by John Burdett
“Unless Clare and the others are found,” Moira said. “I guess the general will want to close the credibility gap if that happens.”
Chow smiled benevolently. “We are a powerful, rich and well-connected organization, Mrs. Coletti. You have my word, that will never happen. We know he watches the airport, which is why we are keeping them safely for the time being in Hong Kong. They are being given plastic surgery. At an appropriate moment they will be brought back to this country and given new identities.”
Moira nodded, stared at the floor for a moment, then put a hand on Mario’s arm. “You did well, honey. You came up trumps.”
The face on the pillow smiled gratefully.
54
D ear Charlie,
It’s not the way you think. Read this fax. You can be wrong too, you know.
These are strange times. I wept real tears that day in your apartment because I didn’t know anything except I was supposed to save Clare’s life by delivering phony dental records to you. I still don’t know how you guessed I was part of the scam, you really are one smart cop. But I knew next to nothing. All they told me was that she had to get a new identity real fast and those records were the only way to do it. I wept because she was the one caused suffering to three others, and because even if she lived, I knew that I’d lost her.
Take a moment to hear me out, Charlie. All that stuff you say about China raping its people-you think it doesn’t apply to Americans too? Our system rapes; it just uses different concepts to do it. I spent my life patrolling the streets of this city, and it took everything I had, my husband, my daughter and even my good character. When I met you, she was all I had in the world. Nothing to be proud of, God knows, but she called me Mom. What would you have done for your flesh and blood? I think you would have held the world ransom if you’d had to.
I don’t know. Bad as she was, she was more flake than sadist. Heroin, you know, makes monsters.
There I go, blowing the punch line and leaving out the details. I got it all written down. Mario and some Chinese triad boss told me everything. Soon as I got home I typed out all I could remember, which is most of it. It goes like this:
That stuff he told you about Clare convincing the mob to develop the relationship with China was mostly BS. Ever since the Sicilians multiplied their operation by opening up the Russia market, the New York boys have been looking for a way into China. It’s a policy that comes from high up. They got lucky when the 14K asked them to look for best-quality uranium to supply to Xian. Apparently Xian’s been trading with the 14K for a while, mostly supplying heroin. The Mob and the 14K sent a party over with the uranium and some stuff they thought might interest him-free gifts, samples, treasures to the Great Khan, whatever…
Chan read on quickly to the last lines:
Why did we let these subhuman mutants get so powerful?
God help me, I love you. Whether you forgive me or not, I’m coming over on the first flight I can get tourist class. Take extraspecial care of yourself. There’s more to this. I got a feeling there’s something really bad-I mean, even worse-about to go down. Whatever you think of me, don’t die.
Moira
P.S. How did you know that I was conning you with those records? I could have been an innocent courier.
Chan crushed the fax into a ball, threw it in the waste bin in his kitchen. Then he took it out again, reread it. On a sheet of A4 paper he wrote: “Chinese intuition.” He slipped the page into the fax machine; then, softening again, he took it out and added: “You were too good a cop not to know.” It took only seconds to transmit to America.
***
In his office Chan took out the Sony Dictaphone, walked up and down the length of his office while Aston watched and listened.
“File one-two-eight/mgk/HOM/STC status report continued.
I must reluctantly conclude that the overzealous action of the SAS officers stated above has made it difficult, if not impossible, to proceed with the investigation into an elaborate criminal plot of international dimensions that is almost certainly related to the discovery of weapons-grade uranium at Mirs Bay (see related subfile A).”
He stopped under the weight of Aston’s misery.
“You didn’t kill her, did you, Chief?”
“No.”
“So who did?”
“It’s classified.”
At his desk in Queen’s Building Jonathan Wong opened a new black fiberglass briefcase with a centralized combination lock. He rotated the dials until he aligned three eights and the case snapped open. Three eights was not exactly good security, but there was a balance to be struck: Eight was a lucky number in Cantonese.
From inside the case he extracted an envelope with forty-four color pictures. Each photograph measured eight inches by ten inches, and each was a close-up. After examining a few of them with an expression of frozen disgust, he replaced them in the envelope. Taking a slip of paper that bore his name and the name and address of his firm, he wrote: “Mr. Chow, please be so kind as to telephone me on receipt of this package.” He slipped the note into the envelope and resealed it.
Lifting his telephone, he pressed a button and asked his secretary to call a clerk who was to bring a Federal Express package and waybill. While the clerk waited, Wong filled out the waybill, giving the destination of the package with the photographs as “Stocklaw Trading Company, 220 West 57th Street, New York, NY 10019, Strictly Confidential, Personal Attention only: Mr. Daniel Chow, President.” After slipping the original envelope inside the FedEx cardboard package, Wong nodded to the clerk, who took it away. It was eleven in the morning; the package would be on an afternoon flight to New York and would arrive within three working days.
55
Chan classified his unsolved cases into two groups: where the identity of the perpetrator was unknown and he had no leads and where he knew who had done it but lacked crucial evidence. With regard to the second category, in his opinion it was a mistake for the perpetrator to antagonize the investigator to the point where the latter is driven to unlawful means. Emily had been murdered by whoever had framed him. Would Xian have used a Chanel belt?
Behind a banyan tree near the drive at the entrance to Beauchamp Villas, his service revolver in an arm holster, Chan waited for two evenings for the green Jaguar to leave. On the third evening he watched from the shadows while the diplomat drove away at his usual speed at about eight in the evening. He was wearing a dinner jacket and black bow tie. With the Jag’s sun roof open Chan could hear the chants of Gregorian monks fade quickly away. He emerged from behind the tree and walked up the drive. The heat was opressive. By the end of the short walk he was sweating and out of breath, but not only from the heat. Did everyone suffer from molten bowels on his first major crime?
He used his identity card to pass the security at the gate. On the fifth floor he took thin cotton gloves from his pocket and slipped them on; his hands shook as he used a skeleton key for the deadlock and a piece of flat plastic on the Yale. I am committing the first burglary of my career.
Apart from dim light that filtered through from the public lamps on the sidewalk, the apartment was unlit, empty. Closing the door behind him, he breathed in the delicious cool from the silent air-conditioning unit. Sweat cooled on his face and arms. The luxury of space calmed his nerves a little. He took out a small flashlight. He had stopped shaking, but he noted a profound division in his policeman’s psyche: He was an outlaw in another man’s home at night.
He framed me.
What to look for and where to start? His flashlight picked out the priceless carpets and the antique rifle on the wall. The collection of opium pipes in their glass case looked as untouched as a museum piece. Where does a scholar keep his secrets? He padded softly down the hall to the library.
On the lectern facing the window an open volume of poems in Chinese waited. The Englishman had made notes and produced one full translation:
Blue, blue is the grass about the river
An
d the willows have overfilled the close garden
And within, the mistress, in the midmost of her youth,
White, white of face, hesitates, passing the door.
Slender, she puts forth a slender hand;
And she was a courtesan in the old days,
And she has married a sot,
Who now goes drunkenly out
And leaves her too much alone.
Chan paused over the poem. Over the top of the page Cuthbert had scrawled the single word “Emily.” Flicking through the notes, Chan found some instructions the diplomat had given himself:
“Tell Hill fix mold on trees. Service car before end month. Change for Nepal (plus get visa). Cash to safe.”
Safe? His spirits fell. The ability to break into a flat or house was a skill a detective picked up during the course of business. Safecracking was an exotic specialization involving welding equipment, etc. Homicide didn’t do safes.
He found it behind a false facade in a corner of the room. It was about four feet high, two feet thick and two and a half feet wide-and locked. He was sitting on the floor in front of it, feeling futile and foolish, when the door opened and a light flicked on.
Cuthbert’s bow tie was undone and lay across the ruffs of his dress shirt. In his hand he held the largest revolver Chan had ever seen. The diplomat’s face was ashen.
“I thought you’d try the library first.” He strode further into the room. “You’ve been by the banyan tree for the past two evenings. I saw you. Telescope. You’ve deduced that I killed her and think perhaps I kept that tape recording.” Cuthbert raised the huge revolver, pointed it vaguely in Chan’s direction. “I feel as if I’ve been trying to get rid of you forever.”
“I finally noticed,” Chan said. “Big gun.”
Cuthbert grunted. Keeping the gun pointed in Chan’s direction, he walked over to the chesterfield, sat and emitted a long sigh. After a moment he raised the gun again, pointed it at Chan’s head. “Well, this is the moment of truth. If I killed her, I would have no choice but to kill you, would I? I could say you burgled me, which is true, and I fired in self-defense. I assume that bulge under your jacket is a service revolver.”
Chan closed his eyes. He heard Cuthbert pull the trigger. Chan was still shuddering seconds after the hammer clicked on the empty chamber.
Cuthbert threw the gun onto the carpet. “You really are the most unbelievable pain in the arse. And for a homicide detective, pretty damned ignorant about firearms. No ammunition has been available for the Civil War LeMat in over fifty years.”
“I’m sorry,” Chan said in Cantonese. “Your erudition is truly masterful. I am overwhelmed.” In English he added: “Even if you didn’t kill her, you framed me.” He was still twitching.
“True.”
“Why?”
Cuthbert spoke in a clipped, bitter voice. “Because I was allowed to. London changed its mind-after a lot of coaxing, I might add. I had to use the governor to go over Henderson’s head to the minister. Henderson’s hopping mad. But I was right, damn it. There was no reason at all not to delay the case until after June; I was simply keeping you out of the way until then. Of course this was before you found that American lesbian and her friends. The cat’s out of the bag now. We can leave you to Xian. If we move fast, we can reinstate you prior to your assassination.”
Still in shock, Chan tried to concentrate. Bitter recrimination was not the reaction one normally expected from a murder suspect. Not in Mongkok anyway. “Who’s Henderson?”
Cuthbert sat back on the sofa, pinched the bridge of his nose. “A fat, androgynous glutton who runs Britain.”
“And you had me framed to get me off the case?”
“I have the authorization from the minister.”
“But I was kept on the case?”
“Thank Commissioner Ronald Tsui for that. I underestimated him. Quite the paper warrior.”
Chan remembered the way Tsui had not looked at him when they accused him of murdering Emily.
“Tsui knew I was innocent? He knew you set me up?” He could not suppress a note of hope. How very Chinese, to want to set the record straight with Authority as one was dragged before the firing squad.
“He knew nothing, but I think he guessed.”
“Ah, yes. Only the white mandarins would have shared the stratagem.” He endured Cuthbert’s stare. “I’m going to stand up now.” An odd thing to say; he found it difficult to believe that Cuthbert did not have some other weapon concealed, ready to attack.
“You may as well. I suppose we have things to discuss.”
Chan stood. When Cuthbert failed to produce an antique gun from his jacket, Chan flapped his arms nervously. Never burgle an Englishman; he may come home and want to talk. But Cuthbert seemed lost in thought.
“You faked the fingerprint evidence on Emily’s belt? It’s professional curiosity that makes me ask.”
The diplomat seemed to relax. He sat back a little on the sofa, sighed.
“MI6 are still capable of certain elementary tasks, not that one would trust them with something important. You’ve no idea how proud they are that they managed to break into Arsenal Street forensic laboratory without getting caught.” Cuthbert scowled. “For the best description of the English psyche, look to Lewis Carroll.”
Warily Chan moved around the room. He glanced back at the lectern.
“You didn’t kill her? You knew I was coming? And you wrote her name at the top of that poem?”
The diplomat stared at him. “Christ.” He shook his head. “I need a drink. Try not to think about anything while I’m gone. I’ve noticed it’s when you think that things most often take a turn for the worse.”
Cuthbert returned with a bottle of brandy and two balloon-shaped brandy glasses, which he placed on a coffee table near to the chesterfield. He poured until the glasses were about one-third full. Without waiting for Chan, he took two quick swallows. Chan saw that he had finished half the glass. Cuthbert took the silver cigarette case out of his jacket, threw a cigarette to Chan and lit one for himself, at the same time sitting down on the sofa. After an inhalation he swallowed the rest of the brandy and poured another glass.
“Drink,” Cuthbert said. “It may stop you thinking.”
Chan shrugged and picked up the glass. The Englishman had a point. Chan watched him swallow more brandy. He took a sip himself.
“Nice cognac.”
Cuthbert shook his head, apparently in disbelief. “D’you know that’s the only small talk I’ve ever heard from you? It takes a burglary, I suppose.”
“Nice cigarette.”
“Don’t, it’s painful.”
Chan reached out to touch a book titled A Photographer in Old Peking. With Cuthbert watching he pulled it from the shelf and flicked through it. To Chinese eyes, even a non-Communist, the pictures reflected a period of shame. Caucasian predators had flooded the Middle Kingdom. The worst sold opium and ruthlessly exploited the people; the best found it all very quaint. To understand someone like Cuthbert, one had to look with Western eyes. With the distance of time and the skillful positioning of the camera lens there was a haunting beauty in The Opium Smoker and His Son, The Jujube Seller, The Altar of Heaven by Moonlight. It was long before the Cultural Revolution; the old walls were there, still intact, and of course the gates that foreigners like Cuthbert lamented so deeply since Mao destroyed them: Hsi An Men, Ti An Men, Tung An Men and Hou Men. Chan closed the book.
“In your youth you had already decided to come East. You envisaged the life of a scholar-diplomat, with large old-fashioned Chinesestyle house, servants, Chinese mistress, occasional opium smoking with gentlemen with long white beards-that sort of thing?”
“Perhaps.”
“And perhaps Emily was part of this dream? True, you were over forty by then, and in Hong Kong, not China, but you had position, privilege and money. You could build your dream. It’s what people do when they get money.” Chan walked up to the diplomat. “She loved you
like a Chinese.” He hissed. “Fierce and true.”
Cuthbert winced. “At first, yes.”
“Until you sucked her into your game. You knew what Xian would do with her-”
“Damn and fuck Xian!” Chan stepped back when Cuthbert stood up and strode to the window. He turned to Chan. “He destroyed her. As he will destroy everything.” Chan saw the upper lip tremble, before he brought it under control. Cuthbert placed both hands on the lectern and looked down at the poem. He spoke slowly, enunciating every syllable.
“There must have been a dozen times over the past ten years during her insane tantrums when I wished to God she would do herself in. Then when she did”-he paused and swallowed-“I realized that I had loved her. Last night I was drunk as usual, and I saw her soul, so different to her personality. It was like the woman in that poem… unspeakably lonely, very female, very Chinese.”
The Englishman breathed deeply. “God knows why I left it lying around for you to find. Some sort of awful melodramatic reflex on my part, I suppose. I must have wanted your interrogation.” He took out the silver cigarette case, lit another cigarette, inhaled deeply. “She telephoned me just before, as she had on her previous suicide attempts. Unfortunately I wasn’t in. She left a message on my answering machine. She was dead by the time I arrived. Women handle guilt badly. To their credit, I suppose.” He shuffled among his papers on the lectern. “Or am I doing her an injustice? Here, you were supposed to find this as well.”
His hand shook slightly as he handed Chan a piece of red paper. Two lines were written in green felt tip: