Charlie’s Apprentice Page 2

  The Jesuit Curia should never have allowed the Chinese government to use them as it had in allowing Father Robertson to remain, after his release, even though it provided the Order with a presence in a country where it had always been traditionally important for it to be and where Catholicism was still, officially, permitted. Father Robertson was no longer a proper Soldier of Christ, not like Snow knew himself to be: had known from the earliest childhood days in the seminary and would always be, prepared to fight like a soldier and suffer like a soldier if called upon to do so. As Zhang Su Lin had said he was prepared to suffer, after the massacre in Tiananmen Square. Snow often wondered about Zhang: the man had been the best dissident source he’d ever had. The only one, in fact. And he had disappeared with the complete suddenness of his arrival.

  Despite the stinging dust and his desire to get into the protection of the church and its attached quarters, Snow halted abruptly short of the intersection, to allow as much room as possible between himself and the approaching nightsoil collectors carrying their brimming buckets of excreta from the non-flushing street stalls: the smell of untreated sewage in the strong wind was even more throat-clogging than the biting grit.

  Snow coughed, as much against the memory of Father Robertson’s reaction to Tiananmen as to the stink all around him. The broken man had actually confronted his outrage by quoting the Old Testament – Shall not the Judge of all the World do right? It had been one of the first times Snow had let his contempt show openly, quoting directly back from the Book of Proverbs. Answer not a fool according to his folly, lest thou also be like unto him. Answer a fool according to his folly, lest he be wise in his own conceit.

  Even as he had uttered the words Snow realized he had gone too far – been blatantly insubordinate – but he’d said it and the harm had been done, perhaps forever. Father Robertson had asked for his folly to be explained, and Snow had made the necessary apology and tried to argue the evil of a genocidal regime that had to be swept away. Only to be answered by another quotation, on the futility of fighting might with might, which hadn’t met the point he’d tried to make anyway and which rendered futile the whole dispute between them. As any political discussion between them would always be futile.

  Had Father Robertson ever been a proper Jesuit? That was practically a sacrilegious doubt about a man who had served a five-year jail sentence ostensibly for his faith, but privately Snow was frequently unsure. The old man could quote all the catechism and diktats of Ignatius – which was how he faced any dissent, by placating quotation from the Order’s founder or the Bible or whatever tract he considered appropriate – but the man never seemed to have the fervour or commitment of other Jesuits Snow had encountered before his posting to China.

  He had to stop himself becoming so irritated by the other man, Snow decided. He was a proper soldier, secularly as well as spiritually: that was all that mattered. If it hadn’t shown the most arrogant conceit, he would have believed himself chosen, to perform a dedicated, committed task.

  The smell of body waste lingered in the street as Snow crossed, able when he turned into the side-street to see the sagging shingled roof of the church buildings: their green was already dulled by the grey fall-out from the desert. Snow’s aggravation switched from the man who was considered, by their Order, to be his superior to what he saw as the emptiness of his own position in Beijing. He was only accepted by the Chinese authorities as an instructor of English, not a priest. He went through the charade to justify his residential permission, but he decided, impatiently, that he was not truly performing any proper function, at any proper level. He needed to get out, into the provinces, to meet people hopefully less afraid than the majority seemed to be in the capital, to talk in the Mandarin or any of the three other dialects he spoke about anything they wanted to discuss. It was a suggestion to put to Father Robertson who, annoyingly, had the power of veto over him.

  He was grateful to get inside the complex, out of the driving wind. Directly inside the door he shook himself, like a dog discarding water. He remained quietly in the hallway for several moments, waiting for the tightness in his chest to lessen before going into the church misted from disuse with a different, thicker dust. Quite alone in the echoing cavern, in front of an altar denied any ornamentation, not even the statues of adoration, he went through his devotions, praying as he did every day for special guidance in each role he performed.

  Before going to Father Robertson, he splashed water from a prepared jug into a matching bowl in what had once been a robing-room, washing the grit from his hands and face.

  Father Robertson was at his desk and quite motionless when Snow finally entered, head bowed so deeply over its scattered and dishevelled contents that he might have been asleep. From long experience, Snow knew that he wasn’t. In the early days, Snow had waited politely to be invited to sit, but not any more: he even grated the chair over the bare boards, needlessly to alert the older man that there was someone else in the room.

  It was still several minutes before Father Robertson stirred and looked sideways. It was not the Jesuit practice to wear any habit, and certainly not here in Beijing. Father Robertson wore bagged and shapeless trousers and an equally used shirt, open at the neck. His pure white hair was full and long and without any shape: Snow had never been aware of the man combing it, even on the occasions when they’d attended official or government events. The faded blue eyes were watery, in a lined face whitened by the years of sunless imprisonment.

  ‘I’ve heard the wind.’ The smile was distant, an attitude the man constantly conveyed.

  ‘It’s the Gobi,’ suggested Snow.

  ‘Not so soon.’

  ‘So it won’t last.’ It was still too early for there to be the smell of whisky. That would come later.

  ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘An early morning walk.’ Snow had been again to the main railway station. Three weeks earlier he’d witnessed a heavy troop contingent going north, on the Shenyang line. There’d been nothing on any radio broadcast or in any newspaper in Beijing, but then he hadn’t expected there to be.

  ‘It can’t have been very pleasant.’

  ‘I’m glad to be back.’

  ‘Well in time for your school.’

  At best the class comprised twenty people, but the attendance was irregular. Snow had wanted the lessons to be given in the church, but Father Robertson had insisted that would be provocative so they were conducted in the church hall. Snow said: ‘I was thinking, while I walked. I would like officially to take leave owing me. To travel around the country a little.’

  ‘Where?’

  Snow was surprised there had not been the instant rejection that had greeted previous suggestions of his moving around the country. He shrugged. ‘Shenyang perhaps. Or south, to Wuhan or Chongqin.’

  ‘I once travelled to all those places,’ said the head of a mission that no longer existed. ‘People were not frightened then.’ The nostalgia acted as a reminder. ‘You could endanger our position here.’

  What position? thought Snow, cynically. ‘Of course I would not think of openly discussing religion, not with anyone.’

  ‘It still might be dangerous.’

  ‘I would be extremely careful.’

  Father Robertson was reflective for several moments. ‘Make a general application, to see how it is received.’

  Snow was more surprised by the acquiescence. ‘I could get to the Foreign Ministry this afternoon.’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ decided Father Robertson. ‘You’re tolerated here as an English lecturer. So the school comes first.’

  Fifteen people turned up for class. One was a man of about twenty who hadn’t come before and Snow guessed he was sheltering from the dust storm. He spoke English well but had difficulty reading it. Snow didn’t believe the man’s promise to return the following week.

  He considered disobeying Father Robertson by trying to reach the Foreign Ministry before it closed but decided against it. He’d wait until tom
orrow, when there weren’t any English classes scheduled. The necessary Foreign Ministry in the morning and probably the more important Gong An Ju, the Public Security Bureau, in the afternoon.

  ‘Well?’ demanded Miller. He reached out, brushing her hand, wanting the brief physical contact.

  Patricia Elder shifted more fully to face the man, offering her hand to answer the touch, always pleased with intimate gestures like that. ‘It’s difficult to believe he’s been responsible for all that I’ve read in his files.’

  Miller continued to frown, hoping the woman was not being over-cautious. ‘I’m not sure appearance has got anything to do with it …’

  ‘… I am,’ she interrupted, confident of their relationship. ‘I think everything about Charlie Muffin is calculated to mislead. And most certainly his appearance.’

  ‘I thought you might have told him just now, in front of me. Make it clear that it is with my authority.’

  She shook her head. ‘It’s important he realizes from the beginning there’s no longer any special relationships: most definitely not with the Director-General. From now on he’s simply an ordinary officer who’s got to take orders, as and when they’re given. My orders. We’ll keep your authority for when he challenges me.’

  ‘Have you chosen someone?’ he asked.

  She nodded. ‘John Gower. University entrant. Incredibly keen. Scored the highest for interrogation resistance.’

  ‘When are you going to brief Muffin?’

  She smiled. ‘When there’s a benefit to be gained. Which isn’t yet.’

  Four floors below, Charlie Muffin was thinking: attempting a very personal – and therefore vitally important – assessment of where he stood. If he stood anywhere at all. A woman! He was to be ordered about by a woman! Why not? Why the automatic sexism? Because it had never happened before, that was why not. He’d never had to work this way. Nothing to do with her sex: it was to do with too many dismissive changes. He had no chauvinistic difficulty about the fact that Patricia Elder was a woman. Or that he was expected to do what she told him to do, when she told him to do it. He just hoped she was properly professional, that’s all. Which was male chauvinism.

  She’d worked hard during their brief meeting, to make it clear how much she was the superior and he was the subordinate. Why? The peremptory manner could indicate nervousness, a bravado effort to intimidate him. Or, on the other hand, to show a self-assured confidence and convey that from now on he was very much the subordinate. What about Patricia Elder herself? No wedding ring, which had to be kept in mind. No discernible accent, but obviously well educated private school delivery. No bust to get excited about but the suit jacket was high buttoned and might have hidden a surprise. Nice legs, crossed without embarrassment at his quick examination: strong-featured, the nose almost too big and not helped by the shortness with which she wore her slightly greying hair. Better to have grown it longer. Interesting, full-lipped mouth and unusual eyes, which were probably cosmetically described as brown but which he thought closer to black. She’d used them very directly, too, staring at him when she spoke, not dropping her gaze when he’d stared just as fixedly back, curious if he could face her down. But always an uncertainty. Charlie couldn’t understand that inference: couldn’t understand it at all.

  What else?

  Possibly that Peter Miller was a sneaky bastard. And that Julia Robb might not be the robotic ball-breaker she’d appeared. Charlie was sure Miller hadn’t used any foot button to activate the intercom. So it could have been on and relaying his arrival conversation with the girl. So she could have been protecting him, against betraying himself as … Charlie stopped, seeking the word, grinning when it came. Against betraying himself as a sneaky bastard, he supposed. Whatever, he’d have to be careful around Miller’s suite if he were ever allowed entry from now on, until he discovered if the Director-General did play eavesdropping tricks.

  What about the meeting itself? Confusing, Charlie judged. There hadn’t been any real purpose in it: at least not one that he could find. It hadn’t needed a personal encounter for Miller to announce how he intended running the organization in the future. Or for the introduction to Patricia Elder to be made personally, either.

  There had been no mention of anything positive for him to do. Despite the self-admonishment against expecting things in advance he had anticipated being given something today: something that would have broken this stultifying, paper-dart-throwing inactivity.

  Analysed completely, what had taken place today was nothing more than his being summoned for examination, like a museum exhibit or maybe a laboratory specimen, to see how he would jump when the acid dripped on the nerve ends. Which had they considered him to be?

  The musing began idly, his mind drifting, but abruptly Charlie began to concentrate. Couldn’t that be precisely the purpose: for them to study him, for some reason? It certainly hadn’t appeared an intense examination, from the quickness of the meeting, and the short conversation hadn’t given any indication, but it was the reason that made the most sense. Charlie liked things to make sense.

  Examined for what? An impossible question, at this stage. Maybe not even a question. Maybe he was again mistakenly anticipating things, when there was nothing to anticipate. All he could do was wait. As he had been waiting, for far too long.

  In Beijing, the People’s Daily carried a lengthy diatribe warning of foreign reactionaries encouraging counterrevolution within the country, pledging that any such activity would be sought out and crushed, with its perpetrators put on trial.

  Three

  Jeremy Snow never expected the length or the intensity of Father Robertson’s lecture upon every possible pitfall and disaster after the favourable reaction to his travel application. More specifically than ever before, the old man talked of the prisons and even the two re-education installations in which he had been incarcerated, regimes of rifle-butt discipline and brainwashing propaganda.

  Always, however, Father Robertson declared personal suffering unimportant. The need, always, was to retain a mission in a country where Jesuits had lived and worked for hundreds of years. Throughout Snow gave repeated assurances that he would do nothing to jeopardize their tenuous position. On this occasion the man quoted from the Epistle of James: Ye have heard of the patience of Job.

  Snow would have welcomed more the chance of a proper briefing with Foster: he’d suggested it, in the letter drop through which their communication was imposed and limited by the liaison officer, when he’d learned he was getting his travel permission. But Foster had predictably refused, arguing there were no embassy or other convenient gatherings of Westerners to disguise an encounter.

  Snow had become increasingly frustrated in the nine months he’d worked under Walter Foster. The red-haired, freckle-faced man looked and behaved like a timid clerk: even when there was virtually no risk at embassy gatherings of diplomats or Western enclave people, Foster was always twitching over his shoulder, inviting the attention they forever sought to avoid. So very different from the others. Bowley had always managed personal meetings in the early, first-arrival days. And George Street, too, using the flamboyant eccentricity of handlebar moustaches and floral waistcoats and an imported Rolls Royce to hide behind, deflecting any official interest by drawing it upon himself.

  After three and a half years Snow didn’t have to be told to get everything, which was what Foster had said. He always got everything. Photographs, whenever possible. Any scrap of conversation, no matter how inconsequential. Twice he’d even supplied names of men at the time unrecognized at the middle level of the government both of whom subsequently achieved influential appointments, marking them as people to watch and monitor. And from Zhang Su Lin, when he’d had the man as an informant, he’d provided the virtual framework of the dissident movement that survived Tiananmen.

  Fleetingly Snow regretted not being able to complain about Foster: get something done to improve the communication through the embassy. Was it so unchristian to thi
nk as he was thinking? Maybe, if any complaint affected the man’s career. But didn’t it go beyond Foster’s career, to his own personal safety? He was taking all the risks. Foster had the protection of diplomatic cover. Snow accepted he had nothing. Not true, Snow decided, in immediate contradiction. Didn’t he have the protection of God? Spiritual protection, unquestionably: just as his spiritual conviction was unquestionable. But this was temporal. Still not a difficulty. After three and a half years he was sure he had completely assimilated into a Chinese way of life, far more adjusted temporally than in any other way.

  Snow planned his itinerary with infinite care. Every route he suggested took him into closed areas – because obviously these were the cities and places of interest – and he discerned from beginning negotiations at the Foreign Ministry that to press for the north might lead to a straightforward refusal. He instantly switched the persuasion to a southerly route.

  It took a lot of discussion to finalize a route. It allowed him as far south as Chongqin, to return eastwards through Wuhan up to Shanghai before going more directly north, back to Beijing. It put him close to at least five restricted areas and maybe six closed cities. It would have been naïve to hope to get into all, but if he penetrated just one or two the trip could be more than worthwhile. An additional benefit was that for the first few days he could travel alone without any official supervision.

  It was not until Zhengzhou, on the sixth day, that he was scheduled to meet an escort to take him through the restricted areas. The guardian’s name was Li Dong Ming. His photograph showed a bland-faced, bespectacled man with rather large ears. Snow guessed him to be about thirty years old. If he was, they would be exactly the same age.

  Natalia Nikandrova Fedova accepted that professionally she had been extremely fortunate.

  She had been exonerated from any responsibility for the ultimately failed operation in England, which, incredibly, had turned out to be a personal affair for the ego-inflated satisfaction of the Directorate head, Alexei Berenkov. And then escaped completely the KGB reorganizational purges after the failed coup of 1991. Not just escaped: positively and materially benefited, when the KGB had been transferred to the jurisdiction of the Russian Federation, still headquartered in Moscow, but renamed as an internal security agency now. There had, of course, been the advantage in those early days of her being an officer in the external First Chief Directorate, not attached to any internal part of the oppressive apparatus which deservedly bore the brunt of the mass sackings, blood-lettings and even elimination of entire departments.