25
Marie leaped out of the chair at the shrill, jangling bell of the telephone. She ran, limping and wincing, across the room and picked it up. 'Yes!'
'Mrs. Austin, I presume. '
'Mo? ... Mo Panov! Thank God. ' Marie closed her eyes in gratitude and relief. It had been nearly thirty hours since she had spoken to Alexander Conklin and the waiting and the tension, above all the helplessness, had driven her to the edge of panic. ' Alex said he was going to ask you to come with him. He thought you would. '
Thought? Was there a doubt? How are you feeling, Marie? And I don't expect an answer from Pollyanna. '
'Going mad, Mo. I'm trying not to, but I'm going mad!
'As long as you haven't completed the journey I'd say you were remarkable, and the fact that you're fighting every step of the way even more so. But then you don't need any chicken soup psychology from me. I just wanted an excuse to hear your voice again. '
To find out whether I was a babbling wreck,' said Marie gently, making a statement.
'We've been through too much together for such a third-rate subterfuge – I'd never get away with it with you. Which I just didn't. '
'Where's Alex?'
Talking into the pay phone next to me; he asked me to call you. Apparently he wants to speak with you while whoever it is he's talking to is still on the line... Wait a second. He's nodding. The next voice you hear, et cetera, et cetera. '
'Marie?'
'Alex! Thank you. Thank you for coming-'
'As your husband would say: "No time for that." What were you wearing when they last saw you.
'Wearing?'
'When you got away from them. '
'I got away twice. The second time was in Tuen Mun. '
'Not then,' interrupted Conklin. The contingent was small and there was too much confusion – if I remember what you told me. A couple of marines actually saw you but nobody else did. Here. Here in Hong Kong. That'd be the description they'd start with, the one that would stick in their minds. What were you wearing then?'
'Let me think. At the hospital-'
'Later,' broke in Alex. 'You said something to me about swapping clothes and buying a few things. The Canadian consulate, Staples's apartment. Can you remember?'
'Good Lord, how can you remember?'
'No mystery, I make notes. It's one of the by-products of alcohol. Hurry, Marie. Just generally, what were you wearing?'
'A pleated skirt – yes, a grey pleated skirt, that was it. And a kind of bluish-grey blouse with a high collar-'
'You'd probably change that. '
'What?
'Never mind. What else?'
'Oh, a hat, a fairly wide-brimmed hat to cover my face. '
'Good!'
'And a fake Gucci purse I bought in the street. Oh, and sandals to make me shorter. '
'I want the height. We'll stick to heels. That's fine, that's all I need. '
'For what, Alex? What are you doing?'
'Playing Simon Says. I know perfectly well the State Department passport computers picked me up, and with my smooth, athletic walk even State's wart-hogs could spot me in customs. They won't know a damn thing, but someone's giving them orders and I want to know who else shows up. '
'I'm not sure I understand. '
'I'll explain later. Stay where you are. We'll get there as soon as we can make a clean break. But it has to be very clean, sterile in fact, so it may take an hour or so. '
'What about Mo?'
'He has to stay with me. If we separate now, at the least they'll follow him, at worst they'll take him in. '
'What about you?
'They won't touch me beyond a tight surveillance. '
'You're confident. '
'I'm angry. They can't know what I've left behind or with whom or what my instructions are if there's a break in any pre-arranged phone calls. For them, right now I'm a walking – limping – mega-bomb that could blow apart their entire operation, whatever the hell it is. '
'I know you say there's no time, Alex, but I've got to tell you something. I'm not sure why, but I have to. I think one of the things about you that so hurt and enraged David was the fact that he thought you were the best at what you did. Every once in a while, when he'd had a few drinks or his mind wandered – opening a door or two for him – he'd shake his head sadly or pound his fist furiously and ask himself why! "Why?" he'd say. "He was better than that ... he was the best". '
'I was no match for Delta. No one was. Ever. '
'You sound awfully good to me. '
'Because I'm not coming in from the cold, I'm going out. With a better reason than I've ever had in my life before. '
'Be careful, Alex. '
'Tell them to be careful. ' Conklin hung up the phone, and Marie felt the tears rolling slowly down her cheeks.
Morris Panov and Alex left the gift shop in the Kowloon railway station and headed for the escalator that led to the lower level, Tracks 5 and 6. Mo, the friend, was perfectly willing to follow his former patient's instructions. But Panov the psychiatrist could not resist offering his professional opinion.
'No wonder you people are all fucked up,' he said, carrying a stuffed panda under his arm and a brightly-coloured magazine in his hand. 'Let me get this straight. When we go downstairs, I walk to the right, which is Track Six, and then proceed to my left towards the rear of the train, which we assume will arrive within minutes. Correct so far?
'Correct,' answered Conklin, beads of sweat on his forehead as he limped beside the doctor.
'I then wait by the last pillar, holding this foul-smelling stuffed animal under my arm while glancing through the pages of this extremely pornographic magazine, until a woman approaches me. '
'Correct again,' said Alex, as they stepped down into the escalator. The panda's a perfectly normal gift; it's a favourite with Westerners. Think of it as a present to her kid. The porno magazine simply completes the recognition signal. Pandas and dirty pictures with naked women don't usually go together. ' 'On the contrary, the combination could be positively Freudian. '
'Score one for the funny farm. Just do as I say. ' 'Say? You never told me what I was to say to the woman. ' Try "Nice to meet you", or "How's the kid?" It doesn't matter. Give her the panda and get back to this escalator as fast as you can without running. ' They reached the lower platform and Conklin touched Panov's elbow, angling the doctor to the right . 'You'll do fine, coach. Just do as I say and come back here. Everything's going to be all right. ' That's easier said from where I usually sit. ' Panov walked down to the end of the platform as the train from Lo Wu thundered into the station. He stood by the last pillar and as passengers by the hundreds poured out of the doors the doctor awkwardly held the black and white panda under his arm and raised the magazine in front of his face. And when it happened, he nearly collapsed. 'You must be Harold!' exclaimed the loud falsetto voice as a tall figure, heavily made up under a soft, wide-brimmed hat and dressed in a grey pleated skirt slapped his shoulder. 'I'd know you anywhere, darling!'
'Nice to meet you. How's the kid?' Morris could barely speak.
'How's Alex?' countered the suddenly bass male voice quietly. 'I owe him and I pay my debts, but this is crazy! Has he still got both his oars in the water?"
'I'm not sure any of you have,' said the astonished psychiatrist.
'Quickly? said the strange figure. They're closing in. Give me the panda, and when I start running fade into the crowd and get out of here! Give it to me!'
Panov did as he was told, aware that several men were breaking through the straggling groups of passengers and converging on them. Suddenly the heavily rouged man in women's clothes ran behind the thick pillar and emerged on the other side. He kicked off his high heels, circled the pillar again and like a footballer back raced into the crowd nearest the train, passing a Chinese who tried to grab him, dodging through pummelled bodies and startled faces. Behind him other men took up the chase, thwarted by the increasingly hostile passengers who began using suit
cases and knapsacks to ward off the bewildering assaults. Somehow, in the near riot, the panda was put in the hands of a tall Occidental female who was also holding an unfolded train timetable. The woman was grabbed by two well-dressed Chinese; she screamed; they looked at her, yelled at each other, and plunged ahead.
Morris Panov again did as he had been instructed to do: He quickly mingled with the departing crowd on the opposite side of the platform and walked rapidly along the edge of Track 5 back to the escalator, where a line had formed. There was a queue but no Alex Conklin! Suppressing his panic, Mo slowed his pace but kept walking, looking around, scanning the crowds as well as those riding up on the escalator. What had happened! Where was the CIA man?
'Allo'
Panov spun to his left, the brief shout both a relief and a warning. Conklin had edged his way partially around a pillar thirty feet beyond the escalator. From his quick, rapid gestures he made it clear that he had to stay where he was, and for Mo to reach him, but slowly, cautiously. Panov assumed the air of a man annoyed with the queue, a man who would wait for the crowds to thin out before attempting to get on the escalator. He wished he smoked or at least had not thrown the pornographic magazine down onto the tracks; either would have given him something to do. Instead, he clasped his hands behind his back and strolled casually along the deserted area of the platform, glancing around twice, frowning at the waiting people. He reached the pillar, slid behind it and gasped.
At Conklin's feet lay a stunned, middle-aged man in a raincoat with Conklin's club foot in the centre of his back. 'I'd like you to meet Matthew Richards, Doctor. Matt's an old Far East hand going back to the early Saigon days when we first knew each other. Of course, he was younger then and a lot more agile. But then, again, weren't we all. '
'For Christ's sake, Alex, let me up!' pleaded the man named Richards, shaking his head as best he could in his prone position. 'My head hurts like hell! What did you hit me with, a crowbar?'
'No, Matt. The shoe belonging to my non-existent foot. Heavy, isn't it? But then it has to take a lot of abuse. As to letting you up, you know I can't do that until you answer my questions. '
'Goddamn it, I have answered them! I'm a lousy case officer, not the station chief. We picked you up from a DC directive that said to put you under surveillance. Then State moved in with another "direct" which I didn't see!'
'I told you, I find that hard to believe. You've got a tight unit here; everybody sees everything. Be reasonable, Matt. We go back a long time. What did the State directive say?'
'I don't know. It was eyes-only for the SC!'
'That's "station chief", Doctor,' said Conklin, looking over at Panov. 'It's the oldest cop-out we have. We use it all the time when we get in rhubarbs with other government agencies. "What do I know? Ask the SC." That way our noses are clean because no one wants to hassle a station chief. You see, SCs have a direct line to Langley and, depending on the Oval Yo Yo, Langley has a direct line to the White House. It's very politicized, let me tell you, and has very little to do with gathering intelligence. '
'Very enlightening,' said Panov, staring at the prone man, not knowing what else to say, grateful that the platform was now practically deserted and the pillar at the rear was in shadows.
Wo cop-out!' yelled Richards, struggling under the pressing weight of Conklin's heavy boot . 'Jesus, I'm telling you the truth! I get out next February! Why would I want any trouble from you or anybody else at headquarters?'
'Oh, Matt, poor Matt, you never were the best or the brightest. You just answered your own question. You can taste that pension just like me, and you don't want any waves. I'm listed as a pick-up, a tight surveillance, and you don't want to louse up a directive where you're concerned. Okay, pal, I'll wire back an evaluation report that'll get you transferred to Central American demolitions until your time's up – if you last that long. '
'Cut it out!'
'Imagine, being skunk-trapped behind a pillar in a crowded train station by a lousy cripple. They'll probably let you mine a few harbours all by yourself. '
'I don't know anything!'
'Who are the Chinese?'
'I don't-'
'They're not the police, so who are-they?
'Government. '
'What branch? They had to tell you that – the SC had to tell you. He couldn't expect you to work blind. '
That's just it, we are! The only thing he told us was that they were cleared by DC on the top floors. He swore that was all he knew! What the hell were we supposed to do? Ask to see their drivers' licences?'
'So no one's accountable because no one knows anything. It'd turn out nice if they were Chin-comms picking up a defector, wouldn't it?'
'The SCs accountable. We lay it on him. '
'Oh, the higher morality of it all. "We just follow orders, Hen General."' Conklin employed the hard German G for the rank. 'And, naturally, Hen General doesn't know anything either because he's following his orders. ' Alex paused, squinting. 'There was one man, a big fellow who looked like a Chinese Paul Bunyan. ' Conklin stopped. Richards's head suddenly twitched, as did his body. 'Who is he, Matt?'
'I don't know... for sure. '
'Who?'
'I've seen him, that's all. He's hard to miss. '
'That isn't all. Because he is hard to miss and considering the places where you've seen him, you asked questions. What did you learn?'
'Come on, Alex! It's just gossip, nothing set in concrete. '
'I love gossip. Tattle, Matt, or this ugly, heavy thing on my leg may just have to pound your face. You see, I can't control it; it's got a mind of its own and it doesn't like you. It can be very hostile, even to me. ' With an effort, Conklin suddenly raised his club foot and pounded it down between Richards's shoulder blades.
'Christ! You're breaking my back!'
'No, I think it wants to break your face. Who is he, Matt? Again, grimacing, Alex raised his false foot and lowered it now on the base of the CIA man's skull.
'All right! As I said, it's not gospel, but I've heard he's high up in Crown CI. '
'Crown CI,' explained Conklin to Morris Panov, 'means British Counter Intelligence here in Hong Kong, which means a branch of MI6, which means they take their orders from London. '
'Very enlightening,' said the psychiatrist, as bewildered as he was appalled.
'Very' agreed Alex. 'May I have your necktie, Doctor?' asked Conklin as he began removing his own. 'I'll replace it out of contingency funds because we now have a new wrinkle. I'm officially at work. Langley is apparently funding – by way of Matthew's salary and time – something involving an ally's
intelligence operation. As a civil servant under a like classification I should put my shoulder to the wheel. I need your necktie, too. Matt. '
Two minutes later, Case Officer Richards lay behind the pillar, his feet and hands tied and his mouth drawn taut, all accomplished with three ties.
'We're sterile,' said Alex, studying what remained of the crowd beyond the pillar. They've all gone after our decoy, who's probably halfway to Malaysia by now.'
'Who was she – he! I mean, he certainly wasn't a woman. '
'No sexism intended, but a woman probably couldn't have made it out of here. He did, taking the others with him – after him. He jumped over the escalator railing and worked his way up. Let's go. We're clear. '
'But who is he? pressed Panov, as they walked around the pillar towards the escalator and the few stragglers forming a short line.
'We've used him occasionally over here, mainly as a pair of eyes for out-of-the-way border installations, which he knows something about, since he has to get past them with his merchandise. '
'Narcotics?"
'He wouldn't touch them; he's a top notch jock. He runs stolen gold and jewels, operating between Hong Kong, Macao and Singapore. I think it has something to do with what happened to him a number of years ago. They took away his medals for conduct unbecoming just about everything. He posed for some raunchy photograph
s when he was in college and needed the money. Later, through the good offices of a sleazy publisher with the ethics of an alley cat, they surfaced and he was crucified, ruined. '
That magazine I carried!' exclaimed Mo, as they both stepped on to the escalator.
'Something like it, I guess. '
'What medals?'
'Nineteen seventy-six Olympics. Track and field. The high hurdles were his speciality. '
Speechless, Panov stared at Alexander Conklin as they rose on the escalator, nearing the entrance to the terminal. A platoon of sweepers carrying wide brooms over their shoulders appeared on the opposite escalator heading down to the platform. Alex jerked his head towards them, snapped the fingers of his right hand, and with the thumb extended, jabbed the air in the direction of the terminal's exit doors above. The message was clear. Within moments a bound CIA agent would be found behind a pillar.
That'd be the one they call the major,' said Marie, sitting in a chair opposite Conklin, while Morris Panov knelt beside her, examining her left foot . 'Ouch? she cried, pulling back her crossed leg. 'I'm sorry, Mo. '
'Don't be,' said the doctor. 'It's a nasty bruise spread over the second and third metatarsals. You must have taken quite a spill. '
'Several. You know about feet?
'Right now I feel more secure with chiropody than psychiatry. You people live in a world that would drive my profession back to the Middle Ages – not that most of us aren't still there; the words are just cuter. ' Panov looked up at Marie, his eyes straying to her severely styled grey-streaked hair. 'You had fine medical treatment, dark-redhead-that-was. Except the hair. It's atrocious. '
'It's brilliant,' corrected Conklin.
'What do you know? You were a patient of mine. ' Mo returned to the foot. They're both healing nicely – the cuts and the blisters, that is, the bruise will take longer. I'll pick up some things later and change the dressings. ' Panov got up and pulled a straight-backed chair away from the small writing table.
'You're staying here then?' asked Marie.
'Down the hall,' said Alex. 'I couldn't get either of the rooms next door. '
'How did you even manage that?'
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