“Propaganda. But see, you do know what is going on.”
She leaned back against the deckchair and searched for response in the blue sky and high fluffy clouds. “Albemarle isn’t privy to high powered policy-making. Macau is a backwater.”
Brushing sand from his black silk pyjamas, Chang got up and hovered over her like a prosecutor making his case. “Please, don’t lie. It’s stupid. He gets secret papers.”
“They are locked in a safe. I don’t have access and some are in code.”
His face was hard and unyielding; in his hand was the snapshot. He flashed it, picture side up, as he spoke, using it like a semaphore to signal his control.
She stood up to meet his eyes. “Albemarle always says he’s the last to know,” she said stubbornly.
Chang gave a low amused grunt. “English understatement, Miss Kolbe.” He pocketed the snapshot and produced a tiny camera. “We want everything,” he said. “Buy a bird.When you have something, hang the cage on the banyan tree and leave the film there. You will find new film there too.We want accurate information, not useless administrative drivel. After all, if you believe in equality with your yellow brothers, as you obviously do with your Jap lover, then you should want China and Hong Kong to be free.”
She said nothing. There was nothing to say.
“Don’t think about confessing to Albemarle.”
His threat hung in the air. Abruptly, he turned and walked quickly back in the direction he had come, above the high water line. Twenty yards away, he stopped and waved.
Leah watched his black pants legs flutter in the sea breeze and his upright hand moving. Then he hurried on. Her hand gripped the camera so tightly it hurt. Opening it, she saw her sweaty palm was riddled with red indentations. The camera’s impassive, all-seeing glass eye stared up at her.
BACK in Macau, she slept badly, dreaming of swimming in debris-choked water, struggling against a riptide that dragged her out until there was no horizon. She woke in a clammy panic, sweaty and miserable.
Under the yellow bathroom light, she examined her face in the pockmarked mirror. There were deep circles under her eyes and a new tension in the set of her mouth. Splashing water on her face, she pulled at her skin as if to pummel it back into shape. She still looked haunted, defeated. She slid down onto the terrazzo floor. The cold tiles cooled her face. Curled into a small ball, she keened softly, rocking back and forth.Rusty tepid water trickled down the side of the washbasin to land on her back. Roused, she rose to turn off the tap. She couldn’t stay in this mouldy bathroom forever. She had gotten this far and she would have to take whatever came next. It’s what Theo would have done. He always said that in this life one doesn’t get to pick and choose. Sometimes one just has to get on with it. She fiddled with the taps until something approaching hot water came out and got into the bath. At least she would be clean.
Walking to work, the streets of Macau seemed grimmer. Hollow-eyed refugees in their telltale hessian charity clothes hung about under the awnings begging; while on the other side of the street, three teenage girls and a boy dressed in their dazzling white high school uniforms hawked flowers in support of the Chinese army to well-dressed men and women. The hands of the refugee children remained empty, but the high school students sold a great many flowers. Men stuck them in their lapels; women twisted them into their hair. She shouldn’t be so critical.Even the high school children looked under nourished. There were porridge relief stations scattered throughout Macau that everyone supported to feed the poor. Not that much food was getting in. There was a thriving black market. It was rumoured that the cook in the Hotel Centro did a good trade in children no one wanted, butchering them, then selling the choicest cuts to the public as tender young meat. It made her feel sick to think about it. She gave a begging woman a handful of small pataca notes and hurried on before she became a mark for more beggars.
At work, the keys on her typewriter continually jammed and she read the same page of a report ten times without comprehension. When Albemarle walked in, she looked up guiltily as he shut the door to her tiny office. The small fan couldn’t cope with the heat and hummed noisily. Sweaty and uncomfortable, she wiped at her face as Albemarle asked, “Enjoy the beach?”
Such an innocent question. She smiled. “Good to get away.”
Albemarle hurried on, not asking for any more details about her seaside adventure. “I’ve got someone you must meet. Boris Harris. He’s English-Russian. He’s not everyone’s cup of tea, but he’s . . .” he hesitated. “Valuable, yes valuable. He could help you a lot with that other business.”
“Yes,” she said neutrally.
“Harris will be here at three this afternoon. Come to my office a little before, that way your meeting will be accidental on purpose.” Albemarle lowered his voice. “I’m sure he will be of great help.” He gave a small conspirator’s smile. “I’ve sent Spencer on an errand. It will keep him out of the office all afternoon.”
Leah couldn’t help smiling back, such a pleasant little conspiracy, so different from Chang. It might even make Chang laugh. “All right.”
LEAH sat on the couch with a several letters about nothing much, discussing them with Albemarle. There was a discreet tap on the door. In his best English,Moy announced, “Mr. Harris is here,” as a large European man hovered just outside the door in the shadows of the hall.
“Thank you, Moy,” said Albemarle. The European man strode in as Moy withdrew, leaving the door ajar.
Boris Harris went straight to Albemarle and pumped his hand, saying, “So good to see you again, Consul. Such a pleasure.”
All the while, Leah sat stunned, too overcome to stop the papers from sliding off her lap. She knew this man, had done business with him in Manchuria. Only then his name wasn’t Harris, it was Vasiliev. He must have nine lives. She had thought him dead. Or, perhaps, he had a twin brother who didn’t use cheap black hair dye, preferring instead his thick snowy white hair that gave him a grandfatherly air, if grandfathers were oily and fish-eyed.
Albemarle made the introductions. Harris turned to see C119 Leah, his eyes alert. He bent down to retrieve Leah’s papers. Their eyes met. Harris winked as Leah struggled to contain her confusion. “How do you do, Mr. Harris,” said Leah as she accepted the fallen papers.
“The pleasure is all mine,” answered Harris in what passed for English vowels in his Russian accent.
His suit was good, but his old self leaked though in the flashy red and gold bow tie and his glossy white slip-on shoes. He had lost weight, but his eyes were the same, deep blue and lying. He insisted on holding her hand for an instant, covering hers with his large Russian paw and patting it. Then he released her hand and sat too close, crowding her on the settee, all smiles. “A flower amongst two thorns,” pronounced Vasiliev with smarmy charm.
Albemarle rose from behind his desk and sat in an armchair. In a loud voice, he described the constraints the consulate was now working under since the Japanese had complained about helping the refugee Hong Kong community.Leah turned and saw Moy, as if on cue, with a tray of afternoon tea and pasties de nata (warm egg custard tarts) in the hallway. Albemarle motioned to him to enter.
Harris reached greedily for the egg tart, his large face alight with desire. “I’m touched you remember, Consul. They are my favourite.”
Moy handed Leah a napkin with a winning smile. Leah liked Moy the best of all the consul’s servants. He was good-natured and managed to be helpful without being obsequious. He eased the door closed as he left.
“You vet your servants?” inquired Harris in between mouthfuls of tart and tea.
“No,” said Albemarle, offended. “Most have worked at the consulate for years.They are reliable and loyal.Take Moy. Always obliging, knows exactly what I want.” He looked to Leah for confirmation.
“Yes,” she responded, “without trust, where would we be?”
“We English,” said Harris thickly, “play by the rules. Sometimes, this is a disadvantage.” He c
lucked in sorrow at his trusting nature as Leah choked on her tea, coughing and spluttering.
“Do you need water, Miss Kolbe?” asked Albemarle.
Leah shook her head; Harris patted her back. She flinched and took a small sip of tea to quiet her coughs. “I’m fine,” she managed.
After more tea and Harris’s insights about the degradation of Macau life—too many spies, counterspies and refugees fleeing all kinds of dirty lives, robbing the place of its considerable charm—Albemarle steered the conversation towards Leah. “Miss Kolbe has a special brief. The consulate is not involved in this. I thought you might make arrangements to meet . . .” His words trailed off. He nodded at Leah and excused himself, shutting the door with a loud click.
For a moment neither Leah nor Vasiliev said anything.Then Vasiliev pounced. “Aren’t you the clever minx.What a set-up.”
“Shut up.Why aren’t you dead?”
“Only the good die young.”
“I make reports. I’d have to tell him who you really are. I have to protect myself.”
“I am Harris. Don’t say anything. My passport is valid,” he said genially, but Leah understood from the way he sat with his thick arms on his knees and his unblinking lizard eyes that he would make it very unpleasant if she didn’t go along with his Harris disguise.
Vasiliev pulled out a card with a name of a Portuguese bar printed in fancy red letters: De Santareme. It was on Rua da Feli-cidade, the Street of Happiness, the red light district.
“I can’t go there.”
He brushed crumbs off his lap. “Meet me there at eleven tonight.” He leered.
Albemarle knocked and peeked in. “All settled, then?”
Harris stood. “Must go. Another appointment.”
He shook hands with the consul and left.
“Harris can be a useful person, despite his . . .”
“I expect you’re right, Consul.”
“In this business, we have to deal with all sorts of people,” said Albemarle, as if trying to convince himself. “I have to attend a state dinner at the governor’s tonight. It’s Republic Day. The Japs will be there. I don’t want to go.”
“Perhaps,” said Leah with a wisp of a smile, “you could leave early.”
“No. I’ll stay to the bitter end. That way, the Japs can’t plot behind my back. They’d bribe Teixeira if they thought it would induce him to arrest me.”
“They wouldn’t dare.”
“Let’s not give them the opportunity,” he said meaningfully.
“Don’t worry. No one will trace things to here.”
“What you are doing is so important—” He stopped and couldn’t go on.
“—I intend to work late here tonight. I’m behind in my regular work.”
“I’ll ask Moy to bring you dinner.”
“I’ll get something later.”
“Nonsense.”
“Fine. Thank you.”
“Look,” said Albemarle, taking hold of her hand and peering into her face. “It’s always difficult to know who you can trust, but I did ask around and Harris’s story was confirmed.” He kept hold of her hand, his eyes on her delicate bird-like wrist. Incredible that people so far away had put such a burden on this young woman who should be spending her youth with admirers, breaking hearts. He wasn’t sentimental, but he fancied that already she had a haunted look. It both saddened him and made him angry. “Don’t work too late,” he said, releasing her hand and disguising his feelings with a look of cool disinterest. “Or do spies do their best work then?”
Stung, Leah let the opportunity to tell Albemarle the truth about Vasiliev slip away.The consul would be appalled by her troubled, complicated life. There would be a flurry of communiqués between Macau and London and in the meantime . . . In the meantime, her access would be restricted. She would be watched and a furious vindictive Chang would send the Camões Gardens photograph to Sawa. Desperately, she wished Jonathan would appear, like a genie, and her secrets and treacheries would disappear in a puff of smoke. Moy entered to clear away the tea things.
“I won’t, sir,” said Leah and returned to her office.
LEAH pulled the door almost closed. Albemarle’s office smelled faintly of wood polish and the red velvet curtains were drawn. She snapped on the flashlight. The room was very neat. Moy must have returned after Albemarle left, tidying and polishing. She must find Albemarle’s logbook. It would provide a detailed list of all the communications that been received. She doubted she’d discover anything really incriminating.
Spencer boasted that Albemarle was receiving dispatches from the British Army Aid Group (BAGG)—escaped British prisoners of war from Hong Kong who fought alongside the Chinese communist East River Guerrillas. Together they harassed the Japanese army in the New Territories. Leah didn’t believe Spencer. Albemarle had no advice to offer. He wasn’t a military man and certainly didn’t know the Hong Kong terrain. Maybe, though, he knew about supplies, or radios or other things. Hardly breathing, she opened the long middle drawer of Albemarle’s desk. There it was: a green leather notebook stamped with a gold insignia, the English crest of three rampant lions. She ran her finger down the inked columns.
The notations were difficult to decipher since Spencer didn’t have clearance to read the coded papers, only to mark them as Secret or Top Secret and the date. Daring to turn on the desk lamp, she slipped out a piece of writing paper to list those communications that might yield something of value. Her list was growing longer. Someone might notice the light on in Albe-marle’s office. If she took pictures of the logbook entries, it would document her spying and convince Chang that Albe-marle was a mere functionary, not party to plots or policymaking. She laid the camera on the desk.What on earth was Section IV replacing the former Section B.115 directive on enemy aliens?
So intent was Leah on determining what to photograph that she failed to hear the door being eased opened on its well-oiled hinges.Moy stood framed in the doorway.
His eyes travelled from the logbook, to the tiny camera and finally Leah’s ashen face.
“What do you want?” demanded Leah.
“You’re not supposed to have that,” said Moy, standing easy, mildly concerned. “It’s private.”
“The Consul asked me to check on something.”
Doubtful, Moy edged closer. “Let me see what you have written.”
“Don’t be absurd.”
“It is not allowed.”
“Shall we call him and find out?”
Moy considered this. He was no longer affable. “I’ve been watching you. People want to know many things during a war.”
“Yes, they do,”Leah conceded. “Who have you been telling?”
Indignant,Moy said, “I work for the Consul for five years.” Then he looked at her slyly. “Not telling also has its own reward, Miss Kolbe.”
“What do you mean, Moy?”
Moy walked to where Leah was sitting. He picked up the camera, examining it and looking through the viewfinder at the logbook. He made a clicking noise.
“I’m not going to bribe you,” Leah asserted with more calm than she felt. “The consul has given me permission. You will be dismissed from service.” She could bluff him. Moy didn’t want trouble. She was not about to give him money. He’d bleed her dry. Maybe she could threaten him with Chang, but if she revealed her connection to Chang, she might be in more danger.
Moy glared. “My cousin works for the Japanese consul.The Japanese are interested in everything. I think they will be interested in you. They pay well.”
“I don’t think that is a wise idea,” said Leah. She capped the pen, returned the logbook to the drawer and slipped the list into her pocket. “I’d like the camera back, please.” She held out her hand.
“I like this camera very much,” he said, pocketing it. “I know just how the consul likes things arranged.” He moved the leather container holding scissors, a letter opener and a stapler back into place.
Defeated, Leah sai
d, “How much?”
In one astonishing swift manoeuvre,Moy slipped one arm around Leah’s neck in a choke hold and squeezed. Then he grasped the letter opener like a knife and held it at her throat. “It’s a very short walk to the Japanese consulate. Sawa is bound to be there. He doesn’t like official parties.”
“You’re well informed.”
“Get up, Miss Kolbe.” He pricked her neck with the letter opener.
They shuffled through the deserted hallway and out the rear entrance.Leah stumbled along in front, throttled by Moy’s bent arm and prodded by the point of the opener in her back. They were in the tiny alleyway, bounded by the high walls of the Japanese consulate. Leah tripped on the uneven cobblestones, then jerked fast into a squat.Moy toppled over her. He fell onto his knees with a loud echoing thud. She kicked him hard in the back; his face smacked the irregular stones. She kicked him again and again. An odd gagging sound filled the night. Out of breath and fury, she stopped.
Moy lay unmoving in a strange, contorted hunched position, turtle-like. Crouching down, she whispered Moy’s name softly. No response. No movement. She held her palm an inch from his bloody squashed nose.There was no hint of air against her hand. In the dark, it was impossible to tell if he was dead or pretending.
Gingerly, Leah uncurled Moy. She saw the glint of the silver handle of the letter opener, its point stuck fast in Moy’s chest. She lifted up his heavy arm, running her fingers up and down his wrist, unsure if her own fingers were too numb to feel a pulse. Not that it mattered, he was clearly dead.
She vomited. Sick landed on Moy, other bits on her shoes. Woozy, she felt the adrenalin surge and thought: escape. She knew the Japanese consular guards were stationed at the front, not here at the back.With any luck, the guards were hunkered down on their haunches, catnapping. She strained to hear any passing footfall. No. Quite alone. Gritting her teeth and closing her eyes, she wrenched the letter opener out. She wiped the point against Moy’s black jacket. Then she rifled his pockets and found the camera.
Deep Night Page 11