by M G Leslie
At night, it’s even more spectacular as the panorama lights up in a shimmering array of colours on both the island and Kowloon.
As he stood looking in to the distance, sipping a Café Latte, Price heard a familiar voice, "Bonjour Monsieur Price."
Price smiled as he turned to face the man and said, “Jean, why the hell are you making me fly all the way to Hong Kong? I thought you were based exclusively in Paris. I mean, don’t get me wrong – as you know, I love Hong Kong, but Paris is two hours away – this is twelve!"
His old friend from the DCRI, the Central Directorate of Interior Intelligence, France’s equivalent of the UK’s Security Service, or MI5, started laughing at Price as he walked forward to embrace him and said, “Calm down my friend. Yes, normally I am. This is just unfortunate timing on your part – we are refitting the French embassy here and I'm providing some advice to the local office on some of our latest procedures and techniques.”
“Hmmm! What kind of techniques?”
“Behave yourself,” replied Jean, “Not the kind of techniques you’re no doubt practising with the after dark female population of Wan Chai."
Ignoring the reference to Wan Chai, Price continued, this time with a more serious expression, "Well since you're here, I know the best food and the best bars in town. But before we get on to that, do you think you can help me?"
"I got your message," replied Jean – then he paused with a serious face.
Price waited – now increasingly worried. But he needn't have been, because Jean's face broke in to a smile a few moments later as he reached in to his jacket pocket and retrieved an A5 sized envelope – handing it to Price as he spoke, "I always help a friend. Here you go – a fresh passport, matching drivers license, credit cards, PIN numbers, personal history that you'll need to memorise and destroy of course and various club membership cards. The passport has a few old stamps to make it more believable but you'll need to make your next journey to Paris and swap passports there if you want to be 100% certain of avoiding any suspicion."
Price slipped the envelope in to his jacket and said, "I owe you!"
"Buy me lunch and I will consider the debt paid.”
“In that case,” said Price, with a hint of a smile, “Follow me.”
“Something tells me I will regret this.”
“Relax,” said Price, “It’ll be fine – trust me.” And sure enough, thirty minutes later, they were seated in a restaurant on the Kowloon side of Kong Kong – in German Restaurant and Bar in East Tsim Sha Tsui.
Jean was laughing when he said, “I was expecting something Cantonese – a mixture of traditional dishes and local delicacies perhaps?”
Price picked up his beer and held the glass aloft, as if he was about to propose a toast. Then, looking up at the glass, he said, “A litre of Weizenbier, or wheat beer. Served, as it should be, in a large glass stein. What could be more traditional than that?”
Then he lowered the glass and held it out in front him, “Cheers.”
Jean picked up his stein, tapped the two steins together and said, “Cheers – and good luck.”
And so the pattern of the evening started – matching each other, beer for beer until the early hours of the morning.
The next day, a little worse for wear, Price checked out of his hotel and took a taxi back to the airport, where he checked in for a Cathay Pacific flight to Paris, France – having decided to take Jean’s advice and make his next stop there in order to be sure of avoiding any inconsistencies with passport stamps.
However, just as he turned away from the check-in desk and started walking towards immigration and the departure lounge, Price heard a familiar female voice behind him, “Have a good flight Price – or is it Elliot Smith – or something else this time perhaps?”
With a broad smile on his face, Price turned round and looked at Mary. Then as he said, “Thank you Mary,” he started to look around – quite obviously glancing left and right.
“You promised to let me know next time you were in town.”
Price continued looking around as he answered, “I don’t recall promising. Although I do recall saying I would. I also recall saying sorry – and I’m sorry again – but this was not a social visit – it was strictly business.”
Mary looked puzzled, “What are you looking for Price?”
Price stopped moving his head and said, “Wine – bottles of wine that are about to hit me.”
Mary sighed, “Yes, very funny. If you recall I did apologise for that. I hope you realise that I was under orders.”
“Yes, sorry – I did – or rather, do,” Price replied – correcting his own English.
“Anyway, you seem to have recovered.”
Price didn’t answer so Mary continued, “By the way – I sent Jean a hello SMS as well.”
Now Price laughed, “Do you miss anything Mary?”
“Well you keep testing me and I haven’t missed anything yet. Or have I?”
Price leaned forward, kissed her on the cheek and said, “No – but even now, you’re still trying to get information out of me it seems. Do you ever switch off these days and revert to the lovely Mary that I fell for all those years ago?”
Mary ignored the criticism and changed the subject, “I believe you still owe me dinner.”
Price kissed her again then started to walk through to the departure lounge – at the last second, turning to shout, “When I get back – this time I do promise.”
“I’ll hold you to that,” she shouted back as Price disappeared from sight.
“I’m sure you will… bitch,” Price muttered to himself, as he handed over his passport at Hong Kong immigration.
Price loved Paris. It had been his first real holiday with a girlfriend many years before – and being Paris, which is of course known for the romantic surroundings and wonderful food, it had been an experience he never forgot. Sadly though, that was in the past – he didn’t have time to think about it now. So as soon as he arrived, Price made his way to a post office, where he purchased a large envelope and posted everything that identified himself as British, back to his apartment in southwest London. From now onwards, he’d be travelling, courtesy of Jean, as a French immigrant named Peter Abbot.
His cover was very well organised – he was originally of British descent, so that he could avoid trying to fake a French accent all the time, but his home was in Paris, just off the Boulevard Haussmann – an area that Jean knew Price could easily describe if required to do so during an interrogation.
With time to kill, Price found a small café and ordered coffee and something to eat. He had a few hours before his next flight – this time to Zambia – and this would be a perfect way to watch the world go by and make sure he hadn’t picked up any more tails.
Price’s plan was to arrive in Zambia as a French tourist and book himself on an excursion to the famous Victoria Falls, which form part of the border with Zimbabwe. From there he’d take a further excursion across the border and a scheduled train to Zimbabwe's second city Bulawayo, where he’d change to another train to make his way to the capital, Harare.
Whilst airport security can be quite intense, even in some less developed countries, Price was well aware that land-based borders are often a lot less organised and rarely contain the same facial recognition systems that have become commonplace across Europe and North America. Sure, they can be, and often are, slow and painful to cross with lots of queues, but he was hoping this route would be sufficiently discreet to avoid arousing the suspicions of CS Research, the Zimbabwean police and/or his colleagues in MI6.
There was still a risk that someone would be looking out for him and try to stop him – but one thing was for sure – it would definitely be better than arriving directly in Harare airport, which was almost certainly being watched.
There are no direct flights from Paris to Zambia’s capital, Lusaka. The most obvious route with Air France is actually operated by Kenya Airways and, consequently, includes a short s
topover in Nairobi. Although, after the initial eight hour flight, Price was glad to be able to stretch his legs and freshen up in preparation for the relatively short two hours forty-five minute transit southwest.
It was late evening when the plane touched down at Kenneth Kaunda International Airport. As Price walked across the tarmac and in to the large grey building, he noticed that it was a pleasantly fresh evening – not too hot and not too cold – although, perhaps a little more humid than back in the UK.
The flight hadn’t been particularly busy, so customs and immigration didn’t take very long. However, as Price casually strolled in to the arrivals lounge he continued discreetly surveying his surroundings and noting every detail – who was looking where, who was looking at him and most significantly, who was deliberately not looking at him – they were the ones to watch out for.
That said, whilst everything seemed normal, Price was also conscious that, as a visitor to the country, it would be easy for a professional to watch him without being seen. Indeed, he’d observed numerous people come and go from the UK over the years – all of them completely unaware they were being watched. So putting his concerns to one side for the time being, he made his way to a taxi – satisfied that he wasn’t in any imminent danger.
Lusaka airport may serve international flights, but it’s a fairly small structure next to a four-kilometre strip of tarmac set between the suburbs of the city and the increasingly developed farmland – around sixteen miles from Lusaka’s embassy and business district, where Price was booked in to the luxurious InterContinental Hotel.
As the taxi made it’s way down the Great East Road, that links the airport to central Lusaka, Price opened his MI6 hand luggage – using the top of the bag as cover to prevent the driver from seeing him reassemble and load his pistol – a modified Smith and Wesson SW990L that, when disassembled and stored in the security compartments of the bag, looked like part of the locking mechanism.
Price wasn’t new to Africa – he’d worked in Zimbabwe before and presumed this was part of the reason the Chief had asked him to investigate what had happened. What Price presumed the Chief didn’t know, however, was that he already had a contact in Harare – an old friend from, what he often described as, ‘A previous life’ – his reference to his first chosen career in the British armed forces, and more specifically, the Parachute Regiment.
Once he’d checked-in at the InterContinental, Price slipped his gun in to his jacket pocket and headed back down to the hotel reception and out the front door to go for a walk.
By this time, it was after midnight and the temperature had dropped – a fact Price noted as soon as he stepped outside. But he didn’t care – he had a prearranged call to make. So he pulled the collar of his jacket up over his neck, put his hands in the jacket pockets – his left hand gripping his gun – and made his way out of the hotel entrance, turning left to walk down Haile Selassie Avenue. He was heading for a fast food restaurant that the taxi had passed earlier – and more importantly, a pay phone that he had noticed outside.
The building was only a few hundred yards down the road, but Price was careful to check is surroundings, to ensure he wasn’t being followed or watched. The last thing he needed was to be attacked or robbed whilst making a phone call. He was aware that the embassy district is arguably one of the safest in the country, but nevertheless, stuck to his tried and tested approach of assuming the worst, fully in the knowledge that it was probably not necessary.
Picking up the receiver and inserting some coins, Price dialled an international number. Then, after a short delay, a woman’s voice answered with a strong African accent, “Hello?”
“It’s me,” said Price. “You OK?”
“Yes. Do you.”
“No,” Price replied, before the lady could finish her sentence. “I need floor plans – get them to me at the station. Three days from now – I will arrive Friday afternoon on the train from Bulawayo."
“OK,” the lady replied, before breathing in – obviously about to say something else.
However, before she could, Price interrupted her again, “I will be in touch. You mustn’t say a word about this to anyone. Goodnight,” and then he put the receiver down and made his way back to the hotel – all the while checking for anyone following his movements.
Price had pre-arranged his excursion with the hotel concierge. So the next morning he woke up very early to get some breakfast, before joining the group at the impressive hotel lobby.
Part of him was excited by the journey ahead. He had always enjoyed seeing, what he referred to as, ‘wonders of nature’ – the likes of the Grand Canyon in the USA, Venezuela’s Angel Falls, The Great Barrier Reef off the coast of Australia, where he’d been scuba diving a few years earlier, and of course, the Victoria Falls, where he was headed now.
However, as the group in the lobby started to grow from an initial handful to around 20, Price reminded himself that this was not a holiday. It was business – and children aside, any one of the tourists could be there to try and prevent him finding the truth behind the MI6 officer’s murder.
Given the way he’d entered the country, he knew it was highly unlikely that anyone would be looking for him. But he also knew, in his business, you don’t rely on chance. So as the group continued to grow, Price watched expressions and noted the couples, the individuals and the families.
At just after 8am, a hotel bus arrived outside. Price was travelling relatively light, with only one bag, and since he’d already checked out of the hotel, he made his way straight on to the bus, seating himself near the back, next to an emergency exit, from where he watched everyone else find their seats.
Ordinarily, he would have pretended to make a video or shoot some photos on his mobile phone and start sending pictures back to London for facial recognition. But given his suspicions regarding his MI6 colleagues, this wasn’t possible. “We’ll have to do this the old way,” he said to himself. "The way we worked before mobile phones – watching everyone for the faintest signs that give away their real intentions." And then he thought, “Actually – this is good practise – we rely on technology far too much!”
Then, as he reflected on advice from the MI6 self-defence instructor, he mentally berated himself, “Don’t get over-confident!”
Price didn't have a problem with danger because, for some reason that he and his instructors never really fathomed out, he didn't appear to get scared. Indeed, he’d once joked, “The only thing that scares me is my credit card bill at the end of the month – now that scares the crap out of me,” he’d said.
But whilst, not getting scared may be useful in some circumstances – he'd been reminded that his casual attitude to life could be his down fall, as he didn’t always take dangerous situations as seriously as he should. So again he thought, "Don't get over confident," – just to be sure he didn't forget.
The journey from Lusaka to the Victoria Falls was thankfully uneventful. Price already knew it would take at least seven hours to complete the 500km route and had even considered taking a domestic flight. But in the end, he'd decided the bus would be more discreet – and since it was air-conditioned, had on-board toilets, a food service and luxurious, airline-type seating, it wasn’t exactly arduous.
In fact he translated the journey in to his usual currency of time – seven hours – so that’s roughly three movies or maybe two long movies and Pink Floyd's Pulse album. Laughing to himself he thought, "You have to put everything in to perspective."
Once the bus reached Livingston, the nearest city to the Victoria Falls, it stopped to let some people off.
With only eight people remaining on the bus, plus the driver, Price was able to listen to conversations that were taking place and pay far more attention to their actions and reactions.
As far as he could tell, there were two German couples, that appeared to be travelling together – a couple of Australians that looked like they’d already been around the world once – “I bet they’d have s
ome stories to tell,” he thought – and lastly, what looked like an English couple – although their accent was unclear as they were at the far end of the bus and didn’t seem to be saying much.
Either way, he concluded that none of them posed any immediate threat. In fact, as the bus made its way to the border post with Zimbabwe, he continued to observe and listen – finally deciding they were nothing more than a bunch of people on holiday. “And good luck to them,” he thought.
At the border post, everyone disembarked and made their way to the Zambia immigration building to receive an exit stamp before crossing to the Zimbabwe equivalent – a fairly simple affair manned by a few security guards and officials.
As Price joined the immigration queue, now wearing a pair of sunglasses and a hat, he carefully scanned for any suspicious looking bystanders in the distance – immediately picking out an average height, pale-faced man with grey chino trousers, a white t-shirt and short dark hair.
The thing that made him stand out was that he had no obvious reason to be there. He clearly wasn't an official and he wasn't meeting anyone, because all the people waiting for friends and family were standing by the customs counter – the last place visitors passed before entering the country. No – he was there for some other reason – and judging by the way his head was moving, he was studying the arriving visitors – looking for an individual, because he seemed to be ignoring the couples and was evidently focusing on the western men, "Like me," Price thought to himself.
Unfortunately for Price, the layout of the immigration area was such that he would have to walk straight past the man, who now, as Price approached the front of the queue was much closer and more easily recognisable. "I've seen that expression before," thought Price, "He's an agent looking for someone – and not a very good one if I can spot him so easily. But that kind of proves it – someone is up to no good and they’re covering all points of entry in to Zimbabwe – most likely, looking for me!”