Night Heron by Adam Brookes Read Free Book Online Page B

spidery hand. Harvey regarded him with mock distaste, and poured. They eyed each other and drank fast. Harvey walked over and tapped on the bathroom door.
    “Come on, empress. It’s the embassy. Mustn’t be late.”
    The door opened and she did a fake sashay out. Crimson silk tonight. Very short, again. Harvey handed her a glass and theyall drank. Mangan pointed to the door. Forward! And, tipsy, they ran across the clattering landing to the lift.
    It was the ambassador’s residence, a mansion on Guanghua Lu reeking of austere colonial purpose. From the windows, pools of golden light spilled into the smoky autumn evening.
    At the wrought iron gates the three of them presented invitations through the bars to a smiling retainer, an elderly Chinese man in a bow tie. A British heavy in a blazer gave them the once-over, and they were buzzed in. Ting, excited, was up the steps to the front door, where more retainers fussed. Harvey took her arm, and she looked over her shoulder for Mangan and then the two of them glided into the reception, Mangan shambling in their wake.
    The room glittered. Conversation clattered off walls hung with yellow silk and lustered oil paintings. A table of deep, glowing walnut bore silver chafing dishes. Here, a group of parliamentarians in from London, suited and bellowing. There, military attachés in tan serge, medal ribbons and braid. The Chinese guests—Party and National People’s Congress, Mangan guessed—stood stolidly polite, as the diplomats worked them. Ting was deep in conversation with the press attaché, a freckled Welshman named Partridge who gazed at her. Harvey had found some Australians. A waiter in a white coat passed carrying a tray of drinks, and Mangan lunged for a gin and tonic, which, he found, was sparkling water. In his ear a sardonic voice.
    “Don’t look so mournful, Philip. It’s only us.” Mangan turned to find Charteris, the political officer, his best—only—embassy contact.
    “I thought this might be gin.” Mangan stared into his glass. “What’s this all in aid of, anyway?”
    “Fifteen Labour and six Tories. All talking to each other inthe corner. We get all these Party dignitaries to come to our reception and so far only the Honourable Member for Whitstable has had the manners to go and say hello.”
    Charteris wore a navy blue suit and a signet ring. “Saw your Jinyi piece,” he said.
    Mangan looked up.
    “Jiangxi provincial government is furious,” Charteris said. “They’ve complained to
us.
The nerve. We pretended not to know you.”
    “They’ve complained already?”
    “Letter faxed to the press section.” Charteris sipped champagne, holding his glass by the stem, languid. He regarded Mangan. “They’re jolly angry. What did you do?”
    “Got busted. Didn’t give them the footage.”
    Charteris smiled. “You’re more resourceful than you look, Philip Mangan. You deceive us all.”
    Mangan shifted under the younger man’s gaze. “God almighty, that was quick. The complaint, I mean,” he said. “Should I do anything?”
    “Wait and see if they raise it with the Foreign Ministry, but I wouldn’t worry. Don’t go back to Jiangxi, perhaps.” Charteris watched the French ambassador and his retinue sidle up to an iron-faced member of the Central Committee. He turned back to Mangan.
    “Any idea how many were arrested?”
    Mangan thought. “A hundred. More.” He thought of the young men, cuffed, in the parking lot. “And they seemed to be separating out the boys, afterwards, taking them off in trucks.”
    Charteris looked at him. Then paused, as if calculating whether he should say what he was going to say. “Not from me, okay?”
    “Of course.”
    Charteris leaned in. “You see, that’s very interesting. Becausewe heard they were planning some sort of new program aimed at the men. It’s supposed to disrupt the leadership of the movement. Most of the Followers are still going into
laojiao
.” Re-education, the big detention