by Mark Arundel
‘How would you like to be the fare?’
It was still dark outside. I could see the harbour lights reflecting on the water like a badly copied Van Gogh. Jemima’s voice sounded remarkably awake and upbeat. It put me in a bad mood.
‘What fare?’ I asked. Xing wriggled beside me and then covered her bare shoulder with the silk sheet.
‘In the first taxi,’ he said. ‘We’re ready. I thought you might like to join in.’
‘What time is it?’ Xing asked with her voice muffled by the pillow.
‘Apparently, it’s time to go to work,’ I said.
We dressed in the dark. We could both fasten our Glocks and Fairbairns with our eyes closed, which was just as well, as Xing’s did actually appear closed. She also put the rifle into her rucksack using the art of touch.
Our security routine had become entrenched. We performed it automatically, even with our eyes stuck with sleep.
Outside, the air held that particular coldness only found in the hour before first light. We followed the winding pathway downhill to the harbour road. The lakeside walk took us to Missouri’s house beside the curving jut of land.
Waiting for us was the taxi. It was a dark coloured Toyota saloon with a lighter coloured roof. Covering the paintwork was the adverts that most Macau taxis seemed to have.
The driver was alone. He saw us cross the road towards him and got out. He bowed his head and spoke softly in rapid Cantonese. Xing replied. The man opened the rear door and then spoke again. We got in.
‘He’s a duckling,’ Xing said. ‘We have to wait until we hear something. The terrible waiting is here. He’s going to drive a bit, then park for a while, then drive a bit more, then park again. He’ll always remain within a minute or two of Missouri’s house.’
‘Does he speak English?’
‘No, only Cantonese,’ she said.
I realised it could be a long wait. Xing put her head on my shoulder and wriggled into a comfortable position. ‘Wake me up if something happens,’ she said.
Nothing did happen. The sun came up over the water. The streetlights went out. Our duckling driver drove us around in circles. He kept in regular contact with his lookout, always speaking Cantonese. Occasionally, Xing would interpret for me, but mostly she didn’t bother. We stopped at a cafe and bought real Chinese takeaway. Xing sat crossed legged on the back seat and worked her chopsticks like knitting needles.
I called Jemima.
‘I’m the fare in the second taxi,’ he said.
‘Who’s watching the house?’ I asked.
‘Don’t worry; it’s covered by good men. If he comes out we’ll know.’
‘And if he doesn’t come out?’
‘If he doesn’t come out today then we’ll come back again tomorrow.’
The waiting was unbearable. Xing fidgeted like a little girl. She played with her gun and then her knife. Then she played with her K106. We had driven around the block enough times for me to begin recognising the buildings. The afternoon dripped into early evening. The streetlights came back on. Then, at last, our driver received the call. He sped away and garbled to Xing over his shoulder. She sat up. It was an instant transformation from a little girl into a professionally hired gun.
‘The Mercedes is coming out,’ she said.
Our duckling driver was at the house in a matter of seconds. He spoke constantly into his hand’s-free phone. We sped past the house gates. They were just closing. We turned the corner. He glanced back, spoke to Xing and pointed. The Mercedes was ahead of us. We had visual contact. We tailed it north. Our driver was good. He held back but always remained in sight. The German saloon turned east and then led us on a loop that ended in the casino district.
Jemima called. ‘We’re right behind you,’ he said. ‘When the Mercedes stops we’ll make a sandwich.’
‘...a sandwich,’ I said.
‘Yes, in that way we can take photographs from both sides and, if necessary, we can follow on foot in either direction. I’m also going to attempt the placement of a tracker on the Mercedes. You and Jackie should stay in the taxi out of sight. Leave it to me and my ducklings.’
The road and the pavements were busy. A yellow bus blocked our way. We slowed and stopped. I looked at the buildings. The mix of a hundred neon signs bullied my eyes. The jumble was a puzzle of glaring messages. I didn’t attempt to solve it. I turned away. Xing was straining to see the Mercedes. She spoke to the driver. He replied and then hit the horn. The bus edged forward and we squeezed by. I saw the Mercedes ahead. It had pulled over and stopped. The neon lights glared on the clean paintwork. We drove past. Three men were getting out. I didn’t recognise any of them. The sign above their heads flashed the word casino in blood red letters. We pulled in and our driver jumped out. He ran around the taxi. Hidden from view he started taking pictures. Three girls dressed in swimsuit-style sparkly costumes greeted the three men at the entrance. They were dancers, prostitutes or both. Arms went around bodies and then they all went inside.
Our driver stuck his head through the window. He spoke rapidly to Xing. She spoke back. Then the driver hurried away.
‘He’s going to enter the casino. He said to wait here,’ Xing said.
I looked through the rear window. Their driver had stayed with the Merc. The traffic moved and I saw the second taxi. It had parked a couple of car lengths behind. I watched two men emerge and then enter the casino. Jemima appeared on the pavement. He wore plain clothes. They were a hiking jacket, chinos and boots. He casually approached the Merc. He was going to attempt to place the tracker.
‘Jemima needs my help,’ I said and jumped out of the taxi. The unnatural glare from the neon signs washed the busy street. All the people and vehicles glowed like victims from a paintball massacre.
I approached the Merc from the front just as Jemima stopped by the boot. I swayed into the road and then staggered back. My singing voice isn’t very tuneful, but it is quite loud. The Merc driver had probably never heard “Rule, Britannia!” sung so badly before. I stumbled and fell heavily onto the bonnet. The heels of my palms made the loud bang that sounded possible denting.
The driver leant his head out and shouted in bad English, ‘You get away from car.’
I pushed myself up, grinned at him and mumbled, ‘Sorry mate, bloody road’s crooked.’ He then swore at me in Cantonese, or at least they sounded like swear words. ‘Okay, sorry mate,’ I said, followed by a quick glance over the roof. Jemima was walking away with a smile on his face. The tracker was successfully in place.
‘Now, he’s seen your face,’ Xing said in a cross voice.
I was back in the taxi. She didn’t seem too impressed by my impromptu performance.
‘I’m not surprised you can act the fool so well,’ she added.
‘The tracker’s in place,’ I replied, justifying my actions.
‘He didn’t need your help to stick on a tracker,’ she said. ‘I can do it on the move while holding a gun.’
She was referring to Tenerife again. I didn’t know why she was so annoyed. Perhaps the day of waiting had gotten to her. As she said, nobody likes the waiting.
Our duckling returned a few minutes later. He reported to us while he waited for a gap in the traffic. Xing translated for me.
‘They met two other men; it was a face to face business meeting. We have good photographs of all five men.’
The duckling tossed his digital camera to Xing. She clicked through the photos.
‘We’ll meet Vong tomorrow,’ Xing said. ‘He’ll give us the names.’
We pulled out into traffic. I called Jemima.
‘Did you do dramatics at school?’ he asked.
‘I didn’t go to that kind of school,’ I said.
‘Well it made my task easier, thank you. Have you got the photographs?’
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘Good—we’ve got some too. Tomorrow, I’ll attempt to identify the men. We’ll also monitor the tracker. One taxi will be enough. I
’ll keep a record of all movements. My ducklings will keep an eye on the Mercedes. I’ll call you with an update.’
I ended the call with Jemima. Xing was watching me. She spoke to our duckling in Cantonese. He spoke back. She spoke again. The taxi pulled over. ‘We can walk from here,’ she said and got out. I followed. The walk back to our hotel took us beside more water. ‘It’s called Nam Van Lake,’ she said.
We reached the hotel. Xing had finally cheered up. Her mood was back to cold professionalism. Whatever it was that had bothered her seemed to have gone. Her eyes found my face, but she didn’t speak.
Inside our suite, Xing made a call. She spoke Cantonese. The call lasted just a few seconds. ‘I’ve arranged a meeting with Vong for tomorrow morning,’ she said. She relaxed and began to undress. I sat on the bed and watched. “Rule, Britannia!” interrupted the show. It was Charlotte.
‘When are you coming home?’ she asked.
I didn’t answer that and instead asked, ‘What’s the latest news with Casanova?’
‘The police have released him,’ she said. ‘It seems he’s held firm and denied everything. Having the best solicitor in London probably helped him. I don’t know what the police intend to do. Perhaps you could find out. How’s the treasure hunt going?’
‘We’re making progress—one step at a time.’
‘Oh, good,’ she said.
‘Have you spoken to Bazzer?’ I asked.
‘He’s going to call you,’ she said.
‘Right,’ I said.
‘How close have you got to Missouri?’ she asked.
‘We haven’t yet, we’re still gathering intelligence. We’ll know more tomorrow.’
We chatted for a few more minutes about nothing important. Xing completed her strip and went to take a shower. She indicated for me to follow.
‘I’ve got to go,’ I said. ‘Call me again tomorrow.’
The steam swirled around my head. Jets of hot water pricked my skin like stinging bees. ‘Wash my back,’ she said. I pulled her wet hair aside and rubbed her shoulder blades with shower gel. The soapy water ran down to her bottom.
Back in the bedroom, Xing turned her towel into a turban. ‘Do you want to go out for dinner or order room service?’ she asked.
My K106 rang. It was Meriwether.
‘What news from the mysterious east?’ he asked.
‘We’re making progress,’ I said.
‘Good—Jemima’s a helpful chap and his team are a resourceful bunch. Do you need anything?’
‘No, nothing at the moment,’ I said.
‘How’s Jackie?’ he asked.
‘She’s frustrated by inactivity,’ I said.
‘Ah yes, of course,’ said Meriwether, ‘she favours quick and decisive action. She must appreciate the need for patience.’
‘She does,’ I said, ‘but the waiting can be annoying.’
‘I’m sure you can find ways to keep yourselves amused,’ he said. His voice held a hint of mirth. I didn’t respond. ‘Very good,’ he said, ‘we’ll speak again soon.’
Xing had been watching me as usual. ‘What about dinner?’ she asked.
‘You can decide,’ I said. ‘I just need to make a quick call.’
That call was to Stephen Billy Bradshaw. He answered as if he was surprised to hear from me.
‘Have you spoken to C?’ I asked.
‘No, I haven’t,’ he said, ‘We don’t share social chit-chat.’
‘Have you got any news for me?’ I asked.
‘...news, what kind of news?’
‘What did you mean by mulberry bush?’ I asked.
‘It’s a nursery rhyme,’ he said.
‘I know it’s a nursery rhyme,’ I replied. ‘What does it have to do with me?’
‘The second verse starts, this is the way we wash our face.’ Annoyingly, he actually sang it as if to a child.
‘So what,’ I said with irritation growing in my voice.
Billy Bradshaw’s voice remained infuriatingly light.
‘Just be careful that you’re not washing someone else’s dirty face. I’ve seen it happen. If I were you, I’d question everything. A set-up is always possible. Espionage is a grubby business. Tenerife was your first lesson and you survived. I wouldn’t like Macau to be your second. This time, the dice may not roll your way. Your boss is ruthless just remember that.’
Bradshaw ended the call before I could respond. He was a frustrating man, but what he said made me think. I hadn’t considered the possibility of deceit. I trusted people. Who would want to deceive me?
‘So what does it have to do with you?’ Xing asked.
‘What?’ I said.
‘The nursery rhyme,’ she asked, ‘mulberry bush, what does it have to do with you?’
I shook my head. ‘I still don’t know,’ I replied.
19
SATURDAY, 16:30—18:30 (local time)
JAMES BRANCASTER CARMICHAEL
The boutiques of St. Christopher’s Place were his favourite.
If one knew anything about upmarket boutique shopping in London’s West End then one knew about St. Christopher’s Place. It was simply the finest.
Today, they all looked so pretty. At this time of year, with their subtle decorations and expensive lights, he could just eat them up.
James Carmichael stopped outside the one he could never resist and admired its elegance. The double glass frontage twinkled in the frosty twilight and threw back his reflection. He enjoyed staring at his reflection. The lighting, he thought, together with the old glass gave him an ethereal beauty like a Christmas angel. Perhaps he would choose something in white today.
The darkness of its interior held a hidden promise of excitement and thrills. He felt an arousal and allowed his body to enjoy the sensation. He gently shivered. It was delightful. Anticipation played on his lips. It was time. With a soft breath, he gently pushed open the small door and went in.
‘Good afternoon, Mr. Carmichael,’ the woman said, greeting him with a welcoming smile that was warm and sincere. She waited for his smile. ‘Do you have something in mind today?’
‘Yes, I do,’ he replied. ‘I would like to see something in white.’
‘...white, yes, of course,’ the woman said.
She turned and led Hoagy towards the fitted teak, open wardrobe behind the hat stand and the mannequin that wore a long, cream coat. Hoagy’s fingers gently brushed the expensive cashmere as he passed. It felt opulent and sensual.
The boutique manageress lifted down a pearl white gown and then turned and held it up.
‘This one is beautiful,’ she said.
Hoagy’s lips parted as his eyes glazed with enthusiasm. The dress held such charm.
‘May I?’ he asked.
‘Yes, of course.’
Hoagy took the object of desire. It was light. He felt the material. It was cool and soft. He wanted to press the hanger against his chest and allow the folds to drop and sway. How high above the knee would it reach?
‘Hold it up,’ the manageress said. ‘Your twin sister is the same size.’
Hoagy did not have a twin sister. He was an only child. The manageress knew that. She was professional and discreet.
Hoagy smiled. He placed the hanger against his body and ran his hand down to his thighs. It was three inches above his knee—lovely.
‘It’s exquisite,’ he said. Again, he pressed the garment to his body and again, the sensation of arousal fluttered. It made him tremble.
‘Perhaps, Mr. Carmichael,’ the woman said, ‘I can show you a pair of shoes that are a perfect match.’ The manageress turned away. Hoagy found the circumspect, handwritten price tag on the dress. Couture fashion was only available to the wealthy. For a moment, he sighed and then his resolve strengthened. He was helpless in the presence of such beauty.
The ivory coloured stilettos would require young ankles and slalom balance if they were not to bring the wearer down. The manageress pushed them together and pointed them
at Hoagy. His lips parted and he wanted to sigh. The shoes were divine. At their attendance, he wanted to kneel and worship.
‘I believe you are the same shoe size as your sister, Mr. Carmichael. Am I not correct?’ She smiled and motioned for Hoagy to sit. He removed one boot.
‘And the sock,’ the woman said.
Hoagy pulled it off, pointed his toe and looked up expectantly.
The woman bent at the waist and pushed on the shoe. It was the perfect fit. Hoagy breathed deeply. He pulled his trouser leg higher and then turned his ankle left and right. The stiletto was magnificent.
‘They’re gorgeous,’ he said.
The manageress smiled. ‘Aren’t they,’ she agreed. ‘Your sister is a lucky girl.’
He nodded but didn’t articulate the lie.
At the desk, he paid with a credit card. The manageress passed across the two bags. They too were elegant and printed with the name of the boutique.
‘Thank you, Mr. Carmichael,’ she said. Her smile was soft. ‘Come back and see us again soon.’
‘Thank you, I will,’ Hoagy said.
Outside, the urgency came upon him as it always did. He hurried away and walked south, quickly reaching Oxford Street. Outside the tube station, he took a cab. On normal occasions, he always rode the bus. The cab drove him along Park Lane beside Hyde Park before turning quite close to St. James’s Park. The traffic was frustrating. At this time on a Saturday, it was worse than ever. The cabbie negotiated his way through the endless bumpers into Chelsea. He stopped outside Hoagy’s small, Victorian apartment.
Hoagy paid the fare and the cabbie clattered on his way. Inside, Hoagy took the stairs at a brisk pace. On the top floor, he unlocked his apartment door and went in. At last, he was home.
He opened the closet doors and then removed the dress and the shoes from their bags. Carefully, he placed the shoes in the space on the rack. Then, delicately he hung the gown in the space alongside the rows of others. He stood back and admired them. Hoagy’s Saturday night ritual had begun.
20
SUNDAY, 08:00—18:00 (local time)
The following morning it poured down. Monsoon style bursts of sheet rain battered the glass.