“Yes!” Woo sounded stunned.
Bond jumped up. “Find Thackeray!” he ordered, then ran from the room. The crowded casino had become a scene of frenzied panic. People were screaming and running for the doors. Bond scanned the crowd, looking for the three thugs in suits. They had slipped out. What was that all about? Were they after Thackeray? Was it an assassination attempt? Whatever it was, they had succeeded in killing or maiming at least a dozen people.
Bond returned to the gambling room. Woo was standing in the archway leading to the washroom. It was a gruesome mess. Bodies were strewn about, drenched in blood. Sinclair had been killed. Not everyone was dead—two or three men were crawling about crying for help. There were a few fingers and hands lying in puddles of blood. The killers had dropped the weapons in the room before fleeing.
“Thackeray gone,” Woo said, bewildered.
“What?”
“No one in washroom!”
Bond went into it. The two cubicles were empty, and there was no window. How the hell did he get out? Bond examined the back wall of one of the cubicles. He knocked on it and determined that it was hollow.
“It’s a trap door,” he said to Woo. He carefully felt the seams of the wall and finally found a minute depression. There was a tiny toggle switch there which, when flipped, activated a sliding door in the wall.
“Come on!” Bond commanded. He and Woo entered the dark corridor and ran twenty metres to another door. It opened easily—to the outside. They were behind the hotel, looking at a dark alleyway. Thackeray was nowhere in sight.
“What the hell … ?” Bond muttered.
They ran to the front of the casino. It was night now, and the neon from the building lit up the street. A black sedan tore out of the car park. Bond recognized the three killers in the front seat of the car. He started to draw his Walther PPK, but realized he had left it at the boat. The car sped away into the night.
The sound of approaching police sirens told them they should leave. “Come on, James,” Woo said. “There is nothing we can do. Let’s go back to boat.”
Bond nodded.
They hailed a taxi, went to the outskirts of town, walked quickly to the old pier, hopped on the Viking 66, and woke up J.J. On the journey back to Hong Kong, they discussed what had happened.
“Were they Triad?” Bond asked.
Woo said, “Possibly. Probably. It was their method. I spoke to guard before we left. The men picked up their weapons from kitchen before entering room. That is how they do it, so they do not have to bring weapons to scene of crime. They take whatever is available nearby.”
“Were they after Thackeray?”
“It seem like it.”
“He must have known they were coming. Why else would he run like that? How did he know there was a secret escape route from that room? What the hell is going on?”
“You tell me, James. I am tired.”
Bond also felt fatigued. It was nearly 10:00 p.m. He felt the jet-lag. He would go to his hotel and sleep until late morning.
“You saved my life, James,” Woo said. “Now I owe you big time.”
Bond shook his head. “Forget that maijiang business, T.Y. I wasn’t doing you a favour, I was doing my job.”
“Still, I am very grateful and indebted,” Woo said with great sincerity.
Bond smiled. “Don’t worry about it. Be thankful we’re returning to Hong Kong with all of our body parts.”
Woo grinned widely and held up the brown bag. “Not only that, we return with helluva lot of money, uh huh?”
EIGHT
PRIVATE DANCER
ZERO MINUS EIGHT: 23 JUNE 1997, 2:00 P.M.
James Bond slept until just before noon. He exercised, then ate a hearty brunch in one of the hotel’s several restaurants, the Mandarin Grill. The Grill sported green decor on the walls, mirrors on rectangular columns, and a couple of large aquariums. Bond knew that the concept of feng shui, the art and science of positioning man-made structures in harmony with the vital cosmic energy coursing through the earth, was taken seriously in the East. Sometimes entire buildings had to be adjusted slightly in accordance with instructions from professional feng shui masters. Fish tanks were in abundance in restaurants, as these improved the feng shui. It was obvious that the Mandarin Grill was one of Hong Kong’s most carefully planned restaurants. Like the Man Wah, it was pleasantly subdued and quiet—the perfect place to collect his thoughts. Bond had ordered scrambled eggs and toast, with freshly squeezed orange juice and now felt refreshed and alert.
Standing outside the Man Mo Temple in the Sheung Wan, or Western District, of the island, Bond marvelled at the city around him. The people, mostly Chinese, seemed oblivious to the historic event that would occur in eight days. Everyone went about their business completely ignoring the huge dragon to the north that was breathing down their necks. But Bond wondered what would happen to some of Hong Kong’s famous landmarks, such as the temple in front of him. Following the tourists, Bond stepped inside. The rich interior altar contained polished brass and pewter ritual vessels and a pair of shining brass deer symbolizing longevity and wealth. Brass statues of the Eight Immortals stood in front of the altar, each representing the different conditions of life: male, female, lord, peasant, age, youth, poverty, and wealth. A smaller room to the right contained images of Buddhist deities like Kwan Yum, Wong Tai Sin, and Kwan Ti, the god Mo himself. The temple was dedicated to two deities, Man and Mo, the first being the god of literature who controlled the destinies of mandarins and civil servants; the latter being the god of martial arts and war, who was the guardian deity of the Hong Kong Police but was favoured just as much by the underworld. All day long, worshippers dropped in for a fast communication with the gods. Bond stood fascinated watching people use the chim. These numbered bamboo sticks were used to answer important questions concerning business, family or fortune. The narrow canister was shaken until a stick fell out; its number then used to predict the outcome. Of course, one could always try again if the answer wasn’t favourable!
“You have question to ask gods, Ling Ling Chat? ”
Bond turned toward the whisper and saw T.Y. Woo’s smiling face. He was right on time.
Bond whispered in reply, “T.Y., I’m not sure the gods would appreciate the questions I have. And I probably wouldn’t like the answers, either. Come on.”
Bond and Woo left the temple and walked down Ladder Street from Hollywood Road. It was typical of the steep lanes paved with stone slabs for the convenience of sedan-chair bearers. They stepped down to Upper Lascar Row, which had once housed foreign seamen known as lascars. The lane was lined with renowned bric-a-brac and antiques dealers. Also called “Cat Street,” it got the nickname from the accompanying brothels.
Woo led him to a four-storey building with a red façade surrounding picture windows. The legend “Woo Antiques and Curios Shop” was set into the façade, and the windows revealed a clutter of expensive antiques and objets d’art. Two angry Chinese dragon-lions stood on either side of the single door, symbolically guarding the shop from evil.
“This is where J.J. and I live,” Woo said. “This is safe house.” Bond followed him inside and found J.J. polishing an antique bronze opium pipe. He looked up and nodded with a grin, then went back to work. The place was crammed with everything from inexpensive knick-knacks to fine jade figurines and ivory objets d’art. He led Bond to the back of the store and showed him the code to be punched into a numbered button pad on the wall. This unlocked a door, which revealed a set of stairs leading up to a large four-bedroomed flat. Bond would never have guessed such a large space could exist within the narrow building he had seen from the outside.
Woo poured two glasses of cold Tsingtao beer, and they sat down at a table near the kitchen.
“I want to meet the Triad Dragon Head today, T.Y.,” Bond said.
He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Will not be easy. Li Xu Nan very private man. Sometimes he can be found at one of his clubs, like I tol
d you. He goes to Zipper a lot.”
“What are my chances of finding him there today?”
“Fifty-fifty,” Woo said. “Either he is there or he is not, uh huh?”
“T.Y., do you think the Triad is really involved in all this? What do you think about Thackeray’s behaviour last night?”
Woo shrugged. “Thackeray is hiding something. Maybe this press conference tomorrow will tell all. As for Triad, we know they somehow got into EurAsia’s shipping business.”
“Tell me more about them?”
“Triad members believe they are on the right side of law and honour. You know, the original Triad was founded after seventeenthcentury overthrow of Ming dynasty by Manchus? Their motto was ‘Restore Ming, Overthrow Ch’ing.’ The name came from primal triad of Heaven, Earth, and Man. Members were like your Robin Hoods, taking wealth from rich and giving to poor. Triads originally were symbols of nationalism. Sun Yat-sen was Triad.” Woo sighed. “Today they have degenerated into criminal underground. They put squeeze on many businesses. They control prostitution and illegal immigration. One of their big enterprises is emigrating young girls to West with promise of freedom and prosperity. In reality, girls become prisoners in brothels and are forced to work their way out of enslavement for several years before they are finally set free. Their largest business is drugs. They control maybe 80 per cent of world’s drug traffic. You think Central America is bad? They are peanuts compared to Triads.”
“Where do the drugs come from?”
“From China, Thailand, Laos, Burma. Many places. Golden Triangle in Yunnan Province is major source.”
Bond nodded. “What will happen to Triads once China takes over Hong Kong?”
Woo grinned. “There are some in Hong Kong who believe Triads will become more powerful after takeover, not only because they are so ingrained in our culture, but because they will find reason to reach back to their beginnings as political activists.”
“They’re anti-Communist, then?”
“Most definitely. If China decides to change Hong Kong completely and destroy democratic freedoms we have here, Triads will be first to oppose them. And they will be formidable foes. Other possibility is that they will corrupt China and continue as they are.”
“Triads are outlawed in China, aren’t they?”
“Yes, but they exist. Hong Kong, though, is centre of all Triad activity in entire world.”
“The analogy would be as Sicily is to the Mafia?”
“I suppose so, yes. You know, Triads are illegal in Hong Kong, too. Just being a member is illegal. If you possess any Triad materials you can go to jail, uh huh? That is why they are so secret.”
“I think I’d better see some Triads first hand, T.Y. Where is this nightclub?”
“In Tsim Sha Tsui East. Kowloon. The Zipper. Big fancy nightclub, very popular. Very expensive. Japanese businessmen especially like it. They have very beautiful girls working there.”
“Are they prisoners of the Triads as well?”
“Some might be,” Woo said.
Bond stood up. “Enough talk. Let’s go. When we get there, T.Y., I want to go in alone. I’m curious to see how a gweilo is treated there.”
During the Vietnam War, Lockhart Road in the Wanchai District of Hong Kong was immortalized as the haven for servicemen on R & R. This nightlife had diversified into other areas and was no longer completely isolated in Wanchai. Tsim Sha Tsui, one of the premier tourist areas of Kowloon, provided some of the flavour of the rowdy old days. It was virtually the Times Square of Hong Kong. There was a mixture of British-style pubs, hostess clubs, karaoke bars, and noisy disco bars. There was the famous Bottoms Up club, a tame topless bar featuring waitresses who looked as if they’d been there since the place opened in the early seventies. There was the Adam’s Apple, where half-naked hostesses pretended to make scintillating conversation while one drank. Hong Kong had something that appealed to the best and the worst in everyone. In theory, strip clubs as such were illegal in Hong Kong—if girls removed their clothes, they did it privately out of public view.
Bond found the Zipper easily. It was a huge place, spanning an entire block of Tsim Sha Tsui East, an area of Kowloon that had more recently developed into an expensive tourist trap. Other high-class nightclubs, such as the Club B Boss and the China City Club, were also in the vicinity. By 6:00 p.m., even before the sun had set, the brightly coloured neon of the area rivalled anything in Las Vegas. There was a buzz of excitement in the air, and he could understand how the area had achieved such a glamorous reputation.
Bond casually approached the front door of the Zipper. Two Indian men wearing turbans stood outside the door. He heard loud American soft rock. The Zipper was a hostess club, which meant that patrons could “buy” time with a hostess. She could sit and have a drink with him, dance with him, talk with him … whatever they happened to arrange. What went on in private rooms was negotiated. Uninitiated visitors were often taken advantage of and overcharged. Simply having a drink with a hostess could be very expensive. Prostitution itself was not illegal in Hong Kong. Brothels and streetwalking were against the law, but straightforward solicitations and private arrangements between adults were legal.
He stepped inside and paid a cover charge of 500 Hong Kong dollars, which included the first two drinks. Four lovely Chinese women in cheongsams sang out in English, “Welcome!” Then he entered a dark red room. It was large enough to feature a dance floor in the centre, and had at least fifty tables and/or divan-coffee table combinations scattered around its perimeter. The music was loud and a little irritating. A Chinese man flanked by three gorgeous women was on the dance floor, lip-synching an American rock tune in the karaoke style. The place was not crowded, but it was very early in the evening. From what he could see, the hostesses were of various nationalities, and were all young and attractive. There were a few Japanese businessmen snuggling with hostesses on divans. Two or three Caucasian men were sitting at tables with female companions. The place was devoid of any other clientele, but according to Woo, the club would be jam-packed by 9:00 p.m.
Bond walked to the far side of the room and sat down at a table. He could see the entire club from this vantage point, including the archway leading to the front lobby. T.Y. had said that if Li Xu Nan showed up at all, it would be in the early evening. Bond would just have to spend some money and wait and see. Within seconds, a lovely Chinese hostess approached his table. She, too, was wearing a cheongsam, high heels, and a smile. She sat down next to Bond and pulled her chair very close to his. Before she said a word, her bare leg emerged from the slit in the dress and pressed against his.
“Hello,” she said. “What’s your name?”
“James,” Bond said, returning her smile. He couldn’t help feeling a bit ridiculous in this situation. He played along, pretending to be the British tourist looking for a good time.
“Well, James,” she said, “would you like a companion this evening?”
Surprisingly, her accent sounded American.
“Perhaps,” Bond said. “Where are you from?”
“If you want to continue talking, it’s 240 Hong Kong dollars for a drink and a quarter of an hour,” she said with a straight face. Then she smiled again. “You’re very handsome.”
Bond said, “All right, I’d like a vodka martini. Please shake it—don’t stir it. And get whatever you’d like.” He paid her the cash.
The girl squeezed his arm. “I’ll be right back, sweetheart.”
He watched her walk towards the bar. She was probably in her late twenties, Bond thought; perhaps a bit older than some of the other girls he saw soliciting business in the place. She had straight black shoulder-length hair, was unusually tall, and had long, wonderful legs. She returned, set down the drinks, and then sat beside him in extremely close proximity once again.
“I’m back,” she said dreamily.
“I see that,” Bond said. “What’s your name?”
“Veronica. What’s yours?”
“I said it was James.”
“Oh, yeah, you told me that,” she said, then laughed. “Sorry, I’m a little out of it.”
“Veronica” was either a little drunk or high on something else.
“Where are you from?” Bond asked again.
“Oh, you’re wondering about the way I talk,” she said. “I spent twelve years in California, living with my aunt and uncle. I went to grade school, middle school, and high school there. But I was born here in Hong Kong, and I’ll probably die here in Hong Kong.”
“Why do you say that?”
She shrugged. “I can’t get out. I’m a Hong Kong citizen. You’re English, aren’t you? Why won’t your country let us go there?”
Bond nodded and said, “It is pretty shameful, isn’t it? England has watched over you for a hundred and fifty years and now she’s turning her back on you. I know … I know.”
“What are you doing in Hong Kong?” she asked, taking a sip from some kind of frozen daiquiri.
“I’m a journalist. I’m here to cover the handover next week.”
“I see. You live in England?”
“Jamaica, actually, though I’m originally from England.”
“Wow, Jamaica. I’ve never been there.”
“Most people think it’s not what it used to be. It’s fairly dangerous in some areas. I happen to love it, though.”
She ran her fingers along his chin and looked at him seductively. Her brown almond eyes were lovely. There was intelligence behind them, and Bond felt sorry for her. He wondered if she knew Li Xu Nan, and if she was a member of the Triad. It was highly likely. Woo had told him that most of the girls who worked as hostesses were prostitutes involved with these organizations. The Triads “protected” them, even though they blatantly exploited them.
“Veronica,” Bond said. “That’s not your real name, is it?”
She smirked. “What do you think?”
“I thought so. Listen, can I interview you about the changeover? I’d love to have the perspective of a woman like you.”
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