“Somebody talked, but they want a cut.”
“Two million gives you something to play with.”
“I need some more.”
“No.”
Kan examined him for signs of weakness.
Chan remained cool, immobile and secretly intrigued. Two million dollars had focused the foot soldier’s mind in a way that he found miraculous. Most killers had the attention span of goldfish; their crimes were the final expression of a buildup of rage or avarice when the personality took a backseat to primal, preintellectual man. Watching Kan conspire with something akin to applied intelligence, Chan wondered what could not be achieved in criminal reformation with the right approach. At two million a shot, though, it was cheaper to let them go on killing each other.
Kan sighed. “You’re hard.”
“I should never be let loose on sensitive types like you.”
Kan blinked. “This is no joke. The guy I spoke to is very scared. Fear is expensive to overcome.”
“I said no.”
Kan’s face expressed deep hurt. He leaned forward. “I’m betraying my own people. The Sun Yee On were involved.”
Chan took a long draw on his cigarette. Truly the power of money was boundless. “Another two hundred thousand, and that’s it.”
Kan smiled. “Okay. This is it. I know what happened.”
Chan nodded. “That’s good.”
“So, how about an advance?”
“Definitely not. You know the formula: Information leading to the arrest-”
“Okay, okay. So, three people were minced up alive by triads.”
“You don’t say.”
Kan’s whisper was fraught with sincerity. “It was a subcontract. Sun Yee On got the order, and 14K carried it out. Ever heard of anything like that before?”
Chan shook his head.
“And no foot soldiers were involved. It was top secret. Red Poles did all the work. Generals from both sides showed up to make sure it all went smoothly.”
Clearly Kan was overawed. It was as if Roosevelt and Churchill had attended at an Allied ambush.
“Where did it happen?”
“New Territories. West. I’m going to find out exactly where and take you. There’s a complication, though. Some people are hiding out up there. I’m not too clear on the details.”
Chan masked the sudden increase in his interest with a long draw on the cigarette. “You brought me here to tell me you’re not too clear?”
Kan lowered his voice still further. “No. I brought you here to arrange a rendezvous. Here’s a paper with five addresses, numbered one to five. When I phone you, I’ll just say a time and number and hang up. That’s where you’ll pick me up. Get it?”
Chan took the sheet of paper and looked at Kan. He was finally absorbing Kan’s main message: The killer was scared.
“And you show up alone. In a car alone. If not, it’s all off.”
Chan folded the paper, put it in a pocket. “Whatever you say.”
“I’m going now. You stay for another twenty minutes. When you leave, try to look like you had a good time. Frankly, you always seem like you’ve just spent twenty years in a monastery. Kind of dried up like a prune.”
“I’ll try. I just don’t have your way with women.”
Kan accepted the homage solemnly as he stepped back across the line between the two rooms. Chan watched him push the folding screen back into place. When he was sure that Kan had left, he took out the Sony Dictaphone, laid it on the bed. He needed another cigarette before he could face the grille. He lit up, switched on the machine.
“File one-two-eight/mgk/HOM/STC Memorandum to be classified secret and forwarded by hand to Commissioner Tsui and copied to the political adviser Mr. Milton Cuthbert. At nine P.M. on fifteenth May 1997 I attended at a meeting in a well-known villa in Lan Fong Road, Hong Kong Island, with informant Kan, a foot soldier in the Sun Yee On Triad Society. It is possible that Kan will be able to lead me to the present location of suspects Clare Coletti, Yu Ningkun and Mao Zingfu…”
49
Unlike the Jackson Room, the Red Room of the Hong Kong Club accepted women guests at lunchtime. Old hands still affected to grumble, but there had been surprisingly little opposition from the membership when the rules had changed. Expensive wives demanded a place to be seen at lunchtime, and some husbands found it convenient to discuss domestic issues over a civilized lunch in the club. As a result, the tables were spaced farther apart than in the Jackson Room, and there really was little danger of being overheard. The hors d’oeuvres trolley was another good reason for having a business lunch in the Red Room; it was the best in Hong Kong.
Not that Cuthbert had had much choice. The commander in chief of British forces in Hong Kong, Major General Horace Grant, rarely accepted a lunch appointment anywhere else. There was a rumor that his wife had ordered him to boycott the Jackson Room because of the ban on women.
Cuthbert was early, knowing the “Chief” would be on time. Without needing to ask for one, the diplomat had been allocated a table by the window and was shown to a seat by the maitre d’. From the seat he faced the room. He knew that the chief would sit next to him, in the other seat next to the window, also facing the room.
The political adviser confessed to himself that he was a touch nervous. Grant was not a man to be persuaded into or out of any kind of decision. Nor was he someone who gave a damn for Cuthbert’s position, reputation or erudition. He came himself from Northern Irish army stock. Contempt for diplomats was a family tradition. A Grant had lost his life along with most of his regiment 150 years ago in some interminable Kabul siege that was supposed to be the fault of the Foreign Office at the time. The Proestant Northern Irish were almost Chinese in their ability to hold historical grudges. One card that Cuthbert had to play, though, mightip the balance. For once it was the diplomat who was asking for action.
The chief appeared at the door in the company of the ma?tre d’ and, seeing Cuthbert, strode briskly over, nodding here and there to people who wanted to be seen saying hello to him. Cuthbert stood up, and they shook hands.
“So kind of you to come,” Cuthbert said as they sat down.
“Not a bit. Good lunch, good company-an excuse to drop in on the governor, now I’m in Central.” He smiled. Cuthbert smiled back, giving the corners of his mouth a slightly humble downturn to acknowledge the subtle assertion of rank. Only the chief had the right to “drop in” on the governor; lesser mortals, the political adviser, for example, needed appointments.
They both ordered Bloody Marys. Cuthbert sipped his while Grant chewed for a moment on the stick of celery that came with it. Cuthbert adapted to his guest’s military time scale. With a fellow diplomat he probably would not have come to business until the cheese course; with Grant it was important not to lose the general’s interest. Even the best soldiers tended to be cursed with an abbreviated attention span. On the other hand, it would be a mistake to plunge in like an amateur. They talked about people they knew, cocktail parties they had both recently attended, the state of the governor’s yacht, troop movements in southern China, cricket scores. Cuthbert came to the point when the chief finished his Bloody Mary, said “ah” loudly and let the coversation lapse.
“I asked you to lunch, General, because I thought we might discuss a new development in that business with the trunk.”
“Yes?”
“Perhaps you heard that Chief Inspector Chan is making progress?”
“So I’m told. Damned good man, Chan, from what I hear.”
