Dictator

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.’