A tired old forty watt bulb that someone had forgotten to steal illuminated the tatty room. An old packing case stood in one corner and upon it sat a plastic bowl that someone had placed there to catch the drips coming from the ceiling. If they had meant to return, they had forgotten; it had gone green and overflowed some time ago, and the case beneath it was sodden and mildewed. Cracked linoleum peeled up at the edges of the walls and, where the four legs of a bed had once stood, it was worn through – no doubt, Quayle thought, due to the hard work of the occupant.
Crossing to the door, he looked into the second room, a smaller dirtier version of the first. In the corner was a pile of dried crusted faeces. Whoever had felt the need had pulled one of the magazine pictures that adorned the wall to wipe themselves. He looked at his watch. Two minutes.
He crossed back to the front door, swung it shut and switched the light off, then leant against the wall to wait. No sooner was he in position, he heard light footsteps in the hall, followed by a soft knock at the door.
Quayle remained where he was and eventually the door swung back.
Steve Chung moved through, his posture suggesting he was confused and slightly lost as it always did.
“Ah little bird. Long time no see!” He beamed at Quayle as he turned on the light. “How the fuck are you?”
Quayle crossed to him to take the offered hand. “Hi Steve. I’m fine. How’s the family?”
“Two more since you were here last. They eat me out of home and house!”
Quayle smiled at the thought. Steve Chung had six children on his last visit.
“So you like this shithole I find for you? Very desirable for whore but not for you. Let me find something else. This place seen more cock than Madame Chang Kai Chek…”
“No, it’s fine,” Quayle replied. “You want work?”
“Always!”
“It’s close to home and it’s big. You may say no.”
“I say yes! You just pay plenty!” he roared with laughter, slapping his thigh.
“Fung Wa,” Quayle said.
The smile dropped from Steve’s face. “I know you crazy. But you not that crazy, little bird. Fung Wa is bad.”
“I heard he is a respectable businessman.”
“To some. He runs for government this year. He has two halves like a dragon that has two heads. To others he is powerful gang boss!”
“His joss just ran out,” Quayle said softly. “He’s taken something of mine.”
“Something of value?”
Quayle nodded. He handed Steve a photo of Holly.
“This is what I want.”
When he had finished, Steve shook his head like he had heard something insane.
“He is not normal Joe. He has many men. He pays big money for things to go right. This is going into the mouth of the storm…”
“It will work,” Quayle said firmly. “Fung Wa has forgotten the taste of fear. He has been above it. He thinks he is invulnerable. He thinks he is safe. Now it will all come home to roost.”
“Maybe,” Steve said, shrugging. “Fung Choi.”
Quayle know those words.
Fate.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
It was seven hours before Steve contacted Quayle, who had gone to ground in a flat overlooking Happy Valley Road. He thought he had been tailed going back to the hotel. If it was a big team then he would never see all of them and, not willing to try and confirm it, he simply did what agents do who want to shake a tail.
One minute he was there; the next he had disappeared.
In fact, he had climbed into the back of a police car and flashed a Hong Kong Special Branch warrant card, one of his collection. The Chinese constable almost saluted at the sight of it but caught himself as Quayle slid down in the seat and asked to be dropped at the first quiet spot. The policeman – who had seen this kind of thing before –gave an imperceptible nod and, looking straight ahead, meandered round to the back of one of the hotels on Causeway Bay, where Quayle slid from the rear door as it was still moving. With money and papers, he could move indefinitely – so he phoned the Aberdeen Harbour safe-house and nonchalantly asked them find someone to go over and pick up his laundry.
Cockburn understood immediately and asked him to call back in an hour, then immediately dropped into business as a field controller. His agent on the ground needed support; this was how he had earned his money before the dizzy heights of the Head of Stations desk.
Chloe sat back to watch. He phoned the embassy, roused the local man and sent him down for a list of any British who had left the island in the last two days on home leave. Someone who lived near the city on the island. Forty minutes later, he had several names jotted down, amongst them the address of a homosexual gold trader who had a flat above the Happy Valley Road. Cockburn picked it straight away because people would be used to strange men arriving unannounced.
“Will you go over and water Rupert’s plants for me?” he asked when Quayle called back.
“I’ve forgotten his address,” Quayle came back.
“Oh you silly! Here I’ll read it out to you!” Cockburn really turned it on. “We haven’t got the key but I’m sure you’ll think of something. Not sure if the houseboy is coming in, so just in case...”
Great, Quayle thought when he hung up. I’ve got to break into this man’s place. I hope he doesn’t have a big dog.
In the end, he got through the locks inside a minute, pushing through into a spacious hall jammed with rare brasses and a huge delicious monster in a tub. On the wall was a small Qom rug and, for a second, Serifos flooded
