by John Gardner
‘Frankie McGregor, petty officer first class, and James Joseph Jepson III, lieutenant?’
‘If that’s who they were – are – do we know if they’re . . . ?’
‘Alive? Oh, it’s are, okay. Those people’re still alive and breathing. Those last two particular gentlemen, Jepson and McGregor, were heavily into that most dangerously addictive of beasts, gambling. They spent far too much time, mostly independently, at an illegal gaming house known as the Coc-Chai. Both there on the separate nights they went AWOL. Evidence was highly stacked on the pair of them taking it on the lam, as they used to say in the gangster movies, because they were in hock to the Coc-Chai, their messmates, their families and, in Jepson’s case, one of Lee’s moneylenders.’
‘And Mr Lee is the driving force behind the Coc-Chai?’
Rushia nodded. ‘Sure is. One hundred fifty per cent.’
‘So, we have a tenuous link between Brokenclaw and the missing experts.’
M’s hand slapped palm down on the desk top, landing with a thump which imparted irritation with more immediacy than words. The action was so sudden and unexpected that both Bond and Rushia turned sharply towards him.
‘Tenuous then. But not now,’ M snapped. ‘Commander Rushia, I think we should have some food brought in and then invite the sixth missing Lords technician to dine with us. I’m sure she’ll make Captain Bond here sit up, take notice, and also begin to take the whole of this business seriously.’
‘If you say so, Admiral. Aye aye, sir.’ Rushia hauled himself out of his chair and strode over to the desk. He was a man, Bond considered, who could never merely walk. Rushia strode, great loping steps full of purpose. He was reminded of horny-handed men following long gone horse-drawn ploughs.
‘It’ll be dinner for four, in the C-in-C’s day cabin,’ Rushia spoke into a red telephone. ‘And would you be good enough to ask Lieutenant-Commander Man Song Hing to step up here. Good.’ He replaced the handset. ‘Wanda’ll be right up, sir.’ Then turning to Bond, his craggy face broke into a smile which made him look a good deal younger than his years. ‘Wanda’s quite a gal. She’ll stir your juices for sure, Cap’n Bond.’
‘Captain Bond’s juices have been stirred far too often in the past for my liking,’ M said wearily.
‘I realise there’s a great deal of briefing to be done, sir.’ Bond sounded more than a shade acid. ‘But one thing’s been really bugging me, to use the local parlance.’
‘Well?’
‘You had FBI surveillance on me. You’ve already told me that it’s been arranged for the local FBI people to believe I’m not strictly a good security risk. I accept that this is a necessary part of whatever’s going on. But we’ve had one agent bludgeoned to death. I watched. I saw it all. Also, I followed the poor wretch and he obviously headed into a very dangerous part of town in search of me. Why?’
‘Because he was told you might try to make contact with Brokenclaw Lee’s people. He approached the place where he imagined he might just find you.’
‘In that little square at the end of an alley?’
‘That little square, 007, lies directly behind Lee’s favourite haunt. Agent Malloney put himself in jeopardy by going into Brokenclaw Lee’s heartland. Behind enemy lines, if you like.’
Bond nodded. ‘Would you like to put me more fully in the picture about Lieutenant-Commander er, Wanda . . .’
‘Man Song Hing.’ M spoke the name flatly, sounding like a schoolteacher correcting an idle pupil. ‘No, Bond. You will meet a very brave young woman who has, literally, given everything in an attempt to discover the whereabouts of the missing people from the Lords and Lords Day trials. I mean that she’s given all a woman can give, and she lives now in the constant, and very probable, fear that she might not have much time before her cover is blown sky high. Why I doubt . . .’ He was cut off by a knock on the cabin door and Rushia went over to open it.
Four men, all in casual dress – slacks, T-shirts, jeans and the like – wheeled in a large folding table of the kind you find room service using in the better hotels.
Bond recognised two of the newcomers as members of his own organisation. They were tough, hard people used for baby-sitting important assets or minding visiting VIPs, men known in the trade as Lion Tamers. One of them acknowledged him with a broad wink as they set up the table, laying places for four people and putting out cold cuts and a variety of salads on a second table, together with several bottles of wine, baskets of bread rolls, neat triangles of buttered brown bread and a flat dish spread with thinly sliced smoked salmon. The tables gleamed with starched napery and sparkling silver.
These unaccustomed ‘waiters’ performed their tasks with the speed and deftness of well-trained servers who worked in silence and withdrew quickly once all was made ready.
Rushia busied himself with the wine while M came and sat at the table as though expecting the American officer and Bond to serve him. But before they could even begin to tackle the food there was another knock at the cabin door. This time Bond crossed the deck to open up.
He was aware, for a second, of two of the Lion Tamers standing guard, then his eyes were centred on the girl who had knocked on the door.
From behind him, Rushia called, ‘Come in, Wanda. Meet Captain Bond, Royal Navy. James, this is Lieutenant Commander Wanda Man Song Hing, US Navy.’
‘Captain Bond, sir,’ she acknowledged him as she came into the cabin and, in spite of her very obvious Chinese appearance, her voice was low, husky and totally without any of the short-tongued hesitant pronunciations of an English-speaking Chinese.
She was slender and much taller than an average Chinese girl, somewhere around five-ten, with a high waist which, in the lecherous and chauvinist corner of Bond’s mind, predicted legs that went on for ever. This, he saw, was correct as, with a smile, she walked past him into the cabin and stood smartly to attention in front of M.
‘Lieutenant-Commander Man Song Hing reporting as requested, sir.’
She wore civilian clothes – a calf-length dark pleated skirt, white shirt with a Hermes scarf knotted at the neck and a short dark jacket with grey piping. Her complexion was smooth, more cream than peaches, and her heavy black hair was swept back from her forehead, falling in a neatly shaped curve above her collar. She wore diamond clips on the tiny lobes of her exquisite ears, her almond-shaped eyes were a deep black, the mouth generous and her nose small, giving an overall impression of a face of near-perfect proportions.
‘Let me take your jacket, Wanda.’ Rushia was behind her, as though dancing attendance, and she slipped her arms out of the jacket, straightening the cuffs of her shirt as she did so. The white shirt was tight and Bond’s throat went characteristically dry at the clearly rounded shape of her breasts pressing against the thin material.
She caught his eye and immediately looked away as though in an act of modesty, a small tongue running across her lips.
M seated himself opposite the young woman while Rushia and Bond helped them to the smoked salmon and wine – a Californian Chardonnay, at which, until a year or two ago, Bond would have turned up his nose. Things had altered greatly since American wines had started to take prizes against even the best French ones.
‘My dear,’ M spoke to Wanda in an almost avuncular manner, yet his tone was not patronising. ‘I know this is going to be difficult for you, but I fear you’re going to have to repeat at least the major details of your current assignment.’
‘Everything?’ Her voice dropped almost to a whisper.
‘I’m sorry.’ M fidgeted with his tie, leaving his smoked salmon untouched. Bond felt the Old Man was exceptionally embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry, but if we’re going to deal with this matter, Captain Bond here has to know everything. In a few hours he will be facing the same risks as yourself. Though I doubt if he is going to be treated in the same manner as yourself.’
She gave a slightly self-conscious smile and began to toy with her smoked salmon. She had coloured, a pink blush spreading up
both cheeks. ‘Then I had better begin.’ She glanced at the slim gold watch on her wrist. ‘I must be back within two hours, or . . .’
‘Sure, Wanda,’ Rushia spoke kindly. ‘You’ll be back. We’ll see to that, though God knows I wouldn’t return if you paid me a million.’
‘If I don’t go back, he’ll certainly become suspicious, then where will Captain Bond be? And yourself, Ed, not to mention Chi-Chi . . .’
‘Would someone let me into the secret?’ Bond was beginning to be irritated by the riddles that seemed to be passing to and fro across the table.
‘Yes, James.’ There was no sign of reproach in M’s tone. ‘All in good time, and Ms Man Song Hing really doesn’t have much of that – time I mean. Nor have you. We’ve a great deal to get through before morning. You’ll hear Wanda’s story, and no doubt even you will be disgusted by it. But she is our one ace against the evil empire that Lee represents. She has penetrated his court, and become successfully closer to him than any agent who has tried before.’ He turned back to Wanda. ‘I suggest you tell the story in your own words. Now, while we eat. You need not worry, Captain Bond is also an Intelligence field officer of great experience. You will not shock him.’
‘He is cleared for the classified information?’ she asked.
‘He wouldn’t be here if he were not project cleared.’ For the first time in her presence, the old, sharp edge of M’s personality peeped from his tone of voice.
‘Very well.’ She addressed herself to Bond. ‘I am a third generation American Chinese. I was born an American citizen. My mother died when I was a child and my father was once a wealthy jeweller. From my teenage years I wanted to serve my country in some active way, so I enlisted in the United States Navy when I was eighteen years of age – I am twenty-six now. I am proud of my success, because, to use the jargon of our times, I’m a high-achiever. I studied electronics, and for the past two years I have been one of three Intelligence officers working on the project known as Lords and Lords Day. As you probably know, most of our work was carried out from the Treasure Island base, and I had permission to live ashore. I have a small apartment on Laguna, close to the Marina. I should also tell you that I love my father deeply and would do anything for him. Anything but sell out my country, which, in the end, I suppose he invited me to do, in order to save his own life. It began three weeks ago. I had a twenty-four-hour off-duty day.’ She gave a tight little smile, looked up, caught Bond’s eyes and immediately looked away again. ‘I was having my first cup of coffee when the telephone rang. It was my father, and within an hour I knew we had to use what he finally told me. I was aware that I had to become one of the primary active agents in Trojan Horse.’
6
WANDA’S STORY
It was a warm and beautiful morning, clear and with no sea mist. Wanda Man Song Hing sat, dressed only in her terry-towel bathrobe, on the small balcony of her fourth-storey apartment, looking out from the end of Laguna Street on to the Marina. She sipped her coffee from a huge cup with the Paramount Pictures logo stretching across one side.
The sound of a jet, way out over the sea, sent a tiny wave of pain through her. Billy Chinn had given her the cup only a week before he had so tragically flown his F14 Tomcat straight off the deck of an aircraft carrier to cartwheel and explode in the sea. That was a year ago, and she had only recently been able to come to terms with the deep grief of the loss. They would have been married by now, she thought, and then pushed the feelings and images back into the dark tunnels of her mind. At least she had learned to live with it.
She stretched like a cat, feeling luxurious in the knowledge that she had a whole twenty-four hours to herself, and planned to cram into the day a whole bunch of pleasant things – shopping, having a facial, then, tonight, a movie.
She was just reaching for her copy of the Chronicle to see what was playing this week, when the telephone rang. Later she was to think that at its first ring she sensed trouble, but maybe that was hindsight.
‘Hi.’ She gave no name or number. That was one of the many things they taught you early on in Naval Intelligence, and she had done far more than the basic course.
‘Wanda, honey, I have to see you.’
‘Dad. What a surprise. I thought you were out of town.’ She tried to sound bright, but it had been difficult with her father for nearly six months now. She knew why. That had not taken much intelligence work. Tony Man Song Hing had that worst Chinese trait. He was a gambler and, judging by the way he had behaved in recent months, he was not on a roll.
‘I have to see you,’ he repeated, and Wanda became vaguely alarmed. There was a wilderness of desperation in his voice.
‘Where are you?’
‘Over at the store.’ He meant his small jewellery store off Market Street, where he sold, not precious gems, but imitation stones in cheap settings and simulated pearls made, in his own small workshop, by coating glass or plastic beads with a liquid called pearl essence extracted from herring scales.
‘Give me half-an-hour, Dad. Come over here, but give me a little time, okay?’
‘Thirty minutes.’ He hung up abruptly, and Wanda’s stomach turned over. The last thing she needed was trouble with him. The work on Trojan Horse was stressful enough, and she had been through endless problems with her father.
As she showered and dressed she thought about the mess he had made of his life. When her mother died, the little store had sold thousands of dollars worth of real gemstones, silver and gold settings and beautiful jade work. As a child she remembered that the stock alone had been valued at five million dollars. One of the reasons for her own success in life had been the necessity to get away from her father lest she simply became his housekeeper.
Tony Man Song Hing was starting to run to fat, his stomach straining over the belt holding up his grey slacks, while his skin had taken on that pewter colour of a man who did not exercise or look after his diet and was hemmed in by worries.
When Wanda opened the door to him she was shocked that he had gone so much to seed since she had last seen him a month or so before. As she embraced him, she noticed that he also had aged as though some terrible curse had fallen on him. His eyes appeared to be never still and, even as they greeted each other, he seemed to be looking around the main room of her apartment as though afraid someone else might be with her waiting to do him harm.
She gave him coffee and his hand trembled badly as he picked up the cup, spilling some of the liquid.
‘What is it, Father?’ She used her no-nonsense voice which was very effective on lower ranks in the Navy.
He sipped his coffee without speaking, as though trying to summon some new strength. At last he put the cup down and looked her squarely in the eyes. ‘Wanda,’ he said. ‘Wanda, you are my only daughter, and, as a good Chinese woman brought up in love and respect for her parents, I must make a fatherly demand of you.’
She laughed. ‘Come on, Dad. You don’t even speak Cantonese. You’re third generation American, and the nearest you ever got to bringing me up as a good Chinese girl was the parties we had at New Year.’
‘Don’t mock me, little oily mouth,’ he began, aggressively.
‘Father,’ she laughed again. ‘You’ve been reading too many James Clavell novels. Little oily mouth indeed. You’ll start talking of secret stalks in a minute.’
His hand flashed up as he leant forward, slapping her hard across the face. It was the first time she could remember his striking her and she was furious, rising and stepping away from him. ‘Enough!’ she commanded. ‘Out! Out of my apartment.’
But her father stood his ground. ‘You will obey your father. It is our way, our heritage,’ he shouted, his face suddenly crimson. ‘You will do as I say. You hear me?’
Wanda stepped away from him, her cheek still smarting from the blow and her mind battered with anger. But, staring wide-eyed at her father, anxiety began to seep through her fury. This was not the father she remembered from childhood. This man was deeply disturbed,
pushed past his limit, on the verge of greater violence.
Had Wanda not been such an intelligent young woman, with a discipline honed by her Navy service, she might have thrown her father out then and there in an hysterical outburst. But in spite of the outrage she felt, the cool, still centre of her being, developed during her long training, overcame the more natural emotions. Wanda took a deep breath and when she spoke it was with a new equilibrium. ‘Father, what is it? Something’s very wrong. Tell me and maybe we can work something out.’
It was as though this sign of compassion hit Tony like some sudden revelation. She saw her father’s face collapse, then he folded over, doubling up like a man in pain. When he straightened himself again, his eyes brimmed with tears and his shoulders quivered.
Wanda went to him, enfolded him in her arms and gently helped him to a chair. Through sobs he kept muttering that he was sorry, shaking his head, his body trembling.
After a while he seemed to regain possession of his emotions, but still had difficulty speaking.
‘Come on, Father. Tell me what it’s all about. Maybe I can help, after all, like a daughter should.’
This brought on a worse reaction than before. Her father moaned and sobbed, his whole body swaying from side to side.
‘It can’t be that bad. Pull yourself together, Father. Just tell me.’ She spoke very firmly. ‘Tell me!’
He pushed her away, wiped his face with a handkerchief and asked for a drink.
‘More coffee?’
‘Something . . . something stronger . . . Please.’
Drinking had never been a problem, so she went into the kitchen and poured bourbon into a shot glass. He took the whole glass straight and sat looking at her.
‘Is it debt?’ she asked. ‘Is it the damned gambling again?’
Slowly he nodded.
‘Bad?’
‘Very bad. Even if I sold the store, I’d still owe him the best part of a million.’ His voice was almost that of an old man. ‘I’m a fool, Wanda. I’ve seen him do it to others. He gives and gives, then slowly hauls in on the rope.’
