Chapter Nine
Martin Lee had been attacked.
It was at another public forum that the outspoken Legislative Councillor was expounding on the need for a directly elected representative government, starting in 1988. At one point in his speech he referred to the Beijing-run New China News Agency. A heckler took umbrage at some perceived slur and began shouting loudly at the councillor, at the same time advancing in the stage in a threatening manner. He had to be hauled away by workers and police, screaming abuse and waving his fist angrily in the air.
Fortunately it was an attempted assault that caused Lee no physical injury, though he was lucky to escape unscathed. So the result was that the councillor was not bodily harmed in spite of the impression given by the next morning’s misleading newspaper headlines which took considerable journalistic licence and after the forum he was smiling. The widely reported outburst would actually benefit those who supported Lee’s stance; the democrats would not bow to violence but would continue to voice rational arguments and let the public judge for themselves.
The lawyer had been very busy on the Sunday and the forum was not his only public appearance. He had also spent long hours visiting mass transit railway stations, actively backing a coalition of pressure groups seeking the same political reforms by carrying out a territory-wide signature campaign. Their target was one hundred thousand signatures which they hoped to collect over two consecutive Sundays. But their sights had clearly been set too short. On the first day alone, the exact number they recorded was a stunning one hundred and twenty-eight thousand, eight hundred and twenty-four. The response was indicative of how the pendulum of public interest had once again swung back from the momentarily stationary position. For a week or more the situation had been static in that repetition, boredom and the feeling that everything that could be said on the issue had been said, had set in. But suddenly the matter was back in the news and the speakers for both sides were once again out in force. The recess was apparently over and with three weeks to go in the consultation period the pace was picking up.
Martin Lee and his colleagues, principally Desmond Lee and Conrad Lam, were still repeating their points with gusto, while the spokesmen for the communists were coming out too, ably led by Beijing’s chief local representative. The latest, but unsubstantiated, reports of their activities maintained that employees of the Bank of China and the numerous China Products department stores had all been advised to oppose direct elections, or face dismissal at least.
Although the verbal battles in the public arena were creating a scene of heated debate, for its part the government refused to involve itself. The constant response to agile reporters trying to draw their colours was that it would honestly, fairly and dispassionately evaluate the written views passed to the Survey Office before the first of October. Quietly, while senior officials were somewhat anxiously watching the embers rekindled into flames, they were also delighted at the extent of the comment. With the resurgence of interest the figures had swollen surprisingly. The Survey Office was able to issue a routine statement to the effect that more than nineteen thousand submissions had so far been received.
“It’s fantastic,” enthused Roger Gould. “Out estimates were way off for this point in time.” This had drawn a frown from James Wong who did not like being proved wrong, and certainly did not welcome being told so bluntly and in front of the Chief Secretary.
“Yes,” he said coldly.
“How could we have misjudged the situation so badly?” persisted the Political Advisor. “We weren’t just out, we were out of the ballpark.”
When there was no immediate answer he unwisely went on: “What do we telegramme HMG now? We got it wrong? We cocked it up? What else have we missed?” Gould was enjoying his role.
“Look,” said Wong suddenly. “The problem with gazing into a crystal ball is that you run the risk of eating ground glass at the end of the day.” His eyes cut into Gould, cold, hard. “Right now I’m choking on it. Let’s leave it at that shall we and put our twenty-twenty hindsight behind us? We should now be re-evaluating our position to see where we go from here.”
Gould returned the Chinese assistant’s gaze. “Of course,” he said. “You’re absolutely right of course James. We must not dwell on our mistakes. We must forge ahead. Where do we go from here?”
His face showed concern, even something akin to sympathy, but his words pierced deep as they were intended, and he concealed the pleasure he derived from witnessing the suppressed anger well in the Chinese sitting across the table. Seemingly reluctant, he turned away from James Wong and looked at Robert McNamara, his brow knitted and his jaw set.
The Chief Secretary was furious. He had not intervened in the exchange for a number of reasons, though he was saddened that it had taken place. He wanted to see Gould in his true colours and he was interested to see how James Wong would acquit himself. He had not expected however the depth of feelings the two men harboured. He had misjudged the incident and it angered it.
Another reason he had not halted the exchange was because he had been pondering the radically changing situation concerning the Green Paper. It was still severely criticised as being either too verbose or not specific enough in its proposals, biased or evasive, or simply a useless document that said nothing worthwhile because the administrations in London and Hong Kong had no intention of doing anything whatever the outcome of the consultation.
Simultaneously, the cadres representing those to the north referred to a conspiracy between Her Majesty’s Government and the Hong Kong Government, explicitly reasoning that the intention was to grant direct elections and therefore manoeuvres were being carried out to ensure the desired results. No wonder the community generally were confused and that the polls commissioned privately fluctuated wildly. The results were stupefying. Only the last week one poll ordered by five newspapers returned the verdict that more than sixty-two per cent of the people it asked supported universal suffrage the following year. The day before another similar professional sampling had suggested only forty-nine per cent of the respondents favoured direct elections in 1988.
What was one to believe? As McNamara told himself – a sensible politician only believes the final poll. Nevertheless, he was concerned and feared that the confusion might inflame the already unsettled climate.
There had been a few controlled calls for caution and commonsense. The Omelco in-house meeting had issued a statement asking the public not to become too heated in the debate following a previous incident in Victoria Park, and the government had followed this up with a one sentence comment affirming its hope for reasoned discourse. But the Martin Lee incident had raised concern once more. The situation must not be allowed to degenerate further.
Robert McNamara was considering these thoughts when he heard his name being spoken.
“Robert,” Gould was saying. “What do we do now?”
The Chief Secretary looked at the two men seated on either side of him. “We forget our personal feelings right now,” he said. “We all have them, but we are not in this for ourselves. We have a larger constituency than that and we must put our minds to meeting that larger responsibility. So we come back to the question you raised - where do we go from here?” McNamara continued rhetorically: “We continue to count the letters. We continue to monitor events closely.”
The others remained silent. He added: “We have the numbers already. The ratio looks good. And we have until the end of the month. That’s what we tell London. The signs are positive.”
“Absolutely,” nodded the Political Advisor. “They’re definitely encouraging.”
Without acknowledging the remark McNamara turned to his assistant. “What about the names for our poll? Is everything alright there?”
“It would seem so,” replied Wong. “I think the original problem has been sorted out. There will be no manipulation either way.”
Gould’s mouth opened but a harsh look from the Chief Secretary and he closed it without uttering a word.
“Thank you,” McNamara said. “That’s all for now.”
After the others had left the Chief Secretary walked down the corridor’s beige carpet and up the two flights of bare concrete steps to the sixth floor where he knocked lightly on the door of an office and hesitated for a moment before entering. Inside, behind his usual cleared desk, Old Jack sat staring straight ahead. He nodded to the older man and seated himself in the empty chair with his back to the door, ready to be brought up to date on developments, if there were any. He was particularly interested to hear if there had been further contact.
The accountant recounted once again the sequence of events since the publication of the second article. Immediately an operative had been assigned to Teller reporting to him personally every four hours, or as and when necessary. So far the four-hourly intervals had been all that was required as the journalist had not departed greatly from his usual routine. However, it had been a little different when Teller visited the South China Athletic Association for his karate training. The dojo was secluded down in the basement but exposed for the operative who had to spend two hours seemingly engrossed in the practice sessions of the young ping-pong players in the hall next door, and then again when Teller’s friend drove him home.
While this watch was doing his covert job a technician had been dispatched to the Happy View Terrace flat. Once inside Teller’s flat he inserted the device, not touching anything else as instructed, and left. He had taken only four minutes to complete the task.
On the way down the steep and rather narrow street the technician stopped near the dull green van and cupped his hands to light a cigarette. As he flicked the match away his knuckles rapped the metal side, and he paused before continuing onto the corner where he hailed a passing taxi. Anyone who might have observed the man would not have thought his manner or actions warranted undue attention.
Inside the van the third operative had already verified that the bug was in place. He settled himself as comfortably as he could, long experience teaching him not to sit hunched with his weight on his spine, and waited for the yellow light to flicker and the reels to automatically silently roll.
“And the others,” asked the Chief Secretary.
“They’ve been in place since the initial contact,” the white haired man replied. “It was sufficient to move, in my judgement.”
“Quite,” said McNamara.
“Front and back,” the accountant explained. “Our man at front is a replacement guard for the block opposite. The regular had a sudden windfall and is in Macao trying his luck at the tables. Our rear man is not so comfortable. He shares the hillside with the dogs and the mosquitoes above the cottage industry huts. But he has a good view of the back of the building.”
“Is two enough?” asked McNamara.
“Yes. Others would be wasted.” The accountant’s eyes narrowed and he wiped them with his fingers roughly. He was tiered. “Also, I don’t want to bring in more than necessary. There are already more than I would have liked.”
The Chief Secretary repeated his brief response. “Quite.” Then: “And there’s no indication as to what our suspect meant with his remark?”
The accountant stood up but did not move away from the table. He stood with his hands thrust into the pockets of his grey trousers. After a moment’s thought he said: “None at all. It could mean anything. Or nothing. Until we get more we could only guess and I don’t think guesswork would lead us anywhere at this critical point in time.”
“You’re probably right,” McNamara watched his friend closely. He was showing his age and while the Chief Secretary did not doubt his wisdom or his energy the thought crossed his mind that when this was all over he should raise the question of retirement again. He was almost certain what the response would be and he dreaded the possibility that he may well have to over-rule the older man’s objections to finally bowing out. Where did old colonial civil servants of his ilk go? Wherever it was they often went there to die. Devon, the Algarve and diverse but closely knit areas of Spain were some of the common graveyards for retired officers, and McNamara could almost visualise the accountant sitting out his last days in the sun or making his daily pilgrimage to the local pub. It saddened him to imagine Old Jack ending his days in such remote idleness. The climate would not kill him. He, like so many others, would simply waste away, the fire would burn itself out, the gleam would become a cloud in the eyes, the brain would propel itself in constant fury against the immovable wall of inactivity, until finally, the body and the heart of the man would sigh and pass on.
It was the lack of purpose that killed so many. The quiet, peace and unburdened tranquillity of retirement that was supposed to be the ultimate aim was the medicinal dose that however well intentionally meted out proved fatal.
The Chief Secretary had seen it many times. Police officers, administrative officers, judges and others spent much of their lives in the hub of hectic Hong Kong life. They were in the forefront of the human force that went into making the vibrant and complex society what it was. Clichés describing the territory abounded – the city that never sleeps, the city that would be wonderful when it was finished, the largest construction site in the world, the sprinter in the marathon, the only society where the work ethic is a way of life. They were all accurate. If, as someone once said, Australia was the Brisbane of the world, then Hong Kong was a place where one might get tired and frustrated and bruised by the never ending pace. It was the future metropolis of the world. But one never got bored. The boredom set in only when one left Hong Kong. That was the killer.
Long-time resident expatriates knew it too. Visitors came, played and went with their souvenirs telling friends back home what an exciting holiday it had been, though they could never live there. Locals saw them off and then looked forward to their own vacations. When they returned they anxiously searched for the lights of Hong Kong as they sat in the crowded aircrafts arriving back from Disneyland or Paris or Toronto or London. Unlike the tourists their memories were short and life picked up almost immediately where it had left off weeks before. The next tour of duty began seldom with thoughts of retirement or the home country.
That is what Hong Kong did to a person. It drove one to madness for the first six months, fastened its grip after two years, and steadfastly refused to let go after five. You either got out at about forty so you could start over somewhere else, or you stayed the duration. In that sense the colonial attitude persisted even if the reasons were not exactly the same.
Old Jack was one who had decided early in his career that Hong Kong was where he wanted to spend his life and if he had ever considered discussing it in detail with the Chief Secretary, which he had not, he would have told how the thought of retiring to Portugal or Lancashire or anywhere else filled him with horror. Robert McNamara had formed this opinion nevertheless and did not need to hear it from the older man’s lips. His lifestyle was enough of an explanation.
So, as he observed him now, he could not escape the self criticism that when the time came, in the not too distant future, he would be putting his signature to a document that would in all probability assign a date with death that was for now being held at bay.
Yet more immediate was the fact that death was stalking other prey and that those charged with preventing it were at present hobbled by ignorance. Lack of information had placed them in the position of observers rather than active players and the inability to control developments was galling to say the least, particularly as the stakes were so high.
Without moving from his chair and still with his eyes fixed on the accountant standing before him, the Chief Secretary mused resignedly: “We’re still waiting for someone else to move. And we can’t do a damn thing about it.”
The accountant averted his gaze and resumed his seat. Looking up he said quietly: “Perhaps we should bait a trap to bring the killer out of the bushes.”
“What do you mean?” asked McNamara sitting upright.
“We might be able to set something in motion that might draw our man out.” The accountant was not so much putting forward a definite proposal as thinking aloud.
“Go on,” said McNamara, now leaning his elbows on the edge of the table.
“I don’t know,” the accountant said, retreating a little. “I am just thinking it through now, but we may be able to stir him into action.”
“What sort of bait do you suggest?”
“Human.” The accountant’s features were fixed and the Chief Secretary could almost see his brain switch into a higher gear as the idea began to crystallise.
“You’re thinking of Jason Teller, aren’t you?” he said. “There is no-one else. It would have to be him.”
The accountant once more stood up and moved away from the desk in ponderous strides. He leaned against the wall, chewing at a knuckle and when he spoke his voice carried a tone of anticipation tainted by apprehension. “It would have to be good,” he said. “It would have to be something that would push him into doing something.”
McNamara sounded calm, measured, when he spoke. “Something like ….” The words trailed off and the sentence was unfinished. When he spoke again his voice was low, almost a whisper. “You know of course if it succeeded and we failed …. you know it would go very badly for us. Christ, what am I saying? It would be immeasurably worse for Teller.”
“If we failed from our side,” said the accountant, “we would be in an even more dangerous situation than we are now. Our only link, one that is already so tenuous it could snap at any moment, would disappear. I doubt our chances if that happened.”
The Chief Secretary laughed without humour. “Ironic isn’t it.” He said. “The one person who screwed us up at the beginning is now the one person we might have to rely on.”
The two men sat in silence, their individual brains weighing and discounting moves and counter moves like pieces on a chessboard. The difference was that the pieces in play were men of flesh and blood and if they made a wrong move the blood that would flow would be real. The potential risks were very high indeed.
“I’d like to think on if you don’t mind,” broke in the accountant.
“Do that,” said McNamara. “I will too. We can get together shortly to see if we can come up with something feasible.”
At the door he stopped and faced the accountant. “Of course,” he said, “if it is decided to go ahead, along this path, Teller would not be told would he?”
“No,” replied the accountant evenly. “No, he would be blind bait.”
As the door closed, locking him once more in his solitary confinement, the vertical cracks on the accountant’s face deepened and he pictured a scene from an old movie where a village calf was tethered to a tree in the jungle to bring out the leopard. The scene that disturbed him was not where the leopard was shot dead by the white hunter. Rather it was the calf lying still on the ground, the price paid for the trophy.
*
Jason Teller had no doubts he was a marked man. The caller was the killer and his reference to his becoming a “necessity” was crystal clear in its meaning. Amelia Tse and Michael Wong had both been necessities, their murders something that had to be carried out if his intentions were to be realised. Apparently Teller had gone too far with his exposes and the murderer now planned his death also.
At first the idea left him chilled and numb, not filled with a fear that brought on panic. He had stood holding the telephone by his side for more than a minute and a half after the caller had rung off, alone in his flat with the dim glow from his bedroom illuminated only by the single bedside lamp. The furniture and the other items in the dining room were distant black shapes standing like sentries silently observing his reaction, and through the window he could see across the roof-garden of the building next door to the Jardines Lookout hills on the other side of the overgrown valley. The moonlight picked out the trees, the taller one swaying in the breeze that had already picked up in anticipation of the rains which were forecast to arrive the next day.
It was some time before the utter silence was interrupted by his heart’s accelerated pounding and the humming that began in his temples. It was then that panic introduced itself and Teller expressed his thoughts. No sound came, but his lips pronounced the words: “He’s going to kill me,” he mouthed. “He’s really going to kill me.”
It was a conclusion that came instantly with no question mark, no wavering, no possible doubt. It could have been no more specific if the man had told him: “Jason Teller, I am going to plan your death and then I am going to let nothing prevent me from carrying it out. I am going to murder you Jason Teller, and I want you to know I am going to do it.”
He had made it his business to find out his telephone number and where he lived. God, he had even been inside the flat and left a macabre sign as proof of his own identity and intention.
Teller’s eyes darted around the room. He dropped the receiver back on its stand and went from room to room switching on every light as if by banishing the darkness he would be banishing the horrific certainty of his slaughter. The word seemed the most appropriate when he thought of Wong and Tse and the dead animal in his bed. They were to him, so senseless and premeditated and methodical that other descriptions were inadequate. He was going to die at the hands of some maniac for something he did not even understand.
What the hell was going on? What could be so serious to warrant the killing of the journalist and the surgeon? Were they really so radical in their philosophies and were they really planning something so dreadful, so politically catastrophic that they had to be slain? What, too, had he done that was so awful as to necessitate his death? He was not part of any mysterious plot. He did not know what the plot was. His articles had been anything but definitive. They were quizzical. Particularly the last one, and yet it appears the second story was the one that had sealed his death warrant. What had he written that he must die for?
Of course deep down inside he knew. He had drawn attention to something he should have left alone. Now it was out in the open. Now the killer had new problems. Now he had to make sure no more problems were put in his path. Now Teller had to be removed.
He found the copy of the newspaper in the kitchen. But before he turned to the pages he removed the dead animal from the bed and dropped it into the rubbish bin under the sink. Later he would take it outside and dispose of it. He turned the pages to where his article was prominently displayed. He read it through carefully, noting in a pad the points which could, just could, he significant. Significant enough to justify his murder by a madman.
There were few he could ascertain as having some remote bearing or reason
for the man to be now hunting him. The fact Wong and Tse believed passionately in Hong Kong people’s freedom. But that demanded the killer be passionately anti-political advancement. The fact they wanted directly elected seats in the Legislative Council next year. Ditto. Assuming the killer opposed that wish, was it of sufficient importance to justify murder? Also, if it was the reason the killer would have to murder many others of far greater public significance. In that sense, he Teller, was insignificant.
If the murderer held the same views as his victims there was no reason to kill. So perhaps the murders were indeed actually the acts of an ordinary criminal, albeit mentally deranged as the authorities now maintained. But that did not wash with Teller either. Why the fear expressed by Amelia Tse that something had gone terribly wrong, why the threats of the government, why the pronouncement on his own life? Why, why, why?
“Why should I die?” Teller asked aloud and slumped into a chair exhausted. He covered his eyes with his hands and tried to blot everything from his mind, knowing as he did so the futility of the attempt.
He was still sitting in the chair, his thoughts racing in many different directions, when the first morning light brushed against the window. During the hours he sat pondering the questions that plagued him, Teller had formulated a tentative plan. His first decision was that if the madman was going to try to kill him, he was going make very sure that act was as difficult as possible to execute. Even though he was frightened he was going to fight back. Or perhaps it was because he frightened. He quickly realised that any arsenal he might draw from was very limited, and that realistically he could depend on no-one but himself. His intention, therefore, was to use the only weapon he could rely on and exert some control over. The printed word. Effectively used, he figured, he might be able to do something which could end up with the killer being caught. This of course depended on others being in a position to do the catching.
Teller had no doubt his actions were being monitored and it would not surprise him if he was even being watched. If not, he would have to make sure he was. But while he planned to fight, he did not intend exposing himself stupidly, making a target of himself that could be hit easily. Not yet anyway. This required the co-operation of a number of people, and he had no idea whether all, or any, would go along with him. He only knew he had to try, otherwise he would very likely end up dead.
At eight thirty he called the South China Morning Post main office number. Harvey Davidson would be in the office already he knew, and he was a key player in the dangerous game he wanted played out.
Davidson took his call when it as put through and with his usual morning bad temper began his sarcastic comments. He did not even ask the purpose of the call. Teller let him continue until he either drew breath or paused to put flame to the pipe which Teller knew would be already warm with its first bowl of sweet cherry Cavendish mixture smouldering. Without regard to any interruptions from the editor he explained his purpose. Davidson listened on the other end of the telephone and when Teller had finished talking there was a moment of silence.
Then he said: “You are a fucking nuisance Teller, you know that? Why can’t you just settle for ordinary stories that earn ordinary denials. Why do you have to go and excite some maniac into wanting to kill you? Did you really find a dead cat in your bed last night? Or are you trying to piss me off with some Godfather crap?””
“Yes,” said Teller. “And he really did tell me he’s going to kill me. So are you going to help or not?”
Davidson’s laugh was loud. “Don’t be an ass Teller. Of course I’ll take your copy. And if it’s OK I’ll run with it. Christ, it’s got to be better than excerpts from Spycatcher, even if we could use that too, which we can’t. We’ll get up over the one hundred thousand if we play it right.”
In spite of himself, Teller smiled. His prediction had been correct. “You’re a genuine bastard,” he said. “It’s the circulation that interests you. You don’t give a damn that I could end up with my throat slit. So long as you sell papers. Jesus, if I get bumped off it will probably make your day.”
“It would be good,” said Davidson. “But please, stay alive for a while. The longer we can run with it the better.”
“I believe you’re serious,” said Teller. He did, but he knew too that the editor was morbidly toying with him. “Well, just out of spite I might survive, and might just succeed in preventing this whole mess from getting any worse.”
“Yes,” said Davidson. “That wouldn’t be too bad either. It would make the paper look really good actually, and wouldn’t do you and me any harm along the way.”
“Bastard,” repeated Teller.
Fifteen minutes later, with arrangements made, he rang off, satisfied the first step in his plan had been accomplished. The next step was vital, but he was confident it would not be too difficult to fix. Just before ten o’clock he dialled the number of the accountant. The phone gave only a single ring before it was picked up and Teller recognised the rather urgent “Hello.”
“It’s me, Jason,” said Teller and hurried on, not allowing the accountant to say anything more. “You may know. or you might not, it doesn’t matter, but the killer has contacted me and I am to be his next victim. He has been in my flat and left a calling card that confirms he is who he says. There was a dead cat in my bed last night. So let’s have no more games shall we? And please, no Godfather references.”
“Are you alright Jason?” was all the accountant asked.
“Yes, I’m alright, no thanks to you or anyone else.” Teller did not want to lose the initiative. He quickly continued. “And I am not going to take this lying down. From now on, every day, the Post is going to publish a front page piece, by me, reporting on this thing. I’m going to tell readers everything that happens. I am going to keep up a running commentary. I’m going to force you people to do something to put a stop to whatever is supposed to happen. Every day for the next three or four weeks, or however long it takes, we’re going to play this thing up.”
“Jason…”the accountant interrupted.
“No more,” cut in Teller abruptly. “I’m not going to drop the story and I’m not going to offer myself on a plate. I’m going to do something. I’m just warning you. So you and your high-powered friends had better do something too, or you’ll have another dead journalist to answer for.” He didn’t wait for a response before cutting the connection with his finger. Slowly he put