“What’s so funny,” said Nate. “What did he say?”
“Jesus Christ, the bloody place was a leper colony in the twenties,” said Bunty. “The driver suggested we wash our hands before dinner.”
* * *
* * *
“Dobry vecher, good evening,” said Nate, behind his smoked lenses. “My name is Dolgorukov.” He felt like Peter Lorre in a noir film, holding a cigarette between thumb and forefinger.
General Tan sat down in the nearly empty dining room of Fernando’s Restaurant. The twelve tables in the room were covered in red cloth and set with terra-cotta plates and big-handled water pitchers. The high-backed chairs were of woven rattan and creaky on the red-tile floor. Bunty sat at a table at the other end of the room, behind the general and in sight of Nate. They had agreed on two simple signals: if Bunty tapped the face of his wristwatch it would mean Nate should bring the dinner to a conclusion in the next fifteen to twenty minutes; if Bunty, however, mimed snapping a chopstick in his hands, it would mean some sort of emergency and for Nate to instantly break off contact and physically hustle the general out the French doors, across the pergola-covered flagstone patio, and onto Hac Sa Beach, where Bunty’s agent CAESAR hopefully would bundle him into his car and clear the area.
After an interminable day of touring in 85 degree heat with 90 percent humidity, the officers were tired and sticky, but provisionally satisfied that they were black. They had paid off the driver, and sat out of sight on a bench by the beach, waiting for the dinner hour. They reviewed what they had minutely discussed several days before in the Australian Consulate. In his persona as a exploitative SVR officer, Nate had to strike a delicate balance—he had to be sympathetic and mindful of the importance of letting the general save face, while simultaneously informing him with unalloyed Russian coarseness that financial deliverance came with a cost. Nate’s “superiors” would release the money only on receipt of classified information about the PLA Rocket Forces, and only after that information had been validated by experts in Moscow.
Bunty’s agent CAESAR had been coached to suggest to the general that a preliminary offering of PLARF secrets would not only demonstrate good faith and pave the way to a deal, but also eliminate dangerous delays. “Qiān lǐ sòng é máo,” CAESAR had told the general, “bring a swan’s feather from a thousand miles away,” an insignificant gift that nevertheless declares the sincerity of the sender. The general, now approximately $1.1 million in the hole, got the message.
Nate had also memorized a short list of priority requirements drafted by Defense Department analysts on the PLA Rocket Forces, an alphabet-soup list of Chinese weapons the Pentagon worried about most: the CJ-10 long-range cruise missile with its shark-like pectoral fins; the developmental WU-14 hypersonic glide vehicle; the stubby JL-2 submarine-launched ballistic missile; and the twenty-meter-long DF-41 ICBM, as big as a factory chimney when upright on its mobile launcher.
There had been vigorous debate between CIA and ASIS leadership on the best way to “set the hook” to ensure the general would become a regular reporting source. FIGJAM insisted that only $500,000 be given to the general initially, to maintain positive control. China Ops Chief Holder argued that it was critical that the general’s malfeasance be covered as quickly as possible: “If his misuse of official funds is discovered, his career as a reporting source will come to an immediate, kinetic conclusion. As for positive control,” said Holder, “he’s stolen PLA money; he’s had undeclared contact with what he thinks is Russian intelligence; he’s accepted our money; and he’s provided classified information in return. The hook is well and truly set. He’s in no position to renege on the agreement. And Nash will not so gently remind him of that fact. We can give him the whole suitcase of money.” With the clock ticking, FIGJAM in the end had reluctantly agreed, but not before saying it would not be his fault if there was a flap.
General Tan Furen was short and stocky, with the ruddy complexion of a Southerner from Guangzhou. His face was flat and rugged, with a broad nose and a thin-lipped mouth. His jet-black hair was clipped short up the sides and finished in a thick flattop, which accentuated his already square head. He was dressed in an ill-fitting suit, a starched white shirt, and a plain red necktie. He held the edge of the table in both hands and looked at Nate, clearly struggling with a situation in which he was subordinate to a much younger man.
“Our mutual friend tells me you have met with misfortune not entirely of your own making,” said Nate, in flowery Russian, keeping his voice low so the general would have to listen carefully. “It is a shame that a leader of your rank and prestige has been put in this position by unscrupulous usurers. I agreed to meet with you to offer any assistance, and to state my great admiration for your country.” General Tan nodded once, his eyes searching Nate’s face. Saving face. It’s not your fault, you old cockchafer.
“You are able to help me?” said the general.
Nate poured a glass of water for the general from the pitcher, an act of respect. “My superiors in Moscow charged me with finding a solution to your troubles,” said Nate.
“You are aware of the amount?”
Nate nodded, sucking his teeth as if bored. “What currency is preferable?” said Nate. “Renminbi, euros, dollars?” General Tan blinked. This was too easy. He had expected the Russian would attempt li yong ruo dian, to exploit his vulnerabilities.
“Dollars would serve,” said the general, quietly. The exchange rate with Chinese yuan would net him a small surplus for his own pocket.
“I will communicate your request with the Center,” said Nate, grandly. “We could meet again in, say, thirty days.” The general’s head snapped up. Now comes business, now comes the snaffle bit in the mouth.
“Thirty days!” said General Tan. “That is unacceptable. I mean to say, it is problematic. Time is of the essence in this situation.”
A waiter brought two heaping plates of ayam masak madu, Indonesian red honey chicken, fragrant with curry, ginger, and cinnamon, and two bottles of ice-cold Zhujiang beer. Ignoring the general, Nate/Dolgorukov began eating, mopping up the spicy sauce with a heel of country bread. His plate untouched, General Tan watched Nate, a line of sweat on his upper lip. The waiter hovered, and asked whether there was something wrong with the general’s food. The general snapped in Chinese, telling him to get the hell away from the table. He took a deep breath and fought the inclination to bellow at Nate.
“You see, Comrade, I am concerned that with the passing of time certain irregularities may be discovered. I was led to believe that a speedy resolution of the situation was possible.” General Tan wiped the sweat off his lip. Nate put down his fork.
“A speedy resolution?”
“Yes,” said the general. “My position is somewhat precarious.”
“I understand that,” said Nate. “And I am confident that quick action is possible if I with confidence can assure the Center that a mutually beneficial protocol can be agreed upon.” He was being as ponderous in Russian as he could. Tan’s Russian was basic, at best.
“It can, it can,” said the general. Moment of truth.
“You are currently assigned to the People’s Liberation Army Rocket Forces?”
“Yes,” said General Tan, softly. He knew what was coming.