Taking the Tunnel

by James Adams

  Lui made slow but steady progress until he came under the jack. The bamboo vanished into the mud as he pushed his head under the jack. There was a brief disturbance of the water and then the jack disappeared beneath the surface. Without the pressure the metal struts collapsed and the gap closed. Lui now had the weight of the jack and the smaller space pressing in on him and no way to draw breath. The guide and Mary moved to help but they were both more than ten feet away. Mary could see the mud heaving as Lui struggled to free himself, and tried to drive herself forward through the cloying filth which gripped her legs like treacle. She could almost feel her brother’s panic, the sheer terror of being trapped. She reached him and pushed her hands into the mud. She could feel the jack and tried to lift it off his chest. The guide’s hands met hers and together they pushed and pulled for what seemed like hours, but was probably only minutes. The jack moved from left to right but they couldn’t get enough purchase to lift it. Mary could feel her brother’s chest heaving and pushing as he struggled to get free. Then a huge, single, bubble of air burst on the surface of the mud and Mary knew it was over.

  She had lived with the horror of that moment ever since, imagining that last breath of mud, the final seconds of knowing that death was certain. Sometimes, she could even feel the choking filth as it slid down her throat.

  Hurd could see the tears in her eyes as she finished her tale and his British distaste for such displays of emotion fought with the sympathy evoked by the story. When he spoke, his voice was softer, the old debater’s instincts sublimated behind a more humane facade.

  “What did you do next?” he asked.

  “The guide bolted leaving his precious jack behind and I never saw him again. I heard the Gurkhas coming along the path. By then I was crying with frustration. I wanted to stay with my brother, but we had come so far together, he would have wanted me to go on — or at least that is how I rationalized it later. Anyway, just before the guards arrived, I found myself running along the bank of the stream. Within a couple of hundred yards I was in the foothills and the Gurkhas had found Lui’s body, which kept them busy while I made my escape.

  “After that I made my way to Kowloon, found some relations and managed to find a niche. Money got me my papers and my passport and access to opportunity. Now, of course, people think I have power, but, as you so ably point out, I am your conscience not your controller.” She took a sip of wine. “So now you know why I feel so strongly about this whole problem. It’s all right for me. I have a passport and money. I could easily buy a place to go. But there are thousands of others who fled a brutal regime, hoping to find sanctuary with the British, who are now being thrown back into poverty and oppression, all because the British won’t keep their word.”

  The story and the digs at his credibility had offended Hurd’s sense of doing what was right. But when honour fights with political reality it is generally not principle that wins the struggle.

  “I can understand how you feel. I can even understand now why you fight so hard for your people. But I can assure you this is a futile struggle. It is an argument you should have had with me ten years ago when the negotiations were going on with the Chinese. But that was before my time and who knows if I would have acted any differently? The point is, Mary, the deed is done. No government is going to go back on the deal and all the public commitments that have been made without a very good reason. And your personal story is simply not reason enough. I’m sorry.”

  They both sat back in their chairs, two fighters pausing to draw breath, their differences no longer ironed out by the atmosphere and good manners. Mary’s eyes were almost black in the candlelight. She saw Hurd with absolute clarity for the calculating politician he was, whose social graces were a veneer to disguise the pragmatism of experience. And, now that he understood her background, Hurd saw not an elegant establishment figure from Hong Kong society but the tough self-made woman who had watched her brother die and was determined to avenge his death by defending the lives of all the other Chinese in Hong Kong. The gulf between them would never be bridged.

  CHAPTER IV

  On the premise that the more public the place the less suspicious the meeting, Dai Choi had arranged to see the cutout at the cafe on the ground floor of the Etap Marmara Hotel in the fashionable Taksim suburb of Istanbul. The cafe is where those who wish to flaunt their European taste after a day shopping on Siraselviler Cad-desi, the city’s Bond Street which starts just 100 yards away from the hotel, assemble. The cutout would set up the arrangements for a meet with Selim, the leader of the Spiders, the gang which had a stranglehold on the Turkish drug-smuggling business and was responsible for the purchase and distribution of White Lotus heroin in Turkey and other parts of Europe.

  The woman who sat down at his table blended perfectly into the cultured environment of Taksim. Dai Choi registered the elegant clothes, the Italian leather pumps, the perfectly coiffed long brown hair, and he caught a whiff of understated perfume as she stretched a hand out in that languid way that continental women have which offers a touch rather than a handshake. Her hands were soft.

  “Mr Dai Choi? My name is Eleanor Swift. I believe we have some mutual friends. They have asked me to look after you during your stay with us.”

  To the other parties — almost all the leaders of Istanbul’s society of gossips — they looked like an intriguing new couple just arrived in town. And in fact their conversation was just the right kind of small talk with no hint of Dai’s more deadly purpose.

  Dai Choi had flown in the previous night via Paris after setting up the meeting through the contacts his organization had developed with the drug distributors of Turkey’s underworld. The underground economy works very like its more open counterpart where people in the same line of work tend to help each other out, provided it’s not bad for business. Dai Choi had sent a coded fax to Selim, and his request for assistance was answered the same day with a message to go to the Etap Marmara Hotel where he would be met. Dai Choi assumed that over the years Selim had done exactly what he would have done, which was to build up a detailed dossier on all his contacts which would include his own photograph. There would be no need for complicated codes or carnations in buttonholes.

  “If you come to Valentino’s bar tonight you might find what you want,” Eleanor suggested. As she spoke, her fingers reached out and touched Dai Choi’s forearm, the double entendre clear in the message. Dai enjoyed both the touch and the anticipation of an evening in the company of this fascinating woman.

  That night Dai Choi walked the four hundred yards from his hotel down the pedestrian precinct of Siraselviler Caddesi. Just past the Hermes outlet he turned down an alleyway and saw the small red flashing sign for Valentino’s. The bar was just like any other bar in any prosperous Western city. A few steps down to the basement, past a bouncer and he was inside the club itself. He looked around, taking in the large room, the small tables laid with white linen, the dark red walls decorated with art from the Ottoman empire, all of which appeared to focus on women and their consorts in various stages of undress.

  But there was neither the smell nor the atmosphere of many clubs he had been to in Hong Kong, London or New York. This was a sophisticated international clientele who appeared remarkably quiet. Each of the guests was watching the small stage and it was clear the performance was about to begin. A strikingly pretty dark-haired woman dressed in the bodice and flowing trousers of the Turkish dancer escorted him to a table next to the stage. As he sat down, another waitress appeared, to place a fluted glass of pink champagne in front of him. Clearly he was expected, his Chinese features distinctive amid the uniformly swarthy men at the other tables.

  He looked up at the stage as a single high fluting note echoed around the room, stilling the hum of conversation. As the sound died away a woman glided on to the stage. Dressed in the pantaloons and bodice that appeared to be the club uniform, she seemed to float, her steps taking her back and forth across the stage. It was both elegant and erotic, th
e movements suggestive of earthy delights hidden beneath the diaphanous clothing and the almost transparent veil.

  The pipe was now accompanied by a single kettle drum which picked up the rhythm of the undulating body. Dai Choi had seen plenty of strip shows — indeed he employed plenty of strippers — but this was different. As the woman moved so the crowd moved with her. There was none of the tawdry atmosphere associated with such events. This was sensual, delightful, arousing.

  With a delicate gesture that moved her right hand across her face, the veil was undone and fluttered to the floor. Dai Choi leaned forward in surprise as he recognized the elegant and sophisticated Eleanor Swift. But it was a woman transformed. To his surprise Dai Choi felt the beginnings of an erection as his mind strung together the touch of the woman in the cafe that afternoon with the one being revealed now.

  “You should always look at the throat and the wrists, my friend,” said a voice at his elbow.

  Dai Choi turned and saw that a short, round man had slipped into the spare chair at the table. He had a tall glass of raki, the aniseed drink popular in Turkey, and he took a deep draught before continuing.

  “Look carefully. The woman you are admiring so much is a man; one of our population of transsexuals. You can always tell by the Adam’s apple and the thicker wrists. Surgery and hormones can do nothing to disguise that. It is a curious fact that in our country where manhood is a fetish to be worshipped, these sexual deviants are welcome. In fact, Stamboul has become something of a Mecca for them. The lovely Eleanor is really John Rake-straw. He comes from Seattle in Washington.”

  Although a liberal man, Dai Choi was upset that he had been so nearly seduced and that his companion had seen his excitement. It wasn’t so much the homosexuality that offended him but that he had nearly been ridiculed. He moved his chair slightly so that he faced towards the stranger, who now offered his hand.

  “My name is Selim. You must be Mr Dai Choi. Welcome to Istanbul, my friend.”

  Dai Choi dispensed with further preliminaries. He wanted to do business and leave. “I understand you may be able to arrange the delivery of some special equipment to Britain.”

  Selim nodded. “Exactly what do you have in mind and when do you need it?”

  Dai Choi handed over two sheets of closely typed white paper. Selim glanced down the list, nodding occasionally as he mentally compared arms, ammunition and explosives with what he had in his warehouses off the Ragip Gumus road by the Galata Bridge.

  “There are one or two items here that might be a little difficult,” he said. “That type of phosphorus is not that common but I can probably find some. The weapons are easy and so is the ammunition. The explosive might be tough. I’ll probably have to send out for that and the same with the detonators. But we have people in Bulgaria and we have a shipment of other goods going through Sofia next week, so we should be able to bring out what you want on the return trip.”

  “What about cost and delivery?” Dai Choi asked. “Delivery first. We have a good distribution system already in place in Europe and we should be able to use it for this. The only problem is bulk so some of our normal methods won’t work. But we have been experimenting with a sea-delivery system which the Colombians pioneered and we haven’t had a failure yet.

  “Get to Britain and buy a small yacht or motor cruiser big enough to take the cargo. Just make sure it carries a Grundig echo sounder on board which you will need to modify so that it can send a signal on a precise frequency. When you get back let me have some secure numbers and I’ll call you with the final arrangements.

  “As far as cost is concerned, you’ll have to let me work it out. This is quite a list you have here and I don’t have the figures in my head. I would say you’re looking at around $750,000 including delivery but that may be off plus or minus twenty per cent.”

  Seeing the surprise on Dai Choi’s face, Selim hurried to reassure him.

  “Look, my friend. You’re going to be getting the best quality and guaranteed delivery and that doesn’t come cheap. But I’m not going to cheat you. We do too much business together. Be assured, you are safe in my hands.”

  “There is just one other small matter,” Dai Choi interrupted, his hand reaching inside his jacket pocket to produce a single sheet of neatly folded paper.

  Selim unfolded the sheet and his eyebrows rose. “For this, my friend, you are talking serious money and serious trouble.”

  “I know the risks and I am prepared to pay the price,” said Dai Choi. “The question is, can you deliver?”

  Selim’s lips pursed as he thought through the problem.

  “There have been rumours for months that some of these are coming on the market,” he replied. “But I think many of them have been started by the CIA and other intelligence agencies trying to trap people like me. But for the right money, it just might be possible. We have some good contacts with the Russian Mafia and they may have a source in the right place. I’ll see what we can do.”

  Their business concluded, Dai Choi briefly shook Selim’s hand and rose to leave. As he walked towards the door, sliding between the tables, he could not resist a final look at the stage. Eleanor was now naked and Dai Choi’s eyes took in the pair of small breasts with what appeared to be long, dark brown nipples. Below the waist, the imagined pubic mound was revealed as a man’s penis and testicles. He smiled ruefully. It had been a close call.

  The trilling of the telephone interrupted Turnbull’s restless pre-dawn sleep. Like most policemen used to having his rest disturbed, his brain clicked in before his body was fully awake and he immediately recognized the softly sing-song voice of his Chinese deputy.

  “We may have a break on the Triad murder,” the sergeant said. “An eyewitness. He claims he saw a red Mercedes sports car at the scene and got a good look at the driver.”

  It was all the carrot Jonny needed to kick off the sheets and push himself out of bed towards his uniform. “I’m on my way,” he said, hanging up the telephone and reaching for his shirt.

  On the other side of the bed Lisu mewed softly in her sleep, too used to the nightly interruptions to wake up, too used to the drama even to inquire the cause of the call.

  Jonny knew that the red Mercedes could only belong to Dai Choi. Like the thumb rings, it was another of his trademarks. Another symbol of the difference between the two men that had rankled all these years. Jonny could feel the excitement in his chest, the first time since his meeting with the killer at the Mandarin that he had felt anything other than anger and frustration. Perhaps this time, he thought, they would get the evidence they needed.

  There was a car waiting outside his apartment block to take him on the ten-minute journey to police headquarters. No. 1 Arsenal is a magnificent site on which the police have constructed one of the ugliest buildings in Hong Kong, a city which prides itself on its wonderful modem architecture. On the outside, a nineteen-storey white vertical rectangle; inside, it is like police headquarters all over the world: scuffed corridors with linoleum on the floor and pastel colours on the wall. Each office is cramped, the thin doors barely shielding passers-by from the shouts of anger or excitement from their occupants. There is also the all-pervading smell of stale cigarette smoke and old coffee, proof that whatever the health concerns of the outside world they have not penetrated the traditional hearts of the police.

  Jonny’s office was on the twelfth floor, which had been taken over by the Organized Crime Unit three years earlier. It had a large picture window looking over not the harbour but the apartment buildings that now surrounded what had once been a deserted part of the Hong Kong waterfront. The main building on the right had opened only a month before and in one of their regular demonstrations of power, the Triads had sent along their people to get the coveted allocations for a flat. In theory, it was first come, first served. In reality, all the Triad members arrived wearing a single white glove as an identifying mark. Anyone not conforming to the dress code either left the queue or was encouraged to do so, l
eaving the Triads in control of yet another apartment block. It was just one more visible manifestation of the impotence of the police to deal with the Triad problem.

  Jonny sat down behind his desk and rocked back in the armchair, waiting for the knock on the door. He knew that the efficient office bush telegraph would have alerted the staff to his arrival. Two minutes later there was a firm knock on the door and, without waiting for an answer, Sergeant Gordon Fung Siu Yuen walked in, a buff folder in one hand.

  Two bits of good news, sir,” he began. “You remember that the body was found outside Aw Boon’s tailor shop?” Jonny nodded. “Well, it seems the body was dumped just before dawn as Aw Boon himself was coming to work. He had just turned the comer into the street when two cars came in from the other direction, one some kind of estate car and the other the Mercedes. Our man is a cautious fellow and smelled trouble, so he retreated into a doorway and watched as they got the body out of the back of the car. Then the man in the Mercedes got out and bent over the body before both cars drove past him and away.”

  As the sergeant’s tale unfolded, Jonny’s right hand began to pull at his ear lobe, a clear sign to his subordinate of the nervous tension his little speech had provoked. When Jonny had first arrived in the colony, his fair hair and fair skin had made him the butt of many jokes. His single-minded enthusiasm for the job and his colouring in the hot Hong Kong weather had gained him the nickname Cheong Wui or Red Spear. But acclimatization, the death of Sam and a respect for his work combined to produce a more sympathetic response to his foibles among the Chinese in police headquarters. Inside No. 1 Arsenal, he was now simply known as Tan Yee or Single Ear, because of his nervous habit.

  “Christ, that’s great, Gordon,” Jonny exclaimed. “What have we done with the observant Mr Aw Boon?”