Wall of Night Read Online Free PDF Page B

he’d had no trouble playing his part, discussing the impact of corn nematodes on world grain markets, but as the evening had worn on, the novelty had worn off.
    His job was to listen for bits and pieces of information that he and his staff could hopefully fit into the great jigsaw puzzle called “intelligence gathering.” Few civilians realized how tedious spying could be. Earth-shattering revelations were rare; most often, insights came from the patient collection and collation of random bits of information. That was especially true in the PRC, the most politically and culturally oppressive nation on earth. It was a shame. Brown found the Chinese people fascinating, their history and traditions stirring.
    He looked up to see one of the Chinese agricultural attachés headed his way. During dinner the man had spent thirty minutes detailing why America was so decadent. Not much of a recruiting prospect there, Brown thought. He grabbed a glass of champagne from a waiter, made his way to the tall French doors, and stepped through onto the empty balcony.
    Despite it being April, the air was warm, with none of D.C.’s spring chill. Plumeria bushes hung from the eaves and partially draped the rail. A block away he could see the lights bordering Ritan Park.
    He let his gaze wander along the street, pausing at each parked car until he found the one he was looking for. Through the windshield he could see a pair of silhouetted figures. Guoanbu watchers, Brown thought. Ninth Bureau boys. They were good at their job, largely because they weren’t overly concerned with citizen’s rights. Guoanbu and PSB (People’s Security Bureau) officials could arrest anyone, for anything, at any time; they could invade homes without warrant, and they could ship you off to a laogi, or government prison camp, without trial.
    â€œGood evening,” Brown heard from behind him. He turned. It was the bombastic attaché from dinner. The man was in his early fifties, with sad eyes and a wide mouth.
    â€œAm I disturbing you?” the man said.
    â€œNo, not at all. I was just enjoying the night.”
    The man strode to the railing. “I don’t believe we were properly introduced. My name is Chang-Moh Bian.” The man made no move to shake hands, keeping them firmly on the railing.
    Smart fella, Brown thought. Assuming they were being watched, Bian didn’t want to complicate matters with even a perfunctory show of familiarity. As it was, Bian would likely be questioned about this interaction. “Roger Brown. Nice to meet you.”
    â€œI apologize for my earlier comments, Mr. Brown. Certain things are expected of us at these functions. I hope you understand.”
    Interesting … “Of course.”
    â€œWell, I just wanted to say hello. I must be going.”
    â€œGood night.”
    As Bian turned, Brown heard something clatter on the balcony’s flagstones. He looked down. Laying near his foot was a ballpoint pen. “Excuse me, I think you dropped something.”
    Bian turned; he frowned. “No, I don’t think so. It belongs to you, I am sure.”
    Bian opened the doors and stepped back inside.
    Brown waited another ten minutes, thinking hard, wondering if he’d misread the incident. There was only one way to find out.
    He let the champagne glass slip from his hand. It shattered. He stepped back, angrily brushing at the front of his pants, then leaned down, grabbed the pen, and tucked it into his sleeve, then stood up with the broken glass in his hand.
    Excusing himself with the ambassador in the main room, he headed downstairs to his office. He laid the pen on his desk, then picked up the phone. “Carl, it’s Roger. Can you come down to my office?”
    Carl Jones, the embassy’s security manager, was there in five minutes. He listened carefully to Brown’s story, then said, “He didn’t say anything else? No pitch, not even a