flight, but supposed it would come back when he actually started working. The only feeling he had at the moment was disappointment. He hadn’t expected friendship but he hadn’t anticipated openly being denounced as a pariah, either. Which did make genuine his parting remark to Sir Timothy Railton: he was probably more anxious to get out than the ambassador was to see him go.

Marcia Leyton wanted everything about the wedding to be perfect and was determined to make it so: even though they hadn’t fixed a date and it was clearly some months off she wanted to have most of the arrangements made by the time Gower got back from Beijing. On the day he left London, she surrendered the lease to her flat and that night drove to Bedfordshire, arriving with champagne to break the news to her parents. Her mother cried and her father said he’d begin a cost assessment that could be updated as the details were fixed. He insisted on making notes, although Marcia said it was far too early. Her mother wanted to know how many of John’s titled relations would be attending. Marcia said she didn’t know if any of his relations were titled.

The following day she visited the local vicar by whom she had been both christened and confirmed to learn the procedure for calling the banns, promising to introduce her fiance as soon as he returned from a trip abroad.

Marcia had spoken to Gower’s mother in Gloucestershire when he’d telephoned to break the news, but she called again, saying what she was doing and promising they would both come down for another weekend when John got back.

‘I’m very happy for you,’ said the elderly woman. ‘Very happy that it’s you he’s going to marry, too. I know you’re going to be wonderfully happy.’

‘I know it, too,’ said Marcia.