Tom Cain - Dictator

‘Johnny Zen, my man,’ he drawled when he got through. ‘Wassup?’

‘Moses? Moses Mabeki?’ asked his former LSE contemporary Zheng Junjie before breaking into laughter. ‘Holy crap, it must be, what, ten years?’

‘More,’ agreed Mabeki. ‘Lot of water flowed under my bridge. Yours too, I bet.’

‘Well, you know how it is, man. You get a proper job. You get married, have kids. Suddenly you’re an old fart. But I’m not complaining. I develop commercial property, and business has been good. How about you?’

‘Well, I have no wife, no children. But no, I am not complaining.’

‘No wife, eh? Ha! Typical Moses, too many women to choose from, I bet! So, what can I do for you, bro?’

Zheng, too, was putting on a face, a variation of the one he presented to all non-Chinese. To his parents’ generation they were all barbarians, uncivilized peoples, and Africans like Moses Mabeki were barely human. Zheng did not share these prejudices remotely to the same extent – his generation, after all, coveted German cars, Italian designer clothes and Manhattan condominiums – but the innate sense of superiority remained, as did the absolute separation between the true self he reserved for his family and immediate community, and the face he presented to men like Moses Mabeki. They had been friends. There were aspects of Mabeki that Zheng respected, even envied. But they could never be equals.

In that respect, both men regarded each other in a very similar light. They were both intelligent enough to know it, too. Yet neither would ever let it get in the way of doing business to their mutual advantage.

‘You remember, years ago, how we made each other a promise, an exchange deal?’ Mabeki asked.

‘Uh-huh,’ grunted Zheng, noncommittally.

‘We talked about our families, that I was the descendant of a king of the Ndebele and that your family were very powerful Tanka people in Hong Kong. I said that if you were ever in southern Africa and you needed something – something you could not get by conventional means – I would use my connections to help you.’

‘Ye-e-e-s.’

‘And if I came to Hong Kong, then you would do the same for me. You remember?’

‘Of course. And I meant it.’

‘Well, I am in Hong Kong and I need that favour.’

‘I see. And what exactly is it that you need?’

‘I need you to buy something from me. I need you to provide fast, private transportation. And I need you to help me remove a personal difficulty – no, an irritant. In exchange for this favour, I will make you richer by approximately five million dollars.’

‘Excuse me for one moment. I have another call on the line. Just let me get rid of them.’

There was, of course, no other call. Zheng Junjie just needed time to think. If Mabeki was serious, and he suspected very strongly that he was, then this could be a chance to make his family a great deal of money and earn himself great face. On the other hand, it was clear that whatever Mabeki wanted could not be provided without the direct personal agreement of his uncle, known to all who knew him as Fisherman Zheng. He was a small, skinny, bald old man who ran a floating fish restaurant in Aberdeen harbour, on the south side of Hong Kong Island. He was also one of the richest, most powerful gangsters not just in Hong Kong, but all of southeast China. If the deal proved beneficial, Fisherman would be greatly pleased with his nephew. If it did not… well, that was not a possibility Zheng much cared to contemplate.

He got back on the line to Mabeki.

‘I think you should come and have dinner with my family. You will propose what you have in mind. I will translate for you and help you make your case. I cannot promise that the deal will be acceptable. What I am doing to honour my promise is to make the introduction. The rest is up to you. Do we have a deal?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then meet me tonight at the fish market in Aberdeen. My family have a business there. It is marked by a large sign for Zhen Fang Seafood. I will be there at ten o’clock. Come alone.’

‘See you then. And Johnny, there is something you should know. I have changed since you last saw me, changed a lot.’

Zheng laughed. ‘Oh, we’ve all changed, Moses.’

‘No,’ said Mabeki, ‘I can assure you, you have not changed like me.’

That evening, Zalika insisted on taking one of the Star Ferries trips round the harbour. Carver didn’t mind going along for the ride. The Hong Kong shoreline was one of the world’s most spectacular urban landscapes and the open deck of a ferry was as good a place as any to talk business undisturbed. An hour into the trip, though, and it was still all sightseeing and inconsequential, flirtatious chit-chat.

‘I don’t want to ruin the mood here,’ he said, ‘but we need to talk about Sunday.’

Zalika looked at her watch. ‘Hang on,’ she said, ‘you’re just about to discover why I dragged you on to this tourist-trap. Literally any second now. You’ve got to see this… Yes!’

A low, synthesized rumbling set to a pacy electro beat started pulsing across the water. Atop the towers on the Hong Kong side of the harbour, searchlights swept back and forth across the sky, as if searching for raiding bombers. Then the buildings themselves burst into life in a sort of electric firework display. One skyscraper was bathed in glowing blue. Sharp lines of pure white light zig-zagged up another soaring glass tower. A third building was transformed into a neon rainbow in a display that was simultaneously vulgar, absurd and completely irresistible.

‘See!’ Zalika exclaimed, grabbing Carver’s arm and nestling against his shoulder. ‘Isn’t it amazing?’

‘Yes, it is,’ he agreed, suddenly feeling very old in the face of her unabashed enthusiasm. ‘But the reason I’m on this boat is to have somewhere to talk business where we wouldn’t be overheard. And I wouldn’t mind getting on with it.’

She looked up at him with knowingly coy eyes. ‘Humour me.’

Carver sighed and gave in to the pleasure of feeling her body against his and breathing in the scent of her hair while the lights danced across the water and the music whooshed, tinged and burbled to its climax.

When it was done, he said, ‘OK, now we talk business.’

‘Oh all right,’ she replied, like a schoolgirl conceding that she had to do her homework.

Carver half-turned his body, so that they were face to face. He glanced over Zalika’s shoulder to check that no one was close enough to overhear them, then leaned towards her as if lost in their own private lovers’ world and said, ‘So, run me through the whole deal between the Gushungos and their vicar again.’

‘The Gushungos’ nearest church is St George’s in Tai Po,’ she said. ‘The vicar there is a Scotsman called Simon Dollond. He’s in his mid-forties, much loved by his congregation, the British and the Chinese. And he wasn’t exactly thrilled to discover that Henderson and Faith had just moved into his parish.’

As she filled in the details of the deal Dollond had struck with the Gushungos, Zalika spoke with the same efficient grasp of her subject as she had when briefing Carver about Malemba, back at Klerk’s country house. As always, Carver was struck by her ability to switch moods – almost her whole personality, in fact – at a moment’s notice. He decided to test it one more time. When she had finished, he pulled her even closer and gave her a long, passionate kiss. She switched to accommodate that, too, without any obvious difficulty.

‘Mmmm,’ Zalika whispered when he finally pulled his mouth from hers. ‘That was nice. What made you so romantic suddenly?’

‘I was just maintaining our cover,’ he said, deadpan.