A Killing Air

by Nigel Price

“Then maybe we’re over-reacting,” Harry conceded. In his bones he didn’t feel they were.

  “Can I sleep in here tonight?” Lisa asked. She pointed to the sofa under the window.

  “I’ll take that,” Harry said. “You can have the bed.” He thought she would protest. Then he would insist, and eventually – after more protests – she would gratefully accept. It was part of the generally agreed exchange in situations like this, where he came from.

  Obviously not where she came from. She retrieved her pink backpack, closed the linking door behind her and flopped down on the mattress. “Good.” As an afterthought, “Thanks.”

  Harry smiled to himself and went to sort out some spare bed sheets from the cupboard. He peered out of the window. Nothing of note. In any case the room looked onto the back of the hotel. There was an ornamental garden which was mostly concrete. A few lamps illuminated it, revealing that once upon a distant time it had been painted in colours that had probably been garish. Now they were dull and chipped. A pond stood empty, the base cracked.

  “I wonder if Herbert has had a visit?” Lisa mused.

  “Hope not. Though I expect he’s used to them.” Harry punched a pillow into shape and stretched out to test it.

  “I suppose we should undress,” Lisa said, prompting an awkward silence. “I’ll go back to my room to change. Back in a moment.” She got up and skipped to the linking door, opened it and exited Harry’s room.

  Better do likewise. He got to his feet.

  There was a piercing scream from Lisa’s room. Harry ran to the door and tore it open. He burst into her room. She hadn’t had time to put the light on. The curtains were open though, and enough light came in from outside to show her standing in the grip of a man. He had one arm round her throat, the other gripping her arm which was trying to push him away. His hand was trying to stop her screaming again. She bit it. He made a muffled grunt and Harry was tearing towards him.

  Only then did he catch the movement to his rear. From another man standing to one side of the door frame. Harry just had time for a single thought to register – Shit! – before he felt the world crash down on the back of his skull, and the poor light coming from the garden became poorer still, cutting to black.

  Seventeen

  The first thing Harry was aware of was the pain. A throbbing scream in his head worse than the morning after that time he and some of the lads had got out of Basra for a weekend’s R&R in Dubai. It had the same persistent yelling quality, like having your very own sergeant major inside your skull, practising drill movements. This one was demonstrating coming to attention. ‘Bend and drive’. That had been the cry. Lift and ‘Bend’ the right knee, then ‘Drive’ the steel-tipped boot heel slam into the tarmac of the parade ground. Slam. Harry winced. Slam. There it was again. Each time accompanied by the full-throated scream of a Guards instructor. Slam.

  Eventually it occurred to Harry that each slam was timed to his heartbeat. He felt it in his ears, the pulsing slosh of his blood. The slam was felt right at the core of his brain.

  He tried a groan. And felt instantly better for it. There was a fitting juxtaposition of slam and groan. Next he tried a movement. What about an arm? Not such a good idea. That meant moving his shoulder which meant muscles working up the back of his neck had to be brought into play, which didn’t do any favours to the head pain. The drill sergeant quickly told him so. Slam.

  Easier to try opening an eye. Just one. There. Oh. Perhaps not. Light. Not good. Oddly though, when the eye was open, the slam retreated a bit. Just a little. It was as if the brain could only process so much evil at any one moment.

  He waited a bit, trying to persuade the drill sergeant to go and play elsewhere, then tried again. Right eye. Painful but bearable. Then the left one. Light flooded into his head like opening sluice gates. He found he could take it. Everything was out of focus but he was confident that would come when it was ready.

  When it did, he found that he was lying on his side. Either that or the room had fallen over. He was aware of a coarse material under his cheek. Blanket? His face was scrunched up. He probably looked a complete idiot.

  Strangely there was minimal confusion. Mostly anger directed at himself. The man behind the door. An ambush. And he had walked straight into it. He remembered the scream, the …

  Lisa.

  He tried to sit up. Slam-deedee-slam. A real whopper, just to teach him who was boss. He pushed himself up on one hand and concentrated on the room. He was alone. No sign of the girl. As the room came into focus he realised it was a cell. So the men in the room had been police. A reasonable assumption. The walls were whitewashed. The door was ancient black iron, a small grille covered by a flap on the outside. The bed was not a bed but a concrete shelf projecting out from one wall opposite the iron door. There was a single naked light bulb in the ceiling protected by a fierce grille. Turned off. High over his bed, set into the wall at his back, was a small bar-covered window that was letting in the light.

  As it was daylight he understood that he had been unconscious all night. More perhaps? Difficult to say. Probably just the one.

  From a leaning position he sat fully upright, swinging his legs slowly round and letting his feet down to the floor. Which was when he noticed that his shoes had been taken. He was wearing his jacket, but a quick check of the pockets showed that all his possessions had gone. Wallet. Passport. Phone. The lot.

  He let his feet down until they touched the floor. The chill of the bare concrete.

  “Okay, Harry,” he said softly. “Stand.”

  Propelling himself forward and up, he made it. The swaying was more ship’s mast than forest pine. Like the mast he was fixed rigidly to the keel. It was the whole vessel that was moving. Gently from side to side. For a moment he wondered if he was going to be sick. He felt it at the back of his throat but fought it down. Slowly the ship righted itself and became still.

  He was about to move towards the door when, on cue, the grille slid open and a pair of eyes inspected him briefly. The grille slammed shut, there was a clanking of bolts and locks, and the door opened. Two men came in. Scrawny beggars, but wearing police uniforms, so not to be messed with. Not that Harry felt up to any sort of heroic escape effort. At that moment he’d far rather have had a nice hug and a ‘there-there’ cup of tea.

  Making it clear that he was to go with them, the two shabby crows led him into a corridor. Typical police station. Rows of black iron doors facing each other from end to end. The direction was indicated with a jab in the back and Harry was propelled towards steps. Up and left down another corridor, then into a room. A table sat dead centre, a chair either side. Interview time.

  Harry was shown to one of the chairs and the crows took post behind him, one on either side, each a pace to the rear. Within grabbing range.

  Silence.

  “I’m …”

  “Blah, blah!” shouted one of the guards in some unintelligible dialect. Mandarin with knobs on.

  Harry complied. Didn’t seem much point in doing anything else. So he sat. He noted that they hadn’t handcuffed him which was mildly reassuring. He held his hands in his lap. Which was when he noticed that his watch had gone too. Unlike his cell the interview room was windowless. A single neon strip-light hung above the table, giving the room and everything and everyone in it the ghostly pallor of a virtual world. It was disorienting. Exactly as intended.

  Footsteps announced the arrival of Mr Big. Harry wondered if it would be the Good Cop or the Bad Cop. Once upon a time, long ago, he had done an R to I course in the army. Resistance to Interrogation. Never thinking he would need the skills, he had mostly forgotten them immediately on leaving, heaving the most massive sigh of relief as he had driven away afterwards. It had not been at all pleasant. Now he rummaged through his mental hard disk trying to recall whatever snippets, hints and tips might remain. Be the grey man.

  The door opened and in came neither Good Cop nor Bad Cop but Inscrutable Cop. As far as could be ascertai
ned from first impressions. He was of medium height and build, with the more sallow complexion of a southerner. Cantonese perhaps. Unusual up here in Chengde. He wore dark slacks and a T-shirt with a famous logo on the chest. However, the animal was back-to-front, so a rip-off. Not unusual. The local markets were full of them.

  He sat down in the chair opposite Harry and consulted a sheaf of papers he had brought with him. He looked up, fixing Harry with an expressionless stare. “Name?”

  Harry was going to remark that as they had filched his passport they probably already knew this, if they could read.

  Be the grey man.

  “Harry Brown.” As he answered he smiled ever so slightly. He injected nervousness into it. Which wasn’t difficult.

  The man compared his answer with something written in his notes. He nodded sagely. Would Harry be given a sweetie?

  “What are you doing in Chengde?”

  Harry realised that they had probably already interrogated Lisa. Not having received a thug-slug, she would have been available for questioning last night.

  “Just visiting. I arrived yesterday. At least I think it was yesterday. I’m here with a friend.” Time to appear the outraged tourist? Not outraged. Timorously affronted perhaps. “Look here, I’m a British citizen. My room was broken into and I was hit over the head. Can you tell me what’s going on? I’d like to see a representative from my embassy or consulate. Is there a consulate in Chengde?” Perhaps just a touch of outrage? “This is outrageous.”

  Harry was mightily relieved his interrogation was not like that meted out to the captured SAS members of the legendary Bravo Two Zero patrol in the first Iraq war. He was too old for that kind of beating and being forced to eat his own faeces.

  His statement was ignored. His interrogator might as well have been deaf. He leafed through more papers. Harry caught sight of them. There was hardly anything there.

  “What was the nature of your business with Mr Herbert Zhu?”

  Ah. So that was it. Poor old Herbert was still being watched after all.

  “I don’t have any business with Mr Zhu. I’ve never met him before. He is some colleague or other of my friend, Ms Tang. What’s happened to her? Is she all right?”

  Again his question was ignored. “What did you discuss when you were with him?”

  “Listen,” Harry said, trying to be more forceful. “What I say to people in private meetings is no one’s business but mine.”

  The interrogator looked up at him. His face showed the first expression since his arrival. Bemusement. “You might not be aware but Mr Zhu is a subversive. A criminal, in fact. By meeting with him you yourself are committing an offence.”

  Harry was on the verge of letting rip. His training came to the rescue. Be the grey man. “I can assure you I had no idea of any of that.” He realised he had to be careful. He had no idea how much Lisa might have told them. He had to hope she had been similarly evasive. “I’m not sure what my friend spoke to him about. I don’t speak Chinese. Which is what they spoke.” He smiled weakly. Made himself look scared. Which didn’t take too much effort.

  More shuffling of papers. He had no way of knowing whether he was believed or not. He suspected he would soon find out. “Where is Ms Tang?” he asked. “Can I see her?”

  “How long have you known Ms Tang?”

  Oh. Difficult one. Next he would ask how they met, which would be awkward. Harry thought quickly. “We met on the bus coming here. I wanted to see the Summer Palace. I am a tourist. I was at a conference in Beijing and had a couple of days before leaving China. Someone there recommended Chengde. I sat beside Ms Tang on the bus and she said she would be my guide. She took me with her to meet Mr Zhu but I had no idea why they met or what they talked about.” He’d might as well make up a reasonable story. If Lisa had told them the truth, then they knew the real tale already. But there was just a chance she had kept it from them and made something up. Harry thought his own tale might be one he could meld with hers. Obfuscate as required. Play the dumb tourist.

  The interrogator looked up. “That is interesting,” he said. “Ms Tang said that Mr Zhu was a friend of yours, and that you had taken her along to meet him. And that you had both spoken in private. So she has no idea what the two of you said.”

  Thanks Lisa. Thanks a bunch.

  Eighteen

  To Harry’s surprise and relief the interrogation ended there. Before he could think of an answer to the last statement the interrogator got up and left the room, grunting an instruction at the two guards. Harry caught the Chinese word for ‘turd’. He didn’t think it applied to either of the guards. One of them sniggered in response.

  He was led back to his cell and shoved inside. As they went to close the door on him, he called, “I want to see a representative from the British Embassy!”

  The guards told him to shut the hell up, or so he assumed. He recognised the same ‘turd’ word from the guard who had sniggered, clearly impressed by his boss’s contempt for the westerner and wanting to replicate it.

  The door was slammed and bolted and locked, then kicked for good measure. Harry felt like kicking it himself but there didn’t seem any point. What to do now? He realised there was nothing he could do. It would now be a waiting game. They couldn’t hold him forever. At some point they would have to feed him, let him go, interview him again, charge him. Something. Anything. But for now he was facing a solid iron door and the empty cell where he had regained consciousness.

  He tentatively put fingers to his head. There was a fine lump on the back of it which still throbbed aggressively. It felt as if his brain was hammering on its own prison door. The light coming into the room was the same as before. It seemed like a noon sort of light, in so far as he could tell the time of day. He heaved a great sigh and sat down on the edge of his bed. After a while he lay back, head on the coarse blanket.

  He must have fallen asleep because when he next opened his eyes the light was darker. A softer evening light, soon to become night. His stomach rumbled. His mouth was dry. There was nothing in the room either to eat or drink.

  He got up and went shakily to the door. He was dehydrated and his blood sugar level was low from lack of food. His hands trembled. He banged on the door. Utter silence. The building might have been completely empty for all he knew.

  He sat down again. Almost immediately he heard footsteps. Several people were moving at speed down the corridor in his direction. He considered banging on the door again but something in the urgency of the steps kept him in his place. As the steps reached his door, he got up and backed against the wall. This time they could bloody well fight for him. If they wanted to take him to another pointless questioning, they were going to have to drag him. He’d had enough of playing the dumb, simple western tourist. Harry Brown was ready to fight back. Hang the consequences.

  The lock was undone, then the bolt, and finally the iron door was hauled open. Harry steadied himself and clenched his fists in readiness.

  Into the room stepped a fellow westerner, dapper and wearing the sort of smile that did not instantly endear him to Harry. He wore cavalry twill trousers over seriously polished George boots, a blue blazer with brass buttons, white shirt open at the neck to display a Paisley cravat defending his throat. The crest on the blazer pocket was not familiar to Harry but of a sort designed and worn to impress. The brass buttons appeared to be embossed with the same.

  “My dear Mr Brown, I really must apologise.” The man broadened the smile, making Harry like it even less. “This is quite outrageous.” Harry’s word. So here at last was the diplomat. Presumably some minor functionary trucked in from the embassy to pour oil on troubled waters. Harry knew it would be highly questionable on whose account he was working – helping the local Chinese police or his fellow countryman. Usually it was the former. The latter came and went. The former were there to stay. Harry had seen enough of embassy and consular officials over the years not to trust them. In the final analysis they were guests in the host
country. Their fellow countrymen were usually viewed as unwelcome interruptions to the round of embassy tennis and cocktail parties. They might have a call upon the diplomatic services, but could otherwise get stuffed.

  “It’s a relief to see you,” Harry said. Be the grey man. It made sense to stay in character for now. He was still in a Chinese prison. “I’ve no idea what this is all about.” Then he remembered. “My companion, Ms Tang, is she still here?”

  “Ms Tang is fine, I can assure you. In fact she is waiting outside. I have come to fetch you both.”

  He gestured to one of the guards who stepped forward with Harry’s shoes and a bag containing various items. The diplomat handed the bag to Harry who emptied the contents onto the bed. Wallet, passport, and the other items taken from his jacket. No phone.

  “My phone’s not here.”

  The diplomat feigned concern. “Are you sure?”

  Harry accepted the inevitable. The police would hang onto it. They would trawl through his calls and emails ad nauseam. Good luck to them. It was all crap in any case. A record of his recent life.

  He put on his shoes, refilled his pockets with the rest of his belongings and stood up ready to go.

  “My name’s Clive Miller,” the diplomat said. He held out his hand. Harry duly shook it as custom and manners dictated. “Now, let’s get you out of here.” He concluded the sentence with a delicate ‘isn’t this all jolly fun’ chuckle.

  As they made their way back down the corridor, Harry noticed that the two shabby guards had fallen away and disappeared. Clive Miller seemed to have been given the run of the place. Perhaps he was a frequent visitor there, bailing out drunken or otherwise incarcerated compatriots being a routine business in Chengde.

  Nor did they see the policeman who had interrogated Harry in the interview room. There was no one. Not even a report room at the entrance, or desk sergeant to book people in and out. They simply exited the building and found themselves in a walled car park. In the middle sat a large, shiny blue BMW X6M. It looked brand new.