CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
11:30 A.M.:
Superintendent Armstrong’s police car eased its way through the milling angry crowds that had spilled over into the road outside the Ho-Pak Bank, heading for the East Aberdeen police station. Mobs were also clogging the streets outside all the other banks in the area, big and small—even the Victoria which was across the street from the Ho-Pak—everyone impatiently waiting to get in to get their money out.
Everywhere the mood was volatile and dangerous, the downpour adding to the tension. Barricades erected to channel people into and out of the banks were manned in strength by equally anxious and irritable police—twenty per thousand, unarmed but for truncheons.
“Thank God for the rain,” Armstrong muttered.
“Sir?” the driver asked, the irritating screech of ill-adjusted windshield wipers drowning his voice.
Armstrong repeated it louder and added, “If it was hot and humid, this whole bloody place’d be up in arms. The rain’s a godsend.”
In time the police car stopped outside the station. He hurried in. Chief Inspector Donald C. C. Smyth was waiting for him. His left arm was in a sling.
“Sorry to be so long,” Armstrong said. “Bloody traffic’s jammed for bloody miles.”
“Never mind. Sorry but I’m a bit shorthanded, old chap. West Aberdeen’s cooperating and so is Central, but they’ve problems too. Bloody banks! We’ll have to do with one copper in the back—he’s already in position in case we flush one of the villains—and us up front with Spectacles Wu.” Smyth told Armstrong his plan.
“Good.”
“Shall we go now? I don’t want to be away too long.”
“Of course. It looks pretty dicey outside.”
“I hope the bloody rain lasts until the bloody banks close their doors or pay out the last penny. Did you go liquid yourself?”
“You must be joking! My pittance makes no difference!” Armstrong stretched, his back aching. “Ah Tam in the flat?”
“As far as we know. The family she works for is called Ch’ung. He’s a dustman. One of the villains might be there too so we’ll have to get in quickly. I’ve the commissioner’s authority to carry a revolver. Do you want one too?”
“No. No thanks. Let’s go, shall we?”
Smyth was shorter than Armstrong but well built and his uniform suited him. Awkwardly, because of his arm, he picked up his raincoat and began to lead the way, then stopped. “Bugger, I forgot! Sorry, SI, Brian Kwok called, would you call him? Want to use my office?”
“Thanks. Is there any coffee? I could use a cuppa.”
“Coming up.”
The office was neat, efficient and drab, though Armstrong noticed the expensive chairs and desk and radio and accoutrements. “Gifts from grateful customers,” Smyth said airily. “I’ll leave you for a couple of minutes.”
Armstrong nodded and dialed. “Yes, Brian?”
“Oh hello, Robert! How’s it going? The Old Man says you should bring her to HQ and not investigate her at East Aberdeen.”
“All right. We’re just about to leave. HQ eh? What’s the reason?”
“He didn’t tell me, but he’s in a good mood today. It seems we’ve a 16/2 tonight.”
Armstrong’s interest peaked. A 16/2 in SI terms meant they had broken an enemy cover and were going to take the spy or spies into custody. “Anything to do with our problem?” he asked cautiously, meaning Sevrin.
“Perhaps.” There was a pause. “Remember what I was saying about our mole? I’m more convinced than ever I’m right.” Brian Kwok switched to Cantonese, using oblique phrases and innuendoes in case he was overheard. Armstrong listened with growing concern as his best friend told him what had happened at the track, the long private meeting between Crosse and Suslev.
“But that means nothing. Crosse knows the bugger. Even I’ve drunk with him once or twice, feeling him out.”
“Perhaps. But if Crosse’s our mole it’d be just like him to do an exchange in public. Heya?”
Armstrong felt sick with apprehension. “Now’s not the time, old chum,” he said. “Soon as I get to HQ we should have a chat. Maybe lunch and talk.”
Another pause. “The Old Man wants you to report to him as soon as you bring the amah in.”
“All right. See you soon.”
Armstrong put down the phone. Smyth came back in. Thoughtfully he handed him a coffee. “Bad news?”
“Nothing but bloody trouble,” Armstrong said sourly. “Always bloody trouble.” He sipped his coffee. The cup was excellent porcelain and the coffee fresh, expensive and delicious. “This’s good coffee! Very good. Crosse wants me to bring her to HQ directly, not here.”
Smyth’s eyebrows soared. “Christ, what’s so important about an old hag amah?” he asked sharply. “She’s in my jurisdic—”
“Christ I don’t know! I don’t give the f—” The bigger man stopped his explosion. “Sorry, I haven’t been getting much sleep the last few days. I don’t give the orders. Crosse said to bring her to HQ. No explanation. He can override anyone. SI overrides everyone, you know how it is!”
“Arrogant bastard!” Smyth finished his coffee. “Thank God I’m not in SI. I’d hate to deal with that bugger every day.”
“I’m not in SI and he still gives me trouble.”
“Was it about our mole?”
Armstrong glanced up at him. “What mole?”
Smyth laughed. “Come on for chrissake! There’s a rumor among the Dragons that our fearless leaders have been advised to find the bugger very quickly. It seems that the minister’s even roasting the governor! London’s so pissed off they’re sending out the head of MI-6—presume you know Sinders arrives tomorrow on the BOAC flight.”
Armstrong sighed. “Where the hell do they get all their information?”
“Telephone operators, amahs, street cleaners—who cares. But you can bet, old lad, at least one of them knows everything. You know Sinders?”
“No, never met him.” Armstrong sipped his coffee, enjoying the excellence, the rich, nutty flavor that was giving him new strength. “If they know everything, who’s the mole?”
After a pause, Smyth said, “That sort of info’d be expensive. Shall I ask the price?”
“Yes. Please.” The big man put his cup down. “The mole doesn’t bother you, does he?”
“No, not at all. I’m doing my job thank you very much and it’s not my job to worry about moles or to try to catch them. The moment you catch and snatch the bugger there’ll be another bugger subverted or put into place and we’ll do the same to them, whoever the them are. Meanwhile if it wasn’t for this bloody Ho-Pak mess this station’d still be the best run and my East Aberdeen area the quietest in the Colony and that’s all I’m concerned about.” Smyth offered a cigarette from an expensive gold case. “Smoke?”
“No thanks, I quit.”
“Good for you. No, so long as I’m left alone until I retire in four years all’s well in the world.” He lit the cigarette with a gold lighter and Armstrong hated him a little more. “By the way, I think you’re foolish not to take the envelope that’s left in your desk monthly.”
“Do you now?” Armstrong’s face hardened.
“Yes. You don’t have to do anything for it. Nothing at all. Guaranteed.”
“But once you’ve taken one you’re up the creek without a paddle.”
“No. This’s China and not the same.” Smyth’s blue eyes hardened too. “But then you know that better than I.”
“One of your ‘friends’ asked you to give me the message?”
Smyth shrugged. “I heard another rumor. Your share of the Dragons reward for finding John Chen comes to 40,000 HK an—”
“I didn’t find him!” Armstrong’s voice grated.
“Even so, that’ll be in an envelope in your desk this evening. So I hear, old chap. Just a rumor, of course.”
Armstrong’s mind was sifting this information. 40,000 HK covered exactly and beautifully his most pressing, long overdue debt that he had to clear by Monday, losses on the stock market that, “Well really, old boy, you should pay up. It has been over a year and we do have rules. Though I’m not pressing I really must have the matter settled….”
Smyth’s right again, he thought without bitterness, the bastards know everything and it’d be so easy to find out what debts I have. So am I going to take it or not?
“Only forty?” he asked with a twisted smile.
“I imagine that’s enough to cover your most pressing problem,” Smyth said with the same hard eyes. “Isn’t it?”
Armstrong was not angry that the Snake knew so much about his private life. I know just as much about his, though not how much he has or where it’s stacked away. But it’d be easy to find out, easy to break him if I wanted to. Very easy. “Thanks for the coffee. Best I’ve had in years. Shall we go?”
Awkwardly, Smyth put on his regulation raincoat over his well-cut uniform, adjusted the sling for his arm and put his cap to the usual jaunty angle and led the way. As they went, Armstrong made Wu repeat what had happened and what had been said by the youth who claimed to be one of the Werewolves and later by the old amah. “Very good, Wu,” Armstrong said when the young man had finished. “An excellent piece of surveillance and investigation. Excellent. Chief Inspector Smyth tells me you want to get into SI?”
“Yes sir.”
“Why?”
“It’s important, an important branch of SB, sir. I’ve always been interested in security and how to keep our enemies out and the Colony safe and I feel it would be very interesting and important. I’d like to help if I could, sir.”
Momentarily their ears focused on the distant wail of fire engines that came from the hillside above.
“Some stupid bastard’s kicked over another stove,” Smyth said sourly. “Christ, thank God for the rain!”
“Yes,” Armstrong said, then added to Wu, “If this turns out as you’ve reported, I’ll put in a word with SB or SI.”
Spectacles Wu could not stop the beam. “Yes sir, thank you, sir. Ah Tam is really from my village. Yes sir.”
They turned into the alley. Crowds of shoppers and stall keepers and shopkeepers under umbrellas or under the canvas overhangs watched them sullenly and suspiciously, Smyth the most well known and feared quai loh in Aberdeen.
“That’s the one, sir,” Wu whispered. By prearrangement Smyth casually stopped at a stall, this side of the doorway, ostensibly to look at some vegetables, the owner at once in shock. Armstrong and Wu walked past the entrance then turned abruptly and the three of them converged. They went up the stairs quickly as two uniformed policemen who had been trailing from a safe distance materialized to bottle up the front. Once the narrow passageway was secure one of them hurried up an even smaller alley and around the back to make sure the plainclothes detective was still in position guarding the single exit there, then he rushed back to reinforce the undermanned barricades in front of the Victoria.
The inside of the tenement was as dingy and filthy as the outside with mess and debris on every landing. Smyth was leading and he stopped on the third landing, unbuttoned his revolver holster and stepped aside. Without hesitation Armstrong leaned against the flimsy door, burst the lock and went in quickly. Smyth followed at once, Spectacles Wu nervously staying to guard the entrance. The room was drab with old sofas and old chairs and old grimy curtains, the sweet-rank smell of opium and cooking oil on the air. A heavyset, middle-aged matron gaped at them and dropped her newspaper. Both men went for the inner doors. Smyth pulled one open to find a scruffy bedroom, the next revealed a messy toilet and bathroom, a third another bedroom crammed with unmade bunks for four. Armstrong had the last door open. It let into a cluttered, filthy, tiny kitchen, where Ah Tam bent over a pile of wash in the grimy sink. She stared at him blankly. Behind her was another door. At once he shoved past and jerked it open. It was empty too, more of a closet than a room, windowless with a vent cut in the wall and just enough space to fit the small string mattressless bunk and a broken-down chest of drawers.
He came back into the living room, Ah Tam shuffling after him, his breathing good and his heart settling down. It had taken them only seconds and Smyth took out the papers and said sweetly, “Sorry to interrupt, madam, but we’ve a search warrant.”
“Wat?”
“Translate for us, Wu,” Smyth ordered and at once the young constable repeated what had been said and, as previously arranged, began to act as though he was the interpreter for two dullard quai loh policemen who did not speak Cantonese.
The woman’s mouth dropped open. “Search!” she shrieked. “Search what? We obey the law here! My husband works for the government and has important friends and if you’re looking for the gambling school it’s nothing to do with us but it’s on the fourth floor at the back and we know nothing about the smelly whores in 16 who set up shop and work till all hours making the rest of us civ—”
“Enough,” Wu said sharply, “we are police on important matters! These Lords of the police are important! You’re the wife of Ch’ung the dustman?”
“Yes,” she replied sullenly. “What do you want with us? We’ve done noth—”
“Enough!” Armstrong interrupted in English with deliberate arrogance. “Is that Ah Tam?”
“You! You’re Ah Tam?”
“Eh, me? Wat?” The old amah tugged at her apron nervously, not recognizing Wu.
“So you’re Ah Tam! You’re under arrest.”
Ah Tam went white and the middle-aged woman cursed and said in a rush, “Ah! So it’s you they’re after! Huh, we know nothing about her except we picked her off the street a few months ago and gave her a home and sal—”
“Wu, tell her to shut up!”
He told her impolitely. She obeyed even more sullenly. “These Lords want to know is there anyone else here?”
“Of course there isn’t. Are they blind? Haven’t they raped my house like assassins and seen for themselves?” the shrew said truculently. “I know nothing about nothing.”
“Ah Tam! These Lords want to know where your room is.”
The amah found her voice and began to bluster, “What do you want with me, Honorable Policeman? I’ve done nothing, I’m not an illegal, I’ve papers since last year. I’ve done nothing, I’m a law-abiding civilized person who’s worked all her li—”
“Where’s your room?”
The younger woman pointed. “There,” she said in her screeching, irritating voice, “where else would her room be? Of course it’s there off the kitchen! Are these foreign devils senseless? Where else do maids live? And you, you old maggot! Getting honest people into trouble! What’s she done? If it’s stolen vegetables it’s nothing to do with me!”
“Quiet or we shall take you to our headquarters and surely the judge will want you kept in custody! Quiet!”
The woman started to curse but bit it back.
Armstrong said, “Now, what…” Then he noticed that several curious Chinese were peering into the room from the landing. He stared back, took a sudden pace toward them. They vanished. He closed the door, hiding his amusement. “Now, ask both of them what they know about the Werewolves.”
The woman gaped at Wu. Ah Tam went a little grayer. “Eh, me? Werewolves? Nothing! Why should I know about those foul kidnappers. What have they to do with me? Nothing nothing at all!”
“What about you, Ah Tam?”
“Me? Nothing at all,” she said querulously, “I’m a respectable amah who does her work and nothing else!”
Wu translated their answers. Both men noticed that his translation was accurate, fast and easy. Both were patient and they continued to play the game they had played so many times before. “Tell her she’d better tell the truth quickly.” Armstrong glowered down at her. He bore her no ill feeling; neither did Smyth. They just wanted the truth. The truth might lead to the identity of the Werewolves and the sooner those villains were hung for murder the easier it would be to control Hong Kong and the sooner law-abiding citizens, including themselves, could go about their own business or hobbies—making money or racing or whoring. Yes, Armstrong thought, sorry for the old woman. Twenty dollars to a broken hatpin the shrew knows nothing but Ah Tam knows more than she’ll ever tell us.
“I want the truth. Tell her!” he said.
“Truth? What truth, Honorable Lord? How could this poor old body be anyth—”
Armstrong put up his hand dramatically. “Enough!” This was another prearranged signal. At once Spectacles Wu switched to Ning-tok dialect which he knew neither of them understood. “Elder Sister, I suggest you talk quickly and openly. We know everything already!”
Ah Tam gaped at him. She had only two twisted teeth in a lower gum. “Eh, Younger Brother?” she replied in the same dialect, caught off guard. “What do you want with me?”
“The truth! I know all about you!”
She peered at him without recognition. “What truth? I’ve never seen you before in my life!”
“Don’t you remember me? In the poultry market? You helped me buy a chicken and then we had tea. Yesterday. Don’t you remember? You told me about the Werewolves, how they were going to give you a huge reward …”
All three saw the momentary flash behind her eyes. “Werewolves?” she began querulously. “Impossible! It was someone else! You accuse me falsely. Tell the Noble Lords I’ve never seen y—”
“Quiet you old baggage!” Wu said sharply and cursed her roundly. “You worked for Wu Ting-top and your mistress’s name was Fan-ling and she died three years ago and they owned the pharmacy at the crossroads! I know the place well myself!”
“Lies … lies …”
“She says it’s all lies, sir.”
“Good. Tell her we’ll take her to the station. She’ll talk there.”
Ah Tam began shaking. “Torture? You’ll torture an old woman? Oh oh oh …”
“When does this Werewolf come back? This afternoon?”
“Oh oh oh … I don’t know … he said he would see me but the thief never came back. I lent him five dollars to get home an—”
“Where was his home?”
“Eh? Who? Oh him, he … he said he was a relation of a relation and … I don’t remember. I think he said North Point … I don’t remember anything …”
Armstrong and Smyth waited and probed and soon it was apparent that the old woman knew little though she ducked and twisted the probing, her lies becoming ever more flowery.
“We’ll take her in anyway,” Armstrong said.
Smyth nodded. “Can you handle it till I can send a couple of men? I really think I ought to be getting back.”
“Certainly. Thanks.”
He left. Armstrong told Wu to order the two women to sit down and be silent while he searched. They obeyed, frightened. He went into the kitchen and closed the door. At once Ah Tam pulled at her long ratty queue. “Young Brother,” she whispered slyly, knowing her mistress did not understand Ning-tok, “I’m guilty of nothing. I just met that young devil like I met you. I did nothing. People of the same village should stick together, heya? A handsome man like you needs money—for girls or his wife. Are you married, Honorable Younger Brother?”
“No, Elder Sister,” Wu said politely, leading her on as he had been told to do.
Armstrong was standing in the doorway of Ah Tam’s tiny bedroom and he wondered for the millionth time why it was that Chinese treated their servants so badly, why servants would work in such miserable and foul conditions, why they would sleep and live and give loyal service for a lifetime in return for a pittance, little respect and no love.
He remembered asking his teacher. The old policeman had said, “I don’t know, laddie, but I think it’s because they become family. Usually it’s a job for life. Usually their own family becomes part also. The servant belongs, and the how chew, the good points of the job are many. It goes without saying all servants cream off a proportion of all housekeeping money, all foods, all drinks, all cleaning materials, all everything, however rich or poor, of course with the employers’ full knowledge and approval providing it’s kept to the customary level—how else can he pay them so little if they can’t make extra on the side?”
Maybe that’s the answer, Armstrong thought. It’s true that before a Chinese takes a job, any job, he or she will have considered the how chew of the job very carefully indeed, the value of the how chew always being the deciding factor.
The room stank and he tried to close his nose to the smell. Sprays of rainwater were coming through the vent, the sound of the rain still pelting down, the whole wall mildewed and water-stained from a thousand storms. He searched methodically and carefully, all his senses tuned. There was little space to hide anything. The bed and bedding were relatively clean though there were many bedbugs in the corners of the bunk. Nothing under the bed but a chipped and stinking chamber pot and an empty suitcase. A few old bags and a tote bag produced nothing. The chest of drawers contained a few clothes, some cheap jewelry, a poor quality jade bracelet. Hidden under some clothes was an embroidered handbag of much better quality. In it were some old letters. A news cutting. And two photographs.
His heart seemed to stop.
After a moment he went into the better light of the kitchen and peered at the photographs again but he had not been mistaken. He read the news cutting, his mind reeling. There was a date on the cutting and a date on one of the photographs.
In the honeycombed basement of Police Headquarters, Ah Tam sat on a hard, backless chair in the center of a large soundproofed room that was brightly lit and painted white, white walls and white ceiling and white floors and a single, flush white door that was almost part of the wall. Even the chair was white. She was alone, petrified, and she was talking freely now.
“Now what do you know about the barbarian in the background of the photograph?” Wu’s flat, metallic Ning-tok voice asked from a hidden speaker.
“I’ve told and told and there isn’t … I don’t know, Lord,” she whimpered. “I want to go home … I’ve told you, I barely saw the foreign devil … he only visited us this once that I know of, Lord.… I don’t remember, it was years ago, oh can I go now. I’ve told you everything, everything.…”
Armstrong was watching her through the one-sided mirror in the darkened observation room, Wu beside him. Both men were set-faced and ill-at-ease. Sweat beaded Wu’s forehead even though the room was pleasantly air conditioned. A tape recorder turned noiselessly. There were microphones and a bank of electronic equipment behind them.
“I think she’s told us everything we need,” Armstrong said, sorry for her.
“Yes sir.” Wu kept his nervousness out of his voice. This was the first time that he had ever been part of an SI interrogation. He was frightened and excited and his head ached.
“Ask her again where she got the purse.”
Wu did as he was ordered. His voice was calm and authoritative.
“But I’ve told you again and again,” the old woman whimpered. “Please can I g—”
“Tell us again and then you can go.”
“All right … all right … I’ll tell you again.… It belonged to my Mistress who gave it to me on her deathbed, she gave it to me, I swear it and—”
“The last time you said it was given to you the day before she died. Now which is the truth?”
Anxiously Ah Tam plucked at her ratty queue. “I … I don’t remember, Lord. It was on her … it was when she died … I don’t remember.” The old woman’s mouth worked and no sound came out and then said in a querulous rush, “I took it and hid it after she died and there were those old photos … I’ve no picture of my Mistress so I took them too and there was one tael of silver too and this paid for part of my journey to Hong Kong during the famine. I took it because none of her rotten sons or daughters or family who hated her and hated me would give me anything so I took it when no one was … she gave it to me before she died and I just hid it it’s mine, she gave it to me….”
They listened while the old woman went on and on and they let her talk herself out. The wall clock read 1:45. They had been questioning her for half an hour. “That’s enough for now, Wu. We’ll repeat it in three hours just for safety but I think she’s told us everything.” Wearily Armstrong picked up a phone, dialed. “Armstrong—you can take her back to her cell now,” he said into the phone. “Make sure she’s comfortable and well looked after and have the doctor reexamine her.” It was normal SI procedure to give prisoners an examination before and after each interrogation. The doctor had said that Ah Tam had the heart and the blood pressure of a twenty-year-old.
In a moment they saw the white, almost hidden door open. A uniformed SI policewoman beckoned Ah Tam kindly. Ah Tam hobbled out. Armstrong dipped the lights, switched the tape recorder to rewind. Wu mopped his brow.
“You did very well, Wu. You learn quickly.”
“Thank you, sir.”
The high-pitched whine of the tape recorder grew. Armstrong watched it silently, still in shock. The sound ceased and the big man took the reel out of the machine. “We always mark the date, exact time and exact duration of the interrogation and use a code name for the suspect. For safety and secrecy.” He looked up a number in a book, marked the tape, then began to make out a form. “We cross-check with this form. We sign it as interrogators and put Ah Tam’s code down here—V-1–3. This’s top secret and filed in the safe.” His eyes became very hard. Wu almost quailed. “I repeat: You’d better believe that a closed mouth catches no flies and that everything in SI, everything that you have been party to today is top secret.”
“Yes sir. Yes, you can count on me, sir.”
“You’d better also remember that SI’s a law unto itself, the governor and the minister in London. Only. Good old English law and fair play and normal police codes do not apply to SB or SI—habeas corpus, open trials and appeal. In an SI case there’s no trial, no appeal and it’s a deportation order to the PRC or Taiwan, whichever’s worse. Understand?”
“Yes sir. I want to be part of SI, sir, so you can believe me. I’m not one to slake my thirst on poison,” Wu assured him, sick with hope.
“Good. For the next few days you’re confined to this HQ.”
Wu’s mouth dropped open. “But sir, my … yes sir.”
Armstrong led the way out and locked the door after him. He gave the key and the form to an SI agent who was on guard at the main desk. “I’ll keep the reel for the moment. I’ve signed the receipt.”
“You’ll take care of Constable Wu? He’s our guest for a couple of days. Start getting his particulars—he’s been very very very helpful. I’m recommending him for SI.”
“Yes sir.”
He left them and went to the elevator and got out on his floor, a sick-sweet-sour taste of apprehension in his mouth. SI interrogations were anathema to him. He hated them though they were fast, efficient and always obtained results. He preferred to have an old-fashioned battle of wits, to use patience and not these new, modern psychological tools. “It’s all bloody dangerous if you ask me,” he muttered, walking along his corridor, the faint musty smell of headquarters in his nostrils, hating Crosse and SI and everything it stood for, hating the knowledge he had unearthed. His door was open. “Oh hi, Brian,” he said, closing it, his face grim. Brian Kwok had his feet up on the desk and was idly reading one of the Communist Chinese morning papers, the windows rain-streaked behind him. “What’s new?”
“There’s quite a big piece on Iran,” his friend said, engrossed in what he was reading. “It says ‘capitalist CIA overlords in conjunction with the tyrant Shah have put down a people’s revolutionary war in Azerbaijan, thousands have been killed’ and so on. I don’t believe all that but it looks as though the CIA and the Ninety-second Airborne have defused that area and the Yanks have done right for once.”
“Lot of bloody good that’ll do!”
Brian Kwok looked up. His smile faded. “What’s up?”
“I feel rotten.” Armstrong hesitated. “I sent for a couple of beers, then we’ll have lunch. How about a curry? All right?”
“Fine, but if you’re feeling rotten let’s skip lunch.”
“No, it’s not that sort of rotten. I … I just hate doing white interrogations … gives me the creeps.”
Brian Kwok stared at him. “You did the old amah there? What the hell for?”
“It was Crosse’s order. He’s a bastard!”
Brian Kwok put his paper down. “Yes he is, and I’m sure I’m right about him,” he said softly.
“Not now, Brian, over lunch maybe but not now. Christ, I need a drink! Bloody Crosse, and bloody SI! I’m not SI and yet he acts like I’m one of his.”
“Oh? But you’re coming on the 16/2 this evening. I thought you’d been seconded.”
“He didn’t mention it. What’s on?”
“If he didn’t mention it, I’d better not.”
“Of course.” It was normal SI procedure, for security, to minimize the spread of information so that even highly trustworthy agents working on the same case might not be given all the facts. “I’m bloody not going to be seconded,” Armstrong said grimly, knowing that if Crosse ordered it there was nothing he could do to prevent it. “Is the intercept to do with Sevrin?”
“I don’t know. I hope so.” Brian Kwok studied him then smiled. “Cheer up, Robert, I’ve some good news for you,” he said and Armstrong noticed again how handsome his friend was, strong white teeth, golden skin, firm jaw, dancing eyes with that devil-may-care confidence about him.
“You’re a good-looking sod,” he said. “What good news? You leaned on friend One Foot at the Para Restaurant and he’s given you the first four winners for Saturday?”
“Dreamer! No, it’s about those files you snatched yesterday at Bucktooth Lo’s and passed over to Anti-Corruption. Remember? From Photographer Ng?”
“Oh? Oh yes.”
“It seems our fair-weather American-Chinese guest, Thomas K. K. Lim, who’s ‘somewhere in Brazil,’ is quite a character. His files were golden. Very golden indeed! And in English, so our Anti-Corruption fellows went through them like a dose of salts. You came up with treasure!”
“He’s connected with Tsu-yan?” Armstrong asked, his mind diverted immediately.
“Yes. And a lot of other people. Very important people, ve—”
“Banastasio?”
Brian Kwok smiled with his mouth. “Vincenzo Banastasio himself. That ties John Chen, the guns, Tsu-yan, Banastasio and Peter Marlowe’s theory nicely.”
“Bartlett?”
“Not yet. But Marlowe knows someone who knows too much that we don’t know. I think we should investigate him. Will you?”
“Oh yes. What else about the papers?”
“Thomas K. K. Lim’s a Catholic, a third-generation American-Chinese who’s a magpie. He collects all sorts of inflammatory correspondence, letters, notes, memos, etcetera.” Brian Kwok smiled his humorless smile again. “Our Yankee friends are worse than we thought.”
“For instance?”
“For instance, a certain well-known, well-connected New England family’s involved with certain generals, U.S. and Vietnamese, in building several very large, very unnecessary U.S.A.F. bases in Vietnam—very profitably—for them.”
“Hallelujah! Names?”
“Names, ranks and serial numbers. If the principals knew friend Thomas had it documented, it would send a shudder of horror down the Hallowed Halls of Fame, the Pentagon and various expensive smoke-filled rooms.”
Armstrong grunted. “He’s the middleman?”
“Entrepreneur he calls himself. Oh he’s on very good terms with lots of notables. American, Italian, Vietnamese, Chinese, both sides of the fence. The papers document the whole fraud. Another scheme’s to channel millions of U.S. funds into another phony Vietnam aid program. 8 million to be exact—one is already paid over to them. Friend Lim even discussed how the one million h’eung yau’s to be diverted to Switzerland.”
“Could we make it stick?”
“Oh yes, if we catch Thomas K. K. Lim and if we wanted to make it stick. I asked Crosse but he just shrugged and said it wasn’t our affair, that if Yanks wanted to cheat their government, that’s up to them.” Brian Kwok smiled but his eyes didn’t. “It’s powerful info, Robert. If even part became common knowledge it’d create one helluva stinky stink right up to the top.”
“Is he going to pass it on to Rosemont? Leak it?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. In one way he’s right. It’s nothing to do with us. Bloody stupid to put it all down! Stupid! They deserve to get chopped! When you’ve a minute read the papers, they’re juicy.”
“Any connection between Lim and those other villains? Bucktooth Lo and the other man? Are they stealing CARE funds?”
“Oh yes, must be, but all their files’re in Chinese so it’ll take longer to pin them.” Brian Kwok added strangely, “Curious that Crosse sniffed that one out, almost as though he knew there’d be a connection.” He dropped his voice. “I know I’m right about him.”
The silence gathered. Armstrong’s mouth felt parched and tasted bad. He pried his eyes off the rain and looked at Brian Kwok.
“What’ve you got?”
“You know that vice-consul in the U.S. Consulate—the homo, the one who’s selling visas?”
“What about him?”
“Last month Crosse had dinner with him. In his flat.”
Armstrong rubbed his face nervously. “That proves nothing. Listen, tomorrow, tomorrow we get the files. Tomorrow Sind—”
“Perhaps we won’t get to read them.”
“Personally I don’t give a shit. That’s SI business and I’m CID and that’s wh—”
A knock stopped him. The door opened. A Chinese waiter came in with a tray and two tankards of cold beer and beamed toothily. “Afternoon, sah,” he said, offering one to Brian Kwok. He gave the other to Armstrong and went out.
“Good luck,” Armstrong said, hating himself. He drank deeply then went to his safe to lock the tape away.
Brian Kwok studied him. “You sure you’re all right, old chum?”
“Yes, yes of course.”
“In the beginning she told lots of lies, lots of them. And then the truth. All of it. I’ll tell you over lunch, Brian. You know how it is—you catch the lies eventually, if you’re patient. I’m fed up with lies.” Armstrong finished his beer. “Christ, I needed that.”
“Do you want mine too? Here.”
“No, no thanks, but it’s me for a whiskey and soda before curry and maybe another one. Drink up and let’s get the show on the road.”
Brian Kwok put his half-empty tankard down. “That’s enough for me.” He lit a cigarette. “How’s the nonsmoking going?”
“Rough.” Armstrong watched him inhale deeply. “Anything on Voranski? Or his assassins?”
“They vanished into thin air. We’ve got their photos so we’ll catch them, unless they’re over the border.”
“Or in Taiwan.”
After a pause, Brian Kwok nodded. “Or Macao or North Korea, Vietnam or wherever. The minister’s hopping mad with Crosse over Voranski, so’s MI-6, so’s the CIA. The CIA top echelon in London have been chewing the minister’s tail so he’s passing it on. We’d better get those buggers before Rosemont or we’ll lose all face. Rosemont’s under fire too to come up with their heads. I hear he’s got every man out looking, thinking it’s to do with Sevrin, and the carrier. He’s petrified there’s going to be an incident involving the nuclear carrier.” Brian Kwok added, his voice hardening, “Bloody stupid to offend the PRC by bringing her here. That monster’s an open invitation to every agent in Asia.”
“If I was Soviet I’d try to infiltrate her. SI’s probably trying right now. Crosse’d love to have a plant aboard. Why not?” The big man watched the smoke curling. “If I was Nationalist perhaps I’d plant a few mines and blame the PRC—or vice versa and blame Chiang Kai-shek.”
“That’s what the CIA’d do to get everyone hopping mad at China.”
“Come off it, Brian!”
Brian Kwok took a last sip then got up. “That’s enough for me. Come on.”
“Just a moment.” Armstrong dialed. “This’s Armstrong, set up another session at 1700 hours for V-11–3. I’ll want…” He stopped, seeing his friend’s eyes flutter, then glaze and he caught him easily as he fell and let him slump back in the chair. Out of himself, almost watching himself, he put the phone back on its cradle. Now there was nothing for him to do but wait.
I’ve done my job, he thought.
The door opened. Crosse came in. Behind him were three plain-clothed SI agents, all British, all senior agents, all taut-faced and tense. Quickly one of the men put a thick black hood over Brian Kwok’s head, picked him up easily and went out, the others following.
Now that it was done Robert Armstrong felt nothing, no remorse or shock or anger. Nothing. His head told him that there was no mistake though his head still told him equally that his friend of almost twenty years could not possibly be a Communist mole. But he was. The proof was irrefutable. The evidence he had found proved conclusively that Brian Kwok was the son of Fang-ling Wu, Ah Tam’s old employer, when according to his birth certificate and personal records his mother and father were supposed to have been surnamed Kwok and murdered by Communists in Canton in ’43. One of the photographs had showed Brian Kwok standing beside a tiny Chinese lady in front of a pharmacy at a crossroads in a village. The quality was poor but more than good enough to read the characters of the shop sign and to recognize a face, his face. In the background was an ancient car. Behind it stood a European, his face half turned away. Spectacles Wu had identified the store as the pharmacy at the crossroads in Ning-tok, the property of the Tokling Wu family. Ah Tam had identified the woman as her mistress.
“And the man? Who’s the man standing beside her?”
“Oh that’s her son, Lord. I’ve told you. He’s Second Son Chu-toy. Now he lives with the foreign devils across the sea in the north, the north of the Land of the Golden Mountains,” the old woman had whimpered from the white room.
“You’re lying again.”
“Oh no, Lord, he’s her son, Chu-toy. He’s her Second Son and he was born in Ning-tok and I helped deliver him with my own hands. He was Mother’s second born who went away as a child….”
“He went away? He went where?”
“To … to the Rain Country, then to the Golden Mountains. Now he has a restaurant and two sons.… He’s a businessman there and he came to see Father.… Father was dying then and he came as a dutiful son should come but then he went away and Mother wept and wept….”
“How often did he visit his parents?”
“Oh, it was only once, Lord, only that once. Now he lives so far away, in such a far place, such a far place but he came as a dutiful son should and then he left. It was just by chance I saw him, Lord. Mother had sent me to visit some relations in the next village but I was lonely and I came back early and saw him.… It was just before he left. The young Master left in a foreign devil car….”
“Where did he get the motorcar? It was his?”
“I don’t know, Lord. There was no car in Ning-tok. Even the village committee did not possess one, even Father who was the pharmacist in our village. Poor Father who died in such pain. He was a member of the committee.… They left us alone, Chairman Mao’s people, the Outsiders.… Yes they did because though Father was an intellectual and pharmacist he was always a secret Mao supporter though I never knew, Lord, I swear I never knew. Chairman Mao’s people left us alone, Lord.”
“What was his name, the son of your Mistress? The man in the photo?” he had repeated, trying to shake her.
“Chu-toy Wu, Lord, he was her second born.… I remember when he was sent from Ning-tok to … to this foul place, this Fragrant Harbor. He was five or six and he was sent to an uncle here and—”
“What was the uncle’s name?”
“I don’t know, Lord, I was never told, I only remember Mother weeping and weeping when Father sent him away to school.… Can I go home please now, I’m tired, please….”
“When you tell us what we want to know. If you tell us the truth.”
“Oh I tell you the truth, anything anything….”
“He was sent to school in Hong Kong? Where?”
“I don’t know, Lord, my Mistress never said, only to school and then she put him out of her mind and so did I, oh yes, it was better, because he was gone forever, you know always second sons must leave….”
“When did Chu-toy Wu return to Ning-tok?”
“It was some years ago when Father was dying. He only returned that once, it was only once, Lord, don’t you remember me saying, I remember saying that. Yes it was the once of the photo. Mother insisted on the photo and wept and begged him to have one taken with her.… Surely she felt the hand of death on her now that Father had gone and she was truly alone … Oh she wept and wept so Chu-toy let her have her way as a dutiful son should and my Mistress was so pleased….”
“And the barbarian in the photo, who is he?” The man was half turned around, in the background, not easy to recognize if you did not know him, standing beside the car that was parked beside the pharmacy. He was a tall man, European, crumpled clothes and nondescript.
“I don’t know, Lord. He was the driver and he drove Chu-toy away but the committee of the village and Chu-toy himself bowed many times to him and it was said he was very important. He was the first foreign devil I had ever seen, Lord….”
“And the people in the other photograph? Who’re they?” This photograph was ancient, almost sepia and showed a self-conscious couple in ill-fitting wedding clothes staring bleakly at the camera.
“Oh of course they’re Father and Mother, Lord. Don’t you remember me saying that? I told you many times. That’s Mother and Father. His name was Ting-top Wu and his tai-tai my Mistress was Fang-ling….”
“I don’t know, Lord, it was just stuck to the photo so I left it there. Mother had stuck it there so I left it. What should I want with foreign devil nonsense or writing….”
Robert Armstrong sighed. The yellowed clipping was from a Chinese newspaper of Hong Kong, dated July 16, 1937, that told of three Chinese youths who had done so well in their term examinations that they had been granted scholarships by the Hong Kong Government to an English public school. Kar-shun Kwok was the first named. Kar-shun was Brian Kwok’s formal Chinese name.
“You did very well, Robert,” Crosse said, watching him.
“Did I?” he replied through the fog of his misery.
“Yes, very well. You came to me at once with the evidence, you’ve followed instructions perfectly and now our mole is safely asleep.” Crosse lit a cigarette and sat at the desk. “I’m glad you drank the right beer. Did he suspect anything?”
“No. No I don’t think so.” Armstrong tried to get a hold on himself. “Would you excuse me, sir, please. I feel filthy. I’ve … I’ve got to get a shower. Sorry.”
“Sit down a minute, please. Yes, you must be tired. Very tiring, these sort of things.”
Christ, Armstrong wanted to shout in anguish, it’s all impossible! Impossible for Brian to be a deep-cover agent but it all fits. Why else would he have a completely different name, different birth certificate? Why else such a carefully constructed cover story—that his parents were killed in Canton during the war, murdered by Communists? Why else would he risk sneaking secretly back to Ning-tok, risking everything so carefully constructed over thirty years unless his own father was really dying? And if those facts are true then others automatically follow: That he must have been in continual contact with the Mainland to know about his father’s approaching death, that as a superintendent of H.K. Police he must be totally persona grata with the PRC to be allowed in secretly and allowed out secretly again. And if he was persona grata then he must be one of them, groomed over the years, nurtured over the years. “Christ,” he muttered, “he’d’ve become assistant commissioner easily, perhaps even commissioner … !”
“What do you suggest now, Robert?” Crosse asked, his voice soft.
Armstrong tore his mind into the present, his training overcoming his anguish. “Check backwards. We’ll find the link. Yes. His father was a tiny Commie cog but a Ning-tok cog nonetheless, so the Hong Kong relation he was sent to would be also. They’d’ve kept a tight rein on Brian in England, in Canada, here, wherever—so easy to do that, so easy to feed a hatred for quai lohs, so easy for a Chinese to hide such a hatred. Aren’t they the most patient and secretive people on earth? Yes, you check back and eventually you find the link and find the truth.”
“Robert, you’re right again. But first you begin his interrogation.”
Armstrong felt a chill of horror rush into his stomach. “Yes,” he said.
“I’m delighted to tell you that that’s your honor.”
“No.”
“You’ll oversee the interrogation. No Chinese in this, just senior British agents. Except Wu, Spectacles Wu. Yes, he’ll be a help—just him, he’s good that fellow.”
“I can’t … I won’t.”
Crosse sighed and opened the large manila envelope he had brought with him. “What do you think of this?”
Shakily Armstrong took the photograph. It was an eight-by-ten blowup of a tiny section of the Ning-tok photograph, the European’s head that was part of the background beside the car. The man’s face was half turned and blurred, the grain from the magnification dense. “I … I’d say he saw the camera and turned or was turning to avoid being photographed.”
“My thought too. Do you recognize him?”
Armstrong peered at the face, trying to clear his head. “No.”
“Voranski? Our dead Soviet friend?”
“Perhaps. No, no I don’t think so.”
“How about Dunross, Ian Dunross?”
More shaken, Armstrong took it to the light. “Possible but … improbable. If … if it’s Dunross then … you think he’s the Sevrin plant? Impossible.”
“Improbable, not impossible. He’s very good friends with Brian.” Crosse took the photo back and looked at it. “Whoever he is he’s familiar, what you can see of him, but I can’t place the man or where I’ve seen him. Yet. Well, never mind. Brian will remember. Yes.” His voice became silky. “Oh, don’t worry, Robert, I’ll set Brian up for you but you’re the one for the coup de grâce. I want to know who this fellow is very quickly, in fact I want to know everything Brian knows very, very quickly.”
“No. Get someone els—”
“Oh Robert, don’t be so bloody boring! Chu-toy Wu, alias Brian Kar-shun Kwok, is an enemy mole who’s eluded us for years, that’s all.” Crosse’s voice cut into Armstrong. “By the way, you’re on the 16/2 tonight at 6:30 and you’re also seconded to SI. I’ve already talked to the commissioner.”
“No, and I can’t interrog—”
“Oh but my dear fellow you can and you will. You’re the only one who can, Brian’s far too clever to be caught like an amateur. Of course I’m as astounded he’s the mole as you are, as the governor was!”
“He betrayed Fong-fong, another friend of yours, eh? He must have leaked the AMG papers. It must be he who’s furnished all our dossiers to the enemy and all the other information. God knows what knowledge he’s had access to on the General Staff Course and all the other courses.” Crosse puffed his cigarette, his face ordinary. “In SI he has the highest security clearances and I certainly agree he was being groomed for high office—I was even going to make him my number two! So we’d better find out very quickly everything about him. Curious, we were looking for a Soviet mole and it turns out we have a PRC one instead.” He stubbed out the cigarette. “I’ve ordered a Classification One interrogation on him to begin at once.”
The color drained out of Armstrong’s face and he stared at Crosse, hating him openly. “You’re a bastard, a fucking rotten bastard.”
Crosse laughed gently. “True.”
“Are you a fag too?”
“Perhaps. Perhaps only occasionally and only when it pleases me. Perhaps.” Crosse watched him calmly. “Come now, Robert, do you really think I could be blackmailed? Me? Blackmailed? Really, Robert, don’t you understand life? I hear homosexuality is quite normal, even in high places.”
“Is it?”
“Nowadays, yes, quite normal, almost fashionable, for some. Oh yes, yes it is, my dear fellow, and it’s practiced, from time to time, by a most catholic grouping of VIPs everywhere. Even in Moscow.” Crosse lit another cigarette. “Of course, one should be discreet, selective and preferably uncommitted, but a penchant for the peculiar could have all sorts of advantages in our profession. Couldn’t it?”
“So you justify any sort of evil, any sort of shit, murder, cheating, lying in the name of the bloody SI—is that it?”
“Robert, I justify nothing, I know you’re distraught but I think that’s enough of that.”
“You can’t force me into SI. I’ll resign.”
Crosse laughed scornfully. “But my dear fellow, what about all your debts? What about the 40,000 by Monday?” He got up, his eyes granite. His voice was hardly changed but now there was a vicious edge to it. “We’re both over twenty-one, Robert. Break him, and do it very quickly.”