Ahead, to their right, the massive Connaught Centre rose with its hundreds of porthole-like windows, making it look as though it had been designed by an optician; and behind that the almost completed glass triple-towers of Exchange Square. The traffic was still as heavy as the heat outside, while the sidewalks and futuristic linking bridges over the main roads were crammed with scurrying people. On the left he caught sight, through Chater Square, of the huge new Hong Kong and Shanghai Bank Building erected like a large Leggo kit on four great tall cylinders.
Then they were pulling up in front of the main doors of the Mandarin which, next to the high-rise opulence, appeared almost insignificant. The impression vanished when they stepped through the glass doors into the main lobby adorned with crystal chandeliers, Italian marble and onyx, and on one wall detailed gilded wood carvings.
Ebbie’s eyes widened. ‘This is really fantastic, James,’ she began, then took in a sharp breath.
Bond, who had been steering her towards the black-suited Chinese gentlemen at reception, saw her eyes narrow as she peered across the marbled floor at the concierge’s desk.
‘What is it?’ he asked quietly.
‘Swift,’ she breathed, ‘Swift’s here. I just saw him.’
‘Where?’ They had almost reached the main reception desk.
‘Over there.’ She nodded towards the far end of the lobby. ‘He was there. Typical of him. He was always a – how do you say it – will o’ the wisp?’
Bond nodded. It was a good name for Swift, he thought, as he began filling in the registration form. Swift had always been a will o’ the wisp; a tortured soul trapped between the heaven and hell leading people to destruction. His expertise in handling agents in the field had led many members of enemy intelligence services to their downfall.
Instantly the contradictions and hidden secrets of Cream Cake confronted Bond again. M had asked him to take on a job which, because of its delicacy, could not be an official operation. Yet there were official aspects. Already the conviction that he was involved because someone in Cream Cake had been turned had hardened in his mind. It could be anyone: Heather? The already doubled Maxim Smolin? Jungle Baisley? Susanne Dietrich? Even Ebbie? Damn, he thought, signing the registration card, why had he been foolish enough to allow Ebbie to come with him to Hong Kong? By all the rules she should have been held in safety, yet he, James Bond, had not thought twice about her coming with him. Was it intuition or merely his growing affection for Ebbie? How foolish could a man be when led by his emotions? But then, he had not been led by anything. Ebbie had, in a manner of speaking, been foisted on him. And now there was Swift. Could Swift be the key? Hardly.
‘If you will follow me, Mr Boldman, Mrs Boldman.’
Bond realised that the under manager was repeating his courteous words.
‘Sorry. Of course.’
He snapped out of the reverie and taking Ebbie’s arm, followed the man carrying their papers and room key. They went towards the far end of the lobby past the concierge’s desk, turning left to the elevators.
‘Tell me if you spot him again,’ Bond whispered and Ebbie nodded.
Around them the hotel was functioning with a disciplined ease and efficiency. Gold-jacketed page boys moved swiftly with fixed smiles; one of them wearing a form of skull cap, setting him apart from the rest, marched through the lobby bearing a tinkling bell-hung board displaying the fact that he was looking for a Mrs David Davies. An American couple argued softly near the elevators: ‘What ya want, then? We’re in a hotel. You want we should move to a different hotel?’
The elevator lifted them imperceptibly to the twenty-first floor, to a light and airy room, with a balcony looking out on the thousand eyes of the Connaught Centre buiding and a large part of the Harbour. Ferries, motorised junks and sampans plied their way fearlessly among the larger craft.
The under manager hovered, making certain the room was to their liking, until the room boy arrived with the luggage and asked if he could unpack for them, an offer they declined.
Once they were alone, standing close to Ebbie, Bond asked, ‘You’re sure it was Swift?’
‘Certain. God, I’m tired. But it was Swift.’
She opened the balcony windows, letting in the sound of Hong Kong’s traffic, deafeningly loud, even up on the twenty-first floor. Bond joined her on the balcony, feeling the blast of heat as he passed through the doorway. The air smelled moist, with traces of salt, spices, dust, fish and pork. Below, the traffic streamed unendingly. The water of the harbour twinkled in the morning haze, the white wakes of churning propellers now joined by the long creamy trail of a hydrofoil sweeping west. Three barges, low in the water, weighed down by containers created muddy bow waves as they were towed towards one of the world’s largest container ports.
To the left, everything was dominated by the Connaught Centre and the gigantic Exchange Square building. The complex was connected to the Mandarin side of the street by an elegant tubular pedestrian walkway. In the foreground to the right, the world-famous view of Kowloon, Hong Kong – Fragrant Harbour – stretched before them. A pair of helicopters swept down, one hovering while the other landed at Fenwick Pier, below them to the right. The scene of buildings, ships, vehicles and helicopters had a futuristic look about it. Yet as he gazed, Bond suddenly realised that the elusive familiarity he always felt in Hong Kong came from images from the past, from Fritz Lang’s film
‘Come on,’ he said, touching Ebbie’s arm, ‘we’ve got work to do.’
‘We have to go out?’ She seemed excited at the prospect.
‘Just wear something casual.’ Bond smiled, but she did not realise that he was joking and rushed to her suitcase. ‘Jeans and a T-shirt will be fine,’ he added quickly.
He went to the bedside telephone, delving into the memory bank of telephone numbers he carried in his head. Even in Asia he had contacts outside the normal Service channels. He picked up the handset and quickly punched in the numbers. The call was picked up on the fourth ring.
‘
‘Mr Chang?’ he asked.
‘Who wants him,
‘An old friend. A friend called Predator.’
‘
‘I wish to see you.’
‘Come then. I am in my usual place. You come now,
‘Fifteen minutes, never mind.’ Bond smiled. ‘I shall have very pretty lady with me.’
‘So, times never change. My people have saying, “When man visits a friend once with woman, he seldom returns alone.” ’
‘Very profound.’ Bond smiled again. ‘Is that an old saying?’
‘About thirty second. I just make it up. Come quickly,
In another part of the Central District of Hong Kong, Big Thumb Chang put down the telephone and looked up at the man standing beside him.
‘He comes now, just as you predict; he also brings a beautiful woman, though if she is European I fail to see how she can be beautiful. You want I should do something special with him?’
‘Just do as he asks,’ the other said. He had a slow, calculating voice. ‘I shall be near. It is essential that I speak with him in private.’
Big Thumb Chang grinned, nodding like a toy with a spring in its neck.
16
SWIFT
Big Thumb Chang was so called because of a deformity to his right hand. The thumb was almost as long, and twice as thick, as his index finger. Enemies said it had grown like this from counting the large sums of paper money that came his way from many and varied business deals. He could usually be found – when there was money
