As Natalia Fedova’s immediate deputy, Tudin was aware of most ongoing operations, and there had been no indication, in any discussion or internal memorandum, of any official activity involving someone called Charles Edward Muffin: no indication of anything ongoing concerning England at all. Which left the possible conjecture that the woman was interested in someone with whom she had once been connected. And retained an interest.
Only a conjecture, Tudin warned himself. But wasn’t conjecture one of the central threads of basic intelligence? Unquestionably. It was definitely worth pursuing. But how? He couldn’t initiate any enquiry to London. It would be traceable, to him by name. And officially Western targets weren’t his responsibility anyway, so he had no explainable reason. The only obviously safe way would be to continue discreetly monitoring everything the bitch did. And be ready to move when she made a mistake.
Tudin felt the excitement warm through him at the thought of at last finding what he had been looking for.
Sixteen
Jeremy Snow’s initial reaction was a reason-blurring, breath-robbing anger which diminished only gradually, never completely leaving him. Neither did the asthma. He rejected outright the congratulatory cable and the warning messages as any sort of praise or concern for his safety. Instead he saw them – and the refusal for the second meeting he’d insisted upon – as London accepting Walter Foster’s bowel-opening hysteria rather than his own properly balanced assessment.
He’d come inches close to making the open accusation – actually considering calling Foster a coward – in the first few irrational hours, after waiting fruitlessly in the park and later collecting the London communications from the dead-letter drop. In his drop-delivered reply he accused both Foster and London of blatant over-reaction. He appreciated their congratulations and their evaluation of his worth. He was not, however, any longer prepared to operate under the conditions now being imposed. He wanted an entirely revised operational procedure and most particularly to work through someone different at the embassy. He had no intention, therefore, of doing anything further until he heard direct from London. Until the changes were agreed, he was temporarily terminating their relationship.
It was the letter he’d wanted and planned to write about Foster for a long time – even before the latest panic had brought everything to a head – but there still remained more frustration than satisfaction after he sent it.
In the days following the threat to quit, Snow’s anger subsided further and he had time to consider what it would mean. And concluded, with some concern, that it would mean a great deal to him not to go on.
He rationalized that his feelings did not in any way conflict with his more important vocation as a Jesuit. Rather, they were closely related. It was impossible, in any sense of the word, for him properly to function in his true vocation. It was a sham, lecturing on basic English to a varying handful of Chinese: as much a sham as Father Robertson remaining as caretaker of an echoing, dead church in which only the two of them could practise their faith and that – because of the old man’s fear – surreptitiously, afraid the simple act of praying might offend some unknown official into some unanticipated gesture of correction or punishment. So he’d come to see his second role as the only way he could operate as a soldier priest. At his theological college, his Jesuit tutor had frequently preached Busenbaum’s creed of the end justifying the means. Snow could relate to that: get something like spiritual comfort from it, in the sterile religious situation in which he was forced to exist. Until now, the secret work had justified his continuing there, with no one able to forecast what the end might be. But now Snow realized that by quitting he had precipitated that end. It was too late to change his mind – he didn’t want to change his mind, about working with Foster – but he didn’t want to stop an activity he believed gave some purpose to his being in Beijing.
His concern kept the anger bubbling, particularly with his conviction that London had already come down on Foster’s side.
Having demanded a decision direct from London, Snow daily visited the four use-at-random message drops in and around the Forbidden City for their reply. Each day they remained empty. He considered trying to prompt a response by leaving a message for Foster to collect and transmit to London, before accepting he’d already told them he would not any longer communicate through the man, who therefore probably wasn’t maintaining any checks upon the drops anyway. After a week Snow came close to eroding his threat against Foster by activating the emergency meeting procedure at the Taoist temple, but in the end he didn’t do that either: the warning cancellation of the second park meeting had prohibited any further public place encounters, so Foster would not have turned up, even if he’d monitored the demand.
Snow recognized that effectively he had, for the moment, been abandoned, as much by his own decision as by London’s. Nevertheless he knew when there would be a meeting. Only a week away there was a reception at the embassy for visiting British industrialists to which both he and Father Robertson had been invited.
It became a period of permanent impatience which Snow thought, however, he kept from becoming obvious. Despite their being thrown together in such a self-enclosed environment, from which a mutually dependent friendship might have been expected, Snow’s relationship with the head of mission had always been distantly formal, so Father Robertson did not notice the younger man drawing even further within himself. And the association with the current English students was even more formaclass="underline" only twice did Snow come close to snapping at irritating mistakes and both times stopped himself.
He was glad of the restraint on the second occasion, because that was the day Mr Li made his unexpected visit.
Snow was not initially aware of the man’s presence, so he did not know how long he had been standing in the half-lit rear of the room. It was only after he’d almost shouted at a boy he’d taught for six months and who therefore should not have repeatedly confused the verb with an adjective in a practice sentence that Snow detected movement at the back. It had started off as a small class, and Snow thought it might have been a late arrival, momentarily holding back from interrupting the session. Or someone temporarily sheltering: there had been two Gobi storms, although the wind outside hadn’t seemed too strong that day.
Snow stopped the lesson and said: ‘Jin-lai’, waiting for the newcomer to enter further, never quite sure if he kept the surprise from showing when he finally recognized his cloying escort from the information-gathering journey.
‘I am sorry,’ said Li, speaking in English. ‘I do not wish to intrude.’
There were five men and three girls forming that day’s class. Each turned, at the interruption. The instinctive recognition of Li as an official was immediate and the stir of unease rippled discernibly among them.
‘I am glad you accepted my invitation,’ said Snow. Conscious of the need to reassure his students, he repeated in Mandarin the circumstances of his meeting with Li.
‘We became friends,’ exaggerated Li, expanding the explanation after Snow finished, in Chinese himself this time.
None of the students looked reassured. To Li, Snow said: ‘Please join us.’
The Chinese shook his head. ‘Please go ahead: I will just observe.’ He finished the sentence already withdrawing into the gloom: the scant light was such that Snow’s view was of a pair of disembodied legs, the upper part of the man lost in darkness.