The Inscrutable Charlie Muffin (15 page)

‘I have already said your visit is regarded as important,’ Chiu reminded him.

‘Less than a day is still fast,’ insisted Charlie

‘Not for China,’ said Chiu, seeing the opportunity.

The train lurched, shuddering forward clear of the station. Like most rail systems upon which he had travelled throughout the world, it appeared to go through every back garden. But there was a difference: here, each garden was immaculate and cared for, like entries in a horticultural exhibition. Which was the purpose, decided Charlie. But a public relations exhibition, not a horticultural one.

Once in the open country, they travelled along the spine of high embankments. On either side, in the regimented paddy fields, peasants crouched knee-deep in the irrigation water beneath the cover of their lampshade hats.

‘You will be staying in the Hsin Chiao hotel, in what was once the Legation district of Peking,’ announced Chiu.

The only hotel in the city with a bar, remembered Charlie. He wondered if he’d have anything to celebrate.

Anticipating another diatribe as Chiu moved to speak, Charlie said quickly, ‘It is surprising that you’ve allowed me access to this man in preference to the Hong Kong police.’

‘The police would demand his return,’ said Chiu, as if that were explanation enough.

‘But that would surely achieve the same effect as letting me obtain a statement … better, even. It would guarantee a court hearing.’

Chiu looked across at him tolerantly.

‘It would also establish a precedent,’ he said.

They were interrupted by the opening of the carriage door. Charlie turned to see a file of white-coated men.

‘I’ve arranged for lunch to be served here in the compartment,’ explained Chiu.

Neither spoke while the table was erected between them and the dishes laid out.

‘There are knives and forks, if you wish,’ said Chiu solicitously.

‘Chopsticks will be fine,’ said Charlie. There appeared no courtesy the Chinese authorities had overlooked.

As they started to eat, Charlie said, ‘So the man will go unpunished?’

Chiu paused, chopsticks before his face.

‘Oh no,’ he insisted quietly. ‘People who bring disgrace to China never go unpunished.’

The special treatment continued when they reached Canton. A car was at the station to take them directly to the airport. There they again skirted all the formalities, driving past the departure building to the waiting aircraft. Predictably, their seats were reserved.

‘The man is being brought from Hunan, to enable your meeting to take place in the capital,’ announced Chiu, as they belted themselves in for take-off.

‘That’s very helpful,’ said Charlie.

‘We thought it better.’

‘The British embassy …’ started Charlie.

‘Ambassador Collins has promised an official to notarise the accounts of any meeting,’ finished Chiu, enjoying the constant indications of their efficiency. ‘My Ministry has already approached them.’

‘Collins?’

A movement went through Charlie, as if he were physically cold. Not the same man, he thought wildly. It couldn’t be. Just a coincidence, that’s all. He smothered the hope: now he was thinking like Willoughby. Unrealistically. And he’d already done too much of that.

Could still be a coincidence, he decided. Not a particularly unusual name, after all. Then again, it might not be. About due for ambassadorial promotion when they’d met. The First Secretary at the Prague embassy, remembered Charlie. Prissy man, resenting the London instruction to provide whatever help Charlie might demand. The department were giving him that sort of authority then, still believing the defection to be the biggest intelligence coup of the decade. The visit to Czechoslovakia had been to arrange the final details of the crossing.

‘You know him?’ asked the Chinese.

‘No,’ said Charlie. I hope not, he thought. There’d even been an argument between them.

Chiu stared at him curiously.

Just when everything had at last seemed to be going so easily, thought Charlie. Why hadn’t he checked at the High Commission in Hong Kong? Taken one telephone call, that’s all. He’d even anticipated the danger, in Kuo’s office. Careless again. Unthinking.

The aircraft doors thumped closed and the No Smoking and seatbelts signs flicked on. There was nothing he could do. Not a bloody thing.

‘My Ministry have taken a very unusual decision in admitting you,’ said Chiu. ‘We hope it will work out satisfactorily.’

‘So do I,’ said Charlie sincerely. In so many ways, he thought. He’d certainly need the hotel bar. But not for a celebration.

Harvey Jones leaned against the rail of the ferry taking him from Hong Kong to Kowloon, gazing down into the churned waters of the harbour. Far away the
Pride of America
looked like one of those beached whales that sometimes came ashore along the Miami coastline, driven to suicide by sea parasites infecting their skins. His parents had sent him pictures in their last letter from Fort Lauderdale, the one in which they’d assured him of how happily they were settling down into retirement.

Pity he couldn’t send them a postcard. Be bad security, he knew. Perhaps he’d visit them, when he got back. He might even have something about which to boast. Then again, he might not.

Jones drove his fist in tiny, impatient movements against the rail. Why, he wondered, were the damned Chinese being so helpful to the bloody man? And they
were
being helpful. Openly so. He hadn’t even had to make it obvious that he’d followed the man to the legation offices. Kuo had freely admitted it. Almost volunteered it.

‘…
special chance … to prove yourself …
’

He was being beaten, decided Jones. By a tied-in-the-middle-with-string hayseed of an agent who should have been put out to pasture long ago. And he
was
an agent, no matter how closely he tried to hide behind the insurance investigator crap. Jones was sure of it.

The American stared up, irritated by another realisation. To ask Washington to pressure London for co-operation now would be an open admission of failure. Best to wait. At least until the man came back. It would be easy to gauge whether the visit had been worth while. That was it. Just wait and trick the bastard into some sort of confession. Then put the arm on him.

The ferry nudged against the dock and Jones got into line to disembark.

Still failure, though. Whether he did it now or later.

It wasn’t going as he had hoped, he admitted to himself reluctantly. In fact, it was turning out to be a complete fuck-up.

Jones had cleared the quayside by the time Jenny Lin Lee finally left the same ferry. For a moment she stared across towards Hong Kong island, then started towards Kowloon.

Already they would know she had arrived. Been warned to expect her, in fact. Just as the hotels and then the bars in the Wan Chai had been warned to refuse her, forcing her lower and lower.

She turned right, along the Salisbury Road and in front of the Peninsula Hotel which Jones had just entered and on towards the harbour slums.

That’s where the Mao Tai shacks and the short-time houses were. All she could expect now. Or would be allowed. No Europeans, of course. Or even clean Chinese. Just the blank-eyed, diseased men of the fishing junks and the shipyards.

She could avoid the pain, she knew, feeling for the assurance of the hypodermic in her shoulder bag. There would be no difficulty in obtaining it, not until she’d really established a dependence. Then it might be difficult. Impossible, eventually. But that hadn’t happened yet. Weeks away. And she had to take away the feeling.

16

Fan Yung-ching, the former prison cook, was a wizened, dried-out old man, tissue-paper skin stretched over the bones of his face and hands, making him almost doll-like. A very ugly doll, thought Charlie.

The man crouched rather than sat on the other side of the interview bench, skeletal hands across his stomach as if he were in physical pain. Which he probably was. Fear leaked from him, souring the room with his smell. Soon, decided Charlie, the man would wet himself. Charlie had been in many rooms, confronting many men as frightened as this. Always, at some stage, their bladders went. He hoped that was the only collapse. Often it wasn’t.

It was a small, box-shaped chamber, crowded because of the number of people who had to be present.

The interpreter who would translate Charlie’s questions was immediately to his left, arms upon the table, waiting with a notepad before him. Behind, at a narrow bench, sat Chiu Ching-mao. With him was the official from the legal section of the British embassy.

Geoffrey Hodgson, the man had introduced himself. Typical diplomat-lawyer posted because of an ability with languages.

Charlie looked at the lawyer and Hodgson smiled hopefully, just as he’d smiled when he confirmed in unwitting conversation the ambassador’s former posting to Prague.

‘Expects you at the embassy after the interview,’ Hodgson had said.

No escape then.

It would have been four years, Charlie calculated. And not more than three hours together. The man would have encountered thousands of people in that time. And would not know the outcome of Charlie’s visit to Czechoslovakia anyway, because of the embarrassment to the department.

Scarce reason to remember him. Wrong to panic then. Pointless anyway. At least he knew in advance. It gave him a slight advantage: too slight.

Charlie continued his examination of the room. At a third table sat two bilingual notetakers, tape-recording machines between them.

As efficiently organised as everything else, decided Charlie.

‘Shall we start?’ he said.

‘There should be an oath, if the man has a religion,’ warned Hodgson.

Fan shook his head to the interpreter’s question.

‘An affirmation, at least,’ insisted Hodgson. It was an unusual situation and he didn’t want any mistakes.

‘He understands,’ said the interpreter.

The man paused as one of the notetakers made an adjustment to the recorder, then quoted the undertaking to the old man. Haltingly, eyes locked on to the table in front of him, Fan repeated his promise that the statement would be the truth. He was wiping one hand over the other in tiny washing movements. He was too frightened to lie, Charlie knew.

The affirmation over, Fan hurriedly talked on, bobbing his hand in fawning, pleading motions.

‘He begs forgiveness,’ said the interpreter. ‘He says he was forced to do what he did … that he did not know it was a poison he was introducing into the men’s food. He was told that it was a substance merely to make them ill, to cause a delay to the trial …’

It was going to be more disjointed than he had expected, realised Charlie. He turned to Hodgson.

‘Would there be any difficulty about admissibility if the transcript is shown to be a series of questions and answers?’

The British lawyer pursed his lips doubtfully.

‘Shouldn’t be,’ he said, ‘providing that it couldn’t be argued that the questions were too leading. You must not suggest the answers you want.’

Charlie turned back to the cook.

‘Does he know the man who gave him the substance?’

‘The same man who threatened me,’ replied Fan, through the interpreter.

‘What is his name?’

‘Johnny Lu.’

Charlie reached into his briefcase, bringing out one of the many photographs of the millionaire’s son it had been automatic for him to bring. It had been taken at the press conference just after the liner sailed from New York and showed the man next to his father.

‘This man?’ he asked.

Fan squinted at the picture.

‘Yes,’ he said finally.

Charlie looked towards the recorders.

‘Can the transcript show he has identified a picture of John Lu taken aboard the
Pride of America
,’ he requested formally.

The proof, Charlie thought. The proof that Johnson had demanded. And which would save Willoughby. What, he wondered, would save him?

‘Why did he threaten you?’ he said, coming back to the old man.

‘I owed money … money I had lost at mah-jong. I did not have it …’

‘What was the threat?’

‘That he would have me hurt … badly hurt.’

‘Tell me what he said.’

‘That if I put what he gave me into their food, he would not let me be hurt … that it would cancel my debt.’

‘Were you at any time told what to do by anyone representing the government of China?’

Fan looked hurriedly to the interpreter and then across at Chiu, to whom the other Chinese in the room had been constantly deferent.

He shook his head.

‘You must reply,’ insisted Charlie.

‘No,’ said Fan.

‘What about the men who died … those accused of causing the fire?’

It was a remote chance, but worth trying.

‘I do not know,’ said Fan.

‘Did they gamble?’ pressed Charlie.

Fan nodded. ‘Sometimes with me.’

‘Be careful,’ interrupted Hodgson, from the side. ‘If just one section is challenged, it could have the effect of casting doubt on the whole statement.’

‘Did they win or lose?’ Charlie asked the Chinese, nodding his acceptance of the lawyer’s warning.

‘Sometimes win. Sometimes lose,’ said Fan, unhelpfully.

‘Did John Lu cancel your debt?’

‘He told me to go to him to get a paper. But I did not.’

‘Why?’

‘I was frightened I would get killed. I ran away.’

Fan gave an involuntary shudder and a different smell permeated the room. He’d been right, realised Charlie. It always happened.

‘What did John Lu say would happen to the men who had caused the fire?’

‘Just that they would become ill … nothing more.’

‘Why did he want that?’

‘He said it would get into the newspapers … that it was important.’

‘Why?’

‘I do not know.’

Charlie wanted nothing more from the man. It had seemed ridiculously easy. But the rest of the day wasn’t going to be.

He sat back, looking to Chiu.

‘Thank you,’ he said.

‘That is all?’

The Foreign Ministry official appeared surprised.