Battlefield 4: Countdown to War (17 page)

33

Huangpu District, Shanghai

All day she had felt it – something oppressive in the city: not just the smog, or the sticky heat that dusk had done nothing to dissipate. It was not just the increased police presence, but a change of tone, as if people were choosing sides. If she was going to under -stand it she had to experience it for herself. The occupation of People’s Square had been bulldozed by the police but instead of squashing the protest, their action seemed to have spread it around the city, like spores. On street corners there were huddles of people with banners:
Death to America
. . .
Americans Go Home –
not just on hand-painted banners but professionally printed T-shirts, which was new. She stopped a youth walking past, grabbed him by the sleeve.

‘You believe in this?’ she said, gesturing at his T-shirt.

He shrugged.

‘Where did you get it?’

‘Some guy gave it to me.’

‘So you just wear it? Take it off . It’s not appropriate.’

‘Get lost. He paid me to wear it.’

‘Who?’

‘I dunno. Ask them.’

He pointed at a group of student age youths with similar shirts on.

Hannah approached two girls with a banner and asked the same questions.

‘Someone has to pay for this crime,’ said one.

‘The Americans think they can just go into places and shoot people,’ said the other. ‘China should stay away from America. It’s a bad influence.’

Hannah looked at their clothes and shoes: Nike, Converse, Hollister, Gap . . .

‘Yeah, they’re taking us over. We must resist.’ The girl’s iPhone buzzed and she looked at the screen. ‘Gotta go. Bye.’

The girls moved off and were enveloped by the crowd, which had begun to surge forward. Hannah felt compelled to follow. There were hundreds of them, all headed back to People’s Square: mainly students, but also young salary workers. Some instinct told her to hang back. Another told her to get right in there to talk to more of them, to see if she could discover how they were being organised. They must have all received a second message because they all speeded up, as if there was an urgent reason to get to the square. Three hurrying girls crashed into her and apologised.

‘Hey, how do you know?’

‘Know what?’

‘Where to go, what it’s for?’

One of them waved her Galaxy in the air. Hannah had made a grab for her hand so she could read the message when a streak of white light flashed skywards between the buildings. Even though the sound was muffled by the wall of people, the rush of air knocked her to the ground along with everyone around her – an invisible tsunami breaking over them, lifting them en masse and propelling them half a block from where they had been standing.

When Hannah came to she was in a shop window, face down and covered in shards of glass. A cacophony of a hundred burglar and car alarms rang and hooted, and behind them came the screams and moans of the injured and dying.

She got to her feet and gently brushed her eyes. She had been lucky, shielded from the full force of the blast by the sea of people in front. She stepped out of the trashed shop front, like a mannequin coming to life. A young man was lying a few feet away. He raised a faltering hand. There was a blade shaped splinter of glass several inches long protruding from his chest. She bent down to help him. His eyes pleaded with her. He grabbed her hand, gripped it hard and then let go, his gaze losing its focus as the life drained out of him. From his other hand slipped his phone. Hannah’s was gone,
separated from her by the blast. She scrolled through his last few messages:
Mum, don’t wait up
, and the seemingly innocuous,
See you all in the Square
. She tucked the phone into a pocket and turned to see where she could help.

34

Huangshan Prefecture

‘The tectonic plates of our great nation are shifting. On one side, the progressive – on the other, the reactionary. They must not split apart. They must join together . . .’

Jin Jié made a gesture like breaststroke, as if pushing two large objects apart, and concluded with a hugging motion. The approving audience broke into spontaneous applause as a crane camera swept over the cheering crowd. The host joined in the clapping briefly, taking care that her immensely long nails didn’t collide.

‘Jin Jié, thank you very much for sparing the time in your busy schedule to talk to us today.’

Mrs Chen flipped the remote and the picture vanished.

They were seated round the table in the kitchen at the back of her house. The wood and thatch structure had been in her family for several generations, barring a period during the Cultural Revolution when her parents were hustled off to atone for having incorrect thoughts. She waved a long wooden spoon at the TV.

‘That guy is headed either for stardom or a labour camp.’

She turned back to the pot of pork and steamed greens.

‘I know which side my money’s on,’ said Kovic, gesturing with a length of cabbage between his chopsticks before he twirled it into his mouth.

‘Hey! You’re supposed to wait for the others. You have no manners.’

‘That’s good, coming from a Chinese.’

She clouted him on the head – to the amazement of her servant, who was resting on a blanket by the fire.

Mrs Chen had been useful to Kovic. Every so often, for the equivalent of a year’s salary, she would deliver product to him from
her lowly but invaluable position as a filing clerk in the Ministry of Procurement. If there were orders for helicopters from Russia, or negotiations with the French for missiles, he got to hear about it. He fed the information back to Langley sparingly, to ensure the security of his source. And he paid her over the odds because he liked her and she was a widow. The relationship soured a little when her husband turned out not to be dead but merely absent for bureaucratic expediency, but Kovic came to admire her for her deft subversion of China’s suff ocating bureaucracy. When she left the city for her home village he made a point of keeping in touch, always maintaining his assets for a rainy day – such as today.

She was shaking her head doubtfully.

‘He makes it sound so simple. China’s not simple; it’s very complicated.’

Kovic couldn’t help but agree with her homespun wisdom. And there was something about Jin Jié that irritated him, with his relentless optimism and fresh-faced born-again smile. He looked at Mrs Chen, her greying hair tied up in a bun, her features as weather-beaten as those of any village peasant, as if the sum of all her ancestors’ pain and struggle was etched into the filigree of lines on her ageing face. She possessed more than her fair share of wisdom about the political temperature of China. So he paid attention to what she had to say.

‘You must listen for the sound of marching feet; listen for which way they are moving.’

Kovic knew she was a fatalist, one of the generation that had yet to come to terms with the new wealth. Drilled into them from such an early age was the anti materialistic message, that the fruits of capitalism were a mirage.

Guessing what she was about to say, Kovic nodded at the flat screen TV and her smartphone.

‘All this stuff , you didn’t have anything like this before. What’s not to like?’

‘It makes people uneasy, like they’ve got it on false pretences, not by following the correct values but only by money. Look at the riots in Shanghai – it’s all too much for some of them, they want to slow
things down.’ She thrust a thumb in the direction of the TV.

‘That boy, he’s going too fast for them.’

She shook her head slowly. She was enjoying her audience’s attention. Kovic was thinking about Vaughan and his protesters. Were they just a PR stunt, or a reflection of something bigger? The China he knew was moving so fast, maybe it was hard for some to keep up. But here in the country something else was going on that reminded him of the warlord era of old. He knew which he preferred.

‘So tell me about Tsu.’

Mrs Chen shrugged and let out a long sigh.

‘Round here they don’t talk about him. We never see or hear from him. He keeps the roads maintained, there’s no crime. Security: that’s what makes people content.’

‘And freedom?’

‘You Americans, always on about freedom. What freedom do you really have? These people wouldn’t know freedom if it bit them on the ass.’

They all laughed.

‘Besides, no one knows much about him. He stays in the shadows. There are stories of course—’

She narrowed her eyes and fell silent, waiting for him to coax more from her.

‘Go on. Like what?’

‘Staff who fall from favour.’ She made a downward spiralling gesture with a forefinger.

‘Literally?’

‘Some bodies have been found at the foot of the mountain. Every bone broken by the fall—’

‘Nice.’

‘And the prison. He has his own cells up there.’

‘What for?’

She shrugged.

‘As a reminder of the consequences of disobedience.’

‘Doesn’t that scare the hell out of everyone?’

She gave him a wry smile.

‘We lost sixty million people in the famines and the camps
– probably more. We don’t scare that easily. But I tell you what does scare me.’

She sat down and faced him.

‘Agent Kovic, we have done good business in the past, and I have taken risks on your behalf for which you have rewarded me most handsomely, but this plan to . . .’

Kovic nodded his acknowledgment then gently raised a hand.

‘It’s okay, I know. The men with me have in their own way said the same. But I have committed myself to this mission and there is no going back for me – even if I have to do it alone.’

In the politest way he could, he needed her to shut up now. He gestured at the door.

‘Would you like to see the new toilet we’ve brought you?’

35

Huangpu District, Shanghai

For several hours Hannah worked with the emergency services, helping the injured and, once they were stabilised, moving them to a makeshift ER tent that had been set up on the square. Her own injuries were slight, her face peppered with small glass cuts that were painful but not deep. The area around the square had been cordoned off . The of the downtown district was swarming with police, moving the remaining people off the street, stopping vehicles and being generally officious to make themselves look useful. She took out the dead man’s phone and examined the text that had brought him to the square. The name of the sender was blocked.

The first three cabs she tried looked at her face and drove away. In the end she forced one to take her by flashing her MSS ID in the driver’s face and grabbing him by the collar.

When she reached the Golfball it was almost deserted. She found just the guards on the desk who buzzed her in and went back to their screens as she passed through. Neither remarked on her appearance. She went to her workstation, unlocked her desk, took out the SIM reader and inserted the dead man’s card. Then she extracted the blocked number, typed it into the MSS command directory, and waited.

Surely that couldn’t be right? She retyped the number twice and each time got the same response: the People’s Liberation Army’s Naval Force. It was a generic number and the navy’s bureaucracy was huge, but there was no question from where the text had emanated. She called the Director on his emergency number.

‘We shouldn’t discuss this on the phone. Meet me here, as soon as you can.’

He gave her an address. On her way out of the building she stopped at the restroom. Her face was now covered with tiny scabs, some with flecks of glass still embedded in them. She removed as many as she could, dabbing her face with a towel dipped in hot water, washed off most of the dried blood and combed her hair, which was also full of glass. Then she stopped and looked at her expression: not the dead eyed woman who had gazed dully out at her every morning for the past six months, but a new version – alive, engaged, fired by the sudden focus and sense of purpose her discovery had given her.

The address the Director had given her was an old building on the Bund with a small brass plate by the door, which said simply ‘66’. She rang the bell and a tall European appeared, dressed in tails like a traditional English butler. Through the door wafted a strong aroma of cigar smoke and scent. He looked her up and down with disdain before reluctantly letting her through the door. Along with the cuts on her face, her shirt and trousers were torn. She hadn’t noticed this. She must still be in shock.

‘Wait here,’ he said, without a trace of politeness.

She sat in one of several large wing-backed chairs in a wide hall that had been elaborately renovated. Chandeliers glistened above her, festooned with tiny lights. Western paintings adorned the walls. After she’d studied them for a minute it occurred to her they were all nudes.

‘My dear child.’

The Director stood in front of her, with two of his security men not far behind. He looked pleased to see her. That made a change. Then he noticed the cuts on her face.

‘My goodness you have been in the wars.’

Concerned, attentive – human; this wasn’t the man she was used to. She took out the dead man’s phone and showed him the message. He took it from her and examined it closely, frowning. Then he looked at her with another expression she had not seen before.

‘Good work. You must have shown great courage tonight. Come!’

He set off down the corridor. Part of her was elated. This was the first praise she had ever received from him. A set of double doors
swung open. On the other side was a nightclub, lavishly decor ated in the style of a 1920s American speakeasy. A floorshow was underway, featuring tall Western dancers scantily clad in costumes decorated with feathers.

Hannah stepped back.

‘Please, I’d prefer not.’

He looked irritated, then his expression softened.

‘Of course. What was I thinking? In fact, I have a much better idea. Let me get you away from here.’

He snapped his fingers at the guards.

‘Car! Now!’

As they reached the door a black Audi lurched to a halt at the bottom of the steps. The guard who had run ahead opened the rear door for them. As soon as they were inside, Hannah turned sideways to engage his full attention.

‘Sir, I am convinced that this was no spontaneous gathering. The people who went to People’s Square were summoned by this text.’

She launched into a vivid description of what she’d seen. As she talked he nodded slowly. Finally, she thought: he appreciates what I’m doing. She moved on to her discovery of the source of the message.

He looked at her, his face full of concern at this revelation.

Then he laid a hand on her knee.

‘And you’ve told no one else of this?’

She shook her head.

‘Of course not – it was something I could only refer to you.’

‘Then be absolutely sure that it stays that way.’

Inside she couldn’t help being thrilled at having done something of value at last.

‘What should be our next move? Whoever sent the texts, if they had prior knowledge of the bomb—’

‘Good work. I’m proud of you. And I’m so glad you found a reason to track me down at this late hour.’

A reason?

His eyes shone in a disturbing way she had never seen before. Of
course, he had been drinking. But he had seemed to have taken her discovery very seriously.

‘Where are we going?’

‘Somewhere quiet, where we can talk and relax. I imagine you could do with a drink, after all you’ve been through.’

He pressed a button on the armrest and the glass partition rose between them and the guards in front. He felt her knee tense under his hand, which excited him. He had dreamed of this moment since the first day he set eyes on her, and now she had come to him, dropped right into his lap like a ripe peach.

Her instinct was to slap his hand away, but she forced herself to bide her time. She was in a moving car with three men. And he was a bit drunk; many women would forgive this attention, even find it flattering. Try to be a bit more Chinese, she told herself.

‘I am sure that your father would be very proud of your actions tonight. I shall be sure to congratulate him personally for having produced such a heroic daughter. I’m also sure that he would agree with me when I tell you that what you have learned we must keep very much to ourselves.’

Why did she have this feeling his sense of urgency was about something other than finding out why the Chinese Navy was organising protests? And the mention of her father made her feel weaker. This wasn’t right. She fixed her eyes on the road ahead. She had to get out of this.