‘I doubt that she will tell anyone. She values her job too much,’ said Ng.
Cheng inclined his head slightly, a half nod that let Ng know that he had once again offended the old man. Shit, he thought, and before he could stop himself the thought that Chinese were always so fucking easy to upset flashed through his mind. There were times when he no longer thought of himself as Chinese, he thought like an American, he talked like an American, and in most things he acted like an American, and he now found the Asian sensitivity, ‘face’ as they called it, infuriating at times. Patience was one of the virtues he had left behind him when he moved to San Francisco.
‘But best we do not give her the opportunity,’ he added, hoping that would mollify Cheng. He patted the old man on the back and watched as he went back into the study.
He called Lin and Tse in from the outside and went with them back into the lounge. He explained to them about the photographs and told Lin to speak to Cheng about the tape and the prints and to handle it. The phone rang as he was talking and Tse picked it up, listened, and then cursed loudly. He banged down the receiver hard enough to jolt the table and his eyes were glaring as he turned back to face Ng.
‘Some prick reporter from the South China Morning Post saying he’d heard a rumour that Lung Tau had been killed.’
‘Tell him to go fuck his mother.’
Tse grinned. ‘Already done,’ he said.
Ng pointed his finger at Tse, stabbing the air as he spoke. ‘And tell everyone to keep their mouths shut. There’s only one way a reporter could have found out what’s happening and that’s if one of our brothers spoke out of turn. No one, repeat no one, is to discuss this outside the triad. Spread the word round.’
The grin vanished from Tse’s face and he nodded and grunted, avoiding Ng’s glare.
‘About the pictures, Mister Ng,’ said Lin.
‘What?’
‘How do we get so many printed so quickly?’
‘Make sure we get several negatives, and then take them to the developing shops that we control. They have machines for such things. Give five hundred to the Red Poles and have them show them at all the hotels and guest houses. Take five hundred to my father’s house.’ He couldn’t bother explaining why and dismissed Lin with a wave of his hand. He hadn’t forgotten that it was Lin who was supposed to be guarding his brother when he was taken. Tse stood by the door, shifting his weight from foot to foot, before deciding to go with Lin.
Ng called for the maid and she practically ran out of the kitchen, nervous hands clutching at her white apron.
‘Get me a martini,’ he said.
‘I’m sorry, sir?’ she said, looking close to tears.
‘A martini. Make me a martini, please. A very dry one.’
Now there were tears in her big, brown eyes. ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ she said in a small voice. ‘I don’t know what a martini is.’
‘For God’s sake, can’t anyone do anything here!’ Ng yelled. ‘I’ll make it myself then.’
The girl backed away from him and Ng suddenly felt sorry for her. She was a pretty young thing, nineteen years old or so, long lean legs, firm breasts that moved under her blue uniform as she breathed and skin that matched the colour of the parquet flooring. Her lips were full and red even without lipstick, and her eyelashes had no need of mascara.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, smiling. ‘I did not mean to shout.’
‘I’m sorry, sir, I’m sorry,’ she repeated, and continued to back away until she reached the kitchen door, then she whirled around and was gone in a flurry of brown, white and blue.
Filipinas were every bit as sensitive as Chinese, he thought ruefully. He was going to have to get used to operating under Hong Kong rules again.
Sophie sat on the toilet, the lid down, her knees up against her chest, rocking slowly from side to side. Her throat was aching, and she felt hot all over. She’d waited until she was sure that the man had left the junk and then she’d screamed for all she was worth, but no one had come and eventually she’d given up. She’d kicked the door until her feet hurt and she’d tried rattling it to see if she could loosen the lock but it had been no good. She drank a little water from the tap above the tiny triangular washbasin but her throat still hurt. There was no airconditioning and the air in the confined space was hot and stuffy. There was a pink flannel on the side of the washbasin and she ran cold water over it and then used it to wipe her face.
For the hundredth time she looked around for a way out, but with the door firmly locked and no porthole she could see that she was trapped. She was hungry. She’d eaten the cheese sandwich an hour after he’d left. Surely the fact that he’d given her so little food meant he was coming back soon? Or perhaps it meant that he’d left her to starve. She sobbed but no tears came; she was all cried out.
Howells opened his eyes to see the huge tongue of the crocodile, spilling out of its mouth between padded teeth. He knew exactly how the beast felt, his own tongue felt furred and far too big for his own mouth. There was a mug of coffee on a small table by the side of the bed. He raised himself up and reached for it with his left hand, ignoring the burning sensation in his right shoulder. It was cold but he drank it, swilling it around his mouth before swallowing to get rid of the bitter taste that made him think of chewed aspirins. He moved to put the empty mug back but the strength failed him and it clattered down on the table and fell to the floor.
Amy came running into the bedroom. ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked, kneeling by his side.
‘Nothing,’ he grinned sheepishly. ‘I dropped the cup, that’s all. I’m sorry.’
‘The doctor say you will be weak for some time, Geoff. You must relax until your strength comes back.’
‘I’ll be OK,’ he said. ‘I heal fast.’
She ran her hand along the back of his neck, rubbing the small, curly hairs there.
‘He said someone shot you before. Many times. He saw the scars. And a knife scar on your leg.’
‘Old ones,’ Howells laughed. ‘I’m faster now.’
‘Not so fast,’ she said. ‘Or you not be lying in my bed.’
‘I can’t argue with you there, Amy. I think the doctor was right.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘About water being a good idea. Could you get me a glass?’
‘Of course.’ She walked behind him, out of vision, and he heard a door open and the sound of running water. She came back and lifted a glass to his lips and held it there until he’d emptied it.
‘More?’ she asked.
‘No thanks, that’s fine. What time is it?’
‘About seven o’clock.’
‘At night?’ The curtains were drawn and the window was behind him, so he had no idea if it was day or night.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Listen, Geoff. I have to go work.’
‘Work?’
‘The Washington Club. I have to be there at eight o’clock or big trouble for me.’
‘Tell them you’re sick.’
‘I can’t.’
‘You can.’
‘You don’t understand. If I don’t go to work they will fine me double my bar fine. And mamasan fine me for every hour I am late. It is a rule.’
‘Even if you’re sick.’
She nodded. ‘Unless I have a letter from the doctor. And anyway, they saw me leave with you last night. They will not believe me. They will think I am with you and not charging you bar fine. It will mean big trouble for me. Better for me to go.’
Howells didn’t want her to go – not that he was worried about being left alone; he was worried that while away from him she might have second thoughts, and he was in no fit state to take care of himself, just yet. He healed fast, but not that fast. ‘Can’t I pay your bar fine?’ he asked.
‘You do not have much money left, Geoff,’ she said quietly.
‘You checked,’ said Howells, allowing the bitterness into his voice.
She looked crestfallen, and bit her lower lip. �
�No,’ she said. ‘You gave me your wallet to pay bar fine last night. There was not a lot left after I paid. I did not check on you.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I take that back.’ The last thing he needed now was to get her angry at him. He reached over and held her hand. ‘I really am grateful to you,’ he said. ‘When I’m well I’ll make it up to you, I promise.’
She stood up, and smoothed down her jeans. In casual clothes she looked an unlikely hooker, more like a student or playgroup leader, a cheerful, bouncy girl, in faded denims and white training shoes. She walked behind him again and refilled the glass with water. This time she sat on the bed, and ran her long fingernails down his back, gently scraping the flesh, and being careful to keep away from the injured shoulder.
‘I won’t be long, Geoff. The doctor will be back early tomorrow. I will be here before then.’ Howells sighed, too tired to argue. ‘No need to worry,’ she said. ‘I not tell anyone.’
Grey thought long and hard before ringing the American. Like a grandmaster considering all the options to the nth degree, he replayed countless scenarios in his mind: coming clean and telling his superiors what he’d done; early retirement under a cloud; relying on the notoriously inefficient Chinese to track Howells down and try again; recruiting another freelance and buying his way out. Unpalatable as it was, asking Greg Hamilton for help seemed to be the only way of salvaging the situation, and his career.
Hamilton was his opposite number in the CIA, equivalent rank and status and three times the salary with a former model for a wife and a lawyer for a son. They arranged to meet in Hyde Park on a day when the wind was cold enough to keep the Trafalgar Square pigeons huddled on ledges with their heads tucked under their wings for warmth, but not harsh enough to deter the scavenging ducks on the Serpentine. So much for summer. Grey had a perfectly adequate office halfway up Century House but he rarely used it to meet contacts from outside the Service. He preferred to meet people on their own territory, or on neutral ground, and he made it a rule never to brief his operatives in his office. Both men wore overcoats, Grey in a dark blue Savile Row wool overcoat and Hamilton in standard CIA issue Burberry. Hamilton was six or seven years younger than Grey, but the age difference seemed wider thanks to the American’s all-year-round tan and snappy dress sense.
Grey kept his head down as he walked, his chin thrust hard against his chest. He looked to be deep in thought but Hamilton knew that all the thinking had been done long before he’d got to this stage. Grey wanted something, something that couldn’t be discussed in his office, something that embarrassed the man. Grey wanted a boon, a favour that at some point Hamilton would be able to call in, so he waited patiently as they walked along the side of the lake. A handful of inquisitive ducks paddled over, backsides twitching furiously, eyes alert for food as they kept pace with the walking men.
‘I have a problem,’ said Grey eventually, talking to his tie. For a moment Hamilton wondered if the man might be wired, but disregarded the thought. If Grey had wanted to record the conversation he could simply have arranged it to have taken place in his office. He kept silent. The ducks gave up and paddled over to a couple of secretaries sitting on a wooden bench and eating sandwiches.
‘Do you remember an operative of ours called Howells?’
‘The psychopath?’
Grey sighed into his jacket. ‘I do wish people would stop calling him that. The psychologists labelled him a sociopath.’
‘With homicidal tendencies.’
Grey looked up and smiled thinly. ‘Whatever.’
‘Howells is your problem? I thought our headshrinkers had solved that one for you.’
‘They did. They did a first-class job, too. He was as docile as a lamb by the time they’d finished with him. We put him out to grass.’
‘So what’s the problem?’
Grey took a deep breath. ‘He’s back.’
‘Back?’
‘In action.’
‘That couldn’t happen.’
The two men walked in silence again. Hamilton didn’t want to press Grey, it had to come in his own time. Any pressure and he’d be frightened off.
‘We brought him back. And now it’s gone wrong.’
‘He’s dead?’
‘No, no. Quite the opposite in fact. He’s the one doing the killing.’
‘But I thought our boys had put a stop to that. They neutered him, no?’
‘Yes, they did. But we needed him for a job. In Hong Kong.’
‘Jesus Christ. You started him killing again? Howells?’ Anger flared in Hamilton’s eyes but he dampened it quickly. He’d never seen Grey like this before, and if he played it right it would give him an edge over the Brits that he’d be able to use to full advantage.
‘One of our own psychologists was on the team that treated him and he’d left a trapdoor in their programming, a way of reactivating the Howells of old. And we used it. We turned him back into a killer.’
‘But to kill who?’
‘A triad leader in Hong Kong.’
Hamilton didn’t need to mention the fact that the colony was outside Grey’s normal jurisdiction. The Brits’ activities were supposedly confined to internal security, the British Isles, and, on one occasion, Gibraltar, but that had required special authorization from the PM. In fact, the more Hamilton heard of this story the more he was sure that when Grey said ‘we’ he actually meant ‘I’. Grey had been running some sort of maverick operation which had come unstuck. And whatever it was, it was serious enough for him not to be able to use his own people to put it right. He could feel the excitement mounting inside as he realized that if he played his cards right he was going to end up with his own man inside British Intelligence. A man who owed him.
‘Did he do the job?’
‘Perfectly. As usual.’
‘So what’s the problem?’
Grey lifted his chin off his chest and turned to look at the American. They stood stock-still, facing each other like gunfighters about to draw their six-guns.
‘Let’s sit down,’ said Grey, and he waved Hamilton towards an empty bench. A young girl with long blonde hair wearing a scruffy sheepskin jacket and faded jeans ran past with an unkempt spaniel tugging at a lead. Grey wished he had his dogs with him. You could rely on dogs, they wore their loyalty and their trust on their faces. Dogs couldn’t disguise their emotions; if they were happy their tails wagged and their eyes sparkled, if they were sad or guilty they wouldn’t meet your gaze and they’d slink around. A dog couldn’t lie even if it wanted to.
He sat with his legs pressed together, his hands resting in his lap. Hamilton crossed his legs and reached into his inside jacket pocket for a pack of Silk Cut.
‘Do you mind?’ he asked. Grey lied and said no, he didn’t. The American’s lighter was gunmetal grey, one of the old-fashioned type where the top of it opened and flicked into life with hard downward jabs of the thumb. A Zippo. Grey looked at it and wondered if the CIA man was bugged – the lighter looked big enough to hold a full stereo system. Not that it mattered. The American was Grey’s last hope and to enlist his help meant putting himself completely in his power. Grey had resigned himself to that and to all its implications, and having it on tape wouldn’t make a blind bit of difference.
Hamilton drew deeply on his cigarette. Smoke blew across Grey’s face and he stifled the urge to cough with a gloved hand. It was time to take control, Hamilton realized. ‘Tell me what happened,’ he said quietly. Grey told him. Everything. About Donaldson. About the mission. About Howells’ phone call from Hong Kong. About the attempt to kill Howells and how it had all gone wrong.
‘And now he’s going to be after you?’ The question was obviously rhetorical but Grey nodded.
‘And what is it you want? Protection?’
‘More than that. I want him taken care of.’ Grey looked down at his gloves. ‘You understand why I can’t do anything myself?’
‘Sure.’ Hamilton blew a plume of smoke through clenched teet
h and it formed a veil in front of his face. ‘I can’t get over the way you used Donaldson like that.’
‘He was a paedophile. A grade A security risk just waiting to be uncovered by someone. And don’t tell me you haven’t done the same in the past.’
‘I can’t argue with that,’ said the American. ‘It’s becoming a shitty business.’
‘It’s always been a shitty business, as you so eloquently put it.’
‘Yeah, but it seems to be getting worse. Dirtier.’
‘Don’t delude yourself,’ said Grey. ‘It’s always been this way. Have you ever read The Art of War by Sun Tzu?’
‘I’m waiting for the video to come out,’ said Hamilton, but his attempt at humour was lost on Grey.
‘He was one of the world’s greatest military strategists. He wrote his book in China in 500 BC, almost two and a half thousand years ago. Just think about that. Two and a half thousand years. His book is a classic on the subject of warfare, and the use of secret agents.’ He was warming to the subject now, his gloved hands clenching into fists in his lap. ‘He realized that any army’s main purpose was to administer the coup de grâce, to go in for the kill when the enemy has been weakened. That still applies today. There’s nothing more futile than a battle between two equally matched forces. It’s only worth fighting if you are sure to win.’
Hamilton let the Brit talk, calm on the outside as he drew on his cigarette, but inside he was in turmoil, as excited as the yapping spaniel.
‘He defined secret agents as being in five classes: native, inside, double, expendable and living. And he tells a story of an expendable agent, a condemned man who was taken on to the payroll, disguised as a monk and given a ball of wax containing a secret message to swallow before being sent into an enemy stronghold. He was captured and told them everything as soon as they started to interrogate him. They waited for the wax ball to make its appearance and opened it to find a message from the monk’s spy master to one of their generals. It was fake, of course. The completely innocent general and the expendable monk spy were both executed. And that was two and a half thousand years ago.’
Hamilton nodded and dropped the butt of his cigarette on to the path, grinding it with the heel of a highly polished shoe. No laces, Grey noticed.
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