Wall of Night

45

One of the few remaining garden courtyard-style hotels in Beijing, the Bamboo Garden Hotel, is surrounded on all sides by hutongs, or narrow alleys, thick rows of juniper hedges, and tall spruce trees. The red-lacquered front door is guarded by a pair of stone lions and the narrow street outside is covered in a layer of dust blown in from the Gobi Desert by what the Chinese call the “yellow wind.”

After checking into his room, Tanner pulled out his cell phone — a Motorola satellite phone that had been specially modified by the CIA’s Science & Technology wizards — and dialed. The number was local, an Internet line maintained by a Langley front company. After a single ring, the line clicked open. Briggs punched in a five-digit code, then disconnected.

Embedded in each of the five tones was a frequency spike designed to interrupt the carrier signal at a particular modulation. The first and last tones were called “shackles,” the electronic equivalent of the “Start” and “Stop” inserts in old-style telegrams. Once decoded at Langley, the four remaining tones would match up to a list of phrases and words maintained by the Op Center’s duty officer.

The message he’d sent was one of a dozen he’d memorized before leaving:

He checked his watch. He had three hours before his meeting with the embassy’s contact. He set his watch alarm, stretched out on the bed, and drifted off to sleep.

He rose at four, took a shower, and changed clothes, then left the Bamboo Garden and walked six blocks to the Drum Tower at the intersection of Gulou and Dianmenwai streets.

Built by Kublai Khan in the 1200s, the tower had once served as Beijing’s version of Big Ben, sounding each passing hour with the beating of giant drums. Tourists, mostly Westerners, walked around the red-painted base, gaping up at the layered pagoda roof and the balcony encircling the top. As Tanner had hoped, few people were braving the long, sixty-nine-step climb to the parapets.

He took a few pictures for good measure, then stepped inside, mounted the narrow steps, and stared upward. Once at the top, he circled the lone drum on display, took a few minutes to read the placard, then walked to the balcony railing and looked out.

He could see all of Old Beijing, Beihei Park, and, a mile or so to the south, the Forbidden City, with its sprawl of courtyards, watchtowers, and bridges. He walked along the railing until he could see the Bell Tower a block to the north.

He watched the people milling about the tower’s base, concentrating on Chinese faces until he spotted the one he was looking for. Chang-Moh Bian sat on a bench east of the tower on Baochao Hutong. Using Bian as his center point, Tanner scanned the surrounding streets for signs of surveillance.

It was a nearly impossible task. The Guoanbu’s Ninth Bureau, officially known as the Antidefection and Countersurveillance Bureau, was good at its job; they knew Beijing’s layout, its customs, the ebb and flow of its citizens. If there was a Ninth Bureau team here, the only way Tanner might see it was if someone made a mistake and gave themselves away, which was unlikely.

Also, the very nature of Chinese customs gave any surveillance team an advantage. In China, staring at a foreigner or even following them about is not considered rude. Chinese are curious by nature and feel no need to either hide it or apologize for it. In fact, such overt interest is considered complimentary.

Briggs would have to rely on his instincts to tell him whether he was being stared at because of curiosity, or because he was a target; whether the person or persons following him were simple gawkers, or professional watchers.

When only five minutes remained before the official wave-off time, Tanner descended the tower steps and walked east on Gulou Dondajie, then turned north onto Baochao.

Bian was still sitting on his bench. He glanced nervously at his watch, then looked over his shoulder. Brown was right. Everything about Bian’s demeanor cried, “Arrest me!”

Taking pictures as he went, Tanner strolled around the Bell Tower until he stood beside Bian’s bench. He turned to Bian and asked in English, “Pardon, is this the Bell Tower or the Zhonglou?”

Bian hesitated, then said. “They are the same, though the Drum Tower has been here longer.”

Tanner opened his map and stepped closer as though asking for directions. “Get up and walk north to Doufuchai Hutong,” he said with a smile. “Once there, turn left and follow it to Xidajie. I will meet you in Guanghua Temple in thirty minutes. Do you understand?”

“Yes. What—”

“We’ll talk when we meet. Walk slowly, be casual. Go on.”

Bian stood up and started toward Doufuchai. Tanner waited sixty seconds, then followed.

He trailed Bian at a distance, stopping frequently to look in shop windows or take a picture, all the while keeping Bian in his peripheral vision. It took Bian less than ten minutes to reach Guanghua Temple. Tanner waited until he was inside and out of sight, then started “quartering his tail,” retracing their route, weaving his way north and south along the streets parallel to Doufuchai Hutong as he watched for surveillance. Twenty-five minutes after his initial departure, he was back at the Bell Tower.

As far as he could see, no one was showing any interest in either Bian or himself.

He walked two blocks down Gulou Dondajie and turned onto Houhai Beiyan, which took him to the rear entrance of Guanghua Temple. He found Bian in one of the gardens, standing at the railing beside a pond. Bright orange carp swam lazily in the water.

“Hello,” Tanner said.

Bian’s hands trembled on the railing. “Hello.”

Briggs reached over and placed his hand on Bian’s forearm. “You’ve got to relax.”

“Funny, that’s what Roger said the last time we met.”

“It’s good advice. We’re almost done. I just need a little bit of information.”

“Roger also said that.”

“I promise you, once you and are I finished, your part is over. You have my word.”

With this, Bian seemed to relax. He took a deep breath and released his grip on the railing. “What kind of information do you need?”

“You told Roger you don’t know where Soong is. Explain that.”

“Someone has been passing messages between myself and General Soong.”

“Who?”

“A guard at the camp where he is being held. He is a distant relative of the general’s.”

Good news, bad news, Tanner thought. Good news because he now had a contact on the inside, someone with access to Soong; bad news because that contact was linked to Soong. Either the Guoanbu had made a mistake in the screening process for the camp’s guards, or they had not, and the guard was working for them — either wittingly or unwittingly.

“What’s his name?”

“Kara Hsiao.”

“Does he know someone is coming for Soong?”

“I assume so,” said Bian.

More bad news. “And he’s willing to help?”

“Yes.”

“How can I reach him?”

“He’s in the city. The guards are on two-week rotations; he goes back in a few days.”

Tanner nodded. “Give me his address, but don’t tell him I’m coming.”

Tanner’s worries about the skill and advantage of the Guoanbu’s Ninth Bureau watchers were well founded. Three hours after he and Bian parted company at Guanghua Temple, the team’s report was lying in front of MSS director Xiang. “It appears our young officer Niu has good instincts,” he said, staring at a photo of Bian and Tanner at the Bell Tower.

“What do you want to do?” Eng asked. “By itself, Bian’s contact with Brown is enough to arrest him. He’s obviously conspiring to—”

“Obviously. What we don’t know is what they’re up to. That’s what we must find out.”

“I agree.”

“What’s their interest in Bian? He’s a nobody, a functionary. His job gives him access to nothing of interest; he’s got nothing to offer. What do we know about the man he met? It looks like he was carrying a camera. That means tourist, or journalist. Where is he staying, what’s his name?”

“We don’t know,” Eng replied.

“Why not?”

“The team lost him after they parted at the temple.”

“Lost him, or he got away from them?”

“He took no obvious actions to lose them, but—”

“But he’s gone,” Xiang finished, then was silent for a few moments. “We know he’s a Westerner, we know he has a camera, and we can safely assume he arrived within the last week. Contact Customs and Immigration and have them pull all the entry visas that match that criteria. We’ll check passport photos until we find one matching Bian’s new friend.”