"Yes. Yes it would. People are dreadful and fanatics multiply like maggots in a corpse. You were a good undercover man. Now it seems to me it's time to repay all the hours and months of careful training you've had at Her Majesty's expense."
Armstrong's heart missed twice but he said nothing, just held his breath and thanked God that even Crosse couldn't transfer him out of CID against his will. He had hated his tours in SI—in the beginning it had been exciting and to be chosen was a great vote of confidence, but quickly it had palled—the sudden swoop on the villain in the dark hours, hearings in camera, no worry about exact proof, just results and a quick, secret deportation order signed by the governor, then off to the border at once, or onto a junk to Taiwan, with no appeal and no return. Ever.
"It's not the British way, Brian," he had always said to his friend. "I'm for a fair, open trial."
"What's it matter? Be practical, Robert. You know the bas-tards're all guilty—that they're the enemy, Commie enemy agents who twist our rules to stay here, to destroy us and our society-aided and abetted by a few bastard lawyers who'd do anything for thirty pieces of silver, or less. The same in Canada. Christ, we had the hell of a time in the RCMP, our own lawyers and politicians were the enemy—and recent Canadians—curiously always British—all socialist trades unionists who were always in the forefront of any agitation. What does it matter so long as you get rid of the parasites?"
"It matters, that's what I think. And they're not all Commie villains here. There's a lot of Nationalist villains who want to—"
"The Nationalists want Commies out of Hong Kong, that's all."
"Balls! Chiang Kai-shek wanted to grab the Colony after the war. It was only the British navy that stopped him after the Americans gave us away. He still wants sovereignty over us. In that he's no different from Mao Tse-tung!"
"If SI doesn't have the same freedom as the enemy how are we going to keep us out of the creek?"
"Brian, lad, I just said I don't like being in SI. You're going to enjoy it. I just want to be a copper, not a bloody Bond!"
Yes, Armstrong thought grimly, just a copper, in CID until I retire to good old England. Christ, I've enough trouble now with the god-cursed Werewolves. He looked back at Crosse and kept his face carefully noncommittal and waited.
Crosse watched him then tapped the file. "According to this we're very much deeper in the mire than even I imagined. Very distressing. Yes." He looked up. "This report refers to previous ones sent to Dunross. I'd certainly like to see them as soon as possible. Quickly and quietly."
Armstrong glanced at Brian Kwok. "How about Claudia Chen?"
"No. No chance. None."
"Then what do you suggest, Brian?" Crosse asked. "I imagine my American friend will have the same idea... and if he's been misguided enough to pass on the file, a copy of the file, to the director of the CIA here... I really would be very depressed if they were there first again."
Brian Kwok thought a moment. "We could send a specialised team into the tai-pan's executive offices and his penthouse, but it'd take time—we just don't know where to look—and it would have to be at night. That one could be hairy, sir. The other reports—if they exist—might be in a safe up at the Great House, or at his place at Shek-O—even at his, er, at his private flat at Sinclair Towers or another one we don't even know about."
"Distressing," Crosse agreed. "Our intelligence is getting appallingly lax even in our own bailiwick. Pity. If we were Chinese we'd know everything, wouldn't we, Brian?"
"No sir, sorry sir."
"Well, if you don't know where to look you'll have to ask."
"Sir?"
"Ask. Dunross's always seemed to be cooperative in the past. After all he is a friend of yours. Ask to see them."
"And if he says, no, or that they were destroyed?"
"You use your talented head. You cajole him a little, you use a little art, you warm to him, Brian. And you barter."
"Do we have something current to barter with, sir?"
"Nelson Trading."
"Sir?"
"Part's in the report. Plus a modest little piece of information I'll be delighted to give you later."
"Yes sir, thank you sir."
"Robert, what have you done to find John Chen and the Werewolf or Werewolves?"
"The whole of CID's been alerted, sir. We got the number of his car at once and that's on a 1098. We've interviewed his wife Mrs. Barbara Chen, among others—she was in hysterics most of the time, but lucid, very lucid under the flood."
"Oh?"
"Yes sir. She's... Well, you understand."
"Yes."
"She said it wasn't unusual for her husband to stay out late—she said he had many late business conferences and sometimes he'd go early to the track or to his boat. I'm fairly certain she knew he was a man about town. Retracing his movements last night's been fairly easy up to 2:00 A.M. He dropped Casey Tcholok at the Old Vic at about 10:30—"
"Did he see Bartlett last night?"
"No sir, Bartlett was in his aircraft at Kai Tak all the time."
"Did John Chen talk to him?"
"Not unless there's some way for the aeroplane to link up with our phone system. We had it under surveillance until the pickup this morning."
"Go on."
"After dropping Miss Tcholok—I discovered it was his father's Rolls by the way—he took the car ferry to the Hong Kong side where he went to a private Chinese club off Queen's Road and dismissed the car and chauffeur...." Armstrong took out his pad and referred to it. "... It was the Tong Lau Club. There he met a friend and business colleague, Wo Sang Chi, and they began to play mah-jong. About midnight the game broke up. Then, with Wo Sang Chi and the two other players, both friends, Ta Pan Fat, a journalist, and Po Cha Sik, a stockbroker, they caught a taxi."
Robert Armstrong heard himself reporting the facts, falling into the familiar police pattern and this pleased him and took his mind off the file and all the secret knowledge he possessed, and the problem of the money that he needed so quickly. I wish to God I could just be a policeman, he thought, detesting Special Intelligence and the need for it. "Ta Pan Fat left the taxi first at his home on Queen's Road, then Wo Sang Chi left on the same road shortly afterwards. John Chen and Po Cha Sik—we think he's got triad connections, he's being checked out now very carefully—went to the Ting Ma Garage on Sunning Road, Causeway Bay, to collect John Chen's car, a 1960 Jaguar." Again he referred to his notebook, wanting to be accurate, finding the Chinese names confusing as always, even after so many years. "A garage apprentice, Tong Ta Wey, confirms this. Then John Chen drove his friend Po Cha Sik to his home at 17 Village Street in Happy Valley, where the latter left the car. Meanwhile Wo Sang Chi, John Chen's business colleague, who, curiously, heads Struan's haulage company which has the monopoly of cartage to and from Kai Tak, had gone to the Sap Wah Restaurant on Fleming Road. He states that after being there for thirty minutes, John Chen joined him and they left the restaurant in Chen's car, intending to pick up some dancing girls in the street and take them to supper—"
"He wouldn't even go to the dance hall and buy the girls out?" Crosse asked thoughtfully. "What's the going rate, Brian?"
"Sixty dollars Hong Kong, sir, at that time of night."
"I know Phillip Chen's got the reputation of being a miser, but is John Chen the same?"
"At that time of night, sir," Brian Kwok said helpfully, "lots of girls start leaving the clubs if they haven't arranged a partner yet •—most of the clubs close around 1:00 A.M.—Sunday's not a good pay night, sir. It's quite usual to cruise, there's certainly no point in wasting sixty, perhaps two or three times sixty dollars, because the decent girls are in twos or threes and you usually take two or three to dinner first. No point wasting all that money is there, sir?"
"Do you cruise, Brian?"
"No sir. No need—no sir."
Crosse sighed and turned back to Armstrong. "Go on, Robert."
"Well sir, they failed to pick up any girls and went to the Copacabana Night Club in the Sap Chuk Hotel in Gloucester Road for supper, getting there about one o'clock. About 1:45 A.M. they left and Wo Sang Chi said he saw John Chen get into his car, but he did not see him drive off—then he walked home, as he lived nearby. He said John Chen was not drunk or bad-tempered, anything like that, but seemed in good spirits, though earlier at the club, the Tong Lau Club, he'd appeared irritable and cut the mah-jong game short. There it ends. John Chen's not known to have been seen again by any of his friends—or family."
"Did he tell Wo Sang Chi where he was going?"
"No. Wo Sang Chi told us he presumed he was going home—but then he said, 'He might have gone to visit his girl friend.' We asked him who, but he said he didn't know. After pressing him he said he seemed to remember a name, Fragrant Flower, but no address or phone number—that's all."
"Fragrant Flower? That could cover a multitude of ladies of the night."
"Yes sir."
Crosse was lost in thought for a moment. "Why would Dunross want John Chen eliminated?"
The two police officers gaped at their superior.
"Put that in your abacus brain, Brian."
"Yes sir, but there's no reason. John Chen's no threat to Dunross, wouldn't possibly be—even if he became compradore. In the Noble House the tai-pan holds all the power."
"Does he?"
"Yes. By definition." Brian Kwok hesitated, thrown off balance again. "Well yes sir—I... in the Noble House, yes."
Crosse turned his attention to Armstrong. "Well?"
"No reason I can think of, sir. Yet."
"Well think about it."
Crosse lit a cigarette and Armstrong felt the smoke hunger pangs heavily. I'll never keep my vow, he thought. Bloody bastard Crosse-that-we-all-have-to-carry! What the hell's in his mind? He saw Crosse offer him a packet of Senior Service, the brand he always used to smoke—don't fool yourself, he thought, the brand you still smoke. "No thank you sir," he heard himself say, shafts of pain in his stomach and through all of him.
"You're not smoking, Robert?"
"No sir, I've stopped... I'm just trying to stop."
"Admirable! Why should Bartlett want John Chen eliminated?"
Again both police officers gawked at him. Then Armstrong said throatily, "Do you know why, sir?"
"If I knew, why should I ask you? That's for you to find out. There's a connection somewhere. Too many coincidences, too neat, too pat—and too smelly. Yes it smells of KGB involvement to me, and when that happens in my domain I must confess I get irritable."
"Yes sir."
"Well, so far so good. Put surveillance on Mrs. Phillip Chen—she could easily be implicated somewhere. The stakes for her are certainly high enough. Tail Phillip Chen for a day or two as well."
"That's already done, sir. Both of them. On Phillip Chen, not that I suspect him but just because I think they'll both do the usual—be uncooperative, keep mum, negotiate secretly, pay off secretly and breathe a sigh of relief once it's over."
"Quite. Why is it these fellows—however well educated—think they're so much smarter than we are and won't help us do the work we're paid to do?"
Brian Kwok felt the steely eyes grinding into him and the sweat trickled down his back. Control yourself, he thought. This bastard's only a foreign devil, an uncivilised, manure-eating, dung-ladened, motherless, dew neh loh moh saturated, monkey-descended foreign devil. "It's an old Chinese custom which I'm sure you know, sir," he said politely, "to distrust all police, all government officials—they've four thousand years of experience, sir."
"I agree with the hypothesis, but with one exception. The British. We have proved beyond all doubt we're to be trusted, we can govern, and, by and large, our bureaucracy's incorruptible."
"Yes sir."
Crosse watched him for a moment, puffing his cigarette. Then he said, "Robert, do you know what John Chen and Miss Tcholok said or talked about?"
"No sir. We haven't been able to interview her yet—she's been at Struan's all day. Could it be important?"
"Are you going to Dunross's party tonight?"
"No sir."
"Brian?"
"Yes sir."
"Good. Robert, I'm sure Dunross won't mind if I bring you with me, call for me at 8:00 P.M. All Hong Kong that counts will be there—you can keep your ears to the grindstone and your nose everywhere." He smiled at his own joke and did not mind that neither smiled with him. "Read the report now. I'll be back shortly. And Brian, please don't fail tonight. It really would be very boring."
"Yes sir."
Crosse left.
When they were alone Brian Kwok mopped his brow. "That bugger petrifies me."
"Yes. Same for me, old chum, always has."
"Would he really order a team into Struan's?" Brian Kwok asked incredulously. "Into the inner kernel of the Noble House?"
"Of course. He'd even lead it himself. This's your first tour with SI, old lad, so you don't know him like I do. That bugger'd lead a team of assassins into hell if he thought it important enough. Bet you he got the file himself. Christ, he's been over the border twice that I know of to chat to a friendly agent. He went alone, imagine that!"
Brian gasped. "Does the governor know?"
"I wouldn't think so. He'd have a haemorrhage, and if MI-6 ever heard, he'd be roasted and Crosse'd get sent to the Tower of London. He knows too many secrets to take that chance—but he's Crosse and not a thing you can do about it."
"Who was the agent?"
"Our guy in Canton."
"Wu Fong Fong?"
"No, a new one—at least he was new in my time. In the army."
"Captain Ta Quo Sa?"
Armstrong shrugged. "I forget."
Kwok smiled. "Quite right."
"Crosse still went over the border. He's a law unto himself."
"Christ, you can't even go to Macao because you were in SI a couple of years ago and he goes over the border. He's bonkers to take that risk."
"Yes. " Armstrong began to mimic Crosse. "And how is it tradesmen know things before we do, dear boy? Bloody simple," he said, answering himself, and his voice lost its banter. "They spend money. They spend lots of bloody money, whereas we've sweet f. a. to spend. He knows it and I know it and the whole world knows it. Christ, how does the FBI, CIA, KGB or Korean CIA work? They spend money! Christ, it's too easy to get Alan Medford Grant on your team—Dunross hired him. Ten thousand pounds retainer, that'd buy lots of reports, that's more than enough, perhaps it was less. How much are we paid? Two thousand quid a year for three hundred and sixty-six, twenty-five-hour days and a copper on the beat gets four hundred quid. Look at the red tape we'd have to go through to get a secret ten thousand quid to pay to one man to buy info. Where'd the FBI, CIA and god-cursed KGB be without unlimited funds? Christ," he added sourly, "it'd take us six months to get the money, if we could get it, whereas Dunross and fifty others can take it out of petty cash." The big man sat in his chair slouched and loose-limbed, dark shadows under his eyes that were red rimmed, his cheekbones etched by the overhead light. He glanced at the file on the desk in front of him but did not touch it yet, just wondered at the evil news it must contain. "It's easy for the Dunrosses of the world," he said.
Brian Kwok nodded and wiped his hands and put his kerchief away. "They say Dunross's got a secret fund—the tai-pan's fund—started by Dirk Struan in the beginning with the loot he got when he burned and sacked Foochow, a fund that only the current tai-pan can use for just this sort of thing, for h'eung yau and payoffs, anything—maybe even a little murder. They say it runs into millions."
"I'd heard that rumour too. Yes. I wish to Christ... oh well." Armstrong reached for the file, hesitated, then got up and went for the phone. "First things first," he told his Chinese friend with a sardonic smile. "First we'd better breathe on a few VIPs." He dialled Police HQ in Kowloon.
"Armstrong—give me Divisional Staff Sergeant Tang-po please."
"Good evening, sir. Yes sir?" Divisional Staff Sergeant Tang-po's voice was warm and friendly.
"Evening, 'Major," he said sweetly using the contraction of Sergeant Major as was customary. "I need information. I need information on who the guns were destined for. I need information on who the kidnappers of John Chen are. I want John Chen—or his body—back in three days. And I want this Werewolf—or Werewolves, in the dock very quickly."
There was a slight pause. "Yes sir."
"Please spread the word. The Great White Father is very angry indeed. And when he gets even just a little angry superintendents get posted to other commands, and so do inspectors—even sergeants, even divisional staff sergeants class one. Some even get demoted to police constable and sent to the border. Some might even get discharged or deported or go to prison. Eh?"
There was an even longer pause. "Yes sir."
"And when he's very angry indeed wise men flee, if they can, before anticorruption falls on the guilty—and even on innocents."
Another pause. "Yes sir. I'll spread the word, sir, at once. Yes, at once."
"Thank you, 'Major. The Great White Father is really very angry indeed. And oh, yes." His voice became even thinner. "Perhaps you'd ask your brother sergeants to help. They'll surely understand, too, my modest problem is theirs as well." He switched to Cantonese. "When the Dragons belch, all Hong Kong defecates. Heya?"
A longer pause. "I'll take care of it, sir."
"Thank you." Armstrong replaced the receiver.
Brian Kwok grinned. "That's going to cause a few sphincter muscles to oscillate."
The Englishman nodded and sat down again but his face did not lose its hardness. "I don't like to pull that too often—actually that's only the second time I've ever done it—but I've no option. He made that clear, so did the Old Man. You better do the same with your sources."
"Of course. 'When the Dragons belch...' You were punning on the legendary Five Dragons?"
"Yes."
Now Brian Kwok's handsome face settled into a mould—cold black eyes in his golden skin, his square chin almost beardless. "Tang-po's one of them?"
"I don't know, not for certain. I've always thought he was, though I've nothing to go on. No, I'm not certain, Brian. Is he?"
"I don't know."
"Well, it doesn't matter if he is or isn't. The word'll get to one of them, which is all I'm concerned about. Personally I'm pretty certain the Five Dragons exist, that they're five Chinese divisional sergeants, perhaps even station sergeants, who run all the illegal street gambling of Hong Kong—and probably, possibly, some protection rackets, a few dance halls and girls—five out of eleven. Five senior sergeants out of eleven possibilities. Eh?"
"I'd say the Five Dragons're real, Robert—perhaps there are more, perhaps less, but all street gambling's run by police."
"Probably run by Chinese members of our Royal Police Force, lad," Armstrong said, correcting him. "We've still no proof, none —and we've been chasing that will o' the wisp for years. I doubt if we'll ever be able to prove it." He grinned. "Maybe you will when you're made assistant commissioner."
"Come off it, for God's sake, Robert."
"Christ, you're only thirty-nine, you've done the special bigwig Staff College course and you're a super already. A hundred to ten says you'll end up with that rank."
"Done."
"I should have made it a hundred thousand," Armstrong said, pretending sourness. "Then you wouldn't have taken it."
"Try me."
"I won't. I can't afford to lose that amount of tootie—you might get killed or something, this year or next, or resign—but if you don't you're in for the big slot before you retire, presuming you want to go the distance."
"Both of us."
"Not me—I'm too mad dog English." Armstrong clapped him on the back happily. "That'll be a great day. But you won't close down the Dragons either—even if you'll be able to prove it, which I doubt."
"No?"
"No. I don't care about the gambling. All Chinese want to gamble and if some Chinese police sergeants run illegal street gambling it'll be mostly clean and mostly fair though bloody illegal. If they don't run it, triads will, and then the splinter groups of rotten little bastards we so carefully keep apart will join together again into one big long and then we'll really have a real problem. You know me, lad, I'm not one to rock any boats, that's why I won't make assistant commissioner. I like the status quo. The Dragons run the gambling so we keep the triads splintered—and just so long as the police always stick together and are absolutely the strongest triad in Hong Kong, we'll always have peace in the streets, a well-ordered population and almost no crime, violent crime."
Brian Kwok studied him. "You really believe that, don't you?"
"Yes. In a funny sort of a way, right now the Dragons are one of our strongest supports. Let's face it, Brian, only Chinese can govern Chinese. The status quo's good for them too—violent crime's bad for them. So we get help when we need it—sometimes, probably—help that we foreign devils couldn't get any other way. I'm not in favour of their corruption or of breaking the law, not at all—or bribery or all the other shitty things we have to do, or informers, but what police force in the world could operate without dirty hands sometimes and snotty little bastard informers? So the evil the Dragons represent fills a need here, I think. Hong Kong's China and China's a special case. Just so long as it's just illegal gambling I don't care never mind. Me, if it was left up to me I'd make gambling legal tonight but I'd break anyone for any protection racket, any dance hall protection or girls or whatever. I can't stand pimps as you know. Gambling's different. How can you stop a Chinese gambling? You can't. So make it legal and everyone's happy. How many years have the Hong Kong police been advising that and every year we're turned down. Twenty that I know of. But oh no and why? Macao! Simple as that. Dear old Portuguese Macao feeds off illegal gambling and gold smuggling and that's what keeps them alive and we can't afford, we, the UK, we can't afford to have our old ally go down the spout."
"Robert Armstrong for prime minister!"
"Up yours! But it's true. The take on illegal gambling's our only slush fund—a lot of it goes to pay our ring of informers. Where else can we get quick money? From our grateful government? Don't make me laugh! From a few extra tax dollars from the grateful population we protect? Ha!"
"Perhaps. Perhaps not, Robert. But it's certainly going to backfire one day. The payoffs—the loose and uncounted money that 'happens' to be in a station drawer? Isn't it?"
"Yes, but not on me 'cause I'm not in on it, or a taker, and the vast majority aren't either. British or Chinese. Meanwhile how do we three hundred and twenty-seven poor foreign devil police officers control eight odd thousand civilised junior officers and coppers, and another three and a half million civilised little bastards who hate our guts never mind."
Brian Kwok laughed. It was an infectious laugh and Armstrong laughed with him and added, "Up yours again for getting me going."
"Likewise. Meanwhile are you going to read that first or am I?"
Armstrong looked down at the file he held in his hand. It was thin and contained twelve closely typewritten pages and seemed to be more of a newsletter with topics under different headings. The contents page read: Part One: The Political and Business Forecast of the United Kingdom. Part Two: The KGB in Asia. Part Three: Gold. Part Four: Recent CIA Developments.
Wearily Armstrong put his feet on the desk and eased himself more comfortably in his chair. Then he changed his mind and passed the file over. "Here, you can read it. You read faster than I do anyway. I'm tired of reading about disaster."
Brian Kwok took it, his impatience barely contained, his heart thumping heavily. He opened it and began to read.
Armstrong watched him. He saw his friend's face change immediately and lose colour. That troubled him greatly. Brian Kwok was not easily shocked. He saw him read through to the end without comment, then flick back to check a paragraph here and there. He closed the file slowly.
"It's that bad," Armstrong said.
"It's worse. Some of it—well, if it wasn't signed by A. Medford Grant, I'd say he was off his rocker. He claims the CIA have a serious connection with the Mafia, that they're plotting and have plotted to knock off Castro, they're into Vietnam in strength, into drugs and Christ knows what else—here—read it for yourself."
"What about the mole?"
"We've a mole all right." Brian reopened the file and found the paragraph. "Listen: There's no doubt that presently there is a high-level Communist agent in the Hong Kong police. Top-secret documents brought to our side by General Hans Richter—second-in-command of the East German Department of Internal Security—when he defected to us in March of this year clearly state the agent's code name is "Our Friend," that he has been in situ for at least ten, probably fifteen years. His contact is probably a KGB officer in Hong Kong posing as a visiting friendly businessman from the Iron Curtain countries, possibly as a banker or journalist, or posing as a seaman off one of the Soviet freighters visiting or being repaired in Hong Kong. Among other documented information we now know "Our Friend" has provided the enemy with are: All restricted radio channels, all restricted private phone numbers of the governor, chief of police and top echelon of the Hong Kong Government, along with very private dossiers on most of them...' "
"Dossiers?" Armstrong interrupted. "Are they included?"
"No."
"Shit! Go on, Brian."
" '... most of them; the classified police battle plans against a Communist-provoked insurrection, or a recurrence of the Kowloon riots; copies of all private dossiers of all police officers above the rank of inspector; the names of the chief six Nationalist undercover agents of the Kuomintang operating in Hong Kong under the present authority of General Jen Tang-wa (Appendix A); a detailed list of Hong Kong's Special Intelligence agents in Kwantung under the general authority of Senior Agent Wu Fong Fong (Appendix B).'"
"Jesus!" Armstrong gasped. "We'd better get old Fong Fong and his lads out right smartly."
"Yes."
"Is Wu Tat-sing on the list?"
Kwok checked the appendix. "Yes. Listen, this section ends: '... It is the conclusion of your committee that until this traitor is eliminated, the internal security of Hong Kong is hazardous. Why this information has not yet been passed on to the police themselves we do not yet know. We presume this ties in with the current political Soviet infiltration of UK administration on all levels which enables the Philbys to exist, and permits such information as this to be buried, or toned down, or misrepresented (which was the material for Study 4/1962). We would suggest this report—or portions of it, should be leaked at once to the governor or the commissioner of police, Hong Kong, if you consider them trustworthy,'" Brian Kwok looked up, his mind rocking. "There's a couple of other pieces here, Christ, the political situation in the UK and then there's Sevrin.... Read it." He shook his head helplessly. "Christ, if this's true... we're in it up to our necks. God in Heaven!"
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