by John Glasby
Draining his glass, he went over to the desk and sat down. He could feel the perspiration forming in tiny pools under his arms and in little beads on his forehead as he tried to visualise the orders he would receive from his contact.
Now it was time. Picking up the phone from the plastic cradle, he held it to his ear, began to dial the number with the forefinger of his left hand. The phone clicked as he spun the dial. As it spun back into place after the last digit, there was a louder crack than usual; but Kellaway heard only the fractional beginning of the sound. Inside the round mouthpiece, there was a faint puff of smoke following the slight explosion. The thin sliver of steel, no more than two inches in length, pierced the roof of his mouth and lanced into his brain in microseconds.
CHAPTER 5
THE FUSE IS LIT
Carradine woke lazily. For long moment he lay on his back staring up at the unfamiliar ceiling, struggling to recall where he was; then memory came flooding back with a rush and he swung his legs to the floor, getting to his feet. The sun through the nearby window was already high in the sky and hot. Two minutes later as he pulled on the non-descript clothing, the door opened and Ts’ai Luan came into the small room.
“I let you sleep on through the morning,” she said brightly. “You were so tired after the journey last night that it seemed a pity to waken you.”
“Did any of your friends manage to discover anything about the Red Dragon? Where they took your uncle?”
“They say that some men brought a prisoner into Canton more than a week ago, just after I left China. It may have been my uncle, but they could not be sure. He was well guarded.”
“My guess is that it was him. At least, it means that he’s probably still alive.”
The girl’s face assumed a serious expression. “I hope that is true,” she said soberly. “The Red Dragon will undoubtedly torture him to learn as many secrets as they can. But once they believe he can tell them nothing more, they will certainly kill him.”
That was a possibility which had been in Carradine’s thoughts for some days. The Chinese had short shrift as far as traitors went. Once a man was of no further use, they destroyed him. He only hoped that they might get to Chao Lin in time. He felt a little ashamed to realise that he was more concerned with the military secrets locked away inside the girl’s uncle’s head than with his personal safety.
It had been shortly before dawn when they had finally reached the outskirts of Canton. The girl had led the way unerringly through the shanties on the edge of the city. The moon had been low by that time and there had been only the stars lighting the heavens as they had moved through quiet, darkened streets and alleys, eventually reaching this building where she had knocked softly on the door to be admitted by a giant of a man with a cruel hawk-like face and a great bald head which had glistened in the faint candlelight. This, she had told him, was Tai Fan, a deaf-mute and the leader of the acrobatic troupe with which she worked.
In spite of the deep-seated weariness in his body, an hour had been spent in discussing the situation with the other members of the troupe, three men and two girls. From the conversation it had become apparent that, as in Russia, circus folk occupied a privileged position inside Communist China, being able to move without question throughout most of the country. Playing as they did all over China, their comings and goings were accepted without reserve and he could not have hoped for a better source of information. How far they could all be trusted, he was not quite sure. But now that he was inside China, he would have to play it all by ear.
“Is there any way of getting further information?”
“Perhaps. There is to be a performance tonight. It is rumoured that General Lung Chan will be there. He is the Head of the Red Dragon in Canton.”
“Lung Chan.” Carradine turned the name over in his mind. It meant nothing to him. “What sort of a man is he?”
“He is the Devil Himself.” The girl looked at him sharply. “He has men everywhere and they say that whoever goes into that room at the top of the Red Dragon Headquarters never comes out—alive.”
“He sounds like a pleasant character,” Carradine said dryly. “Most likely a very difficult man to get at.”
“Surely you are not so foolish as to think that you can kidnap him and make him talk, or maybe hold him as hostage for my uncle.”
“It’s an idea,” Carradine murmured thoughtfully.
“Then you must forget it at once.” Ts’ai Luan was perfectly serious. “It would be committing suicide. No one can get to him. He is the most feared and most powerful man in Southern China. Only on very rare occasions does he leave their headquarters and then he is accompanied by a strong bodyguard. He would not be easy to kill.”
Carradine was beginning to realise the full extent of what he was up against.
“And the Headquarters building? Can we get inside without being seen?”
The girl hesitated, then nodded slowly, thoughtfully. “That may be possible,” she agreed. “The main entrance as well guarded but at the back there is a single window which can be opened from the outside.” She paused, went on quietly: “Unfortunately it is on the third floor. There are no others.”
Carradine cocked an eye at her. “Then that rules that out. More than likely they have men, maybe even dogs, patrolling the area when they have an important prisoner held there. Gaining entry would have to be quick. We could never manage to get ladders into place, even if we could lay our hands on them.”
“There may be a much better way than using ladders,” said the girl, smiling enigmatically. “But we’ll talk about this later. In the meantime, the others will be trying to gather further information about my uncle. We must first discover exactly where they are keeping him. Tai Fan knows the inside of the Headquarters building as well as anyone outside of the Red Dragon. He will guide us if we do get inside.”
Carradine had breakfast of rice and some kind of dry fig with tea in an egg-shell thin cup. He was ravenously hungry and had hoped that the food might be as good as he had heard that it could be, in China. He was not disappointed. The tea had just the right tang to it to titivate the palate and the rice have been prepared with tiny pieces of chopped meat and vegetables which were delicious.
Punctually at ten o’clock, Ts’ai Luan came in with two other members of the troupe. Her eyes were strangely hard and shrewd, but her tone was mild as she said: “Tei Shin reports that the Red Dragon are questioning a man today at their Headquarters, a man answering the description of my uncle. He was there to arrange for the performances evening and saw two guards take the prisoner into the lift which goes straight to the room at the top. That is where they hold their secret conferences, make their plans and also interrogate their prisoners.”
“Then whatever happens, it will have to be tonight,” Carradine said decisively. “Chao Lin is an old man. Even if he wishes, he could not withstand torture for very long. He would have to talk.”
“You are afraid, of course, for the secrets he has in his head concerning your organisation,” murmured the girl softly. She seated herself in the chair near the window where she could watch the street below.
“Not particularly.” Carradine shook his head. “If they had been after any of our secrets they could have taken them when they kidnapped your uncle and destroyed the Hong Kong station. I’m much more interested in what Chao Lin has discovered about a secret weapon which he believed your scientists have devised and were on the point of testing.” He sat back. With an effort, he forced some of the tension out of his voice and relaxed his body. “But if you think there is a way of getting inside the place, then all is not lost. We may yet rescue your uncle before they decide he has told them everything he knows. But we need a plan. It will have to be carried out with split-second timing.”
“I understand.” She said something to the two men in Cantonese, speaking so rapidly that it was impossible for Carradine to follow her. They gave brief nods and left the room. “I have told them to keep a watch on t
he Red Dragon Headquarters, to check on the guards and also make sure that no prisoners are taken away. We must accept the possibility that by now, Lung Chan knows you have reached China and will make an attempt to rescue my uncle. He will have taken additional precautions to prevent this and also capture you.” She rose lithely to her feet. “Now we will discuss the best way of getting into the building. It will not be easy, but if we are to succeed, it is essential that we should know what we are doing.”
Carradine grinned at her. “Sometimes, I think that London would have done better if they had put you in charge of the Hong Kong station.”
More tea came as they took each piece of information they had, checked it, dissected it, and then went through everything again. An hour passed; then another. Gradually, a plan was formulated. At the end of that time, Carradine realised that Ts’ai Luan possessed an extremely quick and agile mind. Ruthless at times, she could also cut through all of the deadwood which so often surrounded a plan such as this and get to the very heart of the problem. Her knowledge of Canton came from several years of keen and perceptive experience, almost as though her life there had all been the leading up to this moment.
“This afternoon, Tai Fan will draw us a plan of the building. It will be accurate in every detail except for the topmost floor. That,” she headed apologetically, “is something no one outside the Red Dragon has ever seen and lived to tell of. However, it is almost certain that my uncle will be kept prisoner in the basement. They have cells for their prisoners.”
“You realise, of course, what will happen to us if we should fail.”
She nodded her head slowly. “They will kill us all,” she murmured simply.
Grimly, Carradine added: “First they will make certain that we suffer. It will not be a quick and easy death.”
Ts’ai Luan held her head high, her dark eyes flashing. “Do you think I care what those Communist pigs do to me? We are fighting for freedom. If we are to die, then so be it. But there will be others to take our place. The battle will go on until all of China is free.”
“You’re an extremely brave girl,” Carradine said. He looked down at the calm, beautiful face, the dark lashes fringing the slanted eyes, the soft, pale swell of the cheeks and the red lips, parted a little. Acting on impulse, he placed his arms around her waist, pulled her to him, felt the warmth of her body, alive and vital, against his. Bending his head, he kissed her hard on the lips, felt her respond, her arms tightening around his neck. She remained in his arms for a long moment, as though afraid to let him go, as if he was her only sane contact in this crazy, frightening world, this dark existence. Then she freed herself and stepped back, her eyes veiled.
“Perhaps I was wrong to do that,” he said softly.
Her lips curved into a smile. “I think I wanted you to do it,” she answered, equally softly. Then, in a matter-of-fact tone: “There seems to be so little time for love in this world today.”
*
At seven o’clock that evening, the girl came for him. She was dressed in a silk tunic, buttoned tightly at the neck and a short, pleated skirt of the same material. Her long, black hair hung down in a pony-tail, knotted with a white ribbon.
“We’re ready to go now, Steve,” she said quietly. “You must take the map of the Red Dragon Headquarters with you. When the show is finished, we shall not return here but drive to the outskirts of Canton so that we may watch the building, ready to choose the best moment to put our plan into action.”
“Do you think it will be safe for me to go with you?” he asked. “After all, if anyone questions me, my Chinese isn’t sufficiently fluent to fool them for long.”
“No one will question you,” answered the girl. She smiled brightly. “You will join us in our performance. There, at least, you will be safe.”
“But that’s out of the question,” Carradine protested vehemently. “I know nothing of acrobatics. The first mistake and it would give the game away completely.”
“You’ve no need to worry,” the girl assured him. “The others know exactly what to do. Just follow me. We can all cover for you.”
“I only hope you’re right.” Carradine sounded dubious.
“Trust me,” she said reassuringly. “This isn’t the first time we’ve done this.”
Carradine raised his brows quizzically.
Ts’ai Luan looked up at his face. Her features were suddenly alive. “We used to smuggle political refugees out of China and often this was the only way to do it. Those fools never questioned our troupe. We have our own truck in which we carry our props and moved from town to town. It was easy to take them under their very noses.”
Carradine said thoughtfully: “Then I hope you’re just as successful this time. We’re playing for even higher stakes now.”
*
The theatre was somewhere in the centre of Canton, set back a little from the main street. Standing in the wings, Carradine felt the muscles of his stomach tighten involuntarily, forced his fingers to relax by his sides. Around the edge of the thick, heavy curtain, he could just make out the first few rows of the audience, a sea of grey from which no features were indistinguishable. The interior differed in only a few respects from any medium-sized variety theatre in one of the provincial towns of England. The trappings were a little less luxurious and the spotlights fainter and more erratic, a fact for which he was extremely grateful. Ts’ai Luan came up beside him, slipped her hand into his, squeezed it tightly.
“There is General Lung Chan.” She motioned towards the box on the far side of the theatre.
Carradine narrowed his eyes, gazed towards the huge figure seated in the centre of the box with a sprinkling of uniformed men on either side of him. There were too, he noticed, a couple of armed guards at the rear of the general’s box, the faint light shining off the snub barrels of their submachine-guns.
Evidently, even here, Lung Chan was taking no unnecessary chances.
Carradine smiled grimly to himself. He could visualise the kind of life the other was forced to live because of his position. Men who wielded the power in China, particularly vicious, cruel men such as Lung Chan, had to be on watch every second of the day. In spite of the iron hand which held the vast majority of the teeming millions in check, there would always be some waiting to kill him, people with relatives who had been murdered and tortured on his orders, others who disagreed violently with the present regime, for not all of the enemies of the Communist state were huddled together on the island of Formosa, protected by the heavy guns of the American Navy. There were bound to be some inside China itself, fanatics, just biding their time.
While the act preceding them went through their routine, he spent the time studying the other’s face, filing the details away inside his brain. The porcine eyes were almost lost in the flabby mountain of flesh, the mouth a thin gash below the nostrils, opening and closing spasmodically as he watched the stage. Almost casually, as he watched this dreadful man, he wondered just how much longer he would remain alive—how much longer the man would remain in his job, even if he were not assassinated by some fanatic. Naturally, like all others in high positions, Lung Chan would possess a tremendous will to survive, a desperate need to reach the top of his murderous profession. Undoubtedly, he would have been one of the men who had lived and fought with the communist clique when they had driven out the Nationalists forces under Chaing-Kai-Chek; a man who could be trusted to carry out all orders passed on to him, a man who held human life extremely cheaply, who would murder to gain his own ends. The pudgy hands rested lightly on the edge of the box, clasped almost in prayer; blood-stained hands with the deaths of God alone knew how many victims on them. As he watched the other closely from beneath lowered lids, Carradine knew that of all of the men he had met in this deadly Cold War game, General Lung Chan was one he would kill without compunction, without a qualm on his conscience if ever the need and the opportunity arose. Such a man would have found an ideal place working with Hitler, Stalin or Tojo, he reflected idly;
a man for whom mass murder was a common, everyday occurrence.
Without turning his head, he said softly: “Does he return to their Headquarters after the performance?”
“Almost invariably.” Ts’ai Luan smiled tightly. “Perhaps he realises as no one else does, that it is not safe for him to be out in the city after dark. There are too many shadows from which a bullet or a knife could come.”
The act on the stage finished their performance. There was polite clapping from the audience. Once again, Carradine experienced the momentary tightness in his chest as if his breath was stopped up somewhere between his lungs and his throat. Then they were out on the stage and there was no time to think of the watching audience or of Lung Chan up there in the box, staring down at them. He forced himself only to concentrate on what was happening immediately around him, knowing that he had to devote all of his attention to following the actions of the various members of the troupe. For the first time, he was thankful for the grounding in gymnastics which he had been forced to carry out during his training.
All in all, he found it easier than he had imagined. On the way to the theatre the girl had given him some idea of their routine which consisted, for the most part of individual or double acts, somersaulting over the huge flag which Tai Fan waved across almost the entire length and breadth of the stage, timing one’s movements with those of the others. The climax of the act was the most difficult as far as he was concerned, a human pyramid in the very centre of the stage with twin spotlights playing over them.
Ts’ai Luan moved quickly to him, whispered: “Stand quite still.”
Before he could reply, she had grasped his hands and vaulted up onto his shoulders. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that the others had done the same, were moving slowly towards the giant figure of Tai Fan. He advanced with them from one side, stood unmoving beside the other while Ts’ai Luan scrambled lightly upward, was caught by the arms of two other members balanced seemingly precariously on Tai Fan’s huge shoulders. Seconds later, his right hand was caught in a grip of steel and he felt himself swung off his seat as the latter held them all off the ground.