‘Sounds like a smart guy. What was his name?’
‘Sun Tzu. I’ll send you a copy.’
‘I’d appreciate it. How did you come across it?’
‘I studied Oriental languages at Oxford. And I was in our Beijing embassy for four years during the Sixties.’
‘We were practically neighbours,’ said the American.
‘I don’t follow,’ said Grey, annoyed by Hamilton’s tendency to go off at a tangent.
‘I was in Vietnam.’
‘Of course,’ said Grey, dryly. He would have been – probably enjoyed it, too.
‘You’ve thought through the ramifications of this?’ said Hamilton.
‘Of course I have. There is no need to rub my nose in this. I need your help and I’ll pay you back. You’ll get your pound of flesh, don’t worry.’
‘Just so we understand each other,’ replied Hamilton. ‘What you are asking me to do is every bit as wrong as what you did. It’s my head on the block, too. Even the CIA doesn’t go around killing at random.’ Grey chuckled like a contented grandfather and Hamilton laughed along with him. ‘Not recently, anyway,’ said the American.
They watched the teenager unleash the enthusiastic dog. It barked happily and jumped up, pawing at her crotch and she pushed it away giggling. It was getting over-excited, running backwards and forwards, barking at her, barking at the ducks, the trees, the sky, at life.
‘You’ve told me the what, when, how and who,’ said Hamilton, ‘but what you haven’t told me is why. Why you wanted this triad leader killed and why you didn’t do it through the normal channels.’
Grey folded his arms across his chest defensively. ‘I had to protect an agent. As Sun Tzu would have said, an agent in place.’
‘In Beijing?’
‘In Beijing.’
‘Highly placed?’
‘The top.’
‘Jesus H. Christ. You’ve had a mole in Beijing since the Sixties?’ Grey nodded. ‘All through the negotiations over Hong Kong’s future, the talks between China and Russia, the Sino–Israeli arms deals, Tiananmen Square, you’ve had your own man there. Jesus H. Christ.’
‘I recruited him after I’d been in Beijing for a year. That’s why I stayed so long. He was nervous, kept saying he’d deal only with me. It took a lot of time and work to reassure him, before I could leave, but still he’d deal only with me. Not often, but it was always gold. Top grade. And one hundred per cent accurate. But always insisting that I remained his handler.’
‘It would have been nice if you’d shared some of the gold with your friends,’ said the American.
‘You must allow us some secrets,’ said Grey. ‘But we did share much of it, but in such a way that you’d never know where it had come from.’
I bet, thought Hamilton. I just bet. But he smiled and nodded. ‘And where did Howells come in?’
‘A month or so ago my man got in touch with me; he was frantic. He was already in a state of near-panic following the 1989 purges. He’d survived by distancing himself from Zhao Ziyang early on, and there was a rumour that he’d had a hand in the death of Hu Yaobang. Heart attack, they said. Anyway, he’d managed to stay in favour with Deng Xiaoping and the hard-liners, but this time he said he was sure that he was about to be exposed and that I had to get him out. He wanted me to arrange for his defection, urgently. I calmed him down and went to see him.’
‘You?’
‘I told you. He was mine. Throughout all the years I was the only one he’d deal with. I was the channel through which all his information passed – it had to be me. So I went and talked him down, and got to the root of his fear.’
‘The triad leader?’
‘Yes – Simon Ng. Drugs, prostitution, extortion. A nasty piece of work. Married to an English girl of all things.’ It seemed to Hamilton that it was the mixed marriage rather than the threat to his agent that caused Grey the most discomfort. ‘It seems that this Simon Ng is, or was, also an agent.’
‘For whom?’
‘Freelance. He worked for the highest bidder. His criminal connections have gained him access to some very useful information. It was information that we were happy to pay for, and I’m sure that if you check you’ll find he was on the CIA’s books as well.’
‘I’m sure. We generally pay better than the British.’
Grey gave him an exasperated look. He was starting to tire of the American’s college-boy humour.
‘According to my man, Ng had begun to deal with the Chinese. And in a big way, too. But this time it wasn’t money he was after, it was political.’
Hamilton looked curious, and lit another cigarette with the Zippo.
‘He wanted a guarantee that his triad organization could continue to operate after 1997, when Hong Kong becomes a Special Administrative Zone, part of China. The Chinese refused, of course. They’ve been cracking down on organized crime in a big way on the mainland. Ng said he could deliver them a deep penetration mole. He’d say nothing more than that, but my man went hysterical. He was sure he was about to be uncovered.’
‘How had this Simon Ng found out about your agent?’
Grey shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Personally I’m not even sure that his cover was in danger of being blown.’
‘There was no reason for Ng to lie. Not if he was planning some long-term relationship with the Chinese as you said.’
‘It could have been a first offer, just to make them think he had something big, a way of upping the stakes. He might well have been after money when all was said and done, and the agent could have been one of Taiwan’s. The mainland is riddled with Taiwanese agents.’
‘But your man didn’t think so?’
‘He was panicking. I could see only one way of keeping him in place.’
‘Howells.’
‘Yes. Howells.’
‘Why not use one of your own men?’
‘You can see why. Ng was an agent we used ourselves from time to time. We could hardly be seen killing one of our own. Even a freelance.’
Grey seemed to have conveniently forgotten that Donaldson had been one of his own, mused the American.
‘Plus, it wasn’t a normal sort of operation. Ng was very well protected, his place was practically a fortress. We needed someone good, someone very good.’
‘And you needed someone expendable?’
Grey’s upper lip curved up in a smile, a smile without warmth. ‘You do understand then?’
The American blew a stream of smoke from his nostrils and a gust of wind blew it across Grey’s face.
‘I think so. Once Howells had done the job your agent could expose him as the killer. That would do his credibility no end of good. He’d have Howells killed, Howells who was known to be a headcase and no longer used by the British. I suppose they’d assume he’d gone freelance. Maybe they’d even think he was working for us?’
‘Hardly,’ said Grey.
‘But the end result would be the removal of Simon Ng and a pat on the back for your man.’
‘Two birds with one stone,’ agreed Grey.
‘Except the Chinese missed him.’
‘They lost two of their best men, and a woman was injured.’
‘They’ll try again.’
‘Of course they’ll try again. But now Howells knows they’re after him. And he must know by now that I told them where he was. Nobody else knew.’
Caught between a rock and a hard place, thought Hamilton. Grey could hardly use his own people to hunt down Howells, not without answering a lot of very sticky questions. So the Brit needed help, and Hamilton knew the price of his help.
‘I’ll handle it,’ promised Hamilton. ‘It won’t be a problem. I’ll be in touch.’
The two men stood up, shook hands, and walked off in opposite directions. The deal had been struck without even being discussed. Hamilton was elated and was humming quietly to himself as he waited for a cab. It was a good exchange, he reckoned. The life of the psychopath for a share of the Beij
ing goldmine.
Thomas Ng arrived at Golden Dragon Lodge an hour before the ceremony was about to start. With him in the back of the car was Cheng Yuk-lin, who as well as being the triad’s most trusted Double Flower White Paper Fan was also Heung Chu, the Incense Master, guardian of the ceremonies and initiation rites that bound the organization together.
Ng had decided to take the Daimler and he’d given Hui the chauffeur the night off. Lin Wing-wah was driving, and next to him was Kenny Suen, but they were told to remain in the car. The Burning of the Yellow Paper ceremony was only for the triad leaders. Strictly speaking Ng himself should not have been there as, for this meeting at least, his father had once more assumed the role of Dragon Head.
Lin’s small pigtail waved from side to side as the car powered up the drive to the garage and stopped smoothly. Without a word Cheng and Ng got out of the car and walked up to the house in the gathering gloom. Cheng carried a green sports bag which he swung backwards and forwards in time with his steps. Suen remained in the car but Lin went back down to the gate to supervise the guards as they admitted the guests. Tonight would not be a night when any mistakes would be tolerated.
Ng Wai-sun was waiting to greet them at the entrance to the house wearing his red robe of office, a white belt loosely around his waist and a red band with several ungainly knots tied around his head. On one of his feet was a plain, black slipper but the other was adorned with a hand-made fibre sandal. He looked ridiculous, a small, balding man about to go to a fancy dress party, but Ng knew better than to smile.
‘My son,’ said Ng Wai-sun, stepping forward to shake his son’s hand. He turned to face Cheng and put both hands on his shoulders. ‘Cheng Yuk-lin. My good friend. I will need your help and support tonight.’
‘You have it,’ said Cheng. He raised the sports bag. ‘I have my things here,’ he said. ‘The ceremony will be in the usual place?’
‘It has been a long time, but yes, the usual place.’
Cheng nodded. ‘I shall go upstairs and change.’
He walked into the house, the interior of which was lit by small, oil-burning lamps that gave off an orange glow. The house had electricity, but the old triad leader wanted the lamps on.
‘It seems an eternity since you were in this house wearing the triad robes,’ said the old man to his son.
‘Most of our business these days takes place in boardrooms,’ admitted Ng.
‘The ceremonies have their place,’ said his father. ‘They are the glue that binds the triad together. They make us a family. Come into the house.’ He took Ng by the arm and led him over the threshold, as if it was the son who was the weaker of the two. ‘Who came with you?’
‘Lin Wing-wah and Kenny Suen, but they will stay with the car.’
‘That is good; there must be as little tension as possible in the house tonight.’
It was a warm evening and the lack of airconditioning and the orange light gave the house a hellish feel, but Ng could never remember being frightened in it. It was an anachronism now, but it still had the friendliness of home, the reassurance that he knew every nook and cranny, every hiding-place. The house had many dark corners but they had all been explored long ago and held no fears for him.
The main room was very formal, with hard chairs and low tables, ornate gilt screens on the walls and two of his father’s priceless jade carvings on rosewood tables either side of an antique wooden fireplace. The room was purely a reception area, the family rooms were all upstairs along with the bedrooms and the bulk of Ng’s jade collection. To the right of the reception room were a pair of teak doors, dragons carved on to each, rearing back on their hind legs, flames spewing from their mouths and noses. The old man pushed them, one hand on each, and they grated inwards revealing the room beyond. It was a square room, each wall ten paces long, dominated by a huge circular table that could comfortably seat sixteen but which on some hectic family celebrations had seen more than twenty squabbling over laden plates. Tonight there were places for twelve, sheets of notepaper and gold pens spaced evenly around the circumference. There were no name cards; with a circular table there were no feathers to be ruffled by insensitive seating arrangements.
The shutters had been closed and locked and the only illumination came from four brass oil lamps, one in each corner of the room, casting orange orbs that met in the middle of the table and the centre of the ceiling. On the wall to the left of the twin doors was a framed portrait of the Kwan Kung god. The other paraphernalia of the triad, the banners, the sacred objects, the wall hangings, were missing, and Ng realized it was because this was a meeting of many triads and his father did not want to make it appear that his guests were on enemy territory, even though that was the case. The triads rarely indulged in the gang wars of old, but they were still fierce competitors and they would be insecure enough coming to Golden Dragon Lodge, never mind being surrounded by the artefacts of a rival. In front of the portrait was a rough wooden table, the surface notched and hacked like a butcher’s block. On it stood a black ceramic bowl.
The room served two functions. It was used for the most important triad ceremonies and initiations, usually those that involved close family members. Thomas, Simon and Charles had all been initiated there, and it was in the room that Thomas had promoted Cheng Yuk-lin to the rank of Double Flower White Paper Fan. But it was also a family room, where Ng Wai-sun held court over the generations, at Christmas, Chinese New Year, and at birthdays and weddings, enjoying the feeling of heading a dynasty, patting heads and passing out red Lai See packets.
The room was also a record of the Ng family. Around the walls, starting on the left of the doors and running along three and a half of the walls was a series of family photographs that spanned two thirds of the life of Ng Wai-sun and all of Thomas Ng’s. The first photograph, and one nearest the door, was of Ng Wai-sun and his bride on their wedding day, he in a grey morning coat, holding a top hat, back stiff and face unsmiling, she a radiant young woman in a European-style white wedding dress looking up at him with unashamed adoration.
There followed almost forty pictures, each taken on the anniversary of their wedding day, children starting as small babies, growing into toddlers and then teenagers, and finally men. Walking along the line of photographs was like watching a flickering black-and-white movie, as Ng Wai-sun changed from a whipcord-thin youngster with black straight hair to a balding old man and his wife from a radiant bride to a stooping old lady with clawed hands and parchment skin, the two of them surrounded by three middle-aged men and a woman, and a clutch of small children, including one with blonde hair and pale white skin.
The changes between consecutive pictures were small, other than when babies appeared, but in their totality they made Ng all too well aware of his own mortality. When he was younger it was different; the series of pictures gave him a sense of history, of tradition, and it gave him a feeling of security seeing his parents stretching back across the years. But the fact that his mother had disappeared and no longer took her yearly place at her husband’s side made Ng realize that no one lived for ever. And in next year’s picture there would be no Simon, standing there with his hands on Thomas’ shoulder, and maybe no Sophie either.
He looked at the last picture in the series, taken some three months earlier, the three brothers and sister and a scattering of children, most of them belonging to Catherine, the youngest of Ng Wai-sun’s children but by far the most productive. Still in her twenties, she and her banker husband had produced five children, one boy and four girls. Charles and his American-born Chinese wife Sandra had two boys, and Simon and Jill only had Sophie. Thomas caught his father looking at him as he studied the picture.
‘No Father, I have no plans to marry,’ he said quietly, without turning his head. Ng had plenty of girlfriends, and no shortage of female company when he was between regular companions, but he had never wanted to marry, and he had no plans to get hitched just to satisfy an old man, especially one who was already a grandfather eight t
imes over. Or seven, if they lost Sophie. Ng Wai-sun tut-tutted, but his eyes were smiling.
‘I have had a robe prepared for you in your old room,’ he said.
Ng nodded. The robes were just as much an anachronism as the house, but he knew that the other triad leaders, the old ones at least, put as much store by the ceremonies as his father did. The request he was about to make tonight was unusual, unusual enough to warrant them appearing in what, when it came down to it, was little more than fancy dress. Ng went upstairs to change, leaving his father looking wistfully at the last photograph.
The bedroom door was on the first floor, and it was exactly the same as when he’d last seen it some three months earlier, save for the black robe lying on the bed. Ng knew that the room was dusted every day and the bedding changed every week, even though it had been at least ten years since he had actually slept there. It was his room and it would be until he died. There were rooms on the same floor for Simon, Charles and Catherine, though it had also been more than a decade since they had been slept in.
Ng took off his suit and shirt and pulled the robe over his head, draped the scarlet scarf around his neck, the ends reaching past his knees, tied and untied the white belt until it looked right and then he put on the headband with its single knot. At the end of the bed he found a brown shoe and a rope slipper and he put them on over his socks. He checked himself in the large free-standing mirror by the window and couldn’t help grinning at his reflection. He looked absurd, and he wondered what his banker friends in San Francisco would say if they saw him in the outlandish outfit, the ceremonial dress of a Pak Tsz official, the adviser.
It was one o’clock in the morning and every girl in the Limelight Club was a virgin. That’s what they all told Jack Edmunds, anyway, as he sat on his stool nursing a tumbler of Jack Daniels and watching the dancers sway in time to the music. The Limelight was on the ground floor of Pat Pong One so all the girls were dressed, albeit scantily in bikinis or cutaway swimsuits. You had to go up to one of the first floor bars to watch nude dancers or sex shows but after four days in Bangkok he’d just about seen it all: girls putting safety-pins through their breasts, burning themselves with candles, using their vaginal muscles to shoot darts through blowpipes and to write with large felt-tipped pens. He’d seen full sex and lesbian sex and sex with a German Shepherd dog. Now he was jaded and preferred to sit and drink in the Limelight, where at least there was something left to the imagination. The girls seemed prettier too, though after half a dozen beakers of the amber fluid they all looked good. The bar was a large oval surrounding a raised dance floor on which there were ten or so Thai girls dancing; few moved enthusiastically, but they were all smiling. They were just tired; most of them had been on their feet for the best part of four hours. They danced in twenty-minute shifts, once an hour. The rest of the time they sat around the bar or at the tables around the edge of the room, groping customers’ thighs and hustling drinks, much as the girls sitting either side of Edmunds were doing. Small hands, moving inquisitively around his groin. Neither looked much more than seventeen years old but Edmunds knew just how difficult it was to pinpoint accurately the age of an Asian girl. Sure, you could tell the ones that were obviously underage, flat-chested and no pubic hair, and you could spot the old hags, the over-the-hill hookers who still toured the bars looking for a tourist so drunk that he couldn’t see the wrinkles and the scars. But in between the two extremes there was no way of telling – they all had the same jet-black hair, smooth brown skin and shining brown eyes.
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