No Deals, Mr. Bond jb-21

by John Gardner

  ‘I have to make one telephone call and I’ll be with you.’

  He used the extension in the bedroom to dial the Cathay Pacific desk at Orly. Yes, they had two first-class seats on their flight to Hong Kong tomorrow. Certainly they would reserve them in the name of Boldman. He quoted his Amex number.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Boldman, that’ll be fine. Just pick the tickets up at the desk by ten-fifteen. Have a nice flight.’

  He looked inside the briefcase to check that Q’ute had not forgotten the small rubber stamp for doctoring their passports. A sudden horror struck him.

  ‘Ebbie!’ he called. ‘Ebbie, you have got a passport with you, haven’t you?’

  ‘Of course. I never travel without it.’

  He went into the living room. The table was set elegantly for a dinner for two.

  ‘You have been a busy girl, Ebbie.’

  ‘Yes. Are we going somewhere?’

  ‘Not until the morning. Tonight it’s a romantic dinner in Paris.’

  ‘Good, but in the morning where are we going?’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ he said quietly, ‘we’re off to the mystic East.’

  15

  THE MYSTIC EAST

  The Cathay Pacific 747 Flight CX 290 from Paris made its descent over Lantau Island towards the mainland of the New Territories. There the great jet began its almost one-hundred-degree turn to the final approach, right across Kowloon and down on to Kai Tak, Hong Kong’s international airport with its runway thrusting like a finger into the sea.

  As the engines whined, giving the machine the last ounce of extra thrust to carry it over the rooftops, James Bond peered out of the window, craning to see the island of Hong Kong below, with the Peak shrouded in cloud.

  They would be low over Kowloon Tong now and he thought of its translation, Pool of Nine Dragons, and the story that the late Bruce Lee had consulted a fortune teller before buying an apartment in this exclusive district. The young Kung Fu film star had been told that, should he buy the flat, he would have only bad joss because his name could be translated as little dragon, and nothing good could come of a little dragon going to live in a pool with nine dragons. Nevertheless, Bruce Lee bought the apartment, and within the year he was dead. Bad joss.

  The Boeing touched down with the huge roar of the reverse thrust, its flaps fully extended as the speed bled off. It rolled slowly to a halt at the far end of the runway, where the buildings towered to their left. The boat-littered Fragrant Harbour stretched out to the right between the mainland and Hong Kong Island.

  Within twenty minutes of landing, Bond was standing with Ebbie clutching his hand in the garage-like surroundings of Passport Control. Scrupulous, unsmiling Chinese officials scrutinised their documents. From the moment they had left the aircraft,he had done his best to spot likely watchers in the airport buildings; but in the sea of European, Chinese and Eurasian faces, everybody seemed to be a potential look-out.

  A large Chinese in slacks and white shirt held a board on which was written MR BOLDMAN. Bond steered Ebbie forward.

  ‘I’m Mr Boldman.’

  ‘Ah, good. I take you Mandarin Hotel.’ The Chinese grinned widely, showing what appeared to be several sets of independently working teeth, most of them filled with gold. ‘Car here. Inside please, never mind.’ The driver ushered them towards a limousine, opening the door. ‘My name is David,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you, David,’ said Ebbie prettily, and they climbed in.

  Bond glanced out of the rear window as they moved away to see if he could spot any car positioning itself behind them. The search was fruitless, for cars left the arrivals rank all the time, and most seemed to have just picked up passengers. What he was looking for was some nondescript vehicle with two people up front. He caught himself in time – that was what he would have looked for in Europe. In Asia things were different. He recalled an old China hand once saying, ‘As for watchers, they’ll be the people you least expect. East of Suez they watch in plain sight, and they’re a bugger to spot.’

  There were no positive signs as they entered the Cross-Harbour Tunnel, which they moved through in a slow but orderly procession of cars, lorries, both ancient and modern, and those fifteen-hundredweight trucks beloved of the Hong Kongese, some with tattered awnings flapping and displaying Chinese characters.

  Nowadays you have only to return to Hong Kong after an absence of a few weeks to notice changes. It was a couple of years since Bond had been in the Territory and he saw huge differences as they reached Connaught Road. Ahead, to their right, the massive Connaught Centre rose with its hundreds of porthole-like windows, making it look as though it had been designed by an optician; and behind that the almost completed glass triple-towers of Exchange Square. The traffic was still as heavy as the heat outside, while the sidewalks and futuristic linking bridges over the main roads were crammed with scurrying people. On the left he caught sight, through Chater Square, of the huge new Hong Kong and Shanghai Bank Building erected like a large Leggo kit on four great tall cylinders.

  Then they were pulling up in front of the main doors of the Mandarin which, next to the high-rise opulence, appeared almost insignificant. The impression vanished when they stepped through the glass doors into the main lobby adorned with crystal chandeliers, Italian marble and onyx, and on one wall detailed gilded wood carvings.

  Ebbie’s eyes widened. ‘This is really fantastic, James,’ she began, then took in a sharp breath.

  Bond, who had been steering her towards the black-suited Chinese gentlemen at reception, saw her eyes narrow as she peered across the marbled floor at the concierge’s desk.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘Swift,’ she breathed, ‘Swift’s here. I just saw him.’

  ‘Where?’ They had almost reached the main reception desk.

  ‘Over there.’ She nodded towards the far end of the lobby. ‘He was there. Typical of him. He was always a – how do you say it – will o’ the wisp?’

  Bond nodded. It was a good name for Swift, he thought, as he began filling in the registration form. Swift had always been a will o’ the wisp; a tortured soul trapped between the heaven and hell leading people to destruction. His expertise in handling agents in the field had led many members of enemy intelligence services to their downfall.

  Instantly the contradictions and hidden secrets of Cream Cake confronted Bond again. M had asked him to take on a job which, because of its delicacy, could not be an official operation. Yet there were official aspects. Already the conviction that he was involved because someone in Cream Cake had been turned had hardened in his mind. It could be anyone: Heather? The already doubled Maxim Smolin? Jungle Baisley? Susanne Dietrich? Even Ebbie? Damn, he thought, signing the registration card, why had he been foolish enough to allow Ebbie to come with him to Hong Kong? By all the rules she should have been held in safety, yet he, James Bond, had not thought twice about her coming with him. Was it intuition or merely his growing affection for Ebbie? How foolish could a man be when led by his emotions? But then, he had not been led by anything. Ebbie had, in a manner of speaking, been foisted on him. And now there was Swift. Could Swift be the key? Hardly.

  ‘If you will follow me, Mr Boldman, Mrs Boldman.’

  Bond realised that the under manager was repeating his courteous words.

  ‘Sorry. Of course.’

  He snapped out of the reverie and taking Ebbie’s arm, followed the man carrying their papers and room key. They went towards the far end of the lobby past the concierge’s desk, turning left to the elevators.

  ‘Tell me if you spot him again,’ Bond whispered and Ebbie nodded.

  Around them the hotel was functioning with a disciplined ease and efficiency. Gold-jacketed page boys moved swiftly with fixed smiles; one of them wearing a form of skull cap, setting him apart from the rest, marched through the lobby bearing a tinkling bell-hung board displaying the fact that he was looking for a Mrs David Davies. An American couple argued softly near the elevators
: ‘What ya want, then? We’re in a hotel. You want we should move to a different hotel?’

  The elevator lifted them imperceptibly to the twenty-first floor, to a light and airy room, with a balcony looking out on the thousand eyes of the Connaught Centre buiding and a large part of the Harbour. Ferries, motorised junks and sampans plied their way fearlessly among the larger craft.

  The under manager hovered, making certain the room was to their liking, until the room boy arrived with the luggage and asked if he could unpack for them, an offer they declined.

  Once they were alone, standing close to Ebbie, Bond asked, ‘You’re sure it was Swift?’

  ‘Certain. God, I’m tired. But it was Swift.’

  She opened the balcony windows, letting in the sound of Hong Kong’s traffic, deafeningly loud, even up on the twenty-first floor. Bond joined her on the balcony, feeling the blast of heat as he passed through the doorway. The air smelled moist, with traces of salt, spices, dust, fish and pork. Below, the traffic streamed unendingly. The water of the harbour twinkled in the morning haze, the white wakes of churning propellers now joined by the long creamy trail of a hydrofoil sweeping west. Three barges, low in the water, weighed down by containers created muddy bow waves as they were towed towards one of the world’s largest container ports.

  To the left, everything was dominated by the Connaught Centre and the gigantic Exchange Square building. The complex was connected to the Mandarin side of the street by an elegant tubular pedestrian walkway. In the foreground to the right, the world-famous view of Kowloon, Hong Kong – Fragrant Harbour – stretched before them. A pair of helicopters swept down, one hovering while the other landed at Fenwick Pier, below them to the right. The scene of buildings, ships, vehicles and helicopters had a futuristic look about it. Yet as he gazed, Bond suddenly realised that the elusive familiarity he always felt in Hong Kong came from images from the past, from Fritz Lang’s film Metropolis, that classic made, incredibly, in the 1920s.

  ‘Come on,’ he said, touching Ebbie’s arm, ‘we’ve got work to do.’

  ‘We have to go out?’ She seemed excited at the prospect.

  ‘Just wear something casual.’ Bond smiled, but she did not realise that he was joking and rushed to her suitcase. ‘Jeans and a T-shirt will be fine,’ he added quickly.

  He went to the bedside telephone, delving into the memory bank of telephone numbers he carried in his head. Even in Asia he had contacts outside the normal Service channels. He picked up the handset and quickly punched in the numbers. The call was picked up on the fourth ring.

  ‘Weyyy?’

  ‘Mr Chang?’ he asked.

  ‘Who wants him, heya?’ The voice was deep, almost gruff.

  ‘An old friend. A friend called Predator.’

  ‘Ayeeya! Welcome back, old friend. What can I do for you, heya?’

  ‘I wish to see you.’

  ‘Come then. I am in my usual place. You come now, heya?’

  ‘Fifteen minutes, never mind.’ Bond smiled. ‘I shall have very pretty lady with me.’

  ‘So, times never change. My people have saying, “When man visits a friend once with woman, he seldom returns alone.” ’

  ‘Very profound.’ Bond smiled again. ‘Is that an old saying?’

  ‘About thirty second. I just make it up. Come quickly, heya?’

  In another part of the Central District of Hong Kong, Big Thumb Chang put down the telephone and looked up at the man standing beside him.

  ‘He comes now, just as you predict; he also brings a beautiful woman, though if she is European I fail to see how she can be beautiful. You want I should do something special with him?’

  ‘Just do as he asks,’ the other said. He had a slow, calculating voice. ‘I shall be near. It is essential that I speak with him in private.’

  Big Thumb Chang grinned, nodding like a toy with a spring in its neck.

  16

  SWIFT

  Big Thumb Chang was so called because of a deformity to his right hand. The thumb was almost as long, and twice as thick, as his index finger. Enemies said it had grown like this from counting the large sums of paper money that came his way from many and varied business deals. He could usually be found – when there was money involved – at a small two-room hovel off one of the precipitously steep streets leading from Queen’s Road.

  Bond took Ebbie by the scenic route. They went down to the mezzanine floor by elevator and walked through the sumptuous hotel shopping arcade. Over the walkway, from which they viewed the gaudily decorated trams cramming Des Voeux Road, they entered the opulent Prince’s Building. Then through another walkway they passed into Gloucester House and the Landmark, one of Central’s most splendid shopping malls. Below them, by the big circular fountain, a jazz combo was playing Do you know what it means to miss New Orleans? Bond smiled at the sound, which was sweet to his ears. They went down to the ground floor, pausing only for Bond to make a quick purchase – a holdall with a long shoulder strap – before they made their way into Queen’s Road by the Pedder Street exit.

  It took fifteen minutes to reach Big Thumb Chang’s hovel. The door stood open and Chang himself was seated behind a table in the small dark room, which smelled of sweat and stale cooking, mingled with the scent from a few joss sticks burning in front of a small shrine.

  ‘Ah, old friend.’ The fat little Chinese grinned, displaying brown teeth. ‘Many years since your shadow crossed my miserable door. Please enter my slum of a home.’

  Bond saw Ebbie wrinkle her nose.

  ‘You forget, most honourable Chang, that I know your real home is as rich as any emperor’s palace.’ Bond’s eyebrows lifted. ‘So it is I who is humbled by coming to your office.’

  Chang waved a hand towards two hard and not very clean chairs.

  ‘Welcome, beautiful lady,’ he said, smiling at Ebbie. ‘Welcome to both of you. Sit. Can I offer you tea?’

  ‘You are most kind. We do not deserve such lordly treatment.’

  Chang clapped his hands and a thin young girl in black pyjamas materialised from the street behind them. Chang jabbered instructions to her and she bowed and left.

  ‘My second daughter by third wife,’ Chang explained. ‘She is a lazy good-for-nothing girl, but out of my duty and good nature I allow her to do small jobs for me. Life is difficult, never mind.’

  ‘We have come to do business,’ Bond began.

  ‘Everyone wishes to do business,’ said Chang, giving him a weary look. ‘But seldom is this profitable with so many to support, and gossiping wives and children always wanting more than I can give.’

  Bond looked equally grave. ‘It must indeed be hard to live as you do, honourable Chang.’

  Big Thumb Chang gave a protracted sigh. The girl reappeared with a tray bearing bowls and a teapot. She placed it in front of Chang and obeyed his directions to pour the tea as though she too were bowed with care and fatigue.

  ‘Your kindness surpasses our miserable needs.’ Bond smiled and tapped twice on the table with his fingers to signify thanks to the girl before sipping the bitter tea. He hoped that Ebbie would drink it without any hint of dislike.

  ‘It is good to see you again, Mr Bond. How can I be of service to you and this wondrous lady?’

  Bond was surprised that Chang had come to the point so quickly. It was not unusual to spend an hour or more in pleasantries before getting down to business. The fast response put him on his guard.

  ‘It is probably impossible,’ he said slowly, ‘but you have done such favours for me in the past.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘I am in need of two revolvers and ammunition.’

  ‘Ayeea! You wish to see me imprisoned? Taken away in chains and kept for the bureaucrats of Beijing who will come in 1997 anyway, never mind?’

  Already in Hong Kong they were using the Chinese name for Peking – Beijing – as the year approached for power to be ceded back to China. It was ironic that the street hawkers were now selling green caps emblazoned
with the red star among their usual tourist junk.

  Bond lowered his voice, still playing the game expected of him. ‘Respectfully, this has never bothered you in the past. Big Thumb Chang’s name is well known in my profession. It is held in great reverence, for it is a password to obtaining certain items forbidden in the Territory.’

  ‘Certainly it is forbidden to import arms, and in recent years the penalties for such things have been great.’

  ‘But you can still put your hands on them?’

  ‘Ayeea! With the greatest difficulty. One revolver and a few miserable rounds of ammunition I might be able to find, and that at great cost. But two! Ah, that would be miraculous, and the cost truly exorbitant.’

  ‘Let’s pretend you could lay your hands on two good revolvers – say a pair of very old Enfield .38s – with ammunition, of course . . .’

  ‘This is impossible.’

  ‘Yes, but if you could get them . . .’ He paused, watching the Chinese shake his head in apparent incredulity at Bond’s request. ‘If you could get them, how much would they cost?’

  ‘A veritable fortune. An emperor’s ransom.’

  ‘How much?’ Bond pressed. ‘How much in cash?’

  ‘One thousand Hongkong for each weapon, the size not counting. Another two thousand Hongkong for fifty ammunition, making four thousand Hongkong dolla.’

  ‘Two thousand, for the lot,’ said Bond, smiling.

  ‘Ayeea! You wish my wives and children to go naked in the streets? You wish my rice bowl empty for all time?’

  ‘Two thousand,’ Bond repeated. ‘Two thousand and the weapons returned to you before I leave, with an extra thousand Hongkong on top.’

  ‘How long you here, never mind?’

  ‘A few days only. Two, three at the most.’

  ‘You will see me beggared. I shall have to send my best daughters on to the streets as common whores.’

  ‘Two of them were already making good money on the streets the last time I was here.’

  ‘Two thousand dolla, with two thousand when guns are returned.’

  ‘Two thousand, and one more on return,’ Bond said firmly. There was good reason for his asking for revolvers. He would not trust an automatic pistol begged, borrowed, hired or stolen in Hong Kong. He knew that even Big Thumb Chang could supply only basic weapons.