The Vulcan Disaster

Chapter Eleven

On the Western shore of the Kowloon Peninsula a sturdy breakwater juts far out into the bay to give protection to as odd an assortment of boats as you’re likely ever to see, anchored inside the mole and sheltered against the typhoons that sweep in from the Pacific every late summer or early autumn.

These include motor launches, fishing boats, sampans, junks, houseboats, cargo lighters, commercial vehicles — the more far-ranging among them bearing a curious double registry and even, often as not, flying double flags of both the Crown Colony itself and of Red China. The Yaumati people, the guide books will tell you, live most of their lives over the water, supporting themselves by fishing or other seagoing pursuits and raising their families in the houseboats that lie permanently moored in the nest of slips that acted as the backbone of the water community.

I was wondering, as we negotiated the short brisk walk from Temple Street to the water town, just why she chose to live there.

I was wondering a few other things as we hustled along, trying to keep up with the old man, Tatiana’s short choppy steps matching my own longer ones. The hurried pace made I good sense, I was thinking. Before long somebody’d happen upon that street full of corpses back there and call the cops, and they’d fan out through the neighborhood, asking questions. And I had blood on my pants.

Up ahead, though, the old man must have been reading my mind. “By the way, Mr. Carter. In case you were wondering, the police will be unlikely to trace us in this direction.” He looked familiar; where else had I seen that face before?

“What do you mean?” I said, trying not to puff and blow, considering my ribs.

“I took the precaution of leaving some misleading graffiti behind,” he said with that pixie smile. “In Cantonese. My scribbles said something rather like ‘Death to the Butterfly Gang’ and carried the identifying ideogram of the Three Tiger organization, from Kowloon City.”

“Good,” I said. Quick thinking there. The old walled village, now grown into a sprawling, tough slum, was way up by Kai Tak airport; the phony clue would lead the cops away from us. The old boy impressed me more and more. “Say,” I added. “You better lead the way. I don’t know my way around here.”

“A wise decision,” he said, not slowing down a bit “The admission of ignorance is the beginning of wisdom. Ah, but there I go again, Tatiana my dear, talking like a fortune cookie.” His laugh was merry and gently self-mocking. “I have been in the Orient too long, I think. My neighbors in the market say I no longer speak their tongue like a gwai lo.”

“Foreign devil,” translated Tatiana in a low whisper.

“They do not know what to make of me,” he finished.

Fine, I thought. Neither did I. When we came to roost at last, I had some pointed questions to ask. Sensing my doubt, Tatiana squeezed my hand; the smile that accompanied the squeeze was meant to reassure.

At the breakwater he stopped and helped us down to a low float where a flat boat was moored. “Tatiana’s home, and mine, cannot be reached by land,” he explained. He started the boat’s nearly silent electric motor and cast off. “When you begin to see the sort of hornet’s nest you have wandered into, Mr. Carter, the location will begin to make more and more sense. On the water nothing can be hurried — not easily, at any rate. No one can swoop down upon us in a fast car and gun us down. By the same token it is difficult to sneak up on a member of the boat community. If you have ever lived in a waterfront area you may know what I mean. The inhabitants grow unusually sensitive to the presence of outsiders in their midst.”

There were gentle sounds of Chinese music out on the water: soft pops and twangs from the bi wa and the moon lute, and somebody singing a song. The oars on a passing rowboat dipped, splashed; soft lights up ahead joined the round moon on the water.

The water community went on and on. The old man’s hand at the tiller threaded our way for us through a confusing, mazelike path I could not have duplicated afterward on a bet. “This is huge,” I said. “Are all these people refugees? From the mainland?”

“Heavens, no,” the old man said. “Almost none of them. As a matter of fact, Tatiana and myself are the only refugees we know in here.”

“Then what...”

Tatiana broke in just then. “Look, Mr. — Nick.” Her hand squeezed mine: electricity again. “As we pass, you’ll notice that a slip with sampans on it will have no junks. And vice versa. You will see in the daytime that the junk people — the Tanka — are even a different race than the Hoklo, who live on the sampans. You’ll have to come shopping with me tomorrow. The community has its own independently functioning economy. There are stores, gambling houses, barber shops, schools, even factories, all afloat. One shops for dinner sitting on one’s own deck. The grocers and butchers come parading past in their own boats. You...”

“All in good time, my dear,” the old man said. “Here we are.” He guided the little boat expertly to a float, tied up, and cut the motor. Beside the float a stately junk lay at anchor — as they’d said, apart from the dock. “Home,” he said, his smile visible in the dim light of the docks. “Here, my dear. Let me help you up. Or will you do the honors, Mr. Carter?”

The inside was a mixture of cultures. The table and the tatamis were Japanese, the decor Chinese. Tatiana, leaving her shoes on deck, padded in and busied herself with a big wok and a chopping board. The old man and I sat down crosslegged before the low table; he produced a stone bottle and tiny earthenware glasses. With Oriental solemnity he proceeded to pour libations for the two of us.

I lifted mine, paused. “Sake?” I said.

“Ng ka py,” he said. “Sip it with circumspection. Hold it in the mouth for a moment, savoring the taste on the back of the tongue. Ah, yes.” He followed some of his own advice, smiling. So did I. The drink brought a warm glow with it almost immediately.

He put his glass down gently, unhurriedly. Then he looked up. “Now,” he said, “I think we’re ready for all those questions you want to ask us, Mr. Carter.”

I bit my lip pensively. Then I said, “Okay. You know me. How? Who are you? The two of you?”

“In no particular order: when you presented your card, with Meyer’s picture, Tatiana called me. I recognized the name; just how will became evident. I asked her to test you, to see if you were the man you said you were. She did; you were.”

“That funny handshake? I don’t even remember where I picked it up.”

“You don’t? Let me refresh your memory. You did a certain chore for David Hawk, of AXE, in the spring of 1962, in Ceylon. The password was a certain sophomoric routine one of your confederates had learned in his youth, at a certain Northeastern university. There was a certain curious handshake—”

Hawk. AXE. I was on my guard instantly. But my mind was racing. Ceylon...

“Your contacts were a British gentleman long since dead, I’m afraid — a man named Wilkins — and myself.”

I dropped the stone cup; it shattered on the teak table. “You’re not—”

“Will Lockwood.”

“That was you?”

“The last job I did before, well...”

“But you’re dead. Years ago. I heard about it.”

“I could quote Mark Twain right now: the rumors concerning my demise...”

“But...”

“I was shot down over Chinese territory. My plane crashed; I was badly hurt. I fell into the hands of the People’s Republic, with some good results, some bad. The good results include the excellent doctoring to which they subjected me. I have, as you can see, a new face. I have grown used to it; it fits me now. I am no longer young; I was, to put it bluntly, over the hill when you saw me last.”

“The hell you were,” I said. “Tatiana — do you know what he was?”

“I know some things,” she said. “Tell me.”

“He was the best agent we ever had. The best. Hawk told me once that Will Lockwood was a man who could give him lessons.”

“I did once. David would not enjoy having me tell you the story, though. Oh, yes, once I was valuable. When the plastic surgeons of the People’s Republic had finished patching my face, I had a whole new identity. Of course, when the rest of the doctors had finished with me, I had...”

“Oh, damn,” Tatiana said. “We are out of shrimp. Oh, Will, how could you let me do anything so foolish? I...”

The seraphic smile turned her way. “What was for dinner?”

“Eight-precious soup. On the Mongolian hotpot.”

“Serve seven-precious, my dear. Nick and I won’t mind.”

“You were saying,” I said.

“Oh, yes. Anyhow, I escaped. On the way a woman — a Chinese woman with a teen-aged daughter by her Russian husband, a woman who had been repatriated forcibly when her husband was killed in the taking of Harbin — helped me at grave risk to herself. I took her and her daughter with me when I went over the border. The woman was killed. The daughter...” He nodded at Tatiana, busy at the chopping block, out of earshot. “She had no papers. Another repatriation was out of the question. When I came out into Hong Kong I gave a false identity, to match my false face. I took the name of a friend who’d been in prison with me, a man with no relatives and no importance to the American government. When I had established my own false identity I bought bogus papers for the girl. I knew my career with AXE had ended; I settled down to raising the girl. But talk about busman’s holidays. I couldn’t stop snooping. I wound up doing exactly what I’d been doing before, but without portfolio, so to speak. My activities are somewhat hampered, I admit, by...”

“Oh, Will,” she said behind him now. “Do come and light the stove for me. I never do it right...”

He rose and complied. His eyes remained on me. The soft love-pat he gave her shoulder was a father’s indulgent caress.

“Wow,” I said. “I’m still having a hard time taking this in. You’ve never contacted Hawk again?”

“Not directly. From time to time I’ve fed him a tip or two, but always via the anonymous letter or call, and sometimes even by a sort of dog-leg approach, running the information through the British first. There’s a funny sad-faced fellow there with an odd sense of humor.”

“Fredericks?”

“That’s the man. I will not go through our own Embassy channels. Anyhow, some interesting things are going on right now.”

“They sure as hell are. And that was going to be my next question.”

“Right. The men you met tonight — the men we left in Temple Street — were paid assassins. They seem to have been hired by someone who knew of Tatiana’s innocent association with the late Mr. Meyer. They were sent after her to close her mouth on the remote chance that she might know something. Having, as I say, very likely murdered Mr. Meyer...”

“That’s a moot point,” I said. I bit my lip again. Should I open up? And get some feedback from the greatest agent of them all? Some help, perhaps? I swallowed hard and plowed forward. “I know the guys that killed Meyer. They seem to have a particular nasty little trademark.” I told him about their bloody signature. “The question is, are these the kind of guys who’d hire a bunch of crazy assassins.” I poured myself another cup of ng ka py and had a leisurely snort. Then I took a deep breath and told him most of the rest of it. He sat back, nodding and smiling and not interrupting me once. At the end of it he smiled and shook his head.

“My, my,” he said. “An entire shipload of American arms. And not one but three competitors contending for it.”

“Hey,” I interrupted. “Three?”

“Not counting the late Mr. Meyer, who was merely acting as a go-between, mediating between the General and... and... excuse me a moment, Nick... I...” His hands went to his head; his eyes seemed to go out of focus for a second or so; then he seemed to regain control. “I... an old war wound... excuse me... where was I?”

“Three groups contending for the arms shipment,” I said. “Will — are you all right?”

He waved away help with one hand. “Oh, yes, yes. It’s just...” Another flicker of pain passed visibly over the round face. “No... I was saying... the... the Israelis seem to be some sort of outsider group, Nick. I don’t see them as agents of their government.”

“Me neither. Will, can I get you anything?”

“No, no. No, I’m afraid there’s no Alka-Seltzer that will wash this stuff away. It just seems to be something I have to live with.” He cocked his head at Tatiana, still busy behind him, ignoring the two of us. “I try not to let her see more of it than she has to. It upsets her so.” His smile was suddenly an old man’s smile; the youthful pixie was gone for now. “Anyhow, there’s that group, and there’s somebody else that you may not know about. Meyer had more than one offer, it appears. He told Tatiana something or other about one of them. Not much, you know, just a word or two in passing, but enough to pique one’s curiosity. Something Middle Eastern. Something... well, I was wondering whether Meyer may have been killed to keep this other deal from going through.”

“That’s a new one on me,” I said. “But that still leaves a lot of it wide open and unexplained. Meyer was carrying something when he was killed — something he’d just purchased from a man I came out here to get. Whoever killed him — and I’d pick Zvy and Shimon, the Israelis, I think, in spite of it all — took the item. And the item... well, I don’t think it had anything at all to do with this arms shipment of the General’s.”

“Oh?” he said. “That’s interesting. What was it?”

“Reel of microfilm. And don’t ask me what was on it. I haven’t the foggiest notion.”

“Hmmmm... yes. And these people either killed Meyer in order to get it, or killed him to keep the deal from going through, and, in the course of rifling his papers, found it and took it with them. Which of these is correct we have no way of knowing. Yes. Most puzzling. And then, of course, there’s the third, and in some ways the most obvious, contender in our little arms race to consider.”

“Who’s that?”

“Why, Ko...” The pain hit him again. His face convulsed; his hands clawed at his temples. “I... Ko... Komaroff, of course, we...” Then the big one struck, as forceful as an earthquake tremor and just as devastating in its effect on Will Lockwood. The serene face underwent a series of uncontrollable spasms, quick and violent, that pulled his face out of shape the way a spastic’s face is distorted by his illness. The hands, shaking wildly, tore at his head; the eyes rolled; and out of the mouth, smiling and composed only a moment before, came a low animal wail of excruciating pain. The eyes blinked twice at me; then all the humanity and capacity for reason died in their blue depths. “Oh God oh God oh g-g-g...” he said; then it all turned to groans. The nimbly competent hands turned into clumsy paws. The tongue lolled. The gaze fixed on me again, registering only pain — hopeless suffering, beyond all help. Then he pitched forward and lay still, scattering stone bottle and earthenware cups before him.