A combination of rush hour traffic and the various detours necessary to avoid parts of the city occupied by the demonstrators meant the drive took over an hour. Once they were into the city proper, Carver wound down the window and took a breath.
‘Duck shit, fried food and petrol – same as ever.’
His driver looked back over his shoulder.
‘All okay Mr? You want a different road?’
‘No, no. This road’s fine.’
They were close to the Harcourt Road, the epicentre of the demos in as much as the demonstrations had a centre. Many traders had closed up as a precaution and the car crawled through the thick traffic past shuttered shops and a long line of police vans. The fact that some shopkeepers had taken fright didn’t mean that buying and selling had stopped; the ever-entrepreneurial Hongkongers had adapted and there were street stalls everywhere. William saw vendors selling sweet-smelling spicy crab and sticky rice, general grocery and household products, clothes, fake Chinese Rolex and, of course, umbrellas. Whichever Chinese manufacturer it was that had the lion’s share of umbrella sales to Hong Kong was doing well out of this revolution. William looked back through the plastic glass to check how the fare was mounting up. It wasn’t too bad, this driver hadn’t added the usual stack of extras the way some Hong Kong cabbies did. He found himself starring at the man’s arthritic hands, which were resting on the steering wheel like two huge clumps of raw ginger.
The city’s Indian summer was hanging on in there, the weather was warm and muggy but his driver left the air con off during the journey. Carver was sweating like a hog by the time the cab dropped him outside the Headland. He paid the fare along with a reasonable tip and stretched his back out before picking up his bag and shouldering his way in through the thick glass door. The bag was heavy and his legs stiff but he refused the top-hatted doorman’s offer of help and strode over to where Patrick was reading a newspaper, in a high-backed armchair next to an enormous vase of red roses – a hundred at least and all in full bloom. Patrick jumped to his feet and put his arms around Carver before he could do anything to stop this happening. He stood and tolerated this without reciprocating. After Patrick had finished with the hugging, he put his bag down and looked around.
‘What the hell kind of place is this?’
Patrick smiled.
‘Pretty swanky, huh?’
‘You can say that again. How much is it a night?’
‘Er, I’m not exactly sure.’
‘Well I think you should find out. It’s licence fee-payers’ money you’re spending, not your own. Are you booked in here for the rest of the week?’
‘No, it’s just one night’s notice I think.’
‘Okay, so we’ll stay here tonight and then move somewhere else tomorrow.’
‘You don’t like it then?’ Patrick was smiling.
‘It’s the press hotel. And a posh hotel. Look around …’ He waved a hand. ‘… I’ve never seen so many people pretending to read the WSJ. Course I don’t like it.’
‘Fair enough, I had a feeling you might say that. So I’ll go book you in, but just for one night?’
Carver shook his head.
‘No need. I’ll share your room, we’ll ask them to give us a roll-up mattress or something for you to kip on.’
Patrick laughed. He’d expected his old boss’s arrival to feel like a breath of fresh air. In fact, this felt more like smelling salts.
‘Fine, I’ll go ask. How about I see you in the bar? I bet you could use a drink after that trip.’
William studied Patrick.
‘No, I don’t think so, not now anyway. Let’s get upstairs and take a look at the room. I promised McCluskey I’d check something out before I did anything else.’
Patrick opened the door to the room with his key card and stepped in. Carver followed, deposited his bag on the bed and headed for the window.
‘Nice view. Can I borrow your phone?’ Patrick handed it over and watched while William put the mobile inside the minibar.
‘What’s that all about?’
‘I’m here, partly, to help you be a bit more careful and that starts now.’
‘But …’
William put a finger to his mouth signalling hush then removed his blazer and started unpacking his bag. In among his recording equipment he found the small black plastic device that McCluskey had given him. He fumbled with it for a while, checking the batteries and playing with the buttons before walking around the room waving it in front of various things – the television, Patrick’s laptop, the room phone and all the mirrors and pictures and lamp fittings. He climbed up onto the bed, still wearing his shoes, and reached up towards the ceiling light. While he waved the boxy device around, Patrick studied the sweat patches under his arms, which reached almost down to his waist. Carver huffed and puffed before eventually holding out a clammy hand for Patrick to help him down. He jutted his chin in the direction of the door and Patrick followed Carver in silence, out into the corridor and down towards the fire exit. William waited until they were out through the fire door and on the cement stairs before he spoke.
‘So McCluskey was dead right, as per usual.’
‘About what …?’ Patrick pointed at the black box. ‘… what is that?’
‘It’s a radio wave monitor that she gave me and by the looks of it your bedroom’s been bugged every which way to Sunday. I got positive readings from your keyboard, the room phone, most of the light fittings and the bathroom mirror.’
‘Bollocks.’
‘Yeah. So right now you need to think about what kind of conversations you’ve had in that room these last few days and assume that someone – these repairmen or whoever it is they’re working for – heard all of it.’
71 Keeping it Simple
CORTES CASA DE HUESPEDES, CHILE, SOUTH AMERICA
Jags got back to the guesthouse quickly enough, with the help of a bribable lorry driver followed by a half-hour hike. He didn’t want the guy to know exactly where he was staying and the driver was more than happy to take the money without having to take his rig too far from the freeway. Jags asked to be dropped at a gas station, a place where he’d filled up a few times in the past. It was a throwback to the America of the fifties or sixties and reminded Jags of an Edward Hopper painting he’d seen one time. It had those old-fashioned bubble-headed petrol pumps with rubber elbows and a sleepy-looking guy sat in front of the office who gave no sign of having seen Jags jump down from the passenger seat and slip down the side of the gas station. From there he walked across a field full of scrub and trekked up and down a couple of hills heading west, in the direction of the guesthouse.
The hike was an opportunity to think things through and by the time he was back in the room and lying flat on his back on the hard single bed, he had a plan. First – he would wait. Fred would hear about the car crash soon enough, all that Jags had to do was act surprised and stick to his story – he’d been hanging about in his room for hours, he’d tried to call Nathan but heard nothing. The kid had begged Jags to let him go do the job himself, he was cocky, ambitious too and he obviously wanted to impress Fred. Keep it simple, that was the key. Credible. Jags stuck the SIM card back in the Chilean burner phone, put it down on the bedside table, crunched up a pillow until it felt comfortable behind his head and closed his eyes.
By the time Fred rang, waking Jags from a deep sleep, it was the early evening and the room was filled with sunset colours. Fred sounded more exasperated than angry. Jags stuck to the script. He acted surprised, explained how Nathan had insisted on going alone and then just let Fred talk.
‘It’s annoying as hell …’ He told Jags the Chevy was a write-off, the police had towed it away, Nathan’s body would be repatriated. Jags was to get himself back to Santiago, stay the night there and sort out some paperwork the next day. Once that was done, Fred wanted him to catch the next flight he could back to San Fran. He’d be met. And that was that. The most unusual thing about the call was how c
alm Fred seemed.
‘I could have done without this kind of crap right now but I’ve got too many other plates spinning to spend any more time on this. Sort out the paperwork then come on back. I want you back here in Cupertino.’
‘What about the mine? The visit? What’s the plan?’
‘The plan is that we leave that new recruit of yours to stew in her own juice for a while. I’ve ordered a stop on all construction work in Brochu. We’ll wait and see who the folks there prefer – us and a paid job or her and … fuck all.’
‘And Lizzie’s fine with that?’
‘What?’
‘Elizabeth. She’s okay with all of this?’
‘Of course. Everyone’s on the same page.’ He paused. ‘We’ve talked long enough, I’ll see you tomorrow if the paperwork’s straightforward. Day after at the latest.’
Jags took a long, scalding hot shower; there was a greenish bruise coming through diagonally across his chest and another just above his groin. He had a little whiplash but nothing major. He took some more painkillers, packed his stuff up and asked reception to book him a cab back to the capital. He waited on the front porch of the guesthouse, watching the sky turn pink and smoking one Marlboro after another. The more he thought about it, the more uneasy he felt about his and Fred’s brief telephone conversation. Annoying – that was the word Fred used to describe what had happened. His carefully orchestrated clean-up had turned into a freaking tyre fire and Fred seemed … almost indifferent. It didn’t stack up. Again and again Jags’ mind turned to Elizabeth. How much, if anything, she knew. Whether he might risk calling her. He could tell her what had really gone down: Fred’s plan to get rid of Soledad and the steps Jags had to take to stop that happening. She would understand, he was certain of it. But then what? Fred was dangerous at the best of times, if he began to feel cornered there was no predicting how he would react. Better to wait and speak to Lizzie face to face. He let the cigarette drop and ground it out with the heel of his boot. The cab was coming.
72 Old Knights
THE HEADLAND HOTEL, HONG KONG
Carver and Patrick’s conflab on the hotel’s emergency staircase lasted a while. Patrick ran through the conversations he could remember having in the room and who he’d been speaking to – McCluskey, Rebecca, John Brandon, Naomi and Carver himself, albeit briefly.
‘And then Viv of course …’ He paused. ‘Shit, William I didn’t tell you yet.’
‘Tell me what?’
‘She’s missing.’
‘Viv’s missing? BBC Viv?’ Patrick nodded. ‘Missing since when?’
Patrick told Carver all he knew, which, he realised as he was speaking, wasn’t very much. William listened attentively.
‘So she went missing from here in the hotel and the last person to see her was this American fellow?’
‘Yeah. Dan Staples is his name, she left his room around midnight.’
‘You know that how?’
‘I’ve watched the CCTV … seen her leaving his room, going down in the lift and going into her bedroom.’
‘Right. And she looks okay? No sign that she was agitated, scared? Nothing like that?’
‘The tape’s blurry. But no, she seems fine.’
‘Dan Staples? That name rings a bell. What do you make of him?’
‘I’m not sure. First time I ran into him it seemed like he had no clue … all the gear and no idea like you used to say.’ Patrick paused. ‘But in fact he’s been around a while. Reported from a load of different places in the last couple of years, but never anywhere for long. Viv obviously liked him and he liked her and he seemed sort of all right …’
‘Sort of?’
‘There’s something about him that doesn’t quite fit. Nothing specific – just a gut feeling. He’s down in the bar now if you want to go see for yourself?’
William weighed this up.
‘Okay, so here’s what we do. You go pack your stuff up and take it down to reception. I’ll go have a drink with this American bloke. After that, we’ll check out of here and go.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘There’s a place I know that rents rooms. Good grub too.’
‘Got it. Am I okay to get my phone back out of the minibar?’
‘Sure, but don’t start calling anyone – remember all those bugs. Better still, leave the thing switched off for the time being.’
‘Why’d you put it in the minibar anyway?’
‘That’s another one of McCluskey’s tips. The fridge works as a Faraday cage.’
‘Eh?’
‘Look it up. On second thoughts, don’t. I’ll tell you later.’
Carver wasn’t sure what to make of the Purple Bar. It looked like the décor had been done by a westerner with a very fixed idea of what a Chinese-looking bar should look like and too much money to spend. Painted screens and a fake Han era cabinet, tasselled standing lamps and lots of jade – high end chinoiserie everywhere you looked. There were even a couple of the tall brown clay urns that Chinese families used to keep the ashes of loved ones and ancestors, standing against the far wall. It was like decorating the Dog and Duck with a few coffins.
Carver looked around and saw John Brandon, his old colleague and long-time sparring partner, who was sitting on an uncomfortable-looking chaise longue gabbing away to some other hacks. Perhaps one of these unfortunates was Dan Staples? He wandered over. As Carver approached, Brandon glanced up and stopped mid-sentence. The expression on his face was one of genuine surprise.
‘William Carver! Blow me, what are you doing here? I thought you’d chucked in the towel?’
‘Not quite.’
‘Well then I hate to tell you … especially because you usually like to be first to a fire don’t you? But you’re rather late to the show old fruit.’
‘That depends what I’m here for.’
‘For the same reason we’re all here I assume? To watch a lot of young students get seven shades of shit kicked out of them …’
‘Maybe.’ He looked at the rest of the group. ‘I’m going to get a drink. What does anyone want?’
Brandon pushed himself to his feet.
‘No you’re bloody not. This round’s on me. A libation for a fellow old knight, returning once more to the field of battle.’ Brandon was drunk but William appreciated the gesture. ‘What can I get you?’
‘Just a …’
‘No, wait … I know what I’ll get you.’ Brandon was off, walking stiff-legged in the direction of the bar. Carver asked the knot of journalists gathered around the gap in the sofa if they knew Dan Staples. They all did, indeed Carver had just missed him, he’d gone to file some copy and run a quick errand. But he’d be back, he was a regular at the Purple Bar – and a popular regular too. Everyone had the same story: Dan worked for one of the big regional papers in the States, based in Colorado, but he was also getting syndicated here and there. Apparently he was making a stack and he was generous with it too, regularly buying rounds for whoever happened to be in the bar. Carver nodded; the prices a place like this charged for a round, it was no wonder the guy was popular.
Brandon arrived back with two huge, bright red cocktails, each in a goldfish bowl-sized glass with a pink paper dragon sticking out of the top.
‘Introducing the Headland Hotel’s greatest invention – the famous dragon cocktail.’
‘Right, thank you.’
‘Cheers.’
‘And to you.’
The drink tasted like sugared petrol; William sipped at it politely while Brandon gulped his and talked.
‘I guess you need time to get settled, but as soon as you have we have to get ourselves down to Lan Kwai Fong. You know it?’ Carver knew. ‘It’s not what it used to be, but it’s still where the party is. Last week I met a young lady who claimed that she was the great-granddaughter of the real-life Suzie Wong! Imagine that.’
‘Right. Feel free not to tell me any more about what kind of night you had. I wanted to ask you about this g
uy Dan Staples, John.’
‘Dan! He’s a good man. American, but one of the good ones …’ Brandon paused. ‘… I’ll tell you all about him, but I desperately need a pee. Don’t drink my drink.’
There was no chance of that happening.
Brandon was gone a while – prostate probably – but it didn’t matter because the man Carver wanted to talk to him about walked into the bar a few minutes after John left. Dan Staples wore a blue button-down shirt and light brown chinos and a hail fellow well met sort of smile, right up until he saw Carver, whereupon he emptied his face of everything. They had never met, William was sure of this, nevertheless Dan Staples recognised him.
Carver watched the American make up his mind whether to approach or not. In the end, curiosity prevailed. He gave a friendly howdee to the group gathered around the chaise before addressing Carver directly.
‘Hey there man, I’m Dan … Dan Staples.’
‘Hello. I’m William Carver. Pleased to meet you, I’ve heard a lot about you.’
‘Is that right? Nothing good I’m sure …’ he waved a big hand at the group. ‘… not from this bunch of jokers anyway.’
There were smiles and some general chat and Dan was busy taking orders for a fresh round of drinks when William butted in.
‘Which paper is it you’re working for again Dan? Someone did tell me but I forget.’
Staples looked again at William, still smiling but only with the lower half of his face.
‘The Colorado Guardian. You heard of it?’
Carver shook his head.
‘No, I don’t think so. But something about you does seem familiar – I think it’s your name.’
‘Really? Well I guess it’s not such an unusual name.’
‘I guess not. Have you been in the journalism game for long?’
‘Not that long.’
‘Where else have you reported from … for the Colorado Guardian?’
A Cursed Place Page 29