Sinha dismissed this with a wave of his hand—which unfortunately sent a piece of onion into Joyce’s hair. ‘Nonsense. You have to factor the travelling time into your bill. Make them pay for it. Better still, with the royal family, there is no need to hold back when you are writing an invoice—so just make up a number. They can afford it. They’re as rich as Croesus.’
Wong had no idea who Crease-Us was, but it occurred to him that Sinha might be right—he was dimly aware that a royal family in the West was likely to be super-wealthy. He had encountered non-rich royals several times in places such as Indonesia and Malaysia, but the royals of London should have money, one would think.
Joyce enthusiastically backed up Sinha’s assertion. ‘He’s right. They are totally loaded. Filthy rich.’
‘Filthy?’
‘It means, really, really.’
Wong couldn’t hide the lust for money that was beginning to sparkle in his eyes. ‘I can charge them three-four times usual rate?’
The Indian shook his head. ‘No. I think six or eight times the normal rate would be more like it. Just think of the Queen’s property portfolio. It’s massive. Remember, Britain is one of the richest countries in the world—it’s up there in the top ten with America and Switzerland and all those places. And the Queen is one of the richest people in Britain. That makes her one of the richest people on this planet.’
‘Oh. She has much property?’ asked Wong.
Sinha gave a scornful bark. ‘Much? Much? “Much” is not the word. Let me tell you about the Queen’s property portfolio,’ he said, counting on his fingers. ‘She owns England. And Scotland. And Wales. And Northern Ireland.’
The feng shui master was astonished. ‘All those?’
Sinha leaned forwards. ‘Yes. And Australia. And New Zealand. And Canada.’
‘She owns Australia? And Canada?’
‘She does.’
‘I think Gibraltar too,’ Joyce put in. ‘That’s in Spain. And the Falkland Islands, which are part of Argentina really, but…’
‘Quite,’ said Sinha. ‘And she used to own Hong Kong. And India. And Sri Lanka. And what is now Bangladesh.’
Wong was stunned. ‘What did she do with them? She sold them?’
‘Yep. Pocketed the cash. Money in the bank.’ Sinha leaned back in his chair. ‘Now that is a serious property player.’
Wong’s brain was now ticking away at high speed. He had thought he knew all the names of the big players in property: from Li Ka-shing in Hong Kong to Donald Trump in America. But he had never realised that the Queen was in the game. Respect dawned in his eyes.
Sinha, having satiated one appetite, was now happy to lean back and indulge a second great love: the sound of his voice. ‘Of course the British Empire has shrunk from its glory days, but at one time it spread across one-third of the world’s landmasses. One-third! And the Queen of England was ruler over all of it. As I say, her empire is not as large as it was, but she still holds sway over a large swathe of the civilised and uncivilised world.’
The geomancer was impressed. It was indeed an impressive property portfolio. He had a vision of himself and the Queen sitting in a palace having a long chat on the subject of property arbitrage, square-foot pricing comparisons, hottest tips for emerging property markets, et cetera. And better still, she would be paying for it—at any rate he chose. Perhaps she would retain him as the royal feng shui master. It would be more fun doing palaces than doing scenes of crime, which had kept him busy for much of the previous three years. ‘So I can charge big extra premium, for sure?’
‘Make up a number. Ten times the normal rate should be no problem at all.’
Joyce was excited. ‘So we’re doing it for sure? We’re going to London, too?’
Wong grimaced. ‘Maybe one of us go. But only for a short time. And very hard work. Work hard, collect big bucks, go home.’
The young woman stuck out her lower lip. ‘They wanted both of us. I told them we were a team. Besides, you can charge more for two operatives.’
Sinha turned to her. ‘What exactly is the United Kingdom part of this assignment? Does the Queen want Buckingham Palace feng-shuied or what?’
‘I’m not sure. He didn’t say—the man who called up. He’s some sort of consultant. His name is Robbie Manks and he’s a PR man or lobbyist or something in that line. I don’t even know which member of the royal family he’s working for. It may not be the Queen.’
This worried Wong. ‘Not the Queen? Other members of the family, are they also rich? All share the family fortune?’
‘I’m not sure,’ said Joyce. ‘I mean, yes, they’re all rich. But they’re not much of a family, if you know what I mean.’
He looked at her blankly.
‘According to the papers, the family members don’t really like each other all that much. And they all hated Princess Di and Fergie, who never behaved like royals are supposed to. So I don’t know if they do all share the money or what,’ Joyce explained.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ Chong-li told Wong. ‘The Queen has Buckingham Palace, Prince Charles has Highgrove House, they all hang out at Windsor Castle and Balmoral—there are more than enough places for you to feng shui in UK. And you can charge the earth for each one.’
Wong looked comforted. ‘I need the money quick-quick. You think the Queen pay cash?’
Sinha thought about this. ‘I should think so. After all, her face is on all the cash. It’s on all the coins, and all the notes. She owns all the cash, in a sense. They are all just portraits of her. I think she probably won’t personally hand you an envelope stuffed with fivers but she can arrange for one of her staff to do just that. She has teams of men and women to do that sort of thing for her.’
‘Ladies in waiting, they’re called,’ Joyce put in.
Chong-li agreed. ‘Yes. They flit around with wads of money in their handbags to hand to people just like you.’
Wong allowed himself a slight upturn of the lips. It was possible that Arun Daswani may get his money on time after all. And if the Queen was as rich as his fellow members of the Singapore Union of Industrial Mystics believed she was, then there would be lots left over to go into his pocket.
This was worth celebrating. He held up his hand to get the attention of Ah-Fat, who was walking past with a steaming dish of something that smelled like a small animal marinated in mouth-searing chilli. ‘One more of everything,’ Wong yelled.
In the days of the supremacy of the southern kingdom, a man with an iron hammer told the people of north Yunnan that he was stronger than any of their village leaders.
He approached a village made of wood and smashed it with his hammer.
He approached a village made of bronze and smashed it with his hammer.
He approached a village made of stone and smashed it with his hammer.
Soon, everyone worshipped the man with the hammer.
But not the hermit who lived in a small bamboo grove.
‘Knock down my home, and I will worship you too,’ said the hermit.
The man swung his hammer at the bamboo grove. But the rods of bamboo bent with the blow and then sprang upright again. Many times, the man with the hammer swung at the bamboo grove. But he could do it no harm.
Blade of Grass, weakness is a type of strength. When an oxcart passes through a village, everyone sees it coming and gets out of the way. But when a blind man is crossing the road, the oxcart driver has to stop.
From ‘Some Gleanings of Oriental Wisdom’
by CF Wong.
It was restlessness personified. Hong Kong was a frenetic, shaking, entrancing, annoying, gorgeous, mad city perched on the edge of the South China Sea. Gloriously asymmetrical, it was a splat of angular glass excrescences scattered arbitrarily over a series of giant rocks on the edge of the ocean. Everything in it was a statement, and always a loud one: the harbour was jammed with boats; the waterfront crammed with skyscrapers; the pavements packed with people; the sky chock-a-block with aircraft
, helicopters and advertising blimps; the air filled with noise, noise, noise, noise. And at the heart of it was the main island, bursting with office buildings, apartment blocks and company headquarters carrying names that were visionary, boastful, grandiloquent and crass: Tycoon Court and Wealthy Mansions and Rich Genius Limited.
Then there were the hotels. What magnificence. What style. What opulence. What grandiosity. What tastelessness.
Joyce screamed as soon as she entered the hotel foyer, a short sharp yelp of sound bursting from the fists at her mouth: ‘IIIEEEE!’
Robbie Manks, the royal consultant, seemed to jump out of his skin and then stared at her. Wong stepped smartly away from his assistant, a much practised manoeuvre on his part. The hum of conversation between hotel guests and staff at the lobby desks instantly vanished. Everyone turned to look at the newcomers.
Manks, a PR man who clearly loathed attracting attention to himself, was the first to react. He scanned the room. What had she seen that could have caused such a response? ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’
Joyce stared around her, an insane grin on her lips. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You just screamed?’
‘Oh, that. I was just—I was just happy. I can’t believe we’re staying here. This is so amazing. I only ever get to stay in YMCAs or with mates if I come somewhere expensive like Hong Kong. But this—this must be the sheeshiest hotel in the place.’
Wong tried to give Manks a knowing look, as if to say: See what I have to put up with?
‘Well, if there’s no problem…er…let’s check in shall we?’
Joyce squealled again (a little less dramatically) when she saw the luxurious black marble check-in desk and staff wearing black silk uniforms with gold trimmings.
Manks’s expression became anxious, probably anticipating the shriek of excitement that would erupt from her on catching sight of their, no doubt to them, extravagantly appointed rooms.
The royal public relations officer was forty-six, suave, and impeccably well-dressed in a Gieves & Hawkes suit. He was handsome, despite an overlarge forehead and thinning straw-coloured hair, and he had a warm smile and engaging manner. He had met them at the airport with an exaggerated Ian Fleming Englishness, which may or may not have been ironic: ‘The name’s Manks. Robbie Manks.’ He’d quickly explained that he was not officially retained by the royal family, but had his own PR company, which did a lot of work for them because of its reputation for quality, efficiency and discretion—the three things the royals sought above all else. Some of the stories he told Wong and Joyce during the taxi ride from the airport to the hotel suggested that his past twenty years had been professionally rather challenging, as it had more or less coincided with a long period of loss of face for the British monarchy. (He referred to them as ‘The Family’ with something in his tone of voice assigning capital initials to the phrase.) Manks clearly loathed the British press, whom he blamed for the majority of the problems. He saw the journalistic profession as a group of low scum desperate to sell newspapers and make a quid at the expense of ruining people’s lives and damaging the dignity of ‘the world’s finest monarchical institution’. But he stressed that The Family had a good friend in him, and his inventive programs had been a key element in their success in managing to hold on to much of their personal popularity through these difficult times. But he did admit that one of his previous innovative ventures for The Family—to get a phrenologist to look at their head shapes and make recommendations—had been only a partial success. (Wong was wise enough to interpret this carefully chosen phrase as an admission that it had been a total disaster.) But his latest venture, to get the palaces feng-shuied, vaastued, dowsed and exorcised, was sure to be an even bigger success.
‘You will get a vaastu man?’ Wong asked.
‘If I can find one who speaks good English. Still looking, I’m afraid.’
Joyce interrupted: ‘There’s a good one we know in Singapore. We’ll give you his number. I’m sure he could jump on a plane and catch up with us.’
The geomancer noticed that Manks had a habit of popping white tablets into his mouth. At first, he had thought they were sweets, but when Manks failed to offer them around, Wong realised that they must be something medicinal. Spying on the small circular package in which they were contained, he realised that they were tablets of homeopathic remedy of some kind.
The roads were wide and clear for most of the journey and they had travelled from airport to hotel in little more than forty minutes. Five minutes after checking in, the three of them were up on the eleventh floor, inspecting the rooms they had been assigned. As expected, Joyce had squealled at the opulence of her room, and then yelped again on peering into the marble and glass bathroom.
Manks (‘Call me Robbie’) had suggested that as soon as they had their bags sorted, they all move to his room to talk through what needed to be done. But once the two visitors from Singapore had filed into the royal consultant’s chamber, he received a call on his mobile phone, which made him very agitated. It was clearly a disturbing conversation, although all they could hear of it were his cries of disbelief: ‘What? You don’t…you’re serious? I just…but that’s incredible. You’re sure? You’re absolutely sure? I’m…I’m stunned. I don’t know what to say. Are the police there?’
Wong was vaguely aware that he should leave the room during what was clearly a private call, but was too nosy to do so—as was Joyce. They continued to stand and eavesdrop, even as Manks flashed glares at them and moved towards the window. After a minute, the conversation drew him in so deeply that he seemed to no longer register that they were present, and then he suddenly marched out of the room and into the corridor to finish his chat.
For a moment Wong was tempted to follow him, but manfully resisted. Two minutes later, Manks strode back into the room, his face white and voice unsteady.
‘There’s been a terrible accident…er…incident at the hangar where Skyparc is. I think this may change things. We need to stand by for further instructions.’ He breathed in and out quickly, like a small dog.
‘What do you mean? What sort of incident?’ Joyce asked.
‘I’m not at liberty to say at this moment.’ He sat down on the bed in a daze. ‘We need to stand by for further instructions. You folk can take a break. I need to make some calls urgently.’
Joyce headed to the door. ‘I’m going to change into my swimmers,’ she told her boss. ‘If the rooms are this fab, can you imagine what the hotel swimming pool must be like?’
They had barely left the room when Robbie Manks followed them out, his phone back at his ear. ‘Okay. Understand.’ He rang off and turned to face Wong, who was standing in the thickly carpeted corridor. ‘I’ve just been in contact with Sir Nicholas Handey at Skyparc. We are going to continue with the preparation of the venue. There’s too much riding on this for us to change the schedules now.’
‘So we go to the plane tomorrow morning?’ the feng shui master asked.
‘The visit will be as scheduled tomorrow morning.’
‘Ten o’clock.’
‘Correct. But there’s one thing…’
They both looked expectantly at him, but his voice trailed off. For a moment, he said nothing, merely staring at the backs of his hands. Then he turned to squarely face Joyce. ‘I’m afraid you can’t go. Only Mr Wong.’
‘What?’
‘The vetting people have been doing a secondary search on visitors after…uh…an incident, and the level of security has been raised one notch. They’ve dug up something in your profile, Ms McQuinnie, that means that we have to ask you not to accompany Mr Wong to the venue tomorrow.’
‘Me? What have I done?’
‘Don’t take this too badly. It’s nothing serious. It’s just that…well, in certain situations, extra care has to be taken—and this is one of them.’
‘But can you at least tell me what I’ve done?’
‘You’ve done nothing, I’m sure.’ He gave her a smile. ‘I
t’s just bureaucracy.’
The lines between Joyce’s eyebrows arranged themselves into an angry little grid and she pouted, suddenly an upset little girl about to have a tantrum.
But then her face relaxed and she turned to leave them.
‘Where are you going?’ Wong asked.
‘Swimming,’ she said. ‘If I’m not allowed to do any work, I might as well enjoy myself. I’ll do some shopping and stuff, after a swim. I can’t wait to see the pool. It’s going to be a scream.’
An hour later, Joyce had finished her swim and started to phone some local friends, hoping to meet them at the mall. There was one young man she was particularly longing to see: Paul Barker, a former classmate of hers at Island International School during the period in her mid-teens when she had lived in Hong Kong. But he was not at home.
The phone was answered by a nervous domestic helper, who was clearly anxious to discontinue the conversation.
‘Can you take a message to give to him?’ Joyce asked.
‘I take your number give his mama,’ came the answer.
Joyce left her contact details and rang off. Only then did it register how odd the reply had been. Paul was twenty years old. Why on earth would a domestic helper give the message to his mother rather than to himself? Was he ill? Or away? Surely if he had been away, the helper would just have said, ‘He’s out of town.’ There was something curious about it.
She phoned another friend, Nina Madranini, and got through to the young woman’s mother instead.
‘Nina can’t talk to you just now,’ the older woman said. ‘But she’s meeting Jason at Starbucks in Jardine House at ten tomorrow morning. You know Jason McWong, don’t you? Why don’t you join them? I imagine there’s lots for you to talk about just now.’
‘Fine, thanks, will do, Mrs Madranini.’
Joyce rang off, intrigued. What did she mean by saying they had lots to talk about it? What had happened? She was sorry not to have been able to arrange a meeting with Paul, but it would be great to see Nina, one of her favourite chat partners on her instant message list. Nina, a school friend of Joyce’s, had been born into an Italian family that had emigrated to Australia, and then moved to Hong Kong for work. She was twenty, and was studying law at Hong Kong University. Like Joyce, she was into global justice: her real love was campaigning for the environment, and she was chair of the city’s branch of Pals of the Planet.
Mr Wong Goes West Page 5
