No Deals, Mr. Bond

15

THE MYSTIC EAST

The Cathay Pacific 747 Flight CX 290 from Paris made its descent over Lantau Island towards the mainland of the New Territories. There the great jet began its almost one-hundred-degree turn to the final approach, right across Kowloon and down on to Kai Tak, Hong Kong’s international airport with its runway thrusting like a finger into the sea.

As the engines whined, giving the machine the last ounce of extra thrust to carry it over the rooftops, James Bond peered out of the window, craning to see the island of Hong Kong below, with the Peak shrouded in cloud.

They would be low over Kowloon Tong now and he thought of its translation, Pool of Nine Dragons, and the story that the late Bruce Lee had consulted a fortune teller before buying an apartment in this exclusive district. The young Kung Fu film star had been told that, should he buy the flat, he would have only bad joss because his name could be translated as little dragon, and nothing good could come of a little dragon going to live in a pool with nine dragons. Nevertheless, Bruce Lee bought the apartment, and within the year he was dead. Bad joss.

The Boeing touched down with the huge roar of the reverse thrust, its flaps fully extended as the speed bled off. It rolled slowly to a halt at the far end of the runway, where the buildings towered to their left. The boat-littered Fragrant Harbour stretched out to the right between the mainland and Hong Kong Island.

Within twenty minutes of landing, Bond was standing with Ebbie clutching his hand in the garage-like surroundings of Passport Control. Scrupulous, unsmiling Chinese officials scrutinised their documents. From the moment they had left the aircraft,he had done his best to spot likely watchers in the airport buildings; but in the sea of European, Chinese and Eurasian faces, everybody seemed to be a potential look-out.

A large Chinese in slacks and white shirt held a board on which was written MR BOLDMAN. Bond steered Ebbie forward.

‘I’m Mr Boldman.’

‘Ah, good. I take you Mandarin Hotel.’ The Chinese grinned widely, showing what appeared to be several sets of independently working teeth, most of them filled with gold. ‘Car here. Inside please, never mind.’ The driver ushered them towards a limousine, opening the door. ‘My name is David,’ he said.

‘Thank you, David,’ said Ebbie prettily, and they climbed in.

Bond glanced out of the rear window as they moved away to see if he could spot any car positioning itself behind them. The search was fruitless, for cars left the arrivals rank all the time, and most seemed to have just picked up passengers. What he was looking for was some nondescript vehicle with two people up front. He caught himself in time – that was what he would have looked for in Europe. In Asia things were different. He recalled an old China hand once saying, ‘As for watchers, they’ll be the people you least expect. East of Suez they watch in plain sight, and they’re a bugger to spot.’

There were no positive signs as they entered the Cross-Harbour Tunnel, which they moved through in a slow but orderly procession of cars, lorries, both ancient and modern, and those fifteen-hundredweight trucks beloved of the Hong Kongese, some with tattered awnings flapping and displaying Chinese characters.

Nowadays you have only to return to Hong Kong after an absence of a few weeks to notice changes. It was a couple of years since Bond had been in the Territory and he saw huge differences as they reached Connaught Road. Ahead, to their right, the massive Connaught Centre rose with its hundreds of porthole-like windows, making it look as though it had been designed by an optician; and behind that the almost completed glass triple-towers of Exchange Square. The traffic was still as heavy as the heat outside, while the sidewalks and futuristic linking bridges over the main roads were crammed with scurrying people. On the left he caught sight, through Chater Square, of the huge new Hong Kong and Shanghai Bank Building erected like a large Leggo kit on four great tall cylinders.

Then they were pulling up in front of the main doors of the Mandarin which, next to the high-rise opulence, appeared almost insignificant. The impression vanished when they stepped through the glass doors into the main lobby adorned with crystal chandeliers, Italian marble and onyx, and on one wall detailed gilded wood carvings.

Ebbie’s eyes widened. ‘This is really fantastic, James,’ she began, then took in a sharp breath.

Bond, who had been steering her towards the black-suited Chinese gentlemen at reception, saw her eyes narrow as she peered across the marbled floor at the concierge’s desk.

‘What is it?’ he asked quietly.

‘Swift,’ she breathed, ‘Swift’s here. I just saw him.’

‘Where?’ They had almost reached the main reception desk.

‘Over there.’ She nodded towards the far end of the lobby. ‘He was there. Typical of him. He was always a – how do you say it – will o’ the wisp?’

Bond nodded. It was a good name for Swift, he thought, as he began filling in the registration form. Swift had always been a will o’ the wisp; a tortured soul trapped between the heaven and hell leading people to destruction. His expertise in handling agents in the field had led many members of enemy intelligence services to their downfall.

Instantly the contradictions and hidden secrets of Cream Cake confronted Bond again. M had asked him to take on a job which, because of its delicacy, could not be an official operation. Yet there were official aspects. Already the conviction that he was involved because someone in Cream Cake had been turned had hardened in his mind. It could be anyone: Heather? The already doubled Maxim Smolin? Jungle Baisley? Susanne Dietrich? Even Ebbie? Damn, he thought, signing the registration card, why had he been foolish enough to allow Ebbie to come with him to Hong Kong? By all the rules she should have been held in safety, yet he, James Bond, had not thought twice about her coming with him. Was it intuition or merely his growing affection for Ebbie? How foolish could a man be when led by his emotions? But then, he had not been led by anything. Ebbie had, in a manner of speaking, been foisted on him. And now there was Swift. Could Swift be the key? Hardly.

‘If you will follow me, Mr Boldman, Mrs Boldman.’

Bond realised that the under manager was repeating his courteous words.

‘Sorry. Of course.’

He snapped out of the reverie and taking Ebbie’s arm, followed the man carrying their papers and room key. They went towards the far end of the lobby past the concierge’s desk, turning left to the elevators.

‘Tell me if you spot him again,’ Bond whispered and Ebbie nodded.

Around them the hotel was functioning with a disciplined ease and efficiency. Gold-jacketed page boys moved swiftly with fixed smiles; one of them wearing a form of skull cap, setting him apart from the rest, marched through the lobby bearing a tinkling bell-hung board displaying the fact that he was looking for a Mrs David Davies. An American couple argued softly near the elevators: ‘What ya want, then? We’re in a hotel. You want we should move to a different hotel?’

The elevator lifted them imperceptibly to the twenty-first floor, to a light and airy room, with a balcony looking out on the thousand eyes of the Connaught Centre buiding and a large part of the Harbour. Ferries, motorised junks and sampans plied their way fearlessly among the larger craft.

The under manager hovered, making certain the room was to their liking, until the room boy arrived with the luggage and asked if he could unpack for them, an offer they declined.

Once they were alone, standing close to Ebbie, Bond asked, ‘You’re sure it was Swift?’

‘Certain. God, I’m tired. But it was Swift.’

She opened the balcony windows, letting in the sound of Hong Kong’s traffic, deafeningly loud, even up on the twenty-first floor. Bond joined her on the balcony, feeling the blast of heat as he passed through the doorway. The air smelled moist, with traces of salt, spices, dust, fish and pork. Below, the traffic streamed unendingly. The water of the harbour twinkled in the morning haze, the white wakes of churning propellers now joined by the long creamy trail of a hydrofoil sweeping west. Three barges, low in the water, weighed down by containers created muddy bow waves as they were towed towards one of the world’s largest container ports.

To the left, everything was dominated by the Connaught Centre and the gigantic Exchange Square building. The complex was connected to the Mandarin side of the street by an elegant tubular pedestrian walkway. In the foreground to the right, the world-famous view of Kowloon, Hong Kong – Fragrant Harbour – stretched before them. A pair of helicopters swept down, one hovering while the other landed at Fenwick Pier, below them to the right. The scene of buildings, ships, vehicles and helicopters had a futuristic look about it. Yet as he gazed, Bond suddenly realised that the elusive familiarity he always felt in Hong Kong came from images from the past, from Fritz Lang’s film Metropolis, that classic made, incredibly, in the 1920s.

‘Come on,’ he said, touching Ebbie’s arm, ‘we’ve got work to do.’

‘We have to go out?’ She seemed excited at the prospect.

‘Just wear something casual.’ Bond smiled, but she did not realise that he was joking and rushed to her suitcase. ‘Jeans and a T-shirt will be fine,’ he added quickly.

He went to the bedside telephone, delving into the memory bank of telephone numbers he carried in his head. Even in Asia he had contacts outside the normal Service channels. He picked up the handset and quickly punched in the numbers. The call was picked up on the fourth ring.

‘Weyyy?’

‘Mr Chang?’ he asked.

‘Who wants him, heya?’ The voice was deep, almost gruff.

‘An old friend. A friend called Predator.’

‘Ayeeya! Welcome back, old friend. What can I do for you, heya?’

‘I wish to see you.’

‘Come then. I am in my usual place. You come now, heya?’

‘Fifteen minutes, never mind.’ Bond smiled. ‘I shall have very pretty lady with me.’

‘So, times never change. My people have saying, “When man visits a friend once with woman, he seldom returns alone.” ’

‘Very profound.’ Bond smiled again. ‘Is that an old saying?’

‘About thirty second. I just make it up. Come quickly, heya?’

In another part of the Central District of Hong Kong, Big Thumb Chang put down the telephone and looked up at the man standing beside him.

‘He comes now, just as you predict; he also brings a beautiful woman, though if she is European I fail to see how she can be beautiful. You want I should do something special with him?’

‘Just do as he asks,’ the other said. He had a slow, calculating voice. ‘I shall be near. It is essential that I speak with him in private.’

Big Thumb Chang grinned, nodding like a toy with a spring in its neck.