Night Heron by Adam Brookes Read Free Book Online Page A

looked submissive, raised a hand.
    “Sorry, Officer, at once, Officer,” he said, and continued on his way. At one point he ducked into a coffee shop only to emerge immediately. The casual observer might have seen a confused middle-aged migrant, his passage ponderous, a naif come to the brave new capital of China.
    But a trained observer might have seen something different, a measure of watchfulness and purpose beneath the ponderousness. The trained observer might conclude that this bristle-haired fleshy character, in his stopping and starting and turning about and his smiling, quick-eyed appreciation of his new surroundings, was, in fact, conducting counter-surveillance. Rudimentary and unpracticed, for sure, but counter-surveillance nonetheless. The tradecraft of those who live parallel, hidden lives. And such an observer might further conclude that this man was living such a life. Or perhaps practicing to do so, or reminding himself how.
    By early afternoon Mangan had coaxed a script into being, Harvey had laid the closing pictures, and they’d sent it. It was strong, but Mangan was not satisfied, picking over it in his mind. The duty editor in London had sent back a
Thanks. Good work.
Which meant nothing.
    The piece would run in an hour or two, perhaps even attract some attention. The agency supplied networks in odd places—South Africa, Lithuania. Often, carefully constructed stories were never heard of again. This time, though, the pictures were exclusive. Reuters had a story on the wire.
Baton-wielding paramilitary police detained hundreds of protesters in south China Wednesday, as a nationwide crackdown on religious sects continued.
The European and American networks would want to pick up the story. They’d pay the agency for Harvey’s pictures, fillet them and revoice them using their own correspondent, who had neither been there to witness the brutality, nor spent the night in a State Security lockup, Mangan reflected. He sat at his desk, tried to turn his mind to a piece for the paper.
    Ting was in the kitchen, spooning rice soup into a bowl, sprinkling it with spring onions. Mangan could see her silhouette against the window, watched her. She turned, holding the bowl gingerly, then caught his eye and gave him a questioning look.
    “Anything I can do?”
    “Write two thousand words for me,” he said.
    “
Zuo meng, ni
.” You’re dreaming.
    “Where’s Harv?”
    “He said his work here was done and he was taking a long lunch.”
    “I think I might join him.”
    She placed the spoon carefully in the bowl and pointed sternly at his laptop.
    “Write! Soon you won’t be able to afford me.”
    “Oh, no. What will you do?”
    “Find a richer, less feckless western journalist and entrap him in marriage. Maybe a diplomat.”
    He smiled. Ting’s allegiances, he knew, were complex, stretched between her wealthy, storied Party family, numerous suitors, and this dingy excuse for a bureau, with its pathetic salary and Mangan’s quixotic journalism. Why did she stay? She looked at him.
    “Tell me if you need anything. More quotes, anything,” she said.
    “Oh, I will.”
    He dropped his eyes to the blinking cursor. Exclusive from our China Correspondent. Should he write up his own arrest? The paper loved all that.
A tense night in the cells! Deep in the belly of China’s security state!
Well, no. It would just bring more grief from the authorities. He rested his elbows on the desk. It was Ting’s turn to watch him now, as she sat on the sofa, cross-legged, lithe, managing to eat hungrily but delicately at the same time. It was quiet but for the chink of spoon against bowl.
    Mangan wrote, and by early evening the thing was done. A workable piece and not much more, but done. Ting was in the bathroom with unguents and lipstick. Harvey had reappeared in a rather sharp black suit, with a bottle of wine. Mangan wore a jacket in green tweed once raucous, now faded. He stood, rumpled, holding out a glass in a