Chapter Eleven
Just before lunch hour on Tuesday September 22 the Secretary General of Omelco received his copy of a confidential telegram from the Foreign and Commonwealth Office in London. He read it quickly, distractedly and initialled it before tossing it into the brown plastic tray on the corner of his rather elaborate desk. Then he bent his head again and listened intently to the transistor radio in front of him which blurted out a flurry of Cantonese. As he listened, a frown deepening and clouding his features, he knew the issue of political reform would be the furthest thing from people’s minds for that day at least, and most likely for some time after.
The one o’clock news bulletin was almost entirely devoted to a single item. The stock market was crashing. A massive two hundred and twenty-one points, almost ten per cent, had been swept from the financial counter board. The Hang Seng Index had plunged and was continuing down as gamblers bailed out in panic reaction to the dramatic early fall.
Like many others the Secretary General had predicted that when the markets opened on the morning the bears would outnumber the bulls and the soaring graph would halt and dip. After all, the trend had begun in New York on the Friday before and there was little doubt it would be mirrored in other financial centres. Added to this was the weekend news from the Gulf that United States warships had attacked and destroyed an Iranian oil platform resulting in an outburst from Iran that America was now involved in a full scale war. Analysts, professional and otherwise, knew immediately that western stock markets would react sharply while gold prices would shoot up. But they had not been prepared for the magnitude of the fall, and early in the day the frenzy of selling started.
Sydney was the first. Brokers were hit by a record fall of more than eight points on the All Ordinaries Index that had been perched at just over two thousand. Tokyo followed as small and large investor alike pulled out their cash, sending the Stock Exchange index down as an estimated six hundred million shares changed hands. Then it was Hong Kong’s turn as within seconds of the market opening its doors for business the scream went up to sell everything. By the time the Secretary General sat listening to the radio news more than thirty billion Hong Kong dollars had been wiped off the value of the territory’s shares. If it continued for the rest of the day the crash would be the biggest on record.
In London, those officials who had dictated the political telegram to Hong Kong would still be ignorant of the full extent of the catastrophe that was about to strike them. When they awoke they would find British brokers bracing themselves.
Wall Street would then, ironically, reel under the effects of the decline of the other European and Asian markets. The action they had triggered would come rushing back at them. For the rest of Tuesday September 22 moneymen around the world shook as the tremors grew into a monumental earthquake.
By the morning of Wednesday the devastation was clear. Sydney had lost twenty-five per cent or a whopping five hundred and fifteen points. Tokyo was continuing down, having already lost an incredible fifteen per cent of its share value. Hong Kong markets failed to open after an emergency early morning meeting, a decision fully backed by the cautious government administration. London had had nearly forty-five billion pounds knocked off share values, more than ten per cent of the market. Three hundred points had been wiped off the Dow Jones Industrial Average on Wall Street sending it below the key level of two thousands.
The sell off was equal to more than thirteen per cent. worse than the percentage drop on October 28 1929 in the Great Depression.
It had been twenty-four hours of chaos in all the western world’s financial centres. When Jason Teller managed to reach his editor in the middle of the morning, he was put in his rightful place in no uncertain terms.
“Get off the line Teller,” bawled Davidson. “I do not give a damn about you or your conspiracy at the moment. Nobody does. Don’t you listen to the news any more? There’s trouble in the real world.”
Teller was about to put down the receiver without arguing as he fully understood Davidson’s position when the editor continued: “I’ve lost my bonuses for the nest three years because of this fiasco. Bloody stock markets. You must be the only one in Hong Kong not to care. You and your killer. He doesn’t care either. Rang yesterday. Claimed he wanted you to call him. Can you believe that? With the world crashing around our heads he wants to have a chat. Shit.”
Teller actually laughed. “Right. I can believe that. Glad you are keeping your sense of humour amid the turmoil.”
“Listen Teller. That guy did call. Or at least someone pretending to be him did. Naturally it could very well have been some fucking loony getting his kicks. Probably was.”
“Did he actually give you a number?”
Davidson fumbled papers on his desk and then read it out. Teller said: “Doesn’t he know we could give this to the police?”
“Christ Teller,” Davidson shouted. “Ask him. I don’t know anything any more.” He rang off. Teller sat quietly and stared at the telephone before him. He picked up the half eaten piece of toast on the plate to one side and nibbled at it pensively. The idea of passing the information to the authorities appealed to him. It could help put an end to the whole business and he would be able to get back to some sort of normal life, no longer having to hide away like a fugitive. It made sense. It was the right thing to do. For the past three days he had been confined to Brigit’s flat, not venturing outside. The days were long and while he continued to write his daily column it had rapidly gone stale as he had nothing new to say. Consequently it had, not surprisingly, been pushed inside and this was something he readily accepted. Another few days and he knew he would have very little argument against it being dropped altogether.
If he was honest with himself he would have to admit that such a move would not entirely displease hum. He was becoming bored and was anxious to gain his release from the temporary imprisonment.
He had begun to find some enjoyment in the daily children’s programmes and soap operas on television, and looked forward to the middle of the afternoon when he could begin preparing his ever more daring meals. He was becoming a house husband without the official commitment, and it bothered him that he seemed to be enjoying the role so much.
Dropping the crust back on the plate Teller dialled the number of the accountant and listened as the pips sounded, followed by the buzzing pulses as the instrument waited to be picked up at the other end. He let it ring for thirty seconds and then replaced the receiver. Checking his notebook he dialled the Central police station and asked the officer who answered to put him through to the Chinese superintendent handling the murder enquiry. He was not in, he was told. Would be like to leave a message or speak to another officer? Never mind, he said, and hung up.
Another minute passed and Teller picked up the phone again. Slowly he dialled the Kowloon number he had scribbled down from Davidson. Almost immediately it was answered and a harsh Chinese female voice demanded: “Wei? Wei? Wei bin wei?”
“Hello,” he said. “Wei. My name is Teller. Is there someone who…..”
“Wei? Wei? Wei?” the woman’s voice was louder and more impatient.
“Teller,! he repeated, also louder and very slowly. “Teller. I think there might be…..”
He stopped talking as the woman babbled in the background and he caught the words “gwai lo” and “din wah”. She was calling out that a European was on the telephone. Calmly he waited to see if someone else would come on the line.
He did not have to wait long. A familiar man’s voice spoke. “Yes,” he said. “Who’s calling?”
“It’s Teller,” he replied, involuntarily catching his breath. “Jason Teller.”
“Hello Mr Teller.” The man sounded relaxed, confident, pleased. “You received my message. That’s good.”
Teller paused. “What do you want,” he asked. “How do you know I haven’t given the police this number and that they’re outside now?”
“Come now Mr Teller,” the man snickered. “I am not a fool. Even if you had it would be to no avail. As you can probably tell from the noisy background I am not in my own home. Besides, you have not done so. And that is something you can tell me. Why not?”
Teller switched the telephone to his left ear and picked up his pen with his right hand. He did not write on the pad but tapped the page with the point. “What do you want?” he asked simply.
“To talk Mr Teller,” said the man. “I want to talk to you about the things you are saying in your newspaper. You have become very uninteresting you know.”
“I thought you wanted to kill me,” Teller said. “But of course you can’t do that now can you?”
“When I am ready Mr Teller. Be sure of that. It will be in my time. But there is plenty of time. You can’t hide forever. And when you do come out I’ll be waiting.”
“Bullshit,” said Teller. “You’re lying. There is very little time left. You know it and I know it. I think you’re worried.”
There was a light laugh. “I have nothing to be scared of Mr Teller. Certainly not you. Everything is under control.”
Teller gambled: “I would not be too sure if I were you. Your plan for the seventh is already known. They’re closing in on you. And you know it too. So what do you want?”
The line between the two men was silent. Then the man said: “As I say, I want to talk to you Mr Teller.”
“You are.”
“Not on the telephone Mr Teller. This is so unsatisfactory. Let us meet.”
This time Teller laughed. It was a hollow sound, as he intended, more of a snicker. “You are a fool,” he said. “Do you expect me to believe you really want to sit down and talk? To let me actually see you? In a situation where I can arrange police to be watching?”
“You are right Mr Teller,” the reply was even, controlled. “It would be foolish of me wouldn’t it. We shall forget it. You stay in hiding. I’ll do what I have to do and we’ll see what happens. In the meantime Mr Teller I will enjoy my drinks with my friends.” The man continued: “Perhaps I will even tell them about you. Perhaps I will tell them of this gwai lo who is terrified because he knows he is soon to die. They would appreciate that I think. The ladies have been abused by foreigners for many years, some I daresay have been hostesses here since long before you came to Hong Kong. It will amuse them to know that one foreigner is going to be punished. It is our turn now Mr Teller and there is nothing you or anyone else can do about it. Think of your death Mr Teller. Let the fear eat at your insides. And be sure, you are going to die.”
The connection suddenly clicked and began to hum continuously in Teller’s ear. He listened to it and also became aware of his own heavy breathing. There was no other sound, nothing to distract his racing thoughts. The man’s words were relaying back and forth in his brain and he had to shake his head to bring them to a stop.
“Damn,” he said under his breath. And then aloud: “Damn.”
He had indeed been foolish. Too smart by half. Why hadn’t he simply agreed to a meeting and then reported it to the police. He might, just might, have been able to stop this whole awful thing. Instead he had tried to outwit, or at least impress, the killer with his own powers of reasoning with the result that now the chance was gone. Not that he believed it had been a genuine chance. No meeting would ever have taken place. It was game that was being played. But that didn’t counter his own stupidity.
He brooded for five minutes and pictures formed in his mind as though on a split screen. In one half he sat alone waiting to be executed, defenceless, certain, while in the other a faceless assassin sat laughing and drinking surrounded by women smiling at the thought of his impending death. The women were all old and haggard. Then their features became clearer and he saw a dozen aging bar girls bearing the unmistakable scars of too many nights entertaining sailors, soldiers and foreign businessmen.
The images lingered. Then Teller began searching the shelves along the wall and the drawers in the table with urgent eyes and hands. He got up and went into the kitchen and switched on the light in the small storeroom in the corner. What he wanted lay on a shelf and he carried the bulky telephone directory back to the table in the sitting room. Flicking the pages he held the book open at the page headed RAE-REF and ran his finger down the list of business names.
Almost at the bottom of the column he found the address he sought. Between the Red Lion Inn and the Red Onion Restaurant was the Red Lips Bar. The address was 1A Lock Road and Teller read aloud the telephone number “3-684511”.
At the same time he checked off the number scrawled in black ink on his blue lined note pad. They were the same. The killer had been talking to him from the Red Lips Bar in Tsimshatsui just behind the Hyatt Regency Hotel, a block away from Nathan Road. He knew precisely where he was. His adrenalin spurred imagination which rekindled images of older ladies of the night and a wild shot in the dark had paid off.
Teller slammed the directory shut and smiled for the first time in days. “Not smart enough,” he whispered. “You said too much also Catskinner. Just a little too much.”
*
The accountant was handed a message slip as he strolled through the Finance Branch of the Secretariat. He read it and quickly ascended the two flights of steps to the floor where his own bare office was situated. There he had a telephone call which lasted two minutes after which he called Gail Jones and sought an urgent meeting with the Chief Secretary. Robert McNamara was deeply involved in seeking ways of minimising, or least bringing some level of control to the financial crisis, and as Gail Jones explained, the chances of a meeting on any other matter were remote. However, she knew Old Jack would not have made his request unless the matter was vital.
“He’s due back any minute,” she said. “It if can’t wait you can come down and have a coffee with me here.”
“Black,” the accountant replied. “No sugar. I’m sweet enough as you know lassie.” Ten minutes later they were laughing together when Robert McNamara rushed in.
“Jack,” he greeted the accountant and barked a string of instructions to his assistant. “You have one minute,” he added,. “Sorry, but that’s all I have right now.”
The accountant followed him into his office and spoke quickly as the Chief Secretary perused papers bearing red, green or yellow flagged markers.
“He’s made contact. Asked in fact for a meeting. Teller refused. No more.” He paused briefly. “We had a trace but only managed the area. Tsimshatsui.”
Robert McNamara kept reading but said: “Not much.”
“No,. Not yet. But we’ll have the location soon.”
“How?”
“The phone number,” said the accountant. We are checking the telephone company. Unfortunately it is taking longer than it should.”
“OK,” McNamara continued reading and picked up the grey phone on the shelf behind his desk. “Keep on it Jack. Despite all that is happening now this is important too. It’s just that this thing is more critical at this point.” Sharply he broke off and spoke into the phone. “Sir, the Financial Secretary will make his statement at four o’clock.”
The accountant closed the door quietly and smiled at Gail Jones as she listened to a report from her own junior secretary. “Thanks Gail,” he winked. “Buy on a falling market. But not on a plummeting one.”
*
Teller had been sure some days before that he had not been followed as he made his way circuitously to Brigit’s flat. Nevertheless, he told himself he must not be complacent. If he was to chance his luck and venture out he would be wise to take precautions. Assuming he was being observed he could draw a number of conclusions.
First, the front of the building would be watched and no doubt there would be a fast unmarked car available to the persons or persons stationed outside. The rear exit would also be under surveillance, again with access to suitable transport. Third, and at the moment of most significance, if he was known to be inside the flat the telephone would have been tapped. Given that, the listeners would know where he had placed the call to the Catskinner. Or if not, they very soon would, so if he was going to move he would have to do it swiftly.
Disguise out of the question, Teller merely grabbed a fawn jacket and an umbrella and left the flat. The weather outside was uncertain and the promised cold front from the north had finally arrived. He rode the lift to the first floor where he alighted and walked the remaining flight to the street level. Peering around the corner he surveyed the lobby and the open outside area through the iron grille. There was no-one in sight. Across the passage was the watchman’s room where, in circumstances like now when no guard was actually on duty, a watchman sat and was supposed to monitor a closed circuit television screen.
Teller stepped across the opening and pushed open the door. The watchman was absent, the room empty, with a grey screen perched on the far wall showing an equally empty lobby. For a minute he concentrated on the screen but it remained unchanged with nobody entering. The room had two other doors in addition to the one he had entered through. One led to the back of the building and a narrow alley which fed into Caine Road. The second, unusually, joined an identical room at the rear of the building next door. Both buildings had been purchased by a local shipping company that planned to redevelop them into a single luxury residential block. Until then the management had decided they could share security and the extra door had been put in. When Teller opened it and walked in he disturbed the watchman making himself a cup of tea over a small burner in one corner.
“Tsosan,” he said expansively. “Ahh. Cha. Ho yum ahh?”
The watchman grinned in reply and babbled a string of Cantonese, concluding that Teller must be fluent in the language if he could use a few words.
Teller smiled and responded with the common “ah, ah” grunts and nodded as though he understood the remarks. He followed this with a clear mention of Caine Road in English and headed for the door which led to what he believed would be another narrow lane at the rear of the building.
“No, no,” the watchman shook his head. Opening the door he pointed outside. There was no lane. Instead was a barren construction site fenced in by high hoardings. “No, no,” he repeated and began closing the door. Teller quickly stepped through and scanned the site, noticing a latched gate on the far side in the hoarding.
Tapping his wristwatch and saying “faidee, faidee” to indicate in basic Cantonese that he was in a great hurry he stepped further into the open.
“No. No, no.” called the watchman but Teller backed across the rocky earth calling “No worry. Mgoi nei. Faidee.”
The watchman scowled but watched as Teller ran to the hoarding and unlatched the gate. As he did so he smiled and waved at the watchman who dismissed him with a curt wave of his hand and disappeared back into his room. Teller pulled up the collar of his jacket and opened the umbrella. Holding it in front of him to conceal his face he pulled open the gate and stepped through into Caine Road. He closed it behind him and walked casually away with his head bent. He hoped that from behind or in front he would look like a construction worker or supervisor leaving the site. With his head down and his shoulders hunched his face would not be seen by anyone who may be watching.
A hundred meters further the road veered left and Teller rounded the corner with no haste. There he slipped into a little shop and bought a packet of cigarettes, watching in the direction from which he had just come for any followers. The only people who approached were an amah dressed in a black samfu and a schoolboy kicking an empty coco cola can on the sidewalk. Satisfied he had not been followed Teller hailed a taxi and ordered the driver “Holiday Inn, Nathan Road, Tsimshatsui.”
Settling low in the seat he took no notice as the diesel Datsun sped past the green and red hoarding at the rear of the building adjacent to the one where he had spent the last three days in self imposed captivity. The feeling of freedom was exhilarating and adrenalin began pumping through his veins with renewed vigour.
Behind him a young Chinese, casually dressed in faded denims and plain T shirt slouched in the front of a nondescript cream van with his feet on the dashboard, apparently listening closely to a pocket transistor with the plug in his left ear. He ignored the passing taxi which continued east, threaded its way to the waterfront and settled into the flow of traffic entering the tunnel under the harbour. Once on the mainland the vehicle jostled with other cars, cyclists and lorries for four kilometres before nosing from a side street into busy Nathan Road, the artery of Kowloon’s Tsimshatsui district.
Teller alighted in front of the Holiday Inn Hotel and wound his way through the crowds to the corner in front of the gleaming pillared Sikh mosque. A short block away was Lock Road and Teller rounded the corner and strolled past the shop fronts taking no interest in the products displayed or the Indian touts who tried to tempt him inside with promises of unbeatable bargains.
The Hyatt Regency occupied the left corner at the end of Lock Road. Opposite was a camera shop, a huge book depot, the entrance to the professional Club which, like many other journalists, he had haunted in its heyday as a cheap drinking hole staying open until the early morning hours, and a short narrow land with an old sign hanging precariously outside which advertised in chipped red lettering “Red Lips Bar”.
Teller spied it from some distance but did not cross the road. Instead he leaned casually with his back against the marble wall of an exclusive jade and gold jewellery shop and lit a cigarette. Drawing in the smoke he crossed his arms and concentrated on the human traffic passing the entrance to the lane. Most of the people were tourists and he was fascinated with their eager awareness of their surroundings in an atmosphere he was sure they, on their return home, would describe as Oriental mystique but which he now considered absolutely normal. Some were drawn into doorways to emerge minutely examining and discussing their purchases, more were content to merely watch others spending their dollars or to stare at the pretty girls who seemed to constantly parade along the sidewalk.
Teller knew the girls inside the Red Lips Bar would not attract the same admiring looks. To be precise none of them were girls at all. They were mature women, a number of them very mature indeed. There were literally hundreds of bars in Hong Kong and Kowloon where the hostesses were glamorous and exuded sex appeal. And once the Red Lips Bar had had its share of them. But no longer, because the same girls still graced the interior of the establishment even though they had years ago lost their looks. Now these plain and worn women sat playing cards, watching television or chatting noisily, ignoring the few regular customers who entered to buy beer rather than sexual favours. If a stranger wandered in there would be moment of activity, including the mandatory approach with a proposal, but there was no obvious disappointment at the inevitable rejection. They could easily be bribed to return to their cards with a cigarette each or the occasional bottle of San Miguel beer.
Teller had not been inside the bar for a long time but he could picture the scene. Perhaps the man he sought, the one who had murdered at least two people already so brutally and who had promised to kill him too, was sitting at a table or at the stained bar. He would not go into find out, but he could stand outside and scrutinise anyone who entered or left.
He did not know exactly what he hoped to find out. If the man was there and if he did emerge he would not be wearing a sign saying he was the Catskinner. Even if somehow Teller did suspect anyone, he had not thought about what he would do. He had acted on impulse when he had crossed harbour.
Half an hour later Teller had analysed this impulse and realised he had been foolish. There was nothing he could achieve.
Crushing his fourth cigarette with the toe of his shoe, he straightened and prepared to walk back along the route he had come towards the underground railway station. As he glanced across the road a Chinese man came out of the lane and their eyes met for a second. The man appeared in his thirties and was dressed neatly in slacks and open necked shirt with a light blue jacket reaching below his waist.
Teller blinked and the man stopped. He had a surprised expression on his face but this quickly became a grin and Teller knew instinctively he was recognised and that the Chinese was the killer.
At first Teller did not move. He stared at the man on the opposite sidewalk, seeing nothing but his face, the features clear despite the gap between them. The head was round, almost like a dish, with no blemishes. The forehead was high, the short cropped hair forming a shadowy border, and the small ears pinned back at the sides so that the oval outline remained unbroken. The skin was tight with no jowls on the sides of a hairless chin. The man’s nose was undistinguished as was his mouth with rows of even teeth and the eyes were clear and shone. Teller took all this information in literally in the blink of an eye.
The man stood grinning back, but then the teeth vanished and the shutter closed over the eyes. He turned away and moved off in the direction Teller had intended walking. For five seconds Teller remained motionless, but when the man turned and looked at him again he stepped into the roadway.
Ahead of him the Chinese stopped and stared back. Teller slowed but continued following. Again the Chinese moved on so that he kept twenty-five paces in front. Teller broke into a run, brushing by pedestrians who cursed as he pushed them aside roughly.
Twenty meters from the intersection at the end of the road, when the distance between the two of them was no more than ten paces, the Chinese man wheeled around. Teller called out, foolishly he knew; “Stop!” and kept going, covering the gap quickly. Just as he was about to reach out and grab the man’s shoulders the Chinese moved to the side and Teller crashed into a trolley being pushed by a hawker. He managed to regain his balance somewhat and spun around, automatically with his arms high protecting his head. The blue jacked was in front of him and he felt a pain in his left forearm as something struck him with force. He twisted sideways and rolled with the blow, clawing with his hands at the flaying arms of the attacker. Another shock of pain burned into his arm but he thrust forward and closed his arms around the man’s shoulders. They fell to the concrete and as he landed pain shot through his whole arm and Teller cried out.
The two men grappled on the sidewalk with the Chinese on top and Teller felt a second pain, not as sharp as the first, strike him on the left side. At the same time his head struck the iron wheel of the trolley and his senses dulled, the shapes around him flickering and fading. His limbs failed to respond to mental commands and he could just make out the blue jacket above him before blackness engulfed him.
*
The man closed the door behind him as he entered the dark hallway of his Broadcast Drive flat and threaded the security chain through the steel ring in the plaster to the side. He walked into the bathroom beyond the sitting room, switched on the light and removed his jacket. It was torn on one elbow and he tossed it onto the seat of the toiler. He bent and cupped handfuls of cold water from the tap in the bath and sloshed it over his face. Towelling the water away with rapid light dabs he moved to the side and looked into the mirror above the sink. Drops of water clung to his ear lobes and trickled from his chin as he studied his reflected face. Finding no marks he stared at the image. Then he quickly undressed and stepped into the bath. Under strong jets of cold water he lathered himself thoroughly, raking the cake of soap across and under his fingernails, and rubbed himself hard all over with a coarse hand towel. He repeated the cleansing and after the suds had been rinsed free he turned the shower off and stepped from the plastic tub to the tiles on the floor.
When he was dry he walked into the bedroom next door and examined his body in the full length mirror of the dresser. Despite the cold shower his skin was pink from the strong rubbing and it shone as if lightly sunburned. He ran his palm down his smooth chest and across the rippled muscles of his belly. At his navel he stayed his hand.
Turning away he dressed in a fresh set of clothes and returned to the bathroom where he picked up his soiled slacks, shirt and jacket. With his discarded undershorts he walked to the laundry where he dropped all but the trousers into a tall basket. Holding the slacks high in his left hand he searched the pockets with his right. He removed a handkerchief, some coins and two one hundred dollar notes, and a six inch black handled knife the type that a button on the side triggered the stiletto blade, tense against the spring embedded within. Placing the items on the shelf behind the basket he went through the pockets again, turning them inside out. Impatiently he retrieved the other items from the basket and searched their pockets also. They were empty.
Holding the shirt and jacket by his sides he stood and peered unblinking through the small bathroom window at the scarred hillside behind the building. Just before the clothing slipped from his fingers to the floor a shiver rippled his body.
*
Teller succeeded in opening his eye lids at the second attempt. They were extremely heavy and felt b