Satori - Don Winslow [36]
Given the close surveillance, he couldn’t simply track the target down and find an opportune moment. No, he would have to find a way to lure Voroshenin to an isolated spot, while at the same time losing his Chinese tails.
He studied the imaginary board to find that opportunity, but couldn’t find it. That didn’t worry him — like life, the go-kang was neither static nor unilateral. The opponent was also thinking and moving, and very often it was the opponent’s move that provided opportunity.
Be patient, he told himself, recalling the lessons his Go master Otake-san had taught him. 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.
Nicholai sank deeper into the tub and enjoyed the hot water.
24
HAVING 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