by Mike Coony
My hangover hit me again. I feel so woolly headed I have to take a taxi back to the hotel even though it’s only a hundred metres away. I just barely made it back to my suite and flopped on the bed.
Why do the guards back home suspect I’m in Hong Kong? Who’s talking? Not my so-called protectors, I hope. Even though I have a lot on my mind to ponder, I fell asleep.
———
Feck me! I slept for nineteen hours, I can’t believe it.
I need to pick up a mobile phone. I slipped out the back of the hotel and walked the short distance to Pedder Street. When the shop assistant asked for identification to open the account I gave her my fake passport….You can never be too cautious.
Now I have to get the number to Mac, but I can’t risk being overheard on a call. If MI6 gets the number of my Motorola mobile I’ll be arrested, nothing surer. I went back to my suite, wrote a note to Mac including my new mobile number, and bought two airmail stamps from the front desk. I’m not going to post the note from here; I’ll drop it in a postbox at the GPO in Connaught Place. There’s no harm in a touch of paranoia when you’re on the run…and there’s no point in letting anyone in the hotel catch a glimpse of the address of a safe house if I don’t have to.
I’ve heard all the expats hang out at the Foreign Correspondents’ Club, or the FCC as the members, taxi drivers and everyone else calls it. From the GPO I walked back up to Des Voeux Road Central, and I can see it’ll be a sharp climb up to the FCC. Sure enough, it’s on an even steeper hill than the first one I climbed. The FCC is in a wedge-shaped building between Wyndham Street and Albert Road. The old red-brick building was an urban dairy at one time, and it was built to fit in the steep apex of the adjoining roads.
Pushing through the swing-doors I entered a large, airy, wedge-shaped room evenly dissected by sunlight streaming in through tall windows running down one side of the building. An oval-shaped bar occupies most of the room.
“Good morning sir, what can I get you to drink?” a steward asked, looking up from his newspaper spread out on the bar.
“I’m not a member, just looking around,” I mumbled.
I’d not spotted the grey-bearded man with a gold earring and grubby safari jacket sitting hidden behind a potted fern right beside me. He looked up at me with watery eyes and signalled the steward to refill his glass.
“Give him whatever he wants to drink as well,” he said.
“A small, fresh orange juice please.”
“Mind if I join you?” I asked the member who’d bought a drink for me.
“Sure, why not! And tell me big guy, where the hell do you hail from? Somewhere the mummies and daddies are made from giant trees, ya?!”
I had a little trouble placing his accent up to the ya – that’s a remnant of a native Dutch speaker.
“I was born in Nottingham, England. I don’t know about the wooden mamas and papas, but there’s no shortage of trees around Wollaton, which is where I crept in to the world,” I replied, as I dumped myself alongside him on the surprisingly comfortable wooden stool.
“And work?” he enquired, resting his bearded chin on his khaki sleeve.
“Banking I hope…something in financial services anyway. And you?”
I thought for a minute that he’d fallen asleep – with his whiskey glass gripped precariously in his trembling, misshapen fist. He came to life again after a few moments.
“I’m retired now. I was a staff photographer with Life magazine.” He offhandedly pointed to a photograph hanging on the white-brick pillar behind the bar. It’s one of the most iconic photographs ever published. The shot is of the last USAF helicopter lifting off the roof of the American Embassy in Hanoi, just hours before the end of the Vietnam War. He shrugged off my mention of fame and fortune.
“Ya, it got me a few dollars…still does. It pays for this and that,” he said, pointing to his whiskey and my half-empty glass of orange juice.
The comment confirmed to me that he’s a Dutchman. I feel guilty not being able to return his hospitality and buy him a drink, but only members can buy drinks in Hong Kong clubs.
“I’m hoping to meet Fran Cooke. Do you know him?” I asked.
“He’s the reporter from the SCMT. Has a wife with enormous tits, ya?”
“Yes, he’s with the South China Morning Times, but I’ve never met him or his wife. What’s her name?”
“Ya, I see. She’s called Susie. Got big tits!”
Now I’m wrestling betwixt two competing thought processes: 1) because I am a breast man – and always have been – I’m thinking that I’d love to see Susie Cooke and her breasts, and the sooner the better; and 2) it occurs to me that if he was on the roof taking photographs of the helicopter taking off, he must’ve still been there when the Viet Cong stormed the US Embassy. It had to have been a hell of a hairy time. Looking at his gnarled hands, wrapped tightly around his glass, it’s hard not to see in your mind's eye what he’d gone through to get that photograph – the poor bastard.
Reluctantly, I stood up from my stool, lifted up the old man’s hand, wrapped it in my two rather larger mitts and shook it. “Next time, God willing, the drinks will be on me. And if you don’t mind an Irish blessing from an Englishman…Go gcumhdaigh na Naoimh thú le beannachtaí inniú agus go dtiúrfaidh na trioblóidí neamh-shuim duit gach céim den tslí.”
He looks bemused, so I’ll translate. “May the Saints protect you with blessings today and may the troubles ignore you every step of the way.”
Promising myself I’ll buy him a return drink whenever next we meet, I left the FCC and made my way down the hill towards the Mandarin Oriental, Hong Kong. I stopped at a telephone kiosk in Pedder Street and rang the South China Morning Times to check if Fran Cooke works there.
“Yes sir. Fran Cooke works here, but he isn’t in. Can I have your name and telephone number please, and I’ll pass it on?” said the receptionist.
I tried explaining, several times, that he already has that information as I’d put it in a letter addressed to his home. But she isn’t getting it.
“My name is Finn Flynn. I’m staying at the Mandarin Oriental, Hong Kong. I don’t know Fran himself…his brother Gary told me to look him up.”
“I didn’t know he has a brother.”
“There you go…you learn something new every day! Isn’t that right?” I didn’t wait for an answer before I hung up.
As I passed through the foyer of the hotel I picked up a complimentary copy of the South China Morning Times and began looking for a Fran Cooke byline. I found a five-column piece on the business page about a company called Clarrion, run by a Mister George Han. What the article boils down to is that Fran Cooke claims that George Han’s Clarrion empire is nothing but smoke and mirrors.
I saw the Clarrion building on my way in from the airport, and the Clarrion name is everywhere – on lorries, delivery vans, advertising posters, and on the white Toyota taxi cabs running all over Central. Now I’m even keener to meet Fran Cooke. If he can uncover stuff about a company as big as Clarrion, he has serious connections around Hong Kong. And who knows…they could be useful to me.
Mister Ling emerged from his butler’s pantry as I walked into my suite. He’s wearing a green apron over an old-fashioned wing-collar shirt and striped morning dress trousers, and he has a small silver tray in his hand. Apologising for his appearance – which I think is fine – he handed me a telephone message torn from a pad, a sealed white envelope, and an ivory letter opener.
Leaving the telephone message aside, I slit open the envelope. Inside there’s a page of handmade writing paper, with the words ‘Island Shangri-La Hotel, 8:00 p.m. tonight’ written in violet ink with a broad-nibbed pen.
“Where’s the Island Shangri-La Hotel Mister Ling, and how long will it take me to get there?” I asked, returning the letter opener.
“Pacific Place, sir. About ten minutes from here,” he replied. “What time do you need to be there, sir?”
“I’m expected
there at eight o’clock.”
“There will be a car waiting outside the front entrance of the hotel for you from seven thirty. I’ll have your clothes laid out in time for your departure.”
“Right, thanks Mister Ling. I’d appreciate that,” I replied, as I read the telephone message.
The phone message is from the receptionist at the SCMT; she’s spoken to Fran Cooke in Kuala Lumpur. He’s suggested that I meet his wife Susie at the FCC for drinks on Wednesday, at about six thirty p.m. So…I’m going to meet Susie with the big breasts in three days – great!
In the meantime, I have the meeting in the Island Shangri-La to think about. It’s with someone who obviously knows where I’m staying, and who, for some unknown reason, writes cryptic italic notes in violet ink on handmade paper. They’ve a touch of style about them, that’s obvious.
It crossed my mind that my guardian, Uncle Sui, might be behind the meeting I’ve been summoned to. Assuming it is a meeting of course….I’ve only been told to be there. It reminds me of my early training with PIRA – no explanations, just orders. Fulfil them to the letter, or get a serious kicking from the rest of the lads, or worse. Could be the same kind of shite again, just a different shovel. Or is it a spade in China?
———
Stepping into the sweeping lobby of the Island Shangri-La Hotel, I did a quick recce of the room. I recognise Gerry from the Mandarin lunch, sitting in the far corner. There’s a tall, heavily built guy in a loud print shirt with an enormous gold Cartier Tank watch on his thick, hairy wrist sitting beside Gerry.
Gerry introduced me to his companion. Earl ordered bourbon for himself and Gerry, and an orange juice for me. He seems the type who likes to take charge. I wonder what part, if any, he’s going to play in getting my heroin to Europe – which, I suppose, is why I’m meeting him.
After ten minutes of what I’m sure passes as polite chit-chat in America, I decided to show these Yanks what a pissed-off Irishman sounds like.
“What the fuck did you drag me all the way up here for Gerry? Was it just to meet your overweight pal here, with the attitude and the loud outfit?”
My phony outburst got their attention. Gerry got up from the couch and pulled a chair alongside mine.
“Uncle Sui told me all about your missing order, and he suggested I help you out. My ‘overweight pal’ here, as you call him, is going to show us how to make a truckload of money Finn. And with your share you’ll be able to retrieve your mislaid merchandise and send it on to wherever it’s got to go. Earl wanted to take a look at you before we get down to business. OK?”
Earl leaned across and slapped me on the knee. “I can see already that you call a spade a spade, or as the Brits put it, a short distance earth transportation implement. That’s good. So let’s get down to it…guys.”
10
HONG KONG
When I walked into the crowded bar of the Foreign Correspondents’ Club I didn’t need anyone to point out Susie Cooke. She has auburn hair, grey cat’s eyes, and enormous tits displaying not an inch of cleavage. She’s a classy-looking lady…no question about that. Her face and figure would tempt any fellah to make an eejit of himself.
“Well good evening memsaab….I trust that isn’t too British Raj of me? I’m Finn Flynn. And by a process of elimination, I’m persuaded that I’m addressing Memsaab Susanne Cooke. Would I be correct?”
“Pretty close to the edge with the memsaab. We’re a long time out of India, but I get the colonist gibe…otherwise, yes, you are correct. Fran’s brother said you have a way with words….Which is something of an understatement, one might conclude? But dear me, I’m forgetting my manners,” she said with a tiny lisp, as she stood up from her barstool.
I got a whiff of sandalwood perfume and a kiss on both cheeks. Reaching up with her index finger, she wiped the remnants of her bright orange lipstick from my face.
“Finn, do call me Susie…there’s a sweetie. A glass of château la plonk? But do tell, how did you pick me out so readily?” she asked, as she poured me a glass of ‘plonk’ from her bottle of chilled Riesling.
“I did receive some insider information from that old fellah over there,” I confessed, motioning towards the Dutch Life photographer with his head slumped on the counter at the far side of the bar.
“Ah, my breasts were the give away…or, as he likes to call them, the ‘tits’. Yes, I imagine they do rather stand out around here. And Finn…don’t bother forgiving the pun, it was intentional…and intended to place a firm, full seizure on that subject,” she said, as she began a little flirtation in her plummy Sloan Rangers’ accent.
The conversation, which had started off so lively, swiftly petered out.
“Would you like to come and eat with me…somewhere outa here, where I can pay?” I asked, to fill the void.
“Oh yes, Gary warned that you’re a ‘charmer’. Could he have meant fast worker? But yes, let’s skedaddle out of here. We should get a table at the Mozart Stub’n…it’s just up the road.”
Jaysus, the steep climb up the hill to Mozart Stub’n would test Sherpa Tenzig Norgay of Mount Everest fame. Halfway up the hill Susie stopped to let me catch up and, unlike me, she’s not out of breath…not even a little bit. I’ve ceased picturing her dancing the night away at Lady Charlotte Berkeley’s ball, and I’m thinking that she must be the daughter of a mountain goat herder.
Susie admitted that she’d telephoned Gary in Brighton to get the ‘scoop’ on me. She told me that once she heard from her husband Fran that she was to meet a mysterious friend of his brother’s, whom he’d never heard Gary mention, she was on the phone immediately.
“And before you ask, Gary described you to me as ‘mountain man meets New Bond Street…when he has a mind to, six foot six, or a bit more, not sure, fifty inch chest, hairy, safe around other men’s wives.’ Pity about the last remark! I wouldn’t have minded fighting off your advances at all, ah well ainsi soit-il!”
Tempting as it is, I decided to say nothing about ‘fighting off advances’. But the remark sure put a spring in my step for the next few metres up the steep hill.
The Mozart Stub’n looks like a genuine Austrian bistro, and they obviously know Susie well. Even though we haven’t a reservation, the owner showed us to a cosy table tucked at the back of the restaurant.
“Right Finn, chatter out of the way, let’s get to this. I’m a freelance graphic artist designing print work for the banks and financial services companies located around Central District…they have oodles of money to spend. And you, what’s your gig?”
“Also financial…market investment, a touch of banking.”
“Cripes Finn, you don’t look the bland banking type at all. Are you sure that’s all you do? Let’s just say that face à des vôtres looks a little too vécu en for a boring financial chap. But fear not handsome prince, I won’t push the subject tonight….Gary’s already offered to fill me in a little more.”
As tempted as I am to drop a wee hint about meself, caution overcame testosterone and I thought better of it. Anyway, Gary’s the kind of friend I could be together with for hours without speaking a word…so whatever else Susie thinks she’ll learn about me from Gary, it won’t be much.
———
The truth is, Gary Cooke knows next to nothing about me. Or, maybe I should say he knows only what I wanted him to know…which is that I bedded Swedish girls and know how to handle myself in a scrap. Of course, Gary only knows the latter because some London drunks were taking the piss out of him one afternoon when he was trying to earn a few bob drawing charcoal caricatures of day trippers on the Promenade in Brighton.
Gary hasn’t an aggressive bone in his body, and the drunks sensed it. When Gary told them to shove off nicely they attacked him. They pushed over his easel and were just about to up-end him off his stool when I descended on them. Like every bully I’ve ever met, they couldn’t handle real aggression, and I think the way I thumped them shocked Gary. A small crowd of gawpers had formed ar
ound us, but it was all over in ten seconds, tops.
As I packed up Gary’s easel and stool he did a lightening sketch of the three prone bodies – with blood flowing from their mouths and noses. Then we went for a coffee in the Wimpy burger bar.
“You OK?” I asked.
“Yeah, thanks. You?”
“Yeah….You want a burger with your coffee?”
“No thanks.”
We didn’t say another word about what had just happened. Gary turned the page on his sketch pad and we sat contentedly in silence.
———
For dinner we ate venison, followed by soufflés, all washed down with too much wine. I almost made a pass at Susie over the brandies, but caught myself on in time. Well, that’s not strictly true. When she went to the toilet between the main course and dessert I phoned the Mandarin Oriental and booked a limousine to collect us in an hour. Like a spotty teenager out on his first real date, I hope the sight of dad’s Rolls Royce will be enough to convince her to come back to the hotel with me for a nightcap.
The restaurant’s filling up, and people are standing at the bar waiting to be seated. We stood up from our table, much to the relief of the owner, who gallantly escorted us to the door. He’s a real pro, and I’m not surprised that his little Austrian restaurant is so popular.
A limousine is waiting outside, just like the Mandarin promised it would be.
“Sweetie, do meet me for lunch tomorrow at Plume’s in Two Exchange Square, it’s just across the way from your hotel. Do say you’ll come. I’ll introduce you to some interesting people…you poor lost soul. Call you in the morning. Bye!”
She pecked me softly on the cheek before hailing a passing taxi with a two-finger whistle. Susie disappeared in a cloud of diesel fumes, and I’m left feeling deflated. So much for dad’s Rolls….Am I pathetic or what?
———
Susie just phoned to confirm our lunch at Plume’s. It’s on the second floor of Two Exchange Square, which, she reminded me, is within walking distance of my hotel. She suggested that I ‘take the elevated walkway’ to get there.