“Yes. What is it?”
“It’s to a safety-deposit box in the Bank of China. Do you know where that is?”
“I can find it.”
“It’s very close. You could walk there if you want.” Wong relayed directions. “You’ll find further instructions and the rest of your payment in the box. I look forward to meeting you finally.”
“Er, me too,” Jeinsen said. “Thank you.”
He put down the phone and rubbed his hands gleefully. Jeinsen felt like a young man again as he unpacked, freshened up, and changed clothes. In a half hour he was ready for the next great adventure in his life.
Jeinsen left the Mandarin, followed Wong’s directions, and walked south across Chater Road to Statue Square. He was impressed with the collection of fountains in the square but it was too crowded with Asian migrant workers. Apparently a lot of Filipinos and Manilans congregated there, hoping to obtain employment as maids.
The impressive HSBC bank building stood towering over the square to the south. Jeinsen skirted east beyond the monumental structure and headed southeast on the footpath along Des Voeux Road, past Chater Garden, and finally to the equally impressive Bank of China Tower. The seventy-story building, designed by Chinese-born American architect I. M. Pei, was apparently the third tallest structure in Hong Kong.
Jeinsen went inside the banking lobby, approached a teller, and showed the woman his key. “I’d like access to my safety-deposit box, please,” he said.
“May I have some identification?” the young Chinese woman asked. It seemed that everyone Jeinsen saw was Chinese. Most of the British minority that occupied the territory had left after 1997.
He showed her the new passport. She gave it a cursory glance, handed it back to him, and gave him a form. “Please fill this out and take it to the representative over there.” She pointed. Jeinsen thanked her and moved to a counter. He wrote down his new name and indicated the Mandarin Oriental as his address. When he took it to the uniformed bank employee, the man asked to see the safety-deposit key and then led him through a vault door.
The rep used a key of his own as Jeinsen twisted his key in the lock for box 139. The rep removed the box and handed it to Jeinsen, pointing to a private room. Jeinsen nodded and went inside. After shutting the door, he opened the box.
It contained HK $100,000 and a deposit slip indicating that two million more were in a special account with his name on it.
Jeinsen wanted to shout aloud. His hands trembled with excitement as he stuffed the cash into his pockets.
At the bottom of the box was a white envelope. He opened it and found another note from Mr. Wong. It instructed him to go immediately to the Purple Queen nightclub in Kowloon. There were instructions on how to take the ferry across the harbor and the address to give to a taxi driver on the other side. He was to leave nothing in the safety-deposit box and place the key and the note in his pocket.
Jeinsen was walking on clouds when he left the bank. He didn’t bother hailing a cab to take him to the Star Ferry pier. He preferred to walk, admiring the hordes of Asian people sauntering through the streets. For the first time in his life he felt superior. All these
The ferry shuttled him across Victoria Harbor to Kowloon’s Tsim Sha Tsui district. Jeinsen’s earlier elation changed when he began to walk through Hong Kong’s tourist ghetto. He found Tsim Sha Tsui crowded, energetic, and bright. It was still daylight but already the multitude of neon signs overwhelmed his senses. The streets were full of countless restaurants, pubs, clothing stores, sleazy bars, camera and electronics stores, hotels, and people. Traffic was bumper to bumper and the noise was deafening. Jeinsen suddenly felt his age.
He hailed a taxicab and gave the driver the address. The car went east past the Peninsula Hotel, recognizable by the two stone lions in front, and into what was known as Tsim Sha Tsui East, a more upscale version of its western neighbor. The buildings were more modern and there seemed to be more breathing space between them.
The taxi arrived at the Purple Queen within minutes. Jeinsen paid the driver, got out, and faced the nightclub. It was obviously an elegant establishment. The structure looked no more than ten years old and was surrounded by a series of dancing fountains. A suggestive silhouette of a nude woman was embossed on the side of the building next to the tinted glass doors. The nightclub was closed — a sign prominently read OPEN 5:00 P.M., CLOSE 5:00 A.M. Jeinsen looked at his watch and realized he hadn’t reset it for local time. Counting ahead silently, he figured it to be nearly four in the afternoon. Jeinsen tried the front door but it was locked.
He knocked loudly and waited a moment. Puzzled, he started to walk around to the side when he heard the lock disengage. A very large, intimidating Chinese man in a business suit appeared and barked, “Yes?”
“I–I—I’m here to see Mr. Wong,” Jeinsen muttered. He was suddenly very nervous.
The doorman glared at him for a couple of seconds and then nodded. He stepped aside and made way for Jeinsen to enter.
“Thank you,” the physicist said.
“Mr. Wong back here,” the big man said. “Follow me.”
The doorman led Jeinsen through the nightclub’s main floor. The place was lit as if it were about to open for business. Darkness prevailed but tasteful pin lights in the ceiling accentuated the tables and divans. Strategically placed planters held all manner of tropical flowers and plants. A large aquarium dominated one wall and a spacious bottom-lit dance floor occupied the middle of the room.
Jeinsen gawked at the furnishings as he trailed behind the big man. “Very nice place,” he said. “Does Mr. Wong own it?” The doorman ignored him.
They went through a door marked, in English and Chinese, EMPLOYEES ONLY. It opened to a dimly lit corridor lined with four doors.
“Last door on left, please,” the man said, pointing.
“Oh. Okay, thank you.” Jeinsen smiled sheepishly and went through. The door shut behind him.
Jeinsen apprehensively walked down the hall and knocked on the appropriate door.
“Come in.” Jeinsen wasn’t sure if the voice belonged to Mr. Wong. Perhaps it did. He opened the door and went inside. The room was obviously some kind of office, but it had been covered in the kind of plastic sheeting that painters use to protect furniture and carpets.
Without warning, someone standing behind the door shoved Jeinsen. The elderly scientist and U.S. government traitor fell forward to his hands and knees. His penultimate sensation was feeling the cold end of a gun barrel on the back of his head.
The last thing his brain recorded was the sound of the gunshot.
5
“Nobody reads anymore, that’s the goddamned problem!”
Harry Dagger drops a stack of books on the floor and surveys the overflowing shelves in his tiny English- language bookshop. He looks at me helplessly.
“Don’t ask me what to do,” I say.
“I stock more books than I can sell. I swear I’m going to go out of business if I don’t move some of these things. Sam, you wouldn’t want to buy a couple of cartons’ worth and I’ll gladly ship them to the States for you?”
“No, thanks, Harry. I’m afraid I have all I need,” I say as I sip the glass of Russian vodka he’s given me. I know you’re supposed to down the thing in one chug but that’s not my style. Since Harry’s an American I don’t feel the pressure to drink like the Russians.
Harry’s Bookshop, which is tucked away a few blocks northeast of Gorky Park in Moscow, is really a safe house for American intelligence agents. Harry Dagger has been operating in Moscow for nearly forty years. He was CIA during the sixties, seventies, and most of the eighties, and retired just before the collapse of the Soviet Union. Harry set up his bookshop in 1991 and never expressed a desire to leave Russia. Possessing many friends in the government, Harry has managed to keep his nose clean and run a respectable business. The authorities may or may
