CHAPTER THREE

5:16 A.M.:

At half-dawn a jeep with two overalled mechanics aboard came around Gate 16 at the eastern end of the terminal and stopped close beside the main landing gear of Yankee 2. The gangway was still in place and the main door slightly ajar. The mechanics, both Chinese, got out and one began to inspect the eight-wheeled main gear while the other, equally carefully, scrutinized the nose gear. Methodically, they checked the tires and wheels and then the hydraulic couplings of the brakes, then peered into the landing bays. Both used flashlights. The mechanic at the main landing gear took out a spanner and stood on one of the wheels for a closer inspection, his head and shoulder now well into the belly of the airplane. After a moment he called out softly in Cantonese, “Ayeeyah! Hey, Lim, take a look at this.”

The other man strolled back and peered up, sweat staining his white overalls. “Are they there or not, I can’t see from down here.”

“Brother, put your male stalk into your mouth and flush yourself down a sewer. Of course they’re here. We’re rich. We’ll eat rice forever! But be quiet or you’ll wake the dung-stained foreign devils above! Here …” The man handed down a long, canvas-wrapped package which Lim took and stowed quietly and quickly in the jeep. Then another and another small one, both men sweating and very nervous, working fast but quietly.

Another package. And another …

And then Lim saw the police jeep whirl around the corner and simultaneously other uniformed men come pouring out of Gate 16, among them Europeans. “We’re betrayed,” he gasped as he fled in a hopeless dash for freedom. The jeep intercepted him easily and he stopped, shivering with pent-up terror. Then he spat and cursed the gods and withdrew into himself.

The other man had jumped down at once and leaped into the driving seat. Before he could turn on the ignition he was swamped and handcuffed.

“So, little oily mouth,” Sergeant Lee hissed, “where do you think you’re going?”

“Nowhere, Officer, it was him, him there, that bastard son of a whore, Officer, he swore he’d cut my throat if I didn’t help him. I don’t know anything on my mother’s grave!”

“You lying bastard, you never had a mother. You’re going to go to jail for fifty years if you don’t talk!”

“I swear, Officer, by all the gods th—”

“Piss on your lies, dungface. Who’s paying you to do this job?”

Armstrong was walking slowly across the tarmac, the sick sweet taste of the kill in his mouth. “So,” he said in English, “what have we here, Sergeant?” It had been a long night’s vigil and he was tired and unshaven and in no mood for the mechanic’s whining protestations of innocence, so he said softly in perfect gutter Cantonese, “One more tiny, insignificant word out of you, purveyor of leper dung, and I’ll have my men jump on your Secret Sack.”

The man froze.

“Good. What’s your name?”

“Tan Shu Ta, lord.”

“Liar! What’s your friend’s name?”

“Lim Ta-cheung, but he’s not my friend, lord. I never met him before this morning.”

“Liar! Who paid you to do this?”

“I don’t know who paid him, lord. You see he swore he’d cut—”

“Liar! Your mouth’s so full of dung you must be the god of dung himself. What’s in those packages?”

“I don’t know. I swear on my ancestor’s gr—”

“Liar!” Armstrong said it automatically, knowing that the lies were inevitable.

“John Chinaman’s not the same as us,” his first police teacher, an old China hand, had told him. “Oh I don’t mean cut on the cross or anything like that—he’s just different. He lies through his teeth all the time to a copper and when you nab a villain fair and square he’ll still lie and be as slippery as a greased pole in a pile of shit. He’s different. Take their names. All Chinese have four different names, one when he’s born, one at puberty, one when he’s an adult and one he chooses for himself, and they forget one or add another at the drop of a titfer. And their names—God stone the crows! Chinese call themselves lao-tsi-sing—the Ancient One Hundred Names. They’ve only got a basic hundred surnames in all China and of those there’re twenty Yus, eight Yens, ten Wus and God knows how many Pings, Lis, Lees, Chens, Chins, Chings, Wongs and Fus and each one of them you pronounce five different ways so God knows who’s who!”

“Then it’s going to be difficult to identify a suspect, sir?”

“Full marks, young Armstrong! Full marks, lad. You can have fifty Lis, fifty Changs and four hundred Wongs and not one related to the other. God stone the crows! That’s the problem here in Hong Kong.”

Armstrong sighed. After eighteen years Chinese names were still as confusing as ever. And on top of that everyone seemed to have a nickname by which they were generally known.

“What’s your name?” he asked again and didn’t bother to listen to the answer. “Liar! Sergeant! Unwrap one of those! Let’s see what we’ve got.”

Sergeant Lee eased aside the last covering. Inside was an M14, an automatic rifle, U.S. Army. New and well greased.

“For this, you evil son of a whore’s left tit,” Armstrong grated, “you’ll howl for fifty years!”

The man was staring at the gun stupidly, aghast. Then a low moan came from him. “Fornicate all gods I never knew they were guns.”

“Ah, but you did know!” Armstrong said. “Sergeant, put this piece of dung in the wagon and book him for smuggling guns.”

The man was dragged away roughly. One of the young Chinese policemen was unwrapping another package. It was small and square. “Hold it!” Armstrong ordered in English. The policeman and everyone in hearing distance froze. “One of them may be booby-trapped. Everyone get away from the jeep!” Sweating, the man did as he was ordered. “Sergeant, get our bomb disposal wallahs. There’s no hurry now.”

“Yes sir.” Sergeant Lee hurried to the intercom in the police wagon.

Armstrong went under the airplane and peered into the main gear bay. He could see nothing untoward. Then he stood on one of the wheels. “Christ!” he gasped. Five snug racks were neatly bolted to each side of the inner bulkhead. One was almost empty, the others still full. From the size and shape of the packages he judged them to be more M14’s and boxes of ammo—or grenades.

“Anything up there, sir?” Inspector Thomas asked. He was a young Englishman, three years in the force.

“Take a look! But don’t touch anything.”

“Christ! There’s enough for a couple of riot squads!”

“Yes. But who?”

“Commies?”

“Or Nationalists—or villains. These’d—”

“What the hell’s going on down there?”

Armstrong recognized Linc Bartlett’s voice. His face closed and he jumped down, Thomas following him. He went to the foot of the gangway. “I’d like to know that too, Mr. Bartlett,” he called up curtly.

Bartlett was standing at the main door of the airplane, Svensen beside him. Both men wore pajamas and robes and were sleep tousled.

“I’d like you to take a look at this.” Armstrong pointed to the rifle that was now half hidden in the jeep.

At once Bartlett came down the gangway, Svensen following. “What?”

“Perhaps you’d be kind enough to wait in the airplane, Mr. Svensen.”

Svensen started to reply, stopped. Then he glanced at Bartlett who nodded. “Fix some coffee, Sven, huh?”

“Sure, Linc.”

“Now what’s this all about, Superintendent?”

“That!” Armstrong pointed.

“That’s an M14.” Bartlett’s eyes narrowed. “So?”

“So it seems your aircraft is bringing in guns.”

“That’s not possible.”

“We’ve just caught two men unloading. There’s one of the buggers”—Armstrong stabbed a finger at the handcuffed mechanic waiting sullenly beside the jeep—“and the other’s in the wagon. Perhaps you’d be kind enough to look up in the main gear bay, sir.”

“Sure. Where?”

“You’ll have to stand on a wheel.”

Bartlett did as he was told. Armstrong and Inspector Thomas watched exactly where he put his hands for fingerprint identification. Bartlett stared blankly at the racks. “I’ll be goddamned! If these’re more of the same, it’s a goddamn arsenal!”

“Yes. Please don’t touch them.”

Bartlett studied the racks, then climbed down, wide awake now. “This isn’t a simple smuggling job. Those racks are custom made.”

“Yes. You’ve no objection if the aircraft’s searched?”

“No. Of course not.”

“Go ahead, Inspector,” Armstrong said at once. “And do it very carefully indeed. Now, Mr. Bartlett, perhaps you’d be kind enough to explain.”

“I don’t run guns, Superintendent. I don’t believe my captain would—or Bill O’Rourke. Or Svensen.”

“What about Miss Tcholok?”

“Oh for chrissake!”

Armstrong said icily, “This is a very serious matter, Mr. Bartlett. Your aircraft is impounded and without police approval until further notice neither you nor any of your crew may leave the Colony pending our inquiries. Now, what about Miss Tcholok?”

“It’s impossible, it’s totally impossible that Casey is involved in any way with guns, gun smuggling or any kind of smuggling. Impossible.” Bartlett was apologetic but quite unafraid. “Nor would any of the rest of us.” His voice sharpened. “You were tipped off, weren’t you?”

“How long did you stop at Honolulu?”

“An hour or two, just to refuel, I don’t remember exactly.” Bartlett thought for a moment. “Jannelli got off but he always does. Those racks couldn’t’ve been loaded in an hour or so.”

“Are you sure?”

“No, but I’d still bet it was done before we left the States. Though when and where and why and who I’ve no idea. Have you?”

“Not yet.” Armstrong was watching him keenly. “Perhaps you’d like to go back to your office, Mr. Bartlett. We could take your statement there.”

“Sure.” Bartlett glanced at his watch. It was 5:43 A.M. “Let’s do that now, then I can make a few calls. We’re not wired into your system yet. There’s a local phone there?” He pointed to the terminal.

“Yes. Of course we’d prefer to question Captain Jannelli and Mr. O’Rourke before you do—if you don’t mind. Where are they staying?”

“At the Victoria and Albert.”

“Sergeant Lee!”

“Yes sir.”

“Get on to HQ.”

“Yes sir.”

“We’d also like to talk to Miss Tcholok first. Again if you don’t mind.”

Bartlett walked up the steps, Armstrong beside him. At length he said, “All right. Provided you do that personally, and not before 7:45. She’s been working overtime and she’s got a heavy day today and I don’t want her disturbed unnecessarily.”

They went into the airplane. Sven was waiting by the galley, dressed now and very perturbed. Uniformed and plainclothes police were everywhere, searching diligently.

“Sven, how about that coffee?” Bartlett led the way through the anteroom into his office-study. The central door, aft, at the end of the corridor, was open. Armstrong could see part of the master suite with its king-size bed. Inspector Thomas was going through some drawers.

“Shit!” Bartlett muttered.

“Sorry,” Armstrong said, “but this is necessary.”

“That doesn’t mean I have to like it, Superintendent. Never did like strangers peeking into my private life.”

“Yes. I agree.” The superintendent beckoned one of the plain clothes officers. “Sung!”

“Yes sir.”

“Take this down will you please.”

“Just a minute, let’s save some time,” Bartlett said. He turned to a bank of electronic gear and pressed two switches. A twin cassette tape deck clicked into operation. He plugged in a microphone and set it on the desk. “There’ll be two tapes, one for you, one for me. After your man’s typed it up—if you want a signature I’m here.”

“Thank you.”

“Okay, let’s begin.”

Armstrong was suddenly uneasy. “Would you please tell me what you know about the illegal cargo found in the main gear bay of your aircraft, Mr. Bartlett.”

Bartlett repeated his denial of any knowledge. “I don’t believe any of my crew or any of my people are involved in any way. None of them has ever been involved with the law as far as I know. And I would know.”

“How long has Captain Jannelli been with you?”

“Four years. O’Rourke two. Svensen since I got the airplane in ’58.”

“And Miss Tcholok?”

After a pause Bartlett said, “Six—almost seven years.”

“She’s a senior executive in your company?”

“Yes. Very senior.”

“That’s unusual, isn’t it, Mr. Bartlett?”

“Yes. But that has nothing to do with this problem.”

“You’re the owner of this aircraft?”

“My company is. Par-Con Industries Incorporated.”

“Do you have any enemies—anyone who’d want to embarrass you seriously?”

Bartlett laughed. “Does a dog have fleas? You don’t get to head a half-billion-dollar company by making friendships.”

“No enemy in particular?”

“You tell me. Running guns is a special operation—this has to have been done by a professional.”

“Who knew about your flight plan to Hong Kong?”

“The visit’s been scheduled for a couple of months. My board knew. And my planning staff.” Bartlett frowned. “It was no real secret. No reason to be.” Then he added, “Of course Struan’s knew—exactly. For at least two weeks. In fact we confirmed the date on the 12th by telex, exact ETD and ETA. I wanted it sooner but Dunross said Monday the 19th’d suit him better, which is today. Maybe you should ask him.”

“I will, Mr. Bartlett. Thank you, sir. That will do for the moment.”

“I’ve got some questions, Superintendent, if you don’t mind. What’s the penalty for smuggling guns?”

“Ten years without parole.”

“What’s the value of this cargo?”

“Priceless, to the right buyer, because no guns—absolutely none—are available to anyone.”

“Who’s the right buyer?”

“Anyone who wants to start a riot, insurrection, or commit mass murder, bank robbery, or some crime of whatever magnitude.”

“Communists?”

Armstrong smiled and shook his head. “They don’t have to shoot at us to take over the Colony, or smuggle M14’s—they’ve got guns a-plenty of their own.”

“Nationalists? Chiang Kai-shek’s men?”

“They’re more than well supplied with all sorts of armaments by the U.S. Government, Mr. Bartlett. Aren’t they? So they don’t need to smuggle this way either.”

“A gang war maybe?”

“Good God, Mr. Bartlett, our gangs don’t shoot each other. Our gangs-triads as we call them—our triads settle their differences in sensible, civilized Chinese fashion, with knives and axes and fighting irons and anonymous calls to the police.”

“I’ll bet it was someone in Struan’s. That’s where you’ll find the answer to the riddle.”

“Perhaps.” Armstrong laughed strangely, then said again, “Perhaps. Now if you’ll excuse me …”

“Of course.” Bartlett turned off the recorder, took out the two cassettes and handed one over.

“Thank you, Mr. Bartlett.”

“How long will this search go on?”

“That depends. Perhaps an hour. We may wish to bring in some experts. We’ll try to make it as easy as possible. You’ll be off the plane before lunch?”

“Yes.”

“If you want access please check with my office. The number’s 88–77–33. There’ll be a permanent police guard here for the time being. You’ll be staying at the Vic?”

“Yes. Am I free to go into town now, do what I like?”

“Yes sir, provided you don’t leave the Colony, pending our inquiries.”

Bartlett grinned. “I’ve got that message already, loud and clear.”

Armstrong left. Bartlett showered and dressed and waited until all the police went away except the one who was guarding the gangway. Then he went back into his office suite and closed the door. Quite alone now he checked his watch. It was 7:37. He went over to his communications center and clicked on two micro switches and pressed the sending button.

In a moment there was a crackle of static and Casey’s sleepy voice. “Yes, Linc?”

“Geronimo,” he said clearly, into the mike.

There was a long pause. “Got it,” she said. The loudspeaker went dead.