Hungry Ghost (43 page)

‘I remember,’ said Howells. ‘You said you were a businessman.’

Edmunds smiled. ‘Yeah, you were a bit slow in identifying yourself. And Americans didn’t have friends in too many parts of the world just then. I saw what you did to the three bastards who were guarding me, remember?’

Howells nodded. ‘Yeah, you never know who to trust in this business, do you?’ He seemed to relax a little. But only a little.

‘So you’ve come all this way to thank me?’ Howells asked.

‘You wish,’ said Edmunds, dropping his hands completely. ‘Look, can we sit down and talk about this, you’re making me nervous.’

Howells weighed up the American and then shrugged. ‘Sure,’ he said, turning away and walking into the lounge. He realized for the first time by the way Amy looked at him that he was naked. He opened his mouth to ask her for his trousers but she nodded before he could speak and half ran to a cheap wooden wardrobe and took out his pants and his new shirt. The pants had been washed and pressed. He sat on the sofa and she helped him on with the trousers and then draped the shirt around his shoulders.

‘
M goy
,’ he said, and she beamed at him.

‘
M sai
,’ she said. ‘Is everything OK?’

‘Everything is fine,’ he said. ‘This man is a friend. Amy, I have to talk with him alone, do you mind?’

She shook her head, eager to please. ‘I’ll go in the kitchen.’ She kissed him on the forehead. ‘Do you like coffee or a cup of tea?’ she asked Edmunds, who said no, neither. Howells also declined and she left the two men, Howells sitting on the sofa, Edmunds standing by the bedroom door, arms crossed across his stomach.

‘Is the bullet out?’ asked Edmunds.

‘How did you know I’d been shot?’ asked Howells quickly. There was no way of telling from the bandage whether he’d been shot, stabbed, burnt or attacked by a swarm of killer bees.

Edmunds began pacing up and down, walking slowly between the bedroom door and the window that overlooked the street below, three paces there, three paces back, his head hung in thought as if he’d forgotten that the Brit was there. Edmunds wasn’t one hundred per cent sure just what the hell he was doing alone with the man he’d been sent to kill, but he knew it was something to do with honour, about a debt that deserved to be repaid. But it was more than that. It was about a lifetime spent doing things he regretted, that made him feel sad and unclean, and that when all of it was behind him and he was retired or dying, he wanted to be able to look back at some things and to think that maybe, just maybe, he’d really done the Right Thing, whatever that was. This man had saved his life; now he was hurt, and it was obvious that he had been betrayed by his own organization. He was a Brit and the CIA operation was being run from London. Maybe that was part of it too, the fact that one day Edmunds might also be betrayed by his own masters and that he’d open his door to a couple of grey-faced men with cold eyes, young men who didn’t have bad dreams. Men like Feinberg.

Edmunds continued to pace up and down. Howells sat and watched him, knowing that whatever it was the CIA man wanted, he was no threat. Not just then, anyway. He’d had ample opportunity to take Howells out, so the best thing to do was to let him walk, and talk, in his own time.

Eventually Edmunds seemed to come to a decision; he stopped pacing and stood in front of Howells, linking his fingers and pressing them outwards until the knuckles cracked like breaking bones.

‘The man who sent us wants you dead,’ Edmunds said quietly.

There were two things Howells wanted to know immediately – who was the man and what did Edmunds mean by us? But he kept quiet, and waited.

‘They told us you had killed one of our agents. Is that right?’

‘I was doing what I was told to do,’ said Howells.

‘By who?’

Howells sneered. ‘You show me yours and I’ll show you mine.’

‘I don’t freelance,’ said Edmunds. ‘I’m working for the Company.’

‘I haven’t done anything that would cut across the CIA,’ said Howells.

‘What about London?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Feinberg said that our operation was being run from London rather than from the States.’

‘Feinberg?’

‘My partner. And you’re lucky it was me that found you first, believe me.’

‘How did you find me? The girl?’

‘How else? You’d been shot, you couldn’t stay in a hotel and you obviously wouldn’t want to go near a hospital. You’d have to go to ground, and you needed someone to take care of you.’

‘That easy,’ mused Howells, looking at the ground. ‘Fuck it.’

‘Partly luck, partly carelessness,’ said Edmunds. ‘You should have kept her home.’

‘You knew what hotel I was staying at? And you knew I’d been shot?’ asked Howells.

Edmunds nodded and Howells knew for sure then that Grey had set him up. But he still couldn’t make sense of the sequence of events. First he was attacked by three Chinese, shortly after telephoning London. And then when he’d escaped two CIA agents came after him. What next? The fucking KGB?

‘Do you know why?’ he asked Edmunds.

‘Because of the man you killed, our agent,’ said Edmunds.

‘Nobody told me he was one of yours,’ said Howells. ‘I was told he was about to betray one of ours.’

‘Life’s a bitch,’ said Edmunds. ‘You never know who to trust.’

‘Only yourself,’ said Howells.

‘Only yourself,’ agreed Edmunds.

‘So where do we go from here?’

‘I go back to the Victoria Hotel and tell Feinberg that I couldn’t find you. I owe you one for what happened in the Lebanon. But then we’re quits. The rest is up to you. You’ve got to get out of here, out of this flat and out of Hong Kong. If I can find you so can Feinberg. So can the police.’

‘Easier said than done. They’re sure to be watching the airport, my passport is fucking useless.’

‘You don’t need a passport to get on a boat out of here, not if you’ve got enough money.’

‘Yeah, well there’s the rub. I’ve got a few thousand dollars and that’s not going to buy me a ticket out of here, is it?’

‘That’s your problem,’ said Edmunds, but as he said it he reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. He gave Howells a handful of notes. ‘That’s still probably not enough, but it’s the best I can do. It’s all I can do.’

Howells took the money. ‘Thanks, Jack.’ He tucked the notes into his own back pocket, using his left hand.

‘I’d better go,’ said Edmunds. Howells got to his feet unsteadily and called Amy out.

‘Jack is going,’ he said to Amy. She opened the door for the American and said good night as he left.

‘He seems nice,’ said Amy as she closed the door and carefully locked it. ‘He came to the club and showed your photograph to the girls. I didn’t tell him I knew you. I thought perhaps he might want to hurt you. How did he know where I lived? Did you tell him?’

‘No, Amy. I think he must have followed you. But it doesn’t matter. He only wants to help me.’

‘I thought perhaps he was the man you call Grey.’

Howells looked at her, stunned. He’d never mentioned Grey to her. ‘You talked in your sleep,’ she explained. ‘You were shouting, saying he had betrayed you.’

Howells nodded. ‘No, that wasn’t Grey. Grey is a man I used to work for. And yes, he is the man who betrayed me. He’s the one who had me shot.’ He wasn’t sure why he was telling her, but part of it was because he was so bitter about the betrayal that he wanted to share it.

‘Is Grey a bad man?’ she asked.

‘Yes. I was very loyal to him, but he wanted to have me killed. He works for the Government in a place called Century House in London.’

Amy slowly repeated the words, Grey and Century House, as she’d memorized the word ‘fridge’ in the bar.

She sat down on the sofa next to him and rested her head against his shoulder, his good shoulder. ‘Can you tell me what is wrong? Can I help?’ No and yes, thought Howells. The problem was, how could he get her to help him? And how far would she go?

‘I have to go out soon,’ he said. ‘Jack promised to give me some money so that I can get out of Hong Kong.’

‘You can’t go out,’ she said. ‘You are still weak. Let me go.’

He stroked her hair with his left hand, curling it around his fingers. ‘No, I have to go. I won’t be long. You can help by making me some sort of sling to support my arm. Do you have some spare material?’

‘I’ll use one of my old pillowcases,’ she said. She went into her bedroom and he heard the sound of a wooden drawer being opened and closed and then she walked through to the kitchen and came back with a plastic-handled butcher’s knife that she used to carefully slit it down the seams.

‘Help me put the shirt on first,’ he said. Together they eased his bad arm through the sleeve and pulled the shirt down, the pain making his eyes water. She folded the cotton material into a triangle and knotted it behind his neck.

‘How’s that?’ she said.

‘It’s fine. It’s really fine,’ he said and she smiled.

‘Do you want one of the tablets that Dr Wu left you?’

‘No, no thanks. They’ll only make me sleepy. Maybe later.’ She rested her head back on his shoulder and stroked his left thigh. ‘Amy?’

‘Hmm?’

‘Do you have any friends who can get me out of Hong Kong? Secretly?’

She sat upright and looked at him seriously. ‘I know somebody who might help you. But he is not a good man. He is a smuggler. I used to work for him.’

He frowned. ‘Worked for him? How?’

‘I was a, what is the word, a courier?’

‘Courier, yes. Carrying what?’

‘Drugs sometimes. Sometimes taking gold into Thailand. I didn’t do it many times, I wasn’t very good at it. I looked too nervous, I always used to feel very sick. I needed the money, Geoff. I didn’t do it many times.’ It was suddenly important for her to convince Howells that she wasn’t a criminal, she didn’t want him to think badly of her.

‘But the man you worked for, you know how to get in touch with him?’

‘Sometimes he goes to Washington Club. But Geoff, he is not a good man. He will want a lot of money.’

He smiled easily and kissed her on her forehead. ‘Amy, there’s no need to worry. Jack will give me more money later tonight. Can you do me a favour and make me a cup of coffee?’

She smiled again, pleased that she could do something for him. As she went into the kitchen Howells slipped the knife into the sling.

Sophie drank a little water from the tap, scared to take too much because her mother had always warned her against drinking tapwater. She’d done it sometimes and never got sick but her mother always made her drink bottled water. She was ravenous, the thoughts of food crowding out everything else except the fear of what was going to happen to her. Occasionally she’d start to panic when her imagination ran riot – what would happen if the boat caught fire? If it sank? If the man never came back and she starved to death? Once she’d almost gone into a fit, screaming and kicking at the door until she’d collapsed exhausted on the floor. It was hot, so hot that she felt as if she was going to melt. Despite being born in Hong Kong she lived most of her life in an air-conditioned world; her house, school and the family’s cars provided a stable environment that protected her from the colony’s often stifling heat and humidity. Now, locked in the junk’s washroom, she was hot and sweaty and uncomfortable. She couldn’t sleep for more than an hour at a time before she’d wake up, gasping for breath, her throat dry and aching. She kept soaking a towel in cold water and rubbing it over her face, sometimes sitting with it draped over her head, enjoying the coolness of it. She tried chewing it slowly to see if that would make the hunger pains go away, but it seemed to make it worse, she could feel her stomach rumbling and groaning. She wished her dog was with her, the one Uncle Patrick had given her, at least then she’d have someone to talk to. But most of all she wanted her mother. And her father. She wanted to go home.

Edmunds was in the shower when the doorbell rang. ‘Is that you, Rick?’ he yelled above the sound of the water. He grabbed a bathrobe hanging on the back of the door and padded across the carpet. He opened the door and his eyes widened as he saw Howells standing alone in the corridor, his arm in a sling.

‘I need your help,’ said Howells. ‘Can I come in?’

Edmunds stood to one side and let him in. Howells walked over to the window, slowly as if in pain, while Edmunds shut the door.

‘You shouldn’t have come,’ he warned. ‘If Feinberg sees you . . .’

‘Is he here?’

‘Not at the moment.’

‘Where is his room?’

Edmunds nodded at an adjoining door next to the bathroom. ‘Through there. If I know Feinberg he’s having a whale of a time in the bars of Tsim Sha Tsui. But he could be back at any time. You said you wanted help?’

‘I need money. I have to get out of Hong Kong. I know someone who can get me out but he’ll need money. More money than I have. And it’s not as if I can go out and stick up a bank in my present condition, is it?’

Edmunds shivered. He’d tried adjusting the aircon earlier but it had made no difference, and now the combination of cold air and water on his skin chilled him. He took a thick white towel from a metal rack above the bath and began to rub it through his hair. ‘How much do you need?’

‘Five thousand dollars, US.’

‘To go where?’

‘That’ll get me to the Philippines. I can hide out there for a few months until I’m fit.’

‘I don’t know how much I’ve got on me,’ said Edmunds. He went to the dressing table and opened the top drawer to get his wallet. Howells came up behind him as he rifled through the traveller’s cheques. Edmunds felt rather than saw the arm go across his throat because he was looking down but he lifted his head in time to see the knife being drawn across the throat of his reflection in the mirror, and saw the blood pour down his neck and chest. So much blood, and yet no pain, just a spreading coldness around his throat. He opened his mouth but it felt numb and the wallet dropped from his hands and a red film passed over his eyes. The last thing he saw before the red turned to black was the smiling face of an old Vietnamese man, grinning with chipped and stained teeth, laughing silently as he went to his death.