Chapter Fourteen
If Sunday September 27 was unusually quiet in Hong Kong, Monday the 28th made up for it. The financial markets opened after their unprecedented and highly acrimonious closure, and promptly fell. And continued falling all through the morning. There was not the slightest sign of any rallying, and depression on the floor and in the streets mounted in unison with losses. Immediately the critics of the closure renewed their accusations and the electronic news media succeeded in garnering support for them from various quarters around the world. Spokesmen in New York and London again expressed surprised doubt over the wisdom of the unusual initial action and even though Japan and Australia had been non-committal publicly, it was clear brokers there had also been taken by surprise.
The criticism had been three-fold.
First, the closure was said to be too hasty and was a knee-jerk reaction in a situation where calm and a steadfast stand was needed.
This led to the claims that Hong Kong’s reputation as a world financial centre, carefully built up over the years and repeatedly vaunted, had been seriously tarnished. How could the territory claim to be a leader when it buckled at the knees in the face of trouble?
Third, the closing of the exchange doors prevented investors taking their own independent decisions, and were instead compelled to wait almost a week during which time prices were bound to open even lower and continue their downward slide.
Within two minutes of the Monday opening these accusations and predictions were borne out. The hectic trading was all in one direction. The knock-on effect would undoubtedly be that London and Wall Street would suffer as well. Sydney had already begun trading and in anticipation of the Hong Kong slump the All Ordinaries Index drifted lower.
The crisis meetings in the government continued with the Chief Secretary, the Financial Secretary and the Secretary for Monetary Affairs in almost continuous deliberations. The Chairman of the Stock Exchange again attempted to explain the Board’s action, and rumours started to circulate that the chopping block was being prepared for a number of public heads, One of the first was said to be the Chairman of the Board of the Hong Kong Futures Exchange, a Legislative Councillor.
Government spokesmen reiterated that despite the crisis the territory’s finances and overall economic base were solid and there was no cause for undue concern. Given this soundness, the public was told there was reason for investors to turn bullish and capitalise on the falling market rather than panic.
Coming at a time when fortunes had been lost and were continuing to be lost, this message of confidence was well wide of the mark Selling was the order of the day, carried out with a vengeance, and more attention was paid to the administration’s credibility than to its advice to buy.
Its credibility took another serious knock with a front page story which appeared in the Hongkong Standard. The paper had obtained details of the survey company’s questionnaire on the Green Paper, and an analysis cast doubts on its objectivity. The matter in question was that considered to be the most significant in the entire review of political development: Whether there should be direct elections and if so, whether they should be held in 1988.
All questions put to the six thousand respondents in the two separate surveys carried out were clear referendum type questions. Are you in favour of this? Are you against this? Do you agree that that should be done? Are you against it? There was one, and only one, notable exception. The six thousands respondents were not directly asked if they wanted direct elections the following year. Those against were asked directly. But when it came to the positive question it was couched in cumbersome terminology, so the democrats claimed, that was either the result of ineptitude on the part of the professional company contracted by the survey office, or intentionally designed to confuse in order to arrive at an answer that suited those not in favour of an early introduction of direct elections.
The question, which Councillor Martin Lee and others pointed out was not a question at all, read: “If changes are desirable in 1988 it will be possible to make one or more of the following changes: eg, increase slightly the number of official Members, reduce the number of Appointed Members, increase the number of directly elected Members or have directly elected Members.”
This even led to the claim, boxed in the Hongkong Standard in bold type, that there were indications of collusion between the company and the government to manipulate the outcome of the whole survey exercise. Naturally the company, the survey office and the government strongly denied those claims, but the mud could not easily be washed away.
The article in the newspaper also pointed out that no fewer than between twenty-five and twenty-seven per cent of the respondents maintained they did not understand the options, or were not clear about the respective concepts and therefore were not asked to choose any of them. Another fifteen to eighteen per cent gave the answer “Don’t know/No opinion”. These answers, said the critics, reinforced the belief that the company survey was poorly designed, badly conducted, unprofessionally approached and should be totally discounted.
By noon that Monday the public of Hong Kong was reeling. The continuation of the financial crisis and the bombardment against the honesty and integrity of the administration had combined to add further doubts about the immediate future.
The most damaging attacks were those which said the events showed Hong Kong’s financial status was in ruin, local confidence was all but gone, and the administration was at best a lame duck and at worst was in collusion with the future communist masters.
*
An emergency meeting was called by the Secretary General of Omelco just before lunch the same day. It was reported that six councillors had questions they wanted to raise at the opening session on October 7.
The Financial secretary would be asked to justify his support for the market closure, and the barrage of supplementary questions would range across the whole gamut of accusations levelled outside the chamber so far. It was also understood the Chairman of the Stock Exchange Board would be called on to resign. Added to that it would not be surprising if the survey office activities and motives were challenged.
After the meeting the Secretary General left his office on the second floor of the Legislative Council Building and went down one flight of stone steps to where the Clerk of the Council had his suite of offices. Over a cup of steaming jasmine tea he told the Clerk: “The opening session is going to be hell.”
“I know,” said the Clerk, a stout Chinese with a completely bald head. “It’s going to be a sideshow if we are not careful. I think some of your people are going to have to give up their seats in the gallery to members of the public who will come to watch.”
“We can work that out,” the Secretary General said. “But it is worse than you think. If you haven’t heard already, a group of Members are going to take on the FS over the market closure.”
The Clerk leafed through a pink file in his tray. “I haven’t received any draft questions yet.”
“You won’t have,” went on the Secretary General. “That’s why I cane down myself,. They only decided this morning. And you might get a few on this morning’s Hongkong Standard story too.”
The Clerk reclined in his high backed leather chair. “If they reach me by close of play on Friday I’ll have to accept them. But god, what a day it’s going to be. With this sort of agenda, with so many already bruised and hurting, it could really be a fired-up meeting.”
The Secretary General looked into the distance. “It will be,” he said in a flat tone. “This session is going to open with a bang. I only hope some people do not go too far. All the elements are in place for ignition. It won’t take much more for something to turn the key.”
*
At 12.03 the Political Advisor Roger Gould walked into Gail Jones’s office on the fifth floor of the Government Secretariat.
“Is he in Gail?” he asked brusquely.
The Chief Secretary’s secretary did not like the Political Adviser, and though she had tried hard not to show it for a long time, that time had passed long ago. Equally businesslike she replied: “Yes. But he’s just here for a few minutes. He has to go up to GH at 12.30.”
“I have more than twenty-five minutes then,” countered Gould. “Can you tell him I’m here please? It’s important.”
When he entered Robert McNamara’s office five minutes later, having spent the time glaring at his secretary for making him wait so long, a blame she did not deserve as it was McNamara himself who had suggested he “cool his heels outside for a while,” Gould pointedly closed the door behind him before being directed to the chair across the black ironwood desk.
This too he considered a slight as McNamara was known to encourage all visitors to relax in his office by seating them in the comfortable pink and green lounge chairs arranged around the coffee table. Then he would invariably smile and as his secretary brought in the blue and white china he would swing one long leg over the other and enquire what he might be able to do.
Not this afternoon though. Continuing his rifling through papers and reading and signing off others, the Chief Secretary simply said: “Yes Roger. What do you want?”
“I’ll come right to it,” said Gould, feeling decidedly out in the cold and not at all at ease in the straight-backed chair, “I’d like to know what’s going on.”
“What do you mean?” asked McNamara without looking up. “In what respect?”
“Three days ago I was down at the branch in Happy Valley,” he said, referring to the Hong Kong branch of the New China News Agency which was ironically situated directly across Wongneichong Road from the Royal Hong Kong Jockey Club headquarters. Gould for some reason always called it the branch though no-one else did. To everyone else it was called by its initials, NCNA, or the Mandarin name Hsinhwa. It was never called the branch or the agency or anything else.
“You mean the NCNA?” said McNamara, still not looking up. “How are they down there? Not too unhappy I hope. I hear they didn’t lose too much in the crash.”
“Apparently not,” said the Political Adviser. “But they did lose quite a bit just the same. Far less than they’re prepared to put back in to boost it back up though.”
The Chief Secretary looked up. “Yes?”
“They wanted to know what the latest was on this murder business. The doctor and the journalist.”
McNamara returned to his files. “Why are they interested in that? It’s local and we have it under control.”
“Do we? Do we really? Or is there something I should know about?”
“What do you mean?”
“That other journalist, Jason Teller, is no longer writing his column and he’s no longer at the Post. Is there anything going on that I should be cabling HMG about?”
“Not that I know of,” said McNamara. “My understanding is the police know the identity of the crackpot and expect to make an arrest pretty soon. It’s purely security, not political. Anyway, how do you know Teller is not at the Post any longer?”
“I made a few enquiries, discreetly of course,” Gould answered. “He’s not been sacked or resigned. He’s just not been around the office for some days. Now I have the branch, the NCNA people, asking me oblique questions about the murders.”
Robert McNamara began putting papers into the large black leather briefcase. “Well, there is no need for you to worry,” he said. “And if you want to you can tell them that. In fact, why don’t you. I suppose they can do with a little good news these days too.” He heaved the case off his desk. “Now, if that’s all Roger, I have a meeting with HE and a quick word upstairs before I leave.”
Gould said nothing but opened the door and the two men walked out hurriedly.
McNamara took another file from Gail Jones and as he stuffed it in the briefcase enquired: “Is Jack in Gail?” Without waiting for her to answer he added: “Never mind, I’ll go up. Hold the car five minutes.”
As he rushed out he said to the Political Adviser: “I’m sorry Roger, but I must hurry. I’ll come and see you later this afternoon or tomorrow. Alright?” and he was gone, stepping briskly down the carpeted corridor.
On the floor above, with the door closed and the accountant seated behind the empty desk with only the black telephone on it, Robert McNamara spoke quickly.
“Roger Gould says Hsinhwa are asking about the murders. Gould himself has made enquiries about Teller’s whereabouts and knows he’s gone to ground. I’ve told him the police had it under control and should make an arrest shortly. I’ve also told him he can reassure our friends the killings were a matter for internal security and not political. But I think we should have the CP leak an optimistic story. I don’t want it to go any further Jack. I don’t want Whitehall in on it yet and I certainly don’t want Beijing to suspect what’s going on. We’ve got enough problems at the moment without them saying our security forces can’t protect the public. With the garrison going that’s all we’d need to cause an almighty stir.”
He paused for breath. “Dammit,” he swore looking at his wristwatch. “I’ve got to go. I’ll be free around six thirty. Drop in then and give me an update.”
Alone in his office the accountant sat very still. He was not confident he could control Roger Gould’s inquisitiveness or his sense of duty to Her Majesty’s Government in London. If he had to put money on it he would guess the Political Adviser was drafting a report to London right then to brief them on his meeting with NCNA officials and the information given him by the Chief Secretary. He picked up the telephone and dialled the private number of the Commissioner of Police.
*
Teller finished reading the newspapers that had been slipped under the door of the hotel room while he and Brigit still slept cradled in each other’s arms. He was alarmed at the pace at which events were progressing.
Hong Kong had never been a society where developments occurred by way of natural consequence, and therefore at a steady pace, allowing for breathing spaces between peaks and troughs. Everything had always gone at breakneck speed as though there really was no tomorrow and everything had to be completed today or it never would be. It was the sense of living on borrowed time in a borrowed place, as the doyen of the journalistic world Richard Hughes had so ably written, that made people rush into each day and be so reluctant to leave.
But even the heady pace of the past now seemed almost lethargic by comparison. There was a feeling among some, Teller certainly, that if brakes were not applied control could, would be lost. And if that happened then literally anything could erupt.
Teller put the newspaper down and walked to the window. The scene outside viewed through the lace curtains was veiled, fractured by the intricate machine woven patterns as though actual life and daily living was being broken apart by the material gently swaying on the artificial zephyrs circulated silently around the room by the internal air-conditioning.
He turned away. He appreciated the dangers involved but he had made up his mind. In the bathroom where Brigit was towelling off he sat on the ends of the tub. “I am going to go to the flat to pick up some fresh clothes,” he said. “I can’t go on wearing these. The jacket and trousers are torn. And anyway, I feel dirty.”
“Is that wise?” she posed. “You might be seen. Why don’t I go? Tell me what you want. Or why not just buy some new clothes.?”
“No. I don’t think anyone will be watching the pace. They know I’ve gone and they’ll probably not be expecting me to go back.” He put his hands around her waist. “I’ll be careful. If I’m not sure I’ll not go in.” He would not tell her yet what he proposed doing next. If she knew she would fight to stop him. When he came back would be soon enough.
An hour later the taxi drove up Happy View Terrace as far as it could. To turn around it backed under a building and temporarily disappeared. Thirty second later it drove out and back down the street empty. Anyone watching would not have seen anyone in it on its upwards journey. There was no-one inside with the driver on its return either.
Underneath the building where the taxi had reversed, Teller stood behind a parked BMW 720i sedan. There was nobody around. Carefully he slipped out through the back of the building and over a low concrete wall into the bushes at the side of a cracked and disused bitumen road that led to an old structure that while now derelict still possessed some of the façade that had once ranked it one of the mansions of the colony. Next to it was a huge residential complex under construction.
Staying close to the wall he moved cautiously towards the back of the building eighty meters away. When he reached it he climbed the wall and moved to the side of an extension that had been added to permit the owner of the ground floor flat to park his second car undercover. Embedded into the side was a rusty steel ladder which led to the roof of the garage and a second similar ladder that rose to a patio which had been used sparingly by the tenants of the second and third floors. Empty dragon pots stood scattered around the tiled floor. A door led from the patio into his sitting room. It was locked with a barred bolt on the inside but this was not a problem for Teller. He removed his jacket, folded it and held it against the pane of glass just adjacent to and above the bolt. With a sharp stab of his fist the glass shattered and fell noisily into the room.
Hurriedly Teller reached in, slid the bolt back and stepped in. Pulling the curtain across the door he knew none of the residents would take any notice of the noise and he hoped no-one had been watching out for him at the rear of the building. But he could not worry about that now. He had to collect some clothes and a few other items he had decided he would need. It was then he noticed the putrid smell that permeated the room.
*
Brigit had left the hotel room and was in the lift descending to the lobby. She knew she was taking a risk but calculated that those searching for them would have been to the Hongkong Hotel during the last three days. It was unlikely, in her view, they would be back and keep returning. It was just not possible to do that with each potential hideout. And why would they settle on the Hongkong Hotel to stake a permanent watch?
She had been in the room for seventy-two hours. She had read every piece of tourist literature, skipped through the two English language newspapers and had even tuned into the Chinese Jade channel on television for a few minutes. The English channel did not air in the mornings. Finally, she had decided. She would go down to the lobby, buy a number of magazines and perhaps a novel from the bookshop, and be among other people while she enjoyed a pot of tea. She needed just for a while to get away from the room and to be part of everyday life again.
As the lift doors opened she held back to allow an aged lady tourist with a walking stick to leave first and then stepped out. Directly opposite, on the other side of the lobby, was a florist and next to that a newsagent that had a rack of magazines from around the world, two stands of local and foreign newspapers, and a long wall of paperback books. She browsed in the shop and collected a Woman’s Own from Britain, an Australian Women’s Weekly, a Far Eastern Economic Review, and finally a copy of Frederick Forsyth’s 1979 thriller The Devil’s Alternative.
Armed with her bag of reading materials she went into the coffee shop, sat facing the lobby and called for a green and white uniformed waitress to take her order,. She requested the tea she had promised herself and then belatedly added some cinnamon roast and jam.
While she waited patiently she glanced through the Woman’s Weekly, mainly looking at the pictures, and occasionally studying people coming and going. The lobby was busy as it always was. With aircraft landing and taking off in Hong Kong every eight minutes or so, lobbies of all major hotels were crowded no matter what time of day. On the other hand the expansive coffee shop was virtually deserted, with only about six or seven other customers. It was only ten o’clock so she knew it would begin to fill in another hour and a half nearer lunch time.
She enjoyed the time by herself, yet among the crowd, and continued to scan the pages of the magazine as she sipped her tea and ate the warm toast. It was like she was on holiday and she was beginning to wish she could be when a group of Japanese tourists entered through the main doors at the far end. All wore red and white lapel discs identifying them as members of a single tour group. Though she could not read the lettering Brigit imagined they were travelling under some factory’s annual holiday plan. She was sure they would all in three days be again crowding the lobby readying for their departure back to Narita carrying bags of purchases.
As she studied them with a smile four other customers walked into the coffee shop. A young couple and two single Chinese or Korean gentlemen she did not know which. Japanese were easily distinguishable but Chinese and Korean were to her very similar. She paid them only passing attention and continued turning the magazine pages while the group of Japanese waited patiently to be processed and ushered to their rooms by their guide. Five minutes passed and then one of the Oriental men came from the back of the group, and walked towards her. When he reached her table he stopped and smiled.
“Excuse,” he said. “You holiday?”
“No, I live here,” answered Brigit. She was suddenly alert. Her first reaction was one of surprise. He’s going to try to pick me up, she thought. Then she remembered who she was and why she was sitting in the hotel lobby at ten thirty on a Monday morning by herself.
“Sorry,” the man said. “I not know Hong Kong. Can you help please?” He took a piece of paper from his pocket and held it out to her. On it was printed an address somewhere in Carnarvon Road, Tsimshatsui.
“Please,” he said. “You know?”
“Yes,” replied Brigit with a smile. She did not recognise the name of the shop that had been scrawled in big letters but she did recognise the name of the street. It was well known to shoppers, particularly visitors.
“It’s on the other side of Nathan Road,” she said. “Parallel.”
“Please?”
“Go out there and go straight ahead to Nathan Road. Cross over and go one block. You will see it easily.”
“Please?”
“Look, wait a minute,” said Brigit. “I’ll show you from outside.” She finished the last of her tea, put the magazine back in the plastic bag and checked the bill. Leaving four ten dollar notes on the place mat she rose and said. “Follow me. I’ll show you.”
The man bowed. “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you very much.”
Brigit led the ay across the lobby and up the steps outside onto the sidewalk. She pointed to the street opposite. “Go down there to the main road. Three blocks. That’s Nathan Road. Cross over it and go one more block. The intersection should be Carnarvon Road on your left.” It was quite a lot for the man to absorb.
He came closer, thrusting his hands deep into the pockets of the fawn jacket he was wearing, and Brigit held up four fingers and pointed ahead of her. “Carnarvon Road. Over that way. Four blocks.”
“Thank you,” said the man. He was standing very close. Still smiling he said. “There is a gun pointing at you. Do what I tell you, quietly without fuss. Or I will pull the trigger. You will die. And then I will kill Jason Teller. He is not where you think he is. He is at this moment resting immobilised in a place you and the authorities will never find.”
Aghast, Brigit stared at the man. “Do nothing foolish,” he repeated. “Be very sure I will not hesitate. Now, do exactly what I tell you.”
Less than a minute lapsed during which time Brigit could not take her eyes off the man by her side. He kept smiling and mouthing inanities she did not take in. He had laid a hand lightly on her shoulder and at the mention of the gun she had looked down and seen a bulge at the front of his jacket near to where his other hand remained in the pocket. She could not be sure, but nor could she take the chance the man was bluffing. After all he knew who she was, he knew Jason had left the hotel, and he had intimated he knew the authorities were combing Hong Kong for them. That left only one conclusion. The man threatening her was the Catskinner, the maniac who had already murdered two people and who intended killing more. And as he had said, he had already taken Jason.
Suddenly the day turned cold and she shivered as the overcast sky opened and a few drops of rain mottled the sidewalk and spattered on the windscreen of a car that pulled up in front of them.
*
The Commissioner of Police had agreed, though somewhat reluctantly, to do as the accountant asked. He believed if the man in the Secretariat made a request it was not without the knowledge at least of higher sources. He did not know precisely the accountant’s role in the administration of Hong Kong but he had had similar experiences on two previous occasions. Both times he had not been given completely satisfactory explanations for the requests, and both times he had refused on matters of principle. Within hours he had been contacted by the Chief Secretary and while a direct order had not been given, or the subjects themselves actually referred to, Robert McNamara had mentioned the accountant by name and in phrases which left him in little doubt he had the ear of the man who was at the head of the civil service.
When sometime in the future the Commissioner had sought difficult benefits for the police force which he was prepared to fight hard for, he found the Chief Secretary to be surprisingly sympathetic and the benefits agreed to with surprising haste.
Once again he had been reluctant to act as asked for fear it could rebound adversely against the force he had served for more than thirty-five years and was so proud of. Nevertheless, he had risen through the ranks and was one of the first Chinese Commissioners of Police in the territory’s history. One of the lessons he had learned well along the rocky path was loyalty. Another was how to take orders. The difficulty was that sometimes it was extremely hard to marry the two. This was such a time.
At 12.46 the Commissioner asked his secretary to summon the Chief Staff Officer, Public Relations to his office immediately.
At 1.05 the Chief Staff Officer in turn called the Chief Police information Officer to his office.
David Frank was even less happy than either his immediate superior or the Commissioner of Police about what he was told to do. First, he had had to cancel a long standing and important lunch appointment with his wife which would make his arrival home at the end of the day an event he did not look forward to. Second, he did not believe the instruction that he was given.
“Are you sure this is wise at this time?” he probed diplomatically. He felt like describing it as plain stupid but he knew not to be that foolish.
“Of course,” said the Chief Staff Officer. “It’s positive. It has to be good.”
Frank paused. “Well, normally I would have no argument with that. You know my views on being as open and as helpful to the media as possible. It’s just that this is a bit different.”
“How?” The Chief Staff Officer was bright, but he was a trained professional police officer. He was not a journalist or a public relations expert.
“The story’s been dead for some time now,” explained the information officer. “Why resurrect it? Let them forget it until we really have something to offer. Or when we’re pressed. It’ll only open the whole can of worms again if we suddenly come out with this.”
“I don’t agree.” The Chief Staff Officer privately did agree, but he had an obstinate role to play. “It shows how open we can be, even if it is potentially bad public relations as you suggest, which I doubt in any case.”
Frank could not forget his last experience with this murder incident. He had been shown to be something less than honest with Jason Teller and it rested poorly with him. He did not want to find himself in a similar position this time.
“Who’s on it anyway?” he persisted. “I haven’t heard anything about this in Homicide, or Special crimes for that matter.”
Homicide Squad in the force was the body of detectives which was specifically tasked with investigating murders anywhere in the territory. It was a large group of specially selected policemen who had wide experience of violent crime. Special Crimes Division was another group which was charged with investigating organised crime of a particularly violent or complicated nature. If neither of these two groups were looking into the Wong-Tse murders who was?
“It comes from higher that that David,” said his boss. “Much higher. I can’t go into any details, I’m sorry, but let’s just say we’re not here to ask questions. Remember we are here to serve, not be served.”
Jesus, Frank said under his breath, that sort of attitude makes me sick. “But who?” he said aloud. “And what are we basing this on? How do I handle the media when they call for more information? I have to have more than this at least.”
“Just tell them it’s operational.” The Chief Staff Officer cast a steadfast look at his information man. “Now Dave, I want it in the afternoons so you’d better get moving with it.”
Frank rose and walked without another word down the corridor to the bureau’s news room. To the Principal Information Officer in charge he handed a piece of paper and ordered: “Get this out straight away. Any follow-ups put them through to me personally.”
At 1.30 teleprinters and facsimile machines