Iain stood at the window. On hot mornings like this the stench of sewage and sour cinnamon lifted off the open gutters and hovered over the city like a wet veil. His office felt small and the ache in his head was sharp, making him want to lose his stomach.
‘‘Yesterday’s killing of Peter Lee,’’ the Police Commissioner said, ‘‘merely highlights how dangerous it is for you to remain in Macao. I’m afraid we made a terrible miscalculation. The woman was one of Takashi’s people. A trained assassin. She may be one of many.’’
The sun was low in the sky and the windows of the houses behind were obscured with lines of washing. Iain could hear the Hakka women in their black lampshade hats chattering in the street below; their serrated voices pounded his head purposefully; it was market day and in his foggy mind he could visualize the makeshift stalls strewn across the broken brick sidewalk, see their assorted wares – fried cinnamon dumplings, temple incense and fruit. He could hear the talk of politics and minor warlords, about the retreating Communist party, the failed Nanchang uprising, and how businessmen in Shanghai and Peking were throwing money at the Kuomintang Nationalists. He could also see the bloodstains on the road left behind by Peter Lee.
Iain placed his palm on the back of his neck and dry-heaved. The smell from the cinnamon dumplings seemed to stick to the roof of his mouth. A peculiar chill flooded his brow followed by a pinching so extreme he creased over.
‘‘We think it prudent,’’ the Commissioner continued, ‘‘if you went away for a time. Let us know your decision.’’ The policeman left the room.
Iain turned his gaze away from the road. After a while he closed his eyes and said, ‘‘He was only twenty-three.’’
‘‘You’re in danger if you remain in Macao.’’ It was Costa’s voice spilling out of the shadows. He had a cup of steaming café preto in his hand and a brown package with a torn red wax-stamped seal. ‘‘The grey suits are talking about moving you.’’
‘‘I don’t want to be moved.’’
The big Macanese nodded. ‘‘That’s what I told them.’’
‘‘I expect they want me back in Hong Kong.’’
Beached like a walrus in his chair, Costa said. ‘‘Whitehall’s shtarting to worry about the Japanese and this Shantung incident,’’ he said, scratching his belly through his shirt. ‘‘There was a bloody, yet brief, armed conflict between Japanese forshes and the Kuomintang southern army. The Kuomintang emissary was killed.’’
‘‘I suppose Whitehall expects there to be more skirmishes.’’
Costa shrugged. ‘‘It looks like they want somebody in Tsingtao.’’
By somebody, Iain imagined that Costa meant Paul Katkoff his colleague in Shanghai, which was four hundred miles from Tsingtao across the Yellow Sea. ‘‘You mean Katkoff, I suppose.’’
‘‘No.’’
Iain looked aghast. ‘‘Not me, surely?’’
‘‘Yes, you.’’
‘‘To Tsingtao?’’ Iain shook his head. ‘‘Who rubberstamped this?’’
‘‘Du Maurier in Sh-tation C, Peking. He asked for you shpesh-ifkly. Read the report yourself if you don’t believe me.’’
‘‘Who’s the liaison officer in Tsingtao?’’
‘‘A fellow called Fielding from the Administrative Service. Do you know him?’’
‘‘Aye, I know him. He was the liaison officer the first time I landed in Hong Kong. The man’s a prick, a trusdar. What about in Dairen. Do we have a man in Dairen?’’
‘‘Cooke,’’ said Costa. ‘‘The man in Dairen is called Cooke. Why?’’
He rubbed the skin between his eyes. ‘‘How long do you think I’ll be gone?’’
Costa shrugged and ran a hand through his mesh of sweaty hair. ‘‘Seex months, maybe longer. Who knows? For as long as it tayksh for things to cool off here.’’ He leaned forward, exposing parts of his pink belly where a shirt button had popped.
‘‘Why don’t they send Katkoff?’’
Costa looked at Iain incredulously. ‘‘It’s 1928, Vermelho. Perhaps you’ve forgotten there’s a war going on in China. The anti-foreign rampage has already claimed the British concessions in Hangkow and Nanking. And Shanghai is still unshtable – only a year ago the Municipal Council declared a State of Emergency. Remember there was that fighting near the Settlement between the Nationalists and the Communists? Katkoff can’t be risked.’’
‘‘But I can?’’
‘‘You’ll be shafer in Tsingtao than here. Of course, you could always take offee-cial leave.’’
Iain thought about this and realized that because of the civil war in China, he hadn’t taken a holiday in three years. ‘‘Yes, I could take official leave.’’ Iain got up and approached the window. He looked across to Government House where he could see Izabel Perera marching with a face like thunder. There was a Chinese lady picketing as well, but he couldn’t see Nadia. Then he spotted her standing by the seawall, staring out into the ocean, her hands balled into fists.
‘‘Tell me,’’ said Iain. ‘‘How far is Tsingtao from Heihe?’’
‘‘Heihe?’’
‘‘Heihe, Manchuria. On the right bank of the Amur River.’’
‘‘How should I know?’’
‘‘You must have some idea?’’
‘‘Why are you always ashking me these difficult questions, Vermelho?’’ He closed his eyes, as if trying to picture a map in his head. ‘‘At a guess, I would shay about a thousand miles.’’ Costa raised his eyebrows. ‘‘Why do you want to go to Heihe? Is that where you intend to go on holiday??’’
Iain said nothing. A plan had already formed in his head.