A short Chinese man dressed in black slacks and white shirt loitered under an arch of the flanking colonnade in the square, the first “possible” they had seen the entire day. So far, inconclusive, but time to stretch him a little to see what he’d do. They meandered through the narrow streets of the village, executed two natural reverses, and entered three separate stores, but the man did not reappear. Was he a spotter? Was a bigger team watching from the wings? Were they stuffed in a bottle and didn’t know it? How could coverage be that good? This was the familiar hell of surveillance detection: not seeing anything, not knowing. Keep going.
Back in the taxi they drove around the southern end of the island, past the black volcanic beaches on sweeping horseshoe bays, then off the main road again onto a rutted winding road up to the A-frame Chapel of Our Lady of Pain. “Fucking appropriate,” Bunty muttered, his shirt stuck to his back. Unlike the Panda Pavilion, this mountaintop clearing was deserted. No vehicles appeared, no pedestrians came out of the trees. Leaving the taxi driver in the parking lot, Bunty and Nate followed an overgrown and curving cement walkway into the stinking jungle, and in three minutes came to a clearing and a cluster of five small derelict houses in the Portuguese colonial style with columns and porticoes, and a magnificent view of the sea below. Broken stone stairways led up to crumbling porches and fallen lintels. Ragged window frames were choked with jungle creeper. The ruined interiors were green with moss and dripping in the sour air. The middle house in the semicircle of the five villas had a splintered balustrade along the once-elegant porch, rusted iron poking out of the flaking cement. A large ornamental stone urn stood to one side of the splintered front door, its matching twin long since tumbled and smashed. Bunty and Nate looked carefully into the deep urn, then looked at each other. “Dead drop,” whispered Nate, and Bunty nodded. They now had at least one Macao drop site for use with the general.
Back in the taxi, Bunty asked about the five abandoned villas in the jungle. This prompted an extended explanation in agitated Chinese from the driver, who several times turned around to look at his passengers, usually as the taxi was entering a hairpin curve, and was accompanied by a violent brushing of hands, and a remarkably loud pantomime of violent sneezing. Bunty sat back in the seat and laughed.
“What’s so funny,” said Nate. “What did he say?”
“Jesus Christ, the bloody place was a leper colony in the twenties,” said Bunty. “The driver suggested we wash our hands before dinner.”
“Dobry vecher, good evening,” said Nate, behind his smoked lenses. “My name is Dolgorukov.” He felt like Peter Lorre in a noir film, holding a cigarette between thumb and forefinger.
General Tan sat down in the nearly empty dining room of Fernando’s Restaurant. The twelve tables in the room were covered in red cloth and set with terra-cotta plates and big-handled water pitchers. The high-backed chairs were of woven rattan and creaky on the red-tile floor. Bunty sat at a table at the other end of the room, behind the general and in sight of Nate. They had agreed on two simple signals: if Bunty tapped the face of his wristwatch it would mean Nate should bring the dinner to a conclusion in the next fifteen to twenty minutes; if Bunty, however, mimed snapping a chopstick in his hands, it would mean some sort of emergency and for Nate to instantly break off contact and physically hustle the general out the French doors, across the pergola-covered flagstone patio, and onto Hac Sa Beach, where Bunty’s agent CAESAR hopefully would bundle him into his car and clear the area.
After an interminable day of touring in 85 degree heat with 90 percent humidity, the officers were tired and sticky, but provisionally satisfied that they were black. They had paid off the driver, and sat out of sight on a bench by the beach, waiting for the dinner hour. They reviewed what they had minutely discussed several days before in the Australian Consulate. In his persona as a exploitative SVR officer, Nate had to strike a delicate balance—he had to be sympathetic and mindful of the importance of letting the general save face, while simultaneously informing him with unalloyed Russian coarseness that financial deliverance came with a cost. Nate’s “superiors” would release the money only on receipt of classified information about the PLA Rocket Forces, and only after that information had been validated by experts in Moscow.
Bunty’s agent CAESAR had been coached to suggest to the general that a preliminary offering of PLARF secrets would not only demonstrate good faith and pave the way to a deal, but also eliminate dangerous delays. “Qiān lǐ sòng é máo,” CAESAR had told the general, “bring a swan’s feather from a thousand miles away,” an insignificant gift that nevertheless declares the sincerity of the sender. The general, now approximately $1.1 million in the hole, got the message.
Nate had also memorized a short list of priority requirements drafted by Defense Department analysts on the PLA Rocket Forces, an alphabet-soup list of Chinese weapons the Pentagon worried about most: the CJ-10 long-range cruise missile with its shark-like pectoral fins; the developmental WU-14 hypersonic glide vehicle; the stubby JL-2 submarine-launched ballistic missile; and the twenty-meter-long DF-41 ICBM, as big as a factory chimney when upright on its mobile launcher.
There had been vigorous debate between CIA and ASIS leadership on the best way to “set the hook” to ensure the general would become a regular reporting source. FIGJAM insisted that only $500,000 be given to the general initially, to maintain positive control. China Ops Chief Holder argued that it was critical that the general’s malfeasance be covered as quickly as possible: “If his misuse of official funds is discovered, his career as a reporting source will come to an immediate, kinetic conclusion. As for positive control,” said Holder, “he’s stolen PLA money; he’s had undeclared contact with what he thinks is Russian intelligence; he’s accepted our money; and he’s provided classified information in return. The hook is well and truly set. He’s in no position to renege on the agreement. And Nash will not so gently remind him of that fact. We can give him the whole suitcase of money.” With the clock ticking, FIGJAM in the end had reluctantly agreed, but not before saying it would not be his fault if there was a flap.
General Tan Furen was short and stocky, with the ruddy complexion of a Southerner from Guangzhou. His face was flat and rugged, with a broad nose and a thin-lipped mouth. His jet-black hair was clipped short up the sides and finished in a thick flattop, which accentuated his already square head. He was dressed in an ill-fitting suit, a starched white shirt, and a plain red necktie. He held the edge of the table in both hands and looked at Nate, clearly struggling with a situation in which he was subordinate to a much younger man.
“Our mutual friend tells me you have met with misfortune not entirely of your own making,” said Nate, in flowery Russian, keeping his voice low so the general would have to listen carefully. “It is a shame that a leader of your rank and prestige has been put in this position by unscrupulous usurers. I agreed to meet with you to offer any assistance, and to state my great admiration for your country.” General Tan nodded once, his eyes searching Nate’s face. Saving face. It’s not your fault, you old cockchafer.
“You are able to help me?” said the general.
Nate poured a glass of water for the general from the pitcher, an act of respect. “My superiors in Moscow charged me with finding a solution to your troubles,” said Nate.
“You are aware of the amount?”
Nate nodded, sucking his teeth as if bored. “What currency is preferable?” said Nate. “Renminbi, euros, dollars?” General Tan blinked. This was too easy. He had expected the Russian would attempt li yong ruo dian, to exploit his vulnerabilities.