The Chinese Assassin Page 3

  After another conference with the Mongolian officials, orders were shouted to the soldiers and they immediately began digging beside the Trident’s wreckage with their bivouac shovels. The Mongolian representatives appeared to be astonished by the behaviour of the Chinese who sat silently in their cars during the digging. Two hours later, when a large hole had been dug, the Chinese climbed out of their vehicles and stood in a silent group watching as the soldiers lowered the nine bodies, wrapped again in their canvas shrouds, into the makeshift mass grave.

  They showed no emotion, uttered no words, but just stood sullenly waiting while the earth was shovelled in on top of the bodies. Some more photographs were taken, then the Chinese, satisfied that the land was flattened over the grave, without a further word to their hosts returned to their cars and drove away rapidly in the direction of the capital.

  Old Tsereng was becoming stiff and cramped by this time, He had-been crouched behind the rocks for nearly six hours. But just as he was rising to return to his herds he saw the four Russian officers coming back to the site from their sunken vantage point two miles away. They quickly dismissed the Mongolian troops who moved out in a convoy within five minutes. The light was beginning to fade but the sound of their vehicles had hardly died away before the much larger -convoy of Russian vehicles re—appeared, rumbling back across the tundra.

  The soldiers disembarked and immediately began pitching camp again. Toktokho watched in astonishment as new orders were shouted and a detachment of Russian troops set to with their trenching shovels to open up the newly-dug mass grave. The nine bodies in their canvas bags were lifted out without ceremony and loaded once more, one by one, onto the same lorry in which they had been preserved since the crash.

  As dusk fell, Toktokho watched the army lorry trundle slowly away across the darkening grassland bearing its terrible cargo of burned human flesh and bones.

  NEW YORK, Monday—The Columbia Broadcasting System has reported that the United States Government has intercepted a secret message from Peking to all China’s foreign embassies alerting them to ‘prepare for war’.

  Jersey Evening Post, 23 September 1971

  2

  A thickset Chinese with close-cropped hair and a round, moon- like face blinked quickly in the sudden light from the hall. Despite the heat he wore a cheap fawn raincoat that was frayed at the cuff and greasy round the inside of the collar. He carried a large box of Cellophane-wrapped ‘Good News’ chocolates ostentatiously in front of him. He bared his, teeth in a sudden, automatic smile and raised his eyebrows. ‘Mr. Scholefield?’

  Scholefield nodded. ‘Mr. Yang?’

  The Chinese laughed nervously and stepped inside without waiting to be invited. He moved quickly past Scholefield and walked unsteadily into the lighted study, limping as though from some injury or deformity. Scholefield closed the door and followed him UI. He found Yang standing uncertainly in the middle of the room looking down at Nina Murphy. Taken by surprise, she was sprawled back on the chesterfield, her legs splayed across the carpet, the jeans still rolled back halfway up her long thighs. Yang let out a strangled laugh of embarrassment and ducked his head uncertainly in her direction in greeting. He nodded diffidently towards the box of chocolates in his hand and held them towards her. ‘It was customary once in China to arrive bearing a gift.’

  Nina smiled and reddened in uncharacteristic confusion. She hurriedly rolled down her jeans and began to stand up. But the Chinese turned quickly away and placed the chocolates on the shelf of a bookcase behind him.

  He looked back hesitantly at Scholefield then began speaking from where he stood, wringing his hands nervously in front of him. ‘I am from the People’s Republic of China and there are a number of things I have to say. You may be shocked or distressed at what I am going to tell you. If you are, please stop me and tell me to go.’ His English was slow and stilted but meticulously correct. He stared down at the floor for a moment, avoiding their eyes.

  Nina sat down again on the chesterfield and cleared a space among the Chinese newspapers. ‘Wouldn’t you like to sit, Mr. Yang?’ She shot a quick glance at Scholefield but his face was expressionless, watching the Chinese.

  ‘Hsieh hsieh ni.’ He perched uncomfortably on the very edge of the couch, giggling apologetically at his sudden lapse into Chinese, and corrected himself: ‘Thank you.’ He raised his round, pock-marked face to look at them both briefly before dropping his eyes to the floor once more. ‘Before I tell you my story, Mr. Scholefield, I would like you to confirm that you are not a Communist. I do not think you are because you are well-known for your—’ He paused, searching for a word ‘your objective writing on China. But I could not tell you what I have to say if you were of an extreme left-wing disposition.’

  Scholefield noticed that sweat had broken out on his visitor’s face. He moved over to his desk. ‘Would you like a glass of vodka, Mr. Yang?’ The Chinese shook his head quickly without looking up.

  Scholefield Sat down in the swivel chair, switched on the desk light and pulled pen and paper towards him. ‘You can rest assured, Mr. Yang, that my political views are not of the extreme left—or of the extreme right for that matter. Please go on.’

  ‘I am working in Oxford—at an acupuncture clinic. You know there are several student exchange programmes between our two governments. Most of the people I know at Oxford are Communists, extreme leftists or are connected with the Marxist- Leninist Party of Great Britain—which as you know is anti- Moscow and pro-Mao Tse-tung. That is why I am unable to speak openly with them.’

  Scholefield nodded. ‘I think I begin to understand Mr. Yang. But you’ll have to make yourself clearer.’

  Yang nodded quickly. His voice dropped almost to a whisper. ‘I am a member of the Chinese Communist Party and I have always supported Chairman Mao. But now I am in some difficulty. I was born in Huang-an County in Hupei province in 1934 although I was brought up in Szechuan. I was made an orphan by the war and cared for by the Communists. I was often starving—that is my most vivid memory. But in my country I am now a hero. I served in Vietnam, training the Vietnamese fighters to shoot down imperialist American air pirates. I was decorated for that service and made a hero of the People’s Liberation Army. So you see the Party has nourished and nurtured me. My allegiance is to the party and Mao Tse-tung. I am a patriot.’ Yang’s voice died away altogether for a moment. ‘But now, as I say, I face a very serious difficulty.’

  Nina and Scholefield exchanged puzzled glances over Yang’s bowed head. Scholefield noticed that the man’s hands, which he constantly wrung together, were incongruously delicate in comparison with his squat heavy body—and heavily ingrained with dirt. Scar tissue from what might have been a burn ran from behind his ear and disappeared under the soiled collar of his shirt.

  In the silence Yang cleared his throat several times then continued in a more determined voice. ‘Over the past year I have discovered something I had not wanted to admit to myself before.’ He looked up suddenly, directly at Nina. ‘Am I shocking you?’

  Nina stared back, disconcerted. ‘I’m not sure. No, I’m not shocked yet, I don’t know what you’re going to say.’

  Yang dropped his head in his hands and fell silent. When he spoke again his voice came muffled through his fingers. ‘I have discovered here in England that I am—a homosexual.’

  Scholefield took a deep breath. Nina continued staring at the bent head of the Chinese with a perplexed expression on her face.

  ‘I think you can understand my dilemma.’ Yang let his hands fall away and looked up at Nina.

  She leaned towards him, her voice gentle with sympathy. ‘Are you saying that this would count against you back home in China?’

  Yang laughed humourlessly. ‘It would not only count against me, Mrs. Scholefield, there is a chance I would be put to death.’ She stared at him, aghast. ‘The point is, I am a war hero who risked his life in Vietnam. Look at recent history. Liu Shao-chi and Lin Piao were heroes one day, then the next d
ay they were in disgrace—or worse, dead. So I have this dilemma. I believe in Socialism, in Chairman Mao and I believe in the People’s Republic of China but I have this personal trait likely to result in my disgrace—or even my death. I am very apprehensive of the future!’

  Scholefield stood up with a sigh anti threw his pen down on the desk.

  ‘Mr. Yang, I’m sorry, but if you’re saying what I think you’re saying, you’ve come to the wrong place. There are well laid down channels of approach for people like you. You should go to the British government and ask for political asylum. It’s not part of my job to help defectors.’

  ‘No! No!’ Yang sprang to his feet. ‘I am not asking you to arrange my defection.’

  “What then?’

  Yang clenched his fists and his voice rose to a shout. ‘I am a Socialist, I believe the world is moving inevitably towards a Communist Society! I must live in a Socialist country!’

  Scholefield looked at the Chinese steadily. ‘Any one in particular?’

  Yang didn’t hesitate. ‘Yes, Cuba!’

  ‘Why Cuba?’

  ‘I believe I could live in Cuba because that country is both sufficiently radical to meet my political views and sufficiently broad-minded on other matters to suit my homosexual tendencies, answered Yang.’

  Behind Yang’s back Scholefield saw Nina shake her head twice quickly in his direction, apparently trying to convey her female disbelief in his story. Scholefield looked back into the Chinese man’s pudgy face, to find his narrow eyes watching him intently from under lashless lids. Scholefield sat down again behind his desk and stared at his blotter.

  ‘Mr. Yang, perhaps I might ask you one or two questions.’

  Yang moved towards the desk and leaned down towards Scholefield, his hands resting palms downwards on the leather top. ‘Please go ahead.’

  ‘How was it that you only found out about your homosexuality here in England? You are hardly an adolescent if you were born in 1934.’

  Yang leaned closer. The light from the desk lamp threw half his tense face into bright relief, leaving the other half in shadow. The one Cyclopean eye visible to Scholefield widened. ‘In China and Vietnam I had suspicions about myself because I did not feel as other Comrades did about the opposite sex. But as you know the Chinese Communist Party does not allow its male members to marry until they are thirty-five—and became of this rule I could not be sure. But since I came to England and worked in the acupuncture clinic demonstrating the techniques to your own students I have been constantly confronted with the naked male body—’

  Yang paused for breath, blinking rapidly. The perspiration on his brow glittered in the lamplight His voice sank to a whisper again. ‘The problem then became intense.. I have also been studying English at Oxford and my tutor there is a homosexual. He wears a badge announcing this to the world. Many others wear badges in Oxford too and it was seeing such things openly flaunted in this way that made me realise and admit finally my own tendencies beyond any doubt’

  ‘Did you manage to conceal this from your Chinese Comrades from Peking?’

  Yang straightened up and looked round nervously at Nina. ‘No! Unfortunately not. What you call here “gay” literature was found in my room. Comrades from the Chinese Embassy here in London were called down immediately. I was denounced at a struggle meeting and sentenced to be returned immediately to China. But I escaped their surveillance and made my way here to the capital ten days ago.’

  Nina let out a sudden high-pitched squeal and jumped to her feet. ‘Good God, just look at that time.’ She stared at her wrist in disbelief ‘I should be in Shaftesbury Avenue now.’

  She snatched up her make-up bag and ran out of the room. Scholefield followed her into the hall. She wrenched open the door then stopped and turned, twisting her face into an anguished expression of puzzlement and nodding her head mutely towards the study. Scholefield, raised his eyebrows in silent mystification in return. She shrugged and smiled, kissing him quickly on the cheek, then on the way out bent and planted another kiss on her nose of the grotesque dragon head on the hall table. ‘He’ll look after you,’ she whispered in its ear, and dashed out, slamming the door behind her.

  When Scholefield returned to the study Yang was scrutinising a scroll painting that hung on the wall by the desk, It depicted a group of Ming concubines playing a gentle game in the snow by a winter pavilion. In his hands he was holding a pale green jade figure of a mandarin and as Scholefield watched he turned from the painting and held the figure towards the lamp on the desk, twisting it back and forth so that the light reflected on the translucent stone. He looked up and smiled as Scholefield moved towards him. ‘A fine representation of a member of the exploiting classes of the old China, Mr. Scholefield, produced no doubt by the sweated labour of a working class artisan. A good negative example—’

  ‘Mr. Yang.’ Scholefield cut in on him with deliberate rudeness ‘Perhaps you would care to tell me why you chose me to relate your troubles to. And where did you hide for eight days while waiting for me to pick up my telephone?’

  Yang put the jade figure down. His manner suddenly seemed more confident with Nina gone. ‘Your work on China is well- known, Mr. Scholefield. Your articles in the quarterly journals of international affairs analysing our political problems are influential in Western government circles where China policy is set. You are no apologist for China, unlike certain British writers who have made it their business to ingratiate themselves abjectly with my government in Peking.’

  Scholefield didn’t reply. Yang frowned as though searching his memory.

  ‘You were one of the few English students allowed into our universities in the fifties and made good use of your opportunities to get some understanding of our society. You speak and write Chinese well, you are also fluent in Japanese and you were a Chinese linguist during your National Service in the British Army, monitoring mainland radio broadcasts in Hong Kong.

  Your determination to become one of your country’s leading Orientalists has also led you to study the “Kyoku-Shinkai” or “Peak of Truth” School of Karate, founded by the Korean, Mas Oyama, who fought fifty-two bulls in his lifetime with his bare hands. You are probably a black belt of the fourth rank—but you keep this to yourself: Your critical academic views on China are widely known through the occasional articles you write for serious Western newspapers and for your work in the broadcasting media of Europe and North America. Isn’t that correct?’ Scholefield smiled grimly. ‘You seem to know a lot for an acupuncture student from the People’s Liberation Army, Mr. Yang.’

  Yang smiled easily. ‘Chairman Mao has taught that without adequate investigation a Chinese cadre has no right to speak. I have investigated and your qualifications and your background made you the ideal candidate for my purpose’

  ‘I may as well tell you now, Mr. Yang, I have strong reservations about your story. What exactly was your purpose in coming here?’

  Yang looked at him steadily. ‘It is precisely as I have told you; I wish to get to Cuba. I know of a doctor in Sweden who will help me to get to East Germany. From there I can go to Cuba without difficulty But the first step of a long journey is always the most difficult. I must sail from Tilbury to Sweden.’

  Scholefield shook his head in disbelief. ‘Are you trying to tell me you simply came here to ask for money for your passage from Tilbury?’

  Yang stiffened and his eyes flashed. ‘I have too much pride to beg money from you.’

  ‘Then what are you after?’

  ‘Your help. I need tune to get the money together. Time to work. I need a secret address somewhere in the country. Perhaps you have friends who could help.’

  Scholefield’s brow crinkled in a frown of suspicion. What “work” have you in mind?’

  ‘If necessary I could work in construction.’ He looked down at his ingrained hands. ‘Hard work, as you know, is unfamiliar to nobody in the China of Chairman Mao. Or I could work in a restaurant.’

  ‘But y
ou have no papers. I couldn’t assist you in finding work illegally without breaking the law.’

  Yang eyed him calculatingly. ‘Or I could help you privately with your work—until I have the money I need.’

  Scholefield’s face cleared suddenly. He walked slowly towards Yang and paused in front of him considering his words carefully. ‘Is this a very subtle way of offering me information privately, Mr. Yang, that would more properly come under the category of “espionage”?’

  Yang’s blank expression didn’t falter and he made no attempt to answer.

  ‘Could it possibly be an attempt on the part of your government in Peking to test me out for some reason best known to themselves or to blacken my reputation—or both?’

  Yang still didn’t reply. He stared back at Scholefield unblinking. ‘Mr. Yang, when you spoke to me on the ‘phone you claimed the reasons for our meeting were very urgent. A matter of life and death for somebody in China, you said. How did you know I wouldn’t be away for a month? Was that just a ruse to get me to see you?’

  Yang moved suddenly, stepping quickly round Scholefield and hurrying towards the door. Scholefield, taken aback, followed uncertainly. The Chinese turned angrily with his hand on the latch. ‘Mr. Scholefield, I will wait until tomorrow for you to make up your mind whether you wish t help me.’ He paused. ‘If your decision is positive, go to the stall selling Chinese leaves in the corner of the Gerrard Street Market at noon tomorrow. If you are absolutely alone I will contact you there. After that it will be too late. Good night.’

  The Chinese swung on his heel and went out, closing the door behind him.

  Scholefield hovered uncertainly by the door, wondering whether he should call the Chinese back, or even follow him. He heard the double gates of the lift clang shut outside the door then the painful shriek of its descent. Only when the noise ceased and the sound of the gates crashing closed again echoed back up the shaft did he return to his study. He stood in the middle of the room for a long time looking around himself unseeing, going over in. his mind again the conversation of the past half hour.