That was why they'd taken him on a lead to the Golden Sands at regular intervals for sexual recreation and wifely reassurance: they didn't want their missiles to get stuck in the tube because their design consultant was spiritually disorientated.
'All over,' he said.
'What is?'
I opened my eyes.
'Your little operation.'
Reaction hit the nerves but stopped short at involuntary muscular stimulation. He wasn't looking at me as he said it: he was unaware of any double meaning.
'It feels fine.'
'They're very skilled.'
The surgeon was peeling off the thin disposable gloves and dropping them into a sani-bin and leaving the nurse to do the final dressing. She looked at me once, not smiling, looking away again, just wanting to know that the capitalist-imperialist dupe was exhibiting the correct clinical reaction following anaesthetized surgical trauma.
They wanted to keep me in good health and this tied in with the Chinese attitude towards captive political or intelligence officers of foreign extraction: they relied more heavily on indoctrination, mind-bending and intensive exploration of the psyche rather than induced physical pain. It also tied in with the way they'd pulled me out of the sea an hour ago: there'd been a sudden alarm raised and for a few minutes I'd been a floating target for half a dozen guns, but after they'd made sure I couldn't do anything they'd got me into the launch and given me the appropriate rescue attention while I rolled my eyes and moaned and so forth.
The only sign of enmity had come from one of the divers when he'd surfaced and seen me lying in the stern: his stream of invective had gone on until one of the officers had cut him short. Possibly he was a close friend of the man I'd killed, perhaps even his brother.
The nurse activated the very expensive-looking surgical couch and tipped me upright.
Thank you,' I said to her. 'Thank-you,' nodding and smiling.
Drew a complete blank so I turned to Tewson.
'This come under the National Health?'
He laughed pleasantly, rocking back an inch on his heels. I thought he probably hadn't seen an Englishman to talk to for a long time: 'National Health' was a very English institution and the phrase had struck another chord with him. I could believe that if I just said 'Piccadilly' or 'God save the Queen' he would have broken down and sobbed on my shoulder. Served him bloody well right: he should've thought of what he was doing before he sold out to the Reds in such a hurry. At least people like Philby had the decency to go on hating our guts after they'd made the break.
But of course he hadn't sold out to the Reds at all.
He'd sold out to Nora.
'When were you in England last?'
I was certain he hadn't meant to ask.
'Me? Oh, couple of months ago. Why?'
'I just wondered how things were over there.'
I gave a short laugh. 'Price of bangers is up again, and you can still get into the News of the World if you leave your flies undone on the Tube.'
We laughed together, real old pals.
He'd sold out to Nora: the girl with a taste for soixante-neuf and Ming. He couldn't give her the one so he gave her the other. A man short on libido doesn't have to be insensitive about it and she wouldn't have spared him: it had gone on for years and he hadn't been able to do anything about it because he wasn't earning enough. Then the chance came and he'd sold two things in the same deaclass="underline" the design of the missile launcher he was working on, and his conscience. And he'd bought back his pride.
'So I suppose you never saw your dinghy again?'
'My what? Oh-no. Drifted off into the wide blue yonder. Cost me a packet. On my income, anyway.'
'Where were you diving?' he asked casually, and I felt sorry for him: he was a genuine boffin and all he'd got on his mind was a slide-rule and they'd told him to interrogate me and make it sound natural and he just wasn't capable. He was a simple-minded genius and this wasn't his field at all.
'South China Sea,' I told him with a shut face.
'Just doing a bit of scuba fishing, were you?'
'That's right.' Then I put my right hand on his arm and lowered my voice. 'Fact is, old boy, I can't tell you what I was doing because I've been sworn to secrecy. Be breaking my word to a friend, get it? Awfully sorry.'
'That's all right'
He was obviously relieved: he'd put the question they'd told him to put and if I didn't want to answer it he couldn't make me.
The nurse was putting my left arm in a sling and I looked into her blank young face as roguishly as my cover demanded, trying to make her look up at me. No go. She pinned the sling to the white tunic I had on: when they'd brought me on board the rig they'd cut away the remains of the rubber suit and put me into this Mao outfit and together with the sling it made a first class change of image if I'd had any use for one.
The Chinese near the door pulled it open and beckoned us outside. He looked like the one who'd escorted Tewson to the Golden Sands Hotel. He went out first and we followed and nobody said anything till we were going along the deck towards the living quarters and suddenly I knew I had to make a move and I didn't know precisely what kind of move and I had to think and I thought fast, strolling beside Tewson near the rails.
It didn't have to be a physical move. The last-ditch get-out thing I'd set up wasn't for now: it was for the dark and for the time when I was driven to do something suicidal. The move I had to make now was psychological and I was beginning to see its shape.
Situation: I was free to walk on deck in the warm afternoon sunshine and chat with my fellow countryman but appearances were deceptive because this was an opposition stronghold and they'd got me and they were going to keep me unless I could stop them and I didn't think I could stop them. In metaphysical terms I was at the wide end of a narrowing tunnel that would take me through the imminent interrogation phase with their professional from the Hong Kong cell and through increasingly restrictive incarceration and withholding of privileges to the final elaborate mind-bending sessions with the intelligence psychiatrists in Pekin that would leave me physically emaciated and with irreversible personality changes that would kill off any hope of making an eventual break because I would no longer be the kind of human being who could plan such a thing or even want it.
Probably it was my last chance of using Tewson for my own purposes or even of seeing him again. They'd briefed him to question me before they put any kind of pressure on because you couldn't feel suspicious of a chap born under the same flag and all that, and I was expected to be relaxed and make a slip or decide to give him my confidence. I'd pushed this one as far as I could and the only thing that worried me was that he'd seemed to accept the fact that I'd met him sometimes at the golf club. The dossier on George Henry Tewson that Macklin had given me was exhaustive, even to the names of his acquaintances in Redhill, but I'd expected him to challenge me on this one: what year were you there, then? I don't seem to remember you, so forth. But in the first few minutes of talking to him I'd recognized a whopping case of homesickness and thrown him the golf club thing: and I think he took it without question because he'd wanted to run into someone from his intimate past, all the way out here on this remote prison of his where he lived among strangers.