Mong Kok, Hong Kong
MR LIM WAS as good as his word. Either that, thought Luke, or he’s going to an awful lot of trouble to pull the wool over my eyes. Still shiny with sweat from their martial-arts workout, he ushered Luke into his tiny, cramped office at the end of the corridor. The receptionist had disappeared and it seemed they now had the place to themselves. Mr Lim busied himself preparing them a pot of jasmine tea, his gnarled, powerful hands setting down the chipped china cups with a surprisingly nimble touch.
Luke took the seat he was offered, a metal camp stool that had seen better days, and looked around him. If Mr Lim had triad or other connections with the underworld, it seemed little of their glitz and glamour had rubbed off on him. A fan turned slowly on the ceiling, ruffling the yellowing, curled edges of a stack of files pinned down on the desk in the corner by an ornate paperweight. Along one wall, several shelves were crammed with faded black box files that looked like they had been left there some years ago. One of those ridiculous battery-operated waving cats with an inane grin on its luminous pink face stood on another. A calendar hung on the wall, showing the wrong month, beneath a pristine vista of an Alpine meadow, and all the while Luke thought he could detect the faint smell of joss sticks mixed with the sweat that came with the territory in a place like this. Either Mr Lim’s business was struggling, he concluded, or this was all an elaborate cover for something else.
‘Plovers’ eggs?’ Mr Lim was holding out a small wicker basket containing four brown eggs, flecked with black, neatly arranged on tissue paper. Luke feigned delight and took one, with a proffered plate. He remembered the last time he had eaten one; it had gone off and the smell of sulphur had been so nauseating he had nearly thrown up on the spot. He watched as Mr Lim settled himself in his chair, took an egg, peeled off the shell, then popped it into his mouth whole. ‘From my family’s farm,’ he remarked, licking his fingers. ‘Up in the New Territories.’ He tilted his head northward, in the direction of the Chinese mainland, where the teeming tenement blocks of Kowloon gave way to the lush green valleys that had once formed Hong Kong’s border with the People’s Republic. Luke saw his eyes flick down to the still untouched plover’s egg on his plate so he quickly began to remove the shell. This was no time to be giving cultural offence to his host.
‘So, you need my help, it seems.’ It was more of a statement than a question. Mr Lim sat back in his chair as he spoke, regarding Luke with an intense expression, still apparently sizing him up in spite of their recent exertions in the guan. Luke couldn’t help noticing that his host was rather obviously cleaning his mouth with his tongue. Before Luke could answer, Mr Lim sat forward in his chair, his huge tattooed shoulders bunching as he leant in towards him, his voice lowered.
‘Macau,’ he said hoarsely. ‘I have already made some enquiries on your behalf and this is where you need to take your search. I would suggest that—’ He stopped suddenly as they heard a door closing down the corridor. So they were not quite alone after all. Mr Lim got to his feet, listened, then quietly closed the door.
‘One of your staff?’ Luke asked.
‘It’s only the cleaner,’ he replied. ‘He’s worked for me for many years. You don’t have to worry about him.’ Luke said nothing. In his experience cleaners were often some of the best-informed people in the espionage business. They saw things people threw away, heard conversations when nobody thought they were listening and they had access to offices that were off-limits to most of the staff. Did he have to worry about this cleaner just now? He was less than reassured by his host’s confidence.
‘There is a hotel there,’ Mr Lim continued. ‘A big one. A casino. Here.’ He reached behind him, his fingers scrabbling for a pen and paper buried amid the general mess on his desk. ‘Let me write it down for you. The man you need to see there is a Senhor Francisco Rodrigues. He’s the owner. He knows everyone and everything. Nothing happens in Macau without him getting to hear about it.’
‘That’s great,’ Luke said, ‘and thank you. Please don’t think I’m not grateful, but why would he tell me anything? What’s in it for him?’ If it’s money, he thought, we’re in trouble. The Service had entrusted Jenny with access to a considerable sum to secure Hannah’s freedom if it came to a point at which a ransom was demanded. But casino types dealt in multiple zeros and he feared their price would be exorbitant.
Mr Lim let out a low chuckle. It was as if he had just read Luke’s mind. ‘He doesn’t want anything from you,’ he said. ‘But he does owe me a favour, quite a big one. He will see you tomorrow in the hotel bar at one o’clock. Don’t be late.’
‘You seem very certain of it,’ Luke said.
‘That’s because I’ve already spoken to his assistant. It’s arranged.’
Luke was momentarily surprised. When had Mr Lim had time to do that? And then he realized. He had already made the call before Luke had got there. So all that martial-arts business was just a charade, a sort of bizarre induction test to see if Luke measured up.
Mr Lim glanced up at the clock on the wall and rose heavily to his feet. ‘Now, it’s getting late, Mr Blanford, and you must be tired.’ He held up his hand. ‘Can you see yourself out? I have some things to attend to here.’
Luke thought of the 3D-printed Glock hidden inside his clothes in the changing-room locker and was relieved he wouldn’t have to conceal that from Mr Lim. ‘Sure. No problem,’ he said. ‘And, hey, thank you for your help, I appreciate it.’
‘My pleasure. We have all lost someone dear to us in our lives,’ he said cryptically. Then he gripped Luke’s shoulder. ‘Be careful out there, Mr Blanford. This isn’t the Home Counties, this is Hong Kong. People play by different rules here. So take my advice … and watch your back.’