by Jack Higgins
Charlie nodded. 'That's not so bad. The whole thing could be done for peanuts.'
Hagen suddenly remembered something. 'One thing more,' he said. 'Important! I'll need some good automatic weapons and possibly a few grenades.' Charlie frowned and Hagen added, 'It would be silly to lose the gold simply because of an inability to defend the boat properly.'
'All right,' Charlie said. 'That would be difficult, though. It's pretty hard to get that kind of stuff these days. Who would you take with you?'
Hagen had the answer to that one, too. 'The girl, of course. She might get suspicious otherwise, and I need a deck-hand. O'Hara would be best. A Chinese boy might be a Commie plant.'
Charlie Beale snorted. 'What good would that old rummy O'Hara be? He gets the shakes if he doesn't have his two bottles of rot-gut a day.'
Hagen grinned. 'I know, but when he's sober he's a damned fine sailor and at least he can be depended on to keep his mouth shut. Besides, he's a friend of mine.'
There was a long period of silence and a light breeze rattled the slats of the bamboo window-blind. Hagen lit a cigarette nervously and waited. Charlie studied the map and fiddled with an ivory-handled paper-knife. Suddenly he straightened up and put down the knife. 'Okay, Mark,' he said. 'Come back tomorrow. Not too early, not too late. I'll think about it.'
Hagen kept his face straight as he left the office and clattered down the stairs and out into the crowded street. A tiny finger of excitement moved inside him and his face broke into a broad grin. Charlie had bitten. The whole thing was set. A feeling of tremendous confidence and hope surged through him. Very soon now, perhaps in a matter of days, he would be on that ferry going over to Kowloon. Then there would be a plane winging its way across the Pacific and then suddenly he knew that he didn't want to go back to the States. There was nothing left there for him. He considered the point and a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. Ireland was the place. A country house with plenty of liquor and good horses.
It was thinking about Ireland that made him remember O'Hara and he decided to find the old man. He worked his way along the waterfront calling in all the bars and gin-palaces. He spent an hour in this way and was about to give up the search when he found O'Hara in one of the worst dives in Macao. A large French sailor with a Marseilles accent had the old man half over a table, holding him firmly with one ham-like fist while he poured beer over him with the other. Hagen pushed his way through the laughing, drunken crowd of spectators, picked up the nearest chair and crashed it down on the Frenchman's head and shoulders. The chair splintered a little and the man sagged to the floor without a sound. Hagen slung O'Hara over his shoulder and the crowd respectfully parted to let him through.
He called a rickshaw and dumped O'Hara in it, then walked beside it until they came to the seedy hovel the old man called home. He carried him upstairs and dumped him on the bed in his room. From the looks of him O'Hara had been on the bottle for at least two days. Hagen locked the door from the outside and put the key in his pocket.
Night was beginning to fall when he reached his hotel. There was a new desk-clerk on duty, a thin, vicious-looking Chinese. 'Any messages?' Hagen asked.
'No, Captain Hagen. No messages,' the man replied.
Hagen was half-way up the stairs when it suddenly occurred to him that the man had known his name and then he began to wonder what had happened to the other desk-clerk. He walked softly up to his door and stood listening for a while. He decided that he was being silly and unlocked the door and went in.
When he turned on the light there was a man sitting on the bed gazing pensively at the wall. He was small and dark and impeccably dressed in white sharkskin. His gloved hands were folded over a silver-topped Malacca cane. Hagen leaned against the door, lit a cigarette and waited. Small, black, shining eyes had swivelled to a position from which they could observe him. The man half-turned his body and, still remaining seated, raised his panama and said in clipped, precise English, 'Have I the honour of addressing Captain Hagen?'
Hagen decided that he was too charming. The eyes were deadly and unwinking like those of a puff-adder, despite the polite, birdlike expression on the face. Hagen blew a cloud of smoke in his direction and said, 'Look, I'm busy, so kindly state your business and then get the hell out of here.'
The little man half-lifted his cane reprovingly and smiled like a father dealing with a recalcitrant son. 'Captain Hagen, how would you like to earn twenty thousand American dollars very easily? No risk, in fact no trouble at all.'
Hagen walked into the bathroom and came back with the gin bottle and two glasses. He poured the drinks and they sat side by side on the bed without speaking. He knew that this must be someone very special. A Russian working for the Reds in China would hold a very high position. They must be pretty determined to get their hands on that gold. He reached for the bottle and poured himself another drink. 'How are things in Moscow these days?' he said.
The Russian smiled and inclined his head. 'I bow to your perspicacity, Captain. However, I have not been in Moscow, or indeed in Russia, for ten years, and between ourselves' - and here he lowered his voice with a conspiratorial air - 'the arrangement suits me perfectly. I find the Oriental way of life very appealing, Captain. The standards, the moral values, even the food, are all infinitely more preferable. What comparison can be made between a brawny collective-farm girl and the fragile Eastern blossoms that are to be found in various parts of this city?'
The Russian's eyes became smoky and a dreamy look came over his face. Hagen shuddered with distaste but he had to find out what the other side were up to. He schooled his face to smile. 'How do I earn twenty thousand so easily?'
The Russian's face broke into a radiant smile and he stood up and formally clicked his heels. 'Ah, so we can do business? My name is Kossoff, Captain Hagen.' He extended his hand formally and then went on, 'My principals will pay you the agreed sum of money if you will lead them to the position of a certain boat which sank, I believe, somewhere in the vicinity of the Kwai Marshes.'
Hagen put back his head and laughed. 'What do you take me for?' he said.
Kossoff smiled thinly. 'I take you for many things, Captain, for you have been many things to many people. British naval lieutenant, American naval commander. How do you like your new role as protector of innocence?'
It was with difficulty that Hagen held himself in check. He said calmly: 'Your proposition stinks. Why should I tell you where the boat is for a paltry twenty thousand when I can get the gold myself?'
Kossoff squinted along his cane. 'Ah, but can you, Captain? I think not. In the first place you must raise the money necessary to retrieve your boat. Have you had any success, by the way? Secondly, you must leave Macao and enter the Kwai Marshes without being observed. An impossibility, my dear sir.' He smiled charmingly. 'However, as I cannot do business with you I must of necessity pay a call on Miss Graham. Women, I find, are so much more co-operative.'
Hagen was on him before he reached the door. He grabbed him by the lapels and twisted the collar about his neck until the little black eyes protruded. 'You dirty little rat,' he cried. 'If you lay a finger on that kid I'll -' Instinct made him jerk his head to one side as he sensed a presence behind him. A leather, shot-filled sap grazed his shoulder and he jerked Kossoff round and into his assailant.
They must have been waiting on the balcony, he thought, as he turned to meet them. There were two of them, flat-faced Mongolians, not as big as Lee but large enough. He ducked under the arm of the nearest one, dug his right fist into the man's belly, and vaulted over the bed.
For a moment there was quiet, the lull before the storm. One of the men sat Kossoff in a chair and gave him a glass of water while the other faced Hagen across the bed, the leather sap twitching nervously in his hand. Finally Kossoff became articulate again. He fingered his throat gingerly with one hand and then pointed at Hagen and said softly in Cantonese: 'Beat him. Beat him but do not kill him.'
Hagen decided he had waited lon
g enough. From the look of them Kossoff's apes would draw a very thin line between a beating and a killing. He gripped the edge of the blankets and, as he lifted them, sprang on to the bed. His hands spread and he threw the blankets as a fisherman casts his net, so that they enveloped Kossoff and the man who was standing beside him. Almost in the same motion he jumped feet foremost at the other man. The force of that terrific blow sent the Mongolian backwards, through the window and on to the balcony.
Hagen landed on his forearms in the classic Judo manner and twisted to face the other thug. In his effort to avoid the blankets the man had stepped back and fallen over Kossoff's chair bringing them both to the floor. As he cast the blankets aside and started to get up, Hagen kicked him in the face as he would have kicked a football, beautifully judged and timed.
Hagen stood breathing heavily as Kossoff scrambled to his feet and backed to the door. He pushed past the Russian, wrenched open the door and dragged the unconscious Mongolian outside. At the same moment the other man appeared from the balcony. He was doubled over in agony and there was blood oozing from his mouth. Hagen gestured fiercely and the man passed him and staggered along the corridor. They all went downstairs in procession, Hagen bringing up the rear dragging the unconscious man by the collar. The clerk pretended to be extremely busy as they crossed the hall.
On the other side of the narrow street there was parked a large American limousine that somehow looked familiar. The one who was still able to walk opened the door and Hagen bundled the other inside. As he straightened up he suddenly felt a slight prick as something needle-sharp nudged into his back. 'I underestimated you, Captain Hagen,' Kossoff said. 'A Judo expert. I must be more careful in the future. However, I win the trick, I think?'
'By one point,' Hagen said, bitterly.
The pressure was removed and he turned to find Kossoff replacing two feet of wicked-looking steel in the Malacca cane. Suddenly Hagen felt utterly weary and deflated. The little street was empty and quiet. Through the darkness he could see traffic passing at the far end but somehow it seemed unreal and very far away. Even the sounds were subdued and meaningless. Kossoff said: 'You are surprised that I do not kill you? Allow me to explain. As I told you, I have not been to Moscow for ten years. The point is, Captain, that I do not intend to return to Russia at all if I can avoid it. I have what you would call a 'plum' job in China. I live very well indeed but my standard of living is threatened, Captain, and by you. The party is harsh with failures. If I do not get that gold I may very easily be recalled to explain my failure. However, I do not intend to fail.' He adjusted his tie and the angle of his panama. 'I give you two days in which to consider my proposition.'
Hagen decided that it would be pointless to tell him to go to hell. 'All right,' he said. 'I'll think about it.'
Kossoff got behind the wheel and said: 'My poor fellows. You were really extremely rough with them, Captain. Thank you for delivering them to the car. That's what I call service.'
'Go to hell,' Hagen told him. 'I only did it to keep the police out of this.'
'In two days, my friend.' The car slid away from the kerb and Hagen turned wearily and went back into the hotel.
He had a shower and changed and then came downstairs. He told the clerk to get someone to clean his room and that if anyone wanted him to say he had gone out for a drink. The clerk bobbed his head and Hagen went out of the front door. He stood outside for perhaps a full minute and then quickly went back into the hall. The clerk was speaking into the telephone. 'He has just left for the evening. I think -'
Hagen lifted the flap and stepped behind the desk. As the man backed away from him he grabbed him by the front of his jacket and pulled out the automatic with his free hand. He slammed the barrel twice against the man's face and the heavy metal opened a jagged groove down his right cheek. The man collapsed across the top of the desk, moaning bitterly, and Hagen said: 'I don't like snoopers. You'd better not be here when I get back.' He turned and left the hotel.
He walked to Clara Boydell's place, twisting and turning through back streets and stopping many times to see that he wasn't followed. When he reached the house it was a blaze of lights and there were many cars parked outside - some with diplomatic plates. He let himself in by the front door. The gaming tables that Clara ran on the ground floor were doing a roaring trade, and he could see her standing in the lounge talking animatedly to a group of distinguished-looking gentlemen. He went upstairs and asked a passing maid to show him to Rose's room.
The room was in darkness. A shaft of yellow light shone through the window from a lamp outside. The girl was lying under a mosquito net and he was unable to see her clearly, only to get a vague impression of rounded limbs and blue-black hair spread across the pillow. Faintly in the distance he heard a snatch of laughter and then the sad, sweet strains of a clarinet as the band started to play. Very quietly he tip-toed from the room.
He was tired when he reached his hotel. There was a smart-looking Chinese girl at the desk now. He asked her where the man was and she said that he'd left in a hurry. Her uncle, who was the proprietor, had been compelled to ask her to come at very short notice. It was really most inconvenient. Hagen agreed with her and went up to his room. Suddenly he was more tired than he had been in a long, long time. He flung himself down on the bed and lay staring at the ceiling and after a while it moved a little and then he was asleep.
He awakened suddenly and completely. Because he was not aware of the thing that had disturbed him, his hand slipped under the pillow and curled around the butt of the automatic. There was an urgent tapping on the door and the Chinese girl's voice said: 'Captain Hagen! Come quickly! There's an urgent telephone call.'
'Who is it?' he said through the door.
'No name. Lady say very urgent.'
He jerked open the door and rushed past her, taking the stairs three at a time. He stood at the desk and spoke into the receiver, 'Hagen here.'
'Mark, this is Clara. I'm sending Lee for you in a car. You'd better get here fast. They've kidnapped your girlfriend.'
Somehow her voice suddenly drifted away into the distance. For a moment he swayed as for the first time he realized that the girl was important to him, and then he recovered and said: 'Thanks, Clara. I'll be with you in fifteen minutes.'
He dropped the receiver and turned and ran past the astonished girl up the stairs to his room.
4
He had barely finished dressing when he heard the car brake to a halt outside. He ran downstairs, wrenched open the door, and scrambled into the rear seat. Before he could get the door closed the car had roared away from the kerb. They turned a corner on two wheels, scattering pedestrians, and then Lee turned into a maze of quiet back streets, driving like a demon.
Hagen had never felt so frustrated in his life as he did during the fifteen minutes it took them to reach Clara Boydell's place. He was desperately anxious to know what had happened and the only man who could tell him was unable to speak. He wondered what time it was and decided it must be about one in the morning. And then his waiting was over and the car turned in at the gates of Clara's house and skidded to a halt, scattering gravel.
The place was ablaze with lights and raucous with merriment as always. He ran up the steps and through the front door. A maid was waiting for him and pointed upstairs. He went up, two at a time, and suddenly Clara appeared at the top, a livid bruise on one of her cheeks. She was more angry than he had ever seen her. 'This way,' she grated and led the way down the corridor to the room Rose had been occupying.
The door of the room was standing open and the lock hung at a crazy angle. Hagen stepped into the room and glanced about him. As far as he could see everything appeared to be in reasonable order. There was only one thing missing - Rose. He slumped down on to the bed and fumbled in his pocket for a cigarette. He could only find an empty packet and he made quite an operation out of examining the packet and smoothing it between his fingers because a little voice inside was telling him to keep calm
and to get a grip on his nerves. If he was to get the girl back it would need ice-cold thinking.
Clara offered him a cheroot and he lit it and inhaled the smoke gratefully. It seemed to put new life into him and he felt more calm. He squinted at Clara through the blue smoke. 'How did you get that bruise?'
She exploded. 'I got smacked down. Me, Clara Boydell, smacked in the puss by a little yellow bastard.' She went purple with rage at the memory.
'Simmer down,' Hagen said. 'If I ever run into him I'll give him your warmest regards. Now tell me exactly what happened.'
She shrugged. 'There isn't much to tell. About midnight a party of Chinese - four of them, I think - asked to see some girls. They were polite, well dressed. In fact they'd been at the tables for an hour and seemed well heeled. The maid took them up to the first floor and one of them gave her a clip on the jaw. They went along the corridor looking into every room and I can tell you it must have been embarrassing for some well-known citizens of this town. I was on the top floor entertaining the new Air Attache from the French Embassy - quite a guy,' she added in a reminiscent mood.
'Get on with it, Clara,' Hagen said, impatiently.
'All right, lover. Anyway, I came down to find these guys dragging Rose along the corridor. I asked them what the hell they were doing and one of them smacked me on the jaw. They left by the back stairs. The gardener says there was a black limousine waiting at the rear.'
'Anything special about these characters?' Hagen said. 'Were any of them Mongolian by any chance?'
She shook her head. 'Definitely not, but I shan't forget the one who clipped me in a hurry. A nasty-looking little rat. Somebody had been carving his face up for him. One side was black and blue.'
Hagen felt a glow of satisfaction. At least he had a lead now. 'Good girl,' he said. 'I think I know who that punk is. Can I borrow Lee and your car for a couple of hours?'
She nodded. 'You can have anything you like just so you get that nice kid back in one piece.'
