Tom Cain - Dictator

‘Oh, I see,’ she said. Then she frowned. ‘Are you sure you maintained it quite enough, though? A few people might not have noticed.’

‘You’re right. Better make absolutely sure. Just to be on the safe side.’

When he came back up for air a second time, Carver asked, ‘How did you find out all that stuff about the church?’

‘Simple. Whenever I was in Hong Kong, I went to St George’s. They have coffee and biscuits after the service every week, which is really just an excuse for all the old dears who go every week to hang around and have a good gossip. Once they’d got used to me being there, they chatted away perfectly happily, and of course they all knew about “dear, sweet Simon” and the wicked Gushungos and couldn’t wait to tell me all about it.’

‘Old women,’ said Carver, ‘they’re the best spies in the world.’

‘Not for you they aren’t. This is strictly ladies-only.’

‘Well then, thank you for betraying the sisterhood. So now I have a question. Can you go on the phone and sound like a black Malemban woman?’

‘Depends who’s listening. If I was talking to another Malemban, they’d know straight away. But if it’s just a Brit or a Chinese, sure. I spent my entire childhood surrounded by Malemban nannies, cooks and housemaids. I know just how they sound.’

‘Good, I hoped you’d say that.’

‘Why?’

‘Because you’re going to give the nice Reverend Dollond a call on Sunday morning. And you’re going to be a Malemban.’

‘Oh, with him it’ll be easy. Now, I’ve got something for you. Well, someone actually.’

Zalika tapped out a text. Seconds later, a Chinese woman in an anonymous outfit of T-shirt and jeans got up off a bench on the far side of the deck and, apparently paying no attention to either Carver or Zalika, made her way towards the railing, just next to them.

‘I have what you need,’ said Tina Wong, looking directly out across the harbour.

Carver and Zalika turned to face the same way – just three people in a line, looking out at the spectacular view.

Passing it in front of her, so that it could not be seen by anyone onboard, Wong handed Zalika an A4-sized padded envelope. Then, still not making eye contact, she said, ‘So, are you going to kill these pigs?’

Carver did not reply.

Wong did not seem disappointed by his silence. For the first time she turned her head in his direction, fixed him with a penetrating stare, turned back again and nodded to herself. ‘Yes, you can do this. Good.’

Now it was Carver’s turn to speak: ‘Are you working on Sunday?’

Wong nodded her head.

‘Then just before the family and their bodyguards take communion, make sure the front door is unlocked. Can you do that?’

‘Of course.’

‘Good. And thank you for this.’ Carver jerked his head towards Zalika’s simple canvas shoulder-bag, which now contained the envelope. ‘It’s very important.’

‘No problem. OK, enough sightseeing. It is beneath my dignity to look like a tourist.’

Wong left as casually as she’d arrived.

As she walked away, Carver asked Zalika, ‘Are you sure you want to go through with this? You understand I’m not questioning your ability to do the job. It’s just that this could get messy. You’ve had enough violence and death in your life. Are you sure you want more?’

There was no hesitation in her answer, not a flicker of doubt in her voice. ‘Yes, I want more all right. I want to see what you’ve done. I want to spit on their dead bodies. Every single one of them.’

‘All right. But you play it absolutely by the book.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And I’m getting you a phone with a tracking system, so if we get separated for any reason, I’ll know where you are.’

‘Whatever you say.’

‘And if anything happens to me, you don’t wait around to see if I’m all right, understand? Go straight to Hong Kong International. There’s a fifteen-oh-five flight direct to London. Just get on it and go.’

‘Absolutely.’ She wrapped her arms round his waist and examined him thoughtfully. ‘Thanks for having faith in me. My uncle was right. You’re a good man, Samuel Carver.’

The Aberdeen fish market was deserted, the last traces of the previous day’s catch all washed and swept away, yet the smell of fish still filled the air, as though it seeped from the polished concrete floor, the painted steel columns and girders and the corrugated iron roof. Zheng Junjie, the man once known as Johnny Zen, was standing beneath the bare neon lights of his family’s stall, nervously sucking on a cigarette. He looked as though he’d grown a little soft around the middle since Moses Mabeki had last seen him. Maybe he’d been eating too much of his wife’s home cooking or, more likely, having too many dinners out with his mistress. A sweet young concubine had always been considered an essential accessory for any Hong Kong businessman on the way to the top.

Mabeki had taken a cab down from Tai Po. He’d told the driver to drop him a few minutes’ walk away from the Aberdeen Harbour fish market, at the foot of one of the high-rise apartment blocks that crowded into the narrow space between the hills of Hong Kong Island and the sea. They housed most of the local Tanka and Hoklo tribes, people who had for centuries inhabited floating villages of junks and narrow-boats, working and living almost entirely on the water. Now their descendants were pasty-faced property developers whose pastel-coloured Ralph Lauren polo shirts stretched across their bosomy chests and flabby guts. But then, Mabeki reflected, how different was he? His people had been cattle-herders and warriors, going where they wanted across the southern African savannah. Now most were happy with a cold beer and a Manchester United shirt. The white man’s cruellest trick was not to conquer or even enslave, but simply to soften, weaken and corrupt every culture or people he encountered, until they lost the will to be themselves any more.

Mabeki made his way unobserved to within thirty feet of Zheng. He watched him take his cigarette out of his mouth, throw it down and grind it under his heel. Zheng looked around, checked his watch, then looked again. He did not look like a powerful man about to take charge of a tough negotiation. He looked like a frightened man wondering how he was going to explain to his superiors that he’d just let them down.

Mabeki let him sweat for a moment longer, then stepped out of the shadows and made his way between the large blue and yellow plastic containers from which the following morning’s fish would be sold. He deliberately let his right foot knock one of them as he walked by. The noise made Zheng spin round and catch sight of his old university friend.

Over the years, Mabeki had become a connoisseur of people’s reactions to his appearance, and Zheng’s was a classic example. In the space of a couple of seconds his face registered alarm at the unexpected noise, relief that it came from Mabeki, shock and revulsion at the first sight of his face, and finally, after an all-too-evident internal struggle, a bland mask of impassive self-control.

‘Hello, Johnny,’ Mabeki said.

‘Moses.’

They shook hands. Mabeki took a perverse pleasure from watching Zheng’s attempts to find a safe, polite place to look. He had seen it so many times, the way people could not help themselves staring at the scars, craters and distorted flesh of his face, no matter how much the sight disgusted them. He knew, too, the questions they all wanted to ask and the mental contortions they went through trying to find the right words with which to frame them.

Zheng did better than most. ‘I see what you mean,’ he said. ‘You have changed. May I ask what happened?’