No Deals, Mr. Bond

by John Gardner

  ‘No contest.’ He tried to make it sound casual, though he knew that to win here in Asia against the kind of people Kolya Chernov had at his disposal, and with at least one of the Cream Cake team as his ally, it would need very good joss indeed.

  They started to walk back along the harbour front, dodging up the open stairs near the Central Post Office to get on to the covered overpass which brought them out on the Mandarin side of Connaught Road. The offices were closing and the crowds had thickened, yet even among so many people there was a strange orderliness.

  ‘Keep your eyes open. Watch shoes rather than faces,’ Bond advised her; although as they began to look, he realised how many people wore trainers. A team of watchers would almost certainly be wearing them.

  At the hotel they turned right into Ice House Street again. This time they were heading for the red brick ivy-covered entrance to the Mass Transit Railway station, less than a hundred yards behind the hotel. This was the Hong Kongside, end of the line station known as Central.

  The MTR is rightly Hong Kong’s pride and joy, the envy of many cities. For efficiency and cleanliness, there are few underground railways in the world that can compare. Certainly Moscow has its huge baroque stations, Paris its fabled Louvre station with objets d’art on view; London has its somewhat dingy charm and New York its air of naked danger. But Hong Kong has bright shiny trains, air-conditioned, spotlessly clean platforms and an ordered sense of obedience, evident from the electronic turnstiles to the passengers themselves. They dodged down the steps from the street into the high-ceilinged modern complex. Bond went straight to the booking booth, flashed his Boldman passport and asked for two special tourist tickets, which allowed unlimited travel. He slapped down thirty Hongkong dollars and received two coloured plastic smart cards in return.

  All MTR tickets are the size of cards, but the ordinary sort contain electronic strips recognised by the turnstiles. These are swallowed up when each journey has been completed so that they can be reissued, creating a saving of thousands of dollars a year. The tourist tickets, however, each with a printed view of the harbour, allow unlimited travel and so save much time. There are high penalties for damaging the plastic smart cards – as there are for smoking, or bringing food and drink into the hallowed, cool atmosphere of the MTR system. Hence the scrupulous cleanliness.

  Still keeping both Ebbie and the holdall close to him, Bond headed down more stairs and on to the platform. A train hissed in, heading for Kowloonside.

  They just made it. Settling themselves on the somewhat spartan seats, they studied the simple map that Bond had picked up when buying the tickets. He pointed a finger to the station where they would get out and then began to look around casually. No one seemed to take any notice of them as the train pulled into Admiralty station and then out again to start the crossing under the harbour to Tsim Sha Tsui, a short way up the famous wide Nathan Road. This was where they planned the first jump-off. The trains travelling over to Kowloon followed the same route until Mong Kok or Prince Edward, where the railway branched either to the westbound Tsuen Wan line or the Kwun Tong line, which followed a great curve to the north east. Their train was bound for the latter line, which would take them too far from the centre. Bond reasoned that he should contain the action within a relatively small area for his own ease of movement.

  As they alighted, he noticed bunched among the crowd of passengers two well-dressed young Chinese, their eyes carefully averted from Bond and Ebbie. He turned left, as though to make for the exit, noticing the Chinese duo getting closer.

  ‘Get back on again at the last minute,’ he whispered as they came abreast of a set of carriage doors. It was an old trick but it could still work. As the doors began to close, he pushed Ebbie in and followed her quickly. To his frustration, he saw the two Chinese do the same thing one carriage down. He told Ebbie to get off at the next station, Jordan, but not until the last moment.

  It took but a few moments in the scurrying crowd to realise that the two men were still there keeping pace with them, and too close for comfort. Both wore light grey suits, neat collars and ties, even in the afternoon heat. They could easily have been taken for two businessmen returning to their office. But to Bond’s practised eye, they worked with a polished precision. He had little doubt that another team was at work, possibly in front of them. They came out of Jordan station and turned right into the noisy, bustling Nathan Road, Bond edging Ebbie in the harbour direction. Smiling, he quietly told her about their being followed.

  ‘Stay casual,’ he said. ‘Stop and look in the shop windows. Move slowly. At the bottom of the road we come to the Peninsula Hotel. We’ll try to lose them there.’

  The sidewalks were tight with people, more Chinese and Indians than European. Nathan Road seemed to be a meeting place of the Eastern cultures. Garish banners overhung the street. At ground level modern shopfronts squeezed together, yet above them there could still be seen the ramshackle buildings dating back to the 1920s or 1930s. Neon and paper signs hung drunkenly at angles, sprouting to catch the eye, while the omnipresent food produced an amalgam of smells. There were many camera and electronics shops, so Bond and Ebbie were able to stop regularly, as though comparing prices, while they watched for the watchers.

  Bond had mentally christened their tails Ying and Yang, and they kept pace with a cunning that bespoke thorough training. Nevertheless, within five minutes, Bond thought he had latched on to the team in front. A girl and boy, around eighteen or nineteen, were seemingly engrossed in each other’s company, but they always stopped when Ebbie and Bond stopped. The boy wore a long, loose shirt outside his jeans, enough cover for a weapon. Ying and Yang, in their tailored grey suits had plenty of hiding places for hand guns. The thought crossed Bond’s mind that they could just as well be an execution squad. Had Swift not already been killed? No, he reasoned. Chernov would wish to be present at the end. There should be witnesses from within Moscow Centre.

  At last they reached the Peninsula and entered by one of the side doors leading into a bright shopping arcade. Bond remembered someone telling him that this area of the hotel had been the officers’ club in the period following the Second World War. He wondered what ghosts of boozy majors haunted the opulent arcades.

  As they turned to climb the stairs to the main lobby, Ying and Yang followed them in. Doubtless the younger pair had made for the front of the hotel to complete the box.

  ‘Go ahead,’ Bond muttered to Ebbie as he handed her the holdall. ‘Take the armoury with you and make for the loo. I’ll be in the lobby as soon as I’ve dealt with this.’

  At least this would be a thorough test of Ebbie’s loyalty. He nodded to her, smiling and relaxed, as he reached for his cigarettes, placed one between his lips and began to pat his pockets for a lighter. Ying and Yang looked slightly startled as they saw him stop but they could hardly run from their quarry, so they came on, paying no attention until Bond stepped in front of them and asked in English if they had a light.

  Close to, they looked like twins with short jet hair, round faces and darting, cruel eyes. For a second they paused and Ying muttered something as his hand went up to reach inside the unbuttoned jacket. When his arm was almost level with his lapel, Bond grabbed his wrist, twisted hard, then pulled down, his right knee coming up with all his strength behind it. He could almost feel the man’s pain as the knee smashed into his groin; he certainly heard the gasp of agony. Almost before it came, Bond had spun the man around and jerked him forward towards Yang, propelling him downwards so that the top of his skull caught Yang’s face. The blow was head on, for he heard the crunch and felt Ying’s body go limp in his grip.

  Before anyone appeared from the shops along the arcade, Ying and Yang lay heaped together, only partially conscious. Ying was doubled in pain from groin and head, and Yang’s face looked as though he had met a heavy lump of concrete: there was blood pouring from his broken nose and in all likelihood his cheekbone had been cracked. Loudly Bond called for someone to get the
police.

  ‘These men tried to rob me!’ he shouted, and there was a jabber of Chinese and English. He bent down and reached inside each man’s jacket. Sure enough, they were armed with neat, stubby .38 revolvers.

  ‘Look!’ he said loudly. ‘Somebody get security. These men are bandits.’

  The outraged noises from the crowd told Bond that they were on his side. He edged back into the growing circle, dropped one of the weapons, slid the other into his belt, where it was concealed under the Oscar Jacobson jacket, and slipped up the stairs.

  ‘Down there,’ he said to the two security men who were descending, almost bumping into him. ‘A couple of brigands just tried to rob my friend.’

  Ebbie waited inside the doors, in a corner of the vast, gilded hotel foyer where waiters scurried around the tables serving late tea, watched over by a silver-haired head waiter. A four-piece orchestra seated high up in a regal box played selections from old and new musicals. Mainly old.

  Bond took the holdall, muttering that they should move fast. He headed towards the main doors, his eyes swivelling around to catch the young couple he had fingered as the back-up team. But there was no sign of them either in the lobby or outside in the forecourt. They crossed the road when the heavy traffic allowed and headed towards the harbour front, littered with building sites. Bond’s eyes were still moving restlessly to try and spot the other team.

  ‘I think maybe we’ve thrown them,’ he said, squeezing Ebbie’s arm. ‘Come on, keep going left. The least we can do is treat ourselves to a decent hotel for a few hours. The Regent’s just along here. It’s a great brick blockhouse of a place, but I’m told it’s a strong rival to the Mandarin.’

  The view of the Regent was blotted out by vast hoardings enclosing building works, but as they reached the end of these they saw the hotel with its driveway sweeping upwards and the forecourt filled with Rolls-Royces and Cadillacs. It was not the only sight that came into view. As they turned the corner, the young man and his girl friend stepped out directly in front of them.

  Bond grasped the revolver butt and was about to draw the weapon when the young man spoke. His hands were clearly empty but the girl was obviously watching his back.

  ‘Mr Bond?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ said Bond, taking one step back, ready for the next move.

  ‘Do not be alarmed, sir. Mr Swift said that, should any ill befall him, I was to give you this, never mind.’ Slowly his hand went to his pocket and he withdrew an envelope. ‘You might already know that Mr Swift had serious accident this afternoon. My name is Han. Richard Han. I worked for Mr Swift. All arrangements are made. I presume you dealt with the two no-good coolie hoodlums who were following you. We heard large commotion . . .’

  ‘Yes,’ said Bond, still wary.

  ‘Good. There will be a Walla Walla down by Ocean Terminal at ten forty-five. I will be there to see you both aboard. Ten forty-five, near the Ocean Terminal. Okay, heya?’

  Bond nodded, and the young couple smiled, linked arms and turned away.

  ‘What’s a Walla Walla?’ Ebbie asked later as they lay naked in a room high up in the Regent.

  It’s a motorised sampan,’ replied Bond. ‘Some people will tell you they’re called Walla Wallas because of the noise of the engines. Others say it’s because the very first one was owned by a guy from Washington DC.’

  ‘You are clever.’ Ebbie snuggled up to him. ‘How do you learn all these things, James?’

  ‘From the official Hong Kong Guide. I read it while you spent all that time in the bathroom.’

  They had encountered no difficulty in getting a room at the Regent. Bond had flashed his Platinum Amex card in the name of Boldman and said that price was no object. Nobody even queried the lack of luggage, though Bond supplied a story about it coming on from the airport later. He showed the holdall casually but refused to let anyone carry it for him.

  After ordering a simple three-course European dinner for two on room service he had opened the envelope. Inside was a single sheet of paper which contained a short message and a map of Cheung Chau Island.

  In case anything happens, I have given this to a young colleague. Richard Han will assist in any way he can. I have arranged transport to Cheung Chau. The woman will drop you at the harbour to the west of the island. You need a white villa which stands almost opposite the Warwick Hotel on the eastern side – ten minutes’ walk over the narrow isthmus. Take the lane through the houses just right of the ferry landing stage. The villa is well placed, high up on the northern side of the bay of Tung Wan, looking out across a rather beautiful stretch of sea and sand. Needless to say, the Warwick is on the southern side. To my knowledge there are no warning devices, but the place is always well guarded when anyone’s in residence. It has at least one telephone and the local number is 720302. Remember the nine killed in Cambridge and the fires started at Canvey Island. If you get this, I will not be there to wish you luck, but you have it anyway. Swift.

  Bond had to accept the note, map and the person of Richard Han as genuine. At least this was a way of getting to Cheung Chau and finding the house. Before the food arrived, he went into the bathroom and checked the weapons and the equipment in the holdall. He decided to arm Ebbie with one of the .38s. He would keep the similar weapon taken from Ying and Yang. The rest could be carried in the holdall. Once the villa was located, he knew what had to be done. You could not take further chances with a man like Chernov. He went back to the bedroom, ate a hearty meal, waited for Ebbie to use the bathroom, then stripped and took a shower. They had no change of clothes, but at least they were both refreshed and clean. After towelling himself thoroughly, Bond stretched out on the bed. In spite of their tiredness, Ebbie displayed an undeniable inventiveness which Bond found irresistible. After a short doze, Bond went over the essentials for that night.

  ‘Do you understand?’ he asked at the end of the briefing. ‘You will stay where I tell you until I return. After that, we play it by ear.’ He gave her a light kiss on each ear as though to underline the point.

  They dressed and armed themselves, and Bond was pleased to note that Ebbie handled the revolver and spare ammunition with obvious experience.

  They left the hotel at just after ten o’clock. On the dot of ten forty-five, Richard Han met them by the large, sprawling shopping mall known as Ocean Terminal, near the Star Ferry. He led them away from the main piers, down a path to the harbour where the toothless old woman in black pyjamas waited with her sampan.

  ‘She knows where to take us?’ Bond asked.

  Han nodded. ‘And you must give her no money,’ he said. ‘She has already been paid enough. The trip will take the best part of three hours. I’m sorry. It’s only one hour on the ferry, but this is the best way.’

  In the event, it took nearer four hours, the woman not speaking a word to them, but leaning back, relaxed at the tiller.

  So it was that around three in the morning Bond and Ebbie were landed on Cheung Chau Island, seven and a half miles west of Hong Kong. The sampan had bucked and rolled at sea but once they neared the harbour the old woman cut the engine, working an oar to bring them in noiselessly through a throng of junks and sampans, some lashed together, others riding at anchor. At last they reached the harbour wall and the woman whispered something which must have meant they should disembark. Together, they scrambled up on to the wide stretch of concrete which fronted the harbour and Bond lifted an arm in farewell to the woman.

  18

  TUNG WAN BAY

  The island, as Bond had already seen from the map, was indeed shaped like a dumb-bell, the south part being much wider than the north, and a short spit of land less than a mile wide running between the two.

  Their eyes had adjusted to the dark long before landing, so Bond could make out the buildings ahead. He took Ebbie’s hand, made certain that she had her revolver ready and guided her towards the first dark gap leading down a narrow lane. As they drew near he could make out the shape of a clear glass telephone b
ooth, which he decided to use after he had carried out the reconnaissance of the villa.

  ‘You stay here. Don’t move, and make sure nobody sees you,’ he whispered. ‘I’ll be back within the hour.’

  In the darkness he saw her nod. Ebbie was proving to be less nervous than he had any right to expect. Squeezing her hand, Bond set off up the lane. He felt closed in by the shop buildings which made up the sides of this gulch. After a couple of hundred yards the lane narrowed even further. There was a large tree to the right and he became conscious of someone near by. He stopped, moving only when he realised that it was an old Chinese, flat on his back, snoring under the tree.

  After about twelve minutes’ walking the buildings gave on to a wide stretch of pale sand with the sea, soft and shimmering, directly in front of him. This was Tung Wan bay. Keeping to the cover of the buildings, Bond edged forward. To his right, a splash of light indicated the Warwick Hotel. He waited, peering around the bay and up to the promontory on his left. High up he could see a grey building with two lights burning – certainly the villa Swift had marked on the map. Keeping to the dark cover of the buildings on his left and praying that nobody was using infra-red night glasses from the villa, Bond slowly made his way as far as the open ground. The sand stretched out, white in the blackness, towards the promontory where the villa stood.

  Bond guessed that roughly seventy yards of open sand separated him from the shadows at the foot of the bluff, fifty yards of which could be seen from the villa. Taking a deep breath, he sprinted forward, slowing down to a walk once he was in dead ground. The sand petered out and the ground rose steeply, covered with short, spiky grass. Settling the holdall’s strap more comfortably on his shoulder, Bond began the climb. The grass had no sweet smell to it, and its roughness scratched at his hands. Occasionally he felt a softness beneath, as though the whole promontory was nothing but an overgrown sandbank. It took him ten minutes of hard work before the steepness levelled off. He was now on shallow rising ground, still out of sight of the villa. As soon as the first outlines of the building appeared against the lighter sky, thirty yards on, Bond dropped on to his belly, adopting a crawl for about ten yards.