moved casually through customs, His only luggage a small carry-on bag with a change of shirt, socks, and underwear and toilet articles. No pills, not even aspirin. Once inside the terminal he went to the money exchange and traded five hundred dollars for twenty-five hundred Hong Kong dollars. Then he went outside and found a taxi.
The drive to the Peninsula Hotel took only fifteen minutes. The manager, a short, stubby Oriental in a silk brocaded cheongsam, checked him in and presented him with an envelope.
‘You have a message, Mr. Bums. I believe it is a package. May I have the porter get it for you?’
‘I’ll do it myself,’ Burns said in a flat, brittle voice.
The manager rang a bell and the porter appeared and followed Burns across the lobby to the cluttered office of the concierge, where a small, middle-aged woman sat reading what appeared to be the morning paper. Burns tore open the envelope and removed a receipt and a key. He gave the receipt to the woman and received a new attache case, which he refused to let the porter carry.
His room was on the fifth floor, it was old and elegant and faced the harbour. Across it, like a jewel shining in the morning sun, was the island of Hong Kong.
‘Very nice,’ he said and got rid of the bellman with a tip. He sat on the bed and unlocked the case. Inside were a long-barrelled .22 pistol equipped with a silencer, a nylon cord four feet long, and a pair of latex surgical gloves. In the pocket at the back of the case were six bullets and a physician’s envelope containing two pills. There was also a roll of cotton swabbing.
Excellent, Burns said to himself. So far nobody had missed a beat.
Burns put on the surgical gloves and then removed the cylinder and silencer of the gun and checked it with the precision of a toolmaker, examining the barrel and firing pin before reassembling it and dry-firing it twice. It was clean and freshly oiled, although not new. Satisfied, Burns loaded the six bullets into the cylinder and replaced the gun. Then he took out the nylon cord and, wrapping it around both hands, snapped it sharply several times. He doubled the cord, tied a square knot midway between the ends, and put it back. He put one of the pills in his suit pocket and placed the other back in the envelope, took off the gloves and dropped them in the case, locked it and put it in a drawer.
He checked his watch. Eight-forty. He opened the carry- on bag and from his leather toilet kit took out a small travel clock. He set it for 11:15, then called the operator.
‘I’d like to leave a call for-eleven fifteen, A.M.,’ he said. ‘That’s two and a half hours from now.
‘Yes, sir,’ said the operator, ‘eleven-fifteen A.M.’
Then Burns loosened his tie and lay back on the bed, folded his hands across his chest and fell immediately to sleep.
At 11:25, Chan Lun Chai closed his antique shop, put a sign on the door announcing that he would be back in ten minutes, and stepped into sweltering Cat Street. Shimmering heat turned the crowded confines of the old Morlo Gai shopping district into dancing mirages as he threaded his way through the crush of Chinese nationals, tourists, and sailors, towards the phone booth half a block away.
A heavy-set Englishman, overdressed for the heat, his tie askew, and sweat pouring into his shirt collar, was bellowing into the phone while his wife, who was almost as tousled as he, waited outside the booth with her arms full of packages.
Unperturbed by the heat, Chan stood nearby, studying the window of a jade shop. He was short and wiry, a man in his mid-thirties, dressed in the traditional black mandarin jacket and matching pants. Only his glasses, which were gold-rimmed and tinted, seemed out of place.
Finally the Britisher left the booth fuming. ‘Really! They say you can’t make reservations for the Chinese Opera. Have you ever heard of such a thing? No reservations at the opera!’ They trundled off through the crowds towards Ladder Street.
Chan stepped into the booth and looked at his watch. It was exactly 11:30. Seconds later the phone rang. He answered in a slow, quiet, precise voice:
‘Royal Oriental Rug Company.’
‘May I speak to Mr. Wan, please? The voice on the other end was sharp and irritating, like the sound of firecrackers exploding.
‘Which Mr. Wan?’ Chan said.
‘George Wan.’
‘This is George Wan speaking. May I help you?’
‘This is Mr. Johnson.’
‘Welcome to Hong Kong, Mr. Johnson. Did you get the package?’
‘Excellent. Everything’s satisfactory.’
‘I am pleased,’ Chan said.
‘How about tonight?’
‘It is all arranged.’
‘Good. I should be back to you in three hours. Maybe four.’
‘I will be here. May I suggest the sooner the better. It may be difficult, locating the object you seek.’
‘I understand,’ Burns said. ‘I’ll try to call back by two- thirty.’
‘Dor jeh,’ Chan said, ‘which means “thank you”. Joy geen.’ And he hung up.
The shower and shave did not help much. Burns still felt sluggish, his senses dulled by time lag and lack of sleep. After talking to Chan he went into the bathroom and took the pill from his pocket, popped it in his mouth, and washed it down with a full glass of water. He was hardly out of the room when it hit him, a dazzling shot, like a bolt
