by Chan Ho-Kei
Cop 7 and I could only nod and move away, watching the sailors getting ready to land. At four thirty, we disembarked from the Man Ting at Jordan Road Terminal. Cop 7 showed his ID to the dock workers and said we needed to carry out an investigation on the Man Bong, which was docking at five o’clock.
‘Actually, not many British people use the car ferry these days, do they?’ mused Cop 7 as we waited.
‘But don’t the British need to go between Hong Kong Island and Kowloon?’
‘High-ranking officials can take government boats. And with things the way they are, British people probably are trying to go out as seldom as possible – some have even gone back to the UK because they don’t feel safe here. I know quite a few British police officers have told their families to stay at home, or to remain in their own neighbourhoods.’
This made sense, but I still felt my hypothesis was right.
We might as well have been sitting on a bed of nails for that half hour. Cop 7 turned the radio up to see if there’d been an explosion at Murray House – a real bomb there would knock over all our previous theories like dominoes.
At 5 p.m., just as the Man Bong was approaching the pier, the news came on.
‘Royal Air Force Air Marshal Sir Peter Fletcher has visited the Royal Air Base to see British forces stationed here, praising their noble work assisting the Hong Kong government in quelling recent unrest. This evening, Air Marshal Fletcher will attend a banquet at the base. Lieutenant General John Worsley, Police Commissioner Edward Eates and Colonial Secretary Michael Gass will also be in attendance.’
‘No explosion at Murray House – that would have been the first item,’ said Cop 7.
‘Ah!’ I yelped.
‘What?’
‘Mm... but that doesn’t seem right...’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘We’ve missed a key word.’ I scratched my head. ‘But then that still doesn’t seem possible.’
‘What key word?’
‘I’d thought the bombers had a “Number One Target” and “Number Two Target”, but actually “Number One” was the name of the target – the Police Commissioner’s car, because its licence plates just have the number 1 on them. But how does that make sense? A high and mighty Police Commissioner is hardly going to take the car ferry. And he’s always accompanied by a full police escort...’
Before I’d even finished speaking, Cop 7 had leaped from the car, and I had to scurry after him. Grabbing a dock worker, he yelled, ‘Quick! Did Number One car pass by here today? The Police Commissioner’s car – was it here?’
The poor man stammered, ‘Yes... yes. Number One car takes the ferry several times a month – it’s very normal.’
Cop 7 released the worker and rushed back to the car. I got in too. ‘What’s up? There can’t be a bomb in the car.’
‘There can!’ Cop 7’s face was tense. He started the car as he explained, ‘The Commissioner would have to take Number One car to an official banquet. But if the banquet’s in Kowloon, the car will be sent across first, while the Commissioner takes another government car to Queen’s Pier, then boards a Marine Police boat, only getting into Number One at the Kowloon docks. Otherwise he’d have to get on the car ferry with a full escort, which would cause chaos! His bodyguards would follow the Commissioner, not the car. Which means Number One car might have been left unguarded on the ferry!’
I stared at Cop 7 in shock.
‘It’s very likely they’ve placed a bomb in that car.’ Cop 7 stepped on the gas. ‘They’re planning to assassinate the Police Commissioner!’
5
‘THE COMMISSIONER’S CHAUFFEUR is from Shandong – that’s why the Man Bong crew said they didn’t see any foreigners,’ said Cop 7. I clutched the door handle tightly as we sped down Jordan Road. ‘Toh and the others must have heard ahead of time that the Commissioner was attending a banquet today, and hatched this plot. They’d have waited at United for Number One car, like you said, to plant their bomb. Master Chow bought those snacks because he didn’t know how long they’d be waiting.’
‘Since... since we already know the target, why not just tell the Commissioner’s protection detail?’ I stuttered, the swerving of the car almost causing me to bite my tongue off.
‘There’s no time! I’ve seen the briefing – the banquet starts at five thirty. Everyone’s very punctual at these events – you can’t have the British Commander waiting around for the Police Commissioner and the Colonial Secretary. Which means Number One car is probably already waiting at Kowloon City Pier, and the Commissioner’s about to arrive by boat. It’ll be faster driving straight there than trying to get to him through official channels.’
‘How would the bombers know his route?’
‘Government activities are all on public record, and the route could be worked out from the times and locations. Or internal papers might have been leaked.’
‘Will... will we be in time?’ I yelped.
‘Should be! I can get us there in eight minutes.’
Surely Kowloon City Pier was more than eight minutes from Jordan Road? But I didn’t dare open my mouth again, for fear of distracting Cop 7 from the road. Never mind stopping this car bomb, our own lives were in peril at that moment.
We got all the way from Jordan Road Terminal in West Kowloon to Hung Hom in the east in under five minutes. The whole way, I prayed non-stop to Buddha to keep us safe, and fortunately Cop 7’s driving skills were razor-sharp. We got there in one piece, though we had a few close shaves with pedestrians.
As we turned into Dock Street, though, our luck ran out.
In front of us was a crowd, maybe twenty or thirty people. Not many, but enough to block off the road. Some were waving placards, chanting slogans. Cop 7 was forced to slow down, and as he drew closer, I could read the signs they were holding up: ‘Stop illegal harassment of residents’, ‘Investigate the bloody murders’, ‘Patriotism is not a crime, unrest is justified’, ‘We’ll surely win, the colonialists will lose’ and so on.
‘Damn, an illegal assembly.’ Cop 7 stopped the car. Last month, the Hong Kong police had launched a surprise attack on the Kowloon Dockyard Workers’ Union and Workers’ Children’s School in Hung Hom, resulting in a battle by the docks in which news reports said ‘violent elements’ from the unions had been shot dead. These looked like leftists drumming up local support.
Cop 7 looked behind us, preparing to put the car into reverse – but a couple more vehicles had pulled up, so there wasn’t enough space.
‘Just honk at them to move.’ I reached for the horn.
‘No!’ But Cop 7 didn’t grab my hand in time, and the parp sounded loud and clear.
A few seconds later, I understood why he’d tried to stop me.
The crowd turned, attracted by the noise. To start with, they just glared angrily, but then a murmur started up, and their eyes took on a murderous look. Advancing step by step towards us, they looked like a wolf pack closing in on its prey.
Ah, right. I’d forgotten.
Cop 7’s car had a police badge on the windscreen.
Things started happening very fast. A few men ran up to us and began hitting the bonnet with metal sticks. One of the headlights shattered crisply.
‘Tear apart the yellow-skinned dog! Revenge for our comrades!’
‘Sit tight!’ Cop 7 suddenly put the car into reverse and stepped on the gas. There was a red car behind us, which he crashed straight into. In the tiny Beetle, I was so badly jolted I almost threw up the shrimp dumplings from earlier.
‘Don’t let them get away!’ roared the protesters.
The Beetle couldn’t ram the red car out of the way, so Cop 7 abruptly changed gears and zoomed forward. Startled, the mob froze. As soon as they’d backed off a short distance, he reversed again.
One man wasn’t giving up – he ran alongside the Beetle, and with a whack, his metal pole smashed my window. I covered my face, watching in horror as he got ready for a second blow. Cop
7 turned the wheel towards him, shoving him away.
The red car’s driver probably understood what was happening, and began reversing too. We sped away from the crowd, and then just as I thought we were out of danger, something terrifying happened.
Another man, clutching a glass bottle, was sprinting towards us.
Flames licked the mouth of the bottle.
‘My God! Molotov cocktail!’
No sooner had I said the words when the bottle hit the car, and suddenly our windscreen was a sheet of fire. Flames slipped in through the broken window, but in my panic I didn’t feel any heat.
‘Don’t be scared!’ yelled Cop 7. He continued to reverse, and although he couldn’t go fast like this, he was still able to outpace a human being. The car’s motion pulled the flames away from us. We went almost two blocks back but the fire showed no sign of abating, and I got scared, thinking we were sure to be burnt to death. Cop 7 had said his car broke down sometimes. If that happened now, my little life would surely go up in smoke.
‘Get out!’ Cop 7 suddenly stopped the car, and without thinking about it, I pushed open the door, jumped out of the burning Beetle and made a dash for it.
‘This way! This way!’ screamed Cop 7.
I’d been too busy running to notice he was by the roadside. Next to him was a stunned-looking man in a helmet, standing beside his motorcycle.
‘Police! I’m requisitioning your vehicle,’ Cop 7 said.
Before the man could react, Cop 7 was already on the bike, motioning for me to get on. Thinking it was our only chance for survival, I jumped on and Cop 7 started the engine, leaving the hapless owner behind. Hopefully the leftists would leave him alone – he wasn’t a ‘yellow-skinned dog’ – but then neither was I, and I’d still almost got a metal pole right in the face.
‘Are we going for help?’ I yelled over the wind, arms wrapped tight around Cop 7, deathly afraid I’d fall off at the next corner.
‘To the docks! Stop the Commissioner’s car! Lots of police there!’ he shouted.
I’d never before taken a car ferry or sat on a motorbike, I’d never had a petrol bomb thrown at me, and I’d never taken a vehicle from someone by force. Now, in just half a day, I’d had all those experiences. What other excitement lay in store, I wondered.
In a blink, we’d arrived at Kowloon City Pier. There were no police cars or Marine Police boats anywhere. I looked at the large harbour clock – 5.16 p.m.
Cop 7 looked around, jumped off the motorcycle and ran towards a uniformed officer.
‘Did the Commissioner just get in his car?’ he panted, showing his badge.
‘Yes, he left about five minutes ago.’
‘Dammit!’ Cop 7 looked around again, then said, ‘Go tell your superiors the Commissioner’s in danger. Someone’s interfered with his car. I’m going after him.’
The officer gaped in shock, as if not quite understanding what he’d just heard. But Cop 7 didn’t waste any more time on him. He got back on the motorcycle and we sped off again. We probably couldn’t depend on that officer to raise the alarm, and even if he did, by the time he got through on the phone, the bomb might already have gone off.
‘The air base is on Kwun Tong Road,’ shouted Cop 7. ‘The cavalcade won’t go too fast. We might still catch up!’
Our motorcycle ate up the road, but there were too many cars – probably because we were near Kai Tak Airport. Everyone coming in or out of the country would need to take this road.
‘We’re not going to make it,’ I moaned.
‘Let’s take a short cut.’
Cop 7 turned the bike into an open-air marketplace.
‘Out of the way! Police!’ he shouted.
When they saw the motorbike bearing down on them, pedestrians and vendors jumped out of the way, scrambling for safety. We were on a narrow path between fish and vegetable stalls, bamboo baskets and wooden boards freighted with all kinds of greens and meat encroaching on our passage. Curses and screams came after us: ‘Damn you!’ ‘What are you doing?’ ‘My broccoli!’ We knocked over quite a few stalls, but didn’t slow down. If we’d fallen off the bike here, we’d probably have been torn limb from limb by irate stallholders – a worse fate than the leftists would have dealt us.
‘Look out!’ I yelled. Not far ahead of us was a vegetable hawker with two huge bamboo baskets, standing paralysed in the middle of the path as if uncertain which way to jump. Even if Cop 7 avoided him, we’d surely crash into one of those baskets, but it was too late to brake.
With a screech, Cop 7 slowed down. Just as we were about to hit the hawker, the motorbike swerved to the left. Its front wheel went up a wooden board leaning against one of the stalls, launching us into the air. When we landed, I almost tumbled off. In an instant, we were back on the main road, though I still smelled fish, and there were vegetable leaves plastered all down my thighs.
‘I see him!’ A line of vehicles ahead of us, the last one flashing police lights. Instead of going straight after them, Cop 7 swung down an alleyway to the right, pulling out ahead of the cavalcade.
Cop 7 stopped the motorcycle in the middle of the road and held up his police badge, facing the oncoming vehicles. I stood to one side, keeping my distance. Hopefully the police cars would stop when they saw us, but if not, I wanted to be able to get out of the way.
Fortunately, the traffic cop leading the procession waved to the others to stop. ‘What the hell do you think—’ he barked, but then broke off, perhaps noticing the police ID.
‘Number One car might have a bomb in it!’ yelled Cop 7.
Three or four officers had starting running towards us, but they froze when they heard these words, and immediately turned towards a black car with the number plate ‘1’. They shielded a foreign man as they ushered him out and into another police vehicle, which sped off with two police motorbikes beside it. At the same time, an impressively built white officer with thick eyebrows walked up to me and Cop 7. A Chinese officer stood beside him – his deputy, by the looks of it.
‘Who are you?’ he said to Cop 7. At least I think that’s what he said – he was speaking in English.
‘PC 4447, stationed at Wan Chai, sir!’ Cop 7 saluted smartly, speaking in Cantonese. ‘I’ve received some intelligence and suspect that criminal elements have planted a bomb in the Commissioner’s car. The matter was too urgent to notify my superiors, so I could only get the information to the Commissioner in this way, sir!’
The Chinese deputy translated this into English, and the white officer said something to his entourage. A moment later, a uniformed cop hurried up and said a few words. The British officer’s face changed.
‘Unidentified object near the fuel tank,’ Cop 7 whispered to me.
‘You understand English?’
‘A little. But I speak it terribly – wouldn’t want to inflict it on the superintendent.’
So this white man was a superintendent. Elder Brother was right – learning English really was important.
The superintendent said a few more things to Cop 7, and the deputy translated. ‘Well done, the army bomb disposal expert is on his way. Come over here and tell me what happened.’
‘Sir! The bomb is going to go off any minute now!’ Cop 7 remained standing at attention. ‘The criminals are very organized – this was meticulously planned. The bomb is due to go off at five twenty-five, when the car would have been driving into the base.’
‘Everyone away from Car Number One! Repeat, all personnel stay away from Car Number One!’ the deputy bellowed, at the superintendent’s instruction. Some of the officers quickly sealed off the road at both ends, preventing traffic or pedestrians from getting any closer.
‘Officer, what’s the time?’ Cop 7 asked the deputy.
‘Twenty past five.’
‘May I inspect the bomb?’ asked Cop 7. The deputy translated, and the British officer stared hard at Cop 7.
‘Why take the risk?’
‘Car Number One represents the Hong Ko
ng Police Force. If it were to be destroyed, our morale would take a big blow. Even if the Commissioner survived, destroying such a symbolic vehicle would encourage the leftist insurrection, and make citizens think we can’t keep order. This isn’t about the cost of a car, but the value of the entire force. I’ve spent some time in the bomb squad and know the basics. If it’s a simple design, I might be able to defuse it and preserve the car.’
The superintendent nodded. ‘Can you do it alone? Do you need help?’
Cop 7 looked all around, and then at me.
Was he joking?
‘This is a dangerous task. I couldn’t ask anyone to do it – but if someone were to volunteer...’ said Cop 7.
Was I meant to put up my hand? I wasn’t a police officer, all I’d got out of this was half a box of dim sum.
‘I’ll do it, sir. I’ve studied some books on bomb design.’
While I was still hesitating, the officer next to me spoke up. I turned to look – it was the one who’d reported the foreign object just now.
‘All right, do what you can, but don’t push it. Your own safety is most important,’ said the deputy.
Cop 7 grabbed a tool kit that someone handed him, and together with his volunteer, hurried over to Number One car. The rest of us stood at a safe distance. The deputy asked who I was, and I explained briefly. He passed this on to the white man, who nodded a lot but didn’t otherwise respond.
Cop 7 was on the ground, half his body under the car, the other officer next to him holding a torch. I didn’t dare look directly at them, so instead fixed my eye on the deputy’s watch, as the minute hand crawled.
My hallucination of the ferry exploding reappeared before my eyes. Time slowed down, barely moving. At any second, there might be an enormous bang, taking away the new companion I’d only met that day.
The minute hand settled onto the 5...
Boom.
A plane passed overhead, and for an instant we were unable to hear each other. As the ear-splitting engine roared, all of us looked up at that giant metal bird.
As my gaze drifted back down, I saw an unexpected sight.
