Dragon Breath

by Valerie Goldsilk

  Half an hour later they moved on to another club called Neptune II. It was after six and only just starting to get dark outside. It felt too early to be bar-hopping. Jim shrugged. The alcohol was loosening him up.

  When in Rome…

  The music was louder and the bass on the sound system heavier. Apart from that the club, the music and the patrons were identical.

  They pushed through a few people and found a table, then ordered from a waitress. As they had left Makati, Jim had told Scrimple what he’d heard from Doris. The policeman had tried to assimilate the information. He nodded seriously but his eyes told Jim that he’d left it too late. The beer was already in control.

  “So what do you reckon?” Jim said, yelling over the music, once their drinks had arrived.

  “Yes, it’s looking good today.”

  “I meant the fact about dodgy shipments and my company?”

  Scrimple turned away from the dance floor and looked at Jim. “It makes sense. Better tell Gwailo Pete.”

  “I thought he was off the case.”

  “Yeah, I’d forgotten. I’ll give Foxcroft a call. Let him see what he can make of it. They reckon he’s a bit of a whiz kid. Went to Eton and Oxford and that sort of shit.”

  “He did?”

  “Yes, I know. Why become a copper in Hong Kong when you have a degree from Oxford and could get a real job and earn shit-loads of money as an Investment Banker.”

  “So you didn’t go to Oxford?” Jim said with a grin.

  “Did I fuck,” Scrimple said. “I was a PC in the Thames Valley Police and then thought I could better myself by coming out here.” He paused and appeared to shake his head. “And look where the fuck it’s got me. No money and no career prospects.” He took a long pull from his beer. “And I can’t even get laid on a Sunday afternoon.”

  Jim shrugged, embarrassed by his new friend’s emotional outburst. “You haven’t been trying hard enough to get laid. Try talking to more of the girls. Just standing here and leering isn’t getting you far.”

  “Nah, you’ve got to wait until they give you some eye contact, then you know you’re in. No point in walking up to them on the dance floor. Just looks stupid.”

  Jim let his eyes stray around the dark room and found he was getting plenty of eye contact. He hadn’t been paying much attention before. If that was the criteria, it seemed he had some opportunities. But none of the small, brown girls took his fancy. He thought of Doris and hoped she would be calling him later.

  By the time they left they were noticeably drunk. It was after eight and Scrimple explained the maids all had to get home for their curfew so the Tea Dance was basically drawing to a close.

  “How do you get a girl to come home with you if they all have to leave by eight?” Jim asked.

  “You don’t. You wait until the following week.”

  “But they all look the same, how can you tell which one’s which?”

  “Does it really matter?” the policeman said grinning and pushed the Londoner towards the steep stairs leading back to street level. “We’re now going to the Sunny Paradise for a rub and a tug.”

  “Will they let us in?”

  “Of course. They know me there. Why wouldn’t they let us in?”

  “I thought the saunas were mostly for locals.”

  “They don’t care who we are as long as we’ve got dosh.”

  The sauna and massage place was ten minutes walk down Lockhart Road. Scrimple explained that it was a normal, above the board, establishment but if you were known there was a chance that the girls would offer a little extra service in the form of a hand-job. It was better than going home and doing it yourself and they had a slick way of using the baby oil to bring a man off with minimum fuss. If you got a good one she’d also let you grope her tits as she wanked you.

  “I’m beginning to see the benefits of living in Hong Kong,” Jim heard himself say. The alcohol had robbed him of his earlier misgivings and the thought of being stimulated sensuously by a young Chinese girl was suddenly appealing.

  “Bangkok; they have great soapy massage places but here in Hong Kong they know how to walk on your back like nowhere else. You get a good girl who knows her stuff and she’ll crack each one of your vertebrae with her toes. You don’t have to have a hand-job, you know, Jim. If you’re a puff.”

  “I’ll have a hand-job. Okay. It’s just not something we do very often in London.”

  “You go for massages in London?”

  “Not really. We go to the lap-dancing clubs and the girls there don’t put out that easily.”

  There was a sudden thump from behind and Jim’s shoulder exploded in pain as he was thrown forward on the pavement. He rolled, his arms above his head, confused as to what was happening and then noticed figures above and around him who were trying to kick and punch Scrimple and him.

  Jim tried to grab a boot that was coming at his head but missed. He was vaguely aware of how uncoordinated the alcohol had made him and then a shower of stars erupted around his vision as something else hit him on the side of the head.

  The next thing he registered was more scuffling, panting and a sudden scream followed by the sharp report of a hand-gun. Voices swore in Cantonese and somebody kicked him hard in the thigh bone. Then the voices receded and his vision came back into focus slowly.

  He was lying on the dirty pavement and a panting Scrimple was bending over him, a small revolver in his right hand.

  “You okay, lad? I got one of the bastards. Fuck them.” There was adrenalin and exultation in the copper’s voice. Jim groaned and tried to sit up. His elbow ached and his right hand was numb. Slowly he got to his knees, and then his feet, with the help of the policeman.

  A yard away there was a patch of dark, fluid which trailed away and then stopped on the curb.

  “Got him in the leg and they had to drag him off and get him into the frigging van. Bastards. Won’t be doing that again for a while. I should have shot all of them.” Scrimple was practically hopping from one foot to the other with excitement. His eyes, behind his glasses, were glazed with the spent tension of the attack.

  “What the hell was that about?” Jim said rhetorically, noticing the crowd of Chinese rubber-neckers that had formed around them. He saw in the distance two uniformed police constables running towards them with their hats off. Their faces revealed surprise. Scrimple had holstered his weapon and was now waving his warrant card up in the air.

  “You never know. Stupid fucks might start shooting at us or arrest me,” he said.

  “Where did that gun come from?”

  “I was carrying it. I told you there was a chance they were coming after me.”

  “Who?”

  “Triad fuck-heads. Some real serious shit is going on. Should have shot them all. Then we’d have someone to interrogate.”

  “Do you think you killed the guy?”

  “No, just got him in the thigh. Unless they’ve never heard of a tourniquet or can’t get to a doctor in time he’ll be fine. Triads have got their own on-call doctors.” He made a sound that was like a growl. “Should have shot him in the chest. Bastards deserve everything they get.”

  Jim stared at Scrimple and wondered if it was hysteria but the policeman slowly calmed down by which time the sirens got closer and the constables were jabbering into their radios and telling the crowd to disperse except for those they’d collared as witnesses.

  * * * *

  Bangkok, Sunday afternoon and the Chiu Chow Chinese restaurant was busy. In one of the function rooms five tables had been laid out but the women and children were not sitting at the top table.

  The men at this table did not look like hardened criminals nor did they think of themselves as such. However they all belonged to the Wo On Lok Triad and as such had been involved in various illegal activities at some point in their business careers. Most of them had begun to believe their own legitimate images. They were textile and toy factory owners, food importers and exporters, nightclub ma
nagers and even one man who was a well-known plastic surgeon.

  Ah-Cheung was talking and he was weighing up the pros and cons of the venture known generally now as the “The Plan of Righteous Harmony.”

  “We have much to lose and much to gain. But it is the nature of humans that we must challenge ourselves.”

  “It is risky and we don’t know enough about the man who is asking us for loyalty,” someone said.

  “That’s true, Au Yeung but if he succeeds and we were not seen to be of assistance then we will be in trouble.”

  “Can he really touch us here?”

  “We all know this country that we call our home. It will not protect us. We are not Thai people. We are Chinese.”

  “Can we not find a valid middle path?” said the oldest of the circle. He no longer had the stomach for fights, was more interested in his grand-children who were studying overseas.

  “Henry Chan will know if we are not fully supportive. And he has the ear of the Beijing cartel.”

  “So you are saying we don’t have a choice?”

  Au Yeung, the surgeon said, “We are Chinese and it is our duty. This is our motherland that is calling us to do a duty. We must obey. Is this not logical?”

  “Is it really our motherland or just some powerful people who are trying to take advantage?” Ah-Cheung suggested.

  “Zhu Tse is a powerful man. That is true. But the real question is, will the plan work? If it does not work and we supported it, what then?”

  “Many people are supporting him so if it succeeds and we did not support him than we can lose too much ourselves.”

  “Do you have confidence in the plan?” another man asked of Ah-Cheung.

  “I believe it is overly ambitious and it is driven too much by the need for glory.”

  “It would be better if it were for money. That is easier to control,” said the oldest man.

  “Jiang Zemin will be in the United States to address the United Nations. Is this the time that they have chosen?”

  “Probably,” the oldest man said.

  In the end they concurred that it was less risky to support the Plan in a small way than to ignore the requests for assistance.

  * * * *

  Detective Chief Inspector Simon Foxcroft was an imposing figure: tall, lean, with closely cropped dark hair and steely blue eyes. He wore brown brogues, loose khaki pants and a pale blue shirt, open at the collar with the sleeves rolled up. In his hand as always, the Nokia mobile phone with which he passed and received information.

  He was an unusual policeman, coming from a wealthy, long established English family and having benefited from the best private education that money could buy. He was the second son of a baronet, his family had lived in the same home for four hundred years, and ten years at public school and three years at Pembroke College had made him ideally suited for a job in the city or the army. Instead he’d chosen the rather pedestrian occupation of a colonial copper. Somehow he’d blended in at Police Training School despite his Prince Charles accent. Eventually his natural graces, astute sense of politics and obvious affinity for the job made colleagues and superiors accept and admire him. He was a natural leader, it had been in his family genes since his ancestors rode against the French in the battles of Agincourt and Crecy. He knew instinctively how to work with his Chinese men and through chance and application he was one of the most successful detectives in the Hong Kong Police Force.

  Today he was troubled because he’d been handed a case that was multi-dimensional. It was bafflingly complex although at first glance it was a straightforward murder. The death of Louise Walker was simply the latest bead in a string of inter-related crimes. Somewhere there was a pattern but it required a mind that had the ability to make small intuitive jumps that could arrange minor details into a coherent picture. This was his speciality. He had a gift for flights of fancy supported by logical, steady gathering of evidence.

  He’d read all the statements relating to the various crimes that had recently been committed. He’d made copious notes directly into his Sony laptop at home and moved these notes around the screen fitting them together and drawing lines between them. He’d analysed the facts from four dimensions and thought he had a few ideas. But they were nothing more than that. From ideas came lines of enquiry and that meant sending investigators out to gather more facts and statements.

  Now he was on his way to Wanchai where he had an appointment with David Murphy, the Managing Director of Global Quality Assurance (HK) and unknown to most of his clients, the Head of Station for MI6, the British Secret Intelligence Service.

  The office building had seen better days and the lift rattled suspiciously but once Foxcroft reached the fifteenth floor the atmosphere changed and he found a well-appointed lobby and a friendly Eurasian receptionist. Since it was a Sunday this would have surprised him, if he hadn’t known that this company did more than just keep an eye on factories for its foreign clients. It tried to keep an eye on everything in the region.

  He only waited a minute, enough time to take in the two security cameras that monitored the lobby and the heavy steel shutters which were raised over the glass doors like a mediaeval portcullis.

  “How’s business David?” he said when the boss arrived in casual attire and shook his hand. Murphy was a stoutly built Irishman with a shock of blond hair that defied attempts at being brushed. He had fierce blue eyes which were frequently bloodshot from a life of over-indulgence and late night alcohol-fuelled meetings. It wasn’t an easy post he occupied because it was two jobs rolled into one.

  “Can’t complain. Sales are up forty per cent, mainly because our competitors have been localising so much the standard of English is going out the window.”

  “It’s becoming a problem in Hong Kong, even the Chief Executive has admitted that.”

  “Education system’s a mess, but it’s a legacy left by our fine British administration,” said Murphy, leading the way past a cluster of vacant workstations. “Some people say it was a time bomb left to screw up China but we were never that clever. Believe me.”

  Foxcroft nodded seriously at the other’s back. “I do. I’ve worked here all my life. I know that sort of thinking was way beyond them. And still is. The administration’s always been reactive.”

  “Well,” said the intelligence man, “the shooting from the hip seems to have gotten worse lately. I don’t suppose you’re here to talk politics with me? Not the right thing for two honest Civil Servants to do, especially since we are reporting to different masters.” It had been Murphy who’d called Foxcroft and suggested they meet to discuss Louise Walker’s connection to MI6.

  Foxcroft grinned and slid into the chair that was offered him. It was a sumptuous office with a black leather sofa and a sea view that had to be admired. He’d been here before and knew that Murphy had subsidised some of the furnishings from his own pocket and from the profit their official front company was making. His explanation was that if the business was successful it had to look like it or it wouldn’t be much of a front.

  Murphy fitted a plastic container and pressed buttons on an espresso machine until it began to gurgle. He proffered a packet of cigarettes at Foxcroft but the Detective declined.

  “How come the receptionist is working but nobody else is?”

  “Duty Officer is in the signal room and the receptionist happens to be my girlfriend. Waiting for me to finish with you so we can get over to Deepwater Bay and play some golf.”

  “Never had the inclination for such time-consuming sports.” Foxcroft smiled. He got down to business: “I’m working on this new case and thought I’d need some input from your end.”

  “Louise Walker,” Murphy said. “It’s a bit of a nightmare.”

  “It’s not just the Walker murder, it’s a string of crimes that are all related. I have this theory that they’re just the symptoms not the disease. There’s something much more sinister driving all of this.”

  “Could be,” replied Murphy n
oncommittally as he handed over the double espresso cup, his Marlboro Light dangling from his lips and making his eyes squint from the smoke. He returned to the desk and placed his suede moccasins up on the polished surface.

  Foxcroft sipped from his cup and went on, “She wasn’t working directly for you, I gather?”

  “No, she was what we call a ‘sleeper.’ She was a nice enough girl, just a bit too simple for my taste. Not stupid, just not versed in the intricacies of our business.”

  “Any idea what she was doing in McPherson Ferguson and what information she had gathered?”

  “Bugger all to both questions. She was recruited by London directly and they placed her in McPherson Ferguson because the name had come up in some reports or communications. I only get courtesy information from this kind of situation and there was nothing indicating she’d found anything suspicious in the trading company.”

  Murphy spent ten minutes explaining what he felt Foxcroft should be permitted to know about the “sleeper” system and what Louise Walker’s amateur function had been. “So why was the girl killed?” he finally asked Foxcroft. “Your hypothesis?”

  The Detective sighed and picking up his mobile phone, tapped the antenna against his cheek while he carefully considered his reply.

  “Well here’s my tuppence worth of theory: Bob Chen was using his position at the trading company, to do both politically and criminally suspect jobs. He ran afoul of his paymasters or competitors and his death was ordered. Various parties found out about this and it was arranged that they too should be silenced. One of them was a Filipina bar-girl, another was Louise Walker and a third, was probably an off-duty police inspector called Scrimple who got away from his killer by pure fluke. The next question is…”

  “…who the hell is behind all of this and why is it so damn important that people are being knocked off left, right and centre?”

  “Precisely.”

  “And what do you suspect?”

  “My latest information is that Henry Chan, the property magnate, has a finger in this pie.” He explained the hearsay evidence he’d gotten from Scrimple.

  “I wouldn’t put it past that old bugger,” said Murphy. “He has a lot of buddies in Beijing, so if you have some evidence that he’s involved it becomes highly likely that there are political machinations. Beijing is the hand that gives and takes at the same time. Any hard facts?”