‘He was all right,’ said Charlie. It didn’t seem much of an epitaph for someone who’d worked his balls off for the service since he’d literally been a kid. Charlie was glad Cartright didn’t waste time asking questions to which he didn’t have answers.
Cartright looked at the woman, recognizing the difficulty of full conversation in front of her. ‘London want to talk. Urgently,’ was all he allowed himself.
Charlie wanted to talk to them, but not yet: postponing confrontations seemed to be a growing habit, he thought, remembering his initial reluctance in Tokyo. He said: ‘More important things to do first. We’ve got to stay clean, as far as local law is concerned. We ran out on the Hyatt, in Macao, and that’s going to show up when the investigation starts and puts Harry there, as well. I want you to go back and settle the account: just ours, of course. There was no obvious contact between Harry and us – only in our rooms – and I don’t want any connection established. Cash, no traceable credit cards.’
‘They’ll still have names, from registration records.’
‘Along with a hundred others,’ said Charlie. ‘They won’t mean a thing as long as there’s nothing suspicious like skipping out on a bill.’
Cartright nodded and said: ‘London was very insistent.’
‘I’ll let them know you passed the message on,’ promised Charlie.
Cartright looked uncertain, but didn’t press the argument. ‘What after Macao?’ he said.
Christ knows, thought Charlie. He said: ‘Back here. And be careful. There’ve been enough casualties.’
After Cartright left, Irena said: ‘He seems very young.’
‘I always think that about policemen in the street. Must be age,’ said Charlie. He’d meant it as a remark against himself but it didn’t come out as he intended. She didn’t seem offended. He wondered how old she was: late thirties perhaps, forty top whack.
‘Thank you, for what you’ve done.’
‘You already thanked me,’ reminded Charlie.
‘I mean you don’t have to go on looking after me so closely. I’m feeling much better now. I’ll be all right.’
Was she worried about both of them sharing the same room? She hadn’t seemed to mind the reference to age and Charlie wondered if she’d be upset by the assurance that the last thing he had in mind was making any sort of sexual approach: the handholding had been part of the job, nothing else. He said: ‘I wasn’t strictly honest with you, that first night at the Mandarin, when you asked me if everything had gone wrong and I said no.
‘He said London wanted you, urgently.’
‘They want you more urgently,’ said Charlie. ‘Cartright won’t be long. When it’s not me, it’ll be him.’
In fact he took longer than Charlie expected, so that it was already genuinely dark by the time the man got back to the Kowloon hotel: the single lamp was like a match in a coalmine.
‘Any problems?’ asked Charlie. There were enough, surely.
‘None at all,’ said Cartright. He handed Charlie the hotel receipt and said: ‘London will want this.’
Harkness really had the poor bugger trained, thought Charlie. He said: ‘Too late to speak to them now.’
‘The time difference is in our favour,’ disputed Cartright.
‘I meant too late from this end,’ said Charlie, still avoiding any mention of Chung Hom Kok: avoiding London, too. To Irena he said: ‘Sure you’re feeling better?’
‘Positive,’ she said at once, brightly.
‘Good,’ said Charlie. ‘Then we can go out to eat.’
They went to the restaurant Charlie had already identified, just across the road from the hotel. It was bare- floored and the tables were formica-topped, and Charlie recognized a Chinese restaurant that Chinese used and decided they’d scored, which they had. It was Sichuan: Charlie had Governor’s Chicken and Cartright chose Ma-Pa Do Fu. Irena only picked at her fish, the brightness no longer there. Any normal conversation was practically impossible, although Cartright tried and Charlie did his best, and there were still long periods of echoing silence between them. But then, reflected Charlie, it was hardly a social event. They went directly back to the hotel, where Cartright had a room on the floor above theirs. At the door to their room, Irena stopped and said: ‘I really don’t think this is necessary.’
‘I do,’ insisted Charlie. He opened the door and went in, refusing a corridor argument.
Irena followed and said: ‘Richard’s room is just one floor up.’
Cartright stood uncertainly at the door, looking between the two of them, unsure what – if any – contribution to make.
‘Irena,’ said Charlie, with forced patience, ‘I’m sharing your room, not your bed. An aeroplane you should have been on was blown out of the sky and this morning someone I liked a lot was killed, not more than a foot from where you stood …’ If it made her frightened, so what: frightened she was more malleable. He picked up: ‘I told you this afternoon I was going to keep you safe; and that means my staying in your room so let’s cut the shit. In shit, I’m an expert.’
She looked down at herself, smoothing her hands over her pink-patterned suit. ‘I don’t have anything to change into.’
Charlie sighed: on top of everything else, he had to get the KGB’s original Vestal Virgin. He’d been sure there weren’t any. He said: ‘I’ll stay outside, while you get into bed.’
In the corridor it was the first time Charlie and Cartright had been alone. Cartright said at once: The Americans insist they haven’t got her husband. A navy ship isn’t possible: there isn’t one for a thousand miles. So it’s got to be a plane again; the troop leader’s name is Clarke. Due early tomorrow morning: there wasn’t a definite time when I spoke to the signals station. And London are as mad as hell about that, incidentally: about a lot of things.’
‘You know the American expression SNAFU?’ asked Charlie, wearily.
‘No,’ said Cartright.
‘Situation normal: all fucked up.’
‘This is serious, Charlie.’
‘It was serious when Harry Lu got a bullet in his eye.’
‘Sorry,’ said Cartright. He looked at the closed door and said: ‘She’s not easy, is she?’
‘Easier than she was,’ assured Charlie.
‘Why don’t I spell you, during the night?’
There wasn’t any point in going absolutely without sleep, Charlie thought: he’d done enough of that. ‘Thanks,’ he accepted. He knocked on the door and said: ‘You ready?’
Irena was lying with the grey covers up to her chin and Charlie wondered again about companions for the bathroom cockroaches. He put his hand against his ribs and said: ‘You really shouldn’t worry. Rape always gives me a stitch in my side. Just here.’
‘Where are you going to be?’
It was a good question, in a shitty room like this. Charlie perched at the bottom on the bed, on the side opposite to her and with his back uncomfortably against the metal bed-edge. ‘This far away.’
Irena smiled, an expression difficult to define, and said: i suppose I could spare a pillow.’
Charlie wasn’t at all sure he wanted one, from a bed like that, but he said ‘Thanks’ and she manoeuvred one from beneath the sheets, still managing to keep herself covered. He made a support for his back and tried to get comfortable.
‘I want the light left on,’ she said.
Usually the request was made in different circumstances, thought Charlie. He said: ‘Richard is relieving me, incidentally. Don’t panic at someone else coming into the room.’
She turned heavily on to her side, away from the light, bringing the covers further up so that he could not see her face. Charlie gazed around the decayed room and then at his watch: Christ, it hadn’t even gone ten! Should have brought a bottle back from the restaurant: the rice wine had been good, like the food. Pity Irena hadn’t enjoyed it. Her breathing seemed heavier, but Charlie didn’t think she was really asleep. Maybe a good idea he hadn’t brought any wine back. Better that he sat there, boringly sober, and started all over again, from that moment
