Typhoon (2008) Page 9

  Only when he was at the door, waiting for Lee to respond to his four short bursts on the buzzer, did Joe remember that he had switched off his phone the night before. As he waited on the steps of the building, the machine burst into life. The read-out said: “FORGET ABOUT TOMORROW. CHANGE OF PLAN. GO TO WORK AS NORMAL. KL” and Joe felt all the tiredness of a night without sleep catching up with him. It was too early in the morning for an anti-climax.

  Lee’s surprised, groggy voice crackled on the intercom.

  “Who is this please?”

  “It’s John.”

  It took some time before Lee finally buzzed Joe inside. He looked unusually anxious when he opened the door to greet him. His forehead was creased with worry lines and he was breathing quickly, as if he, and not Mr. Richards, had just climbed four flights of humid stairs.

  “You forget something?” he asked. Nor was this Lee’s typical greeting. He was usually more deferential, keen to smile and make a good first impression. There were windows open throughout the flat and Joe sensed immediately that Wang, Sadha and Lenan had all left. He briefly entertained the wild notion that he had caught Lee with a girl in the back bedroom. He certainly looked not to have slept.

  “No, I didn’t forget anything,” he said. “Is everything all right, Lee?”

  “Everything fine.”

  Joe moved past him into the kitchen and saw that the bedroom was empty. “I just got the message,” he said. “I’ve made a wasted journey. Mr. Lodge told me not to come. Where the hell is everybody?”

  “They went home,” Lee replied uneasily.

  “What do you mean, they went home?”

  “Leave at five. Mr. Wang go with them.”

  “Mr. Wang doesn’t have a home.”

  This remark seemed to confuse Lee, who looked like an actor struggling to remember his lines. For want of something to say, he muttered, “I really don’t know,” an evasion which irritated Joe. He was beginning to suspect that he was being lied to.

  “You don’t know what?”

  “What, Mr. Richards? I think they take Mr. Wang somewhere else. I think they leave at five o’clock.”

  “You think?”

  Lee looked ever more sheepish. He clearly didn’t know whether to tell Joe what had happened or to obey orders and keep his mouth shut.

  “What about Sadha?” he asked. “What happened to Sadha?”

  “Sadha go with them.”

  “With who?”

  “With Mr. Lodge and Mr. Coleman. They take the professor north.”

  Joe had been passing through the red plastic strip curtains on his way into the sitting room but the shock of this information spun him round. Malcolm Coleman was one of Miles’s cover names.

  “The Americans were here?”

  Lee looked embarrassed, because he had uttered a secret which it was now too late to retract. His head shook very quickly, like a shiver passing through him, but his decent eyes betrayed the truth. Joe felt pity for him as Lee said, “You did not know this, Mr. Richards?”

  “No, Lee, I did not know this. How long was Coleman here for?”

  Lee sat down on the chair in the hall and disclosed that Miles had arrived shortly after 3 a.m. Only moments, in other words, after Joe had left the building himself. Had he been waiting outside?

  “Why didn’t Coleman come up with Mr. Lodge?” he asked. “Why didn’t they say something to me?”

  Lee shrugged his shoulders. It was a mystery as much to him as it was to Joe. “We were in the bedroom,” he said, as if that absolved him of all responsibility. “I was in the bedroom with Sadha.”

  Joe had known moments like this before, moments when he, as the junior spook, had been kept out of the loop by his professional masters. It was as if Waterfield and Lenan, in spite of everything that he had already achieved in his short career, still did not trust him to sit at the top table with older and wiser souls. Why were they so cautious? Everything in SIS was a club; everything was “need to know,” “expediency” and “restricted access.” But what were they concealing from him? Why would Lenan send a message to Joe telling him to “forget about” Wang and then conspire with the CIA to have him moved to a new location?

  “Have you got a number where I can reach Lodge?” he asked.

  Lee immediately stood up and produced a card from the pocket of his shirt. He smiled as he handed it over, relieved of his duty to lie on Lenan’s behalf. It was a cellphone with a Taiwanese prefix. Joe didn’t recognize the rest of the number but dialled it anyway, using the phone by the door.

  A message system clicked in and he was aware of the need to speak carefully on what might be an open line.

  “Hi. It’s me. I’m at the flat. I only got your text this morning, when I was already here. Just wondering what the story is. Just wondering what’s going on. Any chance you could call me?”

  Lee looked intently at Joe as he hung up, like a relative in a hospital anticipating bad news. Lenan rang back within a minute.

  “Joe?”

  “Speaking.”

  “You say you’re at the flat?”

  It was impossible to tell where Lenan was calling from. The tone of his voice suggested that he was both annoyed and slightly disconcerted.

  “Yes, I’m here with Lee. I didn’t get your page until-“

  “No, obviously you didn’t.” Lenan was not known for outbursts of temper; rather, he preferred to imply his displeasure with a gesture or carefully chosen phrase. “Why did you switch it off?” he asked, with the clear suggestion that Joe had acted unprofessionally.

  “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking at the time. I didn’t want to wake Isabella.”

  “I see.”

  That was a mistake. He shouldn’t have mentioned Isabella. The Office still weren’t happy about their relationship. They wanted it put on a more formal footing.

  “Anyway, I’m here now and Lee says you took off with Wang at five o’clock. He also said that Malcolm Coleman was here.” Lee, listening in, took a deep, chest-inflating breath.

  “Lee said that?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Why had Joe bothered to call him “sir?” He never called anyone “sir.” In his relationship with Waterfield, whom he regarded as something of a father figure, there was respect and understanding, but also a quality of candour which allowed Joe to relax and speak his mind. The more guarded, watchful Lenan, on the other hand, was a different proposition: he brought out something deferential in Joe, who could never escape a feeling of slight nervousness, even of intellectual inferiority, in his company.

  “Well, as you know, the Cousins have ears on the safe house.” Joe sensed that this was already more information than Lenan had been prepared to divulge. Restricted access. Expediency. Need to know. “Somebody at the consulate was listening in. They contacted Miles. Reckoned they’d run into Wang before.”

  “Run into him before?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And had they?”

  Lenan reacted as if Joe was asking dull, obvious questions to which there were dull, obvious answers. “Yes.” Then it sounded as if the line had gone dead.

  “Hello?”

  “I’m still here.”

  “I’m sorry, you said Wang had been to Hong Kong before? You’re saying the Cousins had a file on him?”

  “That is what I am saying, Joe, yes.”

  Don’t patronize me, you prick. Why should I have to keep pressing you for information? Why is one of my own colleagues blatantly lying to me?

  “And?”

  Lenan dropped the bad news. “Well, the conclusion that Miles and I arrived at pretty quickly is that Professor Wang was MSS. So we spat him back this morning.”

  Joe was stunned. It simply didn’t make sense that the man he had interrogated less than eight hours earlier was a Chinese double. Wang Kaixuan may have been many things—a smooth-talker, a liar, a sentimentalist—but he was surely not an agent provocateur.

  “Well, I have to say that
I’m amazed by that. It certainly wasn’t my instinct when I spoke to him.”

  “No. It wasn’t. We might have to chalk that one up to experience.”

  The implied criticism was clear: Joe had fallen for a basic Chinese deception. All of which would reflect badly on his reputation within the Office. It was a body blow.

  “So he’s already back in China?”

  “Dropped him off in Lo Wu this morning.”

  14

  SAMBA’S

  When Miles Coolidge wanted to avoid awkward conversations he adopted a number of different tactics: meetings cancelled at the last minute; phone calls ignored for days on end; letters and emails left stubbornly unanswered. If it wasn’t in his best interests to tackle a problem, he would leave that problem unresolved. So when Joe walked into Samba’s at nine o’clock that evening and spotted Miles at the crowded bar surrounded by a seven-strong group of his American consulate co-workers, he saw it not as a happy accident of the diplomatic life in Hong Kong, but as a deliberate delaying tactic to prevent any serious discussion of Wang. They had agreed to meet alone. Miles was playing games.

  “Joe!”

  One of the girls from the consulate—Sharon from the Commercial Section—had spotted Joe coming through the door. Her greeting had a ripple effect on the rest of the party and those who knew him broke off from their conversations to acknowledge his arrival.

  “Hey, man, great to see you again.”

  “It’s Joe, right?”

  “How’s the shipping business?”

  Miles was the last to turn round. Resplendent in a lime-green Hawaiian shirt, he removed a tanned, muscular arm from the shoulder of a Chinese woman at the bar and moved a couple of steps forward to shake Joe by the hand. His impassive eyes said nothing about their broken arrangement; there was no apology in them, no embarrassment or regret. If anything, Joe sensed a certain triumph in Miles’s expression, as if he was actually glad to be wasting his time. Joe knew that it was useless to complain. Any formal expression of his frustration would simply play into Miles’s hands. The trick was to stay the course, to act as though nothing had happened, then to corner him at the end of the evening when everyone else had gone home.

  To that end Joe ordered a round of drinks—eight bottles of beer, eights shots of tequila—and went to work on the crowd. He was a genius with names and faces. He remembered that Sharon had a brother in the US navy who was currently serving in Singapore. He reminded Chris, a gay African-American who worked in the Culture Section, that he still owed him a hundred dollars for a bet they’d had about Chelsea Clinton. When Barbara and Dave Boyle from Visas came over and complained that Joe was a “bad influence” for plying them with drink, he bought them two more tequilas and asked fascinated questions about their recent wedding in North Carolina. Meanwhile Miles, who was attempting to seduce an Australian backpacker near the cigarette machine, occasionally looked over in Joe’s direction as if surprised to see him still there. The clincher was the backpacker’s departure at eleven o’clock. Claiming the sudden onset of a migraine headache, she climbed into a cab with Barbara and Dave and took off down Lockhart Road. With a belly full of alcohol and a wounded ego, Miles was left with nobody to play with. Joe was the obvious target.

  “So how’s Isabella?” he asked. He had eaten garlic for dinner and the smell of it on his breath cut through the smoke and the sweat of the bar.

  “You tell me.”

  Miles seemed to take this as a compliment. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You were the last person to talk to her. When I got home last night she was asleep. When I left this morning she was asleep.”

  “And where is she now?”

  Joe looked at his watch. “Asleep.”

  One by one, the consulate crowd departed until Chris was the last of them. At around half-past eleven he spotted a vacant table at the window overlooking Lockhart Road and ordered another round of drinks. Joe was keen to get Miles alone but could see that Chris was gearing up for a long night out on the tiles. Realizing that he would have to resort to a lie, he waited for Miles to go to the bathroom, then slumped down at the table with deliberate exaggeration and played what was, in the circumstances, his only viable card.

  “Thank God for that.”

  “What do you mean?” Chris asked.

  “I’ve been trying to have a serious conversation with Miles all night. It was impossible to pin him down with everybody here.”

  Chris was a sensitive soul and would soon pick up on the signals. “Talk to him about what?”

  Joe opened a packet of cigarettes. He made a point of crushing the cellophane wrapper nervously in his hand and let out a stagey sigh.

  “Can I tell you something in confidence?”

  “Sure.” Chris’s gentle, attentive face was quickly filled with concern. “What’s up, man?”

  “I’ve got a bit of a problem at Heppner’s. A serious problem. I called Miles about it earlier today and he said he’d be able to help. We arranged to meet for this drink but with everything that’s been going on I haven’t been able to talk to him.”

  “Shit.” Chris looked genuinely crestfallen. “Anything I can do to help?”

  “That’s really good of you, but I’m afraid Miles is the only person who can do anything at this stage. Apparently he knows somebody in logistics in San Diego who’s the one guy that might be able to solve things. But I have to catch a flight to Seoul at eight tomorrow morning and this needs to be sorted before then.” Joe looked up at a clock on the wall, then at his watch. “It’s still the late afternoon in California …”

  Chris interrupted him. “Listen, man, if you need some privacy to talk things over with Miles …”

  “No, no, that wasn’t what I meant. Sorry, I didn’t mean to imply …”

  “You didn’t imply anything.” Chris was in his late thirties, a decent, obliging “soul,” and he adopted an expression of infinite wisdom and understanding in the presence of the younger man. “You got a tough job, Joe, and-“

  “No, no, please don’t worry. We can do it later.”

  “-and I’d like to help you out.” Chris laid a firm, understanding hand on Joe’s arm and gave it a meaningful squeeze. “You don’t wanna be sitting here listening to me all night when you’ve got this shit preying on your mind. And you’re right. Miles is exactly the guy you should be talking to. That man is unbelievable.” He stalled a little here, as if unsure whether Joe was aware that Miles was CIA. “I can see how frustrated you are and I totally understand. In any case, I could do with an early night. When he gets back I’ll finish my beer and slip away.”

  Joe, who was certainly not above using his looks to gain an advantage in such a situation, whispered, “That is very kind of you, Chris, thank you so much,” and offered up what might have been construed as a flirtatious smile. Then they both spotted Miles returning from the bathroom. Joe calculated that Chris would be gone in under fifteen minutes.

  It took ten. He smoked one of Joe’s cigarettes, drained his Michelob, then stood up from the table and announced that he was heading for home.

  “You sure, man?” Miles asked. There was neither concern nor particular surprise in the question.

  “I’m sure. I’ve got an early start tomorrow. You guys be good. Take care now.”

  Joe rose to his feet.

  “Thanks,” he mouthed as Miles bent down to pick up a fallen beer mat. Chris gave a second airing to his expression of infinite wisdom and understanding and whispered the word “Pleasure” back. After handshakes all round, Chris left a hundred-dollar tip on the table and disappeared into the crowds of Wan Chai.

  “What got into him?” Miles was fingering the hundred-dollar note, as if weighing up whether or not to steal it. “I go to the bathroom, I come back, suddenly he wants to leave.”

  “Search me.”

  “Did you arrange for him to take off, Joe? Did you want me all to yourself?”

  Joe smiled as the chorus of “With o
r Without You” played loud on the Samba’s sound system. They were sitting opposite one another at the table, drunk blondes from England singing at the bar. “If you play games with me,” he said, “I’m obliged to play games with you.”

  Miles looked away. “Noisy in here,” he said. Their relationship was frequently a sparring match in which neither side was prepared to concede ground or admit to weakness. Isabella once compared them to a couple of alpha-male gorillas grappling it out in the eastern Congo, which may have been hard on Joe, but was certainly a compliment as far as Miles was concerned. Their mutual bravado concealed a deep affection, but it saddens me to look back and realize that any loyalty between them was strictly oneway traffic.

  “So you wanted to know about Wang?” Miles said finally.

  “Yes. I want to know about Wang.”

  “Why didn’t you just ask Kenneth?”

  “I did. And now I’m asking you.”

  Samba’s is the sort of place where expats gather to drink in the evening before moving on to dinner or a nightclub in Lan Kwai Fong. It is always packed and always noisy and, with the music as a constant smothering background, there is little danger of conversations being overheard. Nevertheless Miles lowered his voice as he said, “I’m prepared to tell you anything you want.” The lime-green Hawaiian shirt glowed against the dull red upholstery of his chair, sculpting gym-toughened shoulders into slabs of power. Very few men in Hong Kong could have worn that shirt and not looked ridiculous. “You look a little pissed, Joe,” he said. “Everything OK?”