John Burdett - The Last Six Million Seconds

The walls were mostly mirrors too; ten thousand Chans watched ten thousand Chans draw up a chair, put his feet on the end of the bed and wait.

He saw that the room was one half of a double room, divided by a folding screen (with mirrors) that reached from wall to wall and floor to ceiling. On the other side of the screen, Kan’s unusual security arrangements were causing trouble.

“Ouch! Stop it”-Kan’s voice.

“Son of a bitch.”

“Ouch, will you tell her to stop pinching me?”

“Of course she’s pinching you. We told you, a thousand dollars each.”

“And I told you, I’m here on business. It’s a big deal; I’ll have the money early next week.”

“So why hire two girls if it’s business?”

“Front. It’s a secret international deal. You wouldn’t understand.”

“So why did you make us take our clothes off?”

Silence, followed by a snort. “A man gets curious. I didn’t do anything, did I?”

“Maybe you’re queer.”

“Don’t say that. I’ll get angry. And if that little bitch pinches me again, I’m going to hit her.”

“You hit her, I’ll scream. This place has triad protection.”

“Which triad?”

“14K.”

“Shit, that’s all I need. Look, here’s fifteen hundred dollars. It’s all I’ve got. I’ll give you the rest next week.”

“Fuck your mother. Better use the rest to get your nose fixed.”

“What’s wrong with my nose?”

“It doesn’t work properly; you keep sniffing.”

“Don’t get personal.”

“Don’t get personal? You saw my pussy, didn’t you? That’s personal.”

“Just get out of here.”

Sound of a zip being fastened, door opening and slamming.

Feet up, Chan reflected that the life of an underworld playboy was not all milk and honey. He lit a cigarette while Kan grappled with the divider. Slowly the triad emerged, shoulder to the screen, forcing it back on protesting rollers to reveal a room identical to the one Chan was in. Sweat had stained the golden silk of his shirt, and a severe red pinch mark discolored one cheek; otherwise the killer appeared unruffled, even smug.

“You hear all that?”

“Just the odd word.”

“Two women-it’s not easy.”

“I don’t know how you do it.”

Kan grinned and took out a comb. A thousand Kans checked jet black coiffure, rescued a stray hair, made sure their pants fell properly at the back, hitched their Gucci belts, hoicked deeply. He examined the swelling on his cheek with regret and pride.

“Which room shall we use as an office?” Chan asked.

Kan held up a finger. Chan watched while he checked light fittings and peered into mirrors.

“These places, often they have a blackmail option,” Kan explained. He spoke in a near whisper. “This thing of yours-I have information.”

“Somehow I thought so.”

“Somebody talked, but they want a cut.”

“Two million gives you something to play with.”

“I need some more.”

“No.”

Kan examined him for signs of weakness.

Chan remained cool, immobile and secretly intrigued. Two million dollars had focused the foot soldier’s mind in a way that he found miraculous. Most killers had the attention span of goldfish; their crimes were the final expression of a buildup of rage or avarice when the personality took a backseat to primal, preintellectual man. Watching Kan conspire with something akin to applied intelligence, Chan wondered what could not be achieved in criminal reformation with the right approach. At two million a shot, though, it was cheaper to let them go on killing each other.

Kan sighed. “You’re hard.”

“I should never be let loose on sensitive types like you.”

Kan blinked. “This is no joke. The guy I spoke to is very scared. Fear is expensive to overcome.”

“I said no.”

Kan’s face expressed deep hurt. He leaned forward. “I’m betraying my own people. The Sun Yee On were involved.”

Chan took a long draw on his cigarette. Truly the power of money was boundless. “Another two hundred thousand, and that’s it.”

Kan smiled. “Okay. This is it. I know what happened.”

Chan nodded. “That’s good.”

“So, how about an advance?”

“Definitely not. You know the formula: Information leading to the arrest-”

“Okay, okay. So, three people were minced up alive by triads.”

“You don’t say.”

Kan’s whisper was fraught with sincerity. “It was a subcontract. Sun Yee On got the order, and 14K carried it out. Ever heard of anything like that before?”

Chan shook his head.

“And no foot soldiers were involved. It was top secret. Red Poles did all the work. Generals from both sides showed up to make sure it all went smoothly.”

Clearly Kan was overawed. It was as if Roosevelt and Churchill had attended at an Allied ambush.

“Where did it happen?”

“New Territories. West. I’m going to find out exactly where and take you. There’s a complication, though. Some people are hiding out up there. I’m not too clear on the details.”

Chan masked the sudden increase in his interest with a long draw on the cigarette. “You brought me here to tell me you’re not too clear?”

Kan lowered his voice still further. “No. I brought you here to arrange a rendezvous. Here’s a paper with five addresses, numbered one to five. When I phone you, I’ll just say a time and number and hang up. That’s where you’ll pick me up. Get it?”

Chan took the sheet of paper and looked at Kan. He was finally absorbing Kan’s main message: The killer was scared.

“And you show up alone. In a car alone. If not, it’s all off.”

Chan folded the paper, put it in a pocket. “Whatever you say.”

“I’m going now. You stay for another twenty minutes. When you leave, try to look like you had a good time. Frankly, you always seem like you’ve just spent twenty years in a monastery. Kind of dried up like a prune.”

“I’ll try. I just don’t have your way with women.”

Kan accepted the homage solemnly as he stepped back across the line between the two rooms. Chan watched him push the folding screen back into place. When he was sure that Kan had left, he took out the Sony Dictaphone, laid it on the bed. He needed another cigarette before he could face the grille. He lit up, switched on the machine.

“File one-two-eight/mgk/HOM/STC Memorandum to be classified secret and forwarded by hand to Commissioner Tsui and copied to the political adviser Mr. Milton Cuthbert. At nine P.M. on fifteenth May 1997 I attended at a meeting in a well-known villa in Lan Fong Road, Hong Kong Island, with informant Kan, a foot soldier in the Sun Yee On Triad Society. It is possible that Kan will be able to lead me to the present location of suspects Clare Coletti, Yu Ningkun and Mao Zingfu…”

Unlike the Jackson Room, the Red Room of the Hong Kong Club accepted women guests at lunchtime. Old hands still affected to grumble, but there had been surprisingly little opposition from the membership when the rules had changed. Expensive wives demanded a place to be seen at lunchtime, and some husbands found it convenient to discuss domestic issues over a civilized lunch in the club. As a result, the tables were spaced farther apart than in the Jackson Room, and there really was little danger of being overheard. The hors d’oeuvres trolley was another good reason for having a business lunch in the Red Room; it was the best in Hong Kong.

Not that Cuthbert had had much choice. The commander in chief of British forces in Hong Kong, Major General Horace Grant, rarely accepted a lunch appointment anywhere else. There was a rumor that his wife had ordered him to boycott the Jackson Room because of the ban on women.