The John Milton Series Boxset 2

by Mark Dawson

  It was a sprawling place, choked with crowds. If you were going to submerge yourself anywhere in Hong Kong you would do it here. You could just sink into the sprawl of humanity. You could do everything you needed to do without ever having to leave.

  Milton crossed the traffic with Anna behind him, parted a way through the crowd that had gathered outside the garish entrance and went inside. It was a confusing place, crowded corridors branching off in all directions. Chinese lanterns were suspended from the ceilings and the stall holders crammed in beneath them hawked electronic goods, clothes, DVDs, cell phones and foods for every possible ethnicity. It was a high-rise souk, rammed full of people, especially so with the rain outside: they passed petty traders, asylum seekers, itinerant workers, small-time entrepreneurs, tourists, and the unavoidable gamut of sex workers and substance abusers. Conversations merged into an incessant yammer so that when Anna spoke to him he had to raise his voice to answer. There was a small arcade near the door, the machines adding their own electronic babble to the cacophony, a clatter of coins as a lucky punter lined up three cherries; the screech of metal as a key-cutter copied a key; the bubble and hiss of hot oil as fries were lowered into a fryer; an argument between a money changer and his customer; talk radio hosts vying with broadcasts of Muslim prayer meetings and shows playing western music. The air carried the odour of hundreds of damp and sweaty bodies, the tang of sweet-and-sour sauce from a fast-food joint, the heady sweetness of decomposing trash.

  Milton pressed through the crowd, bumping against a pair of pasty-skinned backpackers with bewildered expressions on their faces, and found his way to a uniformed guard with an elevated position, his elbows resting on the balustrade of a flight of stairs that led up to the first floor.

  The Russians had provided them with the name of the hostel where they believed Beatrix had been staying. “Do you know the Golden Guest House?” he asked the man.

  The man shrugged.

  “It’s a hostel.”

  The man shrugged again, the corner of his mouth curling up in a suggestive smile.

  “Here,” Anna said, pressing a ten dollar note into his hand.

  He folded the note once, then twice, and slipped it into the breast pocket of his shirt. “Other side of building,” he said. He gave them directions and left them to find it.

  #

  THE HOSTEL was on the third floor at the end of a maze of windowless corridors that Milton found intensely claustrophobic. He had completely lost his sense of direction and, the deeper they penetrated the warren of rooms, the more vulnerable he felt. An ambush here would be difficult to escape. The Golden Guest House was announced by a painted sign and the open door beneath gave onto a tiny lobby with a bored looking man behind the desk. It was hot and sticky. A broken desk fan sat impotently on a low table between two battered sofas, yellowed stuffing leaking out between rents in the leather that looked like they had been torn open at the point of a knife. The man behind the desk was small and sallow faced, eating a piece of greasy chicken with his fingers as he watched American wrestling. He barely looked up as Milton and Anna entered.

  “I’m looking for a woman,” Milton said.

  “We all look for woman,” the man said with a lewd smirk at Anna.

  “A friend of mine. I think she’s staying here.”

  “Can’t talk about guest. Confidential.”

  Milton had a photograph of Beatrix that the Russians had provided. It was old, from before the time of the hit on Shcherbatov, and she was dressed in what Milton thought was a police uniform. The likeness was good from what he could remember but it was nearly ten years out of date; time would have aged her, surely, not to mention the changes she would have effected herself. He laid it flat on the counter and left a hundred dollar bill on top of it. The clerk sucked the grease from his fingers and then wiped them on his shirt, pocketed the bill and turned the photograph around so that he could look at it properly. He put a finger up his nostril and turned it around absently. “I don’t know. Maybe I know her, maybe I don’t. Hard to be sure.”

  Milton dropped another hundred on the counter and, as the man reached for it, Milton caught his hand and squeezed.

  “Ow!” he said. “That hurts!”

  “You take me to her room now, alright?”

  Milton knew taekwondo and all of the pressure points. His thumb was pushing on the nerve, sending exquisite bolts of pain up the arm. The man winced and thought better of trying to inveigle another hundred out of him. “Okay, I show.”

  Milton smiled politely and released the man’s hand.

  He led them through a narrow corridor to a tiny box of a room with a single bed, a suitcase propped against the wall and an old-fashioned cathode ray portable television set resting atop a rickety dresser. The A/C unit above the bed gurgled and expectorated a trail of moisture that had stained the wall. There were no windows and, although there was a bathroom, it was only just big enough for the toilet with the result that the shower head was directly overhead.

  “How long has she been here?”

  “Don’t know. Six month, seven month, maybe more.”

  “On her own?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you spoken to her?”

  “No. No speak with guests.”

  “And where is she now?”

  He found a little courage. “Who are you?”

  “Friends,” Milton said patiently. “We need to find her. Where is she?”

  The man hesitated, calculating how much he stood to lose if his guest left in disgust at his impropriety against the damage this intimidating westerner might cause. He dipped his head and whispered, “She eats here, in Chungking.”

  “Where?”

  “There is a place. Syed Bukhara. Malaysian. Floor Seven, Block E.”

  #

  IT TOOK THEM another hour to find their way to the restaurant. There were dozens of places, mostly very small, and although Syed Bukhara was a little bigger than the average it was still only big enough for a half dozen plastic picnic tables and matching chairs. It was painted in schoolyard green and orange, with neat and tidy mauve cushions on the seats. There was a formica countertop, a revolving display case that advertised sickly-looking desserts and an Indian man in a turban who showed them to the only empty table. The overhead lights were bright and harsh and the laminated menu was stained with fragments of rice and sauce that seemed to have been welded to it. Milton scanned it. The prices were cheap. His appetite was aroused by the aroma that was coming from the kitchen: a delicious wafting scent of simmering meats and spices.

  Milton ordered Nasi Lemak with egg, a Malaysian comfort food that he remembered from a particularly messy assignment in Kuala Lumpur. Anna ordered the mutton Bukhara biryani special. The dishes arrived and what they lacked in presentation they made up for in taste. The creamy sweetness from the coconut rice mixed well with the spicy sambal sauce and Milton, who found that he was very hungry, made quick work of the whole plate. Anna’s portion was even bigger than his and she couldn’t finish it all; he helped, polishing off the generous chunks of mutton meat that were meshed in fragrant basmati rice. By the time he was finished, he was sated. They ordered two cups of Indian chai tea and drank them slowly. When they had finished those, they ordered a couple more.

  Milton’s chair was facing the corridor. He made sure that it was angled so that he wouldn’t be too easy to spot. He didn’t think that Beatrix would run, but he didn’t want to take the chances.

  They had been there for two hours when Milton finally gave up.

  “If she comes in here, she’s not coming today.”

  “We’ll come back later?”

  “Tomorrow,” Milton said.

  “What now?”

  “I need a shower.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  MILTON HAD no interest in waiting in their hotel room. The rains cleared away in the middle of the afternoon and he decided to go out for a run.

  “Where are you going?” she ask
ed.

  “Out,” he said. “I need some exercise. I’ll be back this evening.”

  “What exercise?”

  “A run. Is that alright?”

  Anna stood, too, and slipped her feet into her sandals. “Do you mind if I come too?”

  He paused at the door. “I don’t know, Anna. I’m not feeling particularly sociable.”

  “It’s not to keep an eye on you,” she qualified. “I don’t want to stay here all afternoon.”

  “Then don’t. Go out.”

  He looked at her. He felt the same primal response again, quickly suppressing it, and relented.

  “Fine,” he said. “We’ll need some kit.”

  He opened the door and they made their way to the lobby. She smiled sweetly at him as they waited for the elevator to arrive. Perhaps it would be useful to have her around. He didn’t know very much about her, and that was remiss of him; anything at all could prove to be useful. And, perhaps, she could be persuaded, or tricked, into passing him a little information about Shcherbatov and his plans for Control and Pope.

  #

  THERE WAS a small sports shop not too far from the hotel and they visited it to buy running shoes and socks, vests and shorts. They returned to the hotel, changed in the gym and then went back onto the street. Milton had run around Hong Kong before; the sidewalks themselves were not suitable, too clogged with people and sometimes too steep, plus the air was often thick with smog that could make for an unpleasant experience. He had learned his lesson and researched alternative routes. As they headed out, he decided to run his favourite of them.

  They headed southwest through the Zoological and Botanical Gardens, past the Ladies’ Recreation Club and then started to ascend the Peak. The weather had cleared, a gentle breeze blowing in off the bay taking a little of the edge off the humidity. It was still hot, though, and it didn’t take long for Milton to work up a sweat. Anna kept the pace beside him. She was fit and strong and it was obvious that she ran often. The climb up Old Peak Road grew steeper and steeper and, eventually, she started to flag. Milton dropped his pace and she reeled him back in again.

  They reached Peak Tower and ran around Lugard Road. It was car-free and, as a result, it was busy with dog walkers, other runners and families. There was a tower at the top, an upside-down wok shaped building with a galleria that contained shops and restaurants. The route was mostly shaded and, as they got up high, it offered postcard views over Central and Wanchai. They paused at the ten kilometre mark to look out at it: the sparkling skyscrapers and the deep blue of Victoria Harbour all the way to the green hills of the New Territories, the panorama slowly melting into the pink and orange of early twilight.

  He was a little short of breath but Anna was breathing harder.

  “Alright to keep going?”

  “Sure.”

  “Mostly downhill from here.”

  He led the way again as they wound back around the Peak, picking up Harlech Road on the backside until they were at the Peak Tower again. They followed Findlay Road until it met Severn Road, home to the most expensive property in the world. That was the turn-off point, and they ran back down into Central and made their way towards the hotel. It was a fifteen kilometre route, all told, and Milton’s muscles were tingling as they finally stopped to warm down.

  There was a small pharmacy across the road.

  “Want a bottle of water?” he said.

  “Sure.”

  “Hold on.”

  He went inside, picked up two half litre bottles and took them to the desk. He paid for them and spoke to the chemist for a moment. Tremazepan should not have been available without a prescription but he explained that he had been unable to sleep properly all week and that he needed it badly. A twenty dollar note laid on the counter was sufficient incentive and, with a nod of understanding, the man disappeared into the back and came back with a box of Restoril. Milton thanked him and went back outside to join Anna again.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  THEY WENT back to the hotel to shower and when Anna disappeared down to the lobby—to file a report, Milton guessed—he spent a couple of hours with his book. When she returned he suggested that they go out to dinner. She smiled brightly at the suggestion; it was an innocent happiness that must have been inspired, he guessed, by the thought that she had finally broken through the hard carapace that he sheltered behind. It almost made him feel bad to see it. He knew then that he would be able to do what he needed to do.

  She suggested that he choose where they eat and he picked Caprice, a favourite of his from years ago. They took a taxi and it was nearly eight when they arrived.

  There was something very modern about the place, and yet something proper and solid. The lobby was crafted between two floor to ceiling displays of wine bottles—with some enviable vintages on show—and the maître d’ led them through a dining room that was encased with dark wood panelling and equipped with luxurious leather sofas and armchairs. The kitchen was open and situated in the middle of the dining area, with nothing to separate the diners from the delicious smells that were created or the quiet, determined communication between the chefs. All of the tables enjoyed a view of Victoria Harbour, and theirs was especially good. The room was busy, with local Hong Kong Chinese and expat diners enjoying their meals, filling the space with engaged conversation and the sound of expensive cutlery on expensive plates. Milton followed in Anna’s wake and watched the heads of the other diners turn to look at her. Her summer dress was creased and marked and her face was streaked with sweat and dust and yet she was still extraordinary to look at.

  Milton looked out over the broad curve of the harbour. Lights were strung between the trees in the garden and then, out on the water, colourful junks rose and fell on the shallow swells. They looked through the elaborate, leather-bound menus. Milton beckoned to the sommelier and turned to his companion.

  “What will you have?” he asked.

  “Do you have a recommendation?”

  “Not really,” he said. “I don’t drink.”

  “Not at all?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I used to drink too much,” he said simply. “So I stopped.”

  “Do you mind if I…”

  He waved it off. “No, of course not. Have whatever you like.”

  She replaced the wine list face down on the table and turned to the sommelier. “I would like a gin and tonic, please. Hendricks. Fill the glass with ice, all the way to the top, and a slice of cucumber.”

  She returned to her study of the menu. “Do you know what you want?” she asked. “Please, don’t be frugal. The Kremlin is paying.” She smiled at her own joke, trying to encourage him, too, but it fell rather flat; it dragged Milton away from the potential pleasure of a meal in her company and back to the reality of why they were here together.

  Milton summoned the waiter.

  He turned to Anna. “Madam?”

  “The langoustine lasagne and then the wagyu striploin, please.”

  The waiter turned to Milton. “And sir?”

  “The vegetable panache, please, and then suckling pig rack.”

  The man complimented them on their choices and left the table.

  “You must forgive me,” Anna said. “I am very particular about what I eat and drink. It comes from my background. There was very little luxury when I was a child. Times were difficult. And now, when I’m working, it’s usually on my own. It makes things more bearable if you can go to nice restaurants and know a little about what’s on the menu.”

  “You were born in Russia?”

  “Volgograd,” she said. “Have you been there?”

  “Never.”

  “I wouldn’t bother. It is not a pleasant place. My father worked for the KGB. We moved around a lot, depending on where he was posted. We spent time in Kenya, Somalia, Vietnam. I was a bit of an embassy brat.”

  “Any brothers or sisters?”

  “Just me.”

 
“Where did you study?”

  “Moscow. We moved back when I was sixteen. The People’s Friendship University of Russia. Masters degree in economics. I could have had a job with a Russian bank, made a lot of money perhaps, but I was recruited by my tutor as soon as I graduated. They had different plans for me, I suppose. My father was proud. It wasn’t something I was able to turn down. I moved to London in 2003 and worked for a couple of banks. And I met my husband there.”

  “You’re married?” he said. He pointed to her naked hand. “You don’t…”

  “Divorced. He was American. It was for the passport.”

  She reported it completely matter of factly, as if getting married was something that had needed to be checked off a list. “How long were you there for?”

  “In London? I moved in 2006.”

  “And after that?”

  “New York, originally. I worked in international real estate.”

  “That was the cover?”

  “Of course. There was no business. There never was. It was a fantasy. Just a desk. It was a useful front and a good way to pass funds to me.”

  “What were you doing there?”

  She smiled and shook her head. “No, Mr. Milton, that wouldn’t do. Some things will have to remain secret. You understand, I’m sure.”

  “Alright. So why don’t you tell me why were you in Texas?”

  “That was for you. I was given instructions that an asset was thought to be in the area. We didn’t know where, exactly, so several of us were moved to the south to wait.”

  “Several? There are more of you?”

  She smiled. “Many more. The CIA has been focussed on external threats for too long. It is easy to work in America if you know what you are doing.”