The Mandarin Cypher

Chapter Two: CYPHER

I was still hanging around at midnight waiting for someone to take me in Field Briefing, bangers and mash in the canteen when I finally got fed up, then back to square one, thinking I might have been a bloody lemon after all if this was the way they were going to play it.

There was a lot on, of course, and not all of it overseas. Those bastards had put one in St Paul's, nobody hurt, a small one or not very efficient but that wasn't their fault, then one of the staff at the Palace had found something rigged up in the kitchens, God knows how they'd got in there through doubled security. Lawson was in charge of the main counter-terrorist unit and somebody had heard him say if he actually caught one of them at it he'd spear the bastard bodily on the railings outside the Tower and the thing we all knew about Lawson was that he'd probably do it.

Signals was hard at it and all you could see were trays of tea going in, but then Signals was always manned, even when most of the other sections were shut down. There must be a whole unit going out, for Field Briefing to keep me hanging around like this. I didn't check with the upstairs people to see if Egerton had changed his mind because he would have got a message to me, he had good manners, whatever else.

'Quiller?'

'Don't tell me.'

'Macklin's ready for you.'

I was in Monitoring, military communique from Cyprus Radio, air attacks increasing around Nicosia while the Security Council issued further appeals for a ceasefire, the old 1974 lark all over again, couldn't care less, Field Briefing was the next floor up and I began hurrying and then remembered this wasn't really the outset of a mission, I was going to have to piddle about in Hong Kong for a while, looking at all the postcards. Well, I'd asked for it.

Macklin was buried in a filing-cabinet and poked his head out and told me to sit down. Tilson had gone off hours ago and we were alone, with the bright neon light-tubes buzzing in the ceiling and Macklin's ashtray thick with dog-ends. He came over, giving the metal drawer exactly the correct amount of push so that as he sat down opposite me it rolled shut behind him with a click.

'Not your kind of operation.'

'It's just something to do out there while I'm waiting.'

'Yes, Egerton mentioned.'

He was sorting out the material, one glass eye gazing slightly off-centre, the hard neon light discolouring the scar so that it looked even deeper than it was. He'd been running an escape chain and got his minefields mixed up on the chart near Hellingenstadt, three months of plastic surgery so he wouldn't frighten the children any more, then he'd opted for an office job, lucky to get it.

There's not much,' he said, and slid the file across the desk to me, never handed things to people if he could avoid it, still had the shakes. 'You'd better curl up with it and give me a prod when you're ready.'

One of his phones was ringing and he answered it and I opened the folder and went through the stuff: George Henry Tewson, 43, five foot so forth, several pictures, last seen alive 22 July, Tai Tam Bay, Hong Kong. Three local fishermen (named: see Coroner's Report) saw him lose his balance in the boat and go overboard, 'a big fish tugging at his line'. According to several other witnesses, disturbance in water indicative of shark attack. Remains never found, but wallet and some papers washed up on Turtle Cove Bay, unmistakably identified, confirmed by wife.

'I can't help that,' Macklin was saying on the phone, 'the whole unit has to get airborne at the same time. Do without the navigator if you have to, and find a pilot who knows his maps.'

It never occurred to me that it was a bit odd giving me a briefing officer like Macklin to spell out this little job I was going to do for Egerton, strictly a gumshoe number. Maybe he was just filling in for someone, as I was.

Nora Millicent Tewson, nee Harmer, now legally designated widow, still in Hong Kong, now resident. Present address 'Listen,' I said, 'I can read the rest of this stuff on the plane.'

'What plane?'

'That's what I mean, there could be an early flight.'

His glass eye looked at me dully, slightly off-centre. I remembered it was the left one you had to look at.

'What's the rush?'

'I can't stand this interminable bloody rain.'

He gave a sudden lopsided laugh and the scar went pink, 'Can't ever wait, can you — '

'Listen, I've been out for two months — '

'Shagging yourself to a standstill — '

'Oh balls, listen, fill me in, will you, give me the main outline.'

He flipped a switch and said: 'How soon can you put a man in Hong Kong?'

They said they'd call him back.

He looked at me again. 'We just want to know a bit more about what happened to Tewson. On the face of it everything seems to be quite okay: he and his wife were on a package tour holiday, the third time they'd been to Hong Kong in three years, and he went in for sport fishing. It's shark water and that kind of accident sometimes happens if they don't lash themselves to the boat. All the same, we've had a request to check on it and make quite sure it was an accident.'

I didn't ask who'd requested it. After a few years at the Bureau you learned the language, and in Field Briefing their job is to tell you everything you ought to know and if they seem to be missing a few things out you don't ask questions because it'd be a waste Of time. The mission controllers work on the principle that if you know too much it'll get in your way. Some of the crudest operations, like busting an opposition cell or getting a man across a frontier, can carry the most complex political significance: you can be quietly picking the lock of a dispatch case in an embassy in Zagreb without the slightest knowledge that the imminent East-West summit depends on whether you get it open or not; and the people who structure policy feel that if you realized your responsibility you'd probably break the hairpin.

We don't argue. At times this sort of built-in reticence can be a bloody nuisance but in the long run they're probably right.

'What did Tewson do?'

'Isn't it in the file?' Macklin asked.

'No.' I'd read that far.

He gave a shrug, spreading his hands. So there it was again, and I shut up.

'Mrs Tewson is under — ' Then a buzzer went and he opened the circuit. 'Yes?'

'Travel.'

'Right.'

'Depart Heathrow 04.10 by British Airways, arrive Rome 06.35. Depart Rome 08.22 by British Airways, arrive Bangkok 05.27 following day. Depart Bangkok 06.15 by China Airlines, arrive Hong Kong 10.18 London time, 18.18 local time.'

Macklin said all right and cut the switch and I looked at my watch. It wouldn't exactly be cutting it fine but I didn't have to stroll.

'Can I do it that way?'

'If you can get cleared in time.'

I spun the file around so it faced his way and he opened it and started flipping through the stuff but I could see he wasn't having to read any of it and I noted this.

'Mrs Tewson is still very cut up, started drinking now and then — '

'Has our lot talked to her?'

'No. But we've had her under surveillance, just routine — name of our man is Flower. Specific — '

'Who?'

'Flower. Specific instructions: share the surveillance, advise and control Flower. Report at discretion, treat as highest priority, preserve all cover, utmost care in approaching Hong Kong Police Department or Special Branch: certain officers suspected of links with Communist China. You can use — '

'Are they satisfied it was an accident?'

'The enquiries are closed. Coroner's verdict misadventure.'

'Any valid suspicions of foul play?'

'None whatsoever.'

Of course I could have read all this for myself on the plane but he knew what I wanted: the bare bones of the thing so that I could put any relevant questions on the spot. You can't get cleared satisfactorily until you know what you're going into.

He still wasn't having to read anything, just the odd heading to jog his memory: he knew this material pretty thoroughly and I thought again about that. An executive of Macklin's status and experience shouldn't be handling a minor operation like this one, wouldn't have enough time to give to it. The top briefing officers at the Bureau don't work regular hours; they won't even show up unless there's a big mission breaking, but once they show up they won't go home again till the whole show's ready to run. To look at him, I would have said Macklin had been working twenty-four hours at a stretch and he could have gone home and left a second-stringer to brief me on this squib-sized assignment. He hadn't.

With Egerton it was different: he was a top controller but would handle anything that came along, up to half a dozen operations unless there was something really critical on the board.

'You can use a safe-house,' Macklin said, 'if you need one.'

I didn't ask him where. It would be in the material.

'There's a local contact?'

'At the safe-house.'

'What's his rating?'

'Total reliability but not well informed. He's all right on topography, of course — he's been there fifteen years.'

'Can I have something again, Macklin? Something in specific instructions.'

He went back to page two, the paper making a soft scuffing tattoo until he pressed his hand against the desk.

'Report at discretion, treat as highest priority, preserve all cover,' but his eyes weren't moving quite as fast as he was meant to be reading. 'Utmost care in approaching — '

'Fine, that's what I thought you said.'

What the bloody hell did they mean, highest priority?

'Signals through the Admiralty, and you'd better pick up a cypher.'

'Fair enough.'

It was no good asking him. And no good asking Egerton — who'd probably gone home by this time, past midnight.

Macklin was a top briefer and shouldn't be handling this one and they'd used the very circumspect phrase 'highest priority' for a distinctly low-key operation but there was a plane for me, take off in four hours from now, get out of London and head for Hong Kong and stand by for Egerton's signal, the real one that'd trigger the mission he'd got lined up for me, so don't start asking silly questions or they'd say we thought you were keen on going, well you don't have to, be doing it on my own doorstep.

'Fair enough,' I said again and got up.

'You'll be briefed on Mandarin when you get out there.'

'That's the big one?'

'Yes.'

'Who's going to be my director in the field?'

'We don't know.'

'Oh, come on, Macklin — '

'Really,' he said. 'We'll probably fly someone in from Pekin.'

Oh, will you, I thought. There was only one place in Pekin where they could get me a director and that was the Embassy, so they must have a man in place, narrowed it down a bit, I could even find out for myself if I got my phone-numbers right. It was very important and normally it's one of the first things you' re told, Because you can refuse any given director if you don't feel you can work with him: your life's usually involved and you can get someone like Loman, brilliant but desperate for personal kudos, talk you into a suicide bid if it'll get him a medal, it wasn't his fault I'd come out of Tunis alive; or someone like Thornton, totally dependable, pull you out of the gates of hell if he can get there in time, but short on Rusk-think patterns and mission sense and therefore dangerous; you can refuse anyone they want to give you and you don't even have to say why. Otherwise I suppose the insurance company would never stand for it.

Macklin was stifling a yawn, getting another cigarette. I said:

'Been pushing you, have they?'

'I've done my bit today, old boy.'

'Off home now?'

'You bet.'

I said give my love to Marcia; that was his wife.

The security guard used his key and took me in.

'All right Sam,' she told him.

The guard went out, snap-locking the door, 'Long time,' she said.

'Too long.'

She spun the combination, her back to me, touching a hand to her greying hair, waiting for the timer to stop. The auto-destruct warning buzzed and she threw the tumblers, starting on the second combination.

'What was your last one?'

'Third series, seventh.'

The door of the safe swung open and she brought a single sheet across to the table, a Xerox copy in a plastic cover. There were only three cyphers currently available, which explained why Macklin had been working the clock round: there must be some special units overseas, probably Cyprus.

'What's this one?'

'Just come up.'

'Gor blimey.'

It was replacing a whole series. The Bureau hang on to their pet numbers till they're too dog-eared to use, so it could only mean this series had been busted somewhere out there where the signals were hot, and I just hoped it hadn't blown anyone through the roof.

'Fancy,' I said.

The thing was built up with extended-phase digits, sometimes three or four to a numeral, with reverse transfers and the alert provided by omissions in the blanks: you just left out the space between any two phrases and 'forgot' to reverse.

'Have they got someone new?'

'It's Mr Hanbury,' she said rather sharply. We're never terribly impressed with the stuff they give us and it makes them touchy.

I said I'd take it and she picked out a box, small, flat, waterproof, fireproof, neutral grey.

'Any acid,' she said, 'but it takes thirty seconds.'

'All right.' If I worked at it I could probably wipe it out in Rome.

There wasn't anyone in Accounts till someone shot in from next door: its common knowledge that anyone holding up a shadow executive on his way through clearance gets taken to bits and sold as Meccano.

'Sorry, sir.'

'Hell d'you think this place is — MI5?'

I filled in the form: Nothing of value, no next of kin, no messages. TC's for five hundred pounds, a Barclaycard, two hundred in cash, it seemed a lot for the Hong Kong end but maybe it'd have to finance Mandarin as well.

'You can obtain local currency anywhere, sir, day or night.'

'Fair enough. Can I have the rates?'

He gave me the booklet and I put it into the briefcase with the rest of the stuff.

In Firearms they were well on the ball: there'd been a rush on from the mob Macklin had sent out, pack enough submachine-guns on board and you have to leave the navigator behind.

Weapons drawn: none. I'm rather a disappointment to them: they're always wanting people to try out the latest models for them.

Capsules drawn: none.

He'd got them ready in his hand but put them away again in the locked drawer when he saw what I'd entered. They never know what we're going to do and sometimes we don't know ourselves: it depends on so many things: what field you're going into, who your director is, what degree of risk, what info memorized, so forth. Also it's a peculiarly personal thing and involves much more than just life and death: it raises issues like motivation, the will, the threshold of pain, the question of identity itself, what is this thing that's screaming like this and can it remain whole, can it retain command of whatever it is? I used to take capsules with me in the early days but after they'd roughed me up in Leningrad and again in Cairo I realized cyanide wasn't the answer because pain carries its own anaesthetic if you can hold on for the first few stages and they can't get anything out of you if you're unconscious or a gibbering idiot and they know that — or at least the professionals do, and they're the people we're usually up against.

Another thing is that if they find a capsule on you they assume you must have some pretty interesting stories to tell, so they go to work intensively.

All I needed from Travel was the air ticket 'Are you the one for Hong Kong?'

'Yes.' I put it into my wallet. 'What about China?'

'Taiwan?'

'The mainland.'

He went over to the files and checked and came back, 'Are you detailed for Mandarin?'

'Yes.'

'They'll fix you up in HK. There's no regular visa — you'll be processed by the Secretary for Chinese Affairs,'

Even if Field Briefing could have taken me earlier I would have had to hang around for Credentials because they'd produced the complete works, covering me for Mandarin as well as the Hong Kong thing.

'Never thought we'd get through in time.'

Marge was the only one at the Bureau who could make you look round, not that it was saying a lot, china blue eyes and a big blonde wig and so much eye shadow it looked like sunglasses, but the thing about Marge was that if you came back after a year's absence she'd say hello you've changed your parting. She's gone now, seduced by the totally counterfeit charisma of MI5.

She had everything laid in a row along the counter, and I began on the left while she perched on her high stool like a life-size doll and watched me. Passport: Clive Wing, border frankings mostly European but two for Bangkok and one for Japan. General cover: coin dealer, member of the British Numismatic Association agents in Holland and Switzerland, specializing in Mexican and Austrian gold pieces, centennial medallions and high-value government proof sets, sole representative for Mendoza S.A. of Buenos Aires, investment brokers. A name like 'Wing' was to be expected: perfectly acceptable English surname but could also be Chinese on a written document in the absence of other identification.

Driving-licence, membership card of the BNA, letter of introduction to three leading coin and bullion brokers in Victoria and Kowloon from Mendoza S.A., latest issue of Coin Quarterly.

'When did you lose the other one?' asked Marge.

'Other what?' I signed for receipt of documents and started shuffling the stuff into my brief-case.

'You had a beautiful blue Parker.'

'Behave yourself, Marge, you don't have to advertise.'

She swung her legs and giggled and I went out and that was the last I ever saw of her; there's a typical number in there now, lisle stockings and a slight moustache.

It was still pouring with rain and the wipers had a hard job coping with it on the way back to the flat. I changed my wet sock and put some clothes in a bag and looked at my watch and thought no and then yes, picking up the phone and taking the risk that she'd mind being woken up at this hour, burr-burr, there wouldn't be time to go round there even if she were alone, burr-burr, she wouldn't be at the Connaught or anywhere because she had to be on the set at seven tomorrow, burr-burr, unless she'd been hello! Sleep still in her voice, a soft laugh, of course she didn't mind, long eyes and copper hair and the way she turned her head, my God are you off again? The whole of London suddenly full of Moira and not far away, no, I said, there's only just time to get the plane, New York, she hated quickies, she wanted everything and champagne afterwards, when will you be back, not long, I told her, not long. Goodbye.

Or maybe never, which of course was why I'd had to ring her, taking out insurance on the risk that one day soon I might get in so deep that I couldn't get out, or cross their sights and not have time to hear the hum, and go down wishing, in the confusion of rage and fright and refusal to believe, wishing I'd at least picked up a phone and said goodbye. They say you always think of your mother but I don't remember mine, but my God, I know when it comes I'm going to remember Moira.

At two-thirty the phone rang.

'Yes?'

'D'you want some transport, old horse?'

Tilson was back: he was admin, and worked shifts.

'I'll take the Jag.'

'Want it picked up?'

'If you will'

'OK. Take care.'

The line clicked, severing the last connection, and I went downstairs and threw the bag in the car.

The place was like a morgue, only seven flights on the board and one man with a mop trying to get some of the floor dry before the next coach came in: there was a blocked drain outside and the pavement was flooded.

'Rome.'

'Yes, sir.'

There was no delay on the screen printout.

'What time was this booked, can you tell me?'

He tore the perforation and used a stapler. 'You mean when. was the reservation actually made?'

'Right.'

He checked his books. 'Five p.m. yesterday, sir.'

'Thank you.'

Oh, that bastard Egerton.

On the way to the waiting area I saw a man who reminded me of someone, pale face and a kind of lost expression, couldn't think who, then I remembered: North, getting up so quietly like that, excuse me. They do it so often in bathrooms, I suppose because it's messy. I put a cheque into the Interflora box and a message, twelve red roses, Cheer up, Connie, life goes on.

A high faint whistling from beyond the roof and a sudden rush of lights. An entire Italian family in the waiting area, electing their next president, their hands presenting inarguable arguments in the air.

Taxiing to the end of the runway I got out my homework, committing the thing to memory: the extended-phase digits were in groups of vowels, labial consonants, labial and dental, so forth, and I ran off cheer… up… connie… and egerton… you… bas-tard… and reversed the transfers, forgetting the alert mechanism and having to look. This one wasn't going to be too easy, old Hanbury had done his nut.

Getting the green from the tower: the brakes came off and my spine began pressing into the seat. Reverse transfer and regroup, try again. But I couldn't concentrate because a top man like Macklin doesn't normally handle a low-key operation and they'd used 'highest priority' in terms of cover security in a routine enquiry into an accidental death and now I'd got him: Egerton had booked me out to Hong Kong a full hour before I'd bust a gut persuading him to send me there.

Jets roaring, the shoulders pressed hard to the seat.

So I wasn't just helping them out and I wasn't going to hang around looking at the postcards till they switched the signals from Pekin and triggered the real one for me, the big one. It was already running: Mandarin.