FEARLESS FINN'S MURDEROUS ADVENTURE (6 page)

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It’s been two days since we moved camp, and the word’s come through that I’m going to Hong Kong in three days. I’m to keep my head down there, under the protection of a Triad Society.

I’m sorry to say goodbye to my Kurdish brothers. I think the Kurds are a great bunch of fellahs – a bit too keen on getting off their heads on the wacky baccy, but great hosts. In a way, the Kurds put me in mind of the roaming Jewish people before the establishment of Israel. They’re a scattered nation looking for a homeland, and I see nothing wrong in that.

After a world-class send-off I was driven back to the border, and then on to Diyarbakir Airport, where I boarded a Pegasus flight to Istanbul. From Atatürk International Airport it’s onward to Hong Kong.

HONG KONG

As I approached
the meet and greet hall at Hong Kong’s Kai Tak Airport the smoked-glass automatic doors slid open. I’m standing at the top of a set of steps, above a sea of Asian faces staring up at the arriving passengers.

Seán Mac Stíofáin, the Chief, said I’ll be met by someone; he forgot to tell me how I’ll recognise him or her. Whoever it is will be from a Triad Society, and I haven’t a notion what a Triad looks like.

I concentrated on the faces below, searching for anyone showing an interest in me. Anyway, that’s the excuse I gave meself for not spotting the young, effeminate Chinese man who approached from behind and tapped on my shoulder.

“Mister Flynn? Mister Finn Flynn, I think?”

Without waiting for my confirmation, he lifted my bag and gestured for me to follow him out through a door marked ‘EXIT – STAFF ONLY’.

Parked below a large and impossible to miss ‘NO PARKING’ sign is a classic Rolls Royce Phantom. The boot opened to reveal a huge luggage space, and a chauffeur stepped out of the car. He saluted, opened the rear door of the car, and lifted my heavy duffle bag into the boot as if it’s no more than a lady’s purse. After closing the rear door he slid back into the driver’s seat. From the salute to returning to his seat, everything he did seemed to be one continuous, graceful gesture.

It struck me straight away that these fellahs don’t give a shite about airport security staff, parking attendants, or presumably, the police. I’m impressed by my first impressions of Triads.

As we pull away from the terminal building and drive up the slip road my sense of elation is dashed. The journey away from the airport, through Kowloon, is depressing. The route is awash with ugly, faceless buildings with rusty air-conditioning units clinging precariously to concrete walls. Green and cream minibuses weave between streams of heavily laden pick-up trucks. Massively overloaded goods lorries are belching out black, smoky diesel fumes, and impatient horn-honking taxi cabs zigzag past gleaming limos.

Wizened old men – wearing dirty, torn singlets and trousers cut down to make shorts – are peddling ancient butchers’ bikes between the traffic. Petrified geese are poking their long necks out the wicker panniers tied to both sides of the bikes.

None of this is endearing my new home to me. Those weeks lying doggo in the wet, wintry fields and ditches of South Armagh are beginning to appeal again. As we flash past windowless structures and massive advertising hoardings held up by webs of flimsy-looking bamboo, even the towering walls of Belfast’s Crumlin Road Gaol, or Dublin’s Mountjoy Prison, are seeming more bearable.

I’ve already given Eddie – the fellah from the airport arrivals hall – the nickname ‘Limp-wristed Eddie’. He’s prattling on from his seat beside the driver, pointing out advertising hoardings and neon signs like an amateur tour bus attendant. This went on until he glanced at me in the back of the car, noticed the look of blank indifference on my face, and shut up.

The driver explained that we’re entering the cross-harbour tunnel leading to Hong Kong Island, and that’s why he’s obliged to switch on the car’s headlights. “A strict regulation, sir,” he announced. “We will be in the tunnel for no more than four minutes, sir.”

Three minutes later we surfaced from the harsh, artificial light of the tunnel. Brilliant sunshine is reflecting off the harbour and row upon row of white, freshly painted luxury yachts. According to the sign, it’s the Royal Hong Kong Yacht Club.
That’s more like it
, I said to meself. The sight of the sun and the beautiful boats sure helped to lift my mood.

While we were caught up in slow-moving traffic I peered out the car’s rear window. A group of nattily dressed men and women is squashed together, balancing unsteadily on a tiny traffic island. The stream of cars, vans and lorries is passing just centimetres away from them.

“They’re probably on their way to fire the Noon Day Gun,” Eddie sniggered, pointing to the group. I ignored his remark, as I’m trying to concentrate on the names of the roads.

We travelled on Gloucester Road, turned left at Tonnochy Road, crossed over the tram tracks and turned right into Hennessy Road. Then we veered left to Johnston Road and turned left into Queensway; Admiralty Garden is on our right, and the drab, red speckled marble tower of the Bank of China is on the left. Cutting up into Des Voeux Road, Statue Square is on the right, and the space-age headquarters of Hongkong & Shanghai Banking Corporation is to our left. We made a sharp right turn at the Prince’s Building on Ice House Street before stopping at a set of traffic lights at Chater Road. After one more right turn we glided smoothly to a halt outside the five-star Mandarin Oriental, Hong Kong, on Connaught Road.

I already know – from fragments of information I’ve gleaned while skimming through colour supplements in waiting rooms – I’m stopped outside one of the top ten hotels in the world. I’ve no notion if this is our final destination, but my impression of Hong Kong, from passing through the dismal area leading away from the airport, has taken a turn for the better. Even if I’m just fantasising, the thought of sleeping in a five-star hotel is a much brighter prospect than a bed in Mountjoy Prison in Dublin, or in a Swedish jail – even if the Swedes do let you entertain your partner in a special log cabin at the weekends.

The car’s rear door opened. I got another smart salute from the driver before he effortlessly lifted my duffle bag from the boot and gestured me towards the hotel entrance.

Limp-wristed Eddie handled the check-in formalities with one short sentence directed at a carnation-buttonhole-wearing-silver-haired-flunky dressed in tails and morning trousers. “Mister Finn Flynn is an honoured guest of my employer.”

Whatever the import of those ten words, they definitely pressed the right buttons. We were immediately surrounded by more flunkies, some wearing funny pillbox hats and embroidered silk waistcoats, and others in morning suits – minus the flowers in their morning coat lapels.

The silver-haired-important-looking-buttonhole-fellah and Limp-wristed Eddie whisked me up to the Macau Suite. I’ve seen pictures of swanky hotel suites in magazines, but they looked drab compared to the place I’ve just stepped into. Walking backward, Limp-wristed Eddie and the buttonhole-fellah left me standing in the foyer of the suite. I’m that mesmerised by the luxury of the place I barely noticed them leaving.

As I walk down a long corridor the thick carpet is sinking under my size twelve boots. The walls are lined with varnished oil paintings in heavy gilt frames, and exquisite hand-decorated vases and statuettes.

At the end of the corridor there’s an enormous room with back-to-back sofas and ceramic urns as tall as the man who’s just appeared from a concealed side door. The man’s dressed in a butler’s outfit, and he’s sort of bowing to me as he walks quietly into the room.

“Welcome to the Macau Suite Mister Finn Flynn. I will be your butler for the duration of your stay, sir. There are a number of bells like this one, sir,” he announced, holding up a small gold bell. “These are located throughout the suite Mister Finn Flynn. Please ring if you require me anytime, day or night.”

OK, enough is enough! Someone is pulling my leg here. I’m a terrorist on the run, not the president of a banana republic. What’s the score? Where’s the hidden camera, eh?

When I eventually got to the bedroom I was struck dumb in disbelief. I’ve been in people’s homes that are smaller than the bed. All the same, that didn’t stop me doing a swan dive into the middle of the bed.

I stayed right there until the butler entered the room and I heard just the hint of a cough, to let me know he’s there. This man has stealth down to a fine art – another man we could make great use of in and around the narrow back streets of Belfast and Derry.

“Would you like me to run you a relaxing bath, or would you prefer a shower, perhaps, sir?”

I came to my senses and remembered that I’m a socialist Republican, and butlers dancing attention don’t fit with that.

“It’s OK. I’ll look after meself in that department. You go on and take it easy. I can turn on a couple of water taps,” I said.

“Then I shall retire to my room, sir. Please ring if you do require any assistance, any at all, sir.”

Here I am, being a thoughtless shite again. There’s dignity in a man’s work, even if it is servile work. And I’ve just stomped all over a proud man’s dignity. I didn’t ring the bell, and I know I never will, but I went looking for the butler and found him in his pantry.

“Could I ask your name please?”

”It’s Ling, Mister Finn Flynn, sir, William Ling.”

“Right Mister Ling, I’m going to freshen up now. It’s been a long day and I’m not in the best of humours. I’d be obliged if you could organise a large glass of fresh orange juice, please.”

“There will be a jug of freshly squeezed orange juice ready by the time you wish to drink it, sir,” he replied, pointing to a juicer on the counter in his pantry.

“I couldn’t ask for better than that,” I replied, with what I hope isn’t a condescending smile.

HONG KONG

The telephone was
buzzing while I was in the shower. As soon as I shut the water off Mister Ling tapped on the bathroom door to tell me that my guests are waiting downstairs in the Chinnery lounge. Jaysus, I’m certainly not expecting any guests. I hope these guests don’t wear size twelve shoes, hold identity cards, carry handcuffs and truncheons – or maybe firearms – and have no sense of humour whatsoever.

Feeling a good deal fresher after my shower and orange juice, I headed downstairs and found the Chinnery lounge on the second floor. The discreet lighting, old mahogany wood panels, polished brass and deep leather banquette seating give the bar the look of an ocean liner’s first class salon, or a Whitehall club – not that I’ve been inside either. But I’ve seen enough pictures in magazines and programmes on TV to get the general idea.

There’s no obvious sign of any policemen in the bar, but I see Limp-wristed Eddie in the darkest far corner. He’s sitting alongside an elderly Chinese man and a handsome, suntanned man with curly hair who I take to be Italian, or maybe Israeli. He has that intense look, like he’s on a mission for Mossad or the CIA. As I approached their table Eddie stood up to greet me and beckon a hovering waiter.

“Whiskey and water, please,” I said. The waiter remained motionless, as if he didn’t understand my order.

“The Chinnery only serves single-malt whiskey. You have to tell him which brand you want,” Eddie whispered. The only name I can think of is Glenmorangie, which seems to satisfy the waiting waiter. He stuck his tray under his arm, like a sergeant major’s baton, and stepped sharply to the bar.

The elderly Chinese man introduced himself. “I am Mister Sui Wong-Li, but most westerners prefer to call me Uncle Sui,” he said slowly, in perfect English with a slight American twang. “Please join us for lunch, Finn. The Man Wah serves a fine Peking duck, which I believe you will enjoy. Isn’t that right Gerry?” The aside question was addressed to the curly headed man who hasn’t been introduced, or spoken a single word.

I just want to crawl into bed and sleep. Even so, I know enough about Asian customs to know that first impressions matter to elderly Chinese.

“Thank you, I’d be delighted,” I mumbled.

“Excellent! But before we go upstairs…I am an old man, I need the restroom so often these days,” announced Uncle Sui, rising from his seat with the assistance of the ever-attentive Limp-wristed Eddie.