Chapter Thirteen
The Editor in Chief of the South China Morning Post was not pleased with his secretary interrupting his reading of the papers at eight thirty on Friday morning. She knew, as he frequently felt he had to remind her, that until an hour later he was not to be disturbed. Of course he was aware of the general content of the Post before he and it had gone to bed, but as a matter of practice he read it thoroughly each day before he did anything else. Then he spent time going through the Standard and over the summary of the news in the thirteen Chinese newspapers he classed as real newspapers. The other sixty which appeared on any given day, not always the same ones, he dismissed as “dunny rags”. Davidson had roared his anger at the girl but she was firm and told him the caller was waiting outside in reception, and said was a matter of extreme urgency that he see the editor. She added necessarily that he was a European and from the government.
“Goddamit,” he blurted. “Civil servants don’t start work until midday. What is he doing here at this time of the morning? Is he some sort of queer new foreign import who doesn’t yet understand how things go in this village?”
The girl didn’t move. She hated the editor’s bluster and uncouth manners, but she was used to them and knew he would relent after he had vented his spleen.
“Go on then,” said Davidson. “Get him in here. I suppose I’ve got to see for myself such a civil servant. I don’t think I’ve ever seen one awake and moving this early before.”
A few minutes later the secretary steered the visitor between the desks and past computer terminals to the glass cubicle in the middle of the cavernous room. Davidson pushed himself out of his chair and extended his hand, offering a seat with the other. “Coffee?” he asked perfunctorily.
When the girl left with two orders the editor dropped back into his chair and began emptying his pipe into an untidy ashtray on the desk. “What can I do for you?” he asked. “Any problems?”
The man across from him smiled and crossed his legs. “Thank you for seeing me without an appointment,” he said. “I know you must be busy.”
“Yes,” said Davidson. “We get moving pretty early as you can see.” He waved a hand in the direction of the occupied desks outside and pointedly at his own cluttered table with an open copy of the opposition paper, and repeated: “Any problems?”
“Not really,” the man answered. “I’m looking for one of your reporters. Nothing serious. Personal. I would just like to see him about a story he’s working on. Jason Teller. Do you know where I might reach him?”
Davidson began refilling the bowl of his Petersen’s. He paused before answering. “He’s taking a bit of leave actually. But if he calls in I can let him know you were asking after him. You came in personally to ask that? Any particular message I can give him?”
“That would be helpful, thank you. But do you have any idea where he is at the moment?”
“No.”
“It’s rather urgent” persisted the visitor. “We would appreciate any assistance you might be able to give us. Has he called you recently? Last night? This morning?”
Davidson put a match to the tobacco and sucked. “I’ve not spoken to him for a few days. As I say, he’s taking a bit of time off. And we’ve been rather preoccupied with the stock market crash and the fallout from that.”
“Of course. I see his daily column was stopped.”
“For the moment, yes. We don’t have the space.”
The editor studied the government man through the pall of thickening smoke. He was certainly no newcomer to the service. In fact, he knew of him buy reputation and although the business card simply gave his name and his employer as the Hong Kong Government, he knew there was much more to the casual approach than seemed on the surface.
“Is it about his stories that you want to see Teller?” he asked.
“In a way,” the man answered. “I’m sure you know as well as anyone he can’t substantiate his hypothesis. Unfortunately until the proper authorities affect an arrest they can’t say more than they already have. So we have an awkward situation of sorts. That’s why we would like to talk to him. To clear up any misunderstanding.”
“Not personal then,” said Davidson. “Well, if he calls in, which I doubt, I’ll let him know. Anything else I can help you with?”
“I don’t think so. That was it. As I say, it is fairly urgent we get together as soon as we can.”
“Right. Well, thank you for dropping in.”
The man stood up and they shook hands again.
As the door to his office closed Davidson cursed. “Bloody hell! Who do they think they’re kidding?” He watched the man walk back through the office, occasionally smiling at reporters, and disappear into the reception area.
Outside the accountant turned up his coat against the light drizzle and headed for the underground railway station in King’s Road. There was no doubt in his mind that the editor, and the paper as a whole, would not help him locate Teller. Not that he had really expected they would. But he had to make sure, and had to make it clear by turning up in person, that the matter was serious. At least he now knew for certain that he could discount Teller’s employers as a possible source of assistance. When he got back to Central he would follow up on how other enquiries were proceeding. Checks through the night had turned up nothing either at the journalist’s flat or that of his girlfriend.
He’d leave two men on the list of acquaintances who could be helpers and detail three more – the number of backup support had already grown too large for his liking but they had become essential – to start on the hotels.
Just as the editor had done he cursed. “Damn,” he muttered against the rain. October seven was only thirteen days away and he still did not seem to be making any meaningful headway. To the contrary he had now lost track of one of the key players in the drama.
*
The taxi sped through the cross harbour tunnel towards Kowloon, having slowly negotiated the congestion at the Hong Kong Island entrance where four lanes of traffic were required to converge into half that number. The two lines of vehicles noisily belched carbon gas into the confined space and, as he always did, Teller looked out the window to see if any cracks had appeared in the walls which might forecast a sudden tidal wave of water that would drown out all those trapped inside.
The tunnel was fourteen years old and there had never been any suggestion of inferior workmanship or inaccurate calculations in its design, but Teller had invariably made his inspection on every harbour crossing. He had never even detected a suspect mark on a wall which for some peculiar reason seemed to disappoint him. Perhaps it was the journalist in him that made him almost wish for such a disaster. It would be a huge story.
He had often heard the anecdote about one of his former news editors who on a particularly quiet day had jokingly called to a copy boy who was proud of the fact that he was recently converted to Christianity and ordered him to pray for news. The story had it that almost immediately the lad complied the police radio crackled a report that a passenger walla walla had capsized and sunk in the harbour, drowning some of those onboard. Ever since then, when news was scarce, the news editor shouted for the copy boy, demanding a jumbo jet crash in Kowloon City, the collapse of a high-rise apartment block or something at least as worthy of a front page lead.
Teller could not swear to the story’s accuracy but he would not be surprised at the news editor’s irreverent demands. There were stranger stories told of editorial department goings on. After all, he himself scrutinised the sides of the cross harbour tunnel on each journey, and it was the possibility of a big story, accompanied by a by-line, that motivated him, not fear.
Fear was tangible. Like the fear he had felt when he found the dead cat in his bed. Or when he found Amelia Tse’s body in her bed. But he was not afraid now. He was exhilarated. Here he was sitting next to the woman he desired and now knew he loved, heading off with a view to continuing a deadly game that common sense told him he should not be party to, but which he could not reject.
He squeezed Brigit’s hand and recalled their love-making hours earlier. It was just before she made a telephone call and confirmed the arrangement of the previous night that at eleven-thirty they would meet their mysterious helper at the Hongkong Hotel They spent those hours talking over old times and making undefined plans for the future. And making love once more.
At ten thirty they paid the hotel bill and caught the taxi at the rank outside. They were content now to sit in silence as the red and silver sedan stopped to pay the ten dollar toll and then continue along the crowded labyrinth of Tsimshatsui streets to Canton Road where it drew up outside the Hongkong Hotel. As soon as they slighted Brigit led them away from the main doors to an array of escalators at an entrance back along the way they had come.
“Where are we going?” asked Teller.
“Don’t argue,” she replied sternly. “Just come with me.”
At the top of the escalators they wound their way into the maze of Ocean Centre, the confusing addition to the massive Ocean Terminal which was billed as the largest single shopping complex in Asia when it opened twenty years before. The dazzling range of shops sold virtually everything from a packet of wood toothpick splinters to the ultimate in luxury limousines. Liners from around the world berthed alongside and tourists lost themselves for days, filling bags with intricately embroidered jackets, antiques, I-Love-HK T-shirts, ivory carvings, wooden and soapstone statues, and hi-fis and cameras that they would learn on their return home were really no cheaper and in some cases were more expensive than elsewhere in Hong Kong.
Brigit took Teller down another two flights of escalators into a tropical coffee shop where she halted a moment and then walked directly towards a table under a canopy of ferns which almost obscured it. As she approached a man stood up, brushed the fronds away and clasped her in a tight bear-hug.
“Brigit,” he beamed. “How are you my darling? You look ravishing. Casual, but stunning.”
Brigit lingered and then broke away from him. “But you look a little tired. You have been playing too much and not resting.”
“My dear I have been in bed by ten every night since I arrived.” His smile was broad and mischievous. “Though I must admit I didn’t leave it until much later and return to my own room.”
She feigned distaste. “You’re a cad. If you’re not careful you’ll be caught one day and cut off in your prime.”
“Oh god,” he gasped, hurt. “Don’t say cut off.” Then he smiled again and addressed Teller. “Forgive this unpleasant talk. I am Ajit Khan. I believe I might be of some assistance to you. If Brigit says I can help you I will try. No further justification is necessary.”
Teller returned the strong handshake and took an instant liking to the burly Sri Lankan. He nodded to Brigit. Khan was warm, welcoming. Black as soot, he was also the complete opposite of what their hunters would be looking for.
“Jason Teller,” he said. “I hope we are not inconveniencing you too much.”
“Not at all, not at all,” said the Sri Lankan. “It is my pleasure, as I said. Now tell me, what do I do with this?” he asked producing a key from his pocket with a large metal plate attached on which was engraved the name of the hotel. They sat at the table and talked over a glass of beer while Brigit had a cup of her favourite tea and a generous slice of cheese cake.
Teller learned that Khan was a close friend of Brigit’s from their London days. He had been in Hong Kong on a mixture of business and pleasure for the past ten days. He had been staying at the Regent on the Tsimshatsui East waterfront and was due to fly out later that night. But when he received Brigit’s telephone call he had booked into the Hongkong Hotel first thing that morning in his own name. The plan was to give the keys to Brigit and Teller, and for them to take over the room. When it came to paying the bill at the end of the stay – two weeks in total had been reserved but could be shortened if necessary – Teller would pay on Khan’s behalf. Company payments were made as a matter of routine and no-one would query it.
After half an hour they walked into the main lobby of the hotel and entered the lifts to the right of the row of reception desks. On the twenty-third floor they turned left into the carpeted corridor and located room 2307. As a pair of cleaning ladies approached, followed by a floor attendant in bright livery, Teller took the key from his pocket and opened the door. The three of them entered. The floor attendant who was responsible for level 23 would have no reason to suspect Teller was not the rightful occupant of the room. Downstairs at the reservation desk the computer, if asked, would list Mr Ajit Khan from London as the guest who had checked in. Any enquirer would be told that the guest in room 2307 was not a Caucasian man and woman. He was a large coloured gentleman who was happy to pay the extra tariff for the comfort of a double suite. They were in.
*
As soon as Brigit, Teller and Khan had entered the lift, a man sitting at a table in the middle of the lobby folded the newspaper he as reading, placed a twenty dollar note under the empty glass and stepped down from the raised area. Unobtrusively he walked into the Gun Bar some twenty paces away, next to the step up entrance, and selected a table in the corner. He ordered a cup of coffee and reopened the newspaper. But he did not read it. Though he gave the impression he was concentrating on the articles he was in fact closely watching everyone who emerged form the lift area to his right, as well at the far end of the lobby.
What he had seen stunned him. The black man had actually looked straight at him and smiled. The couple he was with had had their heads together like two lovers, arms locked, and had shown no interest in the dozens of people milling around the floor. But he had recognised Teller. After all, the last time he had seen him he had tried to kill him. The Catskinner turned a page of the newspaper but kept his eyes firmly glued on the lifts.
Had the Catskinner actually been reading the September 25 edition of the newspaper he held, the highly respected Ming Po, he would have been interested in a warning sounded by an academic writer on political reforms. In the fourth and concluding feature instalment on the Green Paper, the writer had analysed the pros and cons of political parties. As advocate of direct elections, the writer had argued that a Westminster-style of government had a number of prized benefits. The system under which a majority party assumed power would no doubt be representative and as a direct consequence the authority of the government would be firmly established. Political parties, rather than causing confrontation, would bring the government and the people closer together and would facilitate the grooming of political talent, talent that was sadly lacking in a territory that was a babe in terms of political experience and acumen.
However she also warned party politics might, if not controlled, undermine the community’s solidarity. A highly representative government might attempt to “take on the Chinese Government and resist unreasonable intervention”. This could have serious consequences and might give rise to political upheavals. The author of the series of articles was not alone in expressing these concerns, but her standing in the community added extra weight to her words. The views were echoed elsewhere in the media that day. Indeed, the papers of September 25 were full of political arguments and warnings.
A column in the New Evening Post called on the people not to do anything that would lead to bitter confrontation, and the Tin Tin Daily called on the Hong Kong administration to make small concessions and put off the introduction of direct elections for a few years. Beijing had so far not interfered directly, it cautioned, but it could have exerted pressure if it wished. The implication was clear. In other Chinese newspapers the Director of the Hong Kong Branch of the New China News Agency (NCNA) declined to comment on the question of whether there should be universal suffrage in 1998. He added that at the moment he did not think there would be instability in Hong Kong the following year.
There were also a number of full-page advertisements supporting both sides and news stories on recent statements form all camps. One referred to a seminar the previous day at which two protagonists had exchanged heated accusations. They were Martin Lee and Doctor Helmet Sohmen the son-in-law of business tycoon Sir Y.K.Pao. Sohmen, an Austrian, was also a Legislative Councillor and a strong advocate of no direct elections – not in 1997, not at all.
He claimed it was only a myth to suppose that the introduction of direct elections would be in the interests of democracy. Lee retaliated in precise advocate’s language and argument, and concluded by whipping up his followers with the assertion that he would not live in Hong after 1997 unless there was in place a democratic government. At another seminar his disciple Desmond Lee Yu-Tai repeated his call for elections in1988.
On that Friday too the results of no fewer than seven surveys were published. One of them said more than 91 per cent of the respondents favoured the stand taken by the democrats. Two others had 70 per cent for, one 60 per cent, two 40 per cent and one 25 per cent.
A press conference called by the Joint Committee on the Promotion of Democratic Government was also widely covered, giving details of a mass rally to be held ay Victoria Park on the coming Sunday, September 27. It was generally reported that this would be the last ditch attempt by the direct election lobby to fight for one-man-one-vote in 1988. And among the principal speakers would be Martin Lee, or Martyr Lee as the Austrian doctor had called him. Clearly the respective groups were taking fighting postures.
*
Teller and Brigit did not leave room 2307. For the remainder of the afternoon they sat with Khan and for the first time in many days they relaxed and almost forgot about their troubles. They did not explain to Khan why the need for subterfuge. But did not disagree when he concluded they were somehow carrying on an illicit love affair. That was something he apparently understood even encouraged, and during the reminiscences he slipped into the conversation allusions to the excitement of going against community mores. Indeed, Teller was left in little doubt that the Sri Lankan’s trip to Hong Kong had been planned and executed with the business element the second attraction.
Finally, when the mini-bar in the hotel room was emptied of its mini alcoholic beverages, the small bottles lined up on the ledge above, the happy talk of old times and often people Teller did not know came to an end. Khan lifted Brigit off the floor in another of his hugs, gave Teller a suggestive wink as he pummelled his hand, and took his leave to hurry to Kai Tak Airport to catch his flight back to London.
Teller and Brigit spent the night lying in bed watching television. They made love, talked and made love again, dropping off to sleep in each other’s arms at a time when many were beginning their rounds of the clubs outside.
Teller woke early on the Saturday morning. He left the bed quietly, not disturbing Brigit and went to the bathroom where he showered, shaved and dressed. When he emerged she was awake and smiled at him,. “Why are you up so early?” she asked. “Come back to bed.”
Teller stretched out beside her and ran his hand slowly over her curves. “I have to go out for a while, my love,” he told her,. “But I’ll be back soon. You sleep in or read the papers. I won’t be long.”
“Where are you going?”
“I have to go over to Broadcast Drive. I want to check out this address.” He took the video shop receipt from the bedside table and studied it again.
Brigit sat up. “Jason, what are you thinking of doing there?”
“Don’t worry,” he repeated. “I’m not going to do anything silly. I just want to see the place that’s all. Before I decide what step to take, I want to….what do they say in the movies? I want to case the joint.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“No. You stay here. I’m just going to look at the area. Nothing more. I promise you I’ll be back within a few hours.”
He stood up, put the slip of paper in his shirt pocket and collected his bag, checking the contents. He had four hundred dollars in cash. Before he caught the taxi that would take him to Broadcast Drive he would cash a cheque at the Hongkong and Shanghai Bank outlet next to the hotel.
He kissed Brigit lightly. “Don’t worry love. I’ll be back before you finish reading the papers.”
It did not take him long to get to Broadcast Drive and to identify the address on the receipt which he took from his pocket and examined three times during the journey. Being one of the arterial routes in Kowloon, it was seldom anything but jammed with vehicles heading for the large estates on the fringe of Tsimshatsui or further out to Shatin in the countryside, connecting through the busy Lion Rock Tunnel which officially separated urban Kowloon from the once rural New Territories. The most congested and slowest section was Waterloo Road, just beyond the Princess Margaret Flyover, but even there the sensible placement and operation of traffic lights kept vehicles moving reasonably freely.
When the taxi turned off Waterloo Road Teller slumped lower in the back seat and once more read the address on the square of paper. In bad Cantonese he instructed the driver to proceed very slowly as he read the numbers on the high concrete fences separating the residential high-rises from the roadway. Inconsistently, he reminded himself to have a look at one of the television stations on his return journey which had recently had one of its large studios party destroyed by fire. It was just around the other side of the horseshoe-shaped road, and he would have to pass it on his way back. The taxi crept up to the curve and from his slouched position Teller identified the building he sought. It was a nondescript concrete block with a wide entrance gate. Car-parking spaces were directly beneath and in the surrounds with the main entrance doorway taking up a large area in the middle. The flats had no balconies and windows were mostly closed, probably with air-conditioners blowing stale air inside, but also to block out the noise from outside.
He could see piles of litter on the first floor awning but the courtyard and precincts were tidy and clean. A security guard stood to one side of the entrance talking animatedly to a middle agreed Chinese woman carrying a large shopping bag in one hand, a baby strapped to her back, and a toddler holding the other hand.
Counting floors, Teller stopped at four and quickly consulted the receipt to verify the 4B on the second line of the address.
Each floor appeared to have two flats. Each flat, he guessed, most likely had two bedrooms. He could see eight windows along the front, and rightly concluded four opened from a sitting/dining room and another four from a bedroom. There might even be another smaller bedroom at the rear of the building along with a kitchen, bathroom and utility room.
There was no movement within that he could discern as the taxi continued past in low gear, the driver glancing at his reflection on and off in the mirror above the dashboard. When he had gone three apartment blocks past Teller told the driver to stop. For five minutes he watched through the rear window but recognised no-one who came and went through the gate to the building.
Finally, he instructed the driver on and in a pensive mood returned to Tsimshatsui and the Hongkong Hotel where he found Brigit sitting at the desk writing a letter to her parents in Lyon. She kissed him as he came in and asked if everything was alright.
“Sure,” he answered. “No problem. I just saw the building. Nothing else.”
He flicked the television set on and dropped onto the bed as an announcer appeared on the screen and began talking about the horse races that would take place in Shatin later that afternoon.
“I’ll have to have another look tomorrow,” said Teller. “Then I’ll make up my mind exactly what to do.”
*
At four o’clock that afternoon another journalist was cursing his luck and attempting to drown his sorrows in cold amber liquid being served by a white-coated attendant on the ground level of Shatin race course. The fourth race had just been run and for the fourth time his selection had failed to place. The Shatin course may be one of the finest in the world, but the journalist was hardly impressed. He was not a regular race-goer and had agreed to accompany a friend only because of a debt he owed, and could not see how he could pay, to the insatiable head of the Inland Revenue Department.
The week before he had received the unwelcome envelope with the window which reminded him that he would be required to start the new year in poor financial shape.
Taxation in Hong Kong has a minimum threshold of only seventeen per cent but requiring payment once a year it seemed to be far higher. As there is no pay-as-you-earn system in the territory its taxpayers are billed annually and must pay in two instalments only two months apart. The first and largest portion is demanded in January.
On the same day the journalist received his notification, a friend in the government had been buying drinks all round in a pub late into the evening. The reason for his generosity was a win on the six-up at Happy Valley racecourse three nights earlier. By eight o’clock that night the journalist was not only seriously envious and drunk, he had been convinced to try his own luck the following Saturday at Shatin where there were certain to be at least two sure things. To offer all necessary advice to the novice punter his government friend had invited him along and promised him the benefit of his inside knowledge.
Four races into the seven race card the journalist was three thousand five hundred dollars poorer and his pockets were almost empty. As he gulped his drink his friend clapped him on the shoulder. “Funny game this,” he slurred. “Up one week, down the next. Maybe next Saturday we’ll get it back, and more.”
“You can come if you like,” grunted the journalist. “But not me. I’m in a hole and I’m going to take the first lesson.”
“What’s that?”
”When you’re in a hole, stop digging.”
His friend turned away and called for their glasses to be refilled.
“Talking about digging, I almost forgot,” he said. “I’ve got something here you can dig into.” He handed the journalist a brown envelope. “Don’t open it here. Wait until you get home. Maybe it will help make up for today’s losses.”
The journalist glanced at the packet ad put it away in his inside coat pocket. “What is it?” he asked.
“A copy of the questions asked by the official survey company on the options in the Green Paper.” His friend paid the attendant. “The part I’d recommend you read carefully is the question of whether there should be direct elections in 1988. It makes interesting and illuminating reading. Just remember where you didn’t get it though.”
Illuminating it might be, thought the journalist, but he doubted it would throw any light on the problem he now knew he would have to face with the tax man. But he would read it. There could be a story in it.
*
By the time the thousands of winners and losers were jockeying for positions on the highway leading back from Shatin to Kowloon and island, the accountant’s anxiety was growing and his family could plainly see he was unusually worried about something. Of course, he would not volunteer any explanation and his wife of thirty years knew when not to pry.
He sat reading in the lounge of their comfortable Peak flat, frequently rising to pace out onto the balcony, only to shortly return and sit down with his book. Twice he had taken telephone calls that, while brief, seemed to worry him more deeply each time. All he told his wife was that it had been the office on both occasions. He did not tell her that his operatives had called in with negative reports. Two days had passed and still no trace had been found of Teller or the girl. Checks of hotels and boarding houses on both sides of the harbour had turned up nothing. They had for all intents and purposes vanished.