by Peter Tonkin
‘Well … I know the uniform, of course. It’s my uniform. My captain’s …’
‘It’s her uniform too, Richard.’
The ice-blue gaze switched up to Tom’s face, disturbingly like a searchlight beam. ‘Her uniform? She’s a captain? A master mariner?’
‘Amusing, when you think of it. Kind of a pun, really. Mrs Mariner is a master mariner …’ Tom’s wise eyes noted that Richard had placed the two pictures side by side, face up. As he talked, Richard was leafing through the pile and pulling out all the other photographs of Robin. There were five more. ‘She’s at sea now. That’s why she’s not here.’
‘At sea.’ Richard’s voice was dreamy with concentration as he moved the pictures of Robin from one pattern to another.
‘At sea, under your orders.’
‘What? How?’
‘You left her a message, don’t you remember?’
‘Message?’
‘On a computer disk. With a copy on the ship’s network.’
‘Sulu Queen had a network?’
‘That’s right, Richard! Well remembered. You left her a message on the Sulu Queen’s computer network telling her to go aboard the Seram Queen.’
‘I did? I did that?’
‘I can show you a copy. She faxed it over to us before she went aboard.’
‘I sent her aboard the Seram QueenT
‘I’ll bring in the message tomorrow. We’ll talk about it then.’ Tom, still looking down, made a last note in his book before moving on to the next phase of the interview. He looked across the table. ‘Now …’ His voice trailed off. Richard’s hands were beginning to tear the first photograph of Robin into pieces. His face was set like stone, his blue eyes burned with almost unearthly intensity and tears streamed down his gaunt cheeks. ‘Richard!’ said Tom. ‘What are you doing?’
‘I sent her aboard. I sent her aboard!’ said Richard, his voice hoarse and deeply troubled; and he reached for the second photograph across the torn ruins of the first.
*
Charles Lee lowered the folded page of the latest edition of the Yangcheng Wanabo newspaper and looked thoughtfully away across the Zhujiang which the Western invaders called the Pearl River, down towards Xianggang which the Westerners called Hong Kong, little more than a hundred kilometres distant.
Charles had been in the Middle Kingdom for six weeks now and was feeling increasingly remote from Western society, and from Heritage Mariner. So remote did he feel, in fact, that he had started thinking of himself by his Chinese first name Cha-ho instead of the Westernised equivalent he had taken in the early seventies.
Charles/Cha-ho was well aware that what he was allowed to see and hear was carefully vetted — only a barbarian would use such a blunt word as censored — and he was beginning to wonder whether he was the unwitting subject of some sort of mind control as well. His communications with Heritage Mariner head office were all conducted via telex and he had spoken to no one directly, even in the early days here when he had been desperately trying to get more information about Richard’s predicament, Robin’s position, Helen DuFour’s plans and Sir William’s ability to hold things together for a while. Elder Brother Xiang Lo-wu never had any trouble with his portable phone, but apparently that was because he never tried to call outside China itself. All the lines Charles wished to use were unfortunately malfunctioning.
But that first telex from Helen had been reassuring. Richard was in good hands. Everything was being done that could be done. Helen was in control at head office and Sir William was back at Heritage House. Charles’s work was too important to interrupt and if he felt he was making progress he should continue. And, of course, he was the one man on the inside if things should go wrong and Richard’s case became involved with the Chinese legal system and Hong Kong’s new Basic Law. Indeed, Charles felt that this appraisal of the case was correct. His relationship with Xiang Lo-wu was progressing so satisfactorily that there was no longer any irony in their use of the familiar forms of address ‘elder brother’ and ‘younger brother’. It might be that Charles was in a position to do Richard some good — though he had no idea of the actual power enjoyed by Xiang. Twelvetoes Ho might have an idea that Xiang Lo-wu was destined to be senior executive of the Special Economic Zone which would include Hong Kong in ten days’ time, but he neglected to inform Charles of the fact. The business executive remained in blissful ignorance, therefore, and concentrated on business rather than politics — or believed that he did at any rate.
There had been three telexes a week each way, and the company news had remained satisfactory in spite of the adverse publicity attracted by the trial. The judge in Hong Kong had apparently called for a news black-out now, but there was still speculation in every quarter of the media all over the world. It had been the international news section in the Goat City Evening News which Charles had been reading just now, and it gave some details of the testimony delivered today. Naturally so. Guangzhou would be the regional capital of the Special Economic Zone when it came into being next week; and in British terms, Hong Kong would start playing Liverpool to Canton’s London. That was the theory, as far as it went.
But there was already a kind of infection spreading outwards as the pre-unification publicity made the millions in the province look Westwards more acutely than ever. Charles had been here a month. He had needed no time to settle in — he knew this city well; or Lee Cha-ho did. He had spent all too much of his childhood running contraband up through the Tiger Gate and along forty secret kilometres of the Pearl River into the hungry markets here. Xiang’s men had put Charles in the old colonial White Swan Hotel on Samian Island, but Cha-ho would have been comfortable anywhere. Even more than London or New York, this was his home from home. Which was why he noticed at once how much it had changed. From the beginning he had been aware that there was a powerful slide towards Westernism here.
Like Xiang Lo-wu Charles wore simple shirts and plain denim suits. His Saville Row tailoring had soon felt out of place in sand-swept Beijing and he was content to wear clothing which was light and comfortable, especially now, in this sub-tropical climate. But the first local official he had met here sported a Lacoste sport shirt, a Sergio Tacchini leisure suit and Nike Air trainers — even to a business meeting.
Xiang seeing Cha-ho’s expression, had said gently, after the interview was finished, ‘You should not be shocked, younger brother. After all, was it not you, in the days of your misspent youth, who smuggled the first rock and roll record into the floating market here?’
Charles had laughed wryly. Xiang had become used to this Western way of expressing surprise, and he lowered his eyelids accommodatingly, seeming to overlook the loss of face. ‘Indeed,’ admitted the Hong Kong shipping merchant. ‘Bat Out of Hell by Meatloaf. An icon of its time. A gleaming tower of Western culture.’ Charles had been so amused by the weary acceptance in Xiang’s voice that he came dangerously close to adding that he had not been alone in the enterprise. He almost revealed that he had enjoyed an extremely active contact with a local entrepreneur called Huw Pei-chun — Paul Huw as he had preferred to be known.
‘You were the vanguard of an invasion,’ stated the government official.
‘I think not, elder brother,’ Charles answered warily. ‘There were others before me and they brought the Beatles, Levi 501s and Coca-Cola.’
‘So that now the Memorial of the Martyrs of the Shaji Massacre is overlooked by a McDonald’s and there is a Taco Bell on Sun Yatsen Street. Guangzhou is becoming like any town in America, alas.’
‘It is the price of opening the Tiger Gate to that market, elder brother. These things make the tourists feel more comfortable as they pass their hard currency into your purse. But McDonald’s is not the only player in that game, you must admit. In Tsimshatsui, Hong Kong, near where I was brought up, there is a McDonald’s on Nathan Road a block down from the Chinese People’s store Chung Kiu. On Hankow Road, McDonald’s is right next door to Chung Kiu. They are just two competitors on the same econ
omic stage. There’s a McDonald’s across the road from the Royal Shakespeare Theatre in Stratford-upon-Avon in England. William Shakespeare and Ronald McDonald — again two more competitors, one stage. If you want the dollars, you carry the freight. There is no alternative, elder brother.’
There was a brief silence then, at the end of that first meeting, as Xiang seemed to be considering Charles’s enthusiastic words.
Here in Guangzhou, little more than a week before Hong Kong became Xianggang and reverted to Chinese control, the elder brother from Beijing was out of his depth. There was a rising tide of Westernisation sweeping in from Hong Kong. In the old days, it would have been rigorously suppressed and those who spread the infection, like Charles himself and his friend Paul Huw, would have been torn down root and branch. But this infection which was so threatening to the past was in fact the germ of the future, and Xiang Lo-wu recognised this. Regretted it, but recognised it. And the gentle, quiet, infinitely devious elder brother was looking for a way to get along with it. No, to go further — to turn it to the Middle Kingdom’s advantage. For, to take the analogy to its logical conclusion, if a part of China could catch the germ of Westernism and survive, then its experience could be used as a kind of vaccine to protect the health of China as a whole. And the final elegance of this proposition arose from the fact that Westernism had made the West itself relatively weak.
In terms of global economics, China was surrounded by greedy self-indulgent societies with flabby economies dependent on restrictive practices and trade protectionism to protect their lazy, greedy work forces. In a world like this, a lean and hungry China, ready, willing and able to produce anything for which there was an appreciable demand, proof against the excesses which had torn the USSR apart, with a work force of mathematically infinite size and illimitable potential, would be a tiger in a chicken run. And, Charles was beginning to realise, there was a strong possibility that Elder Brother Xiang Lo-wu wanted him to be the medical consultant in all of this;the consultant who would deliver a controlled dose of Westernism to the body of Sechuan through the hypodermic of Hong Kong. But where did that put him with regard to Heritage Mariner? And where did the current court case place Heritage Mariner with regard to China?
Such were the thoughts which occupied the business executive’s mind as he looked southwards towards Hong Kong on the early evening of Thursday, 20 June, with the Yangsheng Wanabo idly between his fingers.
The square figure of Xiang loomed darkly across his view, blocking out the prospect of Hong Kong suddenly. ‘What brings you here, elder brother?’
Xiang looked down at him with an absolutely expressionless countenance. ‘We noticed that in your stay here, your lengthy stay here, you have not ventured into the Quingpinglu.’
‘I have had no need of the market, elder brother, nor desire to explore.’
‘Oh, but surely, for old times’ sake. So much of your merchandise used to turn up here, almost as much as used to arrive in Cat Street, Xianggang.’
‘No, really …’ Charles suddenly felt ill at ease. The man he saw before him now was subtly different from the Xiang Lo-wu with whom he had been dealing this last six weeks; someone more decisive, more dangerous. But perhaps that was just a misapprehension arising from his earlier thoughts. ‘Well, why not …’
Side by side Charles and Xiang walked across the bustle of the afternoon city rush hour towards the market area. The rush hour in Guangzhou was a matter of pedestrians and cyclists, buses and the occasional tram. There were few, if any, cars involved. And, as the hour of departure from work was upon them, this was the most popular time for business at the market. As the two businessmen walked in silence along Renmin Road, they became subsumed in a bustling tide of humanity, all intent upon leaving work, buying something tasty to take home and getting home to prepare, share and eat it. Some, who did not harbour the parochial desire to cook for themselves, lingered at the roadside snack stalls, dipping pieces of lightly stir-fried, ginger-stuffed carp into little bowls of light soy sauce and then slipping them down their throats. No matter what was done, it was done with a busy intensity which Charles had seen in few places beyond downtown New York.
‘Are we going anywhere in particular, elder brother?’ Charles asked eventually as Xiang turned purposefully into Nurenjie.
‘Yes, we are. I wish to show you some local industry. The attitude is, I believe, instructive.’ Even as he said this, Xiang arrived at a tall wooden door which stood behind a row of stalls. The stalls themselves specialised in the sale of framed prints. On paper, plastic and silk, pictures of lotus blossoms and humming birds were reproduced in a range of inks. Mountains, islands, dragons and tigers stood beside them, with the occasional monkey for good effect. And the premises into which Xiang led Charles Lee were all too obviously the origin of these wares. Row upon row of illustrators sat, each one specialising in the creation and recreation of exactly the same picture. Lotus after lotus and lily upon lily. Each one perfect. Each one identical to the one before. Each one the result of a few minutes’ work, repeated and repeated. ‘This is most commendable,’ said Charles, feeling a little out of his depth. ‘Are you suggesting, elder brother, that there is a ready market for these artefacts in the West?’
‘Unfortunately not,’ answered Xiang, abruptly, almost roughly. ‘But there seems to be a ready market for this!’ As he spoke, he pushed open an inner door to reveal another room, almost as big as the first and every bit as busy. Here, however, the pictures were not representations of flowers, animals, birds or natural scenes. Here, time after time, were perfect representations of Chanel check, the Givenchy logo, Burberry check, the Gucci colours, Harrods gold and green.
‘There is more,’ said Xiang, his voice heavy with disapproval. He proceeded, pushing through to a deeper, darker area. Here, men and women were concentrating absolutely on the reproduction of product identification tags — Rolex, Hi-Tech, Reebok, Cartier, Alfred Dunhill. Like Virgil leading Dante downwards, Xiang led Charles to a deeper circle of this industrious little Hades. Here they were reproducing company-guaranteed part-identification stamps: Rolls-Royce, Pratt and Whitney, British Aerospace, Westland, Bell, Sikorsky, Harland and Wolff, Mitsubishi Heavy Industries, Ford, Rover, General Motors, Ferrari, Lamborghini. In the face of this, Charles remained silent; he knew what damage could be done by a part of an engine identified as being genuine but actually a fake.
There was more yet. In a dingy little back room saved for last on moral as well as economic grounds, a team of illustrators were producing pictures for the pornography market. From a basic series of pictures of naked forms in various revealing poses, the artists were reproducing drawing after drawing of women and a few men undergoing a mind-numbing range of trials and tribulations, most of which would have resulted in an agonising death had a real person been required to experience them.
‘Where there is a market, you see, we can supply the demand more cheaply than anywhere else. Any market. Any demand.’
Charles was beginning to feel badly wrong-footed now. He had articulated part of his economic credo and this was the result. Or, as he began to realise, the first part of the result. For Xiang swept him back out into the market. With his eyes attuned to what they were looking for now, he began to see it all around him. On the stalls which lined the narrow roadway were piles of contraband. Yves St Laurent shirts, Reebok footwear, leisurewear by Tacchini and Lacoste. Perfumes by Chanel and Kalvin Klein. CDs and videodiscs by Paramount and Philips. Computer software by IBM and Apple. Games by Sega and Nintendo. Videos by Amblin, Virgin and Disney. The two men walked through the bustling black market as though unaware of the increasing tension in the air around them. It was not until they reached the end of the narrow roadway that Charles realised the reason for this atmosphere. Drawn up across the street was a line of uniformed men.
‘It is the job of the Excise officers to control such activities,’ said Xiang. ‘And this contingent is just about to close down every stall in the market which deal
s in illegal merchandise, and the factories which supply them. We will not, you see, Comrade Lee, deal in such stuff. Now or ever. But first, perhaps you will allow me to introduce you to the officer commanding these Excise officers. He is with the Navy of the People’s Republic and acting coastguard commander for this province. His name is Huw Pei-chun.’
And so the two old friends, Charles Lee and Paul Huw, stood face to face at the end of Renmin Road, within arm’s reach of one another for the first time in more than twenty years. And if they recognised each other, neither of them showed it.
Charles Lee realised that he had perhaps underestimated everyone and everything around him, even if this climactic meeting with his childhood partner in crime was a coincidence. Most especially, Charles had underestimated Xiang Lo-wu and the mortal danger he was in.
*
Robin woke up with a crippling headache and the fleshcrawling feeling that she had been intimately interfered with. She sat bolt upright in a strange bunk on the Seram Queen, even as Charles Lee stood riven in Renmin Road, Guangzhou, away to the north of her; and Richard, despairingly, began to tear up her photographs in the Queen Elizabeth Hospital on Wylie Road, Hong Kong, not quite so far north but a little further to the east. And, far to the south and west, Edgar Tan was heading impatiently towards the offices of Beautiful Views Ltd, on Rizal Avenue, Manila. Robin’s first action was to clasp her hands to her head, which throbbed with a piercingly intense pain. She was wearing a rough skullcap of padded gauze through which her hair seemed to be poking in an uncontrolled riot, like briars through a wicker fence. The next thing she did, prompted by the strange feeling on her burning skin, was to bring her hands down to her shirt. The buttons were largely undone. Her shorts seemed to be awry. When she looked down, she was confronted with a gape of crumpled cotton, a couple of generously exposed lace cups and a great deal more cleavage than she had shown at any time since her wedding night.
‘Where in hell’s name …’ she said aloud, looking around at last. There was some relief here at least. As acting medical officer, one of the first facilities she had checked out was the ship’s medical room. And that was where she found herself to be, in the one bunk which comprised the rudimentary isolation ward.