Sharky's Machine

Chapter Two

HONG KONG, 1959

The morning sun blazed off the wings of the plane from Tokyo as it banked sharply over the edge of the bay and began the long descent to the runway that jutted out over Victoria Harbour. In the back of the crowded DC-6 tourist section the stewardess, a beautiful Oriental woman who spoke flawless English, picked up the interphone and began her final announcements:

‘Welcome to Hong Kong. In a few minutes we will be landing at Kai Tak Airport terminating PanAm flight twelve. Hong Kong means “Fragrant Harbour”. The city is divided into several districts. At the front of the plane on your left is Kowloon Peninsula. Kowloon means “Nine Dragons” and was named eight hundred years ago by the boy-emperor Ping, who believed that dragons lived in the eight mountain peaks surrounding the harbour. His prime minister reminded him that there were really nine dragons, since the ancient Chinese believed that all emperors were dragons. The modern section at the tip of the peninsula is Tsimshatsui, the modern -shopping centre of Hong Kong harbour.

‘Hong Kong Island is at your immediate left and beyond it is the South China Sea. On the far side of the island is the harbour of Aberdeen...’

The man in the dark grey suit in seat 19B tuned her out. He took off his sunglasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. He had been flying for almost twenty-one hours with only three stops and his eyes and neck ached. Although he felt cramped in the tourist section, it was safer, less conspicuous than flying in front, where the passengers somehow seemed noisier and quicker to strike up conversations. Tourist section provided anonymity.

He took out the passport and checked it one more time. It identified him as Howard Burns of Bridgeport, Connecticut. It was a good alias, one he had used sparingly. Only Casserro knew about it. The passport was over a year old and well-used. He had told Casserro, ‘Get me something with a little mileage on it, nothing new,’ and as usual old Chico had come through.

The man who called himself Bums was of medium height and slender with a few grey streaks in his close-cropped black hair. He was dressed inconspicuously in a business suit and wore dark glasses, and he had slept most of the way from Tokyo, awakening once to eat a warm snack. His food had been cold when he got it, but he ate it without complaint to avoid attracting attention to himself.

He shook off the effects of the arduous trip and, reaching into his suit jacket pocket, took out a small pill which he casually swallowed without water. The amphetamine was mild, just strong enough to get his juices running again. Then he settled back and began ticking off details in his mind, hitting only key words: Peninsula Hotel on Kowloon Causeway. George Wan, Oriental Rug Company, phone 5-220697. Star Ferry to the island. Causeway Typhoon Shelter, Wharf Three. Twelve noon. Brown and tan Rolls- Royce.

Simple. No wrinkles. He settled back, feeling secure as the plane bumped down and taxied to the terminal. He moved casually through customs, His only luggage a small carry-on bag with a change of shirt, socks, and underwear and toilet articles. No pills, not even aspirin. Once inside the terminal he went to the money exchange and traded five hundred dollars for twenty-five hundred Hong Kong dollars. Then he went outside and found a taxi.

The drive to the Peninsula Hotel took only fifteen minutes. The manager, a short, stubby Oriental in a silk brocaded cheongsam, checked him in and presented him with an envelope.

‘You have a message, Mr. Bums. I believe it is a package. May I have the porter get it for you?’

‘I’ll do it myself,’ Burns said in a flat, brittle voice.

The manager rang a bell and the porter appeared and followed Burns across the lobby to the cluttered office of the concierge, where a small, middle-aged woman sat reading what appeared to be the morning paper. Burns tore open the envelope and removed a receipt and a key. He gave the receipt to the woman and received a new attaché case, which he refused to let the porter carry.

His room was on the fifth floor, it was old and elegant and faced the harbour. Across it, like a jewel shining in the morning sun, was the island of Hong Kong.

‘Very nice,’ he said and got rid of the bellman with a tip. He sat on the bed and unlocked the case. Inside were a long-barrelled .22 pistol equipped with a silencer, a nylon cord four feet long, and a pair of latex surgical gloves. In the pocket at the back of the case were six bullets and a physician’s envelope containing two pills. There was also a roll of cotton swabbing.

Excellent, Burns said to himself. So far nobody had missed a beat.

Burns put on the surgical gloves and then removed the cylinder and silencer of the gun and checked it with the precision of a toolmaker, examining the barrel and firing pin before reassembling it and dry-firing it twice. It was clean and freshly oiled, although not new. Satisfied, Burns loaded the six bullets into the cylinder and replaced the gun. Then he took out the nylon cord and, wrapping it around both hands, snapped it sharply several times. He doubled the cord, tied a square knot midway between the ends, and put it back. He put one of the pills in his suit pocket and placed the other back in the envelope, took off the gloves and dropped them in the case, locked it and put it in a drawer.

He checked his watch. Eight-forty. He opened the carry- on bag and from his leather toilet kit took out a small travel clock. He set it for 11:15, then called the operator.

‘I’d like to leave a call for-eleven fifteen, A.M.,’ he said. ‘That’s two and a half hours from now.

‘Yes, sir,’ said the operator, ‘eleven-fifteen A.M.’

Then Burns loosened his tie and lay back on the bed, folded his hands across his chest and fell immediately to sleep.

At 11:25, Chan Lun Chai closed his antique shop, put a sign on the door announcing that he would be back in ten minutes, and stepped into sweltering Cat Street. Shimmering heat turned the crowded confines of the old Morlo Gai shopping district into dancing mirages as he threaded his way through the crush of Chinese nationals, tourists, and sailors, towards the phone booth half a block away.

A heavy-set Englishman, overdressed for the heat, his tie askew, and sweat pouring into his shirt collar, was bellowing into the phone while his wife, who was almost as tousled as he, waited outside the booth with her arms full of packages.

Unperturbed by the heat, Chan stood nearby, studying the window of a jade shop. He was short and wiry, a man in his mid-thirties, dressed in the traditional black mandarin jacket and matching pants. Only his glasses, which were gold-rimmed and tinted, seemed out of place.

Finally the Britisher left the booth fuming. ‘Really! They say you can’t make reservations for the Chinese Opera. Have you ever heard of such a thing? No reservations at the opera!’ They trundled off through the crowds towards Ladder Street.

Chan stepped into the booth and looked at his watch. It was exactly 11:30. Seconds later the phone rang. He answered in a slow, quiet, precise voice:

‘Royal Oriental Rug Company.’

‘May I speak to Mr. Wan, please? The voice on the other end was sharp and irritating, like the sound of firecrackers exploding.

‘Which Mr. Wan?’ Chan said.

‘George Wan.’

‘This is George Wan speaking. May I help you?’

‘This is Mr. Johnson.’

‘Welcome to Hong Kong, Mr. Johnson. Did you get the package?’

‘Excellent. Everything’s satisfactory.’

‘I am pleased,’ Chan said.

‘How about tonight?’

‘It is all arranged.’

‘Good. I should be back to you in three hours. Maybe four.’

‘I will be here. May I suggest the sooner the better. It may be difficult, locating the object you seek.’

‘I understand,’ Burns said. ‘I’ll try to call back by two- thirty.’

‘Dor jeh,’ Chan said, ‘which means “thank you”. Joy geen.’ And he hung up.

The shower and shave did not help much. Burns still felt sluggish, his senses dulled by time lag and lack of sleep. After talking to Chan he went into the bathroom and took the pill from his pocket, popped it in his mouth, and washed it down with a full glass of water. He was hardly out of the room when it hit him, a dazzling shot, like a bolt of lightning, that charged through his body, frazzling his skin. He felt as though he were growing inside his own shell, that his muscles and bones were stretching out. He became keenly aware of sounds, the hum of the elevator and the muffled roar of a vacuum cleaner behind a door somewhere. His entire body shuddered involuntarily as he waited for the elevator.

Leave it to the Chinks, Burns thought. Whatever it is, it’s nitro, pure nitro.

By the time the Star Ferry was halfway across the harbour, he felt ready again, his eyes bright and clear, his reflexes quivering like rubberbands stretched to the limit. He got out of the cab and let the hot breeze tickle his skin, watched the concrete skyline of the Central District draw closer. The buildings seemed to soar, telescoping up from their foundations and dominating the two mountain peaks at either end of the island. His heart was thundering and he felt a keen, familiar sense of anticipation and his penis stirred between his legs. Without thinking, be began rubbing his hands together. The exhaustion that racked him was jarred, splintered, purged from his body, like torn pieces of paper thrown to the wind. He got back in the cab.

The driver moved expertly off the ferry and down through the crowded slip, blowing his horn and ignoring the catcalls and shaking fists of the crowds of pedestrians. He turned left onto the Causeway, a wide boulevard, and then drove swiftly, due east towards the shelter, passing through Wanchai, the garish night-club colony with its neon signs of exploding invitations to the mid-day trade, and away from the skyscrapers of the Central District. A minute or two later the driver leaned his head back towards Bums but kept his eyes on the highway.

‘Typhoon Shelter ahead, san. You have a place?’

‘You know sampan three?’

‘Hai.’ The driver nodded.

‘Hai, that’s “yes”?’ Burns asked.

‘Yes, hai.’

‘How would you say “no”?’

‘Um.’

‘Um, hunh? Um, hai, um, hai, Burns repeated several times and began laughing and patting his knees like a drummer keeping rhythm with the words. Absolute nitro!

The taxi turned off the Causeway and wound down a curved road towards the waterfront. The Typhoon Shelter was a triangular cove protected on the inland sides by tall concrete abutments. The driver stepped. Burns got out and looked down at the harbour. The cover was choked with sampans. Hundreds of the small fiat-bottomed boats bobbed in the water, their mid-sections protected by hoods made of rice mats, their pilots standing at the tillers in the stern, beckoning to the tourists and calling out prices. Several of the sampans had woks iii the bow and chests filled with beer and soft drinks, like floating delis. The wind carried the smell of cooking fish. and shrimp up to the abutment.

Burns was overwhelmed by the sight. This was the China he had envisioned.

The driver stood beside him and pointed to a wharf directly below them at the bottom of the concrete stairs. Sampans hovered around it.

‘Sampan three,’ he said.

‘Great. What I owe you?’

‘Seven dollars,’ the driver said.

Burns gave him eight and said Dor jay’, and the driver, smiling at his awkward attempt to say thank you, bowed and replied ‘Dor jeh’, and was gone.

Burns walked to the eastern wall of the shelter and waited. At 12:05 a brown and tan Rolls, polished like a mirror, pulled up. The man who got out was tall and beginning to show the signs of overeating. He wore a white linen suit and a flowered sport shirt open at the collar. His receding hair was blondish and he wore a thick moustache and dark blue sunglasses. He walked with a cane of finely polished teak with an ornate dragon’s head handle carved out of gold. The man stared down towards sampan three for several moments and then descended the concrete stairway. The Rolls drove away.

Burns waited for a full ten minutes, watching the roadway leading to the stairs and scanning the entire abutment.

When he was sure the man had not been followed, he too went back to the stairway and down to the wharf.

The big man stood on the pier, haggling with an ancient and toothless crone who stood at the rear of one of the boats. A small child sat at her feet playing with an empty soda bottle. They appeared to be arguing.

‘Gow, gow,’ the woman yelled in a voice tortured with age.

The big man shook his head. ‘Tie goo-why. Laok.’

The old woman glared at him with anger. ‘Laok. Laok! Hah! Um ho gow gee aw!’

The big man laughed. Burns stepped up behind him and said, ‘Why fight with the old crone? There’s plenty of other boats around.’

The heavy-set man jumped and turned quickly, startled by the words. He stood close to Burns and the two men stared at each other for several moments. Finally the big man smiled, very vaguely, then said, ‘She is telling me I am cheap, to stop bothering her. It is a game we play, senhor. She wants nine dollars, I offer six. I pay her seven and tip her two.’ He spoke with an accent that seemed part Spanish, part German.

‘Gay doa cheen,’ the old woman yelled, ‘um goy?’

‘Chut,’ the large man replied.

She grumbled. She looked wounded. She chattered and pointed to the child. Then finally she motioned him aboard.

‘Are you taking a sampan?’ the large man said. ‘Perhaps we can share a ride.’

‘Sounds okay to me,’ Burns said.

The big man offered his hand. ‘I am Victor DeLaroza.’

‘Howard Bums.’ They shook hands.

‘I am going to the Tal Tak,’ DeLarza said. ‘It is the finest floating restaurant in the city.’

‘What a coincidence,’ Burns said. ‘So am I.’

‘Excellent. Are you a visitor?’

‘Yeah,’ Burns replied.

‘Well, perhaps I will be able to recommend some dishes.’ DeLaroza took seven Hong Kong dollars from his pocket and gave it to the woman. She counted it and glared at him. ‘Aw tsung nay,’ she muttered. DeLaroza laughed. ‘She says she hates me. When I tip her, she will tell me she loves me.’

Burns stepped into the sampan and walked to the seat in the mid-section. He was hunched over and walked with his hands on the sides of the tenuous skiff, and he turned cautiously before he sat down. DeLaroza followed, walking upright with ease and sitting beside him.

‘You do that like a champ,’ Bums said to him.

‘Ho!’ the old woman cried out and cackled.

‘She tells me “good”,’ DeLaroza said. ‘I was like you at first, overly cautious. She is the oldest of the old. Jung-yee Pau Shaukiwan, the grandmother of Shaukiwan.’

‘What’s a Shaukiwan?’

‘Shaukiwan is the Chinese settlement, a floating village around on the southeast side of the island. You have never seen greater poverty.’

The old woman stood at the rear, moving the scull with arms as thin as twigs, expertly guiding the sampan around the hundreds of other boats and moving it towards the open water of the harbour. Ahead of them, to the west, was a great three-storey junk, its pagodalike awnings stretching out over the water and its garish red and yellow trim gleaming in the sun.

‘That’s Tai Tak,’ DeLaroza said. Behind him the baby started banging the empty bottle on the bottom of the boat.

‘Hell of a place to babysit,’ Burns said. ‘What happens this thing, you know, dumps over?’

‘She and the child will, probably drown. He is her grandson. She watches over him while her daughter works in one of the whore-houses in West Point, the old city. When he is a little older, they will sell him.’

‘Sell him!’ Burns was shocked. ‘Sell their own kid?’

‘It will be better for him. He will be sold to a good family, possibly even British or American.

‘Jesus, don’t they have any feeling for the family?’

‘Life is harsh on the harbour,’ DeLaroza said, and then, ‘I almost bought the boy myself.’

Burns turned to him and stared for a moment at one corner of his sunglasses. Burns never looked anyone directly in the eye. Then he looked back at Jung-yee.

‘It’s all right, you can speak freely. She does not understand English.’

‘You’re crazy,’ Burns said flatly.

‘A little, I suppose.’

‘You got pretty fat and sassy there, uh, uh...’

‘Victor. V-i-c-t-o-r. I am Victor, you are Howard.’

‘Yeah. Anyway, you learned a lot out here, only a coupla years, too.’

‘You haven’t changed much at all,’ DeLaroza said. ‘Yeah, well, a little grey hair maybe. Fifteen years is a long time, right? I wouldn’t recognize you. Not at first anyway. The weight, the hair. You done something here too, around the eyes.’

‘It is called a stretch. They pull the skin tight to the ears on both sides. Gets rid of the wrinkles.. I do not have the proper bone structure for a face lift, but . . .‘ He let the sentence dangle.

‘The accent’s good too, pal,’ Burns said. ‘Now what’s this about buying the kid? Some kind of guilt thing?’

‘No, loneliness. And pride. I am building an empire and there is no one to carry on the line. When Victor DeLaroza dies, then what?’

‘So what, that’s what. When you die, who gives a damn?’

‘They have a saying here. If a dragon smiles on you, you have luck. If two dragons smile on you, you have love. And if three dragons smile on you, you are immortal.’

‘Quite the philosopher there, ain’t you, Vie, old boy? Well, goes with the new look. We got a saying too. You can’t take it with you.’

‘Exactly. That is my point.’

‘You got a lotta time. So far the dragon’s been pretty good to you.’

‘So far only one dragon has graced me.’

Burns did not answer immediately. DeLaroza took out a cigar, snipped off the end, and lit it with a small gold lighter. He puffed it until the end glowed evently. Then he turned abruptly to Burns, offering him one.

‘I don’t smoke. That a real Havana?’

DeLaroza nodded.

‘I got a lotta pals, business pals, right? Gonna drop millions down there, that fuckin’ Batista runnin’ out like that. Castro’s closing up the casinos, now the word’s out he’s gonna take them, just take ‘em.’

‘Castro is an enigma.’

‘I don’t know about that,’ Burns spat out. ‘He’s a goddamn Commie thief is what he is. We oughta go in there, blow the whole dingo outa the pond with an A-bomb, you ask me. Start over.’

Burns’s sudden vehemence startled DeLaroza. Then just as quickly the American’s mood changed and he started to laugh. ‘You hear about Castro going to a costume party. Stuck out his tongue and came as a haemorrhoid.’ He laughed even harder at the foul joke and the old woman, caught up in his gaiety, laughed with him. ‘Listen to that old crone,’ Burns said and laughed even harder. DeLaroza puffed on his cigar. ‘Anyway,’ Burns continued, ‘you got the golden touch, Victor.’

‘We may be expanding again,’ the big man said.

‘How’s that?’

‘It is becoming more and more profitable to manufacture products out here in the Orient — I-long Kong, Singapore, Japan. Then assemble them in the States. There are certain tax advantages.’

‘You thinking of opening up something in the States?’

‘It’s obvious to me now. In another year or so it will be obvious to many.’

‘Well, you got the instincts there, Victor. I’ll give you that. Fifteen years, you ain’t made a mistake yet. I thought you were nuts, movin’ out here from Brazil. What did I know?’ He paused, then added, ‘Don’t you ever wanna stop, sit back, listen to the grass grow, drink a little vino?’

‘Not yet. The bigger it becomes, the more challenging it is. We may have to go public. It is all becoming too big for one man. Too cumbersome.’

‘Sell out, then.’

‘Perhaps. (let out of al[this, try something new, different. Something small.’

‘Look, I don’t care, see? I mean you do what you do. That’s your end of it, I got no complaints, no complaints at all. Me, I’m here to do what I do, see? I figure, you used the Pittsburgh drop, it had to be something serious. I got here in three days, pal. Think about it. Had to get things set up, a passport, like that. I was twenty-fucking-one hours on the plane. I don’t even know what day it is, flying up and down and around, across datelines, that kinda shit. You know what? I was on Wake Island for four hours, can you beat that? I went out, looked at the monuments and all. I never been this way before, Europe but never over here. For all I know, I get back, it’s gonna be the day before I left. You just be careful, that’s all. You get too greedy, you’ll be like

the monkey, you know, kept puttin’ his paw in the jar, bringing up a peanut, finally he puts it in there, grabs a whole fistful of peanuts and he can’t get the fist out and he won’t drop the peanuts and you know what. He got the old blasteroo, that’s what.’ ‘I shall keep that in mind.’

‘So what’s the problem? What am I doin’ here?’

Burns was beginning to sweat. He took off his coat and draped it over his lap.’

‘You remember Halford, the major in Firenze?’

Burns thought for a moment.

‘Vaguely.’

‘He was in charge of Stitch. Tall man. Very straight, tough. Very smart.’

‘Yeah, sure I do. The paisanos called him, what was it?’

‘Gli occhi de sassi. Stone eyes.’

‘Right. A very suspicious man. He didn’t believe shit. What an asshole.’

‘You know him. Four days ago I saw Halford, on a restaurant like the one out there. In Aberdeen Harbour. He is a colonel now, a full colonel.’

Is that what’s got you goin’? Hey, I hardly recognized you and I was looking for you. Is that what this is all about?’

‘He recognized me. I am sure of it.’

‘Ah, c’mon,’

‘We were not five feet apart. I was paying the check and I turned to leave and he was just sitting down at the next table and we stood there and stared at each other and I swear, for a moment he almost said something. Then I got out, very quickly. But as we were pulling away in the launch I looked back up and he had come outside. He was at the rail, watching me.’

Burns said, ‘Humh.’

‘I have been terrified ever since. It is frightening, to be afraid to walk on the street. My company is in Mui Wo, on the island of Lantau, to the west of here. Only occasional tourists come over there, to visit the silver mines. And yet I have been afraid to go outside. Today, coming here, my stomach hurt. 1 sat in the back seat of the car looking out the window, looking at every face.’

‘Take it easy.’

‘It has been a nightmare.’

‘So far you did everything right. You didn’t try anything. No phone calls. Didn’t try to get a line on him, right? Nothing to set anybody off?’

‘No. I followed the plan. I contacted you and waited.’

‘Okay. Good for you.’

‘There is a danger. He may have reported it to someone.’

Burns said nothing. He stared straight ahead, his brain clicking off the options, the odds. Finally he said, ‘Okay, we got to go on the assumption be didn’t. I mean if he did, it’s too late anyway. So we got to figure he’s here on vacation, okay? Was he in uniform?’

‘Yes.’

‘Okay, nine, ten to one he’s on a furlough. So it’s a fluke. Maybe he got a little shot, see? Thought to himself, Hey, I know that guy. But it’s fifteen years. You changed a lot. What were you then, anyway? I don’t see him putting it together. I don’t see that at all. Maybe, if anything, he’s probably still trying to put his finger on it.’

Burns thought some more.

‘Thing is, if he’s on vacation, he’s too busy having a good time. He’s outa the element right now. He’s thinking, maybe. Maybe even he’s touched it around the edges. But it’s a long shot, he made you. I promise you. What we gotta do, we gotta locate him fast and then. . . .‘ He snapped his fingers and smiled. DeLaroza stared at him and a chill passed through him. Burns went on:

‘Okay, okay. You relax, see? You forget it. We have a good lunch, you go back over there to whatever, Mooey Pooey, whatever you call it, lay low another day. By tomorrow it’ll be over. You don’t worry, see? This is my end of it. This is my business. I’m glad you didn’t panic. Anytime there’s trouble, I handle that. What I don’t want, I don’t want amateurs fallin’ in the soup, know what I mean?

‘Yes. Thank you.’

‘Forget it. My problem. It’s done. Besides, I may be needing to call on you one of these days. I may have to make a big withdrawal.’

‘What happened?’

‘Well, you know, this and that and the other thing. Some friends of mine, used to be friends of mine, they may have tumbled on to our little freelance thing down there in Brazil. It could be just I’ve got the butterflies like you. But just in case . .

‘How much?’

‘I dunno. Couple hundred thousand maybe.’

‘It will be no problem, my friend.’

‘Good. One more thing. About Halford. I want a good description. And I’m gonna need money, Hong Kong dollars.’

‘How much?’

‘I dunno yet. Could be, maybe fifty thou Hong Kong. How late can you do business with the bank?’

‘Up to six is no problem at all. It will come out of the box. The president of the bank and I are friends. We play golf together.’

‘Ain’t that sweet? Six is okay. I’ll probably need to make the tap about five. Deliver it to my hotel. In a shoebox, wrapped up like I bought some shoes, had them delivered. You call me at five, I’ll give you the tally. Where’s the bank?’

‘Right around the corner from the hotel. The China Bank, behind the old Supreme Court building just before you get on the Star Ferry in Kowloon.’

‘No problem. You ain’t five minutes away.’

‘Right.’

‘Okay, how about Halford? What’s he look like?’

‘His full name is Charles David Halford and he is a full colonel,’ DeLaroza began, and then described the military man.

‘That’s beautiful. Look, you can forget it, okay, Victor? Now, what are we gonna have for lunch?’

‘Well, I would suggest starting with shark’s fin soup and then either the Shanghai crab or empress chicken...’

At 2:30, Burns made his call from a public phone booth in the lobby of the Excelsior Hotel, directly across the causeway from the Typhoon Shelter. Chan answered.

‘Royal Oriental Rug Company.’

‘Is Mr. Wan there?’

‘Which Mr. Wan?’

‘George.’

‘This is George Wan.’

‘It’s Johnson again.’

‘Yes sir. Do you have the information yet?’

‘Yeah. An eagle colonel, U.S. Army, name of Charles David Halford. H-A-I,.F-O-R-D, Halford. Six-one to two, hundred-eighty pounds, white hair cut short, one of those curled-up-type moustaches. I’m guessing he’s down from Tokyo or maybe the Philippines. I don’t think he’s here permanently. That’s all I got.’

‘It is enough.’

‘I was planning, I’d like to be outa here tonight, know what I mean? Can it be handled that quick?’

‘I feel certain, if there are not complications. Call back each hour. If there is no answer, I have nothing to report.’

‘That’s fine, just fine. Did you make the shipping arrangements?’

‘Uh, yes, uh, you understand, there is a risk in moving the object about. There will need to be an additional charge for, uh, packing and insurance.’

‘Of course. You get too greedy, I’ll let you know. Dor jeh.’

‘Dor-jeh.’

There was no answer at 3:30. At 4:30 the line was busy and Burns began to get nervous. Another hour would be pushing the bank deadline. He. waited a minute and tried again. The phone rang several times before someone answered.

‘Jo sun,’ a high, whining voice said.

‘is this the Royal Oriental Rug Company’?’ Burns asked.

‘Um ying gok yung,’ the voice said.

Jesus, he can’t speak English, Burns thought.

‘George Wan? You know, George Wan?’ he said, speaking the name slowly and distinctly.

There was a disturbance on the other end, a flurry of Chinese words spoken in anger and then:

‘This is George Wan. Hold a moment, urn goy.’ Then he heard him snap out a stream of Chinese, followed by another flurry. Finally: ‘I am sorry. This man was using the booth for business calls. I had a small problem with him. Is this Mr. Johnson?’

Burns paused. Then: ‘Where do you work?’ His voice was flat, harsh, and suspicious.

‘Royal Oriental Rug Company. It Is George Wan, believe me.’

‘Okay. what’ve you got?’

‘The eagle colonel Halford is with military Intelligence.

He comes from Korea by way of Tokyo and is on rest leave. It required many calls. I had to prevail on a friend in Japan in the Yakuza and . . .‘

‘Forget the road map, okay? I don’t care where he came from, how he got here, all that. You got to understand, George, you and me we’re in the same business. You don’t have to jack up the price with all these details. All I want is essentials.’

Wan paused, then he said, ‘Yes. Halford is at the Ambassador Hotel on Nathan Street in Kowloon. Everything is arranged for tonight.’

‘You got the shipping thing set up?

“Hai, nin.’

‘I’m changing signals a little. It’ll be two.’

‘Two?’

‘Yeah, two.’

‘But I don’t understand, who...’

‘Think about it, George. You can figure it out. I said I wanted shipping and insurance, see?’

This time the pause was longer. ‘That could make things very difficult for us, Mr. Johnson. It will really not be necessary to...’

Burns cut him off. ‘Look, you come over on my turf, you got a job to do, we do it your way. This one we do my way. What happens afterwards, that’s your problem. Whatever it’s worth, okay?

‘I see,’ Wan said. ‘It will take a moment. . . uh, the price will. . . uh, I will have to ask sixty thousand Hong Kong dollars.’

‘That’s a little high, but I ain’t arguing. You know where to pick it up?

‘Hai’

‘Five-thirty, it’ll be there. Now, where do I go?

‘You have something with which to write?

‘I don’t write anything down. You gimme the details once, I’ll give it back to you word-for-word.’

‘It is a place known as the House of the Purple Azalea in New Kowloon ...‘

Colonel Halford had fallen asleep on the balcony outside his room. He was still weak from dysentery. His nerves were shot. He was burned out. And even though his mental and physical condition were improving each day, It was easy to drift off in the hot afternoon sun.

As usual, he dreamed.

Violent nightmares.

The dreams were never the same, but they were alike. Unrelated scenes, spliced together into subliminal nonsense rhymes.

Fragments of fantasy and reality, leaping back and forth through time.

He was in Italy. An olive grove, standing beside a long conference table under the trees, talking to a group of American and Italian officers, but the words were gibberish, like a record played at triple speed, and he was interrupted by the sound of trumpets, and then bells, and sticks beating on pans. Everyone began to run so he ran too, blindly through the grove, past great numbers of soldiers lying dead on the ground, out of the grove to the rim of a high, steep hill and there, looking down, saw hundreds of North Koreans charging towards him and there was gunfire and explosions and men fell all around him screaming but the bullets passed through him and he felt nothing and then the Koreans reached the crest of the hill and ran past him as though he were invisible and he picked up a gun and fired over and over again but it was impotent. He ran after them, back to the conference table and now there were Americans and Italians and North Koreans standing at the table, judging him, pointing all around him to the bodies of the soldiers swinging from tree limbs. And he looked at them and he knew them but he could not put names with their faces and when he tried to speak to them, the words that came out of his mouth were foreign to him.

He awoke in a sweat. For a minute it was difficult for him to breathe. He stood up and took several deep breaths and stood watching the sampans and junks gliding lazily through the harbour. Below, the street was alive with the sounds of civilization and he began to relax.

He tried to ignore the dream, to concentrate on other things.

He thought about the man he had seen on the floating restaurant the other day and tried to place his face. He was sure he knew the man. Perhaps from Honolulu when he was stationed at Pearl. Or from the days in Tokyo, before Korea. But the mental walls were still there, separating Halford from his subconscious.

He began to think about tonight. Perhaps be should not have accepted the invitation. The last time, in Tokyo, he bad been embarrassed. The young girl had tried so hard, been so understanding and, ultimately, comforting. He was not sure that he wanted to risk so soon again the anguish of an emotional need he could not satisfy physically.

When he had left Tokyo for Hong Kong and terminated his three-month, twice-a-day therapy with Captain Friedman, it was like cutting an umbilicus. Friedman had recommended the four-week leave. ‘Get out of here, try some of the things we’ve been working on,’ he had told the sceptical Halford. ‘Look, it’s going to be like going to camp by yourself the first time. Scary, but exciting. You’re going to be okay, Charlie. Thing is, don’t be afraid to try. Remember what Bishop Chamberlain said in the seventeenth century: “It’s better to wear out than rust out.”’

An hour out of Tokyo old fears had begun chewing at his gut again, but he owed it to the doc to at least try. And he had to admit, in two weeks things had improved.

Then there was Kam Sing, who had gone to such trouble contacting his cousin here, arranging ‘something special’ for him. Yes, tonight he would have to try again. For months, Kam had been a faithful collaborator in Korea and he could not risk insulting the man who had become his friend.

He went into the bathroom and splashed water on his face and then fixed himself a Scotch and started to dress for dinner.

Burns had time for only an hour’s nap before the phone jarred him awake.

‘Seven forty-five, Mr. Burns,’ the hotel operator said.

‘Dor jeh,’ he said.

‘Dor jeh.’

A moment later the alarm went off. He closed up the travel clock and put it in the toilet case. The pill had worn off and he felt even worse than he had that morning. His mouth was fuzzy and his eyes burned. He took a quick shower, shaved, and put on a clean shirt, clean socks, clean underwear, and threw his dirty clothes in the carry-on bag.

He took the attaché case out of the drawer, examined its contents once more, and went down and checked out. Then he walked two blocks on Nathan Street to the Imperial Hotel and took a cab to the airport. There he checked the bag, confirmed his reservations on the 11:45 P.M. flight to Tokyo and then took another cab to the House of Eagles on Mm Street. He had to hand it to old George Wan. The place was no more than ten minutes from the airport. The House of Eagles was a flashy third-class night club which, were it not for the sign in both Chinese and English, could have been in Miami or North Beach or on Sunset Boulevard. The decor was early joint, imitation leather, fake silk drapes, candles in used wine bottles. Three of the five girls were Caucasians and the bartender looked like an ex-sailor from Brooklyn. The place was almost empty. As Burns sat down at the bar one of the Oriental girls walked up to him and ran her hand across his neck.

‘Are you from Hong Kong?’ she asked.

‘Nope.’

‘Ah, American. Aw chung-yee may gock yun. That means 1 love Americans”.’

‘Not tonight, I got plans.’

‘Plans can be changed.’

‘Maybe tomorrow I’ll come back.’

The girl’s smile vanished and so did she. Burns ordered a glass of plain soda water and asked where the bathroom was.

The restroom was filthy. Soiled paper towels littered the sink and floor, and the entire room seemed coated with grime. Burns entered one of the two booths and locked the door. He opened the attaché case and took out the surgical gloves and put them on. He loosened his belt, lowered his pants, and tied the cord around his hips using a simple bow-knot, then pulled his pants back up and buckled them. The knot was directly under the zipper. He took the other pill and put it in his suit pocket and put the cotton swabbing in one of his pants pockets. Then he took out the pistol and checked it once more before reaching around to his back and slipping it in his belt.

He buttoned his coat and flushed the toilet and went back to the bar.

The glass of soda was waiting for him. He slipped the pill into his mouth and washed it down with soda water. The rush was almost instantaneous. His body seemed to vibrate with electrical charges. Life surged back into his feet, his hands, his fingertips. New strength flooded his worn-out body, adrenalin pumped through his brain. His eyes began to clear. The sounds in the room amplified, were crisper, more distinct. With the rush came an anticipation so keen that he began to fantasize as he mentally ticked off the steps he was about to follow.

He looked at his watch. It was 9:20, time to go. When he got up to leave he was aware for the first time that he had an erection.

The house on Bowring Street sat back from the road among hundreds of dwarf azaleas, an old Chinese one storey mansion, weathered and ancient, its tiled pagoda roof scarred by the years, its azaleas, perfectly shaped, blooming in small step terraces down to the kerb.

The house was deceiving, for it was shaped like a U and only the south wing faced Bowring. A wall circled the entire block. It was nine feet high and had a single opening, a mahogany door nine inches thick with brass hinges embedded in the wood. The door had no latch. It could be opened only from the inside with a special key. The top of the wall was littered with broken glass.

Behind it was a garden almost three hundred years old, a garden that was weeded and trimmed and pruned every day and was so immaculately manicured that it was rare to find even a single blossom on the ground. A small stream curved through it with benches at intervals where lovers for the evening could sit and talk or perhaps just touch each other. Each of the interior rooms of the house had a frosted-glass panel that opened onto the garden.

In the front of the house, over the door, a lamp hung from an ornate brass serpent that seemed to curl from the wall. There were no other lights. The windows of the house had been blacked out for years.

The place was as still as a painted landscape.

Halford stood in front of the house for several minutes after the taxi left. He smoked a cigarette and walked to the corner and back. The old fears gnawed at him and the sounds of Mm Street beckoned him away from the house.

But something else drew him to it, something Captain Friedman had said to him early in their therapy, a quote from Spinoza: So long as a man imagines he cannot do something, so long as he is determined not to do it; then it is impossible for him to do it.

Finally he went up the cobblestone walk and rang the bell.

The door was opened almost immediately by a woman, an ageless and splendid Chinese woman, tiny but erect and commanding, her greying hair pulled tightly away from a face that was unwrinkled and smooth as a rose petal. She was elegantly dressed in a formal cheongsam and wore a tiara of small, perfectly shaped diamonds. If she was startled by Halford’s gaunt appearance, by the sunken eyes peering from black circles and the caved-in cheeks, she did not show it. She bowed deeply to him.

‘Welcome to my house,’ she said. ‘I am Madame Kwa. You must be Colonel Halford. We are honoured by your presence and thank you for being so punctual.’

‘After twenty-four years in the army, Madame, I doubt I would know how to be late.’

‘You forget time here, Colonel. At the House of the Purple Azalea there is no time, only pleasure.’

She ushered him into a small room in the south wing. The lights were low and soothing and the room was decorated with antiques from several Chinese dynasties. There were gold, teak, and silver and the furniture was deep and soft, covered with satin and linen. There was music somewhere, as elusive as an old memory, and the imperceptible presence of perfume. She brought Halford a drink, offered him opium, which he refused, and seated him facing a wall covered by a scarlet silk curtain.

‘And now, Colonel,’ she said, ‘permit me to introduce my young ladies to you.’

The lights in the room lowered and went out. The silk curtain drew back on soundless runners. Behind it was a plate-glass window and behind that, darkness. Then a spotlight faded in and a young woman sat in its glow. Her hair was woven in a pigtail that hung over one shoulder and she looked out through the glass with narrow almond-shaped eyes that were the deepest brown Halford had ever seen.

She wore gold slippers trimmed in white and a white mandarin sheath split almost to the hip. On her left arm, over the bicep, the numeral I had been tattoed in bright colours. She smiled.

‘This is Leah, the number one girl,’ said Madame Kwa. ‘She is nineteen years old and was trained in geisha houses before she came to me. She has perfected the Twenty-one Pleasures of the Chinese Wedding Night and she speaks English, French, Portuguese, Japanese, and three dialects of Chinese, and can recite more than a hundred love poems, including those banned by the cabala priests of Israel...’

One after another, the lights illuminated the women of the house, each a beauty in her own way, each with some special love secret from the ages, each with her number tattoed in small colorescura numerals on her arm. Halford’s fears evaporated. He was entranced. He was aware of old stirrings, old needs. But he was waiting now for one girl in particular, because the cousin of Kam Sing had told him as he was leaving the cab, ‘Wait for number nineteen. Kam Sing says the number is very special. You will understand.’

And now Halford understood, for the light revealed a young woman whose beauty stunned the Colonel. She was small and delicate, her skin the colour of brushed leather and hair coal-black, hanging straight to her waist. She looked not at him, as the others had done, but at the floor, and Halford was drawn to her instantly.

‘This is Heth,’ Madame Kwa said. ‘She is special to all of us. She is only eighteen and she came to me when she was nine from deep in old China. She speaks Chinese and Japanese and some phrases of English. She has observed the mysteries of love from all the other ladies and she has mastered the ancient secret of the String with Twelve Knots. It is said that her tongue is like the wings of a butterfly.’

Halford was moved by the obvious vulnerability of this beautiful creature and by the sadness in her enormous eyes.

‘Yes,’ Halford whispered, ‘it must be her.’

Madame Kwa smiled. ‘You have made the choice of the wise men,’ she said. ‘The gods will envy you.’

‘How do I talk to her?’ Halford asked.

‘It will not be necessary. She will communicate with you, Colonel, and you will have no trouble understanding.’

Burns stood in the shadows at the end of the alley watching the house on Bowring Street. He had disposed of the attaché case in a convenient storm sewer. He waited until he was certain the street was empty and then crossed swiftly to the mahogany door, which was propped open by a stick.

He moved the stick, stepped quickly through the door, let it click shut behind him, and stood with his back against the wall, waiting until his eyes were accustomed to the darkness of the garden. It was empty. He moved swiftly across the stream and stood in the shadows under a cherry tree thirty feet from the corner room of the north wing of the house. Again he waited.

The room was small and comfortable, its floor covered with a llama rug, its walls decorated with yellow and red striped satin. It contained a large wooden tub big enough for two people and a massage table covered with a mat of goose feathers. Beside it was a smaller table covered with urns of oils, powders, and creams. There were no lights, only scented candles.

Heth Led Halford by the hand to the room and she slid the door shut behind them.

‘You wait,’ she said in her tiny, melodic voice.

She walked across the room to the door leading into the garden. But a foot or two from the door she stopped. Her hand reached out and, like a hummingbird poised before a honeysuckle bush, it fluttered for a fraction of a second before it found the door and slid it open.

Halford was stunned. Now he understood her vulnerability, the sadness in her incredible eyes, why Madame Kwa had said, ‘She is special to all of us.’

Heth was blind.

‘You see,’ she said turning in his direction, ‘gar-den.’

Emotions he had forgotten swept over him, desire, feeling, longing. He walked across the room and held her face between his fingertips.

‘Yes, I see,’ he said gently. ‘I see for both of us.’

Heth smiled and her fingers moved over his body, as soft as cobwebs swaying in the wind.

Thirty feet away, Burns watched front the shadows, saw Halford framed in the doorway, watched as he touched the girl’s face, saw her respond, her fingers moving over his body, the buttons on his shirt opening as if by magic as she removed his clothing.

The girl was great.

She led Halford to the tub and her hands moved down, unbuckling his belt, unlacing his shoes. She knelt before him and removed his shoes and pants and, reaching up, slipped her hands inside the waistband of his shorts. Her fingertips flirted with him, touching and yet not touching. She finished undressing him, leaning forward and breathing softly on him, letting her lips brush against him. She began an almost imperceptible chant in Japanese. She touched his face, felt the rigid line of his jaw, his quivering lips, and slipped two fingertips inside his mouth, tapping his tongue. Her own tongue flittered over his chest and sucked at his nipples. She took his hand in hers, helped him undress her, guided them over her breasts, her stomach, and down to hair as soft as rabbit’s fur.

His fears vanished. He was hypnotized, overcome by a sensuality more complete than any he had ever known. His manhood was restored.

Burns moved silently across the garden and stood near the door, heard her soft chant, the sounds of water splashing, the murmur of soft laughter. He took the Cotton swabbing from his pocket, wrapped a strip around one hand, held it in place with his thumb, and slipped on one of the surgical gloves. He repeated the action with the other hand. He unzipped his pants and took out the nylon cord, wrapped it several times around each hand, and tested it again, pulling it taut. The knot was centred perfectly. He eased himself to the door and looked in.

They were out of the tub. Halford lay on his back on the table, facing away from Burns, who stood watching, behind him.

Heth covered her hands with warm oil and began massaging Halford, her strong fingers kneading the muscles in his legs and chest. She stroked his arms and placed them at his sides. Then she got up on the table, straddling him, settling down on him, moving against him, leaning over him. Her butterfly tongue teased his stomach, moved lower, and her mouth enveloped him.

Halford was unaware of the new presence in the room, an obscene presence moving stealthily across the llama rug, the nylon cord dangling between latex-sheathed fists.

But Heth was aware. Her keen ears amplified each creak in the floor, the rustle of clothing, a different rhythm of breathing in the room. She reached out to the smaller table. Her fingers found a short silk string with twelve knots tied in it, each about an inch apart. She slipped her hand under Halford and began to insert the string. Halford, lost in fantasy, hardly felt it. His pulse was hammering, his breath was laboured and quick.

The tempo increased. Faster. Faster. Faster.

Halford gasped. His blood, charged with lightning, surged through his body. His head rose off the table. His body went rigid. At that moment Heth ripped the string from inside him and Halford cried out. He exploded.

As he did, Heth dropped her legs over the side of the table and clamped them under it. Her arms enveloped it and she grasped one wrist with the other hand.

Halford was caught in a human vice.

Burns dropped the nylon cord around his throat. His hands snapped apart.

The knot in the cord bit deep into the hollow in Halford’s neck. Ecstasy turned to pain. His temples erupted. His breath was cut off, trapped in his throat. His tongue shot from his mouth.

Burns snapped the cord again, tighter this time.

Halford began to shake violently. Spasms seized his body. It began to jerk against Heth’s. She tightened her grip. He tried to scream, but the cry was crushed in his throat. He looked up, saw the grotesque inverted face above him. He tried to utter one last word, a syllable, distorted and guttural, which died in his mouth:

Wh-a-a-a-r-r-ghh...’

And then his windpipe burst. He shuddered convulsively. His breath surged from him like wind squealing from a punctured balloon.

He went limp.

Heth released her death grip. She lay across Halford’s body, her arms and legs dangling over the sides of the table. Tears burned her cheeks.

Burns stepped back, unwound the cord from one hand, and pulled it free. He dropped it on the table beside Hal- ford’s body. Sweat bathed his face. His breath came in short gasps.

The girl struggled to a sitting position. She cried soundlessly.

Burns reached behind him and took the pistol from his belt. The girl made no move. She was looking towards him but not at him. It was then that Burns too realized she was blind, understood what Wan had meant when he had said it would not be necessary to kill two; There was no way the girl could identify him. He hesitated for a fraction of a second but then, like a programmed machine committed to one last act, he stepped behind her and held the pistol at arm’s length an inch from her head. She followed the sound, turning her head, as if to look back over her shoulder.

‘The door,’ he said in his brittle voice. She took the bait, turning back instantly.

The gun jumped in his hand, thunked, and her head snapped forward. He held her hair in his other hand and pulled her head instantly back up. Thank. He lowered her across Halford’s body.

Burns laid the pistol beside the nylon cord, walked quickly out of the room, crossed the garden, and went out through the gate. He stripped off the gloves, wrapped them in the cotton swabbing and walked back down the alley towards the storm sewer.

A moment after the door clicked shut, two figures emerged from the shadows of the garden and entered the room.

Burns was the first passenger on the plane. He walked to the rear cabin, found a pillow, sat down, buckled his seat belt, and settled back. By the time the flight for Tokyo roared down the runway and eased into the night sky he was deep in an untroubled sleep.