The Chinese Assassin (8 page)
We left before the moon was up, travelling south-west The
camels,
laden
with
500
lbs of baggage each, could easily cover up to twenty-five miles in a night’s
journeying,
but the
slow-
moving herds travelled more ponderously. The
trek
was very
painful
for me. My splinted limbs were jarred constantly. But I
was
prepared
to endure any
depths of
pain
to remove
myself from
the
scene of horror where the Trident had crashed—and where, if I stayed, I would certainly lose
any
life
With the coining of autumn, the
arats
usually begin to move their flocks and herds out of
the
lush river valleys and marshlands to less protected areas where
the
purifying winds sweep away the autumn insects that otherwise afflict the animals. When winter approaches the herds are moved into sheltered valleys to endure the cold weather there, and do not emerge onto the southward facing slopes
of
the mountains until spring, when biting winds
blow from the north. So
although our going
was perhaps early
a
n
d
we
were
travelling
at
night
instead
of
during
the
d
ay,
the
other
nomads we encountered accepted our ponderous
passage
without
question,
calling friendly greetings from the darkness
as
though pleased that the rhythmic,
shifting
pattern
of their own
restless lives was being reaffirmed afresh for
them by
our
passing.
We
travelled only
at
night and camped
by
day, because
we
wished no questions to be asked about
why
an injured Chinese army man was being dragged along on
a
litter. In four nights
we
covered a hundred miles, swinging southwest in a long arc to give the capital, Ulan Bator a wide berth. Old Tsereng reported gleefully on return to the yurt
on
the fourth day that
our
trek was already stirring other herds
m
en to strike their camps early.
The whole region began
to seethe with
movement
and herds were soon criss-crossing
on the
plains
as they each
sought
out their favourite autumn grazing grounds. This would
make
it
much
more difficu
lt
old
Tsereng said
delightedly, for
pursuers to
search the yurt camps
that had been pitched in the
region of
Jibhalantayn
Bulag at
the
time of the cra
sh
All
were
now quickly
dispersing to
the four winds
across
the steppes.
We
journeyed
on
for
six
weeks
without
cease,
rising
night
after
night
over new mountain rims and
moving down under clear, star-lit heavens into other plains all speckled thick with their own herds of cattle, sheep
and horses. At each
summit
old Tsereng,
an un
ashamed
shamanist
,
dismounted to place another
stone
reverently
on the neat little piles of rocks that had grown slowly over the
centuries
in all high
places.
This was
to placate spirits
believed to dwell
there
and give
thank
s
for our
successful scaling
of each
height
Old Tsereng seemed to
grow
straighter
in
the
saddle with each ascent. His eyes g
leam
ed with a new fire. His own ancestors and those of the
horse
beneath
him had once conquered
their
way from Asia to Europe
and
now he
was
again
taking
on the
greatest enemy of all from south of the Grea
t
Wall
in his last struggle! Although it
was taking
the form of a strategic
retreat,
his stiffly proud
posture
as he topped the crest of each
mountain pass
betrayed the deep satisfaction he felt that he
was outwitting and
outriding them again
across his own
fierce
grasslands and mountain ranges.
TOKYO, Friday—Rumours circulating here say the Kremlin has strengthened military units massing along
the
northern frontier of
China. American
intelligence
advice
speaks of the movement of at
least five and possibly
ten
new
Soviet armoured divisions
into the frontier area.
The
Daily
Telegraph,
26 September 1971
3
The cine ca
m
era with the telephoto lens that had been trained
silently on the
entrance
to Scholefield’s
block
of fiats for the past eight days
began
whirring the moment Yang appeared
limping down
the steps.
Mounted
by an attic window in a mansion block on the other side of
Bentinck Street, it had first begun rolling to record Scholefield’s arrival home. It had been restarted to film Yang as he approached hesitantly, along the pavement
on
foot
half an hour later, and now
the Chinese
operating it swung
the
camera on
its tripod
to follow
him
back
the
way he’d come.
Because the
evening
was
sti
fli
ngly humid
and the sky
overcast,
the
light
was
fading early. But the cameraman kept rolling
anyway as
Yang neared the end of the
street
and he
was
rewarded wh
e
n he picked up a black Mini
with
smoked
windows as
it pulled out of a side turning. It drove slowly alongside the
limping Chinese and a door
swung
open
before
the car had stopped.
The moment Yang had clambered awkwardly
inside
it shot
off
at high speed
and
turned right into the one
-
way flow of
traffic heading
north up Gloucester Place.
In
the shadowy interior a man
with a chalk-white
face
wearing steel-rimmed
spectacles was sitting smiling on the back
seat.
He dropped
an
enquiring
hand
on Yang’s
a
rm
and
asked solicitously
in Russian
how the
interview
had gone.
‘To
plan, Comrade
Razdu
h
ev. I
left the
folios
and
offered
the appointment for mid-day at the market.’ Yang made his reply in halting Russian, staring straight ahead through the windscreen. He sat rigidly upright until Razduhev had remov
e
d his hand from his sleeve. Then he sank back against the upholstery and mopped his sweating face with a handkerchief:
‘Did Scholefield seem to rise to the bait?’
‘I think so. He can’t miss the folios.’
‘But you gave him no hint of your real purpose during the conversation?’
‘No, Comrade Razduhev.’
The Russian sighed loudly. ‘Yang Tsai-chien, how many times must I ask you? “Comrade Razduhev” is not friendly, is it? Be more familiar. We are friends. Although only for a short time more. Listen, I won’t even have you call
me
Vladimir. Call me Valodi.’
Yang didn’t reply.
‘And Comrade Bogdarin would like you to call him Boris. Wouldn’t you, Boris?’ The driver of the car nodded and smiled a token smile into the driving mirror without turning.
‘We would like to think you remembered your four years in the Soviet Union with some pleasure. Wouldn’t we, Boris?’
The driver nodded again and smiled grimly to himself; concentrating on the road.
‘There are many worse jobs in Moscow, Tsai-chien, than working as an improver for the Chinese section of the Foreign Languages Publishing House.’ He laughed unpleasantly. ‘I know you had to work privately in your apartment under constant guard—but
it
was among the most luxurious and comfortable in Moscow. I hope you feel you were treated in accordance with your high political importance.’
Yang drew a long breath and nodded. ‘I feel the strain of the past week and the past hour, Comrade Razduhev. I would prefer
to rest quietly now.’
The Russian patted his arm again. ‘And so you shall, Tsai
-
chien,’ he said exaggerating the concern in his voice. ‘And so you shall. No more work or worry now until you go to market tomorrow.’ The Russian paused and looked
qui
ck
ly
at the Chinese. ‘We have arranged a little surprise. You will catch a glimpse of your cousin there. In the propaganda kiosk. Just to
reassure you that all is arranged.’ He removed his spectacles and polished them absently on
his
sleeve. ‘Madame
Tan
is one of
your
party’s more
attractive
comrades, isn’t she, Tsai-chien?’
Yang closed his eyes without replying. He slumped lower in the seat and let his head
fall
backwards as if exhausted. The Russian continued patting his
arm
unnecessarily. ‘It will not be possible of course for you to
speak
or betray any sign of
recognition.’
He stopped patting Yang’s
a
rm
and
gripped it with a sudden fierceness. ‘You
understand that quite
clearly, don’t you,
Tsai-chien
?
”
Yang’s eyes opened wide suddenly with the
pain.
Not until he
had
nodded his acquiescence
did
the
Russian
relax his
grip.
The
Chinese
at the attic window switched o
n
the
camera
and
turned to pick up a telephone. He dialled
the number
of one of
the illegal
basement gambling dens on the south side of Gerrard Street in Soho’s Chinatown
and settled
down comfortably in a chair by the window, prepared for what he knew might be a long
wa
i
t.
Inside
the
dingy club a hard-core residue of the afternoon gambling crowd
was still
hunched round the line-covered
fan
tan, table, clutching sheaves of purple
twenty pound notes in their
hands. The bare stone floor was littered deep
with
apple and orange
peel,
broken monkey-nut
shells and
spill
ed
tea. A bent,
arthritic cleaner pushed a broom
with painful
slowness among
the
gamblers’ feet, going
through
the motions of sweeping up in preparation for the evening
session.
Under the
garish
glare of the naked light bulbs
hanging
above the table the
unsmiling
male faces stared
transfixed
at the little heap of white
shirt
buttons which the croupier, a
thin,
hollow-chested
Chinese
with quick glittering eyes, had
just
scooped out of
a
saucepan
sunk
into the table-top. When he
glanced
round the table the gamblers avoided
his gaze.