24
H
AVING MADE
a life’s study of human weakness, Kang noticed the Russian’s fascination with the torture. It emanated from him as strongly as his body odor, which stank of stale sweat and alcohol.
Kang didn’t judge. He was a sadist himself, it was simply his nature, and if the Russian joined him in deriving pleasure from other people’s pain, it was merely a sexual preference. The odor, however, was offensive. A man could not change his nature, but he could bathe.
Voroshenin tore his eyes off the woman and said, “Actually, I came on business.”
Kang smiled. You came on the pretext of business, he thought, but very well. We shall humor your self-delusion.
“The Vixen Yips an Opera,” he said to his assistant, naming a relatively mild yet exquisite torture that he knew Voroshenin would find compelling, both from his taste for pain and his passion for Beijing opera.
“Manban,”
he added, meaning that he wanted the beating conducted at a slow tempo. Kang knew that Voroshenin would appreciate it. “We can go to my study.”
Voroshenin followed him into an adjoining room, where he noticed that Kang left the door ajar.
“You mentioned something about business,” Kang said, enjoying the Russian’s discomfiture.
“This Frenchman who arrived today,” Voroshenin said. Of course Kang would already know about him. Nothing of note occurred in Beijing without its being reported to the head of the Chinese secret police.
Voroshenin heard the high-pitched yelp, which did indeed sound like a vixen yipping for her mate.
Kang smiled in acknowledgment, then said, “Guibert?”
“I believe that’s his name.”
“And what of him?”
“What’s he doing here?” Voroshenin asked.
“Something to do with arms to our revolutionary little brothers in Vietnam,” Kang answered.
“Guns to the Viet Minh?”
“Apparently.”
“He’s French,” Voroshenin said, “and he’s selling weapons to be used against his own people?”
“Since when do gunrunners know nationality?” Kang asked. “Or capitalists morality?”
The woman’s cry was perfectly in tune with the overall composition.
Voroshenin objected, “Vietnam is in the Soviet sphere.”
“A glance at the globe would indicate differently.”
“You’ve never given a damn about Vietnamese independence,” Voroshenin grumbled, listening to the woman’s moans.
Kang heard them too. The whimpers were now an underlying theme. “I am offended. We care deeply about the plight of all peoples suffering under the imperialist lash.”
“This is Liu’s operation?”
“It would seem so.”
“And you trust him?”
“I trust no one.”
It was an open secret among the higher echelons of the intelligence communities that Liu loathed Mao and was always searching for an opportunity to displace him. It was only the general’s personal power and popularity among the army that kept him alive and out of this very cave.
As much as Voroshenin shared Liu’s distaste for the Chairman, Liu’s success would be a disaster for the Kremlin. They already had their man waiting in Manchuria. A complete puppet, unlike Liu, who would be independent and might very well edge China toward an alliance with the West.
It couldn’t be allowed.
The woman hit a high note of crystalline purity.
Voroshenin stood up. “I should be going.”
Ten years, Kang thought. It was absolutely essential to preserve the Soviet alliance for ten more years. The ultra-secret military-industrial development was already under way in the southwest and would be completed in a decade. And by that time, China would have the atomic bomb, would be an economic powerhouse as well, and they would have completed the transformation of the society. Then there would be a reckoning with the condescending, patriarchal, neo-imperialist Soviets.
But they would need ten more years of Russian economic aid and military protection to realize their plans, and nothing must be allowed to interfere with that. So he stood up, took Voroshenin by the elbow, ushered him back into the torture room, and asked, “Do you want her?”
The Russian didn’t answer, and Kang took his silence as assent. He walked over to the woman and asked, “Do you want to save your husband?”
“Yes.”
“There is something you can do.”
“Anything.”
Kang drew Voroshenin aside.
“Take her,” he said. “Any way you want. My gift to you. But for added pleasure? When you are about to climax, whisper into her ear the truth that her husband is already dead. It will be exquisite, I promise you.”
He left Voroshenin alone with the woman, but lingered outside the cave to savor the subtle change in the tone of her screams, what in the opera they would call
wawa diao,
an aria of highest emotion.
25
T
HE FOOD WAS EXQUISITE.
A native of Shanghai, Nicholai was something of a snob when it came to the superiority of southern cuisine over its northern — somewhat barbarian — counterpart, but he had to admit that these Mandarin dishes were as superb as they were surprising.
“
Yushangfang
,” Colonel Yu explained when Nicholai praised the food. “ ‘The Emperor’s Kitchen.’ It makes sense when you think about it — the emperor could command the best chefs in all of China. They all came here to cook, and their legacy lingers.”
Indeed, Nicholai thought.
The banquet started with hot-and-sour soup, then proceeded with spareribs in sweetened Chinkiang vinegar and
zha xiao wan zi,
small fried meatballs made with prime ground pork, and, of course,
jiaozi
, the distinctive Beijing dumplings. Yu had sat Nicholai directly to his left at the circular table, a place of honor, and personally used his chopsticks to select the best pieces and place them on Nicholai’s plate.
Another high honor.
Now the colonel perused the platter of cold pig’s ear, chose one, and put it on Nicholai’s plate. Then he took one for himself, tasted it, and nodded in approval. “I’m a southerner,” he said to Nicholai, “a Sichuan mountain ape, and it took me some time to get used to this northern food. But it’s all right, huh?”
“It’s very good,” Nicholai answered. And Yu was anything but simian. Surprisingly young for a man who was General Liu’s right hand, he was hardly a country bumpkin but a sharp, sophisticated staff officer. He was dressed tonight in civilian garb, his Mao jacket pressed, the corners of the large pockets sharply creased. His full black hair was cut short in the current style.
“Of course I miss my rice,” Yu said to the table at large. “All these noodles you eat …”
The other diners responded with the expected polite laughter.
Voroshenin said, “Surely, Colonel, a man of your position could have pearl rice brought up from the south.”
Nicholai was impressed with Voroshenin’s fluent Mandarin, and took further note of his tone of easy familiarity with the colonel. Perhaps it was the three
mao-tais
the man had consumed during the round of toasts that preceded dinner. Nicholai had politely downed three rounds as well, and had to admit that he was feeling them.
“But I am not an emperor,” Yu said pleasantly, although everyone at the table heard the subtle reference to Mao, who had the best rice brought into the city and hand-peeled to leave the husks on.
Nicholai found the remark significant — it indicated that Yu felt secure enough in his position to make a jibe at the Chairman.
Voroshenin leaned across the table and speared a pig’s foot. He used the moment to ask Nicholai, “Is this your first time in Beijing?”
“It is.”
“First time in China?”
“Not really,” Nicholai answered. “I was partially raised in Hong Kong.”
“That’s part of Great Britain, isn’t it?” Voroshenin asked. It was rude, a sly dig at his Chinese hosts.
“So think the British,” Nicholai answered. “But in reality Hong Kong is no more British than, say, Mongolia is Russian.”
Yu guffawed.
“No offense,” Nicholai said, looking directly at Voroshenin.
“None taken,” Voroshenin replied, although both men knew that offense had been intended and received. He kept his eyes locked on Nicholai’s.
The other diners noticed the very Western, very un-Chinese, directness of this standoff, and Chen, seated to Nicholai’s left, was relieved when the waiters broke the tension by arriving with a platter of fried pig’s livers wrapped in iris blossoms.
But Voroshenin would not let it go. “The French have some colonies in Asia, I’m given to understand.”
Nicholai agreed. “French Indochina, to be precise.”
“Well, precision is important.”
“Precisely.”
“Although,” Voroshenin said, testing the waters, “I don’t know how much longer the French can hold on to, say, Vietnam. Ho Chi Minh is kicking the traces, isn’t he?”
“It’s a matter of time,” Yu said.
“And arms,” Voroshenin opined. “Wouldn’t you say, as a military man, that the Viet Minh insurgency can’t progress to the next phase of the struggle without a reliable supply of modern weaponry? I mean, they really can’t stand up to French firepower with what they have now, especially with the Americans arming the French.”
“To succeed,” Yu answered as he looked over the platter, “every insurgency must make the transition from guerrilla to conventional warfare. Our beloved Chairman taught us that.”
He pinched a piece of the liver and transferred it to Nicholai’s plate.
“But,” Voroshenin pressed, “it can’t be done without guns.”
“No,” Yu said simply. “It can’t.”
“And what brings you to Beijing?” Voroshenin asked Nicholai, supposedly switching subjects but fully aware of what he was doing.
“Business,” Nicholai answered.
“Agricultural equipment?” Voroshenin asked with faux innocence. “Irrigation systems, that sort of thing? In the face of the American embargo? Good for you, Comrade. But, damn, you look familiar, Michel. Something in the eyes. Have you ever been to Russia?”
Nicholai saw the man’s eyes scanning for a reaction. He knew that he was being baited, knew that Voroshenin was trying to assess him. But why? Nicholai wondered. Could he have an inkling, could there have been a leak? Could Voroshenin know the real reason for my being in Beijing?
“No,” Nicholai answered. “Have you ever been to Montpellier?”
“The one in France?”
“That’s the one.”
“Yes, but it wasn’t there,” Voroshenin answered. He rudely stared at Nicholai for another moment, then said, “No offense, but I once knew a woman, in Leningrad, with eyes like yours. She … well, we’re all comrades here, right? Friends?”
He was met with silence, Nicholai noted, but despite the well-known Chinese reticence about public discussions of sexuality, Voroshenin continued. “She was a tiger in the sheets. I had her every which way, if you know what I mean.”
The slight laughter was forced, the moment horribly awkward. Voroshenin must be very confident in his power, Nicholai thought, to so brazenly offend his hosts’ sensibilities. Certainly he knew better — he just didn’t seem to care, as evidenced by the self-satisfied leer that lingered on his face.
And his vulgar reference to my mother? Nicholai wondered. A shot in the dark, or does he know? And is testing me?
A part of Nicholai wanted to do it now. It would be easy, a simple matter of thrusting a chopstick through his eye and into his brain. Done in a flash, before Voroshenin’s thugs, lurking like dogs along the wall, could do anything but confirm their boss’s death.
But that would be suicide.
So he met Voroshenin’s gaze, smiled, and asked, “Can you keep a secret, Comrade Voroshenin?”
Voroshenin smiled in return. “I was born for it.”
Nicholai leaned slightly toward him and held his eye as he said, “I’m here to do a killing.”
Chen gasped.
Nicholai laughed and said, “I’m sorry. My Mandarin, it’s rusty. What I meant to say, of course, is that I’m here to
make
a killing.”
The diners laughed, then Voroshenin, his face reddening, said, “That’s still a brave remark to make at a table full of Communists,
mon ami.”
“I am what I believe you call a ‘useful capitalist,’ “Nicholai answered. Voroshenin’s eyes had provided no answer as to the state of the man’s knowledge. Certainly he had been insulted, and flushed with anger, but then he seemed equally relieved when Nicholai explained his grammatical “error.”
“That’s the expression,” Yu said. “Now, enough talk of business at the table. We are being terrible hosts, interrogating our guest. We should show brotherly hospitality. So, what in Beijing would you like to see, Comrade Guibert?”
Nicholai named the expected — the Temple of Heaven, the Forbidden City, perhaps an excursion to the Great Wall. Then he decided it was time to push a line of stones forward, into Voroshenin’s part of the board. After all, the Russian had come this far toward him, it was only polite to return the gesture.
“And opera,” Nicholai added, careful to look at Yu and not Voroshenin. “I would very much like, if possible, to attend a real Beijing opera.”
“Are you a devotee of
jingju
?” Voroshenin asked, his interest piqued.
“I try,” Nicholai answered, in his mind’s eye seeing the opponent’s white stones moving into place. I studied the file on you, you total bastard. I know who you are. “It’s difficult in Hong Kong, as you know. Impossible in France, as you might guess. But yes, I’m a fan.”
“I’m going this week,” Voroshenin said. “I’d be honored if you would accompany me.”
“Really?” Nicholai asked. “That’s very kind. If it’s not too much trouble.”
“None at all,” Voroshenin assured him. “I’m going anyway —
The Dream of the West Chamber
at the Zhengyici. And Xun Huisheng himself is singing the
huadan
, the ‘Red Maid’ role.”
“I’ve always wanted to hear him,” Nicholai said.
Yu said, “Catch him while you can. The party doesn’t approve of men playing women on the stage. It is effete and unnatural. We shall soon be putting an end to this anachronistic practice.”
“But Xun is sublime,” Voroshenin argued.
“These old operas are a waste of time,” Yu sniffed. “Ancient fairy tales and romantic fables of the old ruling class. The
jingju
should be utilized for social purposes, for propaganda and education.”
“Madame Mao is an enthusiast,” Voroshenin argued.
“Of course,” Yu countered, “and we are given to understand that she is even now writing new operas that will instruct the people in socialist principles.”
“Sounds wonderful,” Voroshenin said dryly. He turned back to Nicholai. “If you’d like to attend, I have a private box.”
If your opponent is of a choleric nature, he will be unable to restrain himself. He will seek you out, and show you the open gate to his vulnerability.
Let your enemy come to you.
“I accept,” Nicholai answered. “With pleasure.”
It’s a date, a rendezvous, he thought.
The waiters brought out a new platter, set it in the middle of the table, and Nicholai saw that Chen was looking at him for a reaction. Not to disappoint, Nicholai asked, “What is this?”
“Yang shuang chang
,” Chen said, then clarified, “goat’s intestine filled with blood. A delicacy.”
Yu and Chen watched for his response.
Nicholai knew that the dinner was not only a ritual, but a test — of his manners, his language skills, his temperament. It was also a time-honored ploy, to lull a business associate with massive amounts of food and drink to dull his mind, move the blood from his brain into digesting the food.
He was also aware that the selection of dishes was also a measure of his attitudes. For so long insulted by Western condescension and cultural arrogance, the Chinese wanted to see if he would meet them on their own terms. If not, it could very well end the business deal that was the cover for his mission.
Nicholai was somewhat satisfied to see that Voroshenin’s face had turned slightly green. Not waiting for Yu, Nicholai speared a piece with his chopstick, leaned across the table, and put it on Voroshenin’s plate. Then he took a piece for himself and put it directly into his mouth.
“Exquisite,” Nicholai said, to his hosts’ apparent delight. Then he looked at Voroshenin and asked, “You don’t like it?”
The Russian pinched the chunk of bloody intestine and popped it into his mouth but was unable to keep the expression of distaste off his face.
Small victories, Nicholai thought, are nevertheless to be savored.
The
yang shuang
was followed by a dessert course, to please the Western guests, although it consisted of Mandarin-style delicacies such as glazed yams, small honeycomb cakes, and jellied bean curd.
Nicholai was full to the point of bursting.
Yu leaned back in his chair and said, “Now we can
really
drink.”
In honor of their respective nationalities, they switched between
mao-tai,
vodka, and Pernod, a dusty bottle of which the bartender found in the back of a cabinet.
Toasts were proposed and drunk.
“Our French guest.”
“Our Chinese hosts.”
“The eternal friendship between our three countries.”
It was another test, Nicholai knew, an effort to loosen his tongue with alcohol, to see if he was who he said he was. And a dangerous test, for getting into a drinking match with Voroshenin was no mean feat — the Russian was big, a practiced drinker who could hold his liquor. So could Yu, for a small man, and the toasts went on.
“Our beloved Chairman, the Great Pilot.”
“Comrade Stalin, who shows the way.”
“Jean Jaurès.”
Between toasts, Nicholai struggled to keep his head and recall his briefings as Voroshenin pushed the conversation toward Guibert’s background.
“There is a café in Montpellier,” Voroshenin said casually, “renowned among the locals for its
pain au chocolat
—”
“Le Rochefort.”
“On the Square of St. Martin.”
“On the Place Ste.-Anne, actually.”
“That’s right.”
Through his thickening head, Nicholai thanked Solange for her attention to detail and incessant drills, even as his head began to swim. But that was the point of drill, after all — just as in the martial arts, repetition trained one to go beyond thought into pure reflex.
Voroshenin kept at it. The Russian invited him to share memories — some true, others false — about restaurants, regional dishes, even the local football side.
Nicholai fended off each probe.
Then Chen started in about Hong Kong. He had been there as a young man, when he had fled the Nationalist police for a while. He waxed on about Victoria Peak, the Peninsula Hotel, the street markets of Kowloon.
“Where did you live?” he asked.
“On the Hill,” Nicholai answered casually, recalling Haverford’s briefing and the fact that staged photographs had been created of him outside Guibert’s home in Hong Kong, pictures that were doubtless in Chen’s file.