Fan Yung-ching, the former prison cook, was a wizened, dried-out old man, tissue-paper skin stretched over the bones of his face and hands, making him almost doll-like. A very ugly doll, thought Charlie.
The man crouched rather than sat on the other side of the interview bench, skeletal hands across his stomach as if he were in physical pain. Which he probably was. Fear leaked from him, souring the room with his smell. Soon, decided Charlie, the man would wet himself. Charlie had been in many rooms, confronting many men as frightened as this. Always, at some stage, their bladders went. He hoped that was the only collapse. Often it wasn’t.
It was a small, box-shaped chamber, crowded because of the number of people who had to be present.
The interpreter who would translate Charlie’s questions was immediately to his left, arms upon the table, waiting with a notepad before him. Behind, at a narrow bench, sat Chiu Ching-mao. With him was the official from the legal section of the British embassy.
Geoffrey Hodgson, the man had introduced himself. Typical diplomat-lawyer posted because of an ability with languages.
Charlie looked at the lawyer and Hodgson smiled hopefully, just as he’d smiled when he confirmed in unwitting conversation the ambassador’s former posting to Prague.
‘Expects you at the embassy after the interview,’ Hodgson had said.
No escape then.
It would have been four years, Charlie calculated. And not more than three hours together. The man would have encountered thousands of people in that time. And would not know the outcome of Charlie’s visit to Czechoslovakia anyway, because of the embarrassment to the department.
Scarce reason to remember him. Wrong to panic then. Pointless anyway. At least he knew in advance. It gave him a slight advantage: too slight.
Charlie continued his examination of the room. At a third table sat two bilingual notetakers, tape-recording machines between them.
As efficiently organised as everything else, decided Charlie.
‘Shall we start?’ he said.
‘There should be an oath, if the man has a religion,’ warned Hodgson.
Fan shook his head to the interpreter’s question.
‘An affirmation, at least,’ insisted Hodgson. It was an unusual situation and he didn’t want any mistakes.
‘He understands,’ said the interpreter.
The man paused as one of the notetakers made an adjustment to the recorder, then quoted the undertaking to the old man. Haltingly, eyes locked on to the table in front of him, Fan repeated his promise that the statement would be the truth. He was wiping one hand over the other in tiny washing movements. He was too frightened to lie, Charlie knew.
The affirmation over, Fan hurriedly talked on, bobbing his hand in fawning, pleading motions.
‘He begs forgiveness,’ said the interpreter. ‘He says he was forced to do what he did… that he did not know it was a poison he was introducing into the men’s food. He was told that it was a substance merely to make them ill, to cause a delay to the trial…’
It was going to be more disjointed than he had expected, realised Charlie. He turned to Hodgson.
‘Would there be any difficulty about admissibility if the transcript is shown to be a series of questions and answers?’
The British lawyer pursed his lips doubtfully.
‘Shouldn’t be,’ he said, ‘providing that it couldn’t be argued that the questions were too leading. You must not suggest the answers you want.’
Charlie turned back to the cook.
‘Does he know the man who gave him the substance?’
‘The same man who threatened me,’ replied Fan, through the interpreter.
‘What is his name?’
‘Johnny Lu.’
Charlie reached into his briefcase, bringing out one of the many photographs of the millionaire’s son it had been automatic for him to bring. It had been taken at the press conference just after the liner sailed from New York and showed the man next to his father.
‘This man?’ he asked.
Fan squinted at the picture.
‘Yes,’ he said finally.
Charlie looked towards the recorders.
‘Can the transcript show he has identified a picture of John Lu taken aboard the Pride of America,’ he requested formally.
The proof, Charlie thought. The proof that Johnson had demanded. And which would save Willoughby. What, he wondered, would save him?
‘Why did he threaten you?’ he said, coming back to the old man.
‘I owed money… money I had lost at mah-jong. I did not have it…’
‘What was the threat?’
‘That he would have me hurt… badly hurt.’
‘Tell me what he said.’
‘That if I put what he gave me into their food, he would not let me be hurt… that it would cancel my debt.’
‘Were you at any time told what to do by anyone representing the government of China?’
Fan looked hurriedly to the interpreter and then across at Chiu, to whom the other Chinese in the room had been constantly deferent.
He shook his head.
‘You must reply,’ insisted Charlie.
‘No,’ said Fan.
‘What about the men who died… those accused of causing the fire?’
It was a remote chance, but worth trying.
‘I do not know,’ said Fan.
‘Did they gamble?’ pressed Charlie.
Fan nodded. ‘Sometimes with me.’
‘Be careful,’ interrupted Hodgson, from the side. ‘If just one section is challenged, it could have the effect of casting doubt on the whole statement.’
‘Did they win or lose?’ Charlie asked the Chinese, nodding his acceptance of the lawyer’s warning.
‘Sometimes win. Sometimes lose,’ said Fan, unhelpfully.
‘Did John Lu cancel your debt?’
‘He told me to go to him to get a paper. But I did not.’
‘Why?’
‘I was frightened I would get killed. I ran away.’
Fan gave an involuntary shudder and a different smell permeated the room. He’d been right, realised Charlie. It always happened.
‘What did John Lu say would happen to the men who had caused the fire?’
‘Just that they would become ill… nothing more.’
‘Why did he want that?’
‘He said it would get into the newspapers… that it was important.’
‘Why?’
‘I do not know.’
Charlie wanted nothing more from the man. It had seemed ridiculously easy. But the rest of the day wasn’t going to be.
He sat back, looking to Chiu.
‘Thank you,’ he said.
‘That is all?’
The Foreign Ministry official appeared surprised.
‘It is enough,’ Charlie assured him.
‘Much trouble has been taken,’ said Chiu. ‘A mistake would be unfortunate.’
‘To go on might create just such a mistake,’ said Charlie, looking to Hodgson for support.
The lawyer nodded agreement.
‘You came pretty close on one or two occasions as it was,’ he said.
‘How long will it take to notarise this statement?’ asked Charlie.
‘Fifteen minutes,’ said Hodgson. ‘Won’t take much longer to prepare it, either, I wouldn’t think.’
Charlie came back to Chiu.
‘So I could return to Hong Kong first thing tomorrow?’ he said. He had to limit his stay in Peking to the minimum, he had decided. Even if he identified him, Collins would have no reason to attempt his detention. The risk was in querying his presence with London. And by the time that was answered, he could be clear of Hong Kong. Running again.
Chiu was still unhappy with the brevity of the account, Charlie knew.
‘If you wish,’ said the Chinese, stiffly.
He did wish, thought Charlie. It wasn’t just the new danger of the ambassador. He shouldn’t forget the curiosity of Harvey Jones. At least he could escape that now. One problem replaced by another.
Charlie turned to the trembling figure sitting opposite. Fan still gazed steadfastly down at the table, not realising the questioning was over.
People who bring disgrace to China never go unpunished, Chiu had said. Hardly surprising the poor bastard had pissed himself.
‘Will you tell him I am grateful?’ Charlie asked the interpreter. ‘He has been of great assistance.’
Fan stared up at the translation. Even he was bewildered that it was over so quickly.
Charlie rose, ending the interview.
‘Right,’ said Hodgson briskly. ‘Let’s get along to the embassy, shall we?’
First, thought Charlie, he’d need a toilet.
‘Quite the most unusual city to which I’ve ever been,’ volunteered the lawyer, in the car taking them to the embassy.
‘Yes,’ said Charlie. It didn’t appear to have a centre. Rather, it was sprawl upon sprawl of squares.
‘Do you know that underneath all the buildings and offices there are nuclear shelters?’ said Hodgson.
‘No.’
‘It’s a fact,’ insisted the lawyer. ‘The Chinese are paranoid about an attack from Russia. They reckon they can clear the entire city in fifteen minutes.’
That’s what he needed, mused Charlie. A bomb-proof hole in the ground to which he could run at the first sign of danger.
‘We’ve arrived,’ announced Hodgson.
To what? wondered Charlie. Despite his preparedness, he still faltered at the entrance to the ambassador’s study, knowing as he did so that the reaction would look strange but momentarily unable to control the urge to turn and run.
‘Come in, come in,’ encouraged the ambassador. ‘Not often we get visitors from home. And under such strange circumstances.’
Collins had altered very little, Charlie decided. Not physically, anyway. He continued into the room, taking the outstretched hand. The man’s face remained blank. Please God let it stay that way, prayed Charlie.
‘Sherry?’ fussed Collins, indicating the decanter.
‘Thank you,’ accepted Charlie. Not more than three hours, he thought again. How good was the man’s memory?
‘Astonishing business, this fire,’ said Collins, offering Charlie the glass.
‘Very.’
The man’s manner had changed since their last meeting, even if his appearance hadn’t. He was more polished than he had been in Prague: showed more confidence. But it would only be surface change, guessed Charlie. Still be a prissy sod.
‘The Chinese chap made a full confession, did he?’
‘Full enough,’ said Charlie. ‘It will be enough for us to challenge Lu’s claim in the High Court.’
‘Have to make a report to London about it,’ said the ambassador, as if the idea had just occurred to him.
‘Of course,’ said Charlie uneasily. ‘I understand the Hong Kong police have asked officially for assistance.’
Collins nodded.
‘No reply yet to my Note,’ he said.
He suddenly put his head to one side:
‘Have we met before?’
Charlie brought the sherry glass to his lips, knowing an immediate reply would have been impossible for him.
‘Met before?’ he echoed dismissively. ‘I don’t think so. Not often I take sherry with a British ambassador.’
At least the strain didn’t sound in his voice. Sweat was flooding his back, smearing his shirt to him.
Collins laughed politely.
‘Odd feeling there’s been another occasion,’ he insisted.
‘There must be so many people,’ said Charlie.
‘Quite,’ agreed Collins.
‘Do you anticipate the authorities will send the cook back?’ said Charlie, trying to move the man on.
‘They helped you,’ pointed out the diplomat.
‘But only to obtain a statement. I gather they feel to turn the man over to the Hong Kong police would be establishing a precedent for any future cases. And they are unwilling to make such a sweeping commitment.’
‘Quite,’ said Collins again.
The ambassador was still examining him curiously.
‘And as far as they are concerned, a High Court challenge will be as good as any criminal court proceedings,’ said Charlie.
‘Ever been to Lagos?’ blurted Collins, snapping his fingers in imagined recollection.
‘Never,’ said Charlie. The perspiration would be visible on his face, he knew. And the room was really quite cold.
Collins moved his head doubtfully at the rejection.
‘Usually got a good eye for faces,’ he apologised.
‘I’d have remembered,’ said Charlie.
‘Quite,’ said Collins.
Since their last meeting, the man had affected an irritating air of studied vagueness, thought Charlie.
‘How long you staying in Peking?’
‘I’ve got what I came for,’ said Charlie. ‘I’m leaving as early as possible tomorrow morning.’
‘Oh,’ said Collins, in apparent disappointment. ‘Going to invite you to dinner tomorrow evening. As I said, not often we get visitors from home.’
‘Very kind,’ Charlie thanked him, ‘but we’ve got to file an answer in the London courts as soon as possible.’
‘Quite.’
Just a stupid mannerism? wondered Charlie. Or the thoughtless use of a favourite word, to feign interest while he tried to recall their other meeting?
‘Stockholm?’ tried Collins, gesturing with his finger.
Charlie shook his head.
‘Never been there,’ he said. The man would persist, Charlie knew. He looked the sort of person who played postal chess and did crossword puzzles, enjoying little challenges.
Charlie looked obviously at his watch.
‘I’ve a four o’clock appointment at the Foreign Ministry with Mr Chiu,’ he improvised. He hadn’t and there was a danger of the ambassador’s discovering the lie. But it was the best escape he could manage. And there was an even greater danger in continuing this conversation.
‘I’ll check with Hodgson,’ said Collins, taking the hint.
He spoke briefly into the internal telephone, smiling over at Charlie as he replaced the receiver.
‘All done,’ he said.
Almost immediately there was a movement from behind and the lawyer entered at the ambassador’s call, carrying a file of documents.
‘The Chinese original,’ he said, holding out the papers, ‘and a British translation. Both notarised by me and witnessed by the First Secretary. I’ve also annotated the identified photograph and sworn a statement that it was the one seen by the man.’
‘You’ve been very kind,’ said Charlie, including the ambassador in the thanks.
‘That’s what we’re here for,’ replied Collins, rising with Charlie.
The ambassador walked with him to the study door. Charlie was aware of his attention.
‘Amazing,’ said the ambassador, when they reached the hallway. ‘Just can’t lose the feeling that I know you from somewhere.’
‘Thank you again,’ said Charlie.
‘Sure about tomorrow night?’
‘Quite sure. I’m sorry.’
Charlie hesitated immediately outside the embassy buildings. He was trembling. Almost noticeably so. He straightened his arms against his sides, trying to control the emotion. After his discovery at Sir Archibald’s vault, when he had realised they were chasing him, there had been times when he had felt helplessly trapped in a contracting room, with the walls and ceiling slowly closing in upon him. It had been frightening, claustrophobic. For a long time he had not encountered it. But it was very strong now.
‘Well?’ demanded Clarissa Willoughby.
‘I’ll have to make the statement soon,’ admitted the underwriter.
‘Even before you finally hear from Hong Kong?’
‘It’s a criminal offence knowingly to go on trading without funds to meet your obligations,’ said Willoughby.
‘Criminal!’
‘Yes.’
‘Christ, I couldn’t stand you appearing in court as well.’
‘I didn’t think you intended to stand anything.’
‘I don’t,’ said the woman.
‘Where are you going?’
‘I haven’t made up my mind. Does it matter?’
‘I suppose not.’
‘I feel very sorry for you, Rupert. I really do.’
She spoke in the manner of a person discovering that a friend’s pet was having to be put down, thought the underwriter.
‘Thank you. When do you intend to leave?’
‘End of the week, I suppose,’ said the woman.
She smiled.
‘You really are being remarkably civilised,’ she said.
‘Isn’t that what we’ve always been?’ he said, the bitterness showing for the first time. ‘Remarkably civilised.’
‘If it confirms Lu’s involvement with the fire, then surely it’s enough? For our purpose, anyway,’ said the chairman.
‘I suppose so,’ said Chiu.
‘What else is there?’
Chiu shrugged.
‘You’re right,’ he agreed.
‘And on behalf of the council, I would like to thank you,’ said the chairman formally.
Chiu smiled, gratefully.
‘The statement still has to be put to its proper use,’ he reminded them.
‘I don’t think we should worry about that, do you?’
‘I hope not.’