“We have that particular species in our Headquarters too,” said Nate.
“Just so you know, there’s considerable pressure to make our Macao outing a success,” said Bunty. “The chief of the section that manages Hong Kong and Macao—we call him FIGJAM—hopes one day to become director general. He’s bricked it—shitting bricks, sending ten telegrams a day, second-guessing our plans and, since you’ve arrived, questioning your expertise, proficiency, and competence.”
“And your lineage,” said Marigold, batting her eyelashes at Nate, chin in her hand. “But we told him we don’t know the bastard well enough yet.”
“This looks like the beginning of a beautiful friendship,” said Nate. “Will your service fly me to Canberra for the medal ceremony after we bag the general?”
“Don’t count on it, mate,” said Bunty. “FIGJAM will be blocking the door, claiming the credit.”
“Can’t wait to meet him,” said Nate. “What’s FIGJAM mean?”
“Stands for ‘fuck I’m great, just ask me,’ ” said Marigold.
“You’re absolutely sure he’s not from CIA Headquarters?” said Nate.
“We just wanted you to know what a screamer this op is for us,” said Bunty.
“I appreciate that,” said Nate. “There’s only one thing to do; we’re bringing the general’s head back in a wicker basket.” Marigold shook her head.
“I can barely understand you with all the American slang you use,” she said.
Droll, intuitive, smart, and skillful, thought Nate. He was glad he had these two on his side, and he knew he could trust COS Burns to support him in Langley, whichever way the operation went. He didn’t know what to expect from the panicked PLA general; or whether his own Russian would suffice; or if he could sell the false-flag approach; or how to deal with the Gordian knot challenge of hostile MSS surveillance. The rigors of his past internal operations on the streets of Moscow seemed relatively straightforward in comparison.
Just then Grace Gao walked across the dining room, nodding at diners, conferring with the maître d’, inspecting the already-immaculate table settings. If she saw the Australians and Nate, she didn’t acknowledge them. From across the room, Nate watched her movements—light and balanced—and how she held things in her hands, a menu, a wineglass, a linen napkin. When she turned in profile, Nate noted the slight swell of her stomach and buttocks, the fine line of her chin and jaw, the prominent, straight nose, and the rise and fall of her camisole top, stretched flat as a drumhead. She had no idea she was being watched and probably would not have cared. Marigold leaned across the table and handed Nate a menu.
“She’s really not on,” she said softly. “Not recruitable. Totally locked up inside.”
“Maybe you’re right,” said Nate, lifting his wineglass. “Here’s to the general.”
THE PENINSULA ROLLS-ROYCE COCKTAIL
Fill a mixing glass with ice. Measure one bar spoon of Benedictine, 15ml of Mancino Secco Vermouth, 15ml of Mancino Rosso Vermouth and 60ml of Tanqueray No. Ten Gin into the glass. Stir for ten seconds. Remove a chilled glass from the freezer and strain the mix into it. Serve with an orange twist to garnish.
26
An Outhouse Door in a Hurricane
The signal from Boothby’s agent came two days later, sooner than anyone expected. Zhong Jian Fang, Lieutenant General Tan Furen of the PLARF, had landed after midnight at Macao International Airport on a PLA Air Force Xian MA60 short-range turboprop, and had been driven to his usual hotel, the Conrad Macao on the Cotai Strip, one of three luxury hotel-casinos stacked side by side like shimmering neon bookends along the traffic-choked Estrada do Istmo.
General Tan was shown to a VIP suite—his status as a PLA general was subordinate to his casino designation as a high-stakes whale—and after an hour in his room with a favorite escort from South Africa known as “Air Jaws,” went down to the gaming floor where, in the wee hours of the morning, he lost an additional $50,000 at blackjack and fāntān, an obscure Chinese variant of roulette. As usual, his ardor for gaming was suddenly eclipsed by visions of the firing wall, and he summoned Boothby’s agent to his suite at 0500 hours to urgently beg him to arrange a meeting with his Russian “friend” who, the general hoped, would agree to become his benefactor. There was need for haste, the general blubbered, because casino officials that evening had displayed a marked reluctance to honor his gambling markers, an ominous indicator that scandal was around the corner.
Boothby’s agent—his cryptonym was CAESAR—had immediately texted yǒu yuán qiān lǐ lái xiāng huì to Bunty’s nonattributable ops cell phone, the Chinese proverb meaning “Fate brings people together no matter how far apart they may be.” It was the signal that the meeting with the general at Fernando’s Restaurant on Hac Sa Beach was on for tonight at 1900. A flurry of ops cables at 0600 local to Canberra (where it was 0800) and Langley (1800 the day before) kept the encrypted channels glowing cherry red throughout the morning. ASIS South China Chief FIGJAM dictated a brace of niggling, futile cables warning about “ambush and provocation,” while CIA Chief of China Ops Elwood Holder sent a one-line message of “Good luck, good hunting.” Not to be outdone, CIA Chief of Counterintelligence Simon Benford released a two-word cable that simply said, “Scare Me.” Game on.
Bunty and Nate met at the Macao ferry terminal in Kowloon at 1000 and boarded the stubby burgundy-colored hydrofoil for the hour-long dash past sugarloaf islands of the South China Sea, their peaks cloaked in a humid haze. The two officers slipped on board in the midst of a crowd of chattering Chinese day-trippers, and sat apart on airliner seats with cloth covers on the headrests, listening to the grommets in the overhead panels chittering with the vibration, as the hydrofoil skimmed over a dead-flat sea, throwing a rooster tail of white spray behind it. Nate wore a lightweight summer suit and a shirt with a long pointed collar; a florid necktie in a vertigo-inducing pattern favored by fashion-challenged Russian officials worldwide was in his pocket. He had slicked his dark hair down with a perfumed pomade supplied by Marigold, and wore wire-rimmed eyeglasses with lightly smoked lenses. The light disguise would break up his profile.
They took care to exit the Macao terminal in the middle of the same gaggle of tourists, and walked several blocks before flagging a random cruising taxi on the street. With Bunty speaking passable Chinese, they hired the driver for the day, and proceeded on a meandering sightseeing tour, crisscrossing the thirty-square-kilometer island of Taipa looking for indicators of trailing surveillance. They stopped at the Macao Giant Panda Pavilion, took a winding mountain road through the rain forest to the A-Ma Cultural Village, then angled southwest to the Portuguese colonial village of Coloane, and walked among the pastel villas and storefronts, ending up in the quaint Marques Square, paved with cobblestones of black and white set in a wavy pattern, a vestige of the colony’s maritime past. They stepped into the cool recesses of the canary-yellow chapel of St. Francis Xavier, the royal-blue front apse painted with clouds and seagulls. Nate peeked out a window and snapped his fingers softly to attract Bunty’s attention.