It was early October when I picked up my phone to learn that a Chinese spy had decided to defect. Over the next few weeks, I played a small role working with 60 Minutes, The Sydney Morning Herald and The Age to help verify and analyse Wang Liqiang’s claims – and eventually meet Wang himself.

My jaw dropped as I read Wang’s 12-page Chinese-language confession and plea for help. The statement touched on some of the most disturbing aspects of the Chinese Communist Party’s political interference: efforts to manipulate Taiwan’s elections, infiltration of student organisations in Hong Kong, and even the kidnapping of political dissidents. Names of organisations and key figures in Chinese military intelligence, including some that I was studying at the time, jumped out at me.

It was almost too good to be true. How could a 26 year old with no military or government background find himself close to the centre of the People’s Liberation Army’s intelligence network in Hong Kong?

Wang Liqiang is believed to be the first operative from the country to blow his cover, and is seeking urgent protection. Credit:Steven Siewert

Defections are never simple – neither in execution and motivation. Yu Qiangsheng, a senior intelligence officer who defected from Beijing to Washington in the 1980s, exposing two moles in the process, may have done so in part out of frustration with his personal life and sense of thrill. With a case like Wang’s that crosses between several regions, it’s impossible to verify every claim. Past defectors who were nonetheless genuine have been accused of spicing up their stories in misguided attempts to strengthen their asylum claims.