The Chinese Spymaster

By Hock G. Tjoa

Chinese Intelligence uncovers a North Korean trying to sell a nuclear device. Then they find five other dealers trying to do the same. The buyer is the same in every case--the Pashtuns.

Is this a "Pashtun Spring"? A realignment of geopolitical power in Central Asia? A resurgence of Islamist terrorism?

In order to anticipate and confront these threats, Spymaster Wang must negotiate through bureaucratic rivalries, as well as personal ambitions, at home and abroad. He reaches for ancient insight into strategies and unorthodox alliances. But the struggle he must undertake cannot cease, and the outcome always remains in doubt.

The Spymaster must also confront a vendetta within the Party as well as the determination of his Old Friends and their wives to make him a match.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hock G. Tjoa
• Release date: Sep 29, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301832323

Hock G. Tjoa

Hock was born in Singapore to Chinese parents. He studied history and classics at Brandeis and Harvard and taught the History of Modern Europe and of Asian Political Thought at the University of Malaya. He has published George Henry Lewes, a Victorian mind and "The Social and Political ideas of Tan Cheng Lock." He is married with two adult daughters and now lives in the foothills of the Sierra Nevadas. In 2010, he published a selection and translation of the Chinese classic, The Romance of the Three Kingdoms under the title "The Battle of Chibi." In 2011, he is publishing an adaptation of Lao She's "Teahouse" as "Heaven is High and the Emperor Far Away, a Play." He published "The Chinese Spymaster," the first of a planned three volume series, and "The Ingenious Judge Dee" in 2013

Book preview

Chinese Intelligence uncovers a North Korean trying to sell a nuclear device. Then they find five other dealers trying to do the same.

The buyer is the same in every case--the Pashtuns. 

Is this a Pashtun Spring? A realignment of geopolitical power in Central Asia? A resurgence of Islamist terrorism? 

In order to anticipate and confront these threats, Spymaster Wang must negotiate through bureaucratic rivalries, as well as personal ambitions, at home and abroad. He reaches for ancient insight into strategies and unorthodox alliances. But the struggle he must undertake cannot cease and the outcome always remains in doubt.

The Spymaster must also confront a vendetta within the Party as well as the determination of his Old Friends and their wives that he meets someone.

COMMENTS FROM EARLY READERS:

… rare feat of a convincing description of hand to hand combat together with a very skillful development of plot and background. A. G. Chaudri.

This is fascinating, a true Smiley for current times and troubles, with the added, exotic allure to Western readers of the mystique that is China. It has all the hallmarks of a literary thriller. Kay Christine Fenton.

A complex story … so vivid, lifelike and realistic. Charles Knightley, Author.

Map of the Caucasus and Central Asia

PROLOGUE

Philosophers say that thought makes one wise. But during hand-to-hand combat, thinking can kill.

Spymaster Wang clasped his right fist in his left hand and made a slight bow as Sergeant Major Li reciprocated. Both men were alike in being slim and nearly six feet tall. Wang, however, was in his early fifties, and the sparring sessions were his self-imposed tests of physical fitness. Li was not quite 30, a trainer of army special forces in the finer art of close combat.

Immediately, the two men began a series of slow arm and body motions. They might have been those of ordinary men and women at their morning tai-chi exercises that could be observed in a park in any Chinese city. As they moved around each other in the bare, medium-sized room used for Wang’s weekly test in hand-to-hand combat, the pace of their movements increased until they were so fast that fists, arms, and legs were all a blur.

Li made several flying and spinning kicks. At times, he used a wall or two for extra leverage or better positioning. He aimed his blows at particular pressure points. Had these landed precisely, they could have inflicted serious bodily damage as well as pain. Some of them could have maimed or even killed the Spymaster. The style of fighting that focused on attacking an opponent’s pressure points left them with unblemished faces but covered their bodies with painful bruises after each session. Li’s footwork was sure, and no observer could have doubted or mistaken the force behind his feet and fists.

Wang forced his mind to empty itself of all thought. He remembered all the details of Li’s personnel file. Heroic action in combat, seven kills, never wounded

This man can kill but…

Act without desiring the results of your action!

Japanese Zen Masters taught this mantra. Chinese Chan Masters had taught the Zen Masters, and they had learned this kernel of insight that pre-dated Lord Buddha himself. But there were so many thoughts that demanded Wang’s attention, and a lifetime of deep and disciplined reasoning distinguished him from most of his predecessors and peers. Nevertheless, for now, this was the imperative of combat. The combatants relied on instinct, intuition, muscle memory, gongfu, qi.

A swift thrust from Li connected. He barely missed one of those pressure points as Wang made a reflexive sideways jerk at the last split-second. The Spymaster winced even as he continued the whirring ballet of combat. His movements could not compare in speed and athleticism with those of the Sergeant’s. He moved more economically, mostly to deflect the thrusts and kicks that the Sergeant sent in a ceaseless, apparently effortless, barrage. Once or twice, Wang whipped out a jab or slashing blow. He usually connected, though never at the intended target points. Li grunted at those instances.

Why am I doing this?

The thought burst through Wang’s grimly controlled mental picture of a void in space-time. The interruption was a dangerous distraction. Nothing could exist for either man except the ebb and flow and eddies of their actions. Movements fast enough to be indistinct, balletic, potentially lethal.

No one observed these weekly bouts. Few even knew they took place. General Chen, of a nearby army corps, was one who did. Wang had asked him two years earlier for a new sparring partner, and Chen had searched among those who trained his own men in hand-to-hand combat. He found and recommended the Sergeant Major, who then made his weekly visits to the Spymaster’s offices. Chen was among the handful of men that the Spymaster trusted. They had been schoolmates for a decade, and the bonds forged between ages five and fifteen had survived subsequent decades of separate political education and military training. On rare occasions, they called on each other for favors, usually when survival was at stake, and such favors were critical, perhaps even perilous. Finding and recommending Sergeant Li did not seem to be such a favor.

Then, a few weeks earlier, Chen discovered that Li had a well-concealed obligation to Comrade Commissar Jiang, a member of the Party’s Central Committee and someone known to nurse a vicious grudge against Wang. The friends thought this was because Wang had declined to appoint a Jiang protégé as his deputy. When he learned about the obligation, Chen immediately relayed the information to his friend and Wang’s decision to continue the weekly exercises alarmed him.

Are you mad? Chen asked.

The obligation had to do with the one child policy, said Wang.

But he is going to kill you!

HeThis man is not an assassin.?

Li also concentrated on keeping his mind from distracting his body. He was not a boastful man but smiled in the knowledge that he was the best trainer in hand-to-hand combat in General Chen’s army corps. Even though he had never defeated the Spymaster in the two years of their weekly training sessions, he knew he had the edge in strength and speed. He also knew that, despite lingering bruises, he usually recovered by the next day from each sparring session, while the Spymaster occasionally carried a sore spot or two from a prior week’s encounter.

What distracted him most, however, was that he had received word from Comrade Commissar Jiang two weeks before that it was time to accidentally kill or cripple the Spymaster. In the previous two exercises with the Spymaster, he had not yet found a way physically—or morally—to do so. With his fighting skill, he had developed an inconvenient sense of honor.

Is today the day?

Li attacked Wang’s legs with a series of kicks. The older man might not be agile enough to avoid all his blows. Wang responded with kicks of his own and occasionally executed a leg sweep. His breaths became labored in the effort to move from an upright position to the floor and back again. With his lips set in a firm line, Wang kept up with Li, kick for kick. He blocked and jabbed at Li’s head and chest to distract the Sergeant.

Will this session last as long as our usual sparring sessions?

Li remained in control of the tempo of the fight. He switched from the attack on Wang’s legs. He drove the Spymaster into a corner of the room with a series of kicks and knuckle jabs. Wang deflected this barrage with a graceful combination of arm sweeps and pivots away from the attack. Suddenly, Spymaster Wang lashed out with a forceful knuckle jab of his own. It was the only one of his blows that completely missed the Sergeant.

Li ducked and twisted away. He launched himself up one wall then crossed over to another and landed perfectly positioned to send a flying kick directly at the Spymaster’s sternum. This kick could kill.

This time, the Spymaster’s misjudged jab left him too far off-balance to duck the kick. He had time enough only to brace himself.

Sacrifice a forearm to the Sergeant’s attacking foot?

He caught it in both hands a millimeter from his chest. The Sergeant swung his other foot away to build sufficient momentum to wrench his foot out of the Spymaster’s grasp. He landed far enough away that it signaled the end of the combat exercise.

Both men exerted control over their heaving chests and bowed slightly to each other.

Thank you, Sergeant Major. It was an excellent exercise.

Thank you, Spymaster. I am honored.

You let me off three times during our match.

Actually, sir, it was five times. But you let me off twice.

Wang shrugged. In battle, one does what one must do ‘in the moment.’ Who can say what might have happened if either of us had pressed our advantages as they appeared?

Combat is full of uncertainty.

The Spymaster’s lips curved into a smile as he said grimly, Perhaps I am getting too old for this.

The Sergeant Major also smiled, and replied, I can think of none of your companions who could have lasted as long in this room.

Next week, we shall meet in another place. I shall tell you the day before where, but you should come as if to this room.

The Sergeant Major did not worry. Like all soldiers, he knew his life belonged in other hands—above his pay grade. The Spymaster commanded resources against which a dozen armed men would not prevail in a frontal attack. Gossips in the barracks often speculated on the relative strength of the Army, the Police, and the Intelligence Agency. Li had told Jiang months before that his only opportunity to fulfill his promise to the Commissar was during one of the weekly sparring sessions. But as a soldier, he did not dwell on such thoughts—the Spymaster and the Comrade Commissar, between them, must determine his fate.

The Spymaster, on the other hand, now allowed himself the luxury of thought as he left the combat room and made his way briskly to his office. He would shower and change on the way, stopping briefly at the infirmary for the usual balms and poultices, as well as the customary scolding from his old school teacher, now the chief medical officer at the agency, who thought Wang should stop courting physical injury.

Prioritize!

Do I need a bodyguard?

What about Sergeant Major Li?

What does Comrade Commissar Jiang really want?

What do I say at the Committee on Public about Pashtuns, nuclear weapons, and Operation Kashgar?

1: SURVEILLANCE

What does this mean? asked Spymaster Wang. He wore, as always, a light-grey Mao suit as well as well-polished black shoes, though he was not a fastidious man.

It was a week before his last session of close combat with Sergeant Major Li and Analyst Tang had just briefed him about potential arms sales involving nuclear devices. The agency first learned through routine surveillance that a notorious North Korean arms dealer was trying to conclude such a transaction. The analyst who had discovered this became curious regarding the putative buyers—the Pashtuns in Afghanistan, an entity that barely registered on Chinese radar. So, he looked further.

He discovered five more deals like it.

We don’t know yet, sir, Tang replied. She wore a pale blue blouse with a dark blue skirt and matching jacket. Kim’s activity did not surprise us. We are sure that the North Koreans are eager to do anything to earn hard currency. There are many other countries whose governments either encourage arms-dealing or turn a blind eye to it. Of course, there are not many that could or would sell nuclear devices.

Wang sipped his tea as he reflected on the growth of the analysis department. Its senior members had been at the agency nearly twenty years and, during that time, its mandate, like the economy of the PRC, had expanded exponentially. Many of the staff came from families whose grandparents had done more or less what Chinese families had done for two thousand years. But in the last twenty years, the agency’s intelligence gathering had widened in scope from half a dozen countries to more than a hundred.

The Ministry of Commerce and Industry had long gathered intelligence on that scale. In recent years, security and considerations of global stability commanded similar resources. Furthermore, record-keeping and analytical methods in the agency, as in China, had changed more in those twenty years than in the previous two thousand.

One North Korean trying to sell a nuclear device to anyone is like a family quarrel, interjected Administrator Hu. He had joined the agency from the Army. After nearly ten years as an agent, he was now the Agency’s director of operations. As the chief administrator, he deferred to his chief and the head of analysis on non-operational matters. That there are six different parties trying to sell such a device to the Pashtuns raises this to the level of a regional war.

And what do we know about them? asked Wang as if he was hesitantly dreading the answer. Probably even less than the information we have about the Tibetans and the Uyghurs. He sighed.

With a glance at the Spymaster and the head of the analysis department, Administrator Hu said slowly, We know that there are fourteen million Pashtuns in Afghanistan, which makes them the largest ethnic group there. There are also twenty-five million of them in Pakistan, mostly in the north and northwest mountain regions adjacent to Afghanistan. Geopolitical analysts consider these tribes to make up the largest tribal entity in the world.

Really? What does the Foreign Ministry have to say? asked Wang. The Spymaster prided himself on encouraging his staff to cultivate their personal sources.

I have not approached them officially, said Tang.

Hm.

My usual sources say there is nothing the MFA is working on or aware of in that part of the world. She frowned and, looking up, said, I should look around for new sources.

Tang was among the first recruits that Wang had personally trained. She was born to Red Guard parents. Toward the end of the Cultural Revolution, the Party sent them to monitor the staff of an embassy. The Red Guards distrusted anyone with any intellectual achievements, particularly those exposed to foreign culture and ideology. When Tang was a young child, she remained abroad with her parents, just as the Cultural Revolution ended. Her parents were politically sensible people who had been careful not to make enemies and were in the middle echelons of the Foreign Service at that point.

Their daughter grew up carefree, happy, and obedient, but with a sense of public service. After she graduated from school, she joined the Police Academy, and after five years in the Police, the Intelligence Agency invited her to transfer into its ranks. She topped her class in marksmanship and spy craft and chose to go into the new field of undercover operations. Her porcelain-like complexion and willowy figure enabled her to go undercover as a geisha. She had grown up loving the funkiness of modern Japan that somehow coexisted with its deep sense of tradition.

It had taken years to build her cover. Geisha houses sometimes required five years of training. Additionally, the Agency wanted to be sure her cover could be not be easily compromised. Tang persisted, and her fluency in Japanese, Russian, and English, as well as her resourcefulness, resulted in a brilliant career in operations.

One night, as she entertained a small group of clients, she received an urgent message—an interruption that meant the direst emergency in an establishment for geishas. Excusing herself from her customers with an inscrutable smile, she went to see the housekeeper. Mama-san, you called.

The housekeeper addressed her by her working name. Mudan-san, intruders have just killed our guards. I saw them fall right before our cameras went dark, the housekeeper whispered, closing the door to her office and nodding to her left. The security cameras were, indeed, dark. I think three or four men are headed upstairs.

She handed Tang her handbag. I will make a call to our friends.

Call our customers upstairs, first, Tang suggested. Then, as the housekeeper dialed her phone, Tang heard a sound at the door and unhesitatingly shot through it. A body slumped against it. She whispered, Turn all the lights off and go to my clients. As Mama-san dialed her phone, Tang stepped out the door.

Ducking into the hallway, she kicked off her costume shoes and ran as the shadows flickered to the stairwell. She heard several muffled shots from the floor above as the attackers and defenders exchanged fire with silenced handguns. As she stepped into the stairwell and put her foot on the first step, a door opened above. She shot at