Chapter Eight
The kick caught Teller in the stomach and with a groan he doubled over and fell to his knees, the concrete floor jarring his whole spine. He gripped his belly and tried to suck in air but there wasn’t any. All he had had in his lungs was forced out and it was as if the organs had collapsed and refused to open like bellows again to pump more in. Teller toppled forward onto his left hand and awkwardly reached behind with his right to beat his own back. At the same time he lifted his head and grunted at the figure standing over him.
The man, dressed in white, thumped his back a few times and then grabbed him under the armpits and hauled him to his feet. Turning his back he pinned him under the shoulders and heaved him onto his own back, leaned forward and bounced up and down, stretching Teller’s body backwards as far as it would bend.
Teller groaned, his face having darkened from ashen to crimson, until finally he gasped deeply and gulped in air. As the man continued the rocking motion Teller moaned again and drew in more mouthfuls of air. At last he was back breathing more easily and he rolled slowly off the man’s back.
“You OK?” asked his friend.
“Yeah,” said Teller with some difficulty. He paced around the floor, his hands on his hips, and regulated his breathing. “Bloody stupid. My fault. It was a good maigiri. I just didn’t block quickly enough.”
His friend smiled. “You were coming in at the same time. A bit slower. You should train more often.”
“I know,” Teller replied. “I’m getting too old for this sort of thing. I think I’ll take up lawn bowls.”
“You want to finish up?”
“No. We can continue for a while longer, but let’s just make it light. It’s alright for you youngsters, but we old men aren’t quite what we used to be.”
The other man looked serious. “You used to be very fit. Fast too. If you trained more often you would get that fitness and speed back. Strength isn’t enough. Smoking doesn’t help either.”
“I know. I know. You’re right, but these days I need someone to push me into it. I tell you, it’s age old mate. I’m simply getting older.”
His friend was right though. A few years back he was fit. And he was one of the club’s most dedicated karatekas. Then karate had been almost a love for him and the weeks and months were measured by training sessions, camps in the New territories and the occasional tournament locally or in Macao.
Over the last few years, however, he had developed other interests, primarily his work, and his enthusiasm had waned. Also, all the other students seemed to be youths who possessed much greater speed, strength and drive. It was true that karate could be a sport for all ages, but the kumite fighting aspect was for the younger generation. It was also a sport in which the loser often was hurt, not simply had the wind knocked out of him as Teller had at this, one of his infrequent sessions with his friend.
“Right then,” he said to his friend. “Come on. Another three minutes. But please treat me gently.”
His friend laughed and jabbed a kizami at Teller’s face. The short blow was deflected and for his too casual approach Teller hit him with a solid kyakazuki punch under the heart.
As the other man in the traditional white dogi winced Teller grinned: “There’s still some fight in the old dog yet you know.” The remaining few minutes ended in a flurry of blows and kicks, some of which landed but all were controlled so neither Teller not his opponent was hurt, though abrasions would show the next day and Teller would walk with a tight gait for the rest of the week.
As they were dressing Teller asked his friend how his business was progressing. The tax consultant replied that it was buoyant. Most of his clients were Australian businessmen with interests offshore and with the new fiscal year just underway he still had a good deal of work to occupy his time.
“You’ve been busy I see,” he added. “Getting into the murky side of the place these days. Are you serious about some diabolical plan to overthrow the government? A bit far-fetched I would have thought.”
Teller pulled on his shirt, the sweat bunching it uncomfortably at the back despite his having towelled himself off just minutes before. “I don’t think I suggested there was a coup in the offing,” he said. “But something’s going on.”
“Keep it to a minimum then will you. I don’t want my clients to shift their base.” His friend switched off the two overhead fans in the dojo and moved to the door. “I’ll drop you off on the way.”
Twenty minutes later Teller thanked his friend for the lift, waved goodbye and pushed open the heavy iron gate to the entrance of the building in Happy View Terrace where he lived. His friend had been right. He was certainly getting involved in the seamy side of Hong Kong. His follow-up story had appeared that morning and he had spent much of the day fending of comments from colleagues and acquaintances who called him to either probe further or to criticise his fertile imagination. It seemed to many people that while such political intrigue may be commonplace in other Asian countries, Hong Kong was above it all and his suppositions were dramatic pie in the sky.
The government machine had voiced its reaction to the story very clearly. Both the Director of the GIS and the Secretary for Administrative Services and Information had called Davidson to describe the claims as having no basis in fact, adding the rider that they would expect a retraction.
The editor had told Teller of the calls. He had also informed the two officials that if they wished to issue a formal denial he would be pleased to publish it. Both had blustered about sensationalist journalism and later in the afternoon the teleprinter had stuttered out a brief statement to the effect that the authorities had “no evidence at this point in time to support the allegations” made by the South China Morning Post.
“They’ll have to do better than that,” Davidson had said. But he had also warned Teller: “So will you. Get me something solid. We can’t survive on your gut feelings. Facts Teller. Get me facts.”
It was easy to say, not easy to do. He had nowhere to go. His sources had dried up, shied away and all he had were tenuous threads that suggested directions but which bore no definite signs.
Teller slammed the gate behind him and started the climb up to the third floor to his flat. He was exhausted and all he wanted to do was take a cold shower, make a salad sandwich and sit in front of the television with a can of iced beer. Everything else could wait until tomorrow.
At his landing he dropped the bag containing his training kit and fumbled with the side pocket for the key to the front door. Once he found it he straightened up and inserted into the lock and turned it anticlockwise. The key turned freely all the way, indicating the door was not locked, only on the latch. It was odd. He always made a point to lock the door and he was sure he had done so when he left for the office in the morning.
Burglaries were one of the most prevalent crimes of Hong Kong, particularly in low level buildings which had no lifts and dark staircases where thieves could work their picks without too much fear of being accosted by tenants frequently coming and going. Teller feared he could be the latest statistic on a police report sheet. In the seconds before he turned the handle and opened the door he tried to recall his actions in the morning of turning the key in the lock. The more he tried to visualise it the more uncertain he became. The door swung in and Teller walked into the short corridor. He pushed the swing door to the dining room and walked in switching on the light as he did. Everything was in its place. He walked through to the sitting room, switched on the light there too and noted again that all was in order. Nothing had been touched. Finally he entered the bedroom. Once more there was no sign anything had been interfered with. He had no valuables or cash lying about so he didn’t have to minutely search to see if anything or worth was missing.
Burglars concentrated on easily disposable items such as cash, jewellery and electrical appliances, but Teller had seen that his television set, stereo and typewriter were still where they should be. Tossing his bag into the adjoining bathroom he cursed his forgetfulness and reminded himself for the hundredth time to be more careful in securing the flat whenever he left it.
Quickly undressing he stepped under the shower and turned on the water as full as it would go. The stream hit him on the chest and he gasped at its force and coldness turning in a circular motion to spread the chill. He lathered briskly and shampooed his hair and then stood still and scraped the suds from his body with his hands, no longer bothered by the cold water.
Afterwards in pyjama shorts only he moved back to the sitting room and switched on the television. He stood smoking a cigarette and watched the last ten minutes of the news bulletin, but when Freddie the TVB weather cartoon character looked up at the dark cloud and great blobs of rain fell on his head, Teller sighed and walked to the kitchen. It was going to be another wet day tomorrow and he reminded himself to lock every window and door this time as he did not want a repeat of the flooding he suffered with the storm.
He was about to open the refrigerator when the telephone rang. He moved back to the sitting room but when he picked it up there was no sound on the other end.
“Hello,” he said. “Hello?” There was a click followed by a buzz.
Dropping the receiver back on the cradle he swore. “Bloody idiot.” It was one of the thoughtless habits of local people, that when they dialled a wrong number they offered no apology. They simply hung up and often rang the same number again.
Teller stayed beside the phone and waited. Nothing happened.
He had reached the doorway to the kitchen when the phone rang again. He crossed the floor and snatched up the receiver. “Hello,” said impatiently. “Wei?Wei?”
“Mr Teller?” the voice, a man’s, was low.
“Yes.”
“Is that Jason Teller?”
“Yes. Who is this?”
There was a period of silence and Teller said again: “Hello? Who is it?”
There was a click and phone went dead.
Teller angrily crashed the phone down. What the hell is going on, he said under his breath. First his phone rings and no-one speaks. Then it rings again and a man asks his name before hanging up. His initial reaction was that somebody was playing a joke, but he changed his mind quickly. His second thought was worrying. Somebody was checking his address, or more likely to see if he was at home. Why? Could ne now expect a visitor? Who and for what? He was uneasy, and remained near the telephone almost hoping it would ring a third time so he could ask these questions directly. But the phone sat on the table silent and finally he left it to go into the kitchen and prepare himself some food and a drink.
As he sat watching the television later he was distracted and had one ear tuned to the next room expecting to be interrupted by the mysterious caller again. He wasn’t though, and at ten thirty he dozed off in the middle of a rerun film.
Half way down Happy View Terrace a number of vehicles were parked on the narrow sidewalk. Snug behind a gleaming yellow Datsun 280Z, at the rear of the queue, was a dull green van. The off side front tyre was deflated and one of the headlights was smashed, the broken shards of glass swept against the stone wall. There were no markings on the side and it stood in darkness, yet in the gloom lit faintly by a street lamp further up the road, passersby would be able to see its colour. It had obviously been abandoned as unsafe to drive at night.
The back of the van was not empty though. Along a shelf welded to the side, resting on thick rubber padding, was an array of instruments that would have been familiar to any experienced telephone technician. In the middle was a large open reel tape recorder, the reels still. Sitting on a box, again encased in rubber and welded to the floor of the van, a single Chinese man was speaking softly into a cordless instrument held to the side of his face.
“Nothing more,” he whispered in clear, precisely pronounced English. “No.” A pause. “Only the call at eight twenty-five when there was no conversation. Then at eight twenty-seven when the caller asked his name.” Again there was a pause. “Yes. It was a CM. Well educated, but Chinese. No, I couldn’t. Yes, twenty-four hours. Yes.”
The man placed the high voltage portable telephone on the padded shelf in front of him and adjusted the grey plug in his left ear. He checked a knob on the recorder and picked up the novel he had been reading. Two windows at the rear of the van were sealed with thick black rubber and light inside was dim, but it was enough for the listener to read by.
Outside the street was quiet, the only noise being the steady hum of traffic passing along Link Road and the distant clatter of mahjong pieces being shuffled around a board in one of the high-rise apartments where Broadwood Road and Link Road met.
At eleven thirty Teller stirred in his chair and opened his eyes to see blurry white film credits rolling up the screen as the soundtrack, full of base notes and rolling drums told him that the old drama had ended with some of the mystery unexplained.
After drowsily carrying out his ablutions he checked the windows were locked, switched on the air-conditioner in the bedroom and slumped onto the bed. He lay motionless feeling the muscles in his thighs tense and relax in slight spasms, and listening to the methodical whirring of the machine in the wall above the windows. He was a heavy sleeper and the air-conditioner would not disturb him. The only thing that would wake him would be a sudden sharp noise, a break in the regular monotonous humming.
The karate training had tired hum and the awkward sleep on the chair had left him with a crick in his neck. Rolling onto his side he bent his knees and tucked them under the sheet, pulling it up over his shoulders. As he then straightened his legs they brushed against something bulky at the foot of the bed and he tried to push it onto one side. It was soft and smooth but for some reason it seemed to stick to his foot and even though he kicked with his heel it refused to budge.
“Damn,” he cursed and flicked on the bedside lamp, throwing the sheet back as he did so. What he saw made him leap out of bed with a stifled scream.
On the under-sheet, partly covered by the sheet above, was a dead cat, its paws extended straight out with rigamortis setting in, the head limp on the neck but thrust back so that the teeth were bared beneath the closed eyes, and with congealed blood stuck to its nostrils and jaw.
As he stared at the animal the telephone in the dining room sounded shrilly and Teller rushed in and grabbed it, almost shouting. “Hello, yes?”
The voice at the other end, a man’s, whispered: “Mr Jason Teller?”
“Yes,” he said loudly, still in shock. “Who is this?”
“You were warned Mr Teller,” said the voice. “Now you must pay the price of failing to heed that warning.”
“What? Who are you? What are you talking about?” Teller looked around the room as though he expected to see his caller standing by the table or crouching in a corner. His mind was still riveted on the dead animal in his bed.
The voice continued low but the words were clear. “You have become a necessity Mr Teller. Do you understand? It is now necessary to deal with you also.”
Teller’s brain was almost exploding. He was totally alert and he comprehended immediately what the caller was saying. There was a silence and as he was about to speak the man’s voice said quietly: “Goodbye Mr Teller. Enjoy your sleeping partner.”
Teller stood holding the phone in his hand as a buzzing sound emitted from it. Terror crept upon him, an alien threatening feeling that brought a solid lump to the pit of his stomach and a narrowing of the throat as if a pair of strong hands was already squeezing the passage closed. His heart pumped and he could feel the blood coursing upwards and gushing into his brain, flooding it temporarily and creating a momentary dizziness. His breathing became harsh and for more than a minute he stood without moving, the telephone still clasped firmly in his fist.
As Teller stood alone on the darkness the man in the back of the unmarked van two hundred meters down the street picked up the portable telephone from the shelf and carefully punched in five numbers. When the voice answered at the other end, almost immediately, he spoke softly into the rate at his mouth. “The subject has made contact. At eleven thirty-three. The message is terminal.”
He listened intently and then replied: “Understood. Right.” He returned the instrument to the shelf and returned to his novel, but his eyes lifted every thirty seconds or so to glance at the recorder and the light in the bottom left hand corner which was once more unblinking.
While he would not observe it, he knew that shortly there would be activity in the area as operatives quietly moved into place to watch the flat of Jason Teller, keenly alert to any and everyone who approached. He knew, like the British journalist undoubtedly did, that death was in the air.