Wall of Night

49

Kam Hsiao’s apartment was located in Beijing’s Dabeiyao District in a neighborhood of faceless gray brick apartment buildings and bustling hutong markets.

Tanner left the Bamboo Garden late in the afternoon and walked to the Forbidden City, where he strolled the court-yards and museums until the sun began to set, then boarded a bus at the entrance to Tiananmen Square, took it into Dabeiyao, and got off at the Majuan Terminal.

He spent the next0 hour circling the streets near Hsiao’s building, looking for signs of surveillance but seeing nothing, which he took with a grain of salt.

This was the part of the job Briggs hated most: the constant, gnawing uncertainty. Living with it for any extended period meant you either developed a “if it happens, it happens” attitude, or you turned into a walking ball of neuroses. So far, he hadn’t fallen into the latter trap, but he could feel the fear lurking at the edges of his mind, waiting for a chance to take over.

Once the street was clear, he crossed over and walked into the apartment’s lobby. He trotted up two flights, then down the dimly lit hall to Hsiao’s door. He hesitated, suddenly remembering a joke a CIA veteran used to tell at ISAG: How do you know when you’re under surveillance by the KGB? Answer: When a dozen of them rush through the door and dogpile you.

Tanner knocked.

The door opened, revealing a slim, clean-cut man in his early twenties. He had large ears and, Tanner thought, sad but honest eyes.

“Yes, can I help you?” he said in English.

“Bian sent me. I believe you and I share a mutual friend.”

Hsiao cocked his head, confused, then his eyes widened. “Oh! Please, sorry, come in.”

Tanner stepped inside. Hsiao shut the door. The apartment had three rooms: a small kitchen, a living room, and a doorway leading to what Tanner assumed was a bedroom. The walls were a stark white, as were the floors, all of which were linoleum.

Hsiao gestured to one of two chairs. “Please sit. Would you like some tea?”

“That would be nice, thanks.”

Hsiao came back a few minutes later with a tray holding two ceramic mugs. “It’s young hyson,” Hsiao said. “Organic, no pesticides. Very good.”

“Hyson — green tea?”

“Yes.”

Tanner smiled and raised his mug in thanks. “My favorite. Your English is very good.”

“The army offers a course; it’s very popular. I’ve been studying for three years.”

“You’re in the PLA?”

“Yes, a corporal. I have to tell you, I’m very afraid, Mr. …”

“You can call me Ben.”

“Ben. I’m very afraid.”

“That’s okay. So am I.”

“You don’t look afraid,” Hsiao said.

“I have a good poker face. Plus, I make it a point to have a good cry once a day; it seems to help.”

Hsiao nodded sympathetically. “I see.” Then he saw Tanner’s smile. “You’re joking.”

“Yes.”

With that, the tension eased. Hsiao let out a chuckle. “That’s very funny. I suppose we should talk about … what we need to do.”

Tanner nodded. “First, I want to make sure you’re ready for this. It’s a big risk.”

“I know.”

“Are you sure? Do you know what will happen if you’re caught?”

“I know exactly what I can expect. I see it almost every day. I’ve made up my mind. General Soong is a good man and he doesn’t deserve what’s happened to him. Tell me how I can help.”

Tanner decided he would trust Hsiao, not only because he had no other choice, but because his gut was telling him he could. He extended his hand to Hsiao, who took it firmly.

“Okay,” Briggs said. “Welcome aboard.”

“A board? What board?”

“It’s just an expression. We’re a team now, you and I.”

“Ah! Good! How do we start?”

“I want you to tell me everything you know about the camp.”

For the next ninety minutes, Tanner questioned him about every aspect of the camp: physical layout, terrain and climate, security measures, daily routines, emergency procedures … Hsiao answered all the questions quickly and precisely. The only thing he didn’t know was what Tanner needed most of all: the camp’s location.

“There are two guard rotations that switch off every two weeks,” Hsiao explained. “We’re flown to the camp in a helicopter with blacked-out windows.”

“How long is the trip?”

“We’re not allowed to wear watches. If I had to guess, I would say the flight lasts between three and four hours.”

“What kind of helicopter?”

“Mi-Eight — I think you call it a Hip.”

“Hip” was the old-style NATO nickname for the MI-8, a Russian built helicopter with accommodations for thirty passengers and a cruising speed of about 150 mph. If Hsiao’s estimate was correct, that meant the camp was somewhere within a six hundred-mile radius of Beijing.

“What about your gear? What do you take with you?”

“Nothing. Everything is supplied once we reach the camp. In fact, we’re searched before we board the helicopters. You were thinking of a homing beacon of some kind?”

“Yes.”

“Impossible. The helicopters are thoroughly inspected.”

“Where do you take off from?”

“A small air base to near the Miyun Reservoir.”

“After you take off, do you hear a lot of jet noise — other airplanes?”

Hsiao thought for a moment, then nodded. “Yes, yes. How did you know?”

“Just a guess,” Tanner replied. They were routing the Hip into Capital Airport’s airspace to lose them in the commercial traffic. “Anyone trying to track you by radar would lose you.”

“Ah, I see. Very smart.”

Tanner’s options were dwindling. He couldn’t track Hsiao … he couldn’t track the helo — at least not by traditional means. He’d have to give it some thought.

“How tight is security at the air base?” he asked.

“Average, I would say. You want to get in?”

“I might.”

“I sometimes stand guard duty there when I’m off rotation. I can show you just where to go.”

Tanner stayed for another hour, first discussing communications procedures in case they needed to talk again, then deciding on a way to establish communication when — if — Tanner reached the camp.

Once back at the Bamboo Garden, he opened his Motorola, dialed a number, and waited through two minutes of squelches as the call was bounced from satellite to satellite, then to NSA headquarters in Ford Meade, Maryland, and finally to Holystone.

“Holystone, Shiverick,” Oaken said.

“Oaks, it’s me.”

“Hey, traveler. Are you on the Motorola?”

“Yes.”

“Hold on.” Tanner heard a beep as Oaken switched to a secure line. “Everything okay?”

“Yep. I need a favor,” He explained his conundrum with Hsiao’s transport helo. “We can’t do it electronically, so why not chemically?”

“You’re thinking some kind of paint job?”

“If we can get Dick to give us a bird’s eye, it might work. I’d also need a recipe.”

“I’ll make some calls. Give me a few hours and I’ll get back to you.”

The Motorola’s vibration ringer woke Tanner just before dawn. “Yes.”

“Okay, we’re set,” Oaken said. “Dick’s going to do some shuffling and get your coverage.”

“And the recipe?”

“That, too. Got your shopping list ready?”

Tanner turned on the bedside light, grabbed a pad and pen to copy down all the items. “You’re sure about the ratios? I don’t want to end up a human torch.”

“They’re straight from the official cookbook. When do you plan on going in?”

“Tonight or early tomorrow morning. They’re scheduled to take off at dawn.”

“We’ll be watching,” Oaken replied.

Three miles away at the Guoanbu’s headquarters, Xiang was arriving for the day. As he’d expected, he found Eng in a conference room surrounded by stacks of manila file folders.

“Any luck?” Xiang asked.

“Two hundred fifty-seven Westerners arrived in the city during the period you indicated,” Eng answered. “Of those, there’s no way to know which of them are here on business or pleasure without checking each file.”

“What about camera permits?”

“Same thing. There are no separate records.”

“What about Bian? Any activity since his meeting with our mystery man?”

“Nothing. We’ve got a team watching him day and night, but so far he’s behaving.”

“What about his embassy contact — this Brown fellow?”

“He hasn’t left the embassy since.”

“Then it all comes down to Bian’s mystery man.”

“Which works in our favor,” Eng answered. “He’s an illegal and he’s on our ground. If we catch him — when we catch him — we can dangle him like a hooked fish.”

Who was he? Xiang wondered. Better question: Why was he here? True enough, Bian was a known supporter of Soong, but that didn’t make him unusual. Even after twelve years, the general’s supporters were still pressuring the government to commute his sentence. Were Bian’s activities connected to Soong, or was it something else?

It didn’t matter, he decided. He couldn’t take the risk. “I think it’s time we got proactive.”

“How so?”

“Arrest Bian. Let’s see how much he’ll endure before giving us his new waiguoren friend.”