Zero Minus Ten

FIVE

THE PEARL IN THE CROWN

ZERO MINUS NINE: 22 JUNE 1997, 10:30 A.M., HONG KONG

There was once a pilot who described the flight to Hong Kong as “hours of ennui, followed by a few minutes of sheer terror!” Kai Tak, or Hong Kong International Airport, consists of a single runway yet there are an average of 360 movements a day, scheduled at twominute intervals in peak periods. Pilots consider it among the more challenging landings on the globe; for passengers, it’s one of the most nerve-wracking.

Though no stranger to daredevil aerial manoeuvres, James Bond nevertheless felt a surge of excitement as he looked out of the window of the British Airways 747 on its approach to the fabled city. Down below was a harbour littered with boats and surrounded by layered levels of skyscrapers. It seemed that the plane would fly straight into the buildings; but it quickly descended to make a steep, forty-seven-degree turn and touched down on the narrow strip of land on the Kowloon peninsula.

If India was once known as the “Jewel in the Crown,” then Hong Kong was perhaps the “Pearl in the Crown.” Its mere existence was one of the wonders of the modern world. It began as a barren island with very little population, and now ranked among the world’s fifteen largest trading entities and was Asia’s busiest tourist destination. The mix of British management and Chinese entrepreneurial enthusiasm made Hong Kong a cosmopolitan mixture of East and West. It was a commercial, manufacturing, and financial dynamo; and it was the communication and transportation intersection for all Asia.

In nine days, Hong Kong would no longer be Britain’s Pearl in the Crown. People had speculated for years what would happen when the colony was handed back to China. One school of thought was that Hong Kong was finally being returned to the China it had economically and culturally always belonged to. Britain had only borrowed it long enough to allow it to blossom. Bond had heard people ask, “What will China do to Hong Kong?” He thought the more intriguing question might be, “What will Hong Kong do to China?”

The airport terminal was noisy, crowded, and chaotic. Bond moved with the crowd into the Buffer Hall. The office had provided him with plenty of Hong Kong currency, so he didn’t have to bother with foreign exchange queues. Immigration went smoothly and quickly. Bond’s cover was that of a Daily Gleaner journalist covering the handover to China.

Bond took the third exit out of Buffer Hall into the Greeting Area, which was packed with the families and friends of incoming passengers. He spotted the yellow baseball cap, and beneath it the friendly smile of a Chinese man.

“No charge for ride to hotel,” the man said to Bond.

“But I have the correct change,” Bond replied.

“No problem,” the man said, turning his r’s into l’s the way Chinese often do. “I even take you on scenic route, uh huh?” His English was slightly broken but his vocabulary was very good.

“That would be lovely then,” Bond said and smiled. These code exchanges, though necessary, were sometimes ridiculous.

The man held out his hand. “T.Y. Woo at your service. How was flight?”

“Too long.” Bond shook his hand. “I’m Bond. Call me James.”

“You call me T.Y. You are hungry, uh huh?” He had an endearing habit of adding “uh huh?” to his sentences.

“Famished.”

“Your hotel has excellent restaurant. I take you, okay?” Woo reached for Bond’s carry-on bag, which Bond gladly allowed him to take. Bond held on to the attache case which contained documentation of his cover identity and other assorted personal items. His Walther PPK was stored in an X-ray-proof compartment in the case.

When the men reached the street, a red Toyota Crown Motors taxi cab with a silver roof screeched to a halt on the double yellow line edging the road.

“Quick, get in,” Woo said. He opened the back door and gestured for Bond to jump inside.

A policeman on the street blew his whistle and shouted something in Chinese. The driver, a young teenage boy, shouted something back. By then, both men were inside and the cab sped away.

“That was restricted zone. Cabs not supposed to stop,” Woo explained, smiling.

Bond noticed the meter wasn’t running. “Is this a company car?”

“Yes, James,” Woo said. Bond noticed that his new friend rarely relaxed his broad smile. “Meet my son Woo Chen—you call him Chen Chen, uh huh?” The boy grinned at Bond in the rear-view mirror. Bond nodded at him and smiled.

“Relax, we go for ride!” Chen Chen exclaimed enthusiastically.

The cab pulled in front of a Rolls-Royce, making room for itself in the congested traffic. Although the flow moved slowly, Chen Chen managed to swerve in and around vehicles to maintain a significantly faster speed. Bond held his breath a couple of times during the first few minutes of the journey until he assured himself that the boy knew what he was doing.

“Chen Chen too young to drive,” T.Y. said, still grinning. “I pull strings to get him licence!”

Bond cleared his throat and said, “He drives very well. How old are you, Chen Chen?”

“Fifteen,” the boy said, grinning just like his father. “Sixteen next month!”

The cab moved through the traffic and finally entered the Cross-Harbour Tunnel. It was a congested two-lane thoroughfare two kilometres long.

“Your hotel on Hong Kong side. Airport is on Kowloon side,” T.Y. explained. Bond knew that, but nodded as if he was learning something. “Very nice hotel,” T.Y. continued. “Expensive. They have good restaurant at top. Private. We can talk, uh huh?”

The cab pushed its way through the tunnel and emerged into the light of Hong Kong Island. Throngs of people cluttered the pavements. At intersections, there were queues eight people deep waiting to cross the street. Bond had studied the latest intelligence and census reports on the city-state during the flight. Between five and six million people now resided in the relatively small area that comprised the territory. It was essentially a Cantonese city, most of the population being ethnic Chinese. The other small percentage were known as “expats,” or foreigners, who had taken residence in the colony. These expats were of many nationalities—Filipinos, Americans, Canadians, British, Thai, Japanese and Indians being the most prominent. Bond thought it was a cultural melting pot like no other.

“If you get tired of hotel, you come to safe house,” T.Y. said. “Near Hollywood Road, east end of Western District.”

The cab zigzagged through Connaught Road in the Central District of the island, and screeched to a halt beside a white block building over twenty storeys tall. The Mandarin Oriental’s unimpressive exterior did a fine job of hiding one of the world’s most sophisticated hotels. While most English businessmen might have stayed at the more Colonial-style Peninsula Hotel in Kowloon, Bond always preferred the Mandarin Oriental whenever he was in Hong Kong. Hotel rooms were hard to come by this week, as many had been booked as much as a year in advance of the first of July transition. Luckily, SIS had made a reservation long ago in anticipation of sending someone just to be present on the fateful night.

Woo said, “You check in. I meet you in Chinnery Bar at noon, uh huh?”

“Fine,” Bond said, taking his bag and opening the door. “Thank you, Chen Chen.”

“No problem,” said the grinning youth.

The hotel lobby was discreetly elegant and surprisingly subdued. Bond checked in and was ushered to his room on the twenty-first floor by a cheerful bellhop. It was the “Lotus Suite,” consisting of two large rooms and a terrace overlooking the harbour. The hotel even provided a pair of binoculars for sight-seeing. The sitting room included a writing desk, bar, television/stereo system, and a bathroom for guests. The bedroom contained a king-sized bed, and there was a large private bathroom. Once he was alone, Bond immediately opened the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of vodka. He put two ice cubes into a glass and poured a large measure. It was early, but the flight had been long and he needed to unwind.

Bond stood and watched a small section of the harbour as kaidos, sampans, junks, and walla-wallas scurried back and forth. There were people in Hong Kong who lived and worked on their little boats and rarely set foot on land. As Westernized as it was, Hong Kong was still a very different world.

Bond changed from his business suit into a light blue cotton shortsleeved polo shirt and navy blue cotton twill trousers. He put on a light, grey silk basketweave jacket, under which he kept his Walther PPK in a chamois shoulder holster.

At noon, he went down to The Chinnery, a bar decorated much like an English gentlemen’s club with masculine brown and red deep leather-upholstered armchairs; in fact, Bond remembered that it used to be exclusively all-male. It was only in 1990 that the bar began to admit women. It was adorned with original paintings by British artist George Chinnery, whose drawings and paintings of the landscapes and people of Macau, Canton, and Hong Kong made him the undisputed doyen of foreign artists of the China coast in the mid-1800s. The room was already filling with smoke from businessmen’s pipes, cigars, and cigarettes. Bond noted that the collection of seemingly countless bottles of Scotch whisky was still behind the bar.

T.Y. Woo was already there and Bond joined him.

“Welcome to Hong Kong, Ling Ling Chat,” Woo said. Bond knew that Ling Ling Chat was “007” in Cantonese. “Let us drink. Then we will go upstairs and have lunch, uh huh?”

Bond ordered a vodka martini, but he had to explain twice to the waiter that he wanted the drink shaken and not stirred. Woo shrugged and had the same. “We drink mostly cognac here,” he said.

“Hmm,” Bond said. “That’s more of a nightcap for me.”

Over their cocktails the two men began to get to know each other. T.Y. Woo had been with the Secret Service for twenty-five years. His family had come from southern China several decades ago and had made a fortune in the antiques and curios business. Woo and his brother ran a shop on Upper Lascar Row, otherwise known as “Cat Street,” and this provided a perfect front for the Hong Kong headquarters of the British Secret Service. SIS, then called MI6, had recruited him in the sixties. A British agent on self-imposed R & R had wandered into the Woos’ shop during the Vietnam War. He was an elite Double-O operative who had been assigned to assist American GIs deep in the jungle. Impressed with Woo’s cheerful disposition and willingness to “do something exciting,” the agent brought him to London. After several months of training, he could get by with what he had learned of the English language and make succinct intelligence reports. Woo’s double life as a shop keeper and an intelligence officer took its toll on his wife, who left him ten years ago. He had raised Chen Chen on his own.

At 12:30 the men took the lift to the twenty-fifth floor and entered the Man Wah Restaurant, one of the finest in the colony. A lovely Chinese woman wearing a slinky cheongsam, a traditional tight-fitting dress with a seductive slit revealing a bit of leg, led them to a table. Unlike most restaurants in Hong Kong, which were usually noisy and full of cheerful clamour, this one was an intimate, quiet place. The blue carpet, wood-framed maroon panelling, and oriental paintings all contributed to a luxurious ambience. A bonsai tree covered with tiny white blooms sat on their table, which was next to a large picture window overlooking the harbour.

The menu specialized in Cantonese-style cooking, the distinctive cuisine of Guangdong Province. It was considered the most varied and interesting in all China. This was due partly to south China’s subtropical climate, which produced a huge range of fruits and vegetables and all kinds of seafood. The style of cooking used steaming and quick stir-frying to enhance the qualities of food. An experienced cook knew when a dish was done by the sizzling sound that emanated from the wok. It was the lightest and least oily of all the regional cooking styles, seasoned by a wide variety of sauces rather than spices. Vegetables, seafood, pork, and chicken were the main ingredients.

“Mr. Bond! Welcome to Hong Kong!”

He knew the voice at once. It belonged to Henry Ho, General Manager of the Man Wah, whom Bond had known for years. Ho was a most pleasant gentleman, and an expert in the culinary delights. The soft-spoken man had dark hair and smiling eyes. Never hesitating to join a party at their table, Ho always had a story to tell about the food he served. Today was no exception.

“Hello, Henry,” Bond said, shaking his hand. “It’s good to see you again.”

“Yes, yes, it is very good to see you, too,” Ho said. “Mr. Woo called yesterday to say an important guest was coming. He didn’t say it was you! I have prepared some special dishes!”

The meal began with an appetizer of cucumber and what Ho called “black fungus”—ginger covered in a dark red crust. The first course was Chili Prawns, a Szechuan-style dish. Bond liked Szechuan cuisine, which was infinitely spicier than Cantonese. It was said that China’s leader, Deng Xiaopeng, preferred Szechuan food. Ho explained that the food from Szechuan Province was hotter because of the humid climate—the people ate spicy food to help release moisture from their bodies. The large prawns were cooked in garlic, chili, and sesame oil, and were simply delicious.

A rich plum wine called “yellow wine,” served warm, was brought to the table between courses. Bond thought it tasted like sake.

A second course was an elaborate serving of sauteed filet of sole with green vegetables in a black bean sauce. The presentation was spectacular—several large carrots had been carved to resemble a dragon boat, the kind used in the famous Dragon Boat Festival that occurs every summer, and the food was placed inside the boat. The sole was quite tender and flavourful because in Hong Kong the sole can swim in both fresh and salt water.

The main course was called Beggar’s Chicken, which was Chef Lao’s creation of chicken baked in clay with black mushrooms, barbecued pork, ginger, and Chinese spices. This dish had to be ordered at least a day in advance, as it was cooked many hours before serving. The chicken was cleaned and stuffed with the various ingredients, then wrapped in lotus leaves. Then the package is packed in clay and baked until the clay was hard.

When the dish was brought to Bond and Woo, all the waiters and staff stood around and applauded as the diners took turns whacking and breaking the clay with a mallet. A waiter then picked out the large bones from the extremely tender chicken, mixed in a special sauce, and served it in shreds on small plates. Bond thought it was one of the tastiest meals he had ever had in his life.

Ho brought them tea after Bond and Woo had stuffed themselves and, joining them at the table, said, “There is a region in southeast China called Fook Tien Province, and there the largest variety of tea is produced. There is one leaf that is very intriguing. Its name is Monkey-Pick-Tea.

“According to legend,” Ho continued, “the tea leaves were collected by monkeys because they were positioned on high cliff-tops. But the monkeys were not very obedient, and needed to be disciplined. Whenever a monkey disobeyed, a part of his tail was cut off—a half-inch or so! This would continue until the monkey learned to do as he was instructed. Monkey-Pick-Tea is very highly regarded because it is difficult to come by, and also because it is rich in both aroma and taste. Therefore its qualities are compared to those of a fine wine. We drink it after a meal, not only because it is enjoyable, but because it also helps one to digest.”

After the meal, Bond and Woo were left alone to discuss business.

“So, T.Y., what’s going on? What do you know?” Bond asked.

“The solicitor who was killed—that bomb was not act of China, uh huh?” Woo said.

“That’s what M thinks, too,” Bond replied. “Who do you think is behind it?”

“There is a general in Guangzhou. His name is Wong. Very militant. He is violently opposed to any kind of democratic rule in Hong Kong after takeover. He has been in favour of taking over colony by force for years. He is biting his nails on other side of border, just waiting for chance to move in his troops and take control. Beijing keeps him on short leash. Someone trying to put blame on him. Not sure he is responsible.”

“Why do you say that?” Bond asked.

“It is stupid! Why would he do such a thing weeks before Hong Kong goes back to China? What would he gain by starting war between China and Britain? On second thought, he just might be that stupid. Not a rational man, uh huh?”

“Those are his troops lining the border?”

“Yes. Mostly his. He would march into New Territories tomorrow if Beijing gave him okay.” Woo shrugged. “It is possible that he is trying to provoke confrontation between Britain and China. He wants excuse to move in. And from looks of things, he is succeeding.”

“But surely he wouldn’t dare bring his troops across the border before the first of July. The whole world is watching.”

“General Wong does not care. He is madman. He considers himself national hero in China. He is hard, cruel man. I tell you something else about him. Wong spent most of 1980s in Beijing. He was one of high commanders responsible for Tienanmen Square tragedy. He enjoyed giving orders to shoot those people. After that, he was promoted and moved back to Guangzhou, where he was from.”

“All right, he’s a suspect. Who else is on your short list?”

“My personal opinion? I think it is someone local. Could be Triad. On other hand, it is not their method. Not many criminals have guns or bombs in Hong Kong. You would be surprised—Hong Kong is quite gun-free.”

“What about the two Chinese officials who were killed by a British officer?”

“That is big mystery,” Woo said. “Again, I do not think it was real British officer. Whole thing was staged. He was imposter.”

“I was thinking the same thing.”

“Again—why would this officer want to cause trouble? Unless he has a personal grudge. And who is he to take on the government of China?”

“And the floating restaurant bomb?” Bond asked.

“Same thing. It was not China. It was not General Wong in Guangzhou, although that is rumour.”

“What do you know about EurAsia Enterprises?”

“Big company. Very respectable. The taipan, he is well-liked but very private man, uh huh?”

“Thackeray.”

“Yes. I have met him. I see him sometimes at casino in Macau. One of my few vices, I admit. I have played mahjong with him once or twice. Always lost a lot of money to him. EurAsia not as big as other major companies, like Jardine Matheson. But it does okay. Involved in shipping and trading. Their docks are at Kwai Chung.”

“Do you know what happened in England a few nights ago?”

“Yes, I got briefing. Heroin. That surprised me. I have no records that EurAsia is involved in anything illegal. My contacts with police have assured me that nothing out of ordinary is on record.”

“Yet that heroin came from one of their ships.”

“I think Triad is involved. They have their fingers in everything. It is quite possible that someone in EurAsia is being squeezed by Triad and Thackeray does not know anything about it.”

Bond ordered a brandy. “Are you familiar with the Dragon Wing Society?”

“Yes, I am. They are splinter group of San Yee On. Very powerful. Dragon Wing Society has interests in many nightclubs in Hong Kong. Most of their known activities involve prostitution and gambling. The police believe they are involved in heroin trade but have not acquired evidence. They put squeeze on entertainment industry, too. Movie sets are prime targets, uh huh?”

“Do you know anyone in the Triad?”

“A Triad leader is called the Cho Kun, or Dragon Head. Cho Kun of Dragon Wing is Li Xu Nan. Very powerful businessman. Owns several nightclubs and girlie bars. The identity of Cho Kun is supposed to be secret—no one outside of Triad knows.” Woo grinned. “But I know.”

“All Triads work that way?”

“Usually, yes. Only top men in Triad know. Their lodge is secret, too.”

“Lodge?”

“That is Triad’s headquarters, where they hold meetings.”

“Do you know where their Lodge is?”

Woo shook his head. “No, that is secret. I am working on it. They change locations often, so it is difficult.”

“How can I find this Li Xu Nan?”

“Hard to say.” Woo said. “He frequents a couple of his nightclubs. We maybe try later tonight or tomorrow.”

“Okay, tell me more about Thackeray?”

“He is in late-forties. Bachelor. Does not go out in public much. Lives on the Peak with all the rich gweilo.” Gweilo—a term meaning “ghost people”—was often used by ethnic Chinese with reference to westerners.

“Has there been any investigation since the drug bust in England?”

“Yes. My contact in police said they searched EurAsia’s warehouse at Kwai Chung. They found nothing. Official company line is that they are shocked and dismayed that something like that could have happened on one of their ships. EurAsia spokesman denied all responsibility and blamed act on criminal enterprise.”

“I’m going to want to take a look at that warehouse myself.”

“We can do that.”

“And I want to meet Guy Thackeray. Can you arrange it?”

“How’s your game of mahjong?”

Bond had little experience with the game that was so popular in Hong Kong. “Not very good, I’m afraid. I’ve played one of the western versions a bit.” The game’s rules and play varied from country to country.

“No problem. I give you quick lessons. Hong Kong version easier than western version or Japanese version, uh huh?”

“When does he play?” Bond asked.

“He plays tonight! You have money? Big stakes. Thackeray is big winner. I do not know how he does it. Always wins. If we get there before he does, we have better chance at getting in game with him. Let us go, okay?”

“Sure. Just how much capital will I stand to lose?”

“Thackeray plays 100 Hong Kong dollars per point,” Woo said with eyes wide. “With a two-point minumum, ten-point maximum! Maximum Hand is worth 38,400 Hong Kong dollars!”

Bond frowned. That meant that Thackeray played a very challenging and risky game. A winning hand must be worth at least two points or a stiff monetary penalty would be imposed. SIS might lose thousands of pounds. Nevertheless, closely observing Thackeray for a couple of hours over an intense game of chance just might be the best way for Bond to evaluate him. He believed that a man revealed every side of his personality during the course of any gaming contest in which a great deal of money was at stake.

“Fine,” said Bond. “Let’s do it.”

Woo caught the waiter’s attention and said, “Mai dan,” miming the international scribble gesture. “I get this, James. You are now indoctrinated into our concept of maijiang. ”

Bond said, “I know all about maijiang. Face. Reciprocity. In other words, I’ll get the next one. Sikdjo. ”

Woo grinned. “Ah, you been to Hong Kong before?”

“Yes, a few times. Japan, too.”

Bond knew the Eastern philosophy of maijiang was very important to Asian people. It meant, quite literally, the selling of credit. Maijiang was used when a person gave or was given face and when reciprocity was implicitly understood and expected. If a person did a favour for a man, then he was expected to do something in return. Saying sikdjo meant Bond agreed.

Woo paid the bill and the two men left the relatively tranquil ambience of the restaurant. They did not notice the strange albino Chinese man who sat reading a newspaper at the Harlequin Bar, just outside the entrance to the Man Wah. As soon as they left, he went to make a phone call.