Inspector O 04 - The Man with the Baltic Stare

by James Church

“Wait a minute.” I grabbed his arm. “What do you know about murders?”

  “Nothing.” He grinned at me. “Not a thing.”

  After the clerk disappeared, I opened the message. All it said was: “Blue sky.” Everyone seemed to be getting short messages these days, but this one shook me. It shook me up so much I sat down in the ratty chair next to the television. “Blue sky” was a code a chief inspector of mine had used as an emergency signal. But he was dead, shot years ago by Military Security in an incident that wasn’t recorded anywhere and thus never happened. It couldn’t be from him. I had never heard of spirits using code.

  There was only one other person who might have known the code, and he had disappeared. His name was Kang. He’d been a deputy director of what was then known as the Investigations Department—the party’s foreign intelligence arm. He had also been on the Military Security hit list, but they never got him. I may have been the last person to see him before he went into permanent hiding. A few people wanted to get in touch with him over the years, and they thought I knew how to do it. I didn’t, and I never wanted to find out. Now this. “Blue sky,” another way of saying: “Make contact at once.” But where? How? I pushed the door shut and lay down on the bed. Simple, I thought. If Kang wants to contact me, he knows where I am. Let him take the next step.

  From downstairs, I could hear the clerk yelling into the phone. Ah, the lullaby of Canton, I thought to myself, and fell asleep.

  3

  Next morning, I went in search of parks, meeting places, alleys, drop sites, anything I might find handy if Kang turned up. It also helped me to wander around, let all the half facts that Luís had thrown at me sift through my subconscious. If anything remained by the end of the day, any nuggets that didn’t turn out to be pixie dust, I’d give them a second look. Meanwhile, I had a little pixie dust of my own to contend with. Major Kim had deliberately left out the most important part of the case—who was allegedly, or actually, involved. Normally, this didn’t mean much. Guilt was relative; innocence, fleeting. The crime might be more important than the individual, the accusation more significant than the facts. If we were told to find a reason to clear someone, that’s what we did. It wasn’t healthy to inquire into the whats and whyfors.

  The case that Kim wanted fixed wasn’t fitting into a normal pattern, however. For starters, there was the passport. Not a lot of Koreans carried one from the Dominican Republic. Then there was the message to the nominal Senhor Penza—and the fact that it had been so conveniently overlooked until almost the last minute. Finally, Luís was holding out on me. I didn’t expect him to dump everything in my lap, but I had the feeling he didn’t want to say too much, not because I was from a foreign service but because he wasn’t sure of his own footing. It wasn’t a matter of personal trust. After all, he had shared Lulu with me almost from the start.

  The old city had a lot of small, green parks mostly filled with ficus trees, pretty much as Luís had said. Most of the trees had short trunks. They branched off quickly, after only a meter or so. “Wood from a ficus is like a promise of love,” my grandfather would say when I was a boy and he saw me watching girls as they walked past our house. “It doesn’t take you very far.” He had another warning—one he often used on holidays when the girls dressed up in bright chima chogori and strolled from one village to the next, eyes sparkling with fun. It was breathtaking, I thought, like a parade of flowers along our dusty road. “Go ahead; look,” he’d say, standing beside me, his hand on my shoulder. “Look. They’re like shiny leaves. Did you ever see a tree worth a damn that needed shiny leaves? Well, did you, boy?”

  Near the post office, up a pleasant street called Travessa de S. Domingos, I came upon a square with a fountain in the middle and a large ficus spilling shade onto a bench. On two sides the square was enclosed by a low wall of blue and white tiles. It seemed like a good place to get out of the sun and even held some promise for a meeting with Kang, if things came to that. No one else was around, so I took the bench beneath the tree.

  A few minutes later, Luís walked into the square. He threw a couple of coins into the fountain and sat down beside me. “You keep up a brutal pace in this heat,” he said. “You should slow down a little. Good thing you found this shade. I was about to drop.” He took out a handkerchief and mopped his forehead.

  “I thought we had finished our business.”

  “So did I. But then a friend of mine asked me to find you.”

  “A suite has opened up at the Venetian?”

  “Better.” He stood up again and looked over the wall behind us at the street below. “Nobody here but us chickens. Or us people who eat chickens.” He studied his watch. “Lunchtime rolls around again, thank God, and not a moment too soon. In a short while, we’ll have visitors. Whenever I go out, MSS tags along at a respectable distance. They think I’m helping someone launder a lot of money. Me!” He laughed until the tears streamed down his face. “I can’t even wash my own shirts.” His shirt was white and crisp, except where drops of laughter glistened down the front. “Listen closely,” he said, once he pulled himself together. “Remember that fort we saw from the hotel room? The one on top of the hill? That’s where you must meet my friend.”

  “I’m inclined not to trust anyone, especially people I’ve never met.”

  “This is different. You’ll find out why soon enough.”

  I didn’t even try to stop from appearing skeptical.

  “I don’t want you to go into this in a state of disbelief, Inspector; it’s bad operational practice. That’s what our manual emphasized repeatedly. Yours did, too, I imagine. Tell me, what’s the matter?”

  “Pretty exposed, that location, isn’t it?”

  “So! You are a cautious man, Inspector. This caution is impressive. Perhaps where you live it is essential. Here in Macau, however, it can be fatal. The fort is a good choice; I’m sure of it. There’s only one way in. If you’re followed, it will be obvious.”

  “Only one way in is fine. It’s the only one way out that worries me. Even if I’m not followed, what about people already in place?”

  “You mean MSS? They pulled their surveillance a few years ago. It wasn’t worth their time, they said. Anyway, it’s a very steep climb up there. My people don’t cover it at all.” He shrugged when I didn’t reply. “All right, some security goes up a couple of times a month to make sure the fort is still there. They aren’t due again for another week, and they stick to a regular schedule. They’re afraid what they might find if they go to random visits.”

  “We won’t bump into five other operations by five other organizations? The British have friends, the Americans, the French, maybe the Singaporeans. How can you be sure that no one else knows the place is wide open, that it isn’t being watched?”

  “Who says it isn’t being watched?”

  “Aha.”

  “This will work. I know it will because we’ve never done it before, so there’s no pattern and absolutely no trail. They might catch on if we did it more than once, but we won’t. Think of it as a onetime pad.”

  “Maybe some rough edges, though? The first time always has rough edges, a few things someone forgets to consider, minor details—the sort that can get a person killed.”

  “None, no minor details, simple as rain. Just listen. You go up to the fort at nine A.M. tomorrow. It’s still cool enough then so you won’t give yourself heatstroke climbing that hill. Take a bottle of water with you, to be safe. Look a little touristy; you know the drill.”

  “The place will be deserted at that hour?”

  “Deserted? Good God, no. There will be squads of old ladies using it for exercise, a couple of tape players blaring that music they need to stand on one leg and sweat. Sometimes they practice with fans; other times it’s with swords. Don’t walk too close or you could lose something. Your main interest is the front wall and the nineteen cannons that line it.”

  “Nineteen.”

  “Three main groups—five, nine, and
five.”

  “That’s nineteen.”

  “Face the front of the fort. You will see that there are two bulwarks—left and right. This is very common fort architecture for the period.”

  “I’ll take your word.”

  “Each bulwark has five cannons. For the sake of convenience, we’ll number those in the left bulwark one through five.”

  “One through five.”

  “Good. Now, forget they’re there. You actually start counting with the sixth cannon. As you face the Grand Lisboa, and you can’t miss it because the damned thing blots out the rest of God’s creation, cannon number six will be the first one on your left along the wall. Use that as an anchor point in your mind; get yourself oriented.”

  “Should I close my eyes to imagine this?”

  “As you wish. But you don’t want to focus on the left side yet. You want to stroll over to the right bulwark to look for the go, no-go signals. If any of them are missing—any of them—back off.”

  “How many altogether?” My memory is normally good, but humidity does funny things with the circuits.

  Luís looked up at the sky and counted silently. “Three.” He nodded to himself. “Three. The first and second are in the right bulwark, where you will find that two of the cannons face the front.”

  I reached for my pen. “Can I write any of this down? Cannons to the left of them, cannons to the right of them. Maybe a diagram would help.”

  “No notes. Just listen. The cannon on the extreme right has the symbol of a crown stamped into the top of the barrel, fairly near the touchhole. I’m supposed to tell you not to touch that hole. I wasn’t told why; I just pass it on. The next cannon over, to the left, has no crown on the barrel. Perhaps it did not get a royal blessing. Purchased in bulk, maybe. Instead of a crown, it has a diamond filled with a cross. Are you following?”

  “Got it.”

  “Any questions about the cannons?”

  “No. Should there be?”

  “Trying to cover all the bases, that’s all. If there’s something about a cannon that you aren’t sure of, speak up.”

  “Listen, Koreans invented cannons. I know them like the back of my hand.”

  “Really? I thought that the Chinese invented them.”

  “That,” I said, “happens all the time. We invent something, and the Chinese take credit for it.”

  Luís nodded thoughtfully. “Further up, toward the muzzle, you will find the letter M stamped into the barrel. At the bottom of each of the letter’s two main vertical strokes are little feet or platforms.” He drew me a quick sketch on his palm, then spit in his hand and rubbed it off. “If the operation is proceeding, both feet on that M will be filled with a sort of putty. It won’t fall out. The stamp itself is pretty deep. Even if you can’t see the putty, you’ll be able to tell it’s there by running your finger over the letter. People do that all the time, God knows why, so no one will pay attention to you. Anyway, the old ladies don’t use the right bulwark, feng shui problems possibly, so I doubt anyone will be standing around.”

  “Next.”

  “A half meter or so to the left of the cannon with the M is a round porthole through the stone wall. You can look out through it—that’s what every other tourist has done for the last century. Then another half meter to the left is a triangular storage shed set into the corner of the bulwark. It has a blue metal door, locked with a padlock. I don’t know what’s in there, and I don’t know why they lock it. There are three steps leading up to the door. Each step consists of five or six stones, irregularly shaped, and set in old mortar. On the middle step, on the right side as you face it, is a loose stone. If it’s missing or out of place, you go home and forget we had this conversation.”

  “What if the groundskeeper knocks that stone out of place when he steps on it? Or some small boy decides to throw it at his sister?”

  “Won’t happen.”

  “Inegavelmente!”

  “Your Portuguese still sounds like Russian.” He shook his head. “To get to the heart of the matter. If the first two signals are positive, you move out of the right bulwark and go to cannon number nine—that’s in the center of the front wall. Well, off center, actually. It has a number stamped on the top of the barrel—twenty-five–one–nine. On the left side, on the gun carriage itself, the number sixteen-three-eighteen is stamped along the top bar. Next to the ‘eighteen’ will be a leaf, a shiny one.”

  This, I thought to myself, is definitely fate.

  “Only it won’t really be a leaf, though it’s pretty convincing. Palm it. Then stroll along the wall, looking at the rest of the cannons, with dreams of history in your eyes.”

  “Why don’t I simply get the leaf and be done with it?”

  “This is Macau, Inspector. If we were in Hong Kong, we’d do it differently, dress up in suits and carry briefcases. Here we work with old cannons. Don’t worry; we’re almost done; let me go over a few background notes. Two people will be setting the first two signs. Neither knows about the other. They’ll set the signals an hour apart, and then only when they receive a go-ahead from someone I have never met. The two that set the signals are completely undetectable, believe me.”

  “Old ladies with swords, practically invisible.”

  Luís tugged at his collar; the tree had decided to move its shade elsewhere, and we were now sitting squarely in the sun. “The first signal is to indicate whether things are proceeding. The second is to alert you if you’ve been followed into the fort.”

  “I can’t figure out by myself if I’m being followed on a deserted street up a hill early in the morning?”

  “I’m sure you’re quite good, Inspector, but you have to admit, there might be people who are better. Let’s not take a chance, shall we?”

  “And the pseudoleaf? Where does that get us?”

  “Ah, sweet mystery of life. It will have a number on it—two digits. If they are both even, you go to the bench directly behind cannon number seven. Not the stone bench, the one with wooden slats.”

  “Some operational significance?”

  “It’s more comfortable.”

  “What if both numbers are odd?”

  “Then you go down the hill, slowly so as not to twist an ankle, and come back to this pleasant little square. You’ll get further instructions.”

  “And if it’s one even, one odd?”

  “Then it’s not our leaf. Jump over the wall if you have to and get out of there in a hurry.”

  A two-man team prowled up to the fountain. One of them reached in and fished out a few coins. Luís snorted. “They want to make sure I didn’t throw money in that I’m not supposed to have.” He stood up and gave me a slight bow. “A pleasure talking with you, senhor,” he said in a loud voice. “Please give my regards to each of your adorable wives.” As he went by the fountain, he threw in a fistful of coins.

  4

  The hill was gentle at first but became very steep very quickly. The sidewalk was barely wide enough for one person. The street had room for only a single car, and it was one-way going down, so at least no one in an automobile could follow me up. Everything was close and damp with humidity. The air was cool and smelled of rotting leaves; the light was still soft, the morning light that came from the sea. By the time I made it to the top, I was out of breath and sweating. Charming of the Portuguese military to pick a place so hard to reach, I thought, and fumbled with the bottle of water I had bought in the old city so far below. The troops must have cursed every morning they panted up this hill. Any enemy commander storming the place would have decided to break for lunch halfway there.

  The fort itself would have been brutally hot, on an open hilltop perilously close to the southern sun, but for the shade of a few trees. From the looks of them, they were a century or more old, and had grown to enormous girth with limbs to match. If Lulu were to come back as a tree, I thought, she would be one of these. Clashing tapes of Chinese music occupied competing squads of old women standing, as Luís
had said, on one leg and flipping fans open with the cracks of gunshots. Nineteen cannons sat silent along the front, prepared to blast away at the looming monster of the hotel, if only some Portuguese gunnery officer long in his grave would rise again to give the order.

  On cannon number seventeen (counting from the left, including the five in the left bulwark) the feet on the M are filled. One green light. I stop and gaze out the porthole in the wall. I could see history from there, imagine Portuguese ships in the harbor, except it is impossible to see the harbor because of the hotel. I search in my pockets for matches to set off the cannons. On to the blue door of the triangular shed and the steps that lead to it, all in good order. It would take me only an hour or so to touch up that mortar. I’d mention it to Luís if I saw him again.

  Each cannon gets a pat on its fat bottom as I pass. I smile at an old man who is leaning against cannon number thirteen, watching his perspiring wife exercise the hell out of a patch of grass. The ninth cannon, as promised, is numbered 25-1-9. It’s unlikely anyone would move these beasts around, but I stand back and do a recount anyway. It’s the ninth from the left, the third cannon from number six, which, as I think Luís said, was the first on the left along the front.

  There is no danger of this operation being compromised; nothing this confusing could ever be compromised. Even if the whole thing was leaked, it would take hours to untangle the feet and the steps and the diamonds stamped with crosses. This does not have the feel of anything Kang would plan. He favored simplicity—one cannon and out. The humidity is climbing. I wonder if a person can drown standing on top of a hill on such a humid day. Why did I trust Luís again? He has a complicated existence. There is no reason he should tell me the truth about anything. I palm the leaf—and it is a reasonable imitation of a shiny leaf. The only problem, I see instantly, is that this one has been made to resemble a leaf in May and here we are in October. I walk over to the wall and glance at my hand. The number, ink already bleeding away, is 20.

  Twenty? What is that? Is zero even or odd? The day is becoming too hot to worry. I go to the bench in the shade and sit, gazing at the Grand Lisboa. The shape of the building defies description. It is either a gigantic mutant flower feeding on laundered money, or a horrendous arrow from the bow of an angry god who came to earth for some fun and lost a pile playing five-card stud. My concentration is broken by someone who blocks the view. He looks like the man leaning on number thirteen, could even be his twin brother, but with shorter hair. This man has a newspaper under one arm, a small book in his left hand. He sits down and points at the tree next to us. “What do you suppose that is?”