“We’re taking the train?” Bond asked.
“It’s the easiest way,” she said. “And that way you can see a bit of the Chinese countryside. It’s about a two-and-a-half hour ride to Guangzhou.”
Bond nodded. After the couple had made sure he had everything he needed, they left him alone. He picked up the phone and dialled a number that Li had given him. Li himself answered.
“How is the view from Po Shan Road?” Li asked.
His men must have followed them from the airport. They were very efficient. Bond thought that for a criminal outfit they were as wellorganized and effective as any major intelligence outfit in the world.
“It’s fine, Li. Just make sure your men watch my back, all right?”
“Don’t you worry, Mr. Bond. Just bring back my document in one piece.”
“Mr. Li?”
“Yes, Mr. Bond?”
“I’d like to know what happened to T.Y. Woo and his son. Can you find them?”
“As a matter of fact, we found the boy safe and sound at one of Mr. Woo’s private flats. We did not bother him. Mr. Woo is probably attempting to find you, so we left word with the boy that you are safe. I would hate for Mr. Woo to blow the whistle to your government before your job for me is completed. Do not worry about him, Mr. Bond. Have a nice trip tomorrow. Enjoy southern China.”
Li hung up before Bond could say anything else. Bond stood in the centre of the living room and stared out of the window at the postcard view. He could easily get away from this place, but it would jeopardize Sunni. At times, Bond wanted to kick himself. Why did he have such a soft spot for women? Sunni meant nothing to him, really. She was just another in a long line of affairs which provided a few fireworks for a while and eventually fizzled out. His pattern with women was so predictable that he could chart the liaison’s progress on a blackboard. He intentionally stayed as far away as possible from any kind of commitment to a woman. It seemed that whenever he allowed himself to get seriously involved, something terrible happened. He would never forget Vesper Lynd, the first woman he had ever really loved. She had tried to accept his love for her, but that affair ended in guilt and tragedy. There were others he had lost in recent years because of their association with him, including fellow agents and companions Fredericka von Grüsse, Harriet Horner, and Easy St. John. By far the worst disaster was when his lovely wife of fifteen minutes, Tracy di Vicenzo, was gunned down by bullets meant for him. Now here was Sunni Pei, a condemned Triad member looking for a way out of her wretched life. Bond could easily walk away from this job and from her.
“Bloody hell,” he said aloud. He knew he wouldn’t do that. He had already put himself on the line for Sunni. Bond stubbornly justified his actions by telling himself that this little visit to General Wong in Guangzhou was an essential part of his mission. After all, he had learned that Wong was involved with Thackeray and Li. Wong was the number one suspect in Thackeray’s murder. Wong was now calling the shots with regard to the EurAsia/Triad connection. It was an essential step in his mission. He wasn’t veering off on some wild goose chase just to save a female. This was business, and the journey just might provide him with the means to complete his job in Hong Kong.
Bond searched the kitchen and found a bottle of vodka. Pouring a double helped him accept the fact that he was really doing this for that lovely girl with the almond eyes.
ZERO MINUS FIVE: 26 JUNE 1997, 8:00 A.M.
The Kowloon-Guangzhou Express left precisely on time. Corinne Bates and Johnny Leung saw “James Pickard” to the station and made sure Bond got through Immigration and aboard the right train. Apparently General Wong had insisted that the new solicitor from Fitch, Donaldson and Patrick come to China alone. The train was surprisingly comfortable, with plenty of room in the aisles. Bond sat by the window and watched as the several stops within the New Territories came and went, and they finally crossed the border into southern China.
Shenzhen was the first major city just beyond the border, and at first glance appeared to be just another part of Hong Kong. Something was different, though, and Bond couldn’t put his finger on it until the train had travelled a few minutes into the country: there was a lack of English signs. Throughout most of Hong Kong, public signs were written in both Chinese and English. Here, the world was strictly Chinese.
A large portion of southern China had become a “Special Economic Zone.” This meant that the Chinese government was allowing free enterprise to exist to a certain extent. If a family was able to make a living selling their own goods, then they were welcome to do so. Only eligible people were permitted to live in the Special Economic Zone. For example, in the city of Shekou, women outnumbered men eight to one. This was because it was primarily a manufacturing community in which intricate work could only be performed by small hands. When Hong Kong became part of China on 1 July it, too, would be a part of the Special Economic Zone. Whether or not it would retain any semblance of autonomy remained to be seen.
Shenzhen looked extremely commercial and urbanized. Bond expected to see an obligatory McDonald’s or two along the way, but when he saw the famous Playboy rabbit logo on a building, he was quite surprised.
The train stopped briefly to let passengers on and off, then continued northwest towards Guangzhou. The scenery flashing by the train window alternated curiously every few seconds—one moment it was rural farmland that looked archaic, then in a flash there was a sudden patch of built-up suburbia. It was not uncommon to see a wooden shanty alongside a newly built tenement high rise. Bond’s impression of the farmlands was that time stood still. The rich, green rice paddy fields were still being irrigated by hand-held water poles or crude machines pulled by water buffalo. Yet, a hundred metres away from a farm would be fifteen- or twenty-storey brick buildings, many with an uninteresting mosaic tile pattern decorating the exteriors. Bond had read that the government was making room for more high rises. China’s one billion people needed homes.
Bond couldn’t help feeling that it was a world of incongruous contrasts. The urban areas were stark, white, and depressingly drab. He was sometimes unsure if many of the buildings he saw were empty or abandoned, or if they were simply not yet completed. They were either soulless ghost towns or they were isolated pieces of a soon-tobe booming metropolis that was not yet occupied. It was quite strange. Just when Bond thought that many of the homes reminded him of what he had seen in poor Latin American countries, or Mexico, a large, modern warehouse or factory would suddenly dominate a circle of shacks made of plywood and grass.
The train sped through smaller cities like Pinghu and Shilong, and finally pulled into Guangzhou Station, a sprawling monstrosity built in the 1960s. As Bond stepped off the train, he was met by a soldier wearing a light blue tunic, navy trousers, a red armband on his left arm, and a navy cap with a gold star on a red circle. He held a sign on which was poorly scribbled: “James Pickard, EurAsia Enterprises.” The man didn’t speak English, and Bond’s Mandarin was terrible, so they compromised with Cantonese—which the soldier blatantly regarded as an inferior language. The soldier saw Bond through Immigration and into a government minibus. As he walked through the railway station, Bond was struck by the hundreds of rural migrants camped in the station’s vast courtyard, surrounded by bundles of clothing and bedding. Some of them looked as if they had lived there for months or even years, eating, sleeping, and carving out a life for themselves right there on the pavement. Some were peddling goods and services to tourists. It was a stark contrast to the clean, metropolitan station in Kowloon.
Guangzhou itself is the sixth largest city in China, with an estimated population of three and a half million. It is the transportation, industrial, and trade centre of southern China. It has shipyards, a steel complex, and factories that produce many heavy and light industrial products. It had been the seat of Sun Yat-sen’s revolutionary movement and was a Nationalist centre in the 1920s until its fall in 1950 to the Communist armies. Hong Kong was crowded, but it was nothing compared
to Guangzhou. The streets were packed with vehicles and there was a traffic jam at every intersection. However, most of the people got around on bicycles, and there were hundreds zipping along the major roads in specially marked bike lanes. Open-air markets were in abundance. Also prominent were huge billboards displaying images of united workers, looking off into the distance towards a bright, bold future.
Bond found himself thinking that it was a world terribly behind the times, and that its people had absolutely no idea that the rest of civilization had passed them by. Over the years he had attempted to become more tolerant of governments such as China’s, but the imperialist blood of long-forgotten generations welled up inside him when he saw the squalor and misguided complacency of the humanity around him. He had spent most of his career battling communism. These days he had to concentrate on suppressing his own personal prejudices against it.
The minibus drove along Jeifang Beilu down to Dongfeng Zhonglu and passed a large octagonal building designed like a traditional Chinese palace. It was the Dr. Sun Yat-sen Memorial Hall, an auditorium built between 1929 and 1931. The building was in a graceful park with a magnificent garden in front of it. A bronze statue of Sun Yatsen overlooked the garden and faced conspicuous government buildings across the busy main road. The hall itself had a solemn outer appearance with red walls and panels and a roof made of blue Shiwan tiles, with four tiers of rolled, protruding eaves. It was simultaneously ornate and gaudy.
The minibus turned into the intimidating gate of the main and largest government building, a tan seven-storey structure with a red roof. The gate was set within a brick façade with a blue roof, and was connected to a high fence which surrounded the building. The driver spoke to a guard, the gate opened, and the minibus pulled into a parking area full of military vehicles—jeeps, a couple of troop transports, and one tank.
When they got out of the minibus, the guard pointed across the road. “Dr. Sun Yat-sen Memorial Hall,” he said. “Nice tourist attraction.” He gestured to the building in front of them. “This is our local government building. General Wong will see you here.”
The guard escorted Bond into the building, where he had to sign a visitors’ book under the watchful eyes of other soldiers. The next thing they did was curious—Bond was frisked from head to toe. Why would they do that to a visiting solicitor? He attributed it to the rigours of Communist China. He was then led to a lift and taken to the third floor, where the guard let Bond into a small office.
“Wait here,” the guard said, then left him alone.
Bond sat down in a straight-backed chair. The room was bare except for a conference table and a few chairs. A water cooler sat in the corner. It was very hot. Either the air conditioning was off, broken, or they didn’t have it at all. The weather outside had finally hit the humid summer temperature for which southern China was known. Bond had to wipe his forehead with a handkerchief.
After a moment, a man entered and stood in the doorway. He was dressed in full Chinese military regalia and appeared to be about sixty years old. He was short, probably no more than five and a half feet, but broad-shouldered and muscular. He had white hair cut short to the scalp, a snub nose, and wore spectacles with round lenses.
“Mr. Pickard?” he asked in English. “I am General Wong.”
Bond stood up and shook his hand. “How do you do?”
The man didn’t smile. “I trust you had pleasant journey.”
“It was fine, thank you.”
General Wong’s expression remained sour. “We get down to business. You know about my takeover of EurAsia Enterprises.”
“Yes, of course. I must admit, though, this document of yours took us all by surprise at Fitch, Donaldson and Patrick.”
“Guy Thackeray was fool,” Wong said. “He kept it secret. He should have told you in 1985 when I first saw him. He was idiot. He should not have held press conference to tell world he was selling company. He was not selling at all! What happened to him?”
“He was killed by a car bomb.”
Wong’s eyes narrowed. “I know that. Why? Who did it?”
The general did not have a pleasant disposition. It was as if he was doing Pickard a favour by stepping down from his pedestal to speak to him.
“No one knows, General,” Bond said politely. He smiled in an attempt to bring some levity to their conversation. “There are quite a few people who believe you had something to do with it.”
“Me?” the general shouted. “You accuse me?”
“I didn’t accuse you, General. I merely said that there is speculation in Hong Kong that the People’s Republic was behind the act. But that’s not why I’m here, is it? Aren’t we going to talk about your claim to Thackeray’s company?”
“Why would I kill Thackeray? His death spoiled everything! Market value of EurAsia Enterprises went down! Company is losing money! He deliberately made announcement to bring value of company down! Why would I want him dead? You tell your friends I did not do it.”
“General, I assure you, they are not my friends. I just got here from England.”
The general took a deep breath and tried to control his temper. The insinuation had ruffled his feathers. Bond’s instinct that Wong had no motive for killing Thackeray seemed to be sound, but he still could have been behind the murder of Donaldson and the tragedy at the floating restaurant.
“General, my colleagues at Fitch, Donaldson and Patrick have yet to see the document which gives you the right to take over EurAsia Enterprises. My first task is to see that document and make photocopies of it to take back to England.”
“Document very fragile. I keep it in plastic inside safe.”
“I understand that. Still, I must see the original. I must ascertain that it is genuine.”
“Very well. Come.” He stood up. “You want water? Very hot today.”
Bond would have loved to drink some water, but he was wary of its purity. “No, thank you, I’m fine.”
He followed the general into what was presumably his private office. In contrast to the rest of the building, it was full of expensive furniture, antiques, and fine art. A tiger’s head was mounted on the wall, and there were objets d’art scattered around the room. What appeared to be a gold-plated bust of Mao Zedong sat on a bookshelf. The most impressive artifact in the room was a life-size terracotta horse and soldier. Bond imagined that it had been part of the fantastic, archaeological dig around the tomb of Ch’ing Dynasty Emperor Qin Shi Huang near the city of Xian, where over six thousand clay soldiers and horses had been unearthed and found arrayed in oblong battle formation as an artistic reflection of the emperor’s great army. Most of the terracotta figures were left in place, but a few made it to museums around China. General Wong must have spent a fortune in order to obtain one. Anyone who saw this opulent office would not have believed its inhabitant was a Communist.
General Wong pushed back a curtain behind his desk and revealed a safe. He twisted the knob a few times, unlocked it, and carefully removed a large piece of parchment enclosed in a transparent plastic cover.
The document was brown with age, but the lettering was still intact. One side was written in English and the other in Chinese. To Bond’s untrained eye the wording and legality of the agreement seemed to be in order.
“This is quite an artifact,” Bond said. “I’ll need a photocopy to take back to England.”
At that moment, the phone buzzed. Wong answered it and listened. He looked at Bond suspiciously, then barked an order in Mandarin. He hung up the phone and said, “Forgive me. There is matter I must take care of.”
Bond heard footsteps in the hallway approaching the office, followed by a loud knock on the door. Wong snarled an order to come in.
Two guards entered carrying a man who had been recently beaten. His clothes were tattered and torn, and his face was bruised and bloody. They threw him on the floor, where he curled into a foetal position and groaned. Wong walked over to the man and roughly turned him on to his back.
“Mr. Pickard,” Wong said, “this man was caught spying. Do you know him?”
Bond had to lie. If he gave the slightest indication that he knew Woo then his cover would be blown and they would both die. The lesson he had taught Stephanie Lane in Jamaica just days ago hit home with a vengeance.
“I’ve never seen him before in my life,” Bond said. “Who is he? What happened to him?” He played the shocked British civilian unaccustomed to such violence.
“Never mind what happened to him,” Wong said. He gave an order to the guards, who pulled Woo up by the shoulders and started to haul him out of the room. For a brief moment Woo’s eyes met Bond’s. There was sadness there, but also a sign that he understood what Bond did and why. Bond turned away, feigning revulsion. He really felt rage and despair. He might as well have aimed the gun at Woo’s head and fired it himself.
After they were gone, Bond said, “I’m sorry, I’m not used to seeing things like that.”
Wong just stared at him. There was an awkward moment of silence.
“Maybe I will have that glass of water now,” Bond said.
Wong didn’t say a word. He took the ancient document off the table and replaced it in his safe. Then he picked up his phone and pushed a button. He spoke into the receiver and hung up. Once again, Bond heard the footsteps in the hall. This time the guards didn’t knock. They came straight into the room and stood on either side of Bond.
Wong said, “You are imposter. You are not lawyer. You are spy.”
“Now wait just a minute …” Bond began, but one of the guards punched him hard in the stomach. Bond doubled over and fell to his knees.
“Who are you? Who do you work for?” Wong demanded.
Bond didn’t say anything. What had happened? Had Woo talked? No, that was impossible. He was as professional as they come. Where had something gone wrong?
“I got phone call before you arrive,” Wong said. “Mr. James Pickard never step into Hong Kong airport. My people were there.” He held up a photo of the real James Pickard. “You are not this man.”
Zero Minus Ten Page 18
