The Nicholas Linnear Novels (150 page)

Parking, they crossed a kind of central square where hawkers abounded, edged down a side street that was impossibly narrow. “This is the restaurant we will be going to,” the young man said, using his chin to point. “It’s the best of its kind in Hong Kong.”

They went past the place and entered an open-air market. Nangi saw that this was built on a long dock. He could see the water, the fishing boats tied up, their crews making ready for the early morning’s sail.

As they walked between rows of stalls, Fortuitous Chiu said, “Usually those boats return with holds filled with more than fish. It’s a bit too hazy tonight to see, but just across there is Communist China. Refugees are brought in here all the time.”

All the stalls sold live fish. Tanks were set up, filled with seaweedy water in which somnolently swam fish big, medium, and small, shellfish such as giant prawn and abalone, conch and crab. Squid with the black button eyes of the dead were much in evidence, as were crayfish as large as lobsters.

“What is your preference?”

“We are in China,” Nangi said. “A Chinese should choose.”

Fortuitous Chiu took this responsibility quite seriously. As they moved from stall to stall, he would indicate an item here, two there. As they were drawn out of their tanks he would handle them all, sniffing and prodding like an old woman to make certain he was picking the finest specimens of the lots. Then would begin the haggling, a game of endless manipulation and strategy that, like gambling, fascinated and invigorated the Chinese.

At last, carrying his catch in plastic bags made heavy and bulging with sea water, Fortuitous Chiu led Nangi back to the restaurant.

The owner, a fat, sweating Chinese, greeted the young man with the kind of respect one normally accords a visiting lord. Nangi wondered at this but he knew that good manners forbade him from asking Fortuitous Chiu about it.

That evening they dined on no less than nine courses of exquisitely prepared seafood, from succulently sautéed abalone to grilled crayfish, choked with fiery hot chili sauce that made even Nangi’s eyes water, made him long for the relative calm of
wasabi
—the traditional Japanese green horseradish—he loved so much.

For more than three hours they feasted and in true Chinese fashion talked of nothing of serious import during that time. The Chinese—as opposed to the Japanese, who were far more fanatic about business—believed that nothing should take away from the savoring of a meal. In that respect they were the French of the Far East.

When, at length, they returned to the hotel, Nangi bade Fortuitous Chiu come with him. Stuffed into the mail box of Nangi’s room behind the concierge’s desk was a telephone message.

There was no number to call back. Rather, the slip of paper contained an address, a date—tomorrow’s, or rather, because it was already after midnight, today’s—and an hour, two
A.M.
Madonna, Nangi thought disconsolately on the elevator ride up, what am I going to do now?

“I’m to meet a man this morning,” he told Fortuitous Chiu when they had reached his room. “In just under two hours.” He read off the address, which was on Wong Chuk Hang Road.

“That’s Ocean Park,” Fortuitous Chiu said. “Normally it would be closed this late but this week it’s being kept open all day and all night to coincide with the Dragon Boat Festival, which is actually the day after tomorrow, the fifth day of the fifth moon; also to raise money for the amusement park. The tourists, they say, love it.”

Nangi went into the closet, rummaging around out of the other’s sight for a moment. He returned with two identical manila envelopes. He handed one to Fortuitous Chiu.

“I must take one of these with me tonight,” he said. “The copy you have was destined for the Governor. I wanted you with the Governor at the same time my meeting was taking place. I would have felt safer that way. But now—”

“Hold on,” Fortuitous Chiu said. “May I use the phone?”

“Of course.”

For a little more than five minutes he spoke in a choppy, rapid-fire dialect.

Fortuitous Chiu put down the phone, turned to Nangi. “It’s all set now. No sweat.”

“What’s all set?”

“At two this morning,” he said, “I will be sitting opposite the Governor of Hong Kong.”

Nangi was nonplussed. “I—I don’t understand. How is that possible?”

“My father is taking care of it. Like I said, no sweat.”

Nangi recalled the manner in which Fortuitous Chiu had been received at the restaurant in the New Territories. He thought of the power of Third Cousin Tok. He thought of the Green Pang. Lastly he thought of the five Dragons, the five heads of the Hong Kong Triads, the most powerful men in the Colony. Who could Fortuitous Chiu’s father be to be able to reach the Governor at this time of the night? How powerful did he have to be? How much clout did he need to possess?

Nangi bowed slightly. “I am in your debt.”

“As I am in yours. I have gained great face with my father.”

Now, to business. “You will sit with the Governor,” Nangi said. “God alone knows what you will converse about.”

“My father will do all the talking.”

Nangi thought about that. “If I don’t call you by three, you must assume the worst. Give the Governor all the evidence against Liu.”

“It will cause a sensation,” Fortuitous Chiu said. “A scandal of the highest order. The Communists will lose enormous face.”

“They will, won’t they?” Nangi said, musingly.

“Very bad for them.”

Nangi nodded. “Either way, it’s very bad for them.”

They stood facing each other in the room. There was not much more to say, and time was running short.

Fortuitous Chiu gave a little bow. “Until we meet again…Elder Uncle.”

Nangi held his breath. The honor which he had just been accorded was vast. “Elder Uncle” was a term used to connote respect and a certain sense of friendship that was not possible to accurately translate into Western concepts.

“May all the gods protect you,” Nangi whispered. He was speaking of the myriad Chinese deities, none of whom he, needless to say, believed in, but who were very important to Fortuitous Chiu. Silently, then, he prayed for them both. Godspeed.

Ocean Park, built primarily with funds donated by the Royal Hong Kong Jockey Club, was, Nangi discovered, set on two discrete levels. One entered through turnstiled gates, strolling along paths bordering massive flower gardens, arbors filled with brightly colored parrots who for HK $5 would accommodatingly perch on one’s shoulder while a color photo of the occasion was taken by an attendant. Up a short hill was a bonsai collection of awesome proportions. There were tiny pavilions erected by Air New Guinea and other such airlines, featuring local flora.

Farther along in this area was a swan pond, numerous waterfalls and, beyond, an open-air stadium where sea creatures performed. Nangi did not get that far, however. He had been told to buy a ticket on the funicular which ran at an extreme angle from Ocean Park’s “lowlands” three thousand feet into the air to the “sky terminus” high atop a rocky promontory jutting out into the South China Sea. There a manmade atoll reef, the world’s first “wave-cove,” and another, larger stadium waited to entertain visitors.

There were four sets of funiculars—tiny glass-enclosed bubbles within which as many as six people could sit facing inward, hanging by what looked to Nangi to be a slender piece of steel from the cable line. Nangi had been told to take the funicular on the far left. He joined the line, moving forward periodically as the cable cars came back down the mountainside, swung around to make the return journey.

He did not look around; that would have cost him face. But he was nevertheless acutely aware of who stood near him—in front and in back, on either side. He saw tourists from the West and from Japan. He saw Chinese teenagers chattering, no doubt, about the excitement of being at the park so late. Or else, he thought cynically, they were betting on which car would detach itself from the cable and plummet to the craggy slopes far below. He was aware of no one who took the slightest interest in him.

He wondered when contact was going to be made. He was at the front of his line now. Perhaps it would not come until he had landed on the promontory. Would he share the funicular with the Chinese family just behind him?

The car came in empty, swung around. The doors swung open and the uniformed attendant waved him forward. He became aware that the attendant had barred the family behind him from entering his car.

It was so small in there that he experienced some difficulty in sitting. A man swung aboard. Where he had come from Nangi could not say. The doors closed and they were caught in the moving gears.

The funicular shuddered slowly forward. Ahead Nangi could see what was waiting for him. A string of tiny lighted cars, like glass beads strung on a wire, arced ahead and above.

They halted momentarily at the edge of the concrete terminus. It all seemed very solid, safe as a stroll in a garden. Then, with a breathtaking abruptness, they were launched out into space, swinging back and forth giddily, following the path set by the glass beads before them.

Nangi turned his attention to his companion. He was a heavyset Chinese of indeterminate age. He could have been fifty or seventy or anywhere in between. He had a flat nose, brush-cut hair that was so short his sunburned scalp could be seen through it. Against this close scrutiny the Chinese bared his teeth—all gold—in a smile or a grimace, Nangi could not tell which.

“Good morning, Mr. Nangi,” the Chinese said, nodding. “I am Lo Whan.”

Nangi returned the pleasantry.

“Tell me, have you been to Ocean Park before?”

“Never. But I have been to Hong Kong many times.”

“Indeed.” Lo Whan’s tone of voice indicated that it was of no import to him. He turned in his molded plastic seat, the kind one encountered in hospital waiting rooms. “I myself have been here many times. I never tire of this view. And one rarely gets a chance to see it at this time of the morning.”

Indeed the sight of the great flat expanse of the South China Sea, the black humped and hilly shapes of the small islands dotting the space like rocks in a Zen pebble garden, was spectacular. Long ships strung with glowing lights like eyes plowed the depths here and there, dusky jewels set in a dark, rich fabric. Moonlight lent it a metallic aspect, scimitars of cool illumination glancing off the ocean’s face as if it were chain mail.

“Consider yourself fortunate,” Lo Whan said, and Nangi did not know whether he meant the sight or something more hidden.

The Chinese closed his hand in his lap as they ascended the steep, wooded slope. If they were to drop off the line now, Nangi observed, there would be no chance for either of them, the scree below would batter anything that fell to oblivion.

“It has come to my attention,” Lo Whan said, “through sources both far removed from me and devious, that some information is about to be moved.” His eyes were bright. “‘Vitally important’ information was, I think, the particular phrase used. Further, it was passed on to me that this information concerns certain, ah, links to Canton and northward that could, perhaps, be compromised under particular circumstances.”

Nangi nodded. “That, in essence, is correct.”

“I see.”

Nangi produced a copy of the contract that he and Liu had signed. He unfolded it, put it carefully on the empty seat to his right.

Lo Whan, observing what that seat now contained, did nothing but look back at Nangi, though the information that had made its circuitous way to him had included the stipulation that he bring Liu’s copy of the document. His eyes were stony.

Nangi handed over the manila envelope. Carefully, as if its contents might be lethal, Lo Whan used one long nail to slit the seal. He slid the contents out one by one and looked at them. They consisted of sixteen 8 × 10 black and white prints of very high quality and resolution, a mini tape player in which resided an unedited copy of the tape Fortuitous Chiu had made of the proceedings at Succulent Ren’s apartment, a twelve-page transcript of the tape recording.

Lo Whan slipped on a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles and for the next ten minutes or so ignored Nangi and his surroundings, engrossed by what he had been given.

By the time he had reviewed all of the material thoroughly, they had alighted at the “sky terminus.” They went out, away from the crowds, along the rock promontory.

“Interesting,” Lo Whan said, carrying the incriminating evidence under his arm like a business portfolio. “But hardly worth the price you are asking.” The Chinese shoulders shrugged. “We can return Liu to the sanctity of his homeland at any time.”

“I don’t think it will be quite that easy,” Nangi said, working hard to avoid the rocks. The path Lo Whan had deliberately chosen was strewn with them. “Liu is a fixture here. He’s known by everyone. If you pull him now, in the face of the scandal that I assure you will follow, your country will suffer a great propaganda loss; you will lose all the advantage over England you have gained in the past two and a half years; worst of all, you will lose great face.”

The wind blew lightly in their faces, smelling faintly of salt and phosphorus. Lights from the ships far out semaphored unknown messages to unknown recipients. They are like Lo Whan and me, Nangi thought, staring at the low-lying vessels. They may know where they are going but they can’t actually see it.

Lo Whan was lost in thought. It seemed to him only just if, in the next several moments, Liu were to slip in the bathtub and break his neck. It would save us all face and I could dismiss this clever ape of a Japanese, sending him back across the sea to his puny island home where he belongs. But he knew none of that would happen or was even possible.

Everything Nangi said was true. It was galling. He could not do away with Liu, not with the information the Japanese had. One word to the Governor and he would be on the phone to Her Majesty’s Government, to one ministry or another. That would be intolerable to Lo Whan and his superiors.

Then an idea hit him. He stared out to sea as if nothing at all had happened. He turned it over, looking at it from every side as if it were a gemstone he was considering purchasing, which, in a way, it was. He did not rush, yet he was acutely aware of the passage of time. He could not make as much use of it as he would wish. To take too long would lose him face in this battle of wits.