Quiller Bamboo

'Certain.'

'Well and good, because this is tricky territory, as I imagine you realize. Never know who you're talking to' — his gloved hand on my knee for an instant — 'I mean the Chinese. So the thing is, since the police are after you, it might be a good idea to make yourself scarce, don't you agree?'

'It sounds logical.'

'Ni yao kouxiangtang ma?' Chong, holding out his packet of Wrigley's.

Trotter shook his head. 'Bu, xiexie ni. It's not easy,' he said, 'in a place like this, to make oneself scarce, with martial law and everything. Of course, the entire populace hates and detests the authorities, but one or two are so scared of reprisals that they'll give anyone away, even their friends, even their relatives.' We reached for the dashboard again as Chong used the brakes for the first traffic lights, the drums moaning. 'What I would like to tell you, my dear fellow, is that if you need a good place — a safe place — to sort of lie low till things blow over, I'd be delighted to assist.' He leaned forward, looking past me at Chong. 'Mafan ning, keyi rang wo zai xiayitiao jie xia che ma?'

'Keyi'

'I gave you my card, I believe?'

'Yes.'

'Phone me at any time, my dear fellow. At any time. I know a safe place, if you're really stuck — not the hotel, of course, it's just a tiny apartment in the native quarter. Dear God, the whole town used to be the native quarter, but now the Chinese are taking over, it's appalling. The sooner they get that gang of cutthroats out of power in Beijing the happier I shall be, not to mention my good friends the intellectuals.' He looked at Chong again. 'Wo qian ni shenme ma?'

'Bu. Heng huanying ni da wo de che.'

'Ni zhenshi ge re xin ren.' He braced himself as the truck slowed. The big black beard close to my ear — 'Please remember, Mr Locke, that you can count on me, for the aforesaid reasons. I have a feeling you are hardly a friend of those bastards in Beijing, which makes you one of mine.'

He used a fist on the door handle and dropped onto the street, looking up at me with his dark eyes serious. 'You know where to find me.' Swung the door shut with a bang.

Across the road was a red-and-white sign in Chinese and English: Truck Rental.

Chong gunned up and got into second gear. 'You know that guy?'

'Slightly.'

'British?'

'Yes. How many people,' I asked him, 'have we got in the field?'

'Maybe a dozen in support, some of them sleepers, got a short courier line to the airport, longer one to Kathmandu, then we can use-'

'All right, I want a two-way radio with a ten-kilometre range and fresh batteries. I want another one delivered to our DIP with the frequencies synchronized.' He slowed for traffic lights, and I gave him a rendezvous. 'I also want a different truck — what are those brown things with the rounded front?'

'Called a Dongfeng, sure, I can rent one of those.'

'How long will it take to get what I need?'

'How soon do you want it?'

'Fast as you can.'

He worked at his gum. 'Gimme an hour, okay?'

I switched to receive. 'Hear you.'

'I've had no response yet.'

There wouldn't have been time. With the signals board in the state it was, they'd have to call in Bureau One, the all-highest, and he'd have to confer with Croder and possibly that bastard Loman and decide which way to go, leave me out here in the hope that I could make another move or call me in and replace me.

'Did you tell them I'm asking for a few hours more?'

'Of course. But I assume nothing has changed.'

He waited.

You cannot lie. You can lie to every single human being you meet in the field, you can lie like a trooper, like Satan himself, because your life will often depend on it, and that is understood. But the shadow executive cannot lie to his director, because he is his link to London, to Control, and to the signals board and the mission screens in the computer room and finally to the decision-making process that is the crux and fulcrum of the entire operation. That too is understood.

'No,' I said into the radio. 'Nothing has changed.'

Someone else came through the doorway across the street, a man wrapped in rags with some kind of basket on his back. I watched him until he was out of sight past the vegetable stall. I was sitting in the truck, the new one, the Dongfeng, bloody thing reeking of yak dung.

'But at least we are now in constant touch,' Pepperidge said.

That was like him: he'll always find the remnant of a silver lining in the darkest reaches of despair and bring it into the light.

Said yes.

'Location?'

It would be very dangerous to give it to him: there was no scrambler on these things. 'I can't do that.'

'Very well. I had a signal,' he said, 'through Beijing, an hour ago. The deadline has been moved up a little.'

Mother of God.

The briefing was that Premier Li Peng was due to address the Chinese nation on television from the Great Hall of the People at ten o'clock on the morning of the 15th, and that was the governing factor that fixed the timing of Bamboo: the premier was to be removed by force from his desk and Dr Xingyu Baibing installed in his place. The briefing had noted that if the deadline couldn't be met, we wouldn't get another chance for months: Premier Li wasn't scheduled to speak again until the spring.

I asked Pepperidge: 'By how much?'

'The speech was going to be made at ten hundred hours on the fifteenth, as you know. It's now down for eighteen hundred hours the previous evening, which means that the bomber will have to pick him up at Gonggar at three tomorrow afternoon, instead of midnight.' Short silence. 'Bit rough, I know.'

I watched the doorway.

Nine hours.

'What's London telling the coordinator?'

'In what way?'

I think he knew, but didn't want to get it wrong. This was sensitive ground. 'Is the coordinator being told that the subject is now missing? That we can't have him ready for the rendezvous at Gonggar in any case?'

In a moment, 'No.'

A gust of wind rocked the truck, blew dust along the street. 'When will they tell him?'

'I think they'll leave it to the last possible moment. There's not much to lose, after all. The bomber's scheduled to leave Beijing at fifteen hundred hours Beijing time, thirteen hundred hours Lhasa. If we can't make the rdv, all we have to do is put through a signal for them to cancel the flight, five minutes before takeoff. It gives us a slight edge, if there's anything we can do in the meantime.'

Meant find Xingyu.

'All right,' I said.

In a moment, 'Have you any plans?'

'I'm going to follow up whatever I can find.' Couldn't tell him what I'd asked Chong to do for me; we weren't scrambled. But I think he knew what I was going to do. I think he knew.

'Very well.' A note of cheerfulness, I wished he wouldn't do that, it was like whistling at a funeral.

Meant to be kind, he meant to be kind, God knew how this man had got through all the missions he had — major operations, three of them Classification One to my knowledge, global scale — with this much humanity, this much compassion. Simply because, perhaps, he could preserve enough heart in his executive to keep him running on, give him the feeling he wasn't alone, take enough tension out of his nerves to let him see a chance he might otherwise miss, and muster the strength to take it.