by Hugh Franks
‘And of course,’ the Minister paused and looked at Mike directly, ‘you were not only his right-hand man, but perhaps the only one who could carry on his work. Furthermore,’ the Minister leaned forward, saying with intensity, ‘Dorman’s work must be continued!’
Mike suddenly felt strangely elated by the Minister’s words. They had nothing to do with flattery. Since the call from Scotland Yard, Mike was in no doubt about the seriousness of his own position in terms of his personal safety. But for Professor Dorman’s sake, he wanted to get to grips with the situation, and the sooner the better.
‘And,’ the Minister continued, ‘if you will take over, you will find that financial rewards will be in line with your successes. It could mean more money for your research work at Sussex later on.’
Mike stared at him and commented, ‘Well, that’s good to know, especially in terms of my research work.’ He wondered exactly what the Minister meant by ‘successes’.
The Minister smiled. ‘So will you take over officially?’
‘Officially?’
‘Yes, take over from Professor Dorman. Take over from where he left off.’
‘I think I already have,’ Mike said. ‘It’s a fait accompli.’
The smile broadened on the Minister’s face as he sat back in his chair. ‘Of course, you’ll have to give up your work at Sussex for the time being.’
Mike frowned, ‘You know, the Professor wanted me to continue my work and …’
The Minister started to speak, but checked himself and reached for a folder on his desk. He handed it to Mike, then added, ‘I want you to read that.’
Mike was a fast reader. He had to be, for in addition to his normal research work, there was the constant need to keep himself up to date with the new discoveries in medicine, discoveries that were leading to untold benefits for mankind. Within five or so minutes he had read the folder’s contents. During this time he often glanced momentarily at the Minister, who sat facing him, elbows on his desk, a grim, set and determined expression on his face.
When Mike finished reading the folder, he looked up, and said, ‘My God! This is a different world for me.’
Mike was thinking, where does an involvement like this end? Until this moment, he had not realised the considerable espionage and undercover work going on in connection with ENDS. It was not his kind of world. He said, ‘I’m a doctor in research, not an MI5 or Foreign Office type.’
‘My dear chap,’ the Minister chose his words carefully, ‘if we needed you to be involved in that, you wouldn’t be speaking to me, you would be at the Foreign Office.’ He smiled coolly and continued, ‘Get those thoughts out of your head. It’s finding the cause of ENDS that should concern you. In any event, Doctor, you’re not afraid of danger, are you?’
Mike answered equally coolly, ‘I don’t think I am. Are you?’
The Minister grinned. ‘Who knows how we would behave under stress? But we’re talking about our world, the world of democracy. I am sure that if you had to, you would fight for that world, for a better world.’
‘I am already working for a better world, a healthier one. I want to save life and prevent suffering. Not kill and cause pain!’
The Minister said, ‘Don’t imagine, Doctor, that I’m not in agreement with you on that, indeed, the record of my party since the last election …’
Mike listened to a party point being made, and was about to interrupt when the Minister said, ‘But when we have this terror, this mindless killing, it is necessary for us to kill as well. Sometimes, that is.’ The Minister struck his hands together. ‘Good God, Doctor, I’m not the Health Minister for fun! Do you think I like this kind of talk?’
For a moment Mike wondered if perhaps Norman Hall was not a pompous politician after all, although from the look in the man’s eyes, he doubted it. A politician, by definition, has to do whatever is in the party’s interest, whatever will win votes. And the present crisis would lose votes unless successful action was taken soon.
Mike said, ‘I don’t imagine you like some of the things mentioned in that folder.’
‘Exactly. Of course I don’t! But we have to be pragmatic. And Professor Dorman’s murder must be avenged, must it not?’
Vengeance, retribution, revenge. Mike abhorred the idea. But bringing Dorman’s killers to justice, that was a different matter. He took a deep breath. ‘All right, I accept. Officially.’
‘Good man, Doctor. Now I can brief you much further.’
Mike listened intently as the Minister began to outline the latest developments in the ENDS crisis, and by the end of a further half-hour, he also knew that he was in this crisis totally, right up to his neck in it, whether he liked it or not. To go back to Sussex now would be impossible, for until this terrible problem was solved, his own work as a research medic was of little purpose. Working with Professor Dorman, he had thought he knew all the implications of the ENDS crisis. But now he was beginning to understand the extent of these mysterious deaths and the degree of cover-up of the actual numbers: what the public relations boys and girls call ‘stamping on the headlines’ and ‘crisis management’, euphemisms for letting the public only read, see and hear what was good for them. And that was decided in Washington, London, and other capitals.
When the Minister stopped talking, Mike was a changed man. He would no longer be able to get on with his work as a free human being. He would not only have to concentrate on trying to resolve the ENDS crisis, he would also have to concentrate on staying alive. And what about Eleanor Johnson? He didn’t want to drag her into all this. Unless, perhaps, she was in it already? All his priorities had changed, but he was determined to get them right.
In China the anti-communist wave which had begun to flow across the country in the late 1980s, bringing hope to the students and then the peasants, had turned out to be a sham. After that, opposition parties had to stay underground, watched closely by the government. They were therefore largely ineffective. But the need for Western modernisation, equipment, help and advice gave the outward impression of reform, and cultural exchanges between China and the West had greatly increased. Chinatowns in America, Europe and Africa had expanded. Oriental medicine was more widely practised, with many Westerners turning to acupuncture as the best medical method of preventing as well as curing disease. Chinese propaganda was increasing an awareness of China and its history all over the West. Even the numbers of Chinese restaurants had grown in Western cities.
There was a large Chinese fishing junk, recently converted to a restaurant, that had a permanent anchorage near St Christopher’s Dock in London. It was to this restaurant that Eleanor and her American-Chinese companion were making their way after leaving Les Amis du Vin together. Eleanor felt more relaxed, interested to know that Dr Ah-Ming had attended the same university in Beijing as herself. She soon learned that he had left America to practise medicine in Hong Kong. She was fascinated by his description of the New China, and wanted to know more, much more, about what he called ‘the progressive and democratic China’. He told her that he divided his time equally between Beijing, Hong Kong and London.
Her tiredness had vanished, aided by the treatment of acupuncture she had given herself. From what he had said to her she had begun to understand why he had wanted to see her, to learn more about her work, but she still felt on edge, and did not understand why he wanted to see her so urgently, and so mysteriously; why he had spoken threateningly.
As she walked down the gangway at St Christopher’s Dock, she remembered the fishing junks of China. She had often visited them with her Chinese student friends. She remembered the discomfort; there was hardly any living space aboard. The entire area below was always the fish hold. The crew slept on a shelf in a row on the deck; they lived and ate on the deck.
As soon as she entered the junk with Dr Ah-Ming, all traces of the interior of a real junk disappeared. They could have been walking into a swanky restaurant in Mayfair. It was sumptuously furnished with modern Western-st
yle tables and chairs, and it was crowded with Western faces. She turned to Ah-Ming.
He smiled and said, ‘Not to worry. I can guarantee that the Peking Duck will be as it should be.’
‘But it’s packed. There isn’t a table for us.’
‘Oh but there is,’ he grinned at her and the next moment a Chinese waiter was guiding them towards an empty table for two, an empty, almost isolated table away from the main restaurant. Later she was to understand why that table had been chosen. For the moment, she merely expressed surprise at getting one so easily.
‘How come? Chinese influence?’ She laughed nervously at her own words.
‘That’s a good way of putting it. Of the ten fingers some are long and some are short.’
‘I remember that,’ she said as they sat down. ‘It means that there is no absolute equality in things, and some are more equal than others. But how did you know we would come here?’
‘A ready bamboo is in the mind. I always have a well-thought-out plan in advance. I knew we would want to come here.’
‘I see you are also treating me as the guest of honour. I’m sitting opposite the door.’
They ate with chopsticks and the customary soup was served at the end of the dinner. Conversation lapsed during the meal. The food was too good to spoil by talking. They shared a small bottle of Maotai, explosive, 120 per cent proof. Once he stood and toasted her with the words ‘Gan bei’. She raised her glass to the traditional eye level and said, ‘Cheers.’ It was all relaxed and very friendly.
It was over the green tea, very hot and weak, without sugar or milk, taken at the end of the meal, that they talked again. He asked her more questions about her work. There was a loud background of noise in the restaurant; even so, she kept her voice at a low pitch.
‘Why did you say to me, “Taking Tiger Mountain by Strategy”?’ she asked.
He smiled at her and answered, ‘Because we both knew that would get us together.’
She did not smile back, and replied, ‘You knew then what CTTM means? It came into being after the uprising in Beijing.’
He nodded and said, ‘You expressed support for CTTM during your days in China.’ She stared at him as he continued, ‘You left soon after that.’
Eleanor frowned. ‘Yes,’ she said. Then her voice sharpened. ‘What is it that you want of me?’
For an instant his aura of charm vanished. She became aware of a Chinese man with a merciless smile. She had met the type in Beijing, the fanatical communist type. But the expression faded as quickly as it had appeared.
‘Want of you?’
She gave him a stony stare and held back, refraining from speaking, playing the game the Chinese love themselves to play: asking questions instead of replying to them.
‘The gap between different kinds of work is as wide as if separated by mountains,’ she said in Chinese, then repeated her words in English. ‘The outsider knows no more of the secrets of our calling, than he knows of another country, does he?’
He frowned and said, ‘I am not expecting a mosquito to carry a mountain on its back, I am not asking you to attempt anything impossible, I am also not sure whether you can keep your mouth shut like a bottle.’ He smiled, thinly.
‘What you are saying is that when a word is out it belongs to another,’ she said. ‘I do not pass on information about my patients. I do not believe you would have arranged to see …’ She paused, looked around the restaurant, went on, ‘… to see me so extravagantly, if you had thought you could not trust me.’
He glanced sideways at her. ‘Are you so sure that your late husband was murdered?’
She gave him a startled glance. ‘Why, I …’ She fell into silence.
‘You never did see his face, did you? He was identified by a colleague. You were in such a state of shock, you said you did not want to see him.’
Her mind was in a whirl. He was telling the truth. Chen’s face had been so badly beaten that she was persuaded by his closest friend not to look at it. She had seen the covered body and kissed his hands. One thing was certain, she had not seen her husband’s face.
She stared at him. ‘I did not see his face, but I knew it was him. He wore a ring on his finger. I gave it to him. They were his hands. I know! I know they were! What are you trying to say to me?’
Although their table was secluded, she had raised her voice enough for some diners to turn their heads in her direction. She was glad of that, she felt frightened and lonely. The crowded restaurant reassured her.
‘Do keep your voice down. They were right.’
‘Who was right?’
‘They were. You can be very strong when you are angry. That’s what they told me. So please calm down. This meeting is merely to let you know that they haven’t forgotten you.’
The good food, the restaurant, were forgotten. This Chinese man, with his Western ways but Oriental habits, had taken her back in time to her years in China and before. Her husband; the thrill and excitement of her discoveries in Oriental medicine; and her disillusion with the great Chinese revolution, experiment in politics, too much experiment in politics, yet so often, following the history of Europe. For Tsars, read the Commissars; for royalty, read the Manchus. Then Nazism, Fascism, Communism, with democracy struggling to win through.
Her face had whitened, and she lowered her eyes to avoid his gaze. He had just said she was strong when she was angry. If only he knew the inner turmoil she was suffering!
She continued staring at the table top and said quietly, ‘They,’ she emphasised the word by repeating it slowly. ‘They. Are you trying to tell me that “they” murdered my husband?’
‘I did not say that. It’s good to hear you speaking quietly. Now listen carefully; they have reason to believe that you will be approached by people here …’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Listen to me, please. Approached by people here,’ he repeated, ‘hoping that you can assist them …’
Again she interrupted him with, ‘Assist them in what way? For God’s sake stop talking like a spy!’
‘Assist them.’ He was unmoved by her impatience, speaking now with a flat, even, hard tone of voice. ‘To investigate the causes of the mysterious deaths occurring at this time to help them solve the ENDS problem.’
‘What could I possibly do to help them?’
‘You alone will know that, and you owe much to China, do you not?’
This time fear struck her to the depths of her body, the kind that brings on a feeling of nausea. It reminded her vividly of questioning by the Beijing police.
‘What are you trying to say?’ She looked at Ah-Ming. Did they think they could use her for something, some plan, some plot? Events in her recent past suddenly began to make sense. It was like a jigsaw puzzle; she could at least see where some of the pieces fitted into the pattern. But one thing was certain: she could brush aside his innuendoes about her husband’s death – he was dead, murdered by a drug addict.
‘I don’t consider that I have a debt, as you put it, to China and …’
‘I did not put it that way,’ he interrupted. ‘I said you owe much to China!’
‘That’s the same thing!’
‘No. And what about your husband?’ Ah-Ming watched her with an expression of interest.
She returned it with one of disgust and replied, ‘I know your set-up. For some reason or other you think I can be of use to you, don’t you? I suppose that’s what’s behind this facade of an evening?’
‘I don’t understand you,’ Ah-Ming replied.
‘I think you do,’ Eleanor persisted.
He seemed to reflect for a moment. Then he shrugged and said, ‘It’s up to you. But listen carefully.’ Ah-Ming leant forward to give emphasis to his words. ‘Your husband is alive and well, very much alive, and working in China. Otherwise …’
As he continued to speak, she shut herself off from his voice. She began desperately to plan her next move. She thought she might suddenly get up and
run away. Then as quickly, fear that he might be telling the truth about her husband nagged at her brain, holding her back from fleeing. She heard the words he whispered yet again, ‘Carry Tiger to Mountain’. Those words to her meant the good and the positive sides of China. He was mixing that good with the bad, with the wicked lie about Chen.
She stared back at him. He knew from her expression that CTTM, that the words ‘Carry Tiger to Mountain’, had had their effect. He could tell that she was afraid, but boldly fighting back the fear. He admired her. But she would have to agree – there was no escape!
As he saw her to a taxi, he became more talkative about mundane things: the weather, London in late autumn. He was even jaunty in his walk, so confident did he feel. It was like the start of a war – whatever happened, life for her would never be the same again.
It was raining hard next morning in London. Outside the house of Lord Helman, in Cadogan Square, the water ran down the street in a torrent. The peer’s son, the Honourable John Selwyn, looked out at the dismal scene from his bedroom window. He longed to be back in Beijing where the weather last week had been glorious. His father had sent him to China to finalise a contract, set to supply the Chinese with the latest detail of electronic technology. The family business had established a thriving market for themselves in China; the building of a new factory in their own country was now promised by the Helman Group.
A minute or so later, he had forgotten the grey damp scene outside, as he lay wallowing in a bubble bath. It was a pleasant reminder of a big advantage in living in London; the bathroom in his hotel in Beijing had been basic in terms of comfort. The food was not to his liking either: he found it boring and characterless, like the hotels. He was used to the expensive restaurants of London. He smiled as he remembered the hot water which was only switched on for certain periods each day.
He had also missed Western cigarettes, until he found they were available in the Friendship stores. He lit a cigarette as he lay relaxing in his bath, looking forward to his meeting later in the morning at his father’s main boardroom in the City. They would be delighted with his progress and his report on the Beijing visit. He smiled again as he thought of the increase in salary Dad had promised if all went well. Not that £180,000 a year was peanuts, but damn it all, he was already 26 years old, and worth at least £200,000!