Chapter Six
“James, where are we at now?”
Detailed examination of the situation was required to ascertain just what sort of political future Hong Kong was likely to enjoy in the years ahead. To the outside world, much of what occupied the concerns of those deeply involved in trying to ensure how that future unfolded, talk of District Boards, Omelco, the public’s written response to the question of direct elections or not direct elections, and so many other allied subjects seemed of little, or at best, confusing interest.
But in reality the apparently mundane, boring, distracted, globally inconsequential considerations could have a surprisingly unpleasant impact.
The Chief Secretary again sat at the head of the table, relaxed in the chair with his long legs casually crossed, the toe of his left shoe bobbing to some silent tune. He had an accurate picture already but formalities had to be adhered to, so the three men would go over the situation as if they were all receiving the new information for the first time.
The assistant flipped open the pink, hard-backed file on his lap. “As of close of play yesterday we had received four thousand three hundred and twenty-eight,” he answered. Running his finger down the column of figures on the right hand side of the page, he added: “Yes, they’re coming in at over a thousand a day.”
“We’ll get fifty thousand then,” said Roger Gould. “With just under seven weeks to go, around forty days, we’ll top it easily.”
“Perhaps,” said Wong.
“Why not?” asked the Political Advisor. “Are you thinking the numbers will fall off? To such an extent that even fifty thousands will be in doubt?”
“Not necessarily,” replied Wong. “The new APIs and other publicity have revived the interest somewhat. The “Green Paper Made Easy” advert seems to have brought them in.” The assistant flattened the file on the desk. “Even the Omelco post boxes outside their building have taken nearly four hundred.”
Gould smirked. “Probably all from staff to justify the public relations effort.”
Wong looked hard at the Englishman whom he would find it hard to like no matter how long he knew him. “Actually they are genuine. It might have been a bit cosmetic and gimmicky but the green boxes have attracted comments. Let’s face it, four hundred is almost ten per cent of the total so we can’t dismiss it lightly.”
“You’re right of course James,” said McNamara. “The number is significant. But what is your worry?”
The Chinese lit a cigarette. Even though neither the Political Advisor nor the Chief Secretary smoked, and hated the stale smell that seemed to cling to the walls after each meeting, they waited while Wong shook the match dead and exhaled a cloud towards the ceiling. “The overall stats are good,” he said. “Personally, I am now confident we can pass fifty thousand. But I think eighty thousand is asking too much. We’re going to be in recess until the end of the consultation period and I think the surge we are now seeing, or have until recently, will continue to slow down. My estimate has to be revised to around sixty.”
He stopped and drew on the cigarette again. He could see through the windows that outside was still as gloomy as it was when he left his home to travel into to his office, his daily route taking him past the silent Legislative Council building. The council had been in recess since the middle of July when its forty-five members had ended their session with a two-day display of opinion on the Green Paper. Speaking to a motion, they had individually given their views on the options proposed for overall political development.
While many had spoken on the role of the District Boards, the importance of Functional and Electoral College constituencies, and topics such as voting age and presidency of the council itself, the major subject had been direct elections, universal suffrage, one-man-one-vote. There had been no real surprises yet the debate had been hailed as a most thought-provoking, mature exercise in fledgling democracy. Legislative councillors had marked out vital credibility ground.
They had then packed their bags and headed for more pleasant, less pressurised climes. The summer holidays were on in earnest as places as divergent as Bali and San Francisco, New York, London, Geneva and Australia’s Gold Coast opened their hotel doors to the rich Chinese politicians. A few remained behind, determined to keep the issues alive, but the fires became embers and on the whole public interest waned. Other matters, far more immediate, such as the plight of Vietnamese refugees on the one hand and the rising road toll on the other grabbed the headlines, along with more and more overseas news.
This was the other recess James Wong had in mind. The media, which had devoted itself to the local political question for so long, was showing its limited attention span and growing lack of interest. The entire question had become repetitive and the temporary break was welcomed. If not across the board then by many nonetheless.
“Interest will pick up again around September,” he said. “However, I don’t think that is the real problem.”
“Go ahead James,” the Chief Secretary urged. “What’s the problem?”
Wong leaned forward, stubbed out the cigarette in the brown glass ashtray and opened the confidential file again. Turning to the second page he began to recite a tally of facts and figures. After two minutes he looked at the others around the table in turn. “This is the bottom line. We are running around seventy to seventy-four per cent in favour. Right from the start it had that sort of support. Something has happened though. We’re well down on that now.”
McNamara wanted to know how far down the figure was, and there was a chill in his voice.
“In some areas, the DBs, groups and unions we go as low as forty-two per cent. Overall, we stand at fifty-four per cent.” The assistant kept the file open before him but said nothing more.
There was a lull when none of the men spoke. The Chief Secretary uncrossed his legs and leaned his elbows on the table. “Well,” he said. “Over the last ten days or so we’ve gone from an expected target of fifty thousand to more than sixty thousand. The publicity machine clearly has been working well.” He steepled his fingers and went on. “We’ve also gone from over seventy per cent to just over fifty per cent. So something plainly is happening. Two steps forward, one step back. Or rather, one step forward and two backwards.”
McNamara dropped his gaze and studied his hands as if searching for some hieroglyphic explanation impressed in the skin. “We have a problem gentlemen,” he said quietly. “What do you suggest we do to solve it?”
“Actually two,” said Wong. “We’ve still got the problem with Special Branch. They’re continuing to hold that one per cent is all they can guarantee for the polls.”
“And that’s still unacceptable,” answered McNamara quickly. “Sixty is far too many. Far too many now we have this other hiccup.”
His assistant sat impassively. When he spoke he did so in a reasoned, soft tone. “Under normal circumstances we would have no difficulties. It’s been done a number of times. But this is different. It has to be quiet and camouflaged.”
The Chief Secretary was plainly impatient. “I am still well aware of that. I spoke to the Director myself. I impressed on him the importance of precise information. Fair and honest.”
Wong reached for the gold packet next to the ashtray.
“Got god’s sake James,” blurted McNamara. “Let’s breathe some air for a change.”
The Chinese withdrew his hand. “I called him this morning. He’s worried he can’t keep the cover up. His researchers are starting to wonder aloud what the data is for.”
“Well, why doesn’t he switch them around?”
“He has. Twice already.”
Well then?”
“That in itself is raising questions. Itchy, is the word he used with me. They’re a close lot as you know.”
McNamara stood up abruptly. He stalked to the door and asked Gail Jones to call for more coffee. Closing the door he sat down heavily. Rubbing his chin with the back of his hand he said: “We’re going to lose our grip on this is we’re not careful. It’s going to get away from us.”
Roger Gould had remained silent since early in the meeting as he followed the exchange with keen interest and had to admit he sympathised with both men. Certainly he understood the Chief Secretary’s wish for reliable results. If the final outcome was questionable, hard and troubled times lay ahead. At the same time he had to accept Wong’s dilemma; only so much pressure could be brought on those in the field to produce. Experience taught him that only too personally. Too much pressure and the plan could backfire with potentially more devastating effect. The line separating the two was excruciatingly fine and it had to be handled with extreme caution and balance. If one side was played with too heavy a hand it could all come crashing down around their heads.
Gould did not have great liking for either of the men. One was a Chinese and that in itself put him outside the perimeter of people with whom he chose to be close. A visit to China just months before the onslaught of the bloody and mindless Cultural Revolution had allowed him to see the Chinese people as they really were. A guest of the Shell multinational, he had spent four days in Shanghai and had seen the populace’s total disregard for human rights and their almost pathological hatred for anything foreign. Since then he had learned a great deal more which hardened his feelings towards the Chinese. The stories he had been told, some by people who had suffered personally, of the years between then and Mao’s death and the elimination of the notorious Gang of Four led by his venomous widow Chiang Ching, had confirmed his view that they should be left to their own devices.
Naturally, he had not voiced these feelings openly but he had found it increasingly difficult to conceal them. The last year in Hong Kong, actually living and working with Chinese people, albeit Hong Kong Chinese, had made it almost impossible. And James Wong had the added unfortunate attribute of being extremely intelligent and educated. Gould resented the fact.
McNamara was British, but he too did not fall into Gould’s definition of acceptable, in spite of his seniority. He was not of the old school, had clawed his way up the civil service ladder by sheer ability and determination, and was now in charge of an administration of nearly two hundred thousand at a time when history was being made. Gould resented this too. Nevertheless, he had a certain role to play in the historical drama unfolding and he knew that if the end was a happy one he also would be able to enjoy the applause. If not, he would be despatched to the wings and anonymity. So he sympathised with the problems being aired by the Chief Secretary and his assistant and for the moment his personal feelings were discarded. In their place was real concern.
“Can we deal with the second first,” he suggested. “That seems to me to be the one we can overcome in the shortest time. Then we can address the wider critical issue.”
There followed an hour-long discussion interrupted only by the young boy in dark trousers and light blue shirt who delivered fresh coffee to the office. He was chaperoned by Gail Jones who efficiently ushered him into the office and out again in seconds. At the end McNamara leaned back in his chair, balancing his cup precariously on finger tips. “We agree then,” he stated. The others nodded and it was Gould who said: “It’s a risk but we have no choice any longer.”
“OK,” said McNamara. “If there are doubts and risks of interference drop the doubtful ones.” He paused. “I still hope it will clear itself in time though. Keep trying James.”
As to the problem of written submissions being received, another two hours of discussion did not help. At the end of the day it was up to the advocates and their supporters.
“I’ll try dangling the bait at the Friday Omelco lunch,” said the Chief Secretary. “Recess or no recess I hope they take it and run with it. It’s the best we can do for now. We’ll meet and first thing Monday.”
When the Political Advisor and the assistant had left the room Gail Jones came in and smiled at McNamara. “A long one,” she said. “Do you want another coffee or a Perrier?”
“No more caffeine please. A water sounds great though, What’s been happening in the so-called real world outside?”
“Nothing special. Joan called to say she’ll collect on the way home in half an hour.”
“Thank god I’ve got nothing on. With HE back in town I can actually lunch with my wife for a change. Any other messages Gail?”
“Just one,” she replied, steadying her gaze. “Jason Teller rang at eleven. Asked if he could see you when you are free. I made no promises.”
“Did he say what it was about?”
“No. But I think it might be personal. He seemed anxious.”
“Leave it with me. Don’t do anything yet. I’ll let you know after lunch.”
The Chief Secretary turned to the personal computer on the shelf behind his desk and punched a few keys. As Gail Jones was closing the door he said over his shoulder: “Oh, ask Jack if could drop in for a few minutes would you please. I’ve got something I want him to do.”
*
Jason Teller had called McNamara’s office and had been transferred to Gail Jones’s extension as he had expected. One of her many duties was to screen the media. He knew her quite well, as Mrs J, not by her Christian name. When he spoke to her he divulged little. It was a private matter he wished to raise with Robert McNamara, and not one he wished to mention to anyone else at this stage. All the previous afternoon he had spent reading. In the morning he had made a few telephone calls and had not left his flat until after ten. When he did, instead of taking his usual route to the train station in Hennessy Road in Causeway Bay, he walked in the opposite direction down Link Road. At the corner where the Po Leung Kuk cared for neglected children he turned left and skipped across the busy intersection when the traffic congealed to a temporary standstill, and entered Sunning Road. At the far end of the street was the Lee Gardens Hotel, the gathering point for busloads of flag-waving, camera-toting, plastic-hat-wearing Japanese tourists. It was not a five star hotel but it was in the heart of bustling Causeway Bay with an excellent array of restaurants nearby and a number of large department stores, mostly Japanese, within a tight radius.
Teller crossed Hysan Avenue and passed through a doorway next to the hotel’s entrance. He rode the lift to the fifth floor and found the office he was looking for. The Chief Information Officer of the Medical and Health Department greeted him warmly and handed over a photocopied sheet of paper. It was the official biography of Michael Wong, showing his personal antecedents and his professional qualifications and experience. Teller stayed chatting with the woman for about fifteen minutes and thanked her for preparing the information at such short notice. He had called only an hour before. Then he left and walked down to Hennessy Road, cutting through the elaborate Mitsukoshi store.
It was hot, as usual, the humidity level high, perhaps due once again to two typhoons that were standing off the Philippines in the south. There had been a light morning shower which had been insufficient to cool and clear the air. The stroll through the air-conditioned Japanese store had refreshed him and be enjoyed looking at the quality products he could not afford on a journalist’s salary. Even if he could not buy anything he could dream of the day he might write a best seller and be able to wear the exclusive-label clothes.
Back in the heat he waited for a tram and boarded it along with twenty or so others. At that time of the day it was packed with housewives, office messengers on errands from one end of town to the other, and workers whom Teller was convinced were salespeople as they all carried what looked like sample cases. But in Hong Kong you could never be sure what people did for a living, despite appearances.
He stood. Being tall, he always found the best place was right at the back where he did not have to duck his head and peer at trouser cuffs and scuffed shoes. Instead he could look out the open side and watch life on the sidewalks. The main drawbacks were the heat from the engine and the final fight through the length of the tram when he had to alight.
For once everyone seemed to be getting off at the stop near the giant Hong Kong and Shanghai Bank in Des Voeux Road, and he merely followed the mass with little jostling. From there he proceeded through the open ground floor of the bank to the Queen’s Road side and sidestepped his way through congested traffic to Beaconsfield House, headquarters of the Government Information Service.
The GIS had a staff of hundreds of information officers scattered throughout practically every government department in the territory. They all answered to the Director and her three Assistant Directors on the sixth floor. Administration staff, design and photographic and research sections were on the lower levels. The library, where Teller was heading, was also on the top floor, next to the main news room from where all official press releases were telexed.
Walking out of the lift he approached the receptionist and informed her of his name, the newspaper he represented and that he wanted to research some material in the library. When he was introduced to the librarian a few minutes later he told her he wanted to see the biographies and profiles of all legislative councillors and the directorate of any professional media bodies. Also the latest copy of the Hong Kong Who’s Who.
Seated at a long table with three school children huddled over an atlas turned to a detailed map of Canada, Teller sorted the papers the girl had brought him. He began with the red booklet titled “Legislative Council, Hong Kong – Members Directory”. Flipping the pages he came to those he sought. Each covered a councillor with a black and white picture in the left corner and details succinctly outlined in English and Chinese below.
The first entry he read, and noted in his notebook, was headed on bold type and underlined, LAM, Conrad Kiu-shing. Under the bespectacled mug shot were the professional details: Born in 1935 in Hong Kong, a catholic with six children, and with the initials MBBS he was entitled to append after his signature. A general practitioner. Chairman and member of various boards and committees. Teller turned the page.
LEE, Martin Chu-ming QC JP. Date of birth 8th June 1938. Place of birth Hong Kong. Another catholic, with one child only. Educated solely in Hong Kong. His principal occupation was given as barrister-at-law.
Teller smiled as he copied the last words. Hardly, he thought. Lee only handled a few high paying cases a year nowadays. His principal occupation was as a civil rights advocate, seeker of truth, promoter of direct elections in 1988 and freedom of expression. Under public service there was a lengthy list of boards, committees, tribunals and associations he belonged to.
Turning the page again Teller came to LEE Yu-tai, or Desmond as he was commonly known, though in the directory the English Christian name was absent. The entry showed him to be forty-three years old, born in Canton, married and father to three children, the holder of a BA and MA from the Chinese University of Hong Kong. His public service record was somewhat shorter than his more illustrious colleague.
Rereading his notes, Teller then turned his attention to a separate crisp sheet of
paper headed with Michael Wong’s name. The page was unmarked and had obviously not been referred to by many, if any, researchers in the past. Either that or it was a new copy. Teller believed it was probably the original and had not been removed from the files by visitors to the GIS library. This was confirmed by the date at the bottom: 8/86(1).
He began copying the salient points in his untidy handwriting. Age forty seven. Married, two children. Wife’s name Vivian. Education/profession: Hong Kong University, Royal Free Hospital, London, specialist Queen Mary Hospital Hong Kong. He was advisor to a number of boards and committees but there was no mention of his chairmanship of the medical board. The information on the page was brief. Too brief. Michael Wong seemed to be a man who kept his life private. Hardly the target for a political murder.
Teller picked up the Who’s Who, newly reprinted at the beginning of the year. The publication had been launched about a decade earlier by a former South China Morning Post writer, and contained many entries which normally would not be found under such a prestigious title. Even junior ranking personages, provided they were well known in the territory if nowhere outside, were listed. Michael Wong was mentioned. The details were again scant but they did answer the question as to why his most prominent medical position was not included in the previous biography. He had been elected chairman of the board in November 1986. Teller thought of telling the librarian of the omission but decided against it. What would be the point. Wong was now dead. Poor bastard, he said under his breath. His life was cut short and even his written history was incomplete.
He closed the book and turned his attention to the first of two off-white files crammed with newspaper cuttings. He read them all, some only scanning quickly, and by the time he was finished his neck and shoulders ached and his eyes hurt. Again he studied the last entry in the file. It was a full page article from the Hong Kong Standard reporting interviews with a cross section of people on political changes necessary for Hong Kong. He noticed Michael Wong’s name in the penultimate column. He had missed it before probably because he was tired and had been anxious to be done with the file. Now he read the two-line quote beside Wong’s name:
“We must have freedom.
By whatever method is necessary to ensure it.”
It was the only political statement Teller had been able to attribute to the surgeon. Yet it was unusually strong for a man who did not make public statements on the matter. The purple date stamp on the top of the page read Monday, September 1, 1986.
Teller closed the file and replaced it with the second one boldly marked Part II on the front. It was very bulky and contained hundreds of newspaper cuttings of reports and statements by legislative councillors since May when the Green Paper had been published. All of them had personal details of the commentators which was why the librarian had given the file to him. But there was no further reference to Michael Wong. It seemed there was just the single published statement on record.
Teller returned to the Who’s Who and let the pages flip casually as he leaned back in the chair and stretched his legs. Suddenly the animated face of Amelia Tse leapt out at him. Her eyes glistened and she was hunched forward as though on the verge of leaping out of the page. Teller skipped through the sketchy personal details and saw the reporter had worked in London for a time before joining the afternoon tabloid, The Star. The entry which caught his attention was under religion. It read simply: “Freedom from oppression.” Religion? He reached for his pen and a voice behind him said: “She looks bright doesn’t she? A lot of the excitement in the Post died with her unfortunately.”
Teller turned to see Julius Owen standing at his shoulder. He had not seen or heard the officer in charge of the news room approach.
“Hi Julius,” he said, and stretched his arms, raising himself upright in the chair at the same time. “Are you insinuating the great paper has gone down hill?”
Owen remained standing. “Sure. No question. There’s no meat to it. Nothing behind the scenes. All it is is coverage of what people are saying at open forums with no attempt to get into a subject and analyse it. Any subject. But don’t tell me you of all people disagree.”
“No,” replied Teller. “You’re right. It’s pretty flat.”
“I think you’re being generous.” Owen’s smile was broad. “It’s very ordinary. That’s what it is. Ordinary. There is no direction and the management is preoccupied with the financial side. Not enough attention is paid to the editorial content.”
“You can blame the Australians for that. They want to make a decent profit on their investment.”
“Naturally. But what has happened to journalism along the way? Where’s the inquisitive, in-depth probing that is such an integral and fundamental part of news in other countries?”
Teller agreed with the information officer. He had said as much himself a number of times. “Well, some of us are trying,” he said. “But it’s hard to argue with a hundred and fifty pages of classified each Saturday.”
“So what are you doing to compete with them this week,” asked Owen.
“Nothing special,” Teller replied. “Sort of scouting really. Any ideas?”
“I’m not on the Post payroll. I dispense government news. I don’t pull it to pieces you know.” Owen pulled out the chair next to Teller and lowered himself into it. “Why the interest in Amelia?”
“Oh, nothing.” Teller repeated. It was the second time he had chosen not to tell the whole truth. “I just came across the entry accidentally. She certainly was a radical in some ways.”
“You could say that.”
“Look at this bit here.” Teller pointed to the description under religion. “’Freedom from oppression’. Not catholic, Buddhist or callothumpian. Instead, she gives a political statement. Or did rather.”
“Yes,” said Owen. “She had definite views did our Amelia. I don’t think she would have been out of place in combat fatigues and a rifle slung across the shoulders.”
Teller raised his eyebrows. “I wouldn’t go that far. Biased somewhat, but not a revolutionary.”
“Don’t you believe it. When she got worked up she was pretty feisty. Amelia was not averse to using whatever methods at her disposal to get what she believed she had a right to.”
“Yes,” said Teller. “Well, I think she saw a difference between Hong Kong and Seoul. Taking to the streets would not go down too well here, I think.”
“Maybe not,” Owen said. “Though, I reckon if she thought it would motivate enough people she’s have done it.”
Teller offered a cigarette to Owen who shook his head and pointed to the No Smoking sticker on the wall. Teller replaced the packet in his bag. “Anyway,” he went on, “she’s gone now. So I guess we don’t have to worry about a civil war breaking out.”
“Unless she has left a flock of fools behind who are just as radical, or even crazier,” said Owen. He pushed the chair back and stood. “I hear a rumour you found her body.”
“Where did you hear that?”
“Around.” Owen paused. “True?”
“No comment” said Teller and held the information officer’s gaze.
“Touché,” said Owen. “Gotta go. Why don’t you try to find out if Amelia was a member of some group bent on revolution. Make a good story. I can see it now. Revolutionaries planning civil war in Hong Kong. Armed freedom fighters ready to take to the streets. Exclusive, by Jason Teller.” He smiled. “Like it?
“I don’t think so Julius. Too beat up. Why not something simple like ‘Plot to force direct elections’. More credible don’t you agree?”
Owen eyed Teller with a serious expression. “Yes,” he answered. “That I would not discount at all.” He paused in thought for a moment. “Gotta go. See you soon.”
Teller put his notebook back into his shoulder bag and stacked the files neatly on the table. A thought was taking form in his mind. What had been a joke began to take root and would not let go. It tenaciously clung and the more he tried to dislodge it, the more it grew until in a matter of seconds he became suddenly worried.
He approached the librarian and indicating he was finished with the material asked if he could use the telephone. She pointed to the grey instrument in a corner and Teller called his office to say he would not be back for the day. Then he went home and watched television distractedly until late. Throughout the evening he could not shake the thoughts racing around in his head.
In the morning when he arrived at the Tong Chong Street newspaper building, the thoughts were still with him. At eleven o’clock he picked up the phone and called the Chief Secretary’s office.
At noon the telephone on his own desk rang. Teller picked it up hurriedly.
“Jason?” The voice on the other end was soft but familiar,
“Yes. Good afternoon.”
“.Jason, can we have a chat?”
“Sure. But I’m waiting on a call. I’m hoping to see someone this afternoon.”
“I know. That’s why I’m calling you now. Can we meet? After lunch?”
“You know?” Teller asked.
“Yes.”
“You mean we should meet instead of the CS?” He was puzzled why the accountant should be contacting him on behalf of Robert McNamara.
“I think it would be a good idea … for both of us …. if we talked first. Then we will see where we need to go from there.”
“I don’t know,” Teller hesitated. “I was hoping to see the CS on a rather important personal matter.”
The accountant did not respond immediately. When he did he said: “I know. But the CS is tied up. That’s why I’m suggesting we should have a chat in the meantime.”
“Well….”
“Three o’clock,” said the accountant. “Let’s say three. Is that OK? We can have a coffee at the Hilton.”
“OK,” Teller agreed. “Three o’clock in the ground floor coffee shop. I can call Mrs J from there.
“Of course. That’s a good idea. See you then.”
Teller replaced the receiver. He stared at the instrument trying to put the pieces together. It was certainly odd that the accountant should call him so soon after he had placed the