And then they dived back under the bedclothes.
The plateau was covered in thick cloud. The plane would have to land blind. Captain Malachy used radar and sonar devices to detect the hard surface of the ground and create coordinates on which the flight computers could lock. He controlled the descent by hand, with Enrico Balapit working beside him. They threaded through cliffs of grey and white, glimpsed through breaks in the cloud, they passed the Arka Tagh on their way to Uncle Rinchang’s Walk.
‘One hundred and fifty metres,’ breathed Malachy.
And then their windows were filled with nothing but blind white cloud.
‘Brace, brace,’ Balapit barked into the microphone.
The passengers shrieked.
Skyparc hit the ground. There was a loud ‘whump’ noise as it made contact with the snow and sent several tons of it into the air. The airframe shuddered, bounced ten metres upwards, and then descended again, hitting the snow at a less steep angle the second time. This time it stayed on the surface.
The plane skidded forwards on its belly. The metal screamed.
The passengers screamed. The pilots screamed.
The overhead compartments were shaken open, showering bags, coats and spare blankets on the heads of passengers. A food trolley that had been accidentally left unlatched shot out of its hatch, flew into the air and bounced off the galley ceiling. One of the toilets exploded from the pressure beneath it.
The massive aircraft moved forwards, much too fast, at a nose-forward angle, completely out of control, for a full kilometre. And then it veered to one side, looking as if it was going to careen to the left and fall off the ridge—but it somehow righted itself and ended up moving forwards on the centre of the plateau once more.
Malachy and Balapit yanked furiously at their controls, but they seemed to have no effect.
Skyparc continued to move forwards at high speed without slowing. In front of them was an unforgiving grey, rocky peak—which the plane was approaching steadily.
‘Slow it down, slow it down,’ Balapit shrieked.
Malachy was trying to use the retro jets to slow the plane’s forward movement, but there was a problem: ‘They’re full of snow,’ he shouted over the thunderous noise of the plane’s belly tearing up against the frozen ground. ‘There’s no response.’ Tons of ice crystals thrown up by the initial touchdown had been gulped up by the front vents of the engines.
As Skyparc closed in on the far end of the Fire Dragon’s Back, the top of the tailplane finally cracked and the structure started to break away. It stuck into the ground and acted as a brake, cutting right through the snow layer, etching a line into the hard ice below.
The plane slowed, twisted, and finally came to a halt at a forty-five degree angle to the ridge, anchored by the trailing tailplane.
There was sudden, complete, wonderful silence.
And then it vanished in a chorus of screams, cheers and yells that echoed off the sides of the Kunlun Shan.
Joyce grinned up at Army. ‘Free, 1978,’ she said.
‘What?’
‘“All Right Now”. Yeah, baby, we’re all right now.’
A plane touched down at Heathrow Airport. Not a Skyparc. Not a giant plane of any sort. Just an ordinary Airbus 340. On it were some tired but happy travellers: a group of thrilled-to-have-arrived passengers who had expected to have been on a memorable, history-making flight—but had not anticipated just how memorable and history-making it was destined to be.
They had been quickly rescued from Uncle Rinchang’s Walk by an airborne division of China’s People’s Liberation Army, bringing in blankets and hot tea, and escorting them in small groups to a lower plateau where they filed into a series of waiting helicopters. There were a few broken limbs, and many bruises and abrasions. But no lives had been lost.
The choppers shuttled them to a Chinese town called Shache for cursory medical check-ups. They were then sent to the nearest big city, which was Islamabad, just over the Pakistan border, where they were placed in the hands of representatives of their nearest embassies for repatriation. After a day’s rest and a good night’s sleep at the five-star Serena Hotel in the shadow of the Margalla Hills, part of the Himalayan mountain range, Airbus Industrie of Europe chartered an A340 to pick them up and fly them to their original destination six thousand kilometres away: London. They arrived nine hours later.
Joyce stopped on the top step, taken aback. ‘Cheese. Who are all these people?’
‘Well-wishers, I guess. I guess we must have all been on the news and stuff.’ Army gave a wave to the crowd. ‘We’re celebrities.’
‘Yikes.’
Captain Malachy was standing behind them. ‘A tarmac meet ’n’ greet. How nice. How rare,’ he added. ‘You should feel honoured, kids. The airport authorities in London very rarely let family and friends onto the air side—just on very special occasions. A delightful custom. They should revive it more often.’
The passengers walked down the metal aircraft steps, gazing at the large crowd waiting to greet them, and waving to family members they recognised. Although there were several hundred people present, they were kept orderly by a barrier of velvet ropes, like a crowd waiting at the red carpet in a movie premiere. There were also several soldiers present, some dark-windowed cars, and clusters of people in front of the barriers: more VIPs.
‘Good grief,’ said Army Armstrong-Phillips. ‘My great-aunt’s here.’
‘Your aunt? Not your parents?’
Then it occurred to Joyce who he was talking about. ‘Your great-aunt? You mean, like her?’ Her fist flew to her mouth.
Army said: ‘And lookie here. She’s brought her grandsons with her.’
This time it took less than two seconds for Joyce to work out the family connections and guess to whom he was referring. Her eyes grew wide and she dropped the bag she was holding. ‘You mean? You mean? Where? Where?’ This last word was uttered in a state of feverish excitement. She dropped his hand and abandoned him, pushing her way down the rest of the staircase and racing towards the crowd.
Army turned to the pilot. ‘When Prince Will appears, everything else is forgotten. It’s the story of my life.’
Behind them, passengers streamed off the aircraft, breaking into happy yelps as they spotted friends and relatives and started running.
Wong and Sinha stood to one side, watching the emotional reunions with a very Asian disdain for public shows of affection.
‘Welcome to London. It’s not so bad, is it?’ Sinha said, looking around the cluster of airport buildings and filling his chest with iced air. ‘The West is really just like the East. A little chillier, perhaps, but not really any different.’
The feng shui master looked unimpressed. ‘Just wait,’ he said. ‘Too much drama in the West. Even getting here, too much excitement. Bombs, violence. Very Western. Hope we can go home soon.’
‘Surely you can’t wait to see Buckingham Palace?’
‘Can’t wait to see my home,’ the geomancer said.
‘Why so sour?’
‘Not been paid yet. And person who promise to pay—he is locked up. Jailbird now. Who is going to pay me?’
Sinha made a sympathetic cooing sound. ‘I see the problem. Jackson may still pay you—although you may have to wait until all the court cases have gone through. It has all become a bit complicated. Probably take months to work it all out.’
‘Months?’
‘Oh, yes. Maybe years. It will all be bogged down in a morass of legal claims, I expect. Could go on for a decade. Remember Jarndyce v. Jarndyce?’
Wong scowled, thinking of Arun Asif Iqbal Daswani and his knife-wielding friends, waiting for him back in Singapore. Expecting to be paid in a few days.
Aiyeeah. Why did the gods hate him so?
The sky, grey and dark, began to open up. Mischievous gusts of wind appeared from nowhere and knocked hats off the heads of people in the crowd. Headscarfs were pulled out of shape and scarves whipped away.
/> Then, just minutes later, the wind dropped and it began to snow. Large, fat flakes descended slowly, meandering in the air as they found their way to shoulders and the tops of shoes.
‘Pretty,’ said Janet Moore to Dilip Sinha, as her hair became whiter.
Army gave his great-aunt a hug, and then wandered around, looking for Joyce. She appeared squealing, banshee-like out of the crowd and grabbed his hand, sucking him into the throng of people.
‘Come,’ she said. ‘There are some people I want you to meet.’
He followed obediently. ‘If it’s my cousins once removed, I’ve already met them.’
But it was two young people, a European girl with short, dark hair, and a stocky Eurasian man.
‘This is Nina and Jason,’ Joyce said. ‘They’re my friends from Hong Kong. It’s so weird—they saw me off in Hong Kong. And now they’re here.’
Nina shook Army’s hand and explained: ‘When we heard your plane crashed, but everyone survived and would be flown on to London, we got money from our folks to fly over to London and greet you guys. We thought it would be nice if there was someone waiting for Joyce, her folks not being very good at remembering she’s alive and all that sort of thing. I hope you don’t mind me saying that, Joyce?’
‘No.’
Nina whispered to Joyce. ‘Should I curtsy to him or something?’
‘Nah. I hope you don’t mind. I told them you were a royal.’
‘I don’t mind,’ Army said generously.
‘I also told them you were totally ordinary.’
‘I am. Totally ordinary. And proud of it.’
Jason grabbed Joyce’s shoulder. ‘Kid, did you hear the news about Paul?’
‘No?’
‘Abel went to see him several times. Kept him in the loop about what was happening with you. Then, as soon as all that stuff came out on the news about new evidence being discovered in his case, Abel started proceedings to get Paul out of jail. He should be out on bail soon, if not already.’
‘That’s brilliant. I feel…I feel…ooh, Eric Clapton, 1977.’
‘“Wonderful Tonight”,’ said Jason.
‘Let’s go out and have some fun, the four of us,’ said Nina. ‘If you guys are not too tired.’
‘Well, we have had a fair bit of excitement the last couple of days,’ said Army, catching Joyce’s eye.
Joyce entwined her fingers with his. ‘Bachman Turner Overdrive, 1974,’ she said to him.
The young man wrinkled up his face in thought as he tried to play the game. ‘Got it,’ he said. ‘“You Ain’t Seen Nothin’ Yet.”’
Joyce touched his lips with her finger.
Enrico Balapit and Ubami Sekoto stood on the top of the aircraft steps, looking down at the scene below them.
‘I can’t quite believe it, can you?’ the co-pilot said.
The first officer shook his head. ‘Crashing the world’s most expensive plane—that was not fun.’
His companion nodded.
‘But surviving the crash? That was pretty cool.’
‘You want to grab a drink?’
‘No…I want to grab a case of drinks.’
Balapit brushed the snow off his colleague’s shoulders. ‘It’s settling. Going to be a white Christmas.’
‘Leave it. I like the snow.’
‘I guess you don’t get a lot of snow in Tanzania.’
‘Only on top of Kilimanjaro.’
‘Let’s not talk about mountains. I’ve had enough mountains to last me a lifetime.’
‘Agreed. One exception: they do this thing called Nacho Mountain in the canteen.’
‘I’m there.’
‘Mr Wong! Mr Wong.’
The feng shui master turned to see who was calling his name. He was astonished to see the tall, swaying figure of Cecily-Mary Crumley of OffBox tottering up to him in extra-high heels. ‘Oh. Miss Crumley. How are you?’
‘Mr Wong, I heard you were on the plane that crashed, and that the passengers were on their way to London, so I thought I might as well come and greet you.’ She gave him a warm smile—not at all the reception he would have expected from a prospective business partner in a deal which had fallen so spectacularly apart. Maybe she was just a very forgiving person? He started to apologise. ‘So sorry about—’
‘Did you hear the news from Cindy?’ she asked.
‘Cindy?’
‘Cindy Daswani.’
‘Oh, him. What news?’
‘About the pens?’
‘The pens.’
‘The highlighters.’
‘Yes. No.’ He did not want to be reminded of their existence.
But Ms Crumley clapped her hands together in delight. ‘Before I left Singapore I made some enquiries—just on a sort of million-to-one off-chance that anyone might want highlighters with black ink. I found one of the wholesalers who did stationery supplies to Asian governments. It was amazing. Civil servants all over east Asia were looking for exactly this sort of product.’
‘They were?’
‘They all wanted the pens. Perfect for censorship, you see—they’re always worrying about what they call “sensitive” news. Our little black pens were perfect. A quick flick of your wrist and the information is gone. They have ranks of people doing that sort of thing.’
‘Ah. I see.’
‘My wholesaler got orders for all one hundred and eighty thousand pens in twenty-four hours. It looks like it will be an annual order from several of the governments in Asia. It’s going to be one of our biggest lines.’
‘You sell them?’
‘Every last one. It’s huge. I want you and Mr Daswani to make more of them. Just the same. Black ink only. I’ll send you details.’
Wong was speechless. He eventually managed to breathe one word: ‘Good.’
‘One last thing.’
‘Yes.’
‘Here’s your cheque.’ She pulled open her handbag and pulled out a file containing an envelope with the name Harmoney on it. ‘Sorry that it was delayed.’
The feng shui master took it in his hand and bowed. He tried to say the words ‘Thank you’ but was having trouble breathing.
As the crowds started to thin into a handful of small, scattered clusters and head for the buses taking them to the main terminal building, Joyce heard someone call her name.
‘Jojo! My darling.’
The young woman spun on her heel and her jaw dropped. The shaven-haired woman racing towards her looked familiar but alien at the same time. ‘Mum?’
Joyce’s mother had had her trademark Big Hair removed, and was now sporting an ultra-short style that showed the shape of her head and made her look like a post-punk female rock star. She had an earring in the top of her right ear and was wearing trousers.
‘My darling sweet baby—I was so worried.’ She swept Joyce up in her arms and tried to swing her round, but then decided that she was too heavy. So she just hugged her tightly and scattered air kisses near her cheeks, being careful not to smudge her make-up. ‘My sweetheart. You’re safe.’
‘Yes, Mum. I…I didn’t expect to see you here.’
‘I haven’t been able to eat or sleep since I heard you were on that plane. Oh, my darling. Let me hold you. Let me look at you.’
She put her hands on both sides of Joyce’s face, squeezing mercilessly. Then she gave a theatrical sniff and pulled out a handkerchief conveniently sticking out of the top of her handbag and started dabbing her eyes.
‘It’s nice to see you, Mum,’ said Joyce, lowering her head onto her mother’s left shoulder.
‘This side,’ whispered the older woman, transferring Joyce’s head to her right shoulder.
Joyce nestled into the fabric—something that was denimish and designer-ish at the same time—then realised what was going on. She jerked her head upright. ‘Are you filming this?’
‘Keep your head down, baby girl,’ her mother said, applying force to Joyce’s neck.
Joyce jerked her head upright an
d looked around. Five metres away, a film crew with a hand-held camera were circling them.
‘Mum, you’re filming this.’
‘Yes, dear.’
‘You look different. But you haven’t changed, have you?’
‘No, dear.’
J Oscar Jackson Jnr grabbed Wong’s arm and tugged him to one side. The feng shui master groaned. There seemed to be no end of people who wanted to physically drag him places this week.
‘The boss wants to meet you,’ Jackson whispered.
‘The boss?’
‘Her Majesty. As you approach, you bow from the neck down. Then you address her as “Your Majesty” the first time you speak to her, and “Ma’am” from then on.’
‘Mum?’
‘Ma’am.’
Wong was propelled in the direction of a white-haired lady wearing a raincoat, headscarf and dark glasses. She was elderly but stood very straight, reminding him of Sir Nicholas.
‘That her?’
‘That’s her.’
‘No crown?’
‘It’s in her handbag.’
Jackson stopped and bowed. ‘Your Majesty. I am pleased to introduce Mr CF Wong, the feng shui master.’
Wong bowed from the head down, more of a nod, really, and said: ‘Hullo, Mum.’
Jackson stepped back to allow the two of them to have a private discussion.
She smiled, tilted her head and inclined it slightly. ‘You’re the gentleman who guided the plane to the frozen lake in the mountains where it could land safely, I understand, Mr Wong.’
‘Yes, Mum.’ He bowed again. It seemed the right thing to do.
The Queen smiled and her eyebrows rose an eighth of an inch. ‘I’m not really used to people calling me “Mum”,’ she said. ‘Except my children, of course.’
Wong nodded again. That fool Jackson had given him the wrong information. Caused him to make a serious error of protocol. Of course one shouldn’t call the Queen “Mum”. He racked his brain—what was her name? Robbie Manks had told him that day driving around Chek Lap Kok airport—Elizabeth something. Elizabeth, Elizabeth, Elizabeth…?
Mr Wong Goes West Page 23