RED SPY. (or The Turned Coat)
Tianming Yu. Northwest China, autumn 1966.
1.
Siren screaming, the large army truck crammed full of soldiers carrying rifles with fixed bayonets sped out of the gate, closely followed by a Soviet-made jeep. Behind the jeep came another truck filled with more soldiers, swaying, as the uneven road surface caused every vehicle to bounce along the main road out of the city. From my place in another jeep, I could see the steel bayonets reflecting the dim lights of the street-lamps. My back was crushed against the hard wooden rear seat, but I was not about to change position. Only my eyes moved. On either side of me sat an army officer poking a pistol-barrel into my ribs, cold eyes staring at me as if to repeat what had already been said, "Stay still, or I will shoot you!"
In the shafts of brightness from the vehicle headlights, the carpet of paper slogans and leaflets left behind by the many thousands of demonstrating Red Guards who daily marched these streets, rose up like ghostly whirlpools, flapping and swirling as though angry at being disturbed. The wheels of the vehicles rolled through the rubbish, heading to…I didn’t know where. And I didn’t know why. Nor could I understand why it was thought necessary to use a company of heavily armed soldiers just to arrest me.
What I did know was that fate was forcing me to depart the battlefield of big-character posters, loudspeakers, street demonstrations, violence and disorder. One of the officers had said I was being taken to attend "Study Courses of Mao Zedong Thought", whatever that meant. I was very much afraid, but strangely, despite not knowing what the future held, my strongest feeling was relief. During the past months my belief in the sacred ideals of Communism had been shocked out of me, to be replaced by a never-to-be-spoken fear and loathing of everything relating to Chairman Mao and his cursed Cultural Revolution.
Suddenly the siren stopped its incessant clamour. Strangely, the sudden silence felt more dangerous than the noise. Leaving the city behind, we veered left onto a winding dirt road leading upward into the mountains. We drove into a thick white mist, causing the driver to switch on the screen wipers. Through the fan-shaped area of visibility, the red rear lights of the truck in front of us made me think of the eyes of a monster waiting to swallow me up. And in a way there really was a monster. I had heard the stories of torture and mistreatment of prisoners resulting in secret night-time body disposals. Who would tell my story? Or, for that matter, who would care? My mother, living in a far away village, would cry when she heard the news of my downfall and death. My mind pictured her working in the fields, worrying about the son from whom she never got a letter. I promised myself that I would write to her every week if I ever got another chance. Then came memories of my girl friend. She would care when she realised I was no longer around, but for how long? I cast my eyes down. Only two people to miss me.
As suddenly as it had come, the mist was gone. I looked at the sky. There was the Great Bear and the Pole Star, so we were moving north. The latest revolutionary song was "Looking at the Pole Star, thinking of Chairman Mao". We had sung it with deep class feelings, exactly as we had been taught, but this time the stars couldn’t tell me my direction in life. Heading straight to death, perhaps? Many kilometres later, the vehicles stopped in front of an old temple. In the breaking dawn, I could clearly see the gull-wing shapes of the roof and the intricately latticed frontage. The once beautiful building was in a bad state of repair. I thought, "Nobody in China cares about beauty any more." Guilt hit me as I remembered that I too had stopped caring. Only politics was allowed to fill our lives, nothing else.
Pistol barrels nudged me out of the jeep. Immediately, a squad of soldiers pointing their bayonet-topped rifles at my mid-section surrounded me. The pistols prodded me to the brightly-lit back yard of the temple. I was sure that I was about to be shot. I was so frightened, I really did feel my hair stand on end.
‘Stop!’ yelled someone. I was facing a green metal door. ‘This is your cell. You are number 74. You no longer have a name. You are nothing…rubbish…dog-shit! Your cell-mate will tell you the rules. Break them and you die. Get in!’
Relief flowed through me. I wasn’t about to be shot. A soldier handed me a smelly old blanket whilst another opened the door. Pistols prodded from behind. I moved forward and the door slammed shut.
I stood in almost total darkness. For the first time since my arrest, fear left me, to be replaced by anger. My angry heart wanted to burst out of my chest. How could this be? I was a trusted revolutionary backbone force, and this was absurd. Had they read my thoughts? Or sensed my despair? I muttered a curse.
By a wall, a match flared and a skinny arm reached out to light a candle. Then a bony ghost-like man with long matted snow-white hair and beard rose up and moved towards me. His sharp eyes were sunk into his thin white face. Above the eyes a thick pair of white eyebrows joined forces in his frown. I stared, dumbstruck. The fear was back in charge. My legs turned to wobbly bean curd and I was about to mess my pants. When just half a metre away from me, he stopped and placed the candle in a nearby hole in the wall. He seemed to be old, with a tatty mildew-splotched army overcoat on his shoulders. Underneath he wore a much-holed V-neck sweater over a grubby once-white shirt. Thin rope held up his black peasant trousers and he was barefoot. Never had I seen anyone filthier. He stared at me. What he saw was a bespectacled very frightened man aged twenty-seven holding a blanket and dressed like everyone else in Cultural Revolutionary China in army style uniform jacket and trousers.
‘What do you want?’ I barked, trying to appear tough and ready to defend myself.
No reply, just those sharp eyes staring. I felt as if they were trying to see into my soul. For what seemed a long time but was probably no more than ten seconds, he stared. Turning away, he retrieved the candle and shuffled back to his bed, an old blanket spread over a mound of hay. Feeling braver now that he had retreated, I tried again but this time in a much quieter, more respectful tone.
‘Old man, what should I do?’
He raised his hand and pointed to another mound of hay. In a firm, authoritative, but quiet voice, he said, ‘Go to your bed. You will know soon enough.’
That was how I met the man I was never, ever, going to forget.
2.
With no option but to obey, I went to where the finger pointed, dropped the blanket on the hay and sat on it. It was then, in the early light, that I saw the rats. With a frightened cry I jumped to my feet, not knowing where to go to escape. My head met a thick clinging spider web, making me duck back down, frantically brushing it away. At the same time I farted.
Suddenly the old man was by my side, soothing me with his hand on my arm. ‘Take it easy young comrade, nothing here will hurt you,’ he said quietly. ‘I know because I have been here for a long time.’ He gently sat me down, then knelt beside me. His voice came again. ‘Don’t be afraid of the rats, they will not harm you. And if you treat them with respect, they will become your friends.’
Of course I didn’t believe him, but his voice settled me.
‘And please forgive my appearance,’ he chuckled, pulling at his beard. ‘There are no barbers here.’ He sniffed then joked, ‘I think you need to use the bucket.’ He pointed. My eyes followed his finger and saw a wooden bucket standing in the corner. I rose and went to it. The smell told me what it was used for, so I dropped my trousers, squatted and let my bowels do their job. Straw took the place of paper. Feeling better, I returned to my bit of hay to find the blanket laid out waiting for me.
‘This time I do it, tomorrow I will show you how,’ said the old man. His unexpected kindness left me speechless. I had just been separated from a mad world where there was only violence, to find gentleness in… ‘Where am I?’ I asked, almost childlike. The old man replied as he shuffled away, ‘You will have to wait. I am not allowed to tell you. When they are ready, you will be told everything they want you to know.’
I sat down and took off my shoes, all the while shifting my gaze, looking at the rats, the thick spider webs, the damaged walls letting in cold mountain air, the stinking bucket and the high wooden beams holding up the roof. Tentatively I lay down, still not knowing where I was, or why.
*
I awoke to gentle shaking. ‘Little Comrade, come and eat,’ said the already familiar soft voice.
I sat up, stretched and yawned. ‘What time is it?’ I asked, not yet fully tuned in to my surroundings.
‘Feeding time,’ said the old man, handing me a small bowl of boiled rice.
From somewhere the tantalising smells of cooking hit my nostrils, making me feel hungry. I looked questioningly at the rice, at him and back to the rice. With a grin, he said, ‘Ignore the smells. They eat the best food and plenty of it. We get poor quality rice and sometimes, if we’re lucky, leftover soup. We drink water rationed to one cup a day. They drink as much tea as they want.’
He checked the door before making the "hush" sound with his upright forefinger to his lips, then whispered, ‘Welcome to the West Hill Dictatorship Team.’
That woke me up.
‘What?’ I whispered back as though shouting, ‘Oh no…oh, shit, no. It can’t be!’
He hushed me again and pointed. Through the damaged outer wall, soldiers on guard were clearly visible. I was locked up in the worst possible place. The biggest enemies of Communism were sent here, including those who had opposed our "Guide", our "Red Sun", our "Saviour", Chairman Mao.
‘I have fallen from Communist heaven into reactionary hell!’ I mouthed in my loudest whisper. ‘Somehow I have offended the Iron Wall of the Republic (a nickname Mao had given to the People’s Liberation Army), and now I am at their mercy!’
Chinese conversation was littered with such political phraseology during the Mao years. My fear returned as terrible visions of my immediate future life, and death, flashed through my imagination. I hurried to use the bucket.
I spent the rest of that day and most of the night wallowing in self-pity and dismay, and an even longer time dealing with my terror. Prison routine continued as normal. Food was delivered, put beside me by the old man and eaten by the rats. Water also came and was sipped. Shouted orders signalled some kind of prisoner movement. The bucket was emptied, refilled and emptied again. The guard changed at regular intervals. Suddenly I sat upright when anger and a sense of injustice replaced fear, bringing an immense bout of frustration. For perhaps an hour big tears streamed down my face and fell into my lap, then I was over it. Yes I was frightened of what the future had in store for me. Yes I hated being where I was, but no, I was not about to cave in. My last thought before I fell into a deep sleep was, "Bollocks to them!"
3.
The next morning the old man again brought me food. I took it and ate every grain of the mouldy rice and drank all the water. He was surprised and pleased. He asked me how was I was feeling and, because of his kindness and concern, I told him about my battle with fear and my remembered last thought. He nodded and smiled his understanding.
‘That was a good response,’ he said. ‘Don’t let them beat you down. I hope you don’t mind me asking, what is your name?’
‘No I don’t mind,’ I replied. ‘My name is Tianming Yu.’
That put a look of surprise on his face, whilst my surprise was about to be revealed. He responded with, ‘Tianming Yu? The same Tianming Yu who checks case histories for Military Intelligence?’ When I nodded, he laughed softly before looking at me with a mischievous smile and saying, ‘I’ve heard of you. My name is Gao Qing.’
He waited expectantly for me to react. When my face showed that I had, his extreme amusement caused his face to crease into hundreds of lines. He dared not laugh loudly so he banged the floor with his hands and rocked backwards and forwards in silent belly-shaking merriment.
***
Two years previously, I, as a new graduate from the Army Engineering Institute, had been selected by the Military Intelligence section of the Party and sent to their office in the city of Lanzhou, northwest China. My first assignment seemed, on the face of it, simple. In reality it was nothing of the kind. I had to check out a "vicious reactionary" without ever being allowed to meet him. Comrade Kang Sheng, Head of Chinese Communist Intelligence, informed me that Gao Qing was an extremely dangerous man. For many years he had been deeply hidden within the Chinese Communist Party, awaiting orders from an unknown foreign power to do damage to the Chinese revolution. Kang Sheng had looked up at me from behind his desk, saying, ‘This case is special. If you reveal even the smallest hint of what you know about Gao Qing to anyone, severe punishment will surely follow.’ After his arrest, Gao Qing had been transported fourteen hundred kilometres away from Beijing to Northwest China and imprisoned in the oddly named "West Hill Dictatorship Team" where all the important counter-revolutionaries were jailed. The Special Case Office clerk didn’t question Kang Sheng’s hand-written authority giving me unlimited access to Gao Qing’s personal file. This was my first case and the first time I had ever seen a personal file. I hadn’t even seen my own. I carried the package away to my desk and, for a long while, just sat and looked at it. Delving into the life of another human being was not something I wished to do. Then, as though opening an old book, I carefully turned to the first item and began to read. And like a good book, as page followed page, the more engrossed I became until, suddenly, it ended, leaving me deeply troubled and not at all sure that I could carry out my orders. From the file and especially after reading the transcripts of Gao Qing’s interrogations and all of his compulsory self-criticisms that every Communist must write in his or her own handwriting, I did not get any suggestion of a bad element. Instead, Gao Qing impressed me with his thoughts on loyalty to the Party and his comrades. He was also totally committed to the principles of socialism as laid down by Karl Marx. I thought him to be a deep, intense man, with a finely tuned sense of humour. Reports by his superiors proved that he had been a very fine officer. Bravery mixed with compassion and a strong sense of right and wrong. For many days I deliberated until, not knowing what else to do, I decided to seek help and advice. Standing to attention before my Political Commissar, I made my report. ‘There is nothing in the file to help me. Gao Qing’s military history stopped twenty-six years ago, leaving me with insufficient information to arrive at a correct conclusion or to make any sort of recommendation.’ The Political Commissar frowned as he said, ‘Is it so difficult?’ ‘Yes. From the age of twelve, Gao Qing proved himself to be a first class soldier with a promising military career. He was quickly promoted to senior rank, then, nothing. It is as though he died in 1939 and came alive again in 1952. How can I prove that this man is the real Gao Qing? How can I prove that he is a spy? How can I arrive at a conclusion if I am not allowed to interrogate the prisoner? I have nothing to go on. Where to start? How can I investigate a big black empty hole?’ As I spoke, I knew I was disobeying Kang Sheng’s orders, but thought a "Political Commissar" must be a man of discretion and silence. The reply I received was, ‘If you cannot make any recommendations, you can at least keep an eye on the prisoner. Perhaps, during interrogation, he will let slip information that will help you.’ I had to accept his advice. From that day, until my arrest, I received regular reports from the West Hill Dictatorship Team about Gao Qing’s general behavior, together with the transcripts of his many hours of interrogation. Oh yes, I knew the name of Gao Qing!
4.
Two weeks went by. Gao Qing and I got along very well. He seemed not to resent the fact that I had spent two years trying to prove his guilt. His easy manner helped me settle into prison life as we quietly exchanged opinions, mostly about the cinema, music and art. We avoided politics other than for him to tell me how he knew my name and that I had the job of trying to prove him guilty of something … anything. ‘Simple,’ he said. ‘During a session, it is usual for the interrogating officers to have my file open on the desk and I have good eyesight. I can read upside-down writing as fast as right-way up writing!’ With a chuckle, he concluded, ‘It’s a useful tool when you’re in prison.’ ***
One morning an army officer appeared in the doorway and shouted, ‘Number 74!’ I stood up and followed him outside. Escorted by soldiers, we crossed the courtyard and entered a room. The officer sat down behind a desk and lit a cigarette. I stood in front of the desk. Having been a heavy smoker before my incarceration, I sucked the smoke deep into my lungs. The officer had an open file in front of him, reminding me of how Gao Qing knew of my existence. Exasperatingly I couldn’t read a single character. He spoke first. ‘Do you understand that by being sent here, your case is considered serious?’ ‘Yes,’ was my answer. ‘Do you also know that we treat you differently to the other prisoners?’ ‘No, I didn’t know that.’ ‘Well, we do. Your case is being looked at as a possible miscarriage of justice. To help prove your innocence, you must dig out the secret life of Gao Qing and give us the information we need to prove him guilty. For example, you must find out about his relationship with the evil Black Gang members such as Marshal He Long.’ It was then that I understood exactly why I had been arrested. I was guilty of nothing. They wanted to make use of me to get the evidence they needed to prove a case against Gao Qing, and through him, against Marshal He Long. The Marshal was a legendary hero and his arrest was one of the many reasons why I was no longer a committed Communist. He had been one of the leaders involved in the August the First Uprising of 1927. It had begun in the city of Nanchang in protest against the continued and systematic slaughter of Communists by the Nationalist Government led by Chiang Kai-shek. The Marshal was much loved and respected by the whole Chinese people. That was probably the only reason why Mao had branded him a "Capitalist Roader" and a "Warlord". For some years I had suspected that, himself apart, Mao hated everyone held in high esteem by the people. Now very old, the Marshal and his wife were in prison awaiting trial. Obviously they had found no real evidence to present before the court. Rebellion began to build in me. Not only for the unfair way I was being treated but also at the preposterous suggestion that the Marshal was a criminal. Inside my head an angry voice told me, "No! I cannot do what they ask. Why should I help send good men like the Marshal and Gao Qing to their deaths?" In as firm and even a voice as I could muster, I replied, ‘Comrade Zhou En-lai led the Nanchang Uprising. Comrade Marshall He Long was his deputy. The Marshal was a hero. How can he ever be considered a member of any Black Gang? You, as a senior army officer, must surely know this.’ Expecting me to be grateful for the chance to gain my freedom, the officer was taken aback by my response. After a long pause, he gave me an obvious stock answer. ‘No matter how much of a hero he has been in the past, today he is a Revisionist and a Capitalist Roader. Today he is a harmful influence on our proletarian revolution.’ ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I don’t understand the meaning of revisionism, or exactly what a capitalist roader is.’ I did know. I was just using up the time allocated to my interrogation. ‘Stupid fool! A capitalist roader is someone who wants to replace Communism with Capitalism - to go down the capitalist road.’ ‘Yes, I understand. What about revisionism?’ I knew. Revisionism is a form of Communism that prefers to use persuasive argument, not violent revolution. Did he? I asked, as innocently as I could, ‘Does it mean that Chairman Mao has outlawed men of peace? Is non-violence now a crime?’ He stared blankly at me. It was quite obvious that he had no idea what, exactly, was the meaning of revisionism. He had probably heard the word during political instruction and had simply incorporated it into his Communistic jargon. After a long pause he came back to me with, ‘Do you want to die here?’ I shrugged my shoulders. ‘From birth our only certainty is death. Both of us will die someday. In the future there will be no difference between two dead men.’ The officer leapt to his feet. ‘You are crazy to talk this way! Your future is in your own hands. I will give you a chance to think about your perilous position and the punishment that is waiting for you.’ With these words he took me back to my cell.
5.
As week followed week, a true friendship and trust built up between Gao Qing and me. As far as possible, we kept fit. Gao Qing showed me his daily fitness routine, which helped keep him in good health despite the poor diet and continuous confinement. In silence we worked at it together, all the while mindful of the guards. Our captors would have banned such activity if they knew. Then came the day we trusted each other enough to discuss politics. In low whispers we confided our views on Communism versus Capitalism, the pros and cons of Mao Zedong and Chiang Kai-shek, and in particular, Mao’s Cultural Revolution. By this time I knew that my cell-mate was aged about fifty. It was his white hair and beard that made him look older. I was the younger man so he called me "Little Comrade" and I addressed him as "Old Gao". One evening, I said, ‘I don’t think the Communist Party is always correct, nor do I believe that the Nationalists were always wrong.’ ‘Hush!’ he whispered. ‘I’m glad to know that you can still use your reasoning powers, but please be careful. Communist propaganda has brainwashed our people into accepting the distorted thinking of a madman. He has promoted the dregs of society - the bullies, the killers and the thugs, into positions of absolute authority. This has resulted in wholesale rape, murder, torture and false imprisonment. Nobody is safe. In a country where even the most loyal of Mao’s supporters fear for their lives, you are in danger of being shot where you stand.’ ‘Why?’ I asked. ‘You are too honest and outspoken. You must learn to hide your thoughts, control your emotions, keep your views to yourself and never show anything on your face. If you don’t, you will die.’ I looked at his thin face, knowing he was right. ‘Old Gao,’ I asked him. ‘Can you teach me?’ ‘Of course!’ was his reply.
***
He began by teaching me the art of meditation. It was a wonderful way to combat the boredom. We sat on our hay, cross legged, eyes closed, as still as clay statues. Sometimes he would recite poems that had been passed down from the Tang and Song Dynasties. When I began reciting some remembered schoolboy poems, he smiled at me like a father to his son. Compared to what was going on outside, life in the cell was bearable. For one thing it was peaceful. From overhearing the guards, we knew that the Cultural Revolution was continuing apace and life outside was becoming ever more dangerous. Basic commodities were running out, causing widespread hunger. We had our daily ration of rice and water. No cooking or cleaning for us. The cell was little more than a stable, with hay spread over hard mud. There was nothing unstable about our lives. One day followed another in monotonous similarity. Apart from spasmodic bouts of interrogation when, with the approval of Old Gao, I said I would co-operate but didn’t, we were left alone. Only food deliveries and bucket changes allowed a little of the outside world into ours. Nevertheless, both of us had our off days. One miserable rainy day it was my turn. Thoughts of how my arrest had ruined my promising future and fond memories of home, good food, deep satisfying draws on a cigarette and the warm responsive body of my girlfriend, enveloped me in a black cloud. ‘I’m bored.’ I said to nobody in particular. ‘What a waste of a life.’ Old Gao came over and whispered softly, ‘Little Comrade, don’t be too sad. There is something worthwhile for you to do whilst you are here.’ ‘What would that be?’ ‘I don’t think I will ever get out of here alive. From my file you already know the official Chinese version, but it only tells a small part of my story. Much more detail is to be found in Moscow. My Russian file, with all my written reports, is locked away in the KGB vaults. If I am executed, my Chinese and Russian files are unlikely to be seen again and my story will die with me. I don’t want that to happen and with your help it won’t. If I tell you my story, you are young enough to be able to lock it safely away in your memory until you can pass it on to the next person to share this cell. Or, if you get out of here, take it with you.’ I stayed silent, almost fearing to breathe. Old Gao continued, ‘It’s a good story. Perhaps the day will come when it will be safe for you to tell it to the whole Chinese people, maybe even the world. Do you want to do it?’ I had to say what was in my mind. ‘This is exactly the reason why I was arrested. I could gain my freedom, but...’ I smiled, ‘… what a delicious irony it would be, if, by arresting me without just cause, they gave you the opportunity to get your story out of here. Yes, I want to do it. It is a perfect way to get revenge for both of us.’ Old Gao whispered, ‘The year is 1939…
**********
Gao Qing’s story.
Chapter 1. Spy School.
1.
Early one October morning in 1939, in China’s Xinjiang Province, close to the Sino-Soviet border, Andriev, a liaison officer attached to the Soviet Embassy in China, led a group of twenty young Chinese Communist Party members, including Gao Qing, onto a canvas covered military truck. None were volunteers. They had been carefully chosen and transported to this place. Before the truck moved off, a high ranking Chinese Party member instructed them to obey every order given by Andriev… they would soon know why. A few kilometres inside Russian territory the truck stopped. The group de-trucked at a small railway station to en-train, said Andriev, for the Soviet capital. ‘Comrades.’ He informed them, using passable Mandarin. ‘You are going back to school.’ Five days later they were in a cleared area deep inside a forest on the outskirts of Moscow. It was cleverly laid out and camouflaged so that from both the ground and the air it looked like a large holiday park. An outer brick wall encircled the whole area, broken by one well-guarded entrance blocked by a pair of heavy iron gates. Several architecturally superb houses, originally built for the Russian royal family, ringed the clearing. Farther away, hidden under tall pine trees and encircled by a high dry-stone wall with one guarded gate, was a huge complex comprising modern buildings disguised as holiday homes. Many more structures were buried deep underground. The only road ran from north to south through the park. There was plenty of evidence of holiday life. Football and hockey pitches, tennis courts, a running track, outdoor swimming pool, a large lake with rowboats and a picnic area. The complex was guarded around the clock by troops. Some dressed in local peasant clothes and posing as workers. Others playing at being on holiday. The truck taking the group of Chinese from the railhead to the school had passed a large military establishment. Gao saw three helicopters, several bombers and many fighters. Large hangars housed more aircraft. Troops were drilling on a big square and to one side of it, dogs were being exercised. All this was open to view in order to draw attention away from the school and give a reason for the number of personnel in the area. One of the houses, a three storied beauty, housed the school headquarters. Everything inside was of high quality. The snow-white walls, shining red wooden floors, elegantly decorated offices, library and mess hall reeked of luxury. The Chinese were shown the laboratories where they would learn the forensics related to the craft of information gathering. There was also a cinema, a card room and badminton courts. Their living quarters and classrooms were all underground. Training began the day following their arrival. For six mornings of every week they were expected to be up, dressed and ready to be marched into breakfast by five-thirty and at their desks by six-fifteen. From Mondays to Fridays, they had twelve hours of intensive training broken by a fifteen-minute morning break, forty-five minutes for lunch and a second mid-afternoon fifteen minutes. Evenings began with one hour of compulsory revision. On Saturdays they worked until mid-day, leaving the remainder of the weekend free. There were other classes there, but they rarely mixed. The twenty Chinese were given the title "Far East Group" and as the longest serving Chinese Red Army officer, Gao was appointed "Senior Student". Their Soviet Army teacher, speaking in Mandarin, began his lecture by telling them the rules, which were strictly enforced. First came the expected - time of reveille and lights out, keep themselves, their kit and living area clean, obey all orders, no going outside the school perimeters without a pass, bring nobody in. No alcohol or loose talk… blah… blah… blah. Then the teacher stunned his new students with ‘…You are now in a Soviet spy-school. From this moment onwards, each and every one of you is forbidden to contact your own Party in China. You are no longer Chinese Communist Party members, you now belong to the Communist International Group, always referred to as Comintern. You will obey their orders and no other authority. You will never reveal anything relating to Comintern to a third party, no matter how important that person might be. To break this rule means severe punishment.’ They couldn’t believe their ears. It was unreasonable! Why had the Chinese agreed to it? The Russian teacher was obviously expecting their response and said with a little smile, ‘Don’t worry, we have been teaching students from around the world for a long time. They too had problems with this rule. You will quickly get used to it.’ That day after class, the twenty Chinese students gathered in Gao’s room. All were unhappy with some of the rules, especially the last. Huang Chi, face red with indignation, started them off. ‘I don’t understand this rule,’ said he. ‘Why can’t we contact our own Party? Do our people know about this? Are we no longer Chinese?’ Being the group leader, Gao quickly used the "hush" gesture. This was a spy school. There was every chance that their words were being monitored. Gao liked the look of this earnest young man. He was from a poor peasant family living in Sichuan Province. From childhood he had accompanied his father to the mountains to cut wood and gather herbs for sale in the local market. His mother had taught him basic literacy and had chosen his wife, to whom he was devoted. In due time he had an adored son. After joining the Red Army he continued his education and excelled in mathematics. He was of medium height, squarely built, sturdy, tough, honest, direct and down to earth. Because of his woodcutting background, he was given the nickname Chopper. As time passed, Gao and Chopper became the closest of friends. The discussion raged in hushed tones without getting anywhere. It was pointless anyway. The rule existed and they did not have the necessary answers to argue against it. Eventually, as the Senior Student, Gao felt obliged to bring the meeting to a close. ‘Our number one discipline has always been to obey all orders without question,’ he stated, not expecting an argument. ‘Don’t ask if it is right or wrong and don’t talk about it anymore. It is time for lights out, so the meeting is over.’ All quietly departed for their respective rooms. Chopper shared with Gao. In silence, they went to bed.
2.
Every day, Gao suffered student grumbles. From one, ‘I’ll never pass the Russian language test, I can’t roll my tongue around the words.’ Quickly followed by another, ‘Please don’t talk about chemistry. I’ll fail for sure.’ ‘How do they expect us to remember all those strange foreign names? I hate geography.’ complained a third. Whilst a fourth whined, ‘Philosophy and psychology are my undoing, I don’t understand any of it.’ Gao too had problems keeping up. It was hard work. They lost five Chinese in the first two months. By the end of six months only four were left. Huang Chi (Chopper), top grades in mathematics and martial arts. Zhou Shao-fei, nicknamed "Sparks" because of his telegraphic and telecommunications skills. Yang Tian-yun (Hunter), an excellent horseman, and Gao Qing, referred to as Big Brother. Gao was top in pistol shooting and languages. After every sudden departure, their class tutor told them that so-and-so had been sent home. None were ever seen again. Every Saturday evening, a dance was held in the ballroom. At the beginning of their seventh month, the four Chinese were invited to attend, but by then they had got into the habit of relaxing in their quarters, usually playing cards. In addition, none of them had learned to dance, so they didn’t go. Suddenly the door to the room banged open and in strode their class tutor. His name was Feilibov, a tall, lean, forty-something Russian with a pronounced hooked nose, looking very smart in his dress uniform. He snatched the cards from Gao’s hand and shouted, ‘All of you must go to the dance. How dare you disobey!’ The four Chinese hurriedly dressed in their best uniforms, without managing to look anywhere near as impressive as Feilibov, and followed him. Up the stairs, out of their building into the floodlit night, across the compound, passes checked, inner gate opened, over the threshold of a Tsar house and into the ballroom. It was brightly lit by many hanging chandeliers with, in the centre, one of those revolving mirror-balls that reflected little squares of light as it turned. Down both sides of the large oblong-shaped room there were lines of chairs with a few already occupied. At the end nearest to the entrance, a specially cordoned off area held comfortable looking wingback chairs with tables in front of them. On every table sat a small lamp, an ashtray, a telephone and half-a-dozen gleaming glasses. To the side of every chair stood an ice bucket, complete with bottle. This area was reserved for senior officers and high-ranking guests. Only a few of the chairs were being used. At regular intervals around the room fresh flowers erupted out of large vases on small tables, perfuming the air and pleasing the eyes. Small groups of men and women talked animatedly. Couples danced, dipping and swirling in time to the music coming from a balcony where the Russian military orchestra played. There was every colour of skin, facial contour, uniform and civilian dress on display. One of the tutors had told them that recruits from every country in the world were daily graduating from the spy school. Surrounded by waltzing couples, Feilibov strode down the middle of the room with his Chinese students following along behind like embarrassed schoolboys. He stopped at the far end, underneath the balcony, and indicated where the Chinese should sit. Gao was quite happy to watch but after just a few minutes a pretty girl dressed in a beautifully fitting blue creation that emphasized her slim roundness came up and asked, ‘Please, could I dance with you?’ After months of severance from the opposite sex, to him she had the loveliest blue eyes, the warmest smile, the blondest hair and the sexiest shape he had ever seen. He was on his feet and into her arms before his brain reminded him that he couldn’t dance. He didn’t care. He was not about to let this beauty go. Somehow they circumnavigated the room. Gao’s eyes were on hers for most of the time. He did drag them away to smile stupidly and apologise for every blunder into another couple. He noticed that all four of them were on their feet and stumbling their way around the floor. This first encounter with a European girl, and she had chosen him, made Gao feel rather splendid. At one point he noticed Feilibov standing to one side, a satisfied, almost cunning smile on his face. ‘My name is Natasha.’ Her voice was soft and musical, making Gao forget Feilibov. ‘Mine is Gao Qing,’ he replied. She smiled and asked, ‘Do you like the Soviet Union?’ ‘Yes, I do…especially now…tonight.’ Gao said, in stumbling tongue-tied Russian. ‘Can you come to dance every weekend?’ ‘Oh yes!’ A breathless Gao managed to say. ‘Ahhh, Comrade Gao Qing, I am so pleased to be dancing with you,’ sighed Natasha. Gao felt her soft body press into his chest as her head rested on his shoulder. Her fragrant hair took all sense out of him. He was dancing on air in the hand of the Buddha! Her voice, muffled by his uniform said, ‘I am tall with blue eyes. I chose you because you are the tallest man in your group and you have such intensely alive brown eyes.’ It was past five in the morning when Gao returned to quarters. To his surprise his three friends were waiting. ‘You must be tired,’ said Chopper scornfully, by way of a greeting. Gao began to undress, wondering what was wrong. Chopper was glaring at him. Hunter had turned towards the window. Something on the floor held Spark’s interest. ‘Is something the matter?’ Gao asked, alarmed. ‘You!’ Chopper cried out. ‘With that Russian girl. Have you forgotten where we are? Do you want to be thrown out like all the others?’ ‘No, I haven’t forgotten.’ Gao replied quietly. ‘I enjoyed myself tonight, but one night of dancing doesn’t mean a betrayal of everything I have worked for. And I hope to see her next week too.’ He shrugged his shoulders and joked, ‘When in Russia, do as the Russians do. It was Feilibov’s idea.’ Chopper was not to be denied. ‘When you took that Russian girl in your arms, did you forget that our motherland is engaged in a bitter war against Japan?’ Gao smiled as he replied, ‘Oh yes indeed! For a while I forgot everything except being so close to… her name, by the way, is not "that Russian girl", it is Natasha.’ He looked at the three of them then continued, ‘I think it is important to strike a balance between work and play. Tonight I was playing, and if Natasha or some other girl wants to play some more and it doesn’t clash with my work, then I will…and so should you.’ Chopper stopped glaring, relaxed, and smiled. ‘ You are shameless Big Brother, but I cannot fault your logic. By the way, did you notice the strange look on Feilibov’s face? I did and it puzzled me until I realised that he had sent the girls. That is why I was worried when I saw you clinging on to Natasha and blundering around like a drunken oaf. It is a relief to know that you were in control of yourself. So go and fuck every girl in Russia, just as long as you remember that when we finish here, we go back to China.’ ‘Yes, you are right. I will only fuck when Feilibov tells me to.’ Gao countered, setting them all off into gales of laughter. Later in his bed and just before he fell asleep, his brain reminded him how good it felt to have these young men as his friends. However, it was beautiful Natasha who shared his dreams.
3.
The next Saturday morning, in a line around the classroom, Feilibov had hung about a hundred and fifty black-and-white photographs. The subjects were men and women, no two the same, different in age and dress. Speaking Russian, Feilibov commanded, ‘Comrades, I want you to memorize the names and details of at least one hundred of the people in these photographs. Of course, it would be better if you can remember more. One hundred is the target and the minimum I will accept.’ Using a short stick he pointed to the first picture. ‘This is someone we all recognize, Chiang Kai-shek. He is President of the Kuomintang Government and speaks Mandarin with a Zhejiang dialect. Next comes Mao Zedong, Communist Leader from Hunan Province. Adolf Hitler…’ He spoke for about an hour-and-a-half without resorting to notes, reciting the name and details of the person in every photograph. All were VIP’s, whether Chinese Communist, Chinese Nationalist, Japanese, Russian, American, French, German or British. Suddenly he called, ‘Comrade Huang Chi, tell me something about these four people,’ he pointed at random. Chopper was caught completely by surprise. ‘You went too fast Comrade Feilibov, I cannot remember.’ ‘All right Comrade.’ Feilibov pointed to four different photographs. ‘These are all Chinese. Tell me about them.’ Poor Chopper, acutely embarrassed, had to admit to not remembering. Feilibov turned to Sparks and asked him to name the same four Chinese. He did, correctly and in full. Feilibov turned back to Chopper, ‘You should feel ashamed of yourself. Do you think martial arts can save your country? A strong body will not make you into a good intelligence gathering operative if your brain is empty.’ This was a reminder that Chopper, during the last martial arts training session, had beaten all four of his Russian instructors. Now Feilibov was taking Russian revenge by belittling Chopper. Silence. The students had learned that there was usually a trick hidden behind such behaviour. Silence was their only defence. ‘Comrade Huang Chi, you must memorize seventy names today and the rest by Monday,’ commanded Feilibov. ‘Yes, Comrade,’ replied Chopper. ‘Please let me use this classroom for the rest of today and tomorrow. I promise to commit all these names to memory.’ Feilibov nodded and said he would report the request to the authorities. Satisfied for the moment, he advised Chopper that the details to be memorized were to be found on the reverse of the photographs. The class was dismissed until Monday. After lunch, Chopper returned to the classroom. His three friends went with him. He protested at first until Gao admitted that he too needed to work. They toiled all afternoon and slowly at least half of the information was committed to their memories. They stopped only because they had to eat and prepare for the dance. The next day, Sunday, they again worked all day, except for meals, steadily memorising the rest. On Monday morning, Chopper reeled off every name and detail. So did Hunter, Sparks and Gao. Feilibov was satisfied but just so that he had the last word on the subject, in a voice awash with sarcasm, he scolded, ‘With information a Russian child could absorb with ease, it takes three adult Chinese to stuff the brain of one.’ This was to let them know that he knew how the four had spent the weekend.
***
It was a particularly difficult period. Their ability to remember was stretched to the limit as their tutors forced information into them. For example, an elderly Russian told them to use the huge maps pinned to a wall and learn, in one day, the locations of every major river, mountain range, country (including principalities) and capital cities of the world. Their compulsory hour of evening revision was no longer enough. As day followed day, they revised for longer and longer periods. Work ate into their sleeping time as they struggled to keep up. Random testing was commonplace. No mistake, however small, was allowed to pass without some form of punishment. One summer Sunday afternoon, the only day of the week when they could relax, the four friends decided to take a walk. They could speak freely in the open air. As they emerged from underground, they sniffed the flower-scented air and filled their lungs. As was usual, Chopper started them off. ‘The work is too heavy. I wake up tired after losing so much sleep and cannot concentrate on the lessons.’ All four acknowledged that it was hard - too hard sometimes. Their tutors were merciless when punishing their lapses. After a good moan they agreed that failure definitely wasn’t an option, therefore they only had one course of action, to support each other through to graduation. Decision made, they enjoyed the rest of their walk.
4.
A year flashed past. They were now fluent in Russian, English and Japanese. They had quick minds, excellent memories and strong bodies. Educationally they had progressed beyond their wildest expectations and their confidence in themselves was growing by the day. As a bonus, they had each other. Winter came early that year. Moscow was covered with layers of heavy snow and thick ice but it made little difference to the four friends buried deep underground. Typically, Feilibov chose this time to allow their Russian girlfriends join them on their Sunday afternoon walks. Also, they were given turns to be taken to the city, sightseeing with their particular girl. A subtle Soviet influence had crept into them. Even honest and straightforward Chopper was more restrained. Their fiery Chinese temperaments had faded, to be replaced by a quieter, more positive introversion. From bluff and bluster to quiet dangerousness. All of them now felt entirely comfortable to be seen with their Russian girlfriends. Gao was always happy when Natasha was by his side. She wanted to know everything about China and asked Gao to teach her Chinese. She stated that her parents knew all about Gao and had given their approval, which was a puzzle to him. How could her parents approve without meeting him? Gao said nothing about that, but he did ask why she wanted to learn Chinese. ‘My secret.’ she replied.
***
Six more months went by. By now the four Chinese students were experts in all forms of killing, espionage, surveillance, cat burglary, safe cracking, codes and ciphers and other spy skills. They could run fast, jump high or long, climb up the side of a building and abseil down, squeeze into small places and stay quiet and still for hours if necessary. If, after spy school, any one of them had chosen a life of crime, they would have been nothing less than master criminals. They had been thoroughly tutored in the art of self-control. To an outsider, if they wished it to be so, they could appear cold, or calculating, or emotionless, or without feeling. They could also act exactly the opposite. Only Gao had a weakness. He was in love. That was something beyond his control. A sunny early summer Sunday of 1941, when they and girls were walking as usual, Gao noticed that Natasha was allowing a gap to grow between the others and them. He was in high spirits. The meadows were awash with wild-flower colours, bees buzzed, birds were singing and so was his heart. By now Natasha was the most important person in his life. She wore a white semi-transparent dress over a pink lace-fringed slip, and her golden hair hung in a ponytail, tied with a pink silk ribbon. She looked stunning. As they chatted she slipped her tiny delicate hand into Gao’s big rough mitt. Softly she breathed, ‘I have dreams about you. One day I want to visit you in China.’ Gao was pleased to hear this, and confided, ‘I dream of you too. In my dreams we are close…very, very close.’ He couldn’t have made his meaning plainer. She seemed not to mind. Smiling contentedly, she walked on for a while, then, with a serious look on her face, she inhaled deeply and said in one long breath, ‘Comrade Gao Qing, I know your time here is almost up. There are things I can only say to you in private, so, before you bid farewell to me and return to China, I want to take you to my home. Will you come?’ Gao nodded, without speaking.
***
A month later it was over. Final exams showed the four Chinese students to be fully trained and ready for use. Each of them had excelled at something. Sparks confounded everyone by setting a new spy school speed record for tapping out Morse-coded signals and receiving messages as fast as the fastest tutor could send them. Chopper defeated his martial arts instructors for the last time and Gao Qing’s pistol shooting was excellent whilst Hunter was a superb horseman. Their last task was to pose for photographs with their tutors before shaking hands. 5. Their last Sunday dawned warm and mellow. At noon as arranged, Natasha arrived by limousine to take Gao to her home. She drove with expert efficiency into the city, around Red Square and down a side street to stop in front of an iron gate. Through a side window Gao saw the famous onion-shaped domes. The gate opened, allowing Natasha to drive to the front entrance of a huge house. A butler came to the car and opened the door to let Gao out. He gaped in surprise and wonder. ‘It once belonged to a general of the Tsar,’ explained Natasha. ‘When the Communists took power, this house passed to my father. He commands the army of the Ukraine and is garrisoned in Odessa. Mother is with him, so I live here by myself cared for by a few servants.’ They climbed the front steps and reached the beautifully carved wooden front door held open by a black-and-white uniformed servant girl. Natasha took Gao’s arm and guided him inside and to the left into a huge, sumptuously furnished drawing room. Natasha gave a gentle tug on a bell-pull before sitting beside Gao on a leather settee. Almost immediately the same butler entered, closely followed by the door-girl carrying tea on a tray. She set the tray on a side-table then stood back to allow the butler to serve them. At the conclusion of this little ceremony, the butler and maid left the room. ‘Not exactly what Marx had in mind when he wrote his Communist Manifesto,’ remarked Gao, ‘but don’t mind me, I am enjoying myself.’ They laughed together as they munched on small sandwiches. She swallowed delicately before asking, ‘Do you have a similar house in China?’ He laughed. ‘No, not at all. I come from a poor peasant family. We lived in the mountains in a small wood-and-mud hut. My parents worked for the local landlord. I left home and joined the Red Army at the age of twelve and never went back. I don’t even know if my parents are still alive.’ Poor Natasha! Gao noticed a small sliver of cucumber stuck to a tooth as she stared at him open-mouthed. Her facial expression showed that she was not sure if what she had just heard was the truth. She found her voice. ‘I thought you were rich because you are a senior army officer. All Russian high ranking officers are rich. Is it not the same in China?’ ‘Yes for the Nationalists. No for the Communists.’ Natasha bowed her head and sat quietly for a while. The butler and maid reappeared, this time carrying a tray containing small silver spoons, crystal glasses, ice cream on gold-rimmed plates and a bottle of red wine. They retreated with the tea tray. Natasha handed Gao a spoon and a plate of ice cream. She placed a glass of wine where he could reach it. He could see that she had something on her mind. ‘What is it?’ he asked. She gave him a long look before saying; ‘Did you know that we girls were chosen especially to dance with you?’ ‘We guessed.’ ‘Do you know why?’ He shook his head. ‘Speaking honestly, nobody in Russia is free. We obey orders. Your tutor, Comrade Feilibov, is an expert on Chinese affairs. Although he doesn’t look it, he is half Chinese. The other half is a Russian father who is a family friend, so Feilibov has seen me grow up. After I had chosen you to be my dancing partner, it was he who told my parents. ‘He was following instructions issued by Comintern. I think he has learned to respect you because he particularly wants you to know that I had to report everything I could find out about you to him. He forwarded my reports together with his own observations directly to Stalin…’ ‘Stalin!’ Gao interjected, almost dropping the half-empty plate. He couldn’t take it in. His mind raced as fast as his pulse. ‘What does Stalin want with me?’ he croaked. ‘Don’t be afraid,’ she said softly, stretching out her hand to cover his. ‘Feilibov told me to tell you that Stalin is entirely satisfied with your progress. When the time comes for you to be presented to him, Feilibov wants you to be ready. And in my heart I thank him for bringing you and me together, because with you I have found love. True, honest, natural love that turns my blood to warm sweet honey every time I see you.’ Big tears filled her eyes and ran down her cheeks. Gao felt his last shreds of resistance melt away as love, held in check since their first dance, swept over him. ‘I love you too.’ He said in hushed tones. It was not enough. ‘I LOVE YOU TOO!’ he shouted, pulling her to him. Some time later their urgent kissing eased to gentle caresses. ‘I am leaving shortly to wherever I am sent.’ Gao said to her. ‘I know. And when you leave, I will never be able to get in touch with you again. Feilibov has explained it all. You will go and that will be the end.’ More tears. Gao hated to see her so unhappy so he searched for words to give her hope. ‘It need not be the end. As soon as the war against Japan is over I will be able to pass a message through Comintern to Feilibov. He can tell you where I am and pass messages between us.’ He knew it was a forlorn hope but better than nothing at all. They clung to each other for a long time until, all too soon, daylight disappeared. ‘Darling,’ he murmured, ‘it’s dark. I must return to the school.’ ‘No, I won’t let you go. Not yet. Even under Communism real love does not need anybody’s approval.’ She took his hand, stood up and led him upstairs. That night Gao discovered a new Natasha who really was warm and honey sweet.
***
Hunter was the first to leave, knowing only that he was on his way to the mountains of China’s Xinjiang Province. Five days later Sparks received his orders and left, not knowing his final destination. Gao Qing was appointed the head of the Far East Intelligence Network and to his surprise and joy, Chopper was made his deputy. At about eleven in the morning, Feilibov ordered him to change into his best uniform, and because Natasha had warned him, he guessed the reason. An hour later, Stalin, making one of his rare visits to the spy school, rose as Gao entered the classroom. It was Stalin’s eyes that Gao most remembered. Constantly moving and alert, they sparkled like black sapphires. Stalin held out his hand. After shaking hands, Stalin sat on a plain chair whilst Gao remained standing. Stalin’s strong voice, speaking Russian with a marked Georgian accent, boomed, ‘Comrade Gao Qing. I am happy to meet you. I understand that you and your three classmates have proved to be excellent pupils and now you are returning to China.’ ‘Yes, Comrade General Secretary. I await my orders.’ ‘I am looking forward to hearing great things about you. This experiment to set up a class exclusively for hand-picked Chinese Party members has so far proved to be a success. Please remember that everything you do will be for the people. I will be reading all the reports. If you do well, I will authorise the school to repeat the experiment. Comrade Gao, do not let me down.’ ‘I will do my best to live up to your expectations, Comrade General Secretary. My time here has given me all the tools I need to do well. Now it is up to me.’ Stalin stood and held out his hand. Gao Qing shook it before saluting. Then he was ushered out.
***
Gao and Chopper left together, heading for their Motherland. Their destination was the big city of Lanzhou situated in northwest China. On arrival, someone would meet them and they must obey his every order. Who was this man, and what was his name? They were not told, nor could they ask.
Chapter 2.
Northwest China, June 1941.
1.
At dusk, the Russian transport aircraft bumped down and slowly taxied to a stop. Andriev led Gao and Chopper off the plane and onto a waiting truck displaying the white star of Chiang Kai-shek’s Kuomintang Government. Which was a worry to Gao and Chopper, dressed as they were in their Communist Army uniforms. China was still at war, not only against the Japanese invaders but also against itself. The Kuomintang no longer had orders to kill any suspected Chinese Communists, but unofficially they continued to do so. This time they were safe. At every checkpoint, after Andriev showed his papers to the Kuomintang sentries, the truck was allowed to proceed without incident. The truck stopped in front of a large building. Lights came on as Gao and Chopper climbed over the tailboard and dropped to the ground. They quickly read a board saying, in both Russian and Chinese, "The Lanzhou Liaison Office of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics." To their total astonishment, they saw Feilibov standing by the door! Andriev saluted. With a little smile he said, ‘Meet your Controller. From now on you will follow his orders without question.’ Again saluting, he climbed back into the truck and was gone. Feilibov had his supercilious "I tricked you again" smile as he led his two best students into the building. In his office, cups of Chinese green tea and bowls of rice with pickled vegetables were laid out. As Gao and Chopper ate, Feilibov briefed them. ‘Everything has been arranged. You must get to your safe house before the curfew begins at 2200 hours. Take off those uniforms and put these on.’ He passed over two sets of nicely cut navy-blue silk gowns and round skullcaps that have, for centuries, been worn by middle-class Chinese businessmen. Gao was to pose as a rich silk merchant named Chen-ye. Chopper, as Long-wu, was his associate. Their task was to get into the city of Chongqing, eleven hundred kilometres away, without having their names noted. Feilibov handed over their forged identity papers and finished his brief. ‘Someone is waiting for you outside. All you need to do is follow him. Good luck.’ As they left the building, a shadowy figure wearing a black gown and a distinctive top hat appeared a few metres ahead of them and began to walk fast. They followed the hat until, ten minutes later, the shadow silently stretched out his right arm and pointed to the front before disappearing into a side alley. They continued to walk forward. A young man carrying a newspaper stepped out from a doorway and asked, ‘Are you from Mr. Fee?’ Gao gave the pre-arranged response. ‘Yes, we are they.’ ‘Come.’ 2. Inside an old, but very beautiful traditionally built house, another man introduced himself. ‘I am Comrade Fu-zhi, Kuomintang Governor of Xiahe County. I live here in Lanzhou, and yes, I am a Communist.’ He was of the opinion that when the Japanese had first invaded China, the Communists and the Kuomintang armies should have immediately united. ‘…and when Chiang Kai-shek refused to unite, showing himself to be a dishonourable man, Communism seemed to be the only way forward for the Chinese people.’ The house was now a Communist place of safety inside the Kuomintang controlled city. Madam Fu-zhi was used to having strangers suddenly arrive at her home and asked no questions. She welcomed Gao and Chopper, then quickly arranged for the servants to prepare accommodation and food. When they had eaten their fill, she led the way across the courtyard to a side-wing of the house into a comfortable room. Tired from the long journey, the two men were soon fast asleep. *** Gao shook Chopper awake and gestured with his hand behind his ear, as if listening for a sound. There was movement outside the door. They silently crossed the room. Chopper stood with his back against the wall on one side of the closed door and Gao did the same on the other. Chopper grasped the handle. On Gao’s nod, he abruptly pulled the door open to reveal a crouching man, listening. Chopper pulled him into the room and quickly shut the door. An expertly placed karate stroke from Gao stunned the eavesdropper. It had taken five silent seconds. To the letter they had followed their training. "Be vigilant at all times. Deal with any suspect who appears to be a threat to your mission. Be merciless. Cover your tracks." They searched the man - no identification, just a vicious looking knife. Gao whispered, ‘I’ll get our host, you keep watch.’ Comrade Fu-zhi, in response to Gao’s persistent knocking, called, ‘Who is there?’ ‘Chen-ye. Please come, I have something to show you.’ The Governor, with a black silk dressing gown carelessly draped over his thin frame, followed Gao back to the room. When the door was firmly closed with Chopper standing with his back to it, Gao quickly whispered an explanation as to why they were speaking across an unconscious man lying on the floor. The Governor responded with the information that the man was a well-known local bully and paid informant who had long deserved death. Not long afterwards, Gao and Chopper watched the young bodyguard drop the body down a deep dry well in the garden of the house and replace the heavy wooden lid. ‘He has been paid in full,’ murmured the Governor. The next morning, the Governor, Gao and Chopper had a long conversation about security. How did the dead man hear about them so quickly? Who had let him into the house? How did he know what room they had been given? There was only one answer. An informer. The Governor decided that he needed help and summoned his close friend, Mr. Zhong-xi, a fellow Communist sympathizer and the richest landlord in the area. Zhong-xi arrived in an ornate carriage pulled by a matching pair of black mares. Aged about forty, he was dressed in a dark blue gown made from the very best quality silk. In addition to the liveried driver, four bodyguards and four servants accompanied him. Without revealing any secrets or mentioning the dead man, the Governor told his friend about the security problem and asked for help. ‘Of course!’ said Zhong-xi, turning to the two guests. ‘I have a large estate not far from here. You can stay with me for as long as you wish.’ The Governor showed his gratitude in the traditional Chinese way. He bowed to his visitor whilst holding his hands in a praying position. So did Gao and Chopper. After a chat and refreshments, Zhong-xi led the way to his carriage and bowed the two men in. They waved farewell to the Governor as the horses moved off. Gao’s peasant background did not prepare him for such opulence. The estate covered thousands of acres of the very best agricultural land. It included many houses clustered together like a village. Every house had its own piece of land to allow those that worked on the estate to feed themselves. Unlike most landlords, Zhong-xi treated his workers with respect. In return, they willingly worked hard in his fields. He told us that many of the workers were Communist Comrades hiding from the Kuomintang. Neither Gao nor Chopper had ever seen such a place. Everything was out of the ordinary. Mr. Zhong-xi told his family and servants that his two guests were rich businessmen friends who must be treated with the utmost respect. Money was no problem, Zhong-xi threw it away like dirt. Every day the cooks had orders to prepare a grand feast. No less than sixteen dishes every evening, eight hot and eight cold, just for them. This was on top of a superb breakfast, huge lunch and several dishes of delicious nibbles in between. For the second night of their visit, Mr. Zhong-xi engaged a local theatrical troupe to give a show in the open-air theatre. It was an excellent way to spend an evening. The show was programmed to begin with a short drama, followed by half-an-hour of circus acts, then singers and dancers. After a refreshment interlude, the main event was to be Peking Opera. Gao and Chopper decided that they quite liked their generous host, but they were worried. He was not to know that they didn’t like the idea of being on display as honoured guests, and as expected, the booking of the theatrical troupe caused the Lanzhou City Kuomintang Intelligence Department to take an interest. It was their job to investigate anything unusual, no matter how innocent or trivial. Shortly before the show was due to begin, an army colonel and two soldiers arrived on horseback, ostensibly to pay a friendly visit. The guests were introduced. ‘Colonel Yuan, may I please introduce two business friends, Mr. Chen-ye and Mr. Long-wu.’ When the show began, the colonel showed little interest. He left after fifteen minutes. Mr. Zhong-xi hurried over and whispered to Gao. ‘He came with ill intent, not goodwill.’ Gao agreed and said that he and Chopper should move on. Mr. Zhong-xi, with many people to protect, was quick to suggest that instead of waiting for the train, they could travel to Chongqing by bus. There was a scheduled departure the next day. ‘However,’ he warned. ‘It is a difficult journey over poor roads, with many delays’. Gao and Chopper said yes, they would take it. The quicker they got out of Lanzhou, the better. 3. For many years during and after the anti-Japanese war, the long-distance "bus" between the two cities was a dilapidated American-made ten-wheel flatbed truck with a makeshift olive green canvas covering. About thirty adults, a few children and sundry birds and animals crowded in. Gao and Chopper paid extra to be allocated two spaces on the wooden benches that ran down both sides between the wheel arches. Most of the passengers sat on the wooden floor. The long journey across the mountains was slow, bumpy and uncomfortable. The bus stopped at all the villages to drop off and pick up passengers. Every village had two checkpoints, one in, one out. Gao noted that a junior officer and two soldiers manned every checkpoint. Usually, the bus was waved through without inspection. In low voices, Gao and Chopper decided on their next move. To avoid having their names noted, they decided that instead of staying on the bus to the terminus in Chongqing, they would alight outside the city limits and look for an unguarded pedestrian-only path into the city. The bus continued to pass through the checkpoints without hindrance. They had crossed the border between Gansu and Sichuan Provinces after a cursory glance at their papers. All had been smooth, until, with about fifty kilometres left to go, the bus was stopped at a checkpoint. A young Kuomintang officer, full of aggressive arrogance, boarded. ‘Papers!’ he barked. Sauntering down the bus, he kicked passengers, livestock and luggage out of his way as he randomly checked papers and travel permits. Then he spotted the girl. She was aged about twenty and by her dress, a student. She sat on a side-bench reading a left-wing newspaper, showing no interest in the officer. He stopped and stared at her, she ignored him. He leaned over and shouted, ‘Why are you reading that disgusting rubbish?’ She looked up and into his eyes. In a clear, cool voice she replied, ‘This is my choice. It is not a banned publication so I am breaking no law.’ She returned to her reading. The young officer, in danger of losing face, snatched the newspaper out of her hands. ‘You are under arrest as a suspected Communist,’ he shouted. ‘Pick up your belongings and come with me.’ The girl paled. She knew that as soon as he said ‘Communist’ her life was in danger. Her accuser, if he decided, could immediately shoot her. Bravely, she stood straight and resolute. Eyes boring into his, she stated, ‘I am studying law in Chongqing University. My papers are in order and I have done nothing wrong.’ ‘I think you are a Communist.’ He turned to the two soldiers. ‘Handcuff her. I will take her to headquarters.’ Chopper looked at Gao. Gao nodded and gestured with a slight side movement of his head, meaning, ‘Let’s go with her.’ His thinking process told him, ‘If the girl is a Comrade, we must help. If she isn’t, she is innocent. If we don’t stop him, this jackass will first rape, and then kill the girl. It is almost time for us to leave the bus anyway’. They stood up. Chopper bowing respectfully said, ‘Mistress, how can you go alone? I have instructions to see you safely home. I must come with you.’ Utterly confused, the girl looked at Chopper. His servile posture made him appear to be exactly like a family servant. She quickly realized that he was prepared to help her, and replied, ‘This officer is taking me from the bus. Please tell the General.’ Gao spoke up. ‘I must come too. The General will want to know exactly what has happened to you.’ Chopper bowed to the officer. ‘Sir, we serve the General and his family. We have orders to never leave the side of our Mistress. Please may we go with you?’ The young officer, caught by surprise at this intervention, turned pale when he heard ‘General’. His confusion was clearly evident. If he released the girl he would lose much face with his soldiers and be the laughing stock of the barracks. To continue with the arrest risked big trouble. Deciding that his loss of face was too much to bear, he dropped off the back of the bus and beckoned the soldiers to bring the girl. Gao and Chopper quickly gathered their things and jumped down too. The bus driver, glad to be away, crunched the gears and drove off. Leaving one soldier to manage the checkpoint, the officer ordered the girl, Gao and Chopper to sit in the back seat of an American-made Jeep. The officer occupied the front passenger seat, telling the second soldier to drive. Gao was behind the driver. Chopper sat behind the officer, with the girl in the middle. When the engine fired into life, out of the corner of his mouth Gao muttered in Russian, ‘Don’t damage the uniforms’. Chopper turned up his right thumb to indicate his understanding. They headed towards Chongqing. Gao let the jeep travel two or three kilometres, all the while checking for possible witnesses. When there were none, he turned his thumb down. Chopper’s iron fist crashed into the base of the head in front of him, snapping the spinal cord. Gao put his pistol to the temple of the driver. ‘Stop!’ he ordered. The Jeep skidded to a halt. Gao had no conscience about killing the officer. The driver was a different matter. After all, he was just an ordinary Chinese doing his job. What to do with him? The driver solved the problem. ‘Is he dead?’ he asked. ‘Yes,’ confirmed Chopper. Despite the pistol still at his temple, the driver relaxed. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘I have had enough of him. He was the worst kind of man.’ He spat to emphasize his feelings. Gao moved the gun away from the driver’s head. ‘Get out and undress,’ he ordered. The driver didn’t seem at all upset to take off the uniform. Well trained, he lay the tunic jacket and trousers carefully on the front seat of the jeep, cap on top, shoes and socks on the floor. Barefoot and standing in his undergarments, he said in resigned voice, ‘I suppose you are going to kill me too.’ He knelt and waited for the bullet. No plea for mercy, nor any sign of fear. ‘Do you have a family?’ Gao asked. ‘A wife and two kids. I have a picture in my wallet.’ Gao picked up the wallet. Inside, he found a little money and a photograph of a peasant wife with arms around two smiling kids. He didn’t want to shoot this man, but needed a good reason. ‘What would you do if I let you go?’ he asked. ‘Join the Communists!’ The driver laughed at his own joke, but this was deadly serious. ‘Why would you do that?’ ‘Because I joined the army to kill Japanese, not mess about on a checkpoint. Mao Zedong needs trained men. I would find his army and join the Communists.’ ‘On your feet soldier,’ Gao ordered. The driver stood up. Gao passed him his wallet. ‘Give me your identity tag,’ said Gao. ‘And if you swear not to say anything about what has happened here, you can go.’ ‘I swear.’ The driver took the identity tag from around his neck and passed it to Gao then held out the little finger of his right hand. Gao curled the little finger of his right hand around his. They had used the ancient sign of absolute fidelity. To break it meant committing suicide. Gao was satisfied. ‘China needs men like you,’ said Gao. ‘It is good to send you away without clothes. You have a clean beginning.’ Gao took off his own shoes and passed them to the driver. Pulling on the shoes, the driver turned and ran away across the fields. The girl was a bundle of nerves. She had seen Chopper kill a man with one blow. When Gao turned towards her still holding his pistol, she shrank back, her handcuffed hands covering her face. Realizing his mistake, Gao quickly holstered it. As softly as he could, Gao said to her, ‘Don’t be afraid. When we got involved, our only intention was to save you from him.’ He tilted his head towards the body. Naked, it no longer looked like an officer. Gao found the key and unlocked the handcuffs on the wrists of the girl. Returning to the body, he removed the identity tag from around its neck and replaced it with the soldier’s. When the body was found, the soldier would be reported dead, with the officer listed as a deserter. Dressed in army uniforms, with their civilian clothes tied into bundles, they drove towards the city. Chopper did the driving with Gao as the officer beside him and the girl in the back. Now that she was sure they weren’t about to kill her, or worse, she began to talk, and talk, and talk. From her constant stream of words the two men learned that she was studying law at university. Her father was a silk merchant and there was plenty of money. She was aged twenty-one and when in Chongqing, she lived with her family. Her elder siblings had already graduated as lawyers. She was glad that they had let the soldier go. She wasn’t a Communist. A previous passenger must have discarded the newspaper she had been reading. She had found it on a seat… and on… and on… and on… On the road, they saw several military vehicles going the other way. Chopper and the other drivers waved to each other, whilst Gao saluted. They stopped beside the first bus stop they came to and let the girl out. She made a small bow and said, ‘Thank you for saving me. I know I talk a lot but this is one secret I must keep, because, if I say anything, I will condemn myself to death. My family must know, but nobody else. If I ever see you again, please let me say hello.’ In the fading light, Chopper turned the jeep around and drove some seven or eight kilometers before seeing a suitable side road. They went up it for about two kilometres before stopping. It was now completely dark so they made camp. 4. At first light they took stock of their situation. The sudden disappearance of a jeep filled with two army personnel and three prisoners would have been circulated. The jeep had its own identity code painted on the side so they had to dump it. Their descriptions, when last seen by the soldier left on checkpoint duty, meant a change of appearance, but how? Their map showed an ancient horse-trail that meandered through the hills towards Chongqing. They decided to stay in uniform and drive the jeep until they could hide it somewhere, then wear their gowns. If they got the chance they would change into other clothes. At mid-morning, they found a long-ago abandoned clay quarry, now full of dirty water. Except for the shoes Gao was wearing, they watched everything belonging to the army sink without trace. Wearing their gowns and carrying hand luggage, they followed a winding path that headed upwards into the hills. It was well past noon when the path led them to an old temple hidden deep in a forest of tall, ancient trees. The gate was open, allowing entry into a tidy courtyard. In the high-ceilinged praying hall, under a large statue of Buddha sitting cross-legged on a raised platform, knelt an old man dressed in a Kasaya (an orange and red patchwork outer vestment worn by senior Buddhist monks). They waited in silence until the old monk completed his chanting of the prescribed scriptures as his hands counted the long row of beads hanging like an oversized necklace from around his neck. As Communists, Gao and Chopper were non-believers, but that didn’t stop them from respecting the need of others to believe. When the monk eventually turned to look at the visitors, he was surprised to see two well-dressed, but dusty men standing before him. Gao stepped forward with his hands across his chest in a praying position. He gave a small respectful bow and murmured, ‘Most eminent Abbot, we are so sorry to disturb you.’ The Abbot blessed them. ‘Amitabha, Amitayus,’ (Buddha be merciful). He too had his hands in a praying position. Bowing low, he said, ‘Come sirs, you are always welcome to rest here awhile. Have you eaten?’ Such gentle courtesy and flowery language was a leftover from the ancient Chinese civilization when the people were renowned for their politeness, warm hospitality, good manners and strict rules of etiquette. Gao replied, ‘Your eminence, before answering your question, if it pleases you, may I humbly ask a question of my own?’ A nod from the monk allowed Gao to continue, ‘how many people stay here?’ ‘I have six young probationers, two tutors and me, your humble servant.’ It was safe for them to stay awhile. ‘We would be pleased to accept your kind invitation to eat with you,’ confirmed Gao. The Abbot led them through the main section of the temple to the dining area and invited them to sit at a table. When they were settled, the Abbot clapped his hands once. Two shaven-headed young men appeared as if from nowhere and bowed. The Abbot ordered food and cups of green tea be brought for his guests. One of the young monks returned to the kitchen, the other went to an open fire over which a large cauldron was hanging. The lid was removed and a ladle used to fill two bowls with rice porridge. The bowls and tea arrived at the same time and were quickly consumed. More tea and porridge were served together with a selection of pickled vegetables. This time Gao and Chopper took longer over each mouthful. Such plain food is standard fare for the devoted followers of Buddhism. To these two hungry men, on that day, it was a banquet! After they had eaten, the Abbot led them into a side chamber he used as his living area and office. They thanked the old man for his hospitality. He shrugged as though it was nothing. But it wasn’t "nothing" it was an essential part of their chosen way of life. In temples all over China the monks toiled in the fields to provide for themselves and water had to be carried a long way from the nearest source. Gao pulled a 20-yuan banknote from his pocket and asked, ‘Please your eminence, if I may impose upon your good will one more time. To travel these hills we need suitable clothes. If you can spare a few rags, this money is to help with your charity work and we will leave our gowns here.’ The Abbot disappeared into the depths of the temple, to reappear after a few minutes with two white Kung fu tops, two pairs of black trousers and four rice-buns. ‘These clothes are old,’ he said. ‘If you don’t mind wearing them, they are yours. The buns are for your journey…Amitabha.’ With these words the Abbot knelt down on a prayer mat and closed his eyes. It was his way of saying goodbye. A young monk entered and silently bowed them out to the courtyard. They changed clothes, pushing their pistols inside the waistband of their trousers and covering them with the loose tops. Leaving their neatly folded gowns and caps, with the banknote on top, they continued on their way. *** They crested the high ground and began their descent. The path they had been following all day ended in a small clearing as it joined another more travelled path. They stopped, wondering which way to go. The map wasn’t any help. Gao’s instincts told him that they should turn left. They heard voices. Not knowing who owned them, Gao and Chopper tucked themselves out of sight in the undergrowth. A shoulder-pole team appeared, surrounded by heavily armed scoundrels. For many centuries, the most common way to transport essential goods from one part of China to another has been by shoulder pole. It is a straight bamboo pole about three metres in length and, with a large basket or bundle attached to each end, balanced across the shoulders of a porter. In this way, by using the strong shoulders of the young monks, many of the religious orders help support their temples by earning money transporting other people’s goods. At their head will be their leader. From years of pole carrying, he will have knowledge of thousands of kilometres of ancient footpaths and trails that criss-cross the length and breadth of China. And where you find the porters, there will be bandits waiting to steal their loads. Gao and Chopper had walked into a shoulder-pole team versus bandit-gang confrontation. There were nine unarmed porters being harassed by over twenty bandits. This group of porters was identically dressed in black shoes, white trousers and white arm-less vests with extra padding across the shoulders. Their heads were shaved. Around their waists all wore the same shade of blue sash. This was their team identification. The bandits were a motley collection of ruffians dressed mainly in animal skins. All carried rifles, machetes, knives and a few also had pistols. Robbery was their way of life and they could be unimaginably cruel. From the shouting, Gao gathered that the bandits wanted all the goods and the leader of the shoulder-pole team was trying to negotiate. ‘I can only give you two loads. You know very well that we earn our living by carrying goods. If you take everything, we are out of business. That will mean no more for you either. With the loss of two loads we will not earn any money this time.’ The bandit leader, a fierce looking bewhiskered individual aged somewhere in his forties bellowed back, ‘Stop! Leave everything on the ground, then go. I don’t care if you live, die or starve. If you don’t obey me, my men will shoot you in mid-stride.’ The head porter stopped moving and made a signal. As one, his followers halted, laid down their loads, unravelled the sashes from around their waists and released the poles from the bundles. They then moved into an ancient tried and tested defensive formation. Three surrounded the old man and the bundles whilst the other five formed a small outer circle around them. They held the poles in one hand and the sashes in the other. If the bandits wanted to take the bundles, then they were going to have to fight for them. Chopper whispered in Gao’s ear, ‘These porters are experienced martial arts experts, they won’t be intimidated by the guns.’ The two groups silently stared at each other. One of the bandits raised his rifle and pointed it at the old man. Before he could pull the trigger, the porter nearest to him flicked his sash. Gao realized that the sashes were weighted at one end, perhaps with a stone. It snaked out almost three metres, wrapped itself around the rifle and took it out of the grasp of the bandit and into the possession of the porter. The other bandits raised their rifles. Again they were too slow. All five of the outer circle of porters, moving extraordinarily fast, used their poles and sashes to smash robber heads, arms and legs. The seemingly innocuous bits of wood and cloth were lethal weapons in the hands of these experts. Just two shots were fired, each hitting a porter, before the robbers retreated into the trees to fire from cover. From where they were hiding, Gao and Chopper could see some of the bandits crouching in the undergrowth, firing their weapons. Another porter went down. They looked at each other. Should they get involved? Of course they must. Firing their pistols, they caught the bandits completely by surprise, picking off a number of them before the rest ran away. One of the dead was the bewhiskered bandit leader. The flashing poles and sashes had killed two bandits and wounded several others. Gao and Chopper had killed five. Depleted in numbers and leaderless, it would be a long time before that particular bandit group would again try to rob a shoulder-pole team. Gao and Chopper stepped out from their hiding place. Like striking cobras two sashes uncurled and wrapped themselves around their wrists. A split second later, strong fingers forced their hands to drop the pistols. The old man, aged about sixty, barked an order and their hands were freed. Chopper grinned and said in a perfect Sichuan dialect, ‘I have never seen such incredible skill. Well done!’ His grin and dialect eased the tension. The porters stepped back, their bodies as tight as springs, ready for any emergency. Chopper continued, ‘We are on our way to Chongqing. We didn’t want any trouble so we hid when you appeared. We saw the bandits try to rob you and decided to help.’ At that moment, Gao spotted a bandit taking aim with a rifle. In one motion, Gao pushed the old man aside and knelt to retrieve his pistol. He was too slow. Like bullets, three stones smashed into the forehead of the bandit. Gao clearly saw blood spurting. Gao and Chopper were dumbstruck. These shoulder-pole carriers were so fast, like lightning! Every Chinese boy listens to the local storyteller painting mental word-pictures of the exploits of ancient chivalrous swordsmen and martial arts experts. Now they were seeing it with their own eyes. Gao watched Chopper, the number one spy school kung-fu expert, look at these men with eyes filled with hero worship. ‘It is wise for travellers to be prepared,’ observed the old man. ‘You have your pistols. We use our skill. Fate decreed that men must die here today. It was not our time. Why else were you brought here with your pistols at exactly the right moment to help us? We lost two of our number and one is wounded. Without you, all of us might have perished, so we thank you.’ He called his men together. The damage to the wounded porter was not serious. The bullet had passed through the muscled flesh between his neck and his right shoulder. The old man sprinkled a bright yellow herbal powder over the "in" and the "out" holes then used a clean cloth as a bandage. ‘I will carry your load my son,’ he said to the young man. Gao introduced Chopper and himself, using two failed spy school student names. There was no reason to take chances. The old man pointed at each porter in turn. ‘We come from a temple in the mountains where we follow the Shaolin code of honourable conduct. Each of us has a religious name. On the road we use work names. Pole One is the eldest, Pole Two is next eldest, Pole Three next…, and so on. On the road I am known as the Old Man. In the temple these men call me Master. I have taught them everything they know.’ That explained their martial arts expertise. For thousands of years the Shaolin Monks have been celebrated throughout China for their fighting skills and bravery. They never attack, they respond to being attacked. Normally they follow a deeply religious monastic life dedicated to hard work, peace and respect for all living things. Emperors have used monks trained within the walled boundaries of the Shaolin Temple as trusted bodyguards. Gao and Chopper felt deeply honoured to be in their company. The shoulder-pole team was heading for the city. Gao thought how useful it would be to help these new friends and at the same time get into Chongqing unnoticed. ‘Master, if you do not have any objections,’ Gao said, ‘we will accompany you to the city. We can replace the two dead men and carry their loads.’ The old man agreed. After burying the dead porters, the team lined up alongside the loads. Chopper was at number five and Gao Qing was number seven. The old man took the lead. He bent and lifted a pole. The rest did the same. Gao found his load to be much heavier than he expected and realized just how strong a shoulder-pole carrier had to be. The old man began a singsong chant. ‘Hei Hoo! Lifting our loads, Hei Hoo! Towards our goal, Hei Hoo!’ The team followed his lead and off they went, chanting to the movement of their legs. The wounded man brought up the rear, able to travel at his own speed. At dusk, they made camp. After a meal of boiled rice and vegetables, they settled to sleep. Both men admitted to painful shoulder blisters but were happy. Tomorrow, all being well, they would arrive in Chongqing, safe and sound. And that was how it turned out. They were just two more anonymous workers entering the city through a pedestrian-only gap in the city wall. At the delivery address they said goodbye to the team and parted as friends. The old man prophesied, ‘Our paths will cross again.’ He was right.
