Chapter Twenty-Two
It took the lumbering blue China Motor Bus double-decker twenty minutes to reach the third stop on its route from the terminus in Jardine’s Lookout to the Central waterfront between the Star ferry concourse and the outlying islands ferry pier. It had another twenty-two from which to pick up passengers. It was going to be late.
From the starting point in Mount Butler Road it should have taken no more than four minutes to get to the covered awning opposite the Mobil petrol station in Tai Hang Road. When it finally did the impatient queue of workers glared at the young driver as they filed in, dropping their one dollar fifty into the slot of the metal cash container. The usual crowd of a dozen who caught the 8.10 had swollen to thirty, much the same as at the previous two stations, so their anger was heightened by the shortage of available seats. They were prepared to accept no excuses even if the driver had thought to offer one. Most had slept through the blustery downpour of the night before and anyway the point was they were all going to be late into their offices. One man in a pin striped suit pushed past the driver’s seat refusing to pay his fare and grumbling to anyone who would listen. The driver paid him no mind. One here and there did not matter. Besides there was always the odd passenger who did not have the exact change and was prepared to toss in a single two dollar coin. It was still a pittance for the five kilometre ride.
The doors swished shut and the driver flipped the coughing vehicle into first gear and lurched back onto the double lane road. The heavy rains accompanied by the strong squalls of the previous night had left their mark on the roads with branches of trees blocking lanes, blocked gutters and drains overflowing, and in some areas actual road surfaces crumbling at the edges, or cracking and forming gaping pot holes which jarred vehicles, sorely testing suspension systems.
Not to be caught by another downpour during the day, many who normally relied on public transport reversed from their garages and added their own belching mechanical monsters to the already congested and frequently stalled convoys, intent on converging on the inner city, there to honk and roar and grind their way through the battle for parking spaces, stacked on top of one another as high as ten floors above pedestrian crowds jostling for sidewalk space.
The morning after a typhoon brings more headaches than a hangover following a night in the clubs of Tsimshatsui. When it is a Monday morning and there is the threat of more rain, the headache takes on the enormity of a migraine and tempers flare long before offices are reached.
Roger Gould was in a ferocious mood even before he left the comfort of his apartment in the Mid-levels. He agreed to drop his wife off in Jardine’s Lookout where she was to join some other ladies in their voluntary work for the World Wildlife Fund. He would then continue down Tai Hang Road onto the waterfront highway and back up to the Central Government Offices. It was out of his way but his wife had given him no alternative. Taxis were not to be found and she was already late, so that was all there was to it. The Fund work was her one contribution to a society she laboured with ungraciously and the least he could do was get her to the meeting as quickly as possible. After all, she was in charge of the planning group so she had to be there ahead of the others to ensure everything was ready for them when they arrived.
The drive to the high class suburb was completed in near total silence in the sedan, but once Gould was on his own he grumbled and cursed with such vehemence that he startled one or two fellow motorists also caught in the snarled traffic. When finally he stalked into his office he was, to use one of his favourite expressions, fit to fry.
“Good morning Mr Gould,” his secretary greeted him, a smile on her lips but with a questioning look in her eyes. The Political Advisor was never late and she wondered what had gone wrong this morning. Had he had to attend a meeting she had forgotten and failed to have his papers ready?
“It is not,” he shot back at her and walked into his office, pulling the heavy double security door behind him.
There was a light tap on it and the secretary cautiously stepped in. “Sir,” she began.
“For pity’s sake Jane,” Gould hissed, “let me at least take my coat off. What is it? Can’t it wait two minutes?”
She was about to back out again when Gould gave an exasperated sigh and with his coat only half off, and leaning on the edge of the desk said: “Go on then, what is it? What can’t wait?”
“The CS is looking for you,” said the girl. Quickly she added: “He has been since nine o’clock. Three times he’s called. He wants to see you as soon as you come in. Mrs Jones says it’s very urgent.”
“Did you tell him I was…..never mind. Damn, I’ll explain it myself.” He shrugged on his coat and hurried from the office.
As he entered the reception area to Robert McNamara’s office Gail Jones was seated at her desk. Without a smile or a greeting she nodded to the oak door in the corner. “Go on in. He’s waiting for you.”
The Chief Secretary was stretched out in one of the arm chairs just inside the door. When Gould had closed the door behind him McNamara stood and handed him a pink loose minute folder. “Tell me what this is please,” he said. While Gould read the contents McNamara paced in front of the black hardwood display shelves, moving odd pieces around, distractedly squaring them up.
Gould closed the folder. “Yes. Well I did send a note off. I thought Whitehall should be kept informed.” McNamara stopped and looked at him without saying anything. “I felt something was going on,” said Gould firmly. “And no-one would tell me what it was. You’ll remember I did raise it with you.”
The Chief Secretary moved to the armchair, “Sit down Roger,” he motioned. “Let me tell you now what we have here.” Gould handed the folder back and sat in the chair opposite.
Half an hour later when he left Robert McNamara’s office he looked drawn. Without a word he brushed past Gail Jones’s desk and into the carpeted corridor where his footsteps were muffled. But he could still hear the Chief Secretary’s lecture rebounding inside his head. It was like the drumming of a spinning coin on a glass desktop. As the motion slowed and the coin’s ellipse widened and lowered the noise increased. By the time he reached his own office again the sounds were deafening.
He had been roundly rebuked, his actions described as dangerously and unnecessarily inflammatory. What could have been controlled now ran the risk of getting out of control. And he had contributed significantly to the worsening state of affairs.
As a direct result of his interference -- the criticism galled him immensely -- London was now seeking a full explanation of what was going on, and worse still the Chinese were pressing for information also. All in all, the episode was becoming tangled and the potential was there for it to become an international mess.
McNamara’s message had been unequivocal. There was an army of people out there trying desperately to get hold of the cause of the situation and neutralise it with as little attention as possible. In the meantime, he had been handed a bucket and broom and told “you got us into this, now you get us out of it”. In other words, get Whitehall off our backs and pacify the Chinese. Great. But how? And the other question which nagged him was, at what cost to himself?
Uncharacteristically, Roger Gould cared little if the girl sitting just outside his door heard him as he cursed: “Blast and damn you Jason Teller.”
*
When the Chinese heard Teller scream he rushed into the hut, the gun in his hand, ready to shoot, to kill instantly if the situation demanded it. When he saw the journalist, his head back, his face screwed almost unrecognisable he thrust the revolver back into his trousers and stepped quickly across the damp concrete floor. Hard he slapped Teller across the face. “Shut up,” he yelled. “Shut up or I’ll shut you up. Now. And her.”
Teller fell silent and sat glaring at the Chinese before him. His breathing was coming in sharp, short bursts and spittle had dribbled from one corner of his mouth and was sliding in a single large drop down the side of his chin. His eyes were red and wide. “Just shut up,” repeated the Catskinner and he backed away and disappeared through the entrance.
“Jason,” whispered Brigit anxiously. “Jason are you alright? Are you ill? Yes?”
Teller did not shift his eyes from the doorway of the hut. Almost inaudibly he said. “We’ve got to get away. I’ve got to get out of here.”
“How?” she pleaded. “We can’t. There’s no way.”
“There must be. We’ve got to try. We can’t sit here waiting to die.”
“You look terrible,” said Brigit. “You’re alright aren’t you? Is there anything wrong?”
Teller looked at her then. She was still slumped in the corner and he could see the nylon cords on her arms and legs had obviously continued to burn into the soft flesh. There were vicious red wealds and scabs had formed where the blood had congealed in ridges. Her face was ashen, all colour drained away, smears marking her cheeks, the ugly residue of tears shed.
“I’m sorry,” he stammered. “I’m sorry, but I can’t stand this much longer. Trussed up ready to be shot. Unable to move. I’m aching all over and my lungs are ready to explode. Jesus what I’d give for a glass of water.” He stopped. “You must be worse. Are you alright?”
“I feel terrible,” she answered, “But what can we do? At least I had a sip from the tin.”
“When?”
“Last night. Remember? The water in that tin over there.”
Teller followed her look to the opposite corner. The tin, he could see only the letters AM remained on the torn paper label, was still perched against the walls.
“Where is he?” he asked.
“Outside. I can’t hear anything,” Brigit replied. “But it’ll probably do you no good. He most likely drank what was left himself. I don’t think he has any intention of giving you any. He wants you to suffer.”
Teller began pushing himself across the room. The awkward movement hurt but he grimaced and kept going until he sat not far from the tin. His breathing was heavy but even, no longer urgent. He listened for sounds and then eased himself around so he faced Brigit. Watching her steadily he reached behind him. As his fingers felt the empty tin there was a crack outside and he jerked upright. He waited. Then he quickly made his way over next to her. “Turn your back to me,” he said. “Lean against mine.”
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Just do it. Please.”
When she had he grabbed her wrists with one hand. Then he carefully placed the tin in her hands. “The rim is jagged, sharp,” he said softly. There was an impatience in his words. “Try to cut my ropes with it. Hack and slice. See if you can cut through.”
“Jason, if he comes in…”
“Hurry. Do it. We’ve got nothing to lose.”
It was difficult to manipulate the stubby tin. Her hands were bound tightly, allowing little manoeuvrability and even that was painful for her, the movements breaking the sensitive surface of her injuries causing them to start bleeding again. Not being able to see it was almost impossible to try to slice in the same position all the time and on numerous attempts the edge of the tin cut into Teller’s hands and wrists.
It took ten minutes to cut through. Her arms ached, she was drenched in sweat and Teller’s hands were sticky with blood. But finally he tugged and his hands came free. Quickly he untied his legs and stumbled across the room replacing the empty tin in the corner. He wiped the blood from his hands and arms on the seat of his trousers and sat down again.
“What are you going to do?” asked Brigit. “He’s still got the gun Jason. You can’t try to fight him.”
Teller began folding the nylon cord from his legs in loops and retied the ends into a triple knot. Then he laid it across his ankles and arranged it carefully so that on a cursory glance from a distance it could appear as though his ankles were still tightly bound.
“Untie me,” urged Brigit.
“Not yet,” he said. “You’re right about the gun. I have to try to take him when he’s not looking. Otherwise it wouldn’t work. We need to distract his attention and I think you will have to be the bait. So this is what I want you to do.”
Two minutes later Teller asked: “Can you do it? Do you think you can convince him?”
“I’ll have to. It’s the only way.”
“OK,” he said, “Let’s try. We’ve got nothing to lose.”
Teller leaned against the wall. “Help!” he cried. “Hey! Hey! Help!”
The Catskinner came to the doorway and looked in. Brigit was lying on her side, moaning and mumbling incoherently.
“Quickly,” said Teller. “She’s fainted. She’s sick. Get her some more water. Please, give her some more water.”
The Catskinner looked at her closely and then picked up the tin and returned outside. When he came back a few minutes later Teller could see the tin was full of brown murky water.
“Quick,” he pleaded. “Help her.”
The man knelt in front of Brigit’s body and tried to lift her head with one hand holding the tin in the other. She raised herself slightly and then slumped back to the floor. As the man tensed to support her Teller sprang from his position only paces away, lunging with all his remaining strength. His right fist crunched into the Catskinner’s skull behind and below his right ear. At the same time he drove his left fist into the base of his neck.
The Catskinner was propelled forward, the top of his head smashing into the concrete wall of the hut. As he toppled onto his side Teller groped for the .38 in his trousers’ waistband. He pulled it free and leapt back. Thrusting it in front of him, steadying it with both hands, he screamed: “Don’t move you bastard. I’ll blow your fucking head off.”
He need not have bothered. The Catskinner lay sprawled on the floor unconscious.
As the muddy water hit his face the Chinese spluttered and shook his head. His eyes opened and fixed on Teller standing three paces away, the revolver pointed directly at him. Brigit was standing some distance to the side, the tin still in her hand. The man put his hand to his head and looked at the pale blood stain as he withdrew it.
“Just stay where you are,” Teller commanded. “Do not move. If you do I will shoot you.” Teller stood aiming the weapon and Brigit moved further out of the way. Then Teller spoke again. “Now it’s our turn. You are going to pay for what you’ve done. But that’s too good for the likes of you. You should be made to suffer. Like you’ve made others suffer. And I’m going to see to it that you do, you animal.”
The Catskinner remained silent, never shifting his eyes from Teller. From behind Teller Brigit asked: “Are you going to tie him up Jason? Or what?”
“No,” said Teller. “We’re going to take the bastard to the police.” He kept his gaze steady on the killer. “Or, if he likes he can try something stupid and we can end it here. I don’t care any more.”
A smile grew on the Catskinner’s face. Placing his palms flat on the floor and shifting his weight onto them he challenged: “You don’t have the courage. You’ve never fired a gun at anyone in your life. You’re not about to shoot me now.”
The .38 did not waver. Teller’s mouth was a slit. “You’re right.” He said. “I haven’t. But go ahead. Try me.”
The Catskinner appeared to rise slightly. But he relaxed and once more touched his head. “When I choose.” His tone was no longer caustic. The words were measured. “We have quite a way to go. Quite a way. Quite some time.”
“It’ll be soon enough. You’ll see. Your time is all but run out.”
“Keep your eyes open Mr Teller. Stay awake. Keep alert. Don’t let the serious lack of sleep or the unstable state of your mind hinder you. Watch out Mr Teller. Watch very closely.”
“Thanks for the advice,” he shot back. But he knew the killer was right. He was tired. Utterly exhausted. And his nerves were on edge. He could feel every part of his body, like a nervous tingling spreading over the entire surface of the skin, itching, irritating, distracting. He would have to concentrate hard. The tendency to allow his mind and his limbs to wander would be strong. Already he could sense his eyes were troubling him. They felt as though sand had been ground into them. They were heavy like lead, sore and focussed for lengthy periods only when he forced them to. He was not sure how long he really could last.
“Underestimate me if you dare to,” he said, hoping he sounded calm. “It’s your life we are talking about now. I’m giving you a chance you never gave us. It’s up to you whether you want to stay alive a little longer. If not that’s certainly OK by me. What’s your decision? Do you want to die here?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” smiled the Catskinner. “I have no intention of dying here in this rotten little squatter hut. We’ll go if that’s what you wish. We’ll walk out of here.”
Teller raised the revolver to shoulder height and pointed it directly at the head of the man. “First you crawl,” he ordered. “On your hands and knees. Crawl to the door and outside. As soon as you are out, lie flat on the ground, your arms and legs spread as wide as you can. If you try anything I’ll put the first bullet up your arse. Now move.”
It was as though they had climbed out of a grave. The sunlight struck them fiercely and they had to squint until the blazing stars had all shot across their vision and skittled off to some other galaxy over their shoulders. A film of stinging salt solution replaced the shooting asterisks and they had to hastily wipe it away with their hands in order to see at all. It was precisely the reason Teller had insisted the killer crawl ahead of them and lie face down on the ground. He expected the effects of unfamiliar brightness to momentarily at least render them vulnerable. It was only for seconds but that could have been sufficient for the Catskinner who would not have been similarly struck to take advantage of them.
Swallowing in the clean fresh air they looked about them. Peng Chau seemed very close in the channel with Hong Kong Island in the distance also enticingly close by. Directly behind them, although they could not see it, they knew was the fresh water reservoir which served the residential resort of Discovery Bay. The community itself lay two kilometres to their left. About four kilometres in the other direction was Silvermine Bay, the main arrival and departure point for the Lantau Island ferry service. There was a Trappist monastery only fifteen minutes walk from the bay itself. On the other hand the going would be less trouble to Silvermine Bay, though it was twice the distance.
Teller selected Discovery Bay because of the monastery. There would be a telephone there. He could call for help and have it waiting by the time they walked into Discovery Bay proper. Maybe they could even make use of a vehicle to cover the final stage. On balance, north seemed the better direction to head.
“Get up,” he told the Catskinner. Five steps behind him and with the revolver aimed at the middle of his back he added: “Discovery Bay. We’re going there and I want you to remember I have the gun pointing right at you and I couldn’t miss. It won’t take much more than just a suspicion to pull the trigger.” As if to see if Teller was telling the truth the man looked down at the gun. Without expression he turned and began walking. “Not too fast,” said Teller. “That’s it. Nice and steady. We don’t want to lose you do we?”
It should take about an hour Teller reckoned to reach the monastery. Maybe thirty minutes more, but no longer. All going well they would be handing the killer over to the authorities by midday,
*
Periodically the Omelco Secretariat meets in the Secretary General’s office to analyse itself and find solutions to problems. It is a practice followed by most government departments.
At the Monday meeting the Clerk of Councils was also present. The reason for his attendance was that the main item on the agenda related to the coming Legislative Council sitting on the seventh.
“Mr Harbin,” said the Secretary General, “perhaps we can start off by you telling us what arrangements you have made or will be making for Wednesday.”
The Legislative Council building is Hong Kong’s parliament. It is a government building, therefore it is the Councils Branch which is responsible for its management, including security.
“Thank you,” said the Clerk of Councils. “First off, let me say that our principal objective is to protect your members. Whatever we have planned is to ensure that they come and go in safety. Beyond that there is not much we can do. Of course, we can’t have a body guard sitting beside each in the chamber itself. Not that for a moment do I think that would be necessary anyway.”
He smiled but the faces around him did not join him. “So,” he went on quickly, “our main efforts will be directed at controlling the points of access. Barriers will be erected on both sides of the building, that is on the Statue Square side and from Chater Garden. Also, we will be closing one of the usual entrances.”
Looks were exchanged but the Clerk of Councils was allowed to continue. “This is what will happen. Members’ and officials’ cars will come in the usual way, in front of Chater Garden. Barriers on that side will be double and manned. No-one but members and officials will be permitted access through that door. On the Statue Square side there will also be a double line of barriers. Again police will be there and there will be only one access point. Anyone trying to come in will be searched and will have to produce an ID and explain the reason for the visit.”
“Including our own staff?” broke in the Secretary General.
“Yes. All your staff will have to carry their ID badges. If they don’t they could, they will, find it hard to get back in. So that’s something for you to look into.”
The Assistant Secretary General was already writing in his notebook. He would draft a circular and have it distributed throughout the building as a matter of urgency.
“Once the visitor gets trough that check he will again be checked at the doorway of the building itself. Additional police will be on duty to search bags and so on and guests will have to sign in.”
“Is that necessary?” asked the Assistant Secretary General. “Why have two checkpoints?”
“The Commissioner of Police feels it is necessary. Personally I agree one should be enough but he is insistent. And the CS I believe has agreed. So there will be two checks.”
The Press Secretary actually raised his hand to speak. “The press are going to have to use that entrance too, so we’re going to have a bit of a mess I feel. Is it intended that they be searched also?”
“Yes.” The Clerk of Councils again tried his wan smile. “Everyone coming in will be treated the same. There will be no exception. I’m afraid that means you also.”
“That’s fair enough,” he replied. “I’m just alerting you that by two fifteen we’re going to have a queue out along the concourse. In PR terms it is going to look …. well let’s just say there is a down side to this too. And if anything gets out of hand it is all going to be in full view of the public and with TV cameras rolling.”
“We’re aware of that,” said the man from the Councils Branch. “But there is no alternative. The Superintendent from waterfront Division has assured me there will be adequate police on duty.”
“What about inside the building?” asked the Secretary General. “Anything there?”
“Not overtly.”
“What does that mean?”
“There will be no uniformed police above the ground floor. However, I understand there will be Special Branch officers on the first floor. That is, around the chamber and anti-chamber, and near the Governor’s office.”
“All with their little coloured lapel pins to identify them no doubt,” the Press Secretary commented. Nobody said anything.
“What else?” asked the Secretary General.
The Clerk checked his clipboard. “That is about it. Just to stress again that all the measures being taken are designed to prevent unwanted persons gaining access to the building, rather than reacting to anything that could happen once inside.”
“And if they do get in? What then?”
“They won’t. Everyone concerned is confident that with this strict security only bona fide visitors and those who are supposed to be here will get through.”
“I hope you’re right,” the Secretary General said. He looked around the group. “Has anyone got anything else for Mr Harbin?” There was a shaking of heads. The Clerk stood up. “Besides,” he said, almost as an after thought, “this is all just in case. It will probably turn out to be unnecessary. A good training exercise though.”
“Again,” said the Secretary General, “I hope you’re right. Let’s hope that a stop is put to whatever is going on out there. Hong Kong doesn’t need any of this. Not now.”
*
“I don’t care how you do it or what you have to do. But find them.” The Commissioner of Police was seated at the head of the long table in the conference room on the fifth floor of Police Headquarters in Wanchai. Six other officers, the most senior in the force, faced him from both sides.
They included the Deputy Commissioner Operations and the Deputy Commissioner Management. Next to them were the Director of Operations and the Director of Special Branch and the Police Administration Officer and the Chief Staff Officer Public Relations. Another four officers, while not present were waiting nearby to hear the outcome of the meeting. The results would be passed onto them immediately for their action.
The Deputy Directors of Support, Crime, Operations and Special Branch were standing by in a adjacent waiting room for their superiors to emerge or to be called to be quizzed on the lack on information so far. They had already had a bad morning and fully expected the heat to be turned up. As experienced officers in a highly disciplined service they accepted they were expected to produce results. So far they had not.
Despite the combined efforts of thousands under their control they had failed to do what they had been assigned to do. They acknowledged that that was not acceptable. It simply would not do. But what could they do? All stops had been pulled out. Every available man and woman had been put on the case. It was the biggest manhunt ever. Every haunt had been identified and searched, every lead checked, every possible contact questioned and requestioned. Still they came to a dead end.
The journalist and the woman had disappeared without a trace and the so-called Catskinner was still no more than a shadowy fear. He remained featureless, without physical substance. It was as though none of them existed anymore.
“It began here in Wanchai,” said the Commissioner. “So close that if we we’d been watching from these windows we could have seen it happening.” He looked at the men before him. “I want it to end here also. I don’t want it to reach Central, the Legislative Council building. I want to stop it before that. We have to. We’ve got two more days. Only two days. So unless anyone has anything to add we’d better all get on with it.”
There was nothing more they could say.
“Right then” concluded the Commissioner. “This meeting is closed.”
*
The eastern side of Lantau Island gets its fair share of battering from the elements. Though typhoons seldom attack from that direction the terrain looks as if it has suffered long and often. It gives the impression of having never really been given a chance to get going. As if once it did make a start a suffocating cloak had been thrown over it until it choked. Then it was lifted so it could make another attempt only to be prevented once more. And so on through eternity. Until it now looked as though it had given up the ghost.
It seemed always to be dry. Water drained away with unnatural speed given the rocky terrain. Plant life aspired to nowhere near its full potential and was never lush, but always brown and stunted. Indeed, the ghosts were the only ones suited to it. It was not suited to life, but it was to death.
The fung shui was apparently good, because the hillside was dotted with grave sites. One could not walk twenty meters without coming across a half moon shaped burial site built into the earth with a high concrete backing impregnated with a plaque bearing details of the lucky soul put to rest there. Some were large, measuring easily two meters across while others were large enough to step across without disturbing the peace of the inhabitant.
None ever had flowers and all were overgrown. Maybe even the souls had given up. Loved ones left behind certainly had. Except for once a year when Chinese tradition demanded the graves be swept clean, but that was around the Christian Easter, so in October the plots and any hardy souls still in limbo were left to fend for themselves.
Teller well understood and did not expect to cross the path of anyone. At least no-one alive. He had the feeling of being in one of the most remote parts of the territory. Fishing junks and sampans and ferries and hydrofoils plied the channel and deeper waters, and in the distance the shapes of huge container ships could also be seen. However, it was the exposure of the hillside that somehow made him feel very vulnerable. If anything did happen there would be no-one to help. Later that would change as they descended into the small valleys where the monastery and farmlets nestled, but until then they were quite alone.
The Catskinner was made to walk about five paces ahead of him with Brigit close behind. He could not allow the gap to widen as they would shortly be enterin