“There is great interest in Moscow regarding the PLARF,” said Nate. “The disposition of assets, research and development, strategic doctrine. I could go on, but I’m hoping that you can discreetly provide authoritative information, captioned information, on topics of interest to Moscow.”
“That is easily done,” said the general, clearly uncomfortable. “Anticipating such a request, I took the liberty of bringing along a sample.” He took a plastic cartridge out of his inside coat pocket and slid it across the tablecloth to Nate. “This is a magnetic storage tape from the archives, a broad overview of the unit’s operations, leadership, and weapons development programs.” Nate had seen this kind of data storage cartridge before—a sticker along the edge read IBM 3590.
“This is a welcome and farsighted offering,” said Nate, putting the cartridge in his pocket. “Do you need it returned to you?” The general shook his head. “Of course our experts in Moscow will wish to evaluate the information.” Just in case you’re trying to peddle chicken feed, you old rhinoceros.
“I believe your people in Moscow will be pleased with the contents,” said the general. “There is data on weapons storage and management at 22 Base in the Qinling mountain range in Qinghai Province, near the city of Xian.” Jesus Christ, thought Nate, Chinese nuke storage. “But forgive me if I repeat that time is critical.” As if he had heard, Bunty at the far end of the room tapped the face of his wristwatch. They had been in the restaurant for ninety minutes; time to separate.
“Experts in Moscow will immediately review the contents of the tape,” said Nate finishing the last of his beer. “If it is satisfactory, I will indicate as such to our mutual friend and meet you at the pavilion at the north end of this beach tomorrow evening with a roller suitcase that you will find weighs quite a lot. At that time we will discuss the manner in which we continue to meet, the perishable information—not archival—I require, and the substantial salary I will propose to the Center, in addition to this “introductory bonus,” for your continued friendship. Is that satisfactory?” The general nodded, on one hand relieved that he probably would now avoid charges of corruption and malfeasance, but on the other hand swallowing the leaden realization that in the course of a spicy chicken dinner, he had become a traitor to the State.
That was how Lieutenant General Tan Furen of the PLARF—jointly encrypted SONGBIRD by exultant Headquarters managers in Canberra and Langley—became the most prolific reporting source on the Chinese military in the history of China Operations. FIGJAM was put on the short list for selection as ASIS deputy director general; ASIS case officer George “Bunty” Boothby was given a two-grade promotion and became engaged to Marigold Dougherty; CIA’s Hong Kong Station received a unit citation; and Nathaniel Nash was sentenced to death by the politburo of the Communist Party of China.
Trouble was, Nash didn’t know it yet.
* * *
* * *
“Is that a real diamond?” asked Nate, holding Marigold’s hand up in front of his face to admire her ring. “What’s that discoloration inside the stone? Have you taken the ring in for an independent appraisal?” Marigold laughed, and Bunty flipped him the bird.
It had been ten days since Macao. They were having drinks in the rooftop bar of the Felix Restaurant, an elevated circular bar with beige padded bench seats and curved windows looking out onto Hong Kong Harbor, to celebrate the successful turnover of SONGBIRD to a joint ASIS/CIA internal handling team that had successfully deployed the new BRAINBAG satellite communications system to enable SONGBIRD to transmit gigabytes of information from the comfort of his new Beijing office in Zhōnghuá Rénmín Gònghéguó Guófángbù, the Ministry of National Defense of the People’s Republic of China, where he had been newly assigned inspector general, a position that gave him unlimited access to every facet of the Chinese military. Not that it mattered, but General Tan continued to believe he was reporting the intelligence to fraternal communist allies in Moscow—even the BRAINBAG burst transmitter had switches and buttons labeled in Cyrillic.
The timely introduction of a satcom system had thankfully relieved Nate of the handling responsibilities in personally meeting SONGBIRD in Macao. Nate planned to finish his paperwork and conclude his TDY assignment to Hong Kong in a week. The future was unclear: he could return to London to finish his tour, or wait for a separate assignment, or be stuck in the Puzzle Palace. It would be up to Simon Benford. With the recruitment of SONGBIRD, Nate’s stock with Benford presumably would improve. Could that mean he would be reassigned to the DIVA case? Would Benford let him see Dominika? Or would the quarantine continue, with his being assigned somewhere far from Russian operations to preclude even the remote possibility of a reunion with her? He thought idly of requesting a posting to a domestic Station—flashes of Agnes in a hammock in Palos Verdes—or perhaps losing himself in South America Division.
He saw Marigold’s face change, and turned to see assistant general manager Grace Gao standing beside their table. She was dressed in a clingy black ribbed knit dress with a high collar and fitted long sleeves, which revealed only slightly less of her longbow curves than had she dipped herself naked in chocolate sauce. Her hair was up, revealing delicate silver huggie hoop earrings, and she wore a vintage Chinese silver cuff studded with salmon coral stones on her left wrist. Her glossy lips were the color of pink grapefruit.
“Do I see a ring? Is this a celebration?” said Grace. “Permit me to offer you a bottle of champagne.” She nodded to the bartender behind the doughnut-shaped bar, then looked at Nate. “I’m glad to see you again at the Peninsula. Please let me know if you need anything, Mr. . . .” Nate smiled.
“Nash, but please call me Nate. The hotel is magnificent,” he said. “You do a great job running it.”
Grace smiled. “We’re very proud of the ‘Pen,’?” she said. “Are you aware of its history? Perhaps I can give you a tour someday.”
“I’d like that,” said Nate.
“Call my assistant anytime,” said Grace. She smiled at the table, turned, and walked out of the bar. Utter silence. Marigold and Bunty were staring at Nate, trying not to laugh.
“What?” said Nate.
“Quite a change of behavior,” said Marigold. “She suddenly likes you.”
Nate spread his arms. “Not hard to believe. She finally came to her senses, that’s all.”
“That’d be a cheeky root, mate,” said Bunty.
“Which means . . .”
“Having sex when it’s a really bad idea,” said Marigold.
“I’m thinking about recruiting her, not seducing her,” said Nate, all lofty and righteous.
“I thought it was the same thing,” said Marigold.
“Look, Nate,” said Bunty. “I can’t put my finger on it, but there’s something shonky about young Grace; she could be a bunny boiler, like in that crazy girlfriend movie, what was it, Something Attraction? Why risk it? You’re leaving Honkers soon; let me introduce you to Rhonda from our office. Registry clerk. Red hair. Lots of fun. Bangs like a dunny door in a gale.”
Marigold groaned, shook her head, and held out her hand, wiggling her ring finger. “Men are pigs. Take your ring back.”
Bunty ignored her.
“Just have a care,” said Bunty. “That’s all I’m saying.”
“I’m just thinking about work,” said Nate.
“Again with the American slang,” said Marigold.
AYAM MASAK MADU—SPICY RED HONEY CHICKEN
Dust chicken drumsticks and thighs with turmeric and salt and pepper; place on baking sheet; and bake until done. In a wok, fry chili paste, tomato paste, chopped garlic, chopped ginger, curry powder, star anise, cinnamon, cloves, honey, salt, and water until fragrant. Add scallions and onions sliced into rings, and toss to coat. Add chicken and simmer until sauce is thick and onions are soft. Serve with rice.
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