The Girl From Peking

by George B Mair

  ‘There is record of your supposed husband’s nationality in Hong Kong, so that should be no problem. The necklace was photographed there over a year ago and, as you know, both the Bank and the valuators have coloured pictures. Then you have letters which carry his signature, received at different times from your husband and in the same handwriting as the one at the Bank in Hong Kong. So we have proof of your own identity. And our government will make an official statement when you are deported. It will identify you with your husband and regret your bad behaviour while guest of the Chinese People’s Republic. It will emphasise the treatment you received from our best doctors in Wuhan and it will express indignation at the way you disturbed the Chinese public image by killing a harmless seaman in Shanghai. The statement will also make it clear that the government decided on clemency only because of your age and sex.’

  Maksud sipped more tea and then continued in his gentle, precise voice. ‘The money was deposited two years ago, and our own man in Hong Kong will let loose the millionairess rumour when he becomes drunk at a party. Which takes care of that angle.

  ‘But it will be up to yourself to condition the doctor you call in to treat you and make sure that he is made to advise you to go to Paris yet still believe that the idea was his own. Wear something French. Or refer to champagne. Say something about perfume or the need to replace your wardrobe. But try and implant an idea which will associate in his mind with France and then, when you say “where shall I go” it will return automatically to his subconscious and make him reply “Paris”.’ He studied her curiously. ‘Can you do this?’

  She was silent for half a cigarette. ‘I think so,’ she said at last. ‘I shall wear French perfume, let some black fish-net stockings and daring lingerie hang over the end of my bed when he arrives, and try to use some sort of French slang. Hearing the language might be enough. But I think I can manage.’

  Maksud smiled again. It sounded promising. But there was also the question of how her husband had disposed of his goods when he was a refugee. His own Intelligence had already identified five separate Chinese refugees all of whom had fled the country at one time or another and sold items of the kind listed in South America and other places. So Counter Intelligences would find it hard to prove that one of them had not been the husband of Tania Monham.

  All in all the whole set up was so complicated that it would be difficult to disprove, and for sure the girl would be safe enough for many months. With luck, for long enough to complete this and other missions. Only one point remained, the spy David Grant!

  ‘Grant may be called in if Western Europe or the Americans suspect your credentials. What are your orders?’

  Her eyes hardened. ‘I will not allow myself to be sidetracked until my mission has been completed. But then, unless there are orders to the contrary, I shall try to take him prisoner.’

  ‘But how?’

  ‘We have arranged that a signal can be sent at the correct time, and use either ship or aircraft as may be most suitable.’

  And then he remembered. Drugs! ‘A few more points. You will be wearing a black pearl necklace wherever you touch down at a Customs check. They are graded but there is a lethal dose of cyanide in the two largest. Those are false and can either be swallowed or bitten, in which case death would be swift. Understood?’

  She nodded. But her thoughts were far away from death. Instead she saw only the man she hated. David Grant had been her lover. She had given him everything. And more than any man could dare to expect from even the most sophisticated mistress. It had been part of the game, of course. And she had even enjoyed him. Because he had fantastic charm. But she would never forgive the weapon he had used against her at the end. Death would have been a reasonable thing. In fact she had been about to kill him herself when it had happened. And he would have had a clean end like any other soldier. But he had hoodwinked her with a spray of concentrated acid which had burst into her face at close range and only a miracle had saved her eyes. In fact she still couldn’t understand how she had escaped, and she remembered only the burning pain of flesh dissolving while liquid fire ran down her cheek. He must have known exactly what he was doing, yet he had chosen to scar her for life in order to save himself from a bullet. What a coward’s way out!

  Until then she had thought that he would fight like a gentleman. And it had rocked her sense of self-confidence to find a man who could be as ruthless as herself.

  ‘One favour only, Comrade.’

  Maksud nodded. ‘Ask.’

  ‘If David Grant becomes our prisoner will you let me have him at the end?’

  ‘Why?’ The man was curious to hear her reason. It seemed stupid to become involved in personal matters. Emotion clouded both judgement and efficiency.

  The new Tania carefully onlaid a fresh coat of crimson varnish to her thumb nail, and he watched, silently, while she covered every spot with glowing lacquer. ‘I want him for myself,’ she said at last. ‘Call it revenge if you like. But I promise it will not make me do things I should not do during the work which really matters. I would just like to have something to which I can look forward, and I want to work on David Grant at leisure. I can take the time as leave. And I am due some leave. I want to make him my slave and to make him suffer just a little of all that that girl and I went through together during these past two years. And after that . . .’ she hesitated . . . ‘after that I am not sure.’

  Maksud hated violence. There were times when it was necessary, and the death of a man outside the Opéra in Paris would be a straightforward affair justified by necessity. It was part of a plan. Just as it had been part of a complicated plan to kill a harmless Dutch sailor in Shanghai or arrange for a subject to provide the new face graft. But Maksud was a gentle person who preferred civilised living to gangsterdom. Yet he knew that others were not like himself. And the girl must feel that in the end she would be rewarded by more than a letter of thanks from her superiors. Hate was a strange thing, he reflected. Almost as strong as love. Perhaps women were different from men. He had never married or thought a great deal about the subject, because dedication to work had been enough to replace sex in his own life, and he loved only China with its millions of faithful peasants, its suffering people and lovely mountains. He loved China’s heritage of artistic treasures and was happy to see tourists begin to enjoy them in the museums of Peking. Life was for living, not for dying. Too many people had already died in China, but now they would live. And live better every year. He sipped more tea and took another delicate pinch of snuff. The worst was over. And the future could never be worse than some parts of the past. So why spoil it with revenge?

  The girl knew him better than most, and two years of almost daily contact had given her at least a little insight into his mind. She sensed that he was annoyed, but she refused to let the matter drop. ‘Well?’ she asked. ‘Will the department allow me to use him?’

  Their eyes met in a clash of wills, and Maksud shrugged his shoulders. ‘I will ask permission.’

  ‘And now?’ The girl looked at him curiously. ‘Are there any further orders?’

  Maksud flashed a brief smile. ‘A few. We want you to wear Samfoo and other traditional Chinese clothes when you live in the West. Not all the time, of course, but for some of the time. So we are having evening gowns, skirts and tops made for you in Western style. They will be of our own best silk brocade and you will use them to advertise China’s industry. The fabrics are so lovely that they may even encourage tourism and boost that particular export.’

  Jacqueline’s eyes sparked for a flickering second, but Maksud saw that she was pleased. And it was good to make an agent not only feel complimented by attention from her superiors, but indirectly to interest the fashion world in a fabric which could not be equalled. In the dresses which had already been designed Tania would be more than sensational. ‘I am content that you are pleased,’ he said and edged towards the door. ‘But one last thing. We shall not meet again after this evening until you return,
or unless you need me. But if you do feel need for help or advice we have arranged addresses.’

  Tania stared at him dead-pan. ‘Where?’

  He smiled. ‘Characters have been worked into the tails of all the dragons on your turquoise skirt. They are alternate Cantonese, Mandarin and Sinkiang dialect in that order. Each dragon has a full address but the characters have been reversed and are in mirror image. The colour of stitch used varies with each portion of each character. They are very small and better studied under a magnifying glass and I defy anyone to identify them. So you will carry the names of agents in London, Paris, Berlin, Rome and Amsterdam because I doubt if you are likely to visit any other city where there might be trouble. But if big trouble does seem to loom urgently ahead you will take your small clock, set the alarm for 6.30 hours and the main hands for exactly ten hours and one minute. A signal will then be picked up by our nearest agent and it will broadcast for precisely seventy seconds. You may then expect contact with one of our own people within a very short time. All clear?’

  She nodded. A gift for filing facts made her memory exceptional and Maksud knew that she would not forget. ‘One absolutely final thing,’ he smiled. ‘You are now tired so I want to test your marksmanship. Slip something on and come with me to the basement.’

  The girl rose without comment, stepped into a pair of bed-slippers and draped a robe over her shoulders. Together they crossed a short corridor and entered an elevator which dropped to a basement shooting gallery with a range of one hundred and fifty metres.

  Maksud handed her the Browning. ‘Something will appear, unexpectedly. You must shoot to kill.’

  He saw that the girl’s hand was rock steady as she stood motionless by his side. Her neck pulse was sixty-six and it did not rise even after she had been kept waiting for over two minutes. He glanced at his watch, and silently made the count down. A mountain hare sprang from a cavity in the wall at precisely zero hour and it was dead within two seconds, shot while zig-zagging across the room.

  Maksud then handed her the Ruger. ‘You have nine rounds. It is possible that you may need them.’ He glanced towards one darkened gallery in a corner and marked the glimpse of a powerful rifle. There was no point in running needless risks! And then he again glanced at his watch. Everything had been carefully timed. He heard a snarl which was loaded with venom, and a tiger imported for the purpose bounded out of a closed box when its lid sprang open at the touch of an unseen control button. The beast had, intentionally, been kept hungry, and it hesitated for only a second before leaping towards them. Maksud forced himself to watch the girl but her only sign of stress was a tautening of the muscles of her lower jaw. She fired three times and the beast dropped dead within a metre of their feet.

  They studied it together. Two bullets had penetrated the thinnest part of the skull and another had drilled its heart. ‘Very good,’ he smiled. ‘And now this room will be sprayed with water.’ He touched the fire extinguisher and watched sprays jet from every ceiling point. ‘Then we dim the lights. So.’ He switch off half of the circuits and turned towards her. ‘Imagine that this is a night in a city street. People will shortly criss-cross the room and a Siamese cat will be dropped by one of them. You have four seconds to kill it without injuring any of my staff.’

  Tania turned to the Browning. For a cat that was heavy enough! And then the room filled with people. Perhaps fifty walked from all angles across the concrete floor. Perhaps fifty saw a slightly built girl let the cat fall from under her arms. People were converging in every direction, but she fired only once and the creature fell dead before even Maksud had properly focussed on the scene. He bowed politely. ‘You are remarkable, a credit to the peoples of our country. So now get a possible in twenty seconds using the Ruger. There are your targets.’

  She turned round and saw a row of standard military targets at almost extreme range. She had scored her final bull when she turned round to smile in triumph. But Maksud had gone.

  She laid down the weapon and waited for the elevator to return, and then she stopped at ground level to have a walk in the garden. The night was warm and the ground dry. Magnolia were in bloom and hung above dark shadows like white balloons below a full moon.

  She lit a cigarette and watched smoke drift across the garden towards a fountain which spurted a column of crystal clear water. But the moonlight was playing tricks, and somehow it had turned to gold. Her clothes were damp from the indoor fire sprays and she shivered as a whiff of breeze ruffled her cheeks. But the gold was an omen and she walked briskly back to her room.

  But she did not see either the bed, the hand made carpet from Turkestan, or the solitary Ming vase which stood in one corner. The room was now filled only with memories, with a ‘small screen’ record of her life.

  And the man who filled the foreground was David Grant. She could almost feel his hands against her soft skin and the firmness of his teeth as he kissed her.

  She turned out the light. But that night, for the first time in over one year, she used a sleeping pill and swallowed a blue green capsule. Only drugs could kill that shadow which refused to go away. And as she fell into a dopey lethargy the last sound which she heard was his voice laughing aloud as it had so often done in the past. She could almost have sworn that he kissed her. And then she slept.

  Chapter Three – ‘Top people carry nothing’

  Tania’s emotions were more complicated than she had expected as the Macao Airtransport touched down on an almost dead calm sea at the base near Kowloon. Hong Kong at last!

  And she thought again of the foresight of Maksud’s department which had arranged everything so efficiently. Somehow it made her scared. Their standards were so high! It had been easy enough to believe that one was the ‘bestest’ while living under the cloak of Maksud’s personality. But now she was alone.

  She could see a launch approaching and guessed that it held press men. Publicity had been cunningly arranged.

  Cryptic comment on China’s internal broadcasting services.

  An occasional flash of herself on television which everyone knew could be picked up in both Hong Kong and Macao.

  Guarded references to the trial in camera through a few minor newspapers and then a formal government statement announcing sentence.

  A final news spot had come at the end of one long bulletin to the effect that Tania Monham, the Western woman who had been convicted of murder, would be deported to Macao on the following morning.

  She had been smuggled into a helicopter and crossed over before even the press knew what was happening. Formalities had been nil since it had been made known that she was only passing through to Hong Kong, and within eleven minutes flat she had boarded a flying-boat chartered for the short hop after a phone call an hour or so earlier.

  Movement had been non-stop after boarding the original motor car which had taken her to Peking airport. And for the first time she was now alone.

  She checked her assets. Papers in the wallet within her handbag. Black pearls with death in two of them hanging from her neck against a pale green dress of pure silk. The Ruger strapped to her right thigh and the Browning to her left. They lay snugly and almost touching one another, yet not even the thin straps of her holsters creased the sheer fit of her dress.

  Trays of ammunition had been hidden within a false bottom to her vanity case and the heels of her shoes held enough small calibre ammuntion to keep the Browning useful for at least a few emergencies.

  The knives had been fitted into her girdle, and their pliable metal blades moulded themselves to her belly wall while their slightly thicker hilts were masked by a sash fastened in a bow across her middle.

  Her bottle of perfume was within the limit of customs regulations but contained enough of a liquid drug to put a man to sleep with two drops or kill with ten. It bore the label of a famous beautician, and she half smiled when she wondered what the ghost of Helena Rubenstein might think could she see her now.

  She had in hard cash just over tw
o hundred American dollars and five hundred Hong Kong dollars, supposed to be the balance of money drawn out when she made her original trip to Peking. The numbers of all the notes had been traced and were issued before her supposed former husband had died. So once again she could not be caught out through something simple which might have been overlooked.

  She also carried a supply of pills, treatment for the rheumatic condition she was supposed to have developed at Wuhan, and neither cortisone nor aspirin were banned by regulation when carried for a traveller’s own use.

  She felt the machine hit water and the fuselage throb with power as it turned inshore towards base. Everything was still under control and it was now up to herself to see that things stayed that way.

  But she was operating to a tight schedule and the whole programme had been worked out in detail . . . at least until she reached Paris where it would be a question of seizing opportunity.

  Her ticket presented the only problem. And that couldn’t be booked until the doctor had ordered her to go elsewhere. Meanwhile she would have enough to do to arrange business with the Bank and collect her necklace. A radio message had been sent en route from Macao and she had asked the Bank to send a representative to meet her.

  She knew Bill Badams as one of the most charming men on the Colony and one whom the Bank trusted. Her husband had spoken well of him. He had a sympathy for Chinese culture and he was a gentleman. He was also a friend of George Mair, of whom she had heard David Grant sometimes speak with affection, and she hoped that it would be Bill with whom she would do business.

  The launch was full, but she saw a sleek haired tall man with pale smiling face and horn rimmed spectacles. He might be Bill and she began to relax. In spite of her training Tania was deeply superstitious and she felt that it would be a good omen if the Bank sent someone with whom she had a vague connection.

  And then it started. Press interviews. Photographs.