FORTUNE COOKIE
Page 57
‘What about visitors, sister?’ I asked, in a pathetic attempt at a joke against myself, purely for my own benefit.
‘Family?’
‘No, not in Singapore, sister.’
The prospect of my mum’s family traipsing in to see me, having first overheated to melting point the international telephone cable to Chairman Meow in Sydney, was too horrible to think about. I could imagine my mum impatiently pacing the carpet in the Qantas first-class lounge at Mascot ready to wing her panic-stricken way across the ocean to be at my side. Should she get the tiniest inkling of what had transpired, she would turn into a vociferous avenging angel. Chairman Meow on the warpath in defence of her only son and heir was beyond imagining.
‘Then I’m afraid not, for the first three days,’ Sister Virago announced. ‘You’re not going to die, but nonetheless we need to monitor your progress carefully. Visitors clustered around a hospital bed are not helpful to my staff. This is an accident and emergency ward where getting better has nothing to do with grapes, chocolates and idle chatter.’ She paused. ‘You’ll need to save all your energy, anyway, because you can expect a visit from the police, Mr Koo. They found you and have alerted us that they will need to interview you. You have been assaulted and they will want our medical report as well. I don’t want you overexcited by unnecessary visitors.’
I nodded. There was no point in arguing. I guessed I’d figure out how to get a message to Dansford at the agency after nine o’clock. ‘Thank you, sister.’
With this, the hospital ship HMS Virago steamed off on her way to the next hapless victim, some poor bastard with his head swathed in bandages and both legs and feet heavily boarded, bandaged and hoisted high above him by a contraption on pulleys involving steel wire and two leather loops in which his heels rested. At least he wouldn’t need to face a police interview, as his entire face was wrapped like an Egyptian mummy’s with a tube stuck in a hole in the bandage so he could be more or less fed, and above it just the tip of his nose and nostrils showing to allow him to breathe.
Despite the calming influence of the morphine coursing through my system, I felt mildly panicked. I would obviously need to come up with a plausible story for the police that didn’t implicate Johnny Wing or, more importantly, Mercy B. Lord. I’d clearly been dumped somewhere after the beating. I may look Chinese but inscrutable just isn’t me. Lies require practice and I had been brought up with the world’s best lie detector for a mother. It is claimed that a child up to the age of five is incapable of lying; the brain is not yet sufficiently formed to understand duplicity. With Chairman Meow in charge, when our brains finally acquired the capacity to tell fibs, she saw to it that it never evolved beyond the most fundamental level, at which they were easy to detect. Poor kids in disadvantaged families often need to tell untruths just to survive. Silver-spooners like myself and my sisters never had cause to acquire cunning or deception skills to protect us from adults.
I decided I would have to come up with a very simple story to tell the police, one I could stick to despite interrogation, a lie with only fundamental details that were easily repeated. A robbery and mugging in an alley where there were no witnesses and where I’d been knocked unconscious and remembered nothing more until I woke up as they were lifting me onto a gurney outside the accident and emergency department. Something simple.
See what I mean? Already there were more holes in my story than in a slice of Swiss cheese. Finding a lonely alley with no witnesses in the middle of rush hour in Singapore was well nigh impossible. What was I doing in the alley anyway? Why was my wallet still in my possession with a fair amount of cash in it? Why did the five men who had confronted me and knocked me unconscious with the first blow continue to beat me up when, with superior numbers in an empty alley, they could have simply removed my wallet from my back trouser pocket and left? Or not even landed the initial blow. With five of them standing around me I wouldn’t have thought to resist and so they could have demanded my money and sauntered off. I was even failing the interview I was conducting with myself.
Breakfast came and went untouched. While the only part of me that hadn’t been injured was my jaw and mouth, I wasn’t in the least hungry.
Then, to my complete surprise, despite Sister Virago’s ban on visitors, Dansford and Chicken Wing arrived late in the morning. Her presence was particularly curious – she never went anywhere with him and I’d only met her on two or three occasions at his flat, when she’d done a lot of obsequious bowing and nodding in near silence.
‘Dansford! How on earth did you know I was here? How’d you get in? I’ve been told no visitors allowed!’ I exclaimed. Then, glancing at Chicken Wing, I quickly added, ‘Good morning. This is a surprise.’
Chicken Wing smiled and nodded. Obviously she’d learned a fair bit of English since being with Dansford. Then, without even greeting me, he said, ‘Simon, not another word until we get you out of this shit-hole.’
‘What, the hospital?’
‘Afraid not, old son, just the ward – can’t have you in here. Need to talk.’ He’d barely completed this last sentence when two orderlies arrived pushing a gurney. Ten minutes later I was ensconced in a small private room overlooking a rose garden and a rather splendid poinciana in the background, the shady umbrella-shaped tree that looks magnificent when it flowers.
Dansford drew up two chairs, one on either side of the bed, and they both sat. ‘Now, that’s better. Good morning, Simon, though I imagine it’s anything but. We apologise for barging in without first checking on your condition but we’ve rather a lot to talk about. First, though, tell us, are you up to talking, old son?’
He’d emphasised the ‘we’ and the ‘us’ and I looked somewhat quizzically at Chicken Wing, who I was aware spoke, at best, only rudimentary English.
Chicken Wing grinned. ‘G’day, Simon,’ she said with a marked Australian accent.
‘Oh!’ I exclaimed, taken aback.
She threw back her head and laughed. ‘Canberra high school, then uni, ANU, where I took a degree in international law and Asian studies – my dad was in the diplomatic corps.’
‘Oh, Jesus!’ I distinctly recalled begging Dansford in English while she was present in the room not to be a bloody fool about marrying her. My already bruised and battered plum-coloured face was probably incapable of flushing a deeper shade of red. ‘I think I owe you an apology,’ I said sheepishly.
Chicken Wing laughed again. ‘I remember. You begged Dansford not to marry me. It was really very funny at the time, but then again, perfect! Perfect cover.’
‘Cover?’
‘Chicken Wing is a senior undercover operative in the Singapore Police Force Drug Enforcement Unit.’
‘Go on!’ I exclaimed, looking incredulously at Chicken Wing. ‘But … but I distinctly remember when Mercy B. Lord hired you to be Dansford’s housemaid.’
‘Yes, very fortuitous,’ Chicken Wing said. ‘In fact, if I may say so, rather well planned.’
I looked at them in turn. ‘But then you two promptly got married.’
‘Again, excellent cover,’ Chicken Wing said.
‘You mean you’re not?’
‘Married?’ Dansford said. ‘Yes, of course we are. But it didn’t happen all that suddenly. I’d known Hilda a good while before we married. We first met in Washington.’
I glanced at Chicken Wing. ‘Hilda? Do I call you that in future?’
She dropped her gaze and said almost shyly, ‘If, as I sincerely hope, we are to become close friends, then yes, I’d like that.’ Meeting my eyes, she went on, ‘But I’m afraid today is rather more official, Simon.’
I glanced quickly at Dansford for an explanation and he looked at me a little sheepishly. ‘Simon, old son, I’m afraid this isn’t, that is, we are not just friends visiting, anxious though we are to know how you’re feeling. I’ve already called several times to check that you’re okay. Detective Sergeant Wing is here to interview you in regard to what happened yesterday.’
Dansford grinned. ‘I guess we need to fill you in, Simon.’
‘What are you saying, Dansford? That you’re not what you seem? Not an ad man?’
‘Ah, always an ad man, Simon, pre- and post-war. But I spent the war in special operations, South Pacific, Japan, then after that the Korean War, then back to Madison Avenue. But Vietnam came along and the CIA got tangled up in the Asian opium trade, so I got hauled back to Capitol Hill to work for the DEA. I’m an undercover agent for the Drug Enforcement Agency in Washington.’
I tucked away the bit about the CIA. While it sounded pretty bizarre, my immediate need was to know more about Dansford’s double life.
‘You know, I always felt there was something different about you, mate. The last occasion was in Hong Kong. Your knowing the governor well enough for him to ignore the fact that you weren’t wearing shoes and socks. Then remarkably remembering his favourite honky tonk number, “Lovesick Blues”, sung by Hank Williams. That takes a special kind of mind. Then on one occasion I saw you at the airport when I’d gone to meet my mother flying in from Oz. You were supposed to be at the usual long lunch, but you were carrying ABTATS, your awful crocodile-skin bag, and were about to board a plane for Bangkok. I checked the flight afterwards, just to be sure. And there have been other times as well. For example, when we were doing the market-research project with Professor Kwan, you would sometimes come up with an insight into the Asian psyche that Henry would later tell me was remarkable. I recall on one occasion he simply shook his head. “Simon, I’m a trained sociologist; these are observations a layman wouldn’t, couldn’t possibly make,” he maintained.’
‘Harvard, Centre for East-Asian Studies, advanced psychology,’ Dansford replied with a grin. ‘That’s either very perspicacious of you, Simon, or I’m losing my touch. But to continue, six months before I joined Samuel Oswald Wing, Hilda and I met at a combined special-operations briefing in the US. The briefing was on the alarming escalation of heroin addiction among American forces in Vietnam. The Singapore government had agreed to mount a joint operation with Washington.’ He glanced fondly over at Chicken, now Hilda Wing. ‘Hilda was one of the operatives they sent over for the briefing. The only pretty one.’ He smiled. ‘Even if I sound biased, she’s a remarkably talented police officer, despite the fact that she obviously lacks judgement when it comes to men. I think I asked her to marry me two weeks into the Washington briefing.’
‘And I was foolish enough to say yes,’ Hilda grinned, then cleared her throat, her expression suddenly businesslike. ‘Simon, I imagine all this will have come as a bit of surprise to you. Besides, you’re not well and you’ve taken a bad hiding. There are reasons why we can’t wait a few days to conduct this interview. We need rather urgently to talk to you about what happened, as well as brief you on several matters, then ask you a few questions. Your answers will be very important. Do you feel up to it now? We could let you rest for an hour or so and then come back.’
The effect of the morphine was slowly wearing off and I knew that before long I would begin to feel like shit. I wasn’t at all sure I could focus for too much longer. All this was pretty new and there was more of the same to come. While Mercy B. Lord, the recently deceased Beatrice Fong or the Wing brothers hadn’t been mentioned, one didn’t have to be a genius to know what was coming. This was about crime, major crime – drugs, kidnapping, perhaps even murder. I could feel the anxiety rising in me, a dark, thick, steadily expanding substance in my gut. In Singapore crimes like that almost certainly meant the death sentence, and what if Mercy B. Lord was involved? I couldn’t bring myself to phrase the next thought. The Singapore government made no exceptions for a pretty neck.
‘It’s been over four hours since I was given a painkiller, Detective Sergeant Wing. Perhaps if they give me another shot of whatever they’re dosing me with, I’ll be right,’ I suggested.
Detective Chicken Wing (the name that came most readily to my mind) rose from her chair. ‘I’ll find someone who can help,’ she said, leaving the room.
‘Dansford, what the fuck is going on?’ I exclaimed.
‘Sorry, Simon, but you came close to screwing up a three-year undercover operation. May still have,’ he said, suddenly tight lipped.
‘How?’ I demanded, confused.
‘By storming the fucking Bastille last night! Your ridiculous exercise in gate-rattling.’
Before I could reply, Detective Chicken Wing re-entered the room, followed by the hospital ship HMS Virago with an ampoule, the contents of which she drew up into a syringe. She fixed a tourniquet to my upper arm and injected into a vein in the crook of my elbow. Everything was done silently with lips drawn tight.
‘Thank you, sister,’ I said.
She grunted and left but then stopped at the door and addressed Dansford. ‘You mustn’t overtax Mr Koo. He’s far from well and I don’t want him upset.’ She was gone before Dansford could reply.
After she’d departed, Dansford, now calm again, said, ‘Simon, take it easy with that stuff. Make that the last time. Better to endure the pain in the long run, son.’
I nodded. ‘Yeah, I’ve guessed what it was. I promise.’ I grinned so that he’d know I’d calmed down, too. ‘It works too well not to be addictive.’
‘You got it in one,’ he replied.
Detective Chicken Wing resumed her seat. ‘Simon, this interview is not being recorded – in other words, it’s not for the record. But I must urge you to answer the questions as accurately as you can. I, we, appreciate that you have divided loyalties and so you should be aware that we know exactly what happened.’
I frowned, bemused. ‘That’s hardly possible. How?’
‘Alice, initially.’
‘Alice Ho, the receptionist?’
‘Yes. When you returned from the printer after Mercy B. Lord had been calling frantically since mid-afternoon, she got her on the phone for you and, like all good switchboard operators, sensing a crisis, listened in to your conversation. She saw you run out for a taxi, and it was pretty obvious where you were going. She knew Johnny Wing was at Beatrice Fong’s house because he’d called earlier in the afternoon to tell Sidney he was on his way to the house. She feared the worst, so she called me.’
‘Why did she call you? Did she know you’re a police officer?’
‘No, of course not! It’s an arrangement Dansford and I have. When he’s out entertaining, he calls me when he leaves one place to go to another. It’s standard procedure. That way I usually have some idea where he is. Alice Ho knows if it’s really urgent and she has to find Dansford to call me.’
‘But Alice has been with the Wings for yonks. Her first loyalty is to them. As you said, if she knew Johnny was at Beatrice Fong’s home, why wouldn’t she have called to warn him I was coming over?’
‘That’s precisely why she called me, to alert Dansford. Johnny Wing is generally disliked and Alice Ho is no different from the rest of the staff. She, more than most, knows he’s a nasty piece of work.’
‘Alice knows there’s no love lost between you and Johnny, Simon,’ Dansford said.
I turned to Detective Chicken Wing. ‘And Alice told you all this?’
‘No, not at first, but she was pretty upset. It wasn’t too hard, woman to woman. It’s my job, after all.’
Dansford cut in. ‘Evidently, she greatly admires you, Simon. Paying for the toilet ventilation out of your own pocket, freeing the agency from the smell of shit. Then you personally introduced her to Karlene Stein.’
Detective Chicken Wing laughed. ‘Yes, the ventilation. She couldn’t get over someone doing that, defying Sidney Wing, and pay
ing to have it done out of his own pocket and not telling anyone, not making a fuss, caring about the welfare of the staff. She also told me how you’d formally introduced her to Miss Karlene, as if she, Alice Ho, was a very important person to whom the TV star was privileged to be introduced.’
‘Well, I’ll be damned! You could have fooled me. I’ve always assumed the staff regarded the ventilation brouhaha with Sidney as a great loss of face on my part.’
‘On the contrary, Simon, they admire you. But the Chinese are funny – they like to hedge their bets. They see Sidney as the hand that feeds them. Anyway, Alice Ho was very concerned about your safety. Fortunately, we already had the Beatrice Fong house under police surveillance.’
At once curious, I glanced in turn at both of them. ‘Why was that?’
‘Ah, when Beatrice Fong’s doctor notified police headquarters of her death, they called me almost immediately,’ Detective Chicken Wing explained. ‘You see, Beatrice Fong, despite her age, was the major player in an international drug operation. It was her original network that even today is critical to the success of the operation. With her gone, a major reshuffle has to take place in the leadership. It’s just the opportunity we’ve been waiting for.’
‘The next twenty-four hours, certainly the next few days, are critical,’ Dansford said. ‘Perhaps we shouldn’t be telling you this, but Hilda and I discussed our options. We can do one of two things: arrest you and keep you in custody until it’s over, or trust you not to go near Mercy B. Lord or to try in any way to contact her. Having known you as a partner for close to three years, I vouched for the second option.’