by John Harris
They were taking a risk because Da Braga had given up his interest in Shanghai Traders, and Shanghai Traders was finished, anyway, but they could only hope that the captain wasn’t interested in financial affairs and didn’t know. The necessary documents, worked over during the past forty-eight hours at full speed by Willie and a shipping lawyer were handed over. The captain studied them and passed them back.
‘When do you intend to leave?’
Da Braga hummed and hahed and talked of a cargo of hides for Canton, but claimed he was unable to specify dates because, due to the situation ashore, the cargo had still not arrived. He wished, however, to leave as soon as possible after it did.
The captain managed a thin smile. ‘I should warn you,’ he said, ‘that things have changed a great deal since this permit was issued. The Generalissimo is contemplating establishing himself in Taiwan, from where he will continue to conduct operations against the Communist usurpers. My orders are to see that no raw materials reach them via the Yangtze and that no finished products leave. Nevertheless, you have your permit and it will not be rescinded. However–’ he paused significantly ‘–I must tell you that I cannot accept it if you delay too long. You have until July 31st and no longer.’
Four
As Willie stepped ashore from the tug, Edward met him with news of the Amethyst.
‘She’s in trouble,’ he said. ‘Short of food and fuel and alive with rats. They’re still arguing and we know Tom’s in Chinkiang working at it, but so far they’re not getting very far.’
‘Keep me in touch with everything that happens,’ Willie said. ‘Everything. It’s over two months now. Something’s got to give soon.’
With the Communist grip on Shanghai growing tighter, the weather became hot, sultry and trying, the air breathless, heavy and still. Nerves were frayed, because people trying to live with the financial difficulties being imposed by the new regime on top of the long hot summer were on edge and there were sudden explosions of temper at the Club. It was rapidly becoming obvious that anyone who couldn’t learn to live under the rules imposed by the new government would have to get out.
Waking up in his hotel, Willie was aware of a desolate silence. There was no sound of cars moving, none of the sounds of Shanghai’s normal life. It was uncanny and the darkness seemed to smother everything. Not a tree moved, not a leaf rustled. Shanghai was in utter stillness. Staring at the ceiling, he lay motionless for a moment, then he sat up recognising it for what it was. There had been typhoon warnings for days and this he knew was the sign of its arrival.
Even as he scrambled out of bed, the rain came. It arrived with a roar, driven by the sudden howl of the wind. Doors slammed and he could hear voices as other residents of the hotel rose to close windows and secure shutters. Within minutes the rain was pounding down in a tremendous downpour and the wind was screaming round the building like a demented giant. Dressing, he went downstairs to find porters struggling with doors blown in by the force of the sudden gale and busy with mops and brushes getting rid of the water which had forced its way inside. Outside, palms were bending like bows and there was a crash as a tree keeled over and smashed to the ground.
The rain was lashing down in torrents, roaring against the beaten foliage, filling the monsoon ditches and scattering petals across the road. The sky, apparently resting on the roofs of the buildings, was filled with an eerie light. A man ran across the forecourt of the hotel, his clothes plastered to his body, then, as the wind caught him, he was forced into a gallop until he fetched up hard against a swaying tree, bounced off and continued his dash for shelter.
A fresh gale of wind arrived like the explosion of a bomb, filling the air with spray from the waterfront, while whipped foliage scattered fronds across the road. By daylight the bund was under water, which swirled knee-deep in Wing On’s famous department store in Nanking Road. The hotel had already been cut off for hours, the water rushing past its entrance and across the road into the Whangpoo. People were crouching over every telephone in the place, trying to find out what was happening, but the electricity had failed and none were working. From his window Willie could see the Yangtze, a mass of swirling currents, the mat of sampans rising and falling in the waves. Several had been driven ashore and, as he watched, he saw men struggling to pull a drowned body from the water. A junk that had dragged its anchor had smashed into another vessel; and a second, whose anchor chain had snapped, was drifting broadside-on in the wind.
Going downstairs, he found Edward asking for him. He looked elated.
‘What’s happened?’ Willie demanded. ‘Something has, I can tell.’
‘Amethyst’s broken out,’ Edward said. ‘When the storm was forecast, Kerans knew it was time to leave. The Communists had threatened to blow him out of the water if he tried so he decided there was nothing to lose, and the typhoon fixed it. With the Yangtze in flood and everybody concerned with battening down, it was his chance. He changed his silhouette, slipped his cable and followed a Chinese merchantman so he wouldn’t be noticed.’
‘Where is she now?’
‘At three o’clock she was forty miles away. At five-thirty she signalled Rodney, asking them to cover her at Woosung. She’s been under fire but she’s made it and we’ve just heard she’s rejoined the fleet. It was quite a night.’
‘Thank God,’ Willie said fervently. ‘What about Tom?’
Edward was suddenly at a loss. ‘If he’s not on board I don’t know. I’ve been assuming he’s with her.’
Willie frowned. ‘Don’t be so sure, lad,’ he said. ‘China isn’t England and he might not be.’
The typhoon was fading and the wind dying as the Communist newspapers bellowed the news – repeating the howls for vengeance and increasing their demands for compensation. The Kiang Ling Liberation, a Chinese merchantman that the Amethyst had followed, had been fired on by mistake and sunk by Chinese shore batteries and the Chinese were claiming it was the Amethyst’s guns that had done the work.
It was generally felt that the prestige the Communists had gained with the capture of the frigate had been lost and there were a few extra drinks in clubs, offices and homes. The escape was a great fillip for the thinned British colony and put heart into them, though Willie was certain it would not improve their conditions. The old tolerant attitudes of the Chinese had already gone and this, he felt sure, would only exacerbate the difficulties.
When he left the hotel, he found the police already making spot checks on people, concentrating chiefly on foreigners and holding them up long enough to make it difficult to carry on business. That night a curfew, announced on the radio in English and Chinese, was imposed. Soldiers immediately began to move about the streets putting up posters to the effect among the vast Communist propaganda sheets that had been daubed on the walls. No cars were to be allowed to move after 9 p.m. and offenders were to be arrested at once.
And suddenly there was a flurry of unexpected disappearances – journalists who had criticised the Communists, businessmen who had dealt with the Nationalists, lawyers who had prosecuted Communists during the troubles of the twenties, people who had businesses or premises the Communists needed – and Zychov. Suddenly the Balalaika closed and Willie heard that Zychov had been arrested.
The news left him unmoved, even with a feeling that justice had finally been done, yet somehow, knowing how ruthless the Communists could be, he was curiously concerned, as he might have been for any European thrown into a Communist prison. Even so, the message that came from the police stating that Zychov wished to see him startled him.
He appeared at the prison in a mood of uncertainty overlaid with a feeling that at last Zychov was going to grovel before him and ask him to bring about his release. The police, who knew him well, still managed to treat him with some respect – far more than most Europeans were receiving these days – but Zychov was as arrogant as ever.
‘Ah,’ he said. ‘My good friend, Mr Sarth.’
‘I’m no friend of yours,’ W
illie snapped. ‘What do you want?’
Zychov eyed him. He was still handsome, though his hair had become grey and he had grown thicker round the middle. But he was still straight-backed and his eye still had the old imperious look in it.
‘I need help,’ he said bluntly, though there was nothing about the statement that was humble or in the nature of an appeal.
Willie studied him warily. ‘So?’
Zychov gestured. ‘As a fellow-European – and one, I have to admit, who still has some influence in this place – I am expecting you to do what you can to get me out of this hole.’
For a moment there was a look of dread behind the arrogance in his eyes, as if he were well aware of what might be in store for him. It lasted no more than a fraction of a second, but Willie knew that, despite the show he was putting on, Zychov was afraid.
‘Do you think you have any right to ask me for help?’ he said.
Zychov shrugged. ‘You stole my wife. Isn’t that enough?’
‘You’d abandoned her long before I even met her.’
‘Well–’ Zychov shrugged ‘–that’s a matter of opinion, I think.’
The discussion descended into an arid argument in which Willie was aware of no feeling whatsoever. He owed Zychov nothing and if Zychov was in trouble it was his own fault. But then, as he turned away, convinced that Zychov was condemning himself by his own self-importance, the Russian suddenly caught at his sleeve.
‘Wait!’ he said and his voice had changed. ‘Sarth, I need your help! God knows, I suppose there have been things in my life I ought to be ashamed of and I have no claim for sympathy over my wife. There have been too many others both during my marriage and since it collapsed. But I’m a European, Sarth, and I’m in a mess. I need someone on my side.’
It was entirely unexpected, but Willie wasn’t convinced even now.
‘You’ve hardly worked at getting anyone,’ he said.
‘No. To that I admit.’ There was another touch of the old arrogance but it collapsed again quickly. ‘They’ll kill me, Sarth. There probably won’t even be a trial.’
Willie thought it unlikely. Whatever their faults, the Chinese Communists had a rigid attitude to legality. Zychov saw his hesitation and suddenly he grasped Willie’s hand in both of his. ‘For the love of God, Sarth,’ he begged, ‘get me out of here!’
Whether it was his sudden descent into pleading, the sudden break in the stiff-necked arrogance, or whether it was simply the sight of a frightened man in danger of losing his life, something threw a switch in Willie’s mind. He had nothing for which he could thank Zychov and a great deal for which he could blame him. More than once his life had been in danger because of this man who stood in front of him, but the thought of a life sentence in a Shanghai jail stirred something in him. He was wary, however.
‘Why the hell should I do anything for you?’ he demanded.
‘Because we’ve known each other a long time. Almost fifty years.’
‘We’ve never been friends, damn it!’ Willie exploded. ‘Quite the contrary. Haven’t you any better friends than me to do your dirty work?’
Zychov’s shoulders sagged and Willie was aware of a small feeling of triumph. All his hatred seemed to evaporate as Zychov’s courage collapsed.
‘No,’ Zychov said. ‘Perhaps I’ve never deserved any.’
It wasn’t an appeal for help this time, and Willie knew it wasn’t intended to be. It was a simple statement of fact as though Zychov had finally been forced to come face to face with his own evil. Somehow, it was this very thing that, if it didn’t melt Willie’s resolve, made him feel he had to do something. He was a fool, he decided, and softer-hearted than he’d realised. After wanting to destroy Zychov for years, he found he hadn’t the courage he’d thought he had.
‘What happens if I manage it?’ he said. ‘I don’t want you here.’
Zychov’s hands dropped to his side, but his smile reappeared and Willie knew that the victory was somehow still with his old enemy. ‘You have ships, Sarth.’
Willie’s temper blazed. The last person he wished to know about the Lady Roberts and what he had planned was Zychov. ‘No,’ he snapped. ‘By God, no! I’ve said I’ll try to get you out of this place but after that you’re on your own! Don’t come to me for any more!’
‘Very well.’ The gleam had died from Zychov’s eyes and his face was expressionless. ‘I’ll leave. But I can’t go back to Russia, can I?’ His shrug came again. ‘Perhaps the United States? They’re notoriously warm-hearted towards the homeless. And I’m not without money. I’ve salted a little away in Australia and Switzerland. I could go there.’
‘What certainty have I that you’ll go?’
‘Only my promise.’
‘Your bloody promises were always worthless!’
Zychov sighed and his defences crumbled again. ‘No promise from a man in danger of death is worth much,’ he said. ‘A man with his head in a noose will promise anything, I know, but I also know that these people trust you far more than they do me, and that you could destroy me any time you wish. I’ll go.’
‘All right,’ Willie said. ‘I’ll see someone.’
He had no expectation of success but, to his surprise, the police chief was not unwilling to listen. He proffered arguments against Willie’s suggestion that Zychov should be set loose, but they seemed strangely half-hearted, almost as if he weren’t giving Willie’s words his full attention. He even promised to take the matter to Chou En-Lai who, as Willie new, was still in the city, and three days later Willie heard that Zychov had been allowed to go.
Despite the police chief’s indifference, it still surprised Willie. The Communists had many good reasons for holding Zychov, many reasons for wishing to see him dead, and he couldn’t work out why getting him free had been so easy. Calling at the jail, the news was confirmed for him, but again the police chief was vague. He was all smiles, too, as if he had been relieved of some great responsibility, and it puzzled Willie. The Communists weren’t in the habit of forgiving.
‘I saw Comrade Chou,’ the policeman said. ‘We discussed it. We went into some detail and in the end he left it to me. I decided we need have no fear of our friend Zychov worrying us again. So he was freed.’
Somehow, it seemed too glib, too simple, and it left Willie feeling uneasy. At a time when things were being made deliberately difficult for Europeans, it didn’t make sense that Zychov’s release had been engineered with so little trouble.
‘Has he left the city?’ he asked.
‘Not yet. I gather he has many enemies and to avoid them he has gone into hiding for the time being.’
Within hours, Willie was deciding he had been a damn fool. Zychov had never been a man he could trust, never a man with much feeling of gratitude. At that moment, he was probably plotting Willie’s downfall with the police. There was too much at stake and Willie was nervous and by this time kicking himself for being too soft.
Then, however, a few days later, halting his car at a set of traffic lights, he saw a large limousine draw up alongside him and a window roll down. The driver was one of Yip Hsao-Li’s old associates. The Communists were busy purging the city of them, but there were still a few powerful enough to survive. Willie had known this one for years, but there had never been an enmity between them because he had never been involved. He was being greeted with wide smiles.
‘I see our friend Count Zychov has vanished, Mr Sarth.’
‘You’ve noticed?’
‘How could we fail to?’
‘Do you know where he’s gone?’
‘We have heard rumours.’ There was a wide smile. ‘I would advise you to be careful, Mr Sarth. I understand he has not forgotten you and he’s not the man to take kindly to a little help.’
It was in character and Zychov, malicious as ever, was still bent on destroying Willie, it seemed. Willie was about to offer thanks for the warning when the lights changed, there were more smiles and the limousine drew ahead. Willie
followed, frowning, faintly bemused, already on his guard, and wondering how Yip’s friends knew of his connection with the missing man.
There was still no sign of Thomas and it was Edward who brought the news of his whereabouts.
‘The Communists have him,’ he said. ‘He was still arguing with them when Amethyst escaped so they promptly arrested him.’
Willie’s face flushed with anger. ‘So that he pays for the fact that the Navy’s being its usual arrogant self?’
‘For God’s sake, Father!’
Willie waved his son to silence. ‘It’s all right, boy. I’m not blaming you. Or the Navy. I’m just worried. I know the Navy couldn’t tell everybody they were going to break out.’
‘Even the ship’s company didn’t know until it happened.’
‘All the same, it’s the usual answer to problems, isn’t it? Small people hurt so that countries don’t lose face.’
It was the death of Zychov that made Willie realise the urgency of the task he had set himself. The news appeared in one of the Communist papers. He had been found dead in one of the streets of Chapei and the paragraph called him a ‘capitalist-imperialist traitor swine, tool of the Chiang regime and lackey of the American brigands’. It suggests that the Communists had removed him, but Willie knew better. Zychov was none of the important things he’d been called – just a coward and a petty swindler with one eye to the main chance, who’d finally guessed wrong. It didn’t take long to dawn on Willie what had happened. It wasn’t the Communists who had removed him from the scene; it was the vengeful remains of the gangs he’d persuaded to remove the Communists for Chiang in 1927. They’d never been paid for their grisly work and they’d never forgotten. Using Chiang’s own methods, the Communists, who believed less in chopping off heads than in reshaping them, had preferred to leave the matter to Zychov’s enemies, and had simply made it impossible for him to leave the city. Before he could do any harm and knowing he was likely to be arrested again at any time for a variety of crimes, he had been obliged to flee into the Old City and the gangs had found out where he was hiding and he’d been tortured and shot. The gangs had claimed their pay at last.
