Dictator (22 page)

‘Johnny Zen, my man,’ he drawled when he got through. ‘Wassup?’

‘Moses? Moses Mabeki?’ asked his former LSE contemporary Zheng Junjie before breaking into laughter. ‘Holy crap, it must be, what, ten years?’

‘More,’ agreed Mabeki. ‘Lot of water flowed under my bridge. Yours too, I bet.’

‘Well, you know how it is, man. You get a proper job. You get married, have kids. Suddenly you’re an old fart. But I’m not complaining. I develop commercial property, and business has been good. How about you?’

‘Well, I have no wife, no children. But no, I am not complaining.’

‘No wife, eh? Ha! Typical Moses, too many women to choose from, I bet! So, what can I do for you, bro?’

Zheng, too, was putting on a face, a variation of the one he presented to all non-Chinese. To his parents’ generation they were all barbarians, uncivilized peoples, and Africans like Moses Mabeki were barely human. Zheng did not share these prejudices remotely to the same extent – his generation, after all, coveted German cars, Italian designer clothes and Manhattan condominiums – but the innate sense of superiority remained, as did the absolute separation between the true self he reserved for his family and immediate community, and the face he presented to men like Moses Mabeki. They had been friends. There were aspects of Mabeki that Zheng respected, even envied. But they could never be equals.

In that respect, both men regarded each other in a very similar light. They were both intelligent enough to know it, too. Yet neither would ever let it get in the way of doing business to their mutual advantage.

‘You remember, years ago, how we made each other a promise, an exchange deal?’ Mabeki asked.

‘Uh-huh,’ grunted Zheng, noncommittally.

‘We talked about our families, that I was the descendant of a king of the Ndebele and that your family were very powerful Tanka people in Hong Kong. I said that if you were ever in southern Africa and you needed something – something you could not get by conventional means – I would use my connections to help you.’

‘Ye-e-e-s.’

‘And if I came to Hong Kong, then you would do the same for me. You remember?’

‘Of course. And I meant it.’

‘Well, I am in Hong Kong and I need that favour.’

‘I see. And what exactly is it that you need?’

‘I need you to buy something from me. I need you to provide fast, private transportation. And I need you to help me remove a personal difficulty – no, an irritant. In exchange for this favour, I will make you richer by approximately five million dollars.’

‘Excuse me for one moment. I have another call on the line. Just let me get rid of them.’

There was, of course, no other call. Zheng Junjie just needed time to think. If Mabeki was serious, and he suspected very strongly that he was, then this could be a chance to make his family a great deal of money and earn himself great face. On the other hand, it was clear that whatever Mabeki wanted could not be provided without the direct personal agreement of his uncle, known to all who knew him as Fisherman Zheng. He was a small, skinny, bald old man who ran a floating fish restaurant in Aberdeen harbour, on the south side of Hong Kong Island. He was also one of the richest, most powerful gangsters not just in Hong Kong, but all of southeast China. If the deal proved beneficial, Fisherman would be greatly pleased with his nephew. If it did not … well, that was not a possibility Zheng much cared to contemplate.

He got back on the line to Mabeki.

‘I think you should come and have dinner with my family. You will propose what you have in mind. I will translate for you and help you make your case. I cannot promise that the deal will be acceptable. What I am doing to honour my promise is to make the introduction. The rest is up to you. Do we have a deal?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then meet me tonight at the fish market in Aberdeen. My family have a business there. It is marked by a large sign for Zhen Fang Seafood. I will be there at ten o’clock. Come alone.’

‘See you then. And Johnny, there is something you should know. I have changed since you last saw me, changed a lot.’

Zheng laughed. ‘Oh, we’ve all changed, Moses.’

‘No,’ said Mabeki, ‘I can assure you, you have not changed like me.’

52

That evening, Zalika insisted on taking one of the Star Ferries trips round the harbour. Carver didn’t mind going along for the ride. The Hong Kong shoreline was one of the world’s most spectacular urban landscapes and the open deck of a ferry was as good a place as any to talk business undisturbed. An hour into the trip, though, and it was still all sightseeing and inconsequential, flirtatious chit-chat.

‘I don’t want to ruin the mood here,’ he said, ‘but we need to talk about Sunday.’

Zalika looked at her watch. ‘Hang on,’ she said, ‘you’re just about to discover why I dragged you on to this tourist-trap. Literally any second now. You’ve got to see this … Yes!’

A low, synthesized rumbling set to a pacy electro beat started pulsing across the water. Atop the towers on the Hong Kong side of the harbour, searchlights swept back and forth across the sky, as if searching for raiding bombers. Then the buildings themselves burst into life in a sort of electric firework display. One skyscraper was bathed in glowing blue. Sharp lines of pure white light zig-zagged up another soaring glass tower. A third building was transformed into a neon rainbow in a display that was simultaneously vulgar, absurd and completely irresistible.

‘See!’ Zalika exclaimed, grabbing Carver’s arm and nestling against his shoulder. ‘Isn’t it amazing?’

‘Yes, it is,’ he agreed, suddenly feeling very old in the face of her unabashed enthusiasm. ‘But the reason I’m on this boat is to have somewhere to talk business where we wouldn’t be overheard. And I wouldn’t mind getting on with it.’

She looked up at him with knowingly coy eyes. ‘Humour me.’

Carver sighed and gave in to the pleasure of feeling her body against his and breathing in the scent of her hair while the lights danced across the water and the music whooshed, tinged and burbled to its climax.

When it was done, he said, ‘OK, now we talk business.’

‘Oh all right,’ she replied, like a schoolgirl conceding that she had to do her homework.

Carver half-turned his body, so that they were face to face. He glanced over Zalika’s shoulder to check that no one was close enough to overhear them, then leaned towards her as if lost in their own private lovers’ world and said, ‘So, run me through the whole deal between the Gushungos and their vicar again.’

‘The Gushungos’ nearest church is St George’s in Tai Po,’ she said. ‘The vicar there is a Scotsman called Simon Dollond. He’s in his mid-forties, much loved by his congregation, the British and the Chinese. And he wasn’t exactly thrilled to discover that Henderson and Faith had just moved into his parish.’

As she filled in the details of the deal Dollond had struck with the Gushungos, Zalika spoke with the same efficient grasp of her subject as she had when briefing Carver about Malemba, back at Klerk’s country house. As always, Carver was struck by her ability to switch moods – almost her whole personality, in fact – at a moment’s notice. He decided to test it one more time. When she had finished, he pulled her even closer and gave her a long, passionate kiss. She switched to accommodate that, too, without any obvious difficulty.

‘Mmmm,’ Zalika whispered when he finally pulled his mouth from hers. ‘That was nice. What made you so romantic suddenly?’

‘I was just maintaining our cover,’ he said, deadpan.

‘Oh, I see,’ she said. Then she frowned. ‘Are you sure you maintained it quite enough, though? A few people might not have noticed.’

‘You’re right. Better make absolutely sure. Just to be on the safe side.’

When he came back up for air a second time, Carver asked, ‘How did you find out all that stuff about the church?’

‘Simple. Whenever I was in Hong Kong, I went to St George’s. They have coffee and biscuits after the service every week, which is really just an excuse for all the old dears who go every week to hang around and have a good gossip. Once they’d got used to me being there, they chatted away perfectly happily, and of course they all knew about “dear, sweet Simon” and the wicked Gushungos and couldn’t wait to tell me all about it.’

‘Old women,’ said Carver, ‘they’re the best spies in the world.’

‘Not for you they aren’t. This is strictly ladies-only.’

‘Well then, thank you for betraying the sisterhood. So now I have a question. Can you go on the phone and sound like a black Malemban woman?’

‘Depends who’s listening. If I was talking to another Malemban, they’d know straight away. But if it’s just a Brit or a Chinese, sure. I spent my entire childhood surrounded by Malemban nannies, cooks and housemaids. I know just how they sound.’

‘Good, I hoped you’d say that.’

‘Why?’

‘Because you’re going to give the nice Reverend Dollond a call on Sunday morning. And you’re going to be a Malemban.’

‘Oh, with him it’ll be easy. Now, I’ve got something for you. Well, someone actually.’

Zalika tapped out a text. Seconds later, a Chinese woman in an anonymous outfit of T-shirt and jeans got up off a bench on the far side of the deck and, apparently paying no attention to either Carver or Zalika, made her way towards the railing, just next to them.

‘I have what you need,’ said Tina Wong, looking directly out across the harbour.

Carver and Zalika turned to face the same way – just three people in a line, looking out at the spectacular view.

Passing it in front of her, so that it could not be seen by anyone onboard, Wong handed Zalika an A4-sized padded envelope. Then, still not making eye contact, she said, ‘So, are you going to kill these pigs?’

Carver did not reply.

Wong did not seem disappointed by his silence. For the first time she turned her head in his direction, fixed him with a penetrating stare, turned back again and nodded to herself. ‘Yes, you can do this. Good.’

Now it was Carver’s turn to speak: ‘Are you working on Sunday?’

Wong nodded her head.

‘Then just before the family and their bodyguards take communion, make sure the front door is unlocked. Can you do that?’

‘Of course.’

‘Good. And thank you for this.’ Carver jerked his head towards Zalika’s simple canvas shoulder-bag, which now contained the envelope. ‘It’s very important.’

‘No problem. OK, enough sightseeing. It is beneath my dignity to look like a tourist.’

Wong left as casually as she’d arrived.

As she walked away, Carver asked Zalika, ‘Are you sure you want to go through with this? You understand I’m not questioning your ability to do the job. It’s just that this could get messy. You’ve had enough violence and death in your life. Are you sure you want more?’

There was no hesitation in her answer, not a flicker of doubt in her voice. ‘Yes, I want more all right. I want to see what you’ve done. I want to spit on their dead bodies. Every single one of them.’

‘All right. But you play it absolutely by the book.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And I’m getting you a phone with a tracking system, so if we get separated for any reason, I’ll know where you are.’

‘Whatever you say.’

‘And if anything happens to me, you don’t wait around to see if I’m all right, understand? Go straight to Hong Kong International. There’s a fifteen-oh-five flight direct to London. Just get on it and go.’

‘Absolutely.’ She wrapped her arms round his waist and examined him thoughtfully. ‘Thanks for having faith in me. My uncle was right. You’re a good man, Samuel Carver.’

53

The Aberdeen fish market was deserted, the last traces of the previous day’s catch all washed and swept away, yet the smell of fish still filled the air, as though it seeped from the polished concrete floor, the painted steel columns and girders and the corrugated iron roof. Zheng Junjie, the man once known as Johnny Zen, was standing beneath the bare neon lights of his family’s stall, nervously sucking on a cigarette. He looked as though he’d grown a little soft around the middle since Moses Mabeki had last seen him. Maybe he’d been eating too much of his wife’s home cooking or, more likely, having too many dinners out with his mistress. A sweet young concubine had always been considered an essential accessory for any Hong Kong businessman on the way to the top.

Mabeki had taken a cab down from Tai Po. He’d told the driver to drop him a few minutes’ walk away from the Aberdeen Harbour fish market, at the foot of one of the high-rise apartment blocks that crowded into the narrow space between the hills of Hong Kong Island and the sea. They housed most of the local Tanka and Hoklo tribes, people who had for centuries inhabited floating villages of junks and narrow-boats, working and living almost entirely on the water. Now their descendants were pasty-faced property developers whose pastel-coloured Ralph Lauren polo shirts stretched across their bosomy chests and flabby guts. But then, Mabeki reflected, how different was he? His people had been cattle-herders and warriors, going where they wanted across the southern African savannah. Now most were happy with a cold beer and a Manchester United shirt. The white man’s cruellest trick was not to conquer or even enslave, but simply to soften, weaken and corrupt every culture or people he encountered, until they lost the will to be themselves any more.

Mabeki made his way unobserved to within thirty feet of Zheng. He watched him take his cigarette out of his mouth, throw it down and grind it under his heel. Zheng looked around, checked his watch, then looked again. He did not look like a powerful man about to take charge of a tough negotiation. He looked like a frightened man wondering how he was going to explain to his superiors that he’d just let them down.

Mabeki let him sweat for a moment longer, then stepped out of the shadows and made his way between the large blue and yellow plastic containers from which the following morning’s fish would be sold. He deliberately let his right foot knock one of them as he walked by. The noise made Zheng spin round and catch sight of his old university friend.