Chapter Five
It was a very quiet ride for the two spies; scarcely a word passed
between them during the flight from Salar de Uyuni to La Paz to Miami, and from
there to Beijing where the most recent egregious attacks had occurred by the
Beelzebub terrorist. Lincoln’s roiling temper cooled down enough by the time
they landed at PEK Beijing International Airport] on West Jichang Road for him
to take the high road and ask Sybil their purpose for coming to the PRC.
Sybil gifted her agent with her prize-winning smile as if she
always traveled in silence and with a frown.
She said, “Well, Lincoln, I trust you slept well. It will be a
busy time for us, I think.”
He raised a questioning eyebrow.
“Oh, yes, why China? First, at the moment, they would appear to
have the most to gain by this strange pattern of murderous attacks. Second,
they have one of the top five best intelligence agencies—better at attacks than
we are, Lincoln. Third, it is my personal opinion that their hacking
capabilities are better than anyone in the western world, and maybe even better
than the so highly touted Russian teenagers.”
“I don’t dispute any of that, but what do you think they are
trying to accomplish?”
“I am never quite sure what the Chinese are thinking. Better men
than me have tried and failed to get a good handle on their thought processes
and why they do what they do. Remember, Lincoln, they have been around for
thousands of years doing much the same thing. I think the U S of A can ill
afford what they are doing.”
“Sure, so what will it cost us to get to know what the commies are
really up to?”
“Not so very much, Lincoln: a plane ride to Shanghai, a bit of a
spy-like walk in a crowded city, and perhaps some money will change hands. I am
confident that you and the guy I know will work together swimmingly. The two of
you are going to supply me with a detailed description of just how the Chinese
are involved, with whom, and why.”
“Are we back to Sybil and Lincoln, Ma’am?”
“Never ma’am, Lincoln. I associate the title with untidy houses and
bad women. So, let’s be Sybil and Lincoln while we’re getting along, all
right?”
“Groovy,” Lincoln responded and shined one of his most inviting
smiles on his boss.
She laughed.
There were too many people everywhere for the two spooks to have a
real conversation about the work they needed to get done. They flew from
Beijing Nanyuan Airport on China Eastern Airline. It was too late to go where
Sybil wanted to go that night by the time they landed in SHA / ZSSS [Shanghai
Hongqiao International Airport] which handled most of the domestic flights. By
mutual agreement and because of good trade craft, they went separate ways for
the night. It was not because of some antiquarian concept of avoiding
hanky-panky; there was not a one of the 30,000 plus CIA agents in the world who
would attempt anything remotely like a pass or would “make a move” on the
attractive, but untouchable DCIA. She was not known as the “Ice Queen” for
nothing. To maintain her anonymity,
Sybil took a cab to the Air China Shanghai Hongqiao Airport Hotel in terminal
2, less than half a mile away. Lincoln walked half a mile from terminal 1 to
the Mercure Shanghai Hongqiao Airport. He needed to stretch his cramped legs,
and he was among the world’s lightest travelers.
The next morning early, they met in the quick travelers’ café in
the Air China hotel and ate a hearty fry up English breakfast in anticipation
of a strenuous day of spying. Even dainty Sybil consumed the proteinaceous
calories at pace with Lincoln who out-weighed her by sixty pounds: fried eggs,
sausages, a rafter of back bacon, tomatoes, garlic and butter mushrooms, fried
bread with marmalade, black pudding [~ bloodwurst], tea and coffee with cream
and sugar, and hot, buttered toast.
Both Sybil and Lincoln casually looked around the crowded café. It
was packed with Chinese families, and the noise was nearly deafening. The
Chinese love to eat; they love their families; and they love to be heard. In
order to carry on any kind of conversation, let alone a whispered sharing between
cautious spies, would have been impossible.
Instead, Sybil scribbled on two pieces of paper, and gave each to
Lincoln in a covert gesture. On one, it read, “Lincoln=Hans Thomas; the other
read, “Sybil=Mrs. North”. Lincoln nodded his understanding, both of the
pseudonyms they would be assuming during the day, and of the need to avoid
“r’s” and “l’s” which were so difficult for Chinese to pronounce.
Lincoln casually flicked his cigarette lighter on and burned the
papers to ashes in the ash tray on the table, then—for good measure—poured the
remains of his coffee on the remains.
Sybil gave him a directional signal with her lips—a useful gesture
they picked up in South America—and walked away from the table and back to her
room in the hotel. Lincoln followed at a discrete distance. Both made a few
maze-like spy-craft moves to confuse would-be shadowers.
Sybil entered her room, and shortly, Lincoln walked past and
turned into the service area as if he were seeking a bucket of ice. He checked
twice; and, seeing no one in the hall, he doubled back and softly knocked on
Sybil’s room door in the prearranged Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony leitmotif: “da
da da dum, da da da dum, da da da,” repeated three times.
Sybil opened the door suddenly and pointed a Glock .30 at
Lincoln’s chest. She put it away and pulled him in. He followed her to a
dressing table facing a large, brightly lit mirror. An assortment of cosmetics,
paints, powders, cosmetic pens, pencils, and wigs were arrayed on the table.
“Help me flatten my hair back as tight as we can get it,” she
asked.
That was no mean feat. Her hair was long, lustrous, heavy, and
blond, matching her sharp Nordic features. Lincoln wet the hair thoroughly,
applied heavy gel, and squeezed it into a cranial form-fitting cap. Then he put
on a sooty-grey colored doo-rag to hold it in place. She applied aging
theatrical paints and cosmetics which made her look like a woman of sixty.
Unfortunately, she still looked like Sybil was going to look at that age.
“Big, old nose,” Lincoln offered.
“Got one,” Sybil said.
With care, Sybil became a fat cheeked, sallow-eyed, big nosed, old
crone with an indeterminate age of around seventy-five. Lincoln penciled in age
lines and wrinkles which advanced her age another five years and added a
decided touch of authenticity to the make-up result.
“Good enough?” Sybil asked.
“I would never be able to pick you out of a crowd,” he replied
after a studied look.
“Now, for some unsuitable, unfashionable, old, clothes.”
Her laundry basket held four choices, and together, they found the
perfectly believable frumpy frock.
The last step was to select, then to position an elderly Chinese
woman’s wig. By then, no one who knew her would be able to recognize her if she
sat next to them on a bus. She added an old pair of round lens glasses favored
by elderly and proper Chinese ladies.
“Nice work, Sybil.” Said Lincoln. “You know the old saw about
girls who wear glasses seldom rate passes. I think you are going to be
perfectly safe.”
“So, let
us go out and enter the world of spies, liars, and villains,” Sybil said as she
hobbled towards the door.
Neurosurgeon turned Author who writes with Gripping Realism
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