“Will Guy Thackeray be accessible?”
“I have no idea,” M said. “You’ll have to find a way to meet him. Size him up. You are to determine if we have any reason to be suspicious of the man. I trust you won’t fail. You have got ten days. The countdown to July the first is already in progress.”
“Zero minus ten,” Bond said. “Plenty of time. No pressure at all.”
She ignored his flippancy. “That’s all, 007. Be sure to stop by at Q Branch on your way out. I believe the Armourer has something for you.”
Bond stood as M shut off the monitor and returned the lighting to normal. He cleared his throat and said, “Ma’am, I’m very concerned about the Australian thing …”
“We all are, 007. I’ll keep you informed, but for the moment it’s not our brief. You’ve got your assignment, and that’s where I want you to concentrate.”
With that, M looked down at the document she had been reading when Bond first entered. It was a signal that the meeting was over.
“Very well, ma’am,” Bond said and started out of the room.
“James.” Bond stopped, surprised that she had called him by his Christian name.
“Yes, ma’am?”
“Those Triads can be vicious. They’ll cut off your hand with a butcher’s knife as soon as look at you. Be careful.”
Bond nodded. “Yes, ma’am. Thank you,” he said, and walked out of the inner sanctum.
Seven minutes later, Bond punched in the keypad code and entered the unmarked grey metal door in the basement. He was immediately assaulted by the smell of chemicals and the noise of machinery. Q Branch was a virtual Santa’s Workshop for grownups, and not very nice grownups at that.
In one corner, behind a wall of glass, technicians were spraypainting a BMW. Against a far wall was a line of cardboard human cutouts with bull’s eyes painted on various portions of their anatomy. Two technicians stood twenty-five feet away from the wall and fired propellants at the targets from what appeared to be crude prototypes of 35mm cameras.
“Oh, please, can I get just one shot of you, 007?”
Bond turned to see a tall, thin man with grey hair. He was holding one of the cameras.
“Major,” said Bond, “I wouldn’t have taken you for a paparazzo. ”
Major Boothroyd, the Armourer and head of Q Branch, replied, “It’s for the wife and kids, actually. Come on, say cheese. Please. ”
“Major, I never photograph well,” Bond said, chuckling. “I’m a bit camera-shy.”
Boothroyd placed the camera on a table. “I shutter to think what this camera would do for you!”
Bond winced at the pun.
“Follow me, 007. What size shoe do you wear?”
He followed Boothroyd into a room containing a bench and a shoe salesman’s stool with an inclined side. On a rack against the wall were a number of pairs of leather shoes in brown and black. Boothroyd gestured to the bench and sat on the stool. Bond sat, shaking his head. “Major, why do I feel like I’m in Harrod’s? I wear a nine and a half.”
Boothroyd turned to the shoes on the wall. “Nine and a half … nine and a half … do you prefer black or brown?”
“Black, please. Is this a joke?”
Boothroyd placed a pair of black shoes in front of Bond. “You know better than to ask that. Well, take off your shoes and try them on!”
Feeling ridiculous, Bond did as he was told. “Now I suppose you want me to walk around the room and see if they feel all right?”
“I want to make sure they’re comfortable, 007,” said Boothroyd. “There’s nothing worse than sore feet.”
Bond walked back and forth twice. “They’re fine. Now, what’s the point?”
“Take a look at the bottom of the tongue on the left shoe. You’ll find a small prying tool. Remove it.”
Bond did so. “Right,” the Armourer continued. “Now use the tool to pry open the heel.” The heel snapped off, revealing several items fitted neatly within. “As you’ve probably guessed by now, these are upgrades of our standard issue field shoes, model F, which all Double-O operatives are required to wear when on assignment.”
“Then you’ve made quite an improvement. I never could get the old ones open.”
Boothroyd ignored him. “As usual, they contain a variety of helpful items. In the left heel you’ll find not only the plastic, X-rayproof wire cutter and file, but also our new plastic dagger. It’s very sharp, so be careful.”
Bond picked out a round object with a lens on either side.
“Ah, that’s a microfilm reader. Press the little button on top to activate the light. Look through it as you would a child’s kaleidoscope. There’s a small compartment there in the heel to store strips of microfilm maps. We have an extensive library of microfilm maps detailing every square mile on the face of the planet. Before you go abroad, simply put in a request for microfilm covering the areas you may be visiting. With that handy contraption, you’ll never get lost, 007.”
“Thank God for that,” Bond commented.
“Right. Now pay attention, 007. These shoes could save your life.”
“Major, I do believe you’ve found your second calling.”
Boothroyd went on: “The shoelaces are now easily inflammable, generating enough heat to melt a half-inch iron bar. There’s a spare shoelace in the heel.”
“Good thing, too,” Bond said. “Shoelaces break at the damnedest times.”
“There are pieces of flint and steel in there as well to start fires. Now take a look at the other shoe. You’ll find the same prying tool under the tongue. Open up the heel on that one, if you would.” Bond did as he was told and found yet another cache of objects.
“As you know, this one’s geared more towards first aid. In the heel you’ll find some vital medicines and supplies. There’s a bottle of antiseptic, a pair of tweezers, acetaminophen tablets, generic amoxicyllin, and some bandages that are folded neatly in the sole of the shoe. We’ve added small tubes of sunblock and petroleum jelly.”
“That’s great,” said Bond. “I can dispense with my sponge bag altogether and travel light for a change. What about an electric razor and toothbrush?”
“Why is it you never appreciate the things I do for you, 007? I work my fingers to the bone, put in extra hours at weekends, and what do I get for it? You think my salary is anything to write home about? Why can’t you ever say ‘thank you’ for once?”
Bond stood and patted Boothroyd on the shoulder. “Thank you, Major, but you’re beginning to sound like my dear old Aunt Charmian did back when I was in my teens.”
“Hmph. I imagine you were just as disrespectful to her.”
“Never. She had a temper worthy of SMERSH.”
Boothroyd stood. “Do you have any questions about the shoes, 007?”
“Only one,” Bond said.
“What’s that?”
“Do you have any socks to go with them?”
FIVE
THE PEARL IN THE CROWN
ZERO MINUS NINE: 22 JUNE 1997, 10:30 A.M., HONG KONG
There was once a pilot who described the flight to Hong Kong as “hours of ennui, followed by a few minutes of sheer terror!” Kai Tak, or Hong Kong International Airport, consists of a single runway yet there are an average of 360 movements a day, scheduled at twominute intervals in peak periods. Pilots consider it among the more challenging landings on the globe; for passengers, it’s one of the most nerve-wracking.
Though no stranger to daredevil aerial manoeuvres, James Bond nevertheless felt a surge of excitement as he looked out of the window of the British Airways 747 on its approach to the fabled city. Down below was a harbour littered with boats and surrounded by layered levels of skyscrapers. It seemed that the plane would fly straight into the buildings; but it quickly descended to make a steep, forty-seven-degree turn and touched down on the narrow strip of land on the Kowloon peninsula.
If India was once known as the “Jewel in the Crown,” then Hong Kong was perhaps the
“Pearl in the Crown.” Its mere existence was one of the wonders of the modern world. It began as a barren island with very little population, and now ranked among the world’s fifteen largest trading entities and was Asia’s busiest tourist destination. The mix of British management and Chinese entrepreneurial enthusiasm made Hong Kong a cosmopolitan mixture of East and West. It was a commercial, manufacturing, and financial dynamo; and it was the communication and transportation intersection for all Asia.
In nine days, Hong Kong would no longer be Britain’s Pearl in the Crown. People had speculated for years what would happen when the colony was handed back to China. One school of thought was that Hong Kong was finally being returned to the China it had economically and culturally always belonged to. Britain had only borrowed it long enough to allow it to blossom. Bond had heard people ask, “What will China do to Hong Kong?” He thought the more intriguing question might be, “What will Hong Kong do to China?”
The airport terminal was noisy, crowded, and chaotic. Bond moved with the crowd into the Buffer Hall. The office had provided him with plenty of Hong Kong currency, so he didn’t have to bother with foreign exchange queues. Immigration went smoothly and quickly. Bond’s cover was that of a Daily Gleaner journalist covering the handover to China.
Bond took the third exit out of Buffer Hall into the Greeting Area, which was packed with the families and friends of incoming passengers. He spotted the yellow baseball cap, and beneath it the friendly smile of a Chinese man.
“No charge for ride to hotel,” the man said to Bond.
“But I have the correct change,” Bond replied.
“No problem,” the man said, turning his r’s into l’s the way Chinese often do. “I even take you on scenic route, uh huh?” His English was slightly broken but his vocabulary was very good.
“That would be lovely then,” Bond said and smiled. These code exchanges, though necessary, were sometimes ridiculous.
The man held out his hand. “T.Y. Woo at your service. How was flight?”
“Too long.” Bond shook his hand. “I’m Bond. Call me James.”
“You call me T.Y. You are hungry, uh huh?” He had an endearing habit of adding “uh huh?” to his sentences.
“Famished.”
“Your hotel has excellent restaurant. I take you, okay?” Woo reached for Bond’s carry-on bag, which Bond gladly allowed him to take. Bond held on to the attache case which contained documentation of his cover identity and other assorted personal items. His Walther PPK was stored in an X-ray-proof compartment in the case.
When the men reached the street, a red Toyota Crown Motors taxi cab with a silver roof screeched to a halt on the double yellow line edging the road.
“Quick, get in,” Woo said. He opened the back door and gestured for Bond to jump inside.
A policeman on the street blew his whistle and shouted something in Chinese. The driver, a young teenage boy, shouted something back. By then, both men were inside and the cab sped away.
“That was restricted zone. Cabs not supposed to stop,” Woo explained, smiling.
Bond noticed the meter wasn’t running. “Is this a company car?”
“Yes, James,” Woo said. Bond noticed that his new friend rarely relaxed his broad smile. “Meet my son Woo Chen—you call him Chen Chen, uh huh?” The boy grinned at Bond in the rear-view mirror. Bond nodded at him and smiled.
“Relax, we go for ride!” Chen Chen exclaimed enthusiastically.
The cab pulled in front of a Rolls-Royce, making room for itself in the congested traffic. Although the flow moved slowly, Chen Chen managed to swerve in and around vehicles to maintain a significantly faster speed. Bond held his breath a couple of times during the first few minutes of the journey until he assured himself that the boy knew what he was doing.
“Chen Chen too young to drive,” T.Y. said, still grinning. “I pull strings to get him licence!”
Bond cleared his throat and said, “He drives very well. How old are you, Chen Chen?”
“Fifteen,” the boy said, grinning just like his father. “Sixteen next month!”
The cab moved through the traffic and finally entered the Cross-Harbour Tunnel. It was a congested two-lane thoroughfare two kilometres long.
“Your hotel on Hong Kong side. Airport is on Kowloon side,” T.Y. explained. Bond knew that, but nodded as if he was learning something. “Very nice hotel,” T.Y. continued. “Expensive. They have good restaurant at top. Private. We can talk, uh huh?”
The cab pushed its way through the tunnel and emerged into the light of Hong Kong Island. Throngs of people cluttered the pavements. At intersections, there were queues eight people deep waiting to cross the street. Bond had studied the latest intelligence and census reports on the city-state during the flight. Between five and six million people now resided in the relatively small area that comprised the territory. It was essentially a Cantonese city, most of the population being ethnic Chinese. The other small percentage were known as “expats,” or foreigners, who had taken residence in the colony. These expats were of many nationalities—Filipinos, Americans, Canadians, British, Thai, Japanese and Indians being the most prominent. Bond thought it was a cultural melting pot like no other.
“If you get tired of hotel, you come to safe house,” T.Y. said. “Near Hollywood Road, east end of Western District.”
The cab zigzagged through Connaught Road in the Central District of the island, and screeched to a halt beside a white block building over twenty storeys tall. The Mandarin Oriental’s unimpressive exterior did a fine job of hiding one of the world’s most sophisticated hotels. While most English businessmen might have stayed at the more Colonial-style Peninsula Hotel in Kowloon, Bond always preferred the Mandarin Oriental whenever he was in Hong Kong. Hotel rooms were hard to come by this week, as many had been booked as much as a year in advance of the first of July transition. Luckily, SIS had made a reservation long ago in anticipation of sending someone just to be present on the fateful night.
Woo said, “You check in. I meet you in Chinnery Bar at noon, uh huh?”
“Fine,” Bond said, taking his bag and opening the door. “Thank you, Chen Chen.”
“No problem,” said the grinning youth.
The hotel lobby was discreetly elegant and surprisingly subdued. Bond checked in and was ushered to his room on the twenty-first floor by a cheerful bellhop. It was the “Lotus Suite,” consisting of two large rooms and a terrace overlooking the harbour. The hotel even provided a pair of binoculars for sight-seeing. The sitting room included a writing desk, bar, television/stereo system, and a bathroom for guests. The bedroom contained a king-sized bed, and there was a large private bathroom. Once he was alone, Bond immediately opened the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of vodka. He put two ice cubes into a glass and poured a large measure. It was early, but the flight had been long and he needed to unwind.
Bond stood and watched a small section of the harbour as kaidos, sampans, junks, and walla-wallas scurried back and forth. There were people in Hong Kong who lived and worked on their little boats and rarely set foot on land. As Westernized as it was, Hong Kong was still a very different world.
Bond changed from his business suit into a light blue cotton shortsleeved polo shirt and navy blue cotton twill trousers. He put on a light, grey silk basketweave jacket, under which he kept his Walther PPK in a chamois shoulder holster.
At noon, he went down to The Chinnery, a bar decorated much like an English gentlemen’s club with masculine brown and red deep leather-upholstered armchairs; in fact, Bond remembered that it used to be exclusively all-male. It was only in 1990 that the bar began to admit women. It was adorned with original paintings by British artist George Chinnery, whose drawings and paintings of the landscapes and people of Macau, Canton, and Hong Kong made him the undisputed doyen of foreign artists of the China coast in the mid-1800s. The room was already filling with smoke from businessmen’s pipes, cigars, and cigarettes. Bond noted that the collectio
n of seemingly countless bottles of Scotch whisky was still behind the bar.
T.Y. Woo was already there and Bond joined him.
“Welcome to Hong Kong, Ling Ling Chat,” Woo said. Bond knew that Ling Ling Chat was “007” in Cantonese. “Let us drink. Then we will go upstairs and have lunch, uh huh?”
Bond ordered a vodka martini, but he had to explain twice to the waiter that he wanted the drink shaken and not stirred. Woo shrugged and had the same. “We drink mostly cognac here,” he said.
“Hmm,” Bond said. “That’s more of a nightcap for me.”
Over their cocktails the two men began to get to know each other. T.Y. Woo had been with the Secret Service for twenty-five years. His family had come from southern China several decades ago and had made a fortune in the antiques and curios business. Woo and his brother ran a shop on Upper Lascar Row, otherwise known as “Cat Street,” and this provided a perfect front for the Hong Kong headquarters of the British Secret Service. SIS, then called MI6, had recruited him in the sixties. A British agent on self-imposed R & R had wandered into the Woos’ shop during the Vietnam War. He was an elite Double-O operative who had been assigned to assist American GIs deep in the jungle. Impressed with Woo’s cheerful disposition and willingness to “do something exciting,” the agent brought him to London. After several months of training, he could get by with what he had learned of the English language and make succinct intelligence reports. Woo’s double life as a shop keeper and an intelligence officer took its toll on his wife, who left him ten years ago. He had raised Chen Chen on his own.
At 12:30 the men took the lift to the twenty-fifth floor and entered the Man Wah Restaurant, one of the finest in the colony. A lovely Chinese woman wearing a slinky cheongsam, a traditional tight-fitting dress with a seductive slit revealing a bit of leg, led them to a table. Unlike most restaurants in Hong Kong, which were usually noisy and full of cheerful clamour, this one was an intimate, quiet place. The blue carpet, wood-framed maroon panelling, and oriental paintings all contributed to a luxurious ambience. A bonsai tree covered with tiny white blooms sat on their table, which was next to a large picture window overlooking the harbour.
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