Satori - Don Winslow [45]
Kang finished the speech, posed for a moment, and then stepped offstage.
The officer shouted an order and the rifles were lifted with a metallic clatter that echoed through the crisp air. The Italian braced himself, but Nicholai could see the stain of urine darken his trousers. The crowd saw it too, and made much fun of it.
“Look! He pisses himself!”
“He drank too much wine last night!”
The Japanese dropped to his knees again. A soldier started for him, but the annoyed officer shook his head, barked another order, and three soldiers adjusted their aim. The officer had a feel for the moment, and he lifted his arm but paused for dramatic effect until the crowd quieted.
There was a moment of silence, and then the officer dropped his hand and shouted. The rifles roared and Nicholai saw the two prisoners crumple to the ground.
The Temple of Heaven, its famous blue-tiled roof glistening in the sun, loomed over them.
“Spies,” Chen concluded.
32
NICHOLAI’S MESSAGE was relayed five times before it reached Haverford in Tokyo. Still, it arrived accurately, and Haverford decoded it instantly.
Zhengyici Opera, Thursday night.
The staff at the CIA station in Tokyo rushed into action. Within minutes, Haverford had a map of Beijing and several aerial photographs in front of him, and he drew a red circle around the Zhengyici Opera House.
Minutes after that, a Chinese refugee, a Beijing native, was in the room and identified the building as being in the Xuanwu District, southwest of the Old City, not far from the Temple of Heaven. One of the oldest parts of the city, it was a rabbit warren of narrow hutongs and old tenement houses. Before the Communist takeover, the area was host to the Bada Hutongs, the redlight district.
Haverford thanked and dismissed him, then got on a secure line to Bill Benton, chief of station Beijing, now working out of Macau.
“I need photos and plans of something called the Zhengyici Opera House,” Haverford said, “and an asset check in the Xuanwu District.”
Normally a request like this would take weeks, if it was answered at all, but Benton had been told in no uncertain terms that Haverford had Immediate Access Status. The requested pics and plans were on the wire within fifteen minutes, and an hour later Benton was back on the horn.
“What do we have in Xuanwu?” Haverford asked.
“You’re in luck. The Temple of the Green Truth is right down the street.”
“And what, pray tell, is the Temple of the Green Truth?” Haverford said as he scanned for it and then found the building on the map.
“The oldest mosque in Beijing,” Benton answered.
A photo of the temple appeared under Haverford’s nose. It looked like any old Chinese temple — Buddhist or Daoist — with blue-and-red columns and a sloping roof. But then Haverford noticed that the roof tiles were not the usual blue, but green. “The Commies left it standing?”
“No choice — it’s in the middle of a Hui neighborhood.”
Haverford knew that Benton was playing the “I know more than you know” game. But it was typical of the old China hands, always defensive about the fact that they “lost” the country to the Communists, and ever resentful at now being subordinate to the Asia Desk and Johnny-come-latelies like Haverford. But he was sympathetic — most of their assets had been rolled up, and now an entirely new network had to be built, slowly and painfully.
“Chinese-speaking Muslim minority,” Benton explained. “Been in Beijing for a thousand years. They call their brand of Islam qing zhen — ‘the Green Truth.’ ”
“Do we own a few of these Huis?” Haverford asked.
“More than a few,” Benton answered. “They hate the fucking Reds, see them as godless infidels trying to suppress their religion. Also, they’re hooked into the Muslim minority out in Xinjiang who are looking to secede.”
It has possibilities, Haverford thought. “I’ll need an extraction team.”
“We can do that.”
“And a dead drop location for an asset in Beijing,” Haverford added.
“Can you toss a few guns to Xinjiang?”
“Sure.”
“I’ll get