The Chinese Assassin (32 page)

As
he worked he
turned his wrist slightly
so
that
he could read
his
watch in the light of the
torc
h
He drew a long,
careful breath,
then
exhaled
very slowly. It would be more than
six
hours before the 747 touched down at
Dulles International Airport outside Washington.

16

When the groaning lift shuddered to a halt outside his flat, an unseen hand pulled open the outer gate before
Scholefield
could
move. Taken aback, he peered cautiously into
the
pitch
blackness
through the
iron lattice
of the inner gate. Then he smelled the
whisky, and in
the
faint
fluorescence from the
dim
bulb in
the roof
of the lift he
made
out the
grinning features
of Moynahan.

As he stepped out onto the landing, the porter took his arm
and
drew
him
quickly along the passageway. The reek of spirit on his breath made
Scholefield
wince as he leaned close to whisper conspiratorially in his ear. ‘Glad to
see
you back, Mr. Scholefield. You’re as popular as ever with the
ladies, I see.’

The potter’s features creased
into their
familiar lascivious leer. Scholefield passed a hand wearily across his brow. ‘What the devil are you
talking
about this time, Moynahan?’

The
porter
raised his index finger urgently to his pursed
lips,
motioning
him
to a silence. He
tried
to pull free of the porter’s
grasp,
but
failed.
Moynahan, suddenly feeling
the
bandages around the wrist he
was
holding, peered close into his face
iii alarm.
‘You’re hurt, Mr.
Scholefield
.’

‘I was involved in a slight
accident
Moynahan, yes, but I’m
fine
now, I’ve
just
come from
the
hospital.’

The porter drew hi
m
along the darkened landing a pace or
two
until they were out of earshot of the flat door. ‘Is
it
your
drinkin’ arm or your lovin’ arm, Mr. Scholefield, eh?’ Moynahan nudged him with his elbow and giggled lewdly. ‘I hope it’s not your lovin’ arm because there’s a real dilly of a Chinese lady awaitin’ you. Paid me to let her wait inside, she did. Gave me a tenner, no less. Thought you’d want me to let you know that.’

Scholefield stared at him uncomprehendingly in the darkness. ‘What sort of Chinese “lady” Moynahan? And what the hell are you doing letting strangers into my flat when I’m out.’

‘She’s no stranger, Mr. Schole
f
ield. Said she’s an old friend of yours. Wearing one of those lovely green silk dresses with big slits up her thighs. A cheongsam, d’you call it? Hair all piled up on top of her head with combs like one of those geisha girls, eh? Real dish, Mr. Scholefield. Said you was expectin’ her.’

Scholefield could see in the faint light coming from the lift that he was holding out his hand. His voice had taken o
n
a wheedling tone. ‘Did I do right, Mr.
Scholefield
?’

‘How long ago?’

‘Ten minutes, quarter of an hour.’

He pushed him aside and strode to his door. The porter was still cursing him softly in the darkness as he shut the door behind him. Inside, the entrance ha
l
l was in darkness but there was a line of light showing under his study door. He opened
it
and found the green-shaded desk lamp was lit, casting a pool of bright light on his empty blotter.

As he closed the door behind him the high-backed leather swivel chair at his desk rotated slowly to reveal the impassive seated figure of Tan Sui-ling. Her hair was dressed on top of her head in an elaborate high coiffure and she sat relaxed and at ease, her bare arms spread along the arms of the chair. Her feet were primly together on the carpet so that the divided skirt of the cheongsam fell straight, revealing nothing but her an
kl
es.

He stared at her, a puzzled frown wrinkling his forehead. Then his face suddenly cleared. ‘You were behind the kiosk counter when Yang bought the Lu Hsun book.’

She nodded
slowly
.

He crossed the room to where he’d left the bottle of vodka on a side table two nights before. The unwashed glass he’d used then was still there and he poured himself a large measure and gulped it straight down. The arm that had been damaged in the explosion had begun to throb and he rubbed
it
with his uninjured right hand. ‘What do you want?’

‘To talk to you about the so-called folios “Comrade Yang” brought to you.’ She laid heavy ironic emphasis on the name and tossed her head contemptuously as she spoke.

‘Who showed you them?’

She hesitated and smiled faintly. ‘Your “friend” Ketterman.’ Again the heavy irony, again the little toss of the head. ‘He knew about
it
all in advance.’

He looked up at her for a long time without speaking, then poured himself another drink. He took
it
back to the chesterfield and sat down. ‘So you’ve come to give me Peking’s official answer to Yang’s fake folios?’

She didn’t reply. The relaxed curve of her slender body in the chair, the wide slow-blinking eyes in a broad high cheek-boned face gave her, he thought, the air of a sleek, watchful cat.

‘You’re going to tell me the Russians are running Yang, are you?’ Scholefield emptied the glass and put
it
down on the floor with unnecessary care.

‘He was landed at Blakeney on the North Norfolk coast two weeks ago in an inflatable dingy towed ashore from a Russian fishing trawler by two KGB frogmen. Even the CIA know

‘Who are you?’
Scholefield
got to his feet again and walked over to her chair.

She tucked an imaginary strand of hair back away behind her ear. ‘My name is Tan Sui-ling. I have come from Peking.’

He bent over suddenly and leaned both hands on the arms of the chair, trapping her in the seat. His breath came out between his clenched teeth in a sudden, sibilant hiss. ‘So
it
was you who organised the bomb at the World Affairs Institute last night— to silence the Russian imposter!’ He grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her bodily in the seat. ‘Two innocent people died in that explosion—’ His voice trailed off suddenly and he stared into her face.

She offered no resistance but waited passively in his grip watching his face patiently until the rage subsided. ‘No Chinese were involved in that incident,’ she said quietly. ‘It was the work
of
the
Russians. Now that he has
planted his poisonous
propaganda they want him
eliminated.’

She
winced
as the pressure
of
h
is grip on both arms suddenly tightened. Then
he
flung
her back in the seat
and
stepped away. ‘And having
failed
to blow
Yang
to pieces your Russians
snatched
him from the hospital
during the
night
with
the help of a gang of Triad
hoodlums,
I suppose?’

She rose suddenly to her
feet,
her eyes blazing in turn. ‘Again you are
wrong.
Your
CIA
“friend” Ketterman masterminded that
treachery.
The Americans have got Yang now.’

He
stared
at her
incredulously.
‘Why should Ketterman
and the Americans
want Yang if they know he’s a fraud?’

Instead of replying
she walked
straight-backed to where
she
had left a bamboo-handled handbag on the
floor
by
the
chair
and
bent to pick
it
up. When she
turned
round again she
was holding
the
bag
in front of her in her right hand. ‘Li
n
Piao
did
have an aide by the name of Yang Tsai—chien. But
his
was one of the
bodies
positively
identified
by the Comrades from Peking who
visited
the scene of
the
air crash in Mongolia. It was indisputable—they checked’ his fingerprints
.
This
man posing as “Yang” was brought here from the Soviet Union!’

‘The fact that Yang was brought here from Moscow doesn’t prove by
itself
that he’s a fake.’ Scholefield sank down on
the
corner of his desk
and
nursed his injured arm with
the
other
hand.
‘The dead
remnants
and the wreckage of that
air
disaster in Mongolia finished up in Moscow—
w
hy shouldn’t a living survivor?’

She gave a snort of
derision.
‘Why have they waited five years then to
p
roduce him, if he is genuine?’

‘Perhaps they were
waiting
for the moment when they could use
him
to best advantage. Large parts
o
f the
folios seem to me to have a
ring
of truth,
despite
some decorative
lies
to
disguise
the fact that the Soviets found him in Mongolia, not your comrades.
And
the report of
the dead
air accident investigator, Still- man, is standing up to
analysis
so far by
British
experts.’

She made another contemptuous noise and moved towards him again. ‘The KGB are expert forgers. They have gone to great pains.
The
folios and
the
accident report were designed to stand up to close analysis.’

He
looked
at her without speaking for several
seconds. The only sound in the
room
was
the intermittent
buzzing
of a dying fly
against
the
window pane.
There
was a distant hum
o
f traffic
from the
street far
below, but it
was
muffled
and
muted as
though stifled, like
everything
else,
by the oppressive weight of
that unnatural
summer heat. She had dropped her eyes
and was idly
toying
with the
jade figure of the mandarin on
the
side of
the desk.
The
silence
lengthened.

“A negative example of
class
exploitation
created
for
China’s
ancient
rulers
by the sweated
labour
of a working class
artisan.”’

She
looked
up
at
him
frowning, still
holding
the green
jade
figure.

‘That’s what
Yang called
it.’

She stared at
h
im uncomprehendingly.

‘Yang
was
moved
to
handle
it too when he
was
here—that’s how he described it.’ Scholefield nodded towards
the
figurine.

She put it down suddenly as though it
had
become
red
hot.
Jade
should be touched. It is for
handling,
not simply admiring with the eyes.’

‘That
sounds
dangerously
like an expression
of
bourgeois sentiment.
It wouldn’t come
under the
heading of socialist
realism
in your
art
appreciation.’ Scholefield broke off suddenly
and
stood up. He stared into
the
shadows on the far side of the room,
then
picked up the
desk
lamp
and
hurried
across
the study. He
leaned
towards the scroll
painting
of
the
Ming concubines,
and
peered at
the
verses inscribed in
Chinese
calligraphy by the artist above his
signature
in
the
top
right hand
corner of
the
picture.