The scowling crowd hesitated, then as Mok and the riot squad came forward fast, they retreated hastily and began to move away, treading on each other.
"I think my bloody shoulder's dislocated," Smyth said and cursed obscenely.
"What do we do about those bastards, sir?" Mok asked, in great pain, breathing hard, his cheek raw and bleeding, his uniform ripped.
Smyth held his arm to take the growing pain away and looked across the street at the sullen, gawking crowd. "Keep the riot squad here. Get another from West Aberdeen, inform Central. Where's my bloody hat? If I catch the bas—"
"Sir!" one of his men called out. He was kneeling beside the girl who had been trampled on. She was a bar girl or a dance hall girl: she had that sad, sweet oh so hard, young-old look. Blood was dribbling from her mouth, her breathing coming in hacking gasps.
"Christ, get an ambulance!"
As Smyth watched helplessly, the girl choked in her own blood and died.
Christian Toxe, editor of the Guardian, was scribbling notes, the phone jammed against his ear. "What was her name, Dan?" he asked over the hubbub of the newsroom.
"I'm not sure. One savings book said Su Tzee-Ian," Dan Yap the reporter on the other end of the phone at Aberdeen told him. "There was $4,360 in it—the other was in the name... Hang on a second, the ambulance's just leaving now. Can you hear all right, Chris, the traffic's heavy here."
"Yes. Go on. The second savings book?"
"The second book was in the name of Tak H'eung fah. Exactly 3,000 in that one."
Tak H'eung fah seemed to touch a memory. "Do any of the names mean anything?" Toxe asked. He was a tall rumpled man in his untidy cubbyhole of an office.
"No. Except one means Wisteria Su and the other Fragrant Flower Tak. She was pretty, Chris. Might have been Eurasian.
Toxe felt a sudden ice shaft in his stomach as he remembered his own three daughters, six and seven and eight, and his lovely Chinese wife. He tried to push that perpetual cross back into the recess of his mind, the secret worry of was it right to mix East and West, and what does the future hold for them, my darlings, in this lousy rotten bigoted world?
With an effort he concentrated again. "That's quite a lot of money for a dance hall girl, isn't it?"
"Yes. I'd say she had a patron. One interesting bit: in her purse was a crumpled envelope dated a couple of weeks ago with a mushy love letter in it. It was addressed to... hang on... to Tak H'eung fah, apartment 14, Fifth Alley, Tsung-pan Street in Aberdeen. It was soppy, swearing eternal love. Educated writing though."
"English?" Toxe asked surprised, writing swiftly.
"No. Characters. There was something about the writing—could be a quai loh. "
"Did you get a copy?"
"The police wouldn't le—"
"Get a photocopy. Beg borrow or steal a photocopy in time for the afternoon edition. A week's bonus if you do it."
"Cash this afternoon?"
"All right."
"You have it."
"Any signature?"
'Your only love.' The love was in English."
"Mr. Toxe! Mrs. Publisher's on line two!" The English secretary called out through the open door, her desk just outside the glass partition.
"Oh Christ, I'll... I'll call her back. Tell her I've got a big story breaking." Then into the phone again, "Dan, keep on this story—keep close to the police, go with them to the dead girl's flat—if it's her flat. Find out who owns it—who her people are, where they live. Call me back!" Toxe hung up and called out to his assistant editor, "Hey, Mac!"
The lean, dour, grey-haired man got up from his desk and wandered in. "Aye?"
"I think we should put out an extra. Headline..." He scrawled on a piece of paper, "Mob Kills Fragrant Flower!"
"How about 'Mob Murders Fragrant Flower'?"
"Or, 'First Death at Aberdeen'?"
" 'Mob Murders' is better."
"That's it then. Martin!" Toxe called out. Martin Haply looked up from his desk and came over. Toxe ran his fingers through his hair as he told them both what Dan Yap had related. "Martin, do a follow-up: 'The beautiful young girl was crushed by the feet of the mob—but who were the real killers? Is it an incompetent government who refuses to regulate our outdated banking system? Are the killers those who started the rumours? Is the run on the Ho-Pak as simple as it sounds...' etcetera."
"Got it." Haply grinned and went back to his desk in the main office. He gulped a cold cup of coffee out of a plastic cup and started to type, his desk piled high with reference books, Chinese newspapers and stock market reports. Teletypes chattered in the background. A few silent copy boys and trainees delivered or picked up copy.
"Hey, Martin! What's the latest from the stock market?"
Martin Haply dialled a number without looking at the phone, then called back to the editor. "Ho-Pak's down to 24.60, four points from yesterday. Struan's are down a point though there's been some heavy buying. Hong Kong Lan Tao up three points—the story's just been confirmed. Dunstan Barre took their money out yesterday."
"They did? Then you were right again! Shit!"
"Victoria's off half a point—all banks are edgy and no buyers. There's a rumour a line's forming outside Blacs and the Victoria's head office in Central." Both men gasped.
"Send someone to check the Vic!" Mac hurried out. Jesus Christ, Toxe thought, his stomach churning, Jesus Christ if a run starts on the Vic the whole sodding island'll collapse and my sodding savings with it.
He leaned back in his old chair and put his feet on the desk, loving his job, loving the pressure and immediacy.
"Do you want me to call her?" his secretary asked. She was round and unflappable.
"Who? Oh shit, Peg, I'd forgotten. Yes—call the Dragon."
The Dragon was the wife of the publisher, Mong Pa-tok, the present head of the sprawling Mong family who owned this paper and three Chinese newspapers and five magazines, whose antecedents went back to the earliest days. The Mongs were supposed to have descended from the first editor-owner-publisher of the paper, Morley Skinner. The story was that Dirk Struan had given Skinner control of the paper in return for helping him against Tyler Brock and his son Gorth by hushing up the killing of Gorth in Macao. It was said Dirk Struan had provoked the duel. Both men had used fighting irons. Once, some years ago, Toxe had heard old Sarah Chen in her cups relate that when the Brocks came to collect Gorth's body they did not recognise him. The old woman had added that her father, Sir Gordon Chen, had had to mobilise most of Chinatown to prevent the Brocks from setting afire the Struan warehouses. Tyler Brock had set Tai-ping Shan alight instead. Only the great typhoon that came that night stopped the whole city from going up in flames—the same holocaust that had destroyed Dirk Struan's Great House and him and his secret Chinese wife, May-may.
"She's on line two."
"Eh? Oh! All right, Peg." Toxe sighed.
"Ah Mr. Toxe, I was waiting your call, heya?"
"What can I do for you, or Mr. Mong?"
"Your pieces on the Ho-Pak Bank, yesterday and today, that the adverse rumours about the Ho-Pak are untrue and started by tai-pans and another big bank. I see more today."
"Yes. Haply's quite sure."
"My husband and I hear this not true. No tai-pans or banks are putting out rumours or have put out rumours. Perhaps wise to drop this attack."
"It's not an attack, Mrs. Mong, just an attitude. You know how susceptible Chinese are to rumours. The Ho-Pak's as strong as any bank in the Colony. We feel sure the rumours were started by a bi—"
"Not by tai-pans and not big bank. My husband and I not like this attitude never mind. Please to change," she said and he heard the granite in her voice.
"That's editorial policy and I have control over editorial policy," he said grimly.
" We are publisher. It is our newspaper. We tell you to stop so you will stop."
"You're ordering me to stop?"
"Of course it is order."
"Very well. As you order it, it's stopped."
"Good!" The phone went dead. Christian Toxe snapped his pencil and threw it against the wall and began to curse. His secretary sighed and discreetly closed the door and when he was done Toxe opened the door. "Peg, how about some coffee? Mac! Martin!"
Toxe sat back at his desk. The chair creaked. He mopped the sweat off his cheeks and lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply.
"Yes, Chris?" Haply asked.
"Martin, cancel the piece I asked for and do another on Hong Kong banking and the need to have some form of banking insurance...."
Both men gaped at him.
"Our publisher doesn't like the rumours approach." Martin Haply flushed. "Well screw him! You heard the guys yourself at the tai-pan's party!"
"That proves nothing. You've no proof. We're stopping that approach. It's not proven so I can't take a stand."
"But, lo—" Toxe's neck went purple. "It's bloody well stopped," he roared.
"Understand?"
Haply began to say something but changed his mind. Choked with rage he turned on his heel and left. He walked across the big room and jerked the front door open and slammed it behind him.
Christian Toxe exhaled. "He's got a lousy bloody temper that lad!"
He stubbed his cigarette out and lit another. "Christ, I'm smoking too much!" Still seething, his brown eyes watched the older man. "Someone must have called her, Mac. Now what would you like as a return favour if you were Mrs. Dragon Mong?"
Suddenly Mac beamed. "Na a voting membership of the Turf Club!"
"Go to the head of the class!"
Singh, the Indian reporter, came in with a foot of teletype. "You might need this for the extra, Chris."
It was a series of Reuters reports from the Middle East. "Teheran 0832 hours: High-level diplomatic sources in Iran report sudden extensive Soviet military manoeuvres have begun close to their north border near the oil-rich border area of Azerbaijan where more rioting took place. Washington is reported to have asked permission to send observers to the area."
The next paragraph was: "Tel Aviv 0600 hours: The Knesset confirmed late last night that another huge irrigation project had been funded to further divert the waters of the River Jordan into the southern Negev Desert. There was immediate adverse and hostile reaction from Jordan, Egypt and Syria."
"Negev? Isn't Israel's brand spanking new atomic plant in the Negev?" Toxe asked.
"Aye. Now there's another splendid addition to the peace conference tables. Would the water be for that?"
"I don't know Mac, but this's certainly going to parch a few Jordanian and Palestinian throats. Water water everywhere but not a drop to shower in. I wish to Christ it would rain. Singh, tidy up these reports and we'll put them on the back page. They won't sell a single bloody paper. Do a follow-up piece on the Werewolves for the front page: The police have a vast dragnet out but the vicious kidnappers of Mr. John Chen continue to elude them. According to sources close to the family of his father, compradore of Struan's, no ransom note has yet been received but one is expected imminently. The China Guardian asks all its readers to assist in the capture of these fiends...' That sort of thing."
At Aberdeen Spectacles Wu saw the old woman come out of the tenement building, a shopping basket in her hand, and join the noisy crowds in the narrow alley. He followed cautiously feeling very pleased with himself. While he had waited for her to reappear he had struck up a conversation with a street hawker whose permanent place of business was a patch of broken pavement opposite. The hawker sold tea and small bowls of hot congee—rice gruel. Wu had ordered a bowl, and during his meal, the hawker had told him about the old woman, Ah Tarn, who had been in the neighbourhood since last year. She'd come to the Colony from a village near Canton with the huge waves of immigrants who had flooded over the border last summer. She didn't have any family of her own and the people she worked for had no sons around twenty, though he had seen her with a young man early this morning. "She says her village was Ning-tok...."
It was then that Wu had felt a glow at this stroke of luck. Ning-tok was the same village his own parents had come from and he spoke that dialect.
Now he was twenty paces behind her and he watched her haggle brilliantly for vegetables, selecting only the very best onions and greens, all just a few hours fresh from the fields in the New Territories. She bought very little so he knew that the family she worked for was poor. Then she was standing in front of the poultry stall with its layers of barely alive, scrawny chickens crammed helplessly into cages, their legs tied. The rotund stall owner bartered with her, both sides enjoying the foul language, insults, choosing this bird, then that, then another, prodding them, discarding them, until the bargain was made. Because she was a good, salty trader, the man allowed his profit to be shaved. Then he strangled the bird deftly without thought, tossing the carcass to his five-year-old daughter, who squatted in a pile of feathers and offal, for plucking and cleaning.
"Hey, Mr. Poultryman," Wu called out, "I'd like a bird at the same price. That one!" He pointed at a good choice and paid no attention to the man's grumbling. "Elder Sister," he said to her politely, "clearly you have saved me a great deal of cash. Would you like to have a cup of tea while we wait for our birds to be cleaned?"
"Ah thank you, yes, these old bones are tired. We'll go there!" Her gnarled finger pointed to a stall opposite. "Then we can watch to make sure we get what we paid for." The poultry man muttered an obscenity and they laughed.
She shoved her way across the street, sat down on a bench, ordered tea and a cake and was soon telling Wu how she hated Hong Kong and living among strangers. It was easy for him to butter her up by using the odd word of Ning-tok patois; then pretending to be equally surprised when she switched to that dialect and told him she came from the same village and oh how wonderful it was to find a neighbour after all these months among foreigners! She told him trial she had worked for the same family in Ning-tok ever since she was seven. But, sadly, three years ago her mistress—the child that she had brought up, now an old lady like herself—had died. "I stayed in the house but it had fallen on hard times. Then last year the famine was bad. Many in the village decided to come to this place. Chairman Mao's people didn't mind, in fact they encouraged us—'Useless Mouths' as they called us. Somehow we got split up and I managed to get over the border and found my way to this place here, penniless, hungry, with no family, no friends, nowhere to turn. At length I got a job and now I work as a cook-amah for the family Ch'ung who're street cleaners. The dog bones pay me nothing but my keep and my food and chief wife Ch'ung's a maggot-mouthed hag but soon I'll be rid of all of them! You said your father came here with his family ten years ago?"
"Yes. We owned a field near the bamboo glade beside the river. His name was Wu Cho-tam an—"
"Ah, yes I think I remember the family. Yes, I think so. Yes, and I know the field. My family was Wu Ting-top and their family owned the pharmacy at the crossroads for more than a hundred years."
"Ah, Honourable Pharmacy Wu? Oh yes of course!" Spectacles Wu did remember the family well. Pharmacy Wu had always been a Maoist sympathiser. Once he had had to flee the Nationalists. In this village of a thousand souls he had been well liked and trusted and he had kept life in the village as calm and as protected from outsiders as he could.
"So, you're one of Wu Cho-tam's sons, Younger Brother!" Ah Tarn was saying. "Eeeee, in the early days it was so wonderful in Ning-tok but for the last years... terrible."
"Yes. We were lucky. Our field was fertile and we tilled the soil like always but after a few years outsiders came and accused all the landowners—as if we were exploiters! We only tilled our own field. Even so, from time to time some landowners were taken away, some shot, so one night ten years ago my father fled with all of us. Now my father is dead but I live with my mother not far away."
"There were many fleeings and famines in the early days. I hear that now it is better. Did you hear too? Outsiders came, wasn't it? They would come and they would leave. The village is not so bad again, Younger Brother, oh no! Outsiders leave us alone. Yes, they left my mistress and us alone because Father was important and one of Chairman Mao's supporters from the beginning. My mistress's name was Fang-ling, she's dead now. There's no collective near us so life is like it's always been, though we all have to study Chairman Mao's Red Book. The village isn't so bad, all my friends are there.... Hong Kong is a foul place and my village is home. Life without family is nothing. But now..." Then the old woman dropped her voice and chortled, carried away with pleasure. "But now the gods have favoured me. In a month or two I'm going home, home forever. I'll have enough money to retire on and I'll buy the small house at the end of my street and perhaps a little field and..."
"Retire?" Wu said, leading her on. "Who has that sort of money, Elder Sister? You said you were paid nothing th—"
"Ah," the old woman replied, puffed up. "I've an important friend."
"What sort of friend?"
"A very important business friend who needs my help! Because I've been so useful he's promised to give me a huge amount of money—"
"You're making this all up, Elder Sister," he scoffed. "Am I a foolish stranger wh—"
"I tell you my friend's so important he can hold the whole island in thrall!"
"There are no such persons!"
"Oh yes there are!" She dropped her voice and whispered hoarsely, "What about the Werewolves!"
Spectacles Wu gaped at her. "What?"
She chortled again, delighted with the impact of her confidence. "Yes."
The young man took hold of his blown mind and put the pieces quickly back together; if this were true he would get the reward and the promotion and maybe an invitation to join Special Intelligence. "You're making this up!"
"Would I lie to someone from my own village? My friend's one of them I tell you. He's also a 489 and his Brotherhood's going to be the richest in all Hong Kong."
"Eeeee, how lucky you are, Elder Sister! And when you see him again please ask if perhaps he can use someone like me. I'm a street fighter by trade though my triad's poor and the leader stupid and a stranger. Is he from Ning-tok?"
"No. He's... he's my nephew," she said, and the young man knew it was a lie. "I'm seeing him later. Yes, he's coming later. He owes me some money."
"Eeeee, that's good, but don't put it in a bank and certainly not in the Ho-Pak or y—"
"Ho-Pak?" she said suspiciously, her little eyes narrowing suddenly in the creases of her face. "Why do you mention the Ho-Pak? What has the Ho-Pak to do with me?"
"Nothing, Elder Sister," Wu said, cursing himself for the slip, knowing her guard was now up. "I saw the queues this morning, that's all."
She nodded, not convinced, then saw that her chicken was packaged and ready so she thanked him for the tea and cake and scuttled off, muttering to herself. Most carefully he followed her. From time to time she would look back but she did not see him. Reassured, she went home.
The CIA man got out of his car and walked quickly into police headquarters. The uniformed sergeant at the information desk greeted him. "Afternoon, Mr. Rosemont."
"I've an appointment with Mr. Crosse."
"Yes sir. He's expecting you."
Sourly Rosemont went to the elevator. This whole goddamn-piss-poor island makes me want to shit, and the goddamn British along with it.
"Hello, Stanley," Armstrong said. "What're you doing here?"
"Oh hi, Robert. Gotta meeting with your chief."
"I've already had that displeasure once today. At 7:01 precisely." The elevator opened. Rosemont went in and Armstrong followed.
"I hope you've got some good news for Crosse," Armstrong said with a yawn. "He's really in a foul mood."
"Oh? You in this meeting too?"
"Afraid so."
Rosemont flushed. "Shit, I asked for a private meeting."
"I'm private."
"You sure are, Robert. And Brian, and everyone else. But some bastard isn't."
Armstrong's humour vanished. "Oh?"
"No." Rosemont said nothing more. He knew he had hurt the Englishman but he didn't care. It's the truth, he thought bitterly. The sooner these goddamn limeys open their goddamn eyes the better.
The elevator stopped. They walked down the corridor and were ushered into Crosse's room by Brian Kwok. Rosemont felt the bolts slide home behind him and he thought how goddamn foolish and useless and unnecessary; the man's a knucklehead.
"I asked for a private meeting, Rog."
"It's private. Robert's very private, Brian is. What can I do for you, Stanley?" Crosse was politely cool.
"Okay, Rog, today I got a long list for you: first, you're personally 100 percent in the creek with me, my whole department, up to the director in Washington himself. I'm told to tell you—among other things—your mole's surpassed himself this time."
"Oh?"
Rosemont's voice was grating now. "For starters, we just heard from one of our sources in Canton that Fong-fong and all your lads were hit last night. Their cover's gone—they're blown." Armstrong and Brian Kwok looked shocked. Crosse was staring back at him and he read nothing in his face. "Got to be your mole, Rog. Got to be fingered from the tai-pan's AMG papers."
Crosse looked across at Brian Kwok. "Use the emergency wireless code. Check it!"
As Brian Kwok hurried out, Rosemont said again, "They're blown, the poor bastards."
"We'll check it anyway. Next?" Rosemont smiled mirthlessly. "Next: Almost everything that was in the tai-pan's AMG papers's spread around the intelligence community in London—on the wrong side."
"God curse all traitors," Armstrong muttered.
"Yeah, that's what I thought, Robert. Next, another little gem—AMG was no accident."
"What?"
"No one knows the who, but we all know the why. The bike was hit by an auto. No make, no serial number, no witnesses, no nothing yet, but he was hit—and of course, fingered from here."
"Then why haven't I been informed by Source? Why's the information coming from you?" Crosse asked.
Rosemont's voice sharpened. "I just got off the phone to London. It's just past 5:00 A.M. there so maybe your people plan to let you know when they get to the office after a nice leisurely bacon and eggs and a goddamn cup of tea!"
Armstrong shot a quick glance at Crosse and winced at the look on his face.
"Your... your point's well taken, Stanley," Crosse said. "Next?"
"The photos we gave you of the guys who knocked off Voranski... what happened?"
"We had their place covered. The two men never reappeared, so I raided the place in the early hours. We went through that whole tenement, room by room, but found no one who looked anything like the photographs. We searched for a couple of hours and there were no secret doors or anything like that. They weren't there. Perhaps your fellow made a mistake...."
"Not this time. Marty Povitz was sure. We had the place staked out soon as we deciphered the address but there was a time when it wasn't all covered, front and back. I think they were tipped, again by your mole." Rosemont took out a copy of a telex and passed it over. Crosse read it, reddened and passed it over to Armstrong.
Decoded from Director, Washington, to Rosemont, Deputy Director Station Hong Kong: Sinders MI-6 brings orders from Source, London, that you are to go with him Friday to witness the handover of the papers and get an immediate photocopy.
"You'll get your copy in today's mail, Rog," the American said. "I can keep this?" Crosse asked.
"Sure. By the way, we have a tail on Dunross too. W—" Crosse said angrily, "Would you kindly not interfere in our jurisdiction!"
"I told you you were in Shitsville, Rog!" Tautly Rosemont placed another cable on the table.
Rosemont, Hong Kong. You will hand this cable to Chief of SI personally. Until further orders Rosemont is authorised to proceed independently to assist in the uncovering of the hostile in any way he chooses. He is, however, required to stay within the law and keep you advised personally of what he is doing. Source 8-98/3.
Rosemont saw Crosse bite back an explosion. "What else've you authorised?" Crosse asked.
"Nothing. Yet. Next: We'll be at the bank on Fri—"
"You know where Dunross's put the files?" "It's all over town—among the community. I told you your mole's been working overtime. " Abruptly Rosemont flared, "Come on for chrissake. Rog, you know if you tell a hot item to someone in London, it's all over town! We've all got security problems but yours're worse!" With an effort the American simmered down. "You could've levelled with me about the Dunross screw-up—it would've save us all a lot of heartache and a lotta face."
Crosse lit a cigarette. "Perhaps. Perhaps not. I was trying to maintain security."
"Remember me? I'm on our side!"
"Are you?"
"You bet your ass!" Rosemont said it very angrily. "And if it was up to me I'd have every safety deposit box open before sundown—and the hell with the consequences."
"Thank God you can't do that."
"For chrissake we're at war and God only knows what's in those other files. Maybe they'll finger your goddamn mole and then we can get the bastard and give him his!"
"Yes," Crosse said, his voice a whiplash, "or maybe there's nothing in the papers at all!"
"What do you mean?"
"Dunross agreed to hand the files over to Sinders on Friday.
What if there's nothing in them? Or what if he burned the pages and gives us just the covers? What the hell do we do then?"
Rosemont gaped at him. "Jesus—is that a possibility?"
"Of course it's a possibility! Dunross's clever. Perhaps they're not there at all, or the vault ones are false or nonexistent. We don't know he put them there, he just says he put them there. Jesus Christ, there're fifty possibilities. You're so smart, you CIA fellows, you tell me which deposit box and I'll open it myself."
"Get the key from the governor. Give me and some of my boys private access for five hours an—"
"Out of the question!" Crosse snarled, suddenly red-faced, and Armstrong felt the violence strongly. Poor Stanley, you're the target today. He suppressed a shudder, remembering the times he had had to face Crosse. He had soon learned that it was easier to tell the man the truth, to tell everything at once. If Crosse ever really went after him in an interrogation, he knew beyond doubt he would be broken. Thank God he's never yet had reason to try, he thought thankfully, then turned his eyes on Rosemont who was flushed with rage. I wonder who Rosemont's informants are, and how he knows for certain that Fong-fong and his team have been obliterated.
"Out of the question," Crosse said again.
"Then what the hell do we do? Sit on our goddamn lard till Friday?"
"Yes. We wait. We've been ordered to wait. Even if Dunross has torn out pages, or sections, or disposed of whole files, we can't put him in prison—or force him to remember or tell us anything."
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