Quiller's Run

4 Party

The screams were coming from the room next door and I went into the passage. The door was locked so I shouldered it open and it swung back with a crash and I saw the woman standing on the windowsill, clutching the thin canvas curtain.

The window was open and she let go of the curtain and began tilting forward just as I got to her, and pulled her back into the room. She started screaming again in Chinese, beating at me with small cold fists, her half-starved body naked under the cheap cotton wrapper, a huge mole standing out on her stomach.

'What's up?' Al said from the doorway.

'She was trying to jump out of the window.'

'Ta-men sha-ssu le wo ti erh-pzu!'

'Take it easy now,' Al said. 'Six in the morning, for Christ's sake, you'll wake everybody up.' He ran this place, the Red Orchid. 'They hung her son,' he told me, 'over there, dawn this morning. Let's get her onto the bed.'

She went on struggling for a minute and then suddenly went slack, and we laid her down, pulling a blanket over her thin ivory body as she went into a paroxysm of shivering. I went and shut the window, drawing the curtain to keep the brightness out.

'We were all praying for him,' Al told her, 'all of us. Take it easy now.'

He sat on the edge of the bed and stroked the woman's thin untidy hair as the sobbing began, worse than the screaming had been, the quiet desolate sound of a breaking heart.

'What, then?'

One of the kitchen boys stood in the doorway, white slivers of wood from the smashed frame scattered around his feet.

'Get Lily up here,' Al told him. 'Lily Ling. Now-la!'

The boy flapped away in his rubber sandals.

'A fucking rope,' I heard Al saying softly though his clenched teeth, 'they gave him a fucking rope.'' He went on stroking the woman's hair, his face bunched and his eyes flickering. Voices began in the narrow street three floors below, the rattle of carts, a man's sudden laughter.

'You want me, boss?' Lily Ling asked him.

'Yes,' Al said. 'Stay with her, okay?' He stopped stroking the woman's hair, looking relieved, a man awkward in the presence of suffering. 'Stay with her the whole time, Lily. Don't leave her unless you get someone else in here to take over.'

The Chinese girl came and sat on the bed, taking the woman's head in her hands, laying her face against the other's. 'What happen?'

Quietly Al said, 'She tried jumping out of the window. So watch her, okay?'

'She Mrs Seng. She say a man come to see her, maybe. Last night.'

Al's mouth tightened. 'And did a man come?'

'No.'

'Good.' He relaxed again, touching my arm. 'Let's go, I feel like a drink.'

In the bar he said, 'They swung a few guys over there this morning. Like I said, he was one of them. Her son.'

'And the man who said he'd come to see her?'

His eyes went hard. 'Those bastards move in whenever there's trouble. He'd have told her he could pull strings, see, get him off, get him just a prison term. He'd have taken her life savings.' He broke off to call to a boy going through the lobby. 'Mahmood – there's a door needs fixing up there, Number 37, okay? Go and check it out, need some tools." He poured himself another Scotch. 'Three ounces of heroin and they get a life term over there. Four ounces and they swing. Malaysia's trying to beat the drug problem and I guess that's the way they do it. Month back they swung a couple Australians, you read about that? Everybody sent in an appeal – the Australian Prime Minister, Amnesty International, Margaret Thatcher. Those boys were caught with just six ounces of the stuff, they weren't trading a truck-load, but they swung.' He hit a mosquito that had settled on his arm, leaving a smear of blood. 'They give it a lot of publicity, so people are going to get the message – they'll give these kids headlines in the evening papers over here.' He took a swig at his drink. 'Her son couldn't read.'

The sound of boots came from the lobby.

'Police!'

'Shit,' Al said under his breath, and went to stand in the archway. 'So what's up?'

'Somebody reported a woman screaming.'

'They're always screaming.'

The young cop stood there hard-faced and angular, sharp creases in his uniform, the holster shining. 'They said the sound came from this hotel.'

'Sure. People laughing, it sounds the same. Always a party going on at the Red Orchid, right?' He shook his head. 'Anything wrong, I'd know it, okay?'

The Chinese stood looking around the ceiling, waiting to hear if the screaming came again, and when nothing happened for a minute he gave Al a bright stare and then turned on his heel and went out through the swing door, his polished boots clumping and his leather belt creaking, his cap set dead flat on his head. Other sounds came in from the narrow street: cyclo bells, chickens, someone beating a gong. Then the door swung shut.

'Tell me about the drug scene,' I said to Al, 'in this region.'

He swung his head. 'All of it? Jesus, take some time.'

Two days later the rain came pelting down out of a black sky on to the roof of the car with a noise like massed drums. The windscreen wipers were only just clearing the glass enough for the driver to see through, and from the rear seat I watched the thick steel-grey haze on the bonnet as we crossed the river and headed for Orchard Road.

The Thai security man sitting next to the driver said something to him, a quick word or two, and the driver nodded without turning. They were professionals, these two: they'd come to the Red Orchid on foot to meet me because the market street was too cluttered for the embassy limousine to pass, and as soon as I'd come into the lobby they'd hijacked a cyclo and put me into it to keep me more or less dry, hurrying alongside like well-trained bodyguards to where the car was parked, checking the environment the whole time whole the cyclo bell cleared the way.

It had been like that yesterday when the two embassy officials had come to find me — two, not just one – both stone-faced, asking me for my identity papers first and then presenting their own with a curt formality before they gave me the embossed card. His Highness the Crown Prince Sonthee Sirindhorn requests the pleasure of your company at 8 p.m. on the evening of 15 April 1987, at the Embassy of Thailand, on the occasion of his birthday.

Obviously the man hadn't contrived to celebrate his birth precisely two days after this lone spook had landed in Singapore; the Thais had simply thought it a good opportunity to bring me into the centre of things and check me out from there. Pepperidge, tossing the last crust into the lake, had said, 'As to access, they'll come to you, don't worry. Just go and see them, and listen to what they have to say. If you don't like it, you're not committed – I gave them no guarantee.'

Jesus Christ, he called that access? On the other hand there was no actual mission running yet. I'd done all I could do for now: I'd seen the shadow someone had thrown across me on the flight into Singapore and got rid of him, and since then I'd put the Red Orchid through routine analysis and found it safe – there was no covert or oven surveillance on the place, no bugs, no manned observation vectors, no one in the bar watching the fly-blown mirrors, no one cooling his heels in the street outside, nothing. I'd also got a lot of information on the Southeast Asian drug scene from Al. From what he'd told me about his background he seemed a safe man to talk to, inside the parameters of my cover; otherwise Pepperidge wouldn't have sent me to the Red Orchid. But how reliable was Pepperidge? Good question. 'As far as liaison goes, you'll have to pick a few people yourself, if you can find anyone you can trust. Not quite the service you're used to. Sorry.'

The car slowed, passing a line of others and slotting in to a roped-off space outside No. 370 Orchard Street, the building ablaze with light, the Thai flag floodlit but hanging like a wrung-out dishcloth in the downpour. Umbrellas everywhere, bouncing off each other as the security man snapped open a big one above my head and steered me across the flooded pavement and up the steps, our shoes already waterlogged before we got inside, two white-haired diplomats tugging off their macs with the help of the embassy servants, peeling off their galoshes. 'Hello, George, where did you moor your car?' Gusty laughter, drinks in the offing. 'Where's Daphne, isn't she here?' A gold cufflink came off with the mackintosh sleeve and someone dived for it. 'Her mother didn't feel like turning out on a night like this.' A man with a mole, an Asian, suddenly close, watching. 'Then you're off the hook, old boy – make the most of it!'

An Asian with a small mole below the left ear, now speaking to one of the security men and then melting, not glancing at me, a bit embarrassed, probably; he should have kept up with his assignment a little more efficiently between the fish stalls and under the bead curtain and past the grain merchant's can and through the alley full of bicycles and cane-work and dustbins into New Bridge Road. But it was reassuring to see him again: I knew now that it hadn't been some kind of opposition cell that had thrown him across me on the flight out; it must have been the Thais who'd sent him over to London to shepherd me across and make sure I wasn't got at. Civil of them.

The security man took me smoothly through the crowd of people under the dazzling chandeliers and edged me into the receiving line ahead of the rest; only three in front of me now, the Crown Prince sporting a sash and cluster, his hand moist with sweat 'How kind of you to come, Mr Jordan, and at such short notice!'

'A pleasure, Your Highness, and allow me to offer my congratulations.'

The security man steered me deftly away and collared a flunky with a tray of champagne.

'Something soft.'

It took a bit of time and I eased my way to the silk-panelled wall and stood with my back to it, noting five or six more people from the Old Country, mildewed dinner-jackets and pinched-in satin, a shoulder-strap hanging down over a plump powdered arm; a small contingent of Japanese keeping close formation, beautifully-tailored; a couple of Filippinos standing stiffly with set faces, not touching their drinks -Radio Singapore had put out a news flash just before I'd left the hotel: a major coup on the part of the military was in full swing in Manila; a group of Chinese, all smiles, and some Frenchmen arguing energetically about cheese – 'Pas possible dans ce climat, pas du tout possible de le garder en bonne condition!' Four or five turbanned Pakistanis and a lone African in uniform and a rather tense-looking girl in a green button-through dress, her face pale under the chandeliers.

'Canada Dry, Mr Jordan.'

'Thank you.'

'This way, please.'

He took me down a long corridor lined with portraits in gilt frames; a potted palm ten feet tall stood at the end under a domed ceiling; then we were in a small ornate ante-room with a circle of brocade chairs and a polished mahogany side-table with a copy of The Times lying on it, and someone's horn-rimmed glasses.

'Please wait here, Mr Jordan.'

'All right.'

Jordan had been the name on the papers I'd got from the safe in my flat in London; they'd offered the nearest cover to the one Pepperidge had suggested. Martin Jordan was an overseas representative for a small arms-manufacturing company in Birmingham: Laker Foundry.

The security man had left the door open and I could still hear the distant murmur of the reception, but it only accentuated the stillness in this small room, which I found encapsulating, unnerving. There was no mission running yet and there might never be, with me in it, if I felt like turning it down; but Pepperidge and Floderus knew the kind of thing I liked doing and they wouldn't have sent me out here to waste my time. At this day's end I could be moving into something dangerous, something terminal.

'Mr Jordan, I appreciate your coming to see me.'

He was a small, bland, hesitant man, his eyes half-hidden behind tinted glasses, his hand outstretched, his body turning sideways a little, limping as he approached. Two other men came into the room with him, aides, not bodyguards, and one of them said quickly, 'His Highness Prince Kityakara, Minister of Defence.'

'How do you do, sir.'

'How do you do. Now let's sit down – there's no one with you, Mr Jordan?'

'I came alone.'

'Excellent.' He looked around quickly. 'Let's shut the door, shall we?' He had a restrained Oxford accent and his speech was jerky, a little breathless. 'This is Captain Krairiksh of Interior Security, and Major-general Vasuratna of Military Intelligence.' He crossed his legs. 'We shall understand perfectly, Mr Jordan, if your knowledge of the political scene in Southeast Asia happens by chance to be slight. It's a small corner of the world, of course.'

'I don't take long to learn.' Pepperidge hadn't put any political briefing in the envelope and there was no point in taking a crash course because even that would need several weeks. Kityakara would have to pick the flesh off and give me the bare bones.

'Excellent.' His hand dipped quickly to a pocket and tugged out a small inhaler, whisking it across his mouth and slipping it back. 'I'll endeavour to give you the essence, then. Do you want to take notes?'

'No.'

'Very well. We'll do what we can to put things into perspective.'

He spoke for more than an hour, asking Krairiksh and Vasuratna to fill in the picture from their points of view and breaking for questions on the way. It didn't seem, I thought, to be much different in Southeast Asia than anywhere else, a scenario of territorial fear at the brain stem level and a general atmosphere of dog eat dog.

'Now let me try to put all that in a nutshell, Mr Jordan.' Kityakara got up and limped across to the black marble fireplace, using sleight of hand again with the inhaler. 'Soviet Russia is at present subsidising the Vietnamese armed forces in Laos and Cambodia to the tune of five billion US dollars a year. In return the Vietnamese permit the use of the naval bases in Da Nang and Cam Ranh Bay by the Soviet Pacific Fleet.' He let a moment go by. 'Those bases are vital to the Soviets. Vital.''

I tilted my chair back until I was balanced comfortably, listening to Kityakara and at the same time wondering about the asthma and the limp and the tinted glasses. A lot of people of his age in this area had been lucky to come out of the Khmer Rouge holocaust alive, even those in power, especially those. He was one of them and he'd come through a nightmare, so how paranoid was he, about the Vietnamese, about the Soviets? I'd need to find out, because paranoia always distorted the facts.

'Now, since the Soviets took over those two former US bases in 1979, they've added five submarine dry docks and installed underground fuel-storage tanks and anti-aircraft batteries, so that in terms of its sophisticated electronic arrays the base at Cam Ranh Bay is one of the most important Soviet communication and intelligence-gathering facilities outside Russian territory. The aircraft carriers Minsk and Novorossiysk have made port calls, and those two bases alone offer the Soviets all the elements of a naval warfare strategy in Southeast Asia – torpedo and cruise missile strikes from aircraft, submarines and surface ships, linked by a land-based communications centre. Would you care for some tea?'

'Yes.'

Vasuratna opened the door and spoke to the guard outside.

'The Soviets, then,' the Prince said when the door was closed, 'are holding a very strong position in Indo-China, bearing in mind the estimated number of "advisers" here -seven thousand in Vietnam, three thousand in Cambodia and two thousand in Laos. But the main concern of my government – given this background – is that by invading Cambodia, Vietnam has moved its borders west, right up to our doorstep.' He whipped the inhaler across his mouth, and it confirmed what I'd noticed since he'd first come in here: that he used it whenever he was saying something that made him anxious. 'That makes us nervous, Mr Jordan. Very nervous. The disastrous failure of the summit conference last month – with its critical heightening of international tension – and the increasing accord between the United States and China, where three US ships of the 7th Fleet actually made port calls last October, together with the first signs of nationalistic restlessness of the Vietnamese as erstwhile hosts to the Soviet fleet, all threaten the Soviet position in the Pacific.'

He broke off as a white-jacketed steward brought in a massive silver tea tray and put it down. Prince Kityakara lifted the lid of the heavily-chased teapot and sniffed. 'Lapsang Souchong – would that suit, gentlemen?'

I tilted my chair back again and watched the ceremony of pouring. A Soviet connection in Indo-China? I hadn't been ready for that.

'Lastly, Mr Jordan, there is this. Thanks to the increasing supply of arms reaching the rebel forces in Laos and Cambodia, those countries are approaching the brink of civil war. This, of course, would normally be seen as advantageous; we would hardly view the overturning of communist power as undesirable. But no one can predict the extent of the bloodshed that would ensue, or the critical increase of Soviet power in Indo-China. Sugar?"

'No.'

'It's not unlikely, you see, that if the Soviets decided to support the Vietnamese in an invasion of Thailand, we might be forced to invoke the terms of the Rusk-Thanat Agreement of 1962, under which America is pledged to support us -militarily. The Agreement is an executive, not a treaty, but it is valid and extant. We have the option of invoking also the Manila Pact, which is a treaty, and extant.' He sipped his tea, and I noted the slight shaking of his hand. 'What we are talking about, Mr Jordan, is a possible military confrontation between Soviet and US forces. The first in history.'

I stopped rocking on my chair.

By the window, Major-general Vasuratna uncrossed his legs, looking at no one. The other man, Captain Krairiksh, was watching the Prince, his hands locked tightly together on his lap. In the courtyard outside the rain fell steadily, ringing on something metal, perhaps the shade of an ornamental lamp. I remembered the quiet, urgent voice of Charles Floderus, inside that London cab. The background is geopolitical, but that shouldn't concern you. This is in fact precisely your kind of operation — the very careful, clandestine infiltration of a major opposition network.

The objective, then, didn't involve making a critical document snatch or bringing a hot spook across a frontier or digging out a mole. It involved defusing an East-West military confrontation in Thailand.

And Floderus had offered a job like this to Pepperidge?

Something wrong.

'And such an event,' Kityakara was saying quietly, 'should, I feel, be energetically avoided.'

I got up and paced, needing movement. Something wrong, yes, or maybe the people in London hadn't realised the size of this thing. Maybe Kityakara had played it close to the chest, and just asked them to send someone out. 'But that couldn't actually happen,' I told him. 'I mean the actual engagement of Soviet and US forces on Thai soil.'

'Not quite that, Mr Jordan.' His cup rattled on the saucer as he put it down. 'But any element of armed confrontation, with East-West tension as high as it is, could bring about a cataclysm.'

'By escalation?'

'Yes. By a naval vessel's going off course at the wrong time and the precipitate order for a carrier to send up its aircraft and finally someone's finger on the button in a missile silo and the sheer lack of time to use the hotline and call a halt.' Inhaler. 'Once inertia has been overcome, Mr Jordan, in whatever field of experience, the momentum is difficult to stop. It has happened before, in two world wars, and it took everyone by surprise. Perhaps this time' – he shrugged uncertainly – 'we can avert the third.'

I waited, then said, 'Does that complete the background, sir?'

'That completes the background. And it seems to me, and to my advisers, that the best way of preventing catastrophe is to re-stabilise the power structure in the region, to discourage the rebel anti-communist forces and render them incapable of overturning the present regimes in Laos and Cambodia. This can be done by cutting off their supply of arms and equipment.' He picked up the teapot again, but got nothing more than a dribble. Captain Krairiksh got up at once and made for the door, but the Prince stopped him. 'It doesn't matter.' He finished the dregs in his cup. 'Unfortunately the supply of arms and equipment has been increasing of late, and substantially. We've been allowing a steady trickle across Thai territory from China, of course, and that will now be stopped. But the greater part of the increasing supplies has been coming from five major international sources, funnelled through one distributor in Southeast Asia. And that distributor is very powerful. So far, we've been quite unable to effect counter-measures.'

'What have you tried?'

'We've tried negotiation, by offering a high government post, with its attendant advantages. We've tried threats, including vigorous legal proceedings. We've tried massive police action in the hope of discovering drug shipments alongside the armaments, without success.' He glanced to the door and away again. 'And we finally tried assassination.'

I moved my head. 'Who was the target?'

'The chief of the organisation.'

'How many attempts were made?'

'Three.'

'And?'

The Prince hesitated, then looked at his chief of military intelligence. 'You know the details better than I do. Would you – ?'

Vasuratna sat to attention. 'Sir.' He turned to me. 'We decided the only way was to make a personal attack on each occasion, but this organisation is extremely capable of defending itself. The first of our agents was dropped off the tailboard of a truck outside the gates of the presidential palace, full of bullets. The second was dumped outside police headquarters with signs of having been rigorously tortured. We have not found the body of the third agent, but his head was delivered to my office in a cardboard box.' He looked down suddenly. 'They were my best men, very experienced, very efficient. I have accepted the blame, of course.'

I realised he was no longer speaking to me, but to Kityakara.

So here was the mission, if I wanted it.

'You're not expected to blame yourself,' the Prince told Vasuratna. 'We're up against someone exceptional this time.'

'Who is it?' I asked him.

'A woman. Mariko Shoda.'