The Inscrutable Charlie Muffin

5

It was the tie that registered with Charlie, long before Robert Nelson got near enough for a formal greeting. So long ago, thought Charlie. Yet so easily recalled. Blue stripes upon blue, at an angle.

The two men who had set him up to be killed on the East Berlin border had been to Eton. And like Robert Nelson had always worn their ties, no matter the colour of their suits. An identification symbol; like road signs, something to be recognised by everyone.

They’d mocked his grammar school accent. And the way he’d dressed. So they’d underestimated him, dismissing him as an anachronism: a perfect sacrifice. And been so disastrously wrong. Only one of them had survived. And that one had been disgraced. Twice. But he would still be wearing the tie, wherever he was, Charlie knew.

‘I’ve kept you waiting,’ apologised Nelson, reaching him at last through the airport crowd.

‘I’ve only just cleared customs,’ Charlie assured him, immediately conscious of the swirl of harassed agitation in which the insurance broker moved.

A strangely pale, almost flaky-skinned man, Robert Nelson was sweating, despite the thin suit and the partial airconditioning, so that the wisped, receding hair was smeared over his forehead, accentuating the pallor.

Even before their handshake had ended, he was gesturing impatiently to porters whom Charlie had already engaged, sighing with frustration at people who had innocently intruded themselves between the luggage and twice muttering ‘Sorry, so very sorry,’ to Charlie, in regret for some imagined hindrance.

The air-conditioning was better within the confined space of the waiting car and Nelson mopped his face and hands with an already damp handkerchief, smiling across the vehicle. It was an apprehensive expression, decided Charlie. Why? he wondered.

‘I knew there would be an investigation,’ announced Nelson, as if confirming an earlier discussion. ‘Just knew it.’

‘Routine, surely?’ said Charlie. He looked at his watch. Whisky-breathed at ten in the morning?

‘But you’re not one of the normal investigators. Director level, Willoughby said.’

‘No,’ said Charlie. ‘Not a normal investigator.’

Despite his assurances to Willoughby, there was still a risk that someone would discover just how different, he knew. His hand still had the slight shake that had started when he had approached the passport and immigration desks at the airport.

Nelson appeared to be expecting more but when Charlie didn’t continue, he pointed through the window.

‘You can just see the Pride of America,’ he said.

Charlie gazed out into the bay, getting a brief view of the hull before the car dipped into the tunnel that would take them beneath the harbour to Hong Kong island.

‘Looks a very dead ship,’ said Charlie.

‘It is.’

‘Any scrap value?’

‘Less than a million, I would estimate. I believe the Japanese are already interested.’

‘Quite a difference from $20,000,000.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Nelson, as if appreciating some hidden point. ‘Quite a difference.’

The vehicle emerged from the tunnel and turned along the Connaught Road towards the Mandarin Hotel. To the right, towards Kowloon, the seemingly disordered slick of sampans and junks locked one to another and stretched far out into the bay from the harbour edge. So tight was the jam that it was impossible to identify occupant with craft and the impression was of constant, heaving movement, like a water-borne anthill.

‘They’re called the floating people,’ said Nelson. ‘It’s said that some are born, live and die without ever coming ashore.’

Charlie turned to his left, looking inland. A mile away, first the Middle Level, then the Heights jutted upwards to the Peak, the apartment blocks and villas glued against the rock edges.

‘Easy to judge the wealth here,’ said Nelson, nodding in the direction in which Charlie was looking. ‘The higher you live, the richer you are.’

‘What about Lu?’

‘One of the richest taipans in the entire colony,’ said Nelson. ‘He’s got a villa on the other side of the Peak, at Shousan Hill. Like a fortress.’

‘Why a fortress?’

‘Ensure his privacy.’

‘I thought Lu enjoyed exposure and publicity.’

‘Exactly,’ said Nelson. ‘It makes him an obvious target for every crank and crook in Asia.’

Nelson flustered around the arrival at the hotel, urging bellboys over the bags and actually cupping Charlie’s elbow to guide him into the hotel.

The broker hovered beside him while he registered, instantly chiding the porters when they turned from the reception desk. Charlie sighed. Nelson’s attitude could very easily become a pain in the ass, he thought.

It was the briefest of impressions as they waited for the elevator, but Charlie had been trained to react to such feelings and he twisted abruptly, examining the foyer.

‘What is it?’ demanded Nelson, conscious of the sudden movement.

‘Nothing,’ said Charlie.

He’d always had an instinct about surveillance. But this time he had to be wrong. How could he be so quickly under observation? And from whom? There was no reason. He was jet-lagged and irritated by Nelson’s constant attention, that was it.

The lift arrived and Charlie started to enter, then hesitated. He’d survived by responding to impressions as fleeting as this. And while he’d changed vocations, the need for survival remained. More so. Now that he’d come out of hiding.

‘Sure there’s nothing wrong?’ said Nelson.

Charlie stared back into the bustling foyer.

‘Quite sure,’ he said, still uncertain.

Nelson had reserved him a suite and Charlie examined it appreciatively.

‘Never got this on Civil Service Grade IV allowance,’ he muttered. Self-conversation was a habit he never bothered to curb. It usually became more pronounced when he was worried.

‘What?’ asked Nelson.

‘Thinking aloud,’ said Charlie. Obviously Robert Nelson had no idea of his company’s financial difficulties.

‘I had a bar installed,’ pointed out Nelson hopefully.

‘Help yourself,’ Charlie invited him.

‘You?’

‘Too tired after the flight,’ said Charlie, watching the other man reach for the whisky.

Islay malt, he saw. Sir Archibald had been drinking that, when he’d gone to his retirement home in Sussex the day before setting off to entrap the bastards who had taken over the department and reduced it to an apology of what it had once been.

There’d been bottles of it, in a sitting-room cupboard. The poor old sod had fallen into a drunken sleep and not been aware when he had left. According to the inquest report, Sir Archibald had even swilled the barbiturates down with it.

‘I specified a room with a view of the harbour. And Kowloon,’ said Nelson, by the window.

‘Thank you,’ said Charlie. ‘The ship, too.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Nelson. ‘Everywhere I look I’m reminded of that damned ship.’

Charlie turned, curious at the bitterness.

‘And beyond the New Territories is China,’ continued Nelson, with his back to the room.

‘I know.’

‘You’ve been to Hong Kong before?’

‘No,’ said Charlie quickly, alert to questions about his past.

‘Incidentally,’ said Nelson, apparently unaware of Charlie’s apprehensive reaction, ‘Australia are 96 for 2.’

The broker had turned back into the suite and Charlie stared at him in astonishment.

‘What?’ he said.

‘The Test,’ said the broker, disconcerted by Charlie’s lack of response. ‘We get the reports on the B.B.C. World Service.’

‘Oh,’ said Charlie. And no doubt discussed the finer points in clubs and at cocktail parties and couldn’t have located Lord’s or the Oval without a street map.

‘You’re not interested in cricket?’

‘Not really,’ admitted Charlie. What was it that the man was finding so much difficulty in saying?

Nelson looked at his glass, appearing surprised that it was empty.

‘Go ahead,’ gestured Charlie.

Nelson remained at the portable bar, looking across the room.

‘I’m to be dismissed, aren’t I?’ he demanded suddenly.

Charlie frowned at him.

‘What?’

‘That’s why you’ve come… someone who’s not a normal investigator

… a director. You’ve come to fire me because there was no qualifying clause in the policy.’

The fear tumbled from the man, the words blurred together in his anxiety.

‘Of course I haven’t,’ said Charlie.

He reached down, easing off his shoes.

‘You must excuse me,’ he said. ‘They’re new. Pinch like hell.’

Nelson gazed at the other man, controlling the look that had begun to settle on his face. Old Etonians didn’t take their shoes off in public, decided Charlie. Careful. That was an antagonism of an earlier time.

‘Yours was not the final decision on the policy,’ he reminded him, straightening. ‘You drew it up, certainly. And admittedly it’s an expensive oversight that there was no political sabotage clause. But London gave the final approval. You’re not being held responsible.’

‘I find that difficult to believe… I negotiated it, after all.’

‘Very successfully, according to Willoughby.’

Nelson moved away from the bar, his suspicion of the remark obvious.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Wasn’t 12 per cent high?’

‘Comparatively so.’

‘That’s exactly what I want to do, compare. What were the other premiums?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Nelson uncomfortably. ‘It was sealed bids. Lu kept me waiting until the very last moment… wanted more time… all done in a terrible rush, really.’

So convinced was he of dismissal that despite Charlie’s attempted reassurance, Nelson was still offering a defence.

‘And you haven’t enquired about the other premiums?’

Nelson shook his head, embarrassed at the oversight.

‘Another cause for complaint,’ he said, resigned.

‘I’ve told you, no one’s blaming you,’ repeated Charlie. He would telephone Willoughby to get a confirmatory letter.

‘It’ll be a disaster for the firm, won’t it?’ demanded Nelson.

More than you know, thought Charlie.

‘If they have to pay,’ he said.

The qualification penetrated the other man’s nervousness and he came closer to where Charlie was sitting.

‘ If? ’

‘I’ve flown seven thousand miles to decide if we should,’ Charlie reminded him.

‘But we’ve no grounds for resisting settlement,’ said Nelson.

‘Not yet,’ agreed Charlie.

‘Do you think I haven’t examined every single thing that’s happened since the damned explosion?’ Nelson reacted as if his ability were being questioned afresh. ‘There’s nothing wrong with Lu’s claim… not a bloody thing.’

‘But you still don’t know what the other premiums were.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Nelson, exasperation breaking through.

‘Can you find out?’

‘The other companies might not want to disclose them.’

‘Isn’t there an old boy network?’ demanded Charlie. Surely there were more blue-patterned ties in Hong Kong?

Nelson hesitated before replying.

‘I’ll try,’ he promised. ‘But I don’t see what it would prove.’

‘Might not prove anything,’ admitted Charlie. ‘Then again, it might be interesting. I think we should look a little deeper, that’s all. Get under the surface.’

Nelson went back to the window, looking now not out over the harbour but down into the streets far below.

‘This might be an English colony,’ he reflected, ‘but it’s China down there, in almost everything but name…’

He turned back to Charlie.

‘Westerners aren’t allowed beneath any surface here. We’re tolerated, that’s all.’

‘Nowhere can be as closed as that,’ protested Charlie.

‘Hong Kong is,’ insisted Nelson. ‘Believe me. If there were anything wrong with the fire, we wouldn’t learn about it from the Chinese community.’

‘But there isn’t anything wrong, as far as you’re concerned?’

Nelson shook his head.

‘I wish there were,’ he said. ‘God knows I’ve tried hard enough to find something. But the evidence is overwhelming.’

‘The police are being co-operative?’

‘They’ve no reason not to be, with a case like they’ve got.’

He indicated a briefcase.

‘I’ve brought the file for you.’

Charlie smiled his thanks.

‘So you think we’ll have to pay out?’

Nelson’s belief that the fire was uncontestable would have been another reason for imagining that a directorial visit was to announce his dismissal, realised Charlie.

‘I know we’ll have to pay,’ confirmed the broker. ‘Lucky Lu never suffers a misfortune that costs him money.’

‘Lucky?’

‘His wealth started with some deals that turned out spectacularly successful on the Hong Kong stock exchange. It’s been Lucky Lu for as long as I can remember.’

‘Sounds like a poof’s favourite lavatory,’ reflected Charlie, massaging his feet. It would take weeks to break in those damned shoes. It was fortunate he had postponed having the supports put in.

‘You’re very different from what I expected,’ said Nelson suddenly. ‘I think other people are going to be surprised, too.’

‘Other people?’

‘I assumed you’d want to see the police chief. Name’s Johnson. I mentioned your coming. And I told Lu’s people as well. Willoughby asked me to give you all the help I could.’

‘Thanks,’ said Charlie. He’d have preferred announcing his own presence.

‘You’re annoyed,’ said Nelson, detecting the reservation in Charlie’s voice, and growing immediately apprehensive.

‘No,’ lied Charlie. Poor bugger seemed worried at his own shadow: but then, so were they all, for differing reasons.

‘Is there anything else I can do?’

Charlie shook his head.

‘I suppose I’d better study the file. And get some sleep.’

The broker stayed for another drink, then left, promising to collect Charlie the following morning so they could attend the remand hearing of the two Chinese accused of arson.

Alone, Charlie closed all the curtains against the view and the sunlight, put a ‘Do Not Disturb’ notice outside the room and decided the file could wait.

He slept for about five hours and then woke, knowing it was still not midnight Hong Kong time and that he had long hours of sleeplessness ahead of him.

Edith would have enjoyed the luxury of the apartment, he thought, feeling his eyes cloud in the darkness. And tried so hard to conceal her concern at the cost. Poor Edith. Always so aware of the money. And of his resentment at her inheritance, sufficient to support them both.

And it had been resentment, he recognised. The perpetual feeling. Idiotic, childlike resentment. He could even recall the words he’d shouted at her, careless of the hurt, when she had suggested he simply retire from the service that had decided he was expendable and live on her wealth.

‘ And don’t patronise me with your money… like you’ve always patronised me with your breeding… ’

That was why he had inveigled America into the border deal and then disappeared with the $500,000 defection fund. To ensure there would never be any dependence upon her. Why in God’s name hadn’t he realised how truly dependent he had been, instead of turning them both into exiles, terrified of every footstep?

‘I’m sorry, darling,’ he said. ‘So very sorry.’

He didn’t want to spend more than a month in Hong Kong. The grave would become too overgrown if he stayed away any longer.

Sighing, he snapped on the light and pulled the file towards him. He’d be bloody tired in the morning, he knew.

There had been two supplementary reports to the original account from the C.I.A.’s Asian station in Hong Kong and then a separate analysis prepared by specialists at the Langley headquarters in Virginia.

‘Well?’ demanded the Director.

‘Certainly looks like Peking,’ judged the deputy.

‘Odd though.’

‘Facts are there.’

‘We’ve got to be sure.’

‘Of course.’

‘Why don’t we send in someone with no preconceptions, to work independent of the station?’

‘They won’t like it.’

‘I’m more interested in being able to advise the President and the Secretary of State that China is growing careless of detente than I am in the feelings of some station personnel,’ said the Director sharply.

‘Who?’ asked the deputy.

‘Someone who’s keen, anxious to prove himself…’

Harvey Jones heard the telephone ringing as he pedalled up Q-Street at the end of his daily five-mile ride. He sprinted the last few yards, ran up the steps and fumbled the key into the lock to snatch the phone off the rest as the ringing was about to stop.

‘There you are,’ said the deputy director, annoyed at being kept waiting. ‘Thought for a moment that you were going to miss the chance of a lifetime.’