For a moment Kirov stood back in a state of paralysis. His adrenalin was spent and he could feel shock closing down his body systems. The Chinese was on the floor, bundled in pain and clutching his gun somewhere underneath him. Then Harry Korn was in the doorway. But the fat man had his eyes tight-closed and was pumping bullets in every direction except the one that counted. Kirov glanced at him almost casually and then stepped to the kitchen exit and out into the alleyway and the cool night air. No one followed him.
He walked the length of the alley and then some more alleys that might have been streets since they were full of people and small store fronts selling clothing and recording cassettes, and the occasional food stall with a couple of stools and a display of cooked chicken feet. He hit a main thoroughfare but he didn’t know which one it was. The pavements were still packed and the people stared at him, perhaps because he was a tall Round-Eye or because his clothes were a mess with spatters of the black sauce and somebody’s blood. He kept his left hand shoved inside his jacket and didn’t want to look at it. The pain told him he was alive and that seemed like a good idea. All the while he was conscious of the eyes watching him, the neutral gazes of the placid old men sitting at the food stalls and store fronts and timid women with their children in tow, watching him and avoiding him when he returned their looks, now you see me now you don’t, a meaningless espionage that unnerved him as if he were naked. And then he was opposite a large railway terminus which registered dimly and he guessed this was Chunghsiao West Road.
He crossed the road and went into the station. He joined a queue at the public telephones and when one was free fed it a dollar and called the hotel. The ringing tone to his extension lasted a half-minute and then the receiver was picked up. Nobody spoke but some faint English dialogue from the television set came through. Kirov said, ‘Nadia,’ and waited for a reply.
‘Hi there, Peter,’ said an American voice. ‘This is Bill Craig. I’ve got some news for you. Billie-Boy has got the girl!’
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Craig’s instructions were short. ‘Go to the Lungshan Temple.’ He wasn’t interested in questions. ‘You’ll just have to trust me, Peter. Remember that I’ve got the girl. I guess that by now you know all about my funny ways.’ The telephone couldn’t disguise his excitement or his massive self-satisfaction.
Kirov left the station and picked up a cab. The driver didn’t understand English but was used to taking Westerners to the Wanhua section of the city. The vehicle slipped into the traffic along Chungking Road South and then cut west by Kwangchow Street where things livened up, the small stores were doing a roaring trade and the press of people was thick. The cabbie dropped Kirov on the south side of the street and pointed at a large building with a pagoda roof that stood in an open compound across the way. Crowds came and went through the portal. Kirov was the only European in a sea of Chinese.
He pushed his way into a large hall where in chaotic fashion the tourists mingled with the worshippers and it was difficult to tell which was which. A booth dispensing wooden chips for telling fortunes was doing brisk business and a group of Buddhist monks floated through the crowd as if it didn’t exist. The hall gave onto an open courtyard opposite the main shrine. The latter was a clutter of statues and offerings, a mix of dusty gold and bright patches of fruit; at other times Kirov might have been interested but he could only remember that Craig had got Nadia and that the American was capable of anything once the mood was on him; and the mood was on him if the mad excitement on the phone was a guide.
Why here? What was he to look for? His appearance was attracting attention as before, but it was the same mix of visible invisibility that the Chinese paid to all foreigners. Or maybe, as Harry Korn implied, it was that he couldn’t tell the difference. He skirted the courtyard, watching for any sign of recognition and found himself at the back of the temple caught in a throng of students praying for their exams at a row of brightly coloured idols. As he scanned them, Harry Korn appeared.
The Australian had cleaned himself up, straightened his clothes and combed his sweaty hair. He ignored Kirov and concentrated on nodding and mumbling in the direction of the nearest idol, a grimacing red-faced character. He had taken his jacket off and slung it over his shoulder. Whether it was his intention or not, it showed that he wasn’t carrying a gun.
‘Hello again, Harry.’
The fat man flicked a glance in Kirov’s direction and returned to contemplation of the statue. He said, ‘This fella is Kuan Kung. Don’t be put off by the face, he’s a good bloke, famous for loyalty and bravery. We could all do with a bit of that, don’t you think, Pete, loyalty and bravery?’ He made a small obeisance to the idol and turned his fat sad face to Kirov. ‘Look, mate,’ he said with difficulty, ‘I’m sorry about the business earlier.’
‘About trying to kill me?’
Harry kicked his heel. ‘Yes — well. The fact is I was a bit emotional and you got me going. Killing you wasn’t the general idea. People want to talk to you, straighten things out.’ He gave an honest-Joe smile. ‘I screwed up, didn’t I? Truth is I’m not much used to this violent stuff — I never had the training. Not much inclined that way either. Too fat and slow.’
‘Why am I here, Harry?’
‘Like I said, people want to talk to you.’
‘Craig?’
‘For example.’
‘Craig has got Nadia.’
Korn bit his lip and shrugged. ‘Well, I admit, he can be a bit frightening at times. But,’ he added with a false show of optimism, ‘he’s a fella who listens to reason. He doesn’t mix business with…’
‘Pleasure? Is that what you meant to say?’
‘Christ, Pete, you’re not making this easy! Can’t a bloke apologise? I’m trying to help the pair of us, don’t you see that? I don’t have to like Craig — in fact he’s a vicious bastard — but I’m under orders.’
‘Heltai’s orders?’
‘Bloody hell, you want everything up front and spelled out!’ Korn took a damp handkerchief from one of his pockets and mopped his damp face. The nearest of the students broke off his prayers and turned his expressionless moon-shaped face in the fat man’s direction. Korn barked something at him in Chinese. ‘Bloody Chinks,’ he said to Kirov, ‘you can never tell how much they understand.’
‘Who is the GRU station chief?’ Kirov asked.
‘What station chief? I told you, this is a shoe-string operation: I’m it.’
‘So you report to Aquarium as well as Moscow Centre?’
‘If you like. I send them the occasional love letter. There’s not much goes on here on the military side; you couldn’t justify the cost let alone the difficulty of putting a second bloke into Taiwan.’ In frustration he went on: ‘What are you asking me? Is that how Heltai got at me? Yes, it’s how Heltai got at me. Am I bought and paid for? Too bloody right I’m bought and paid for! There! Satisfied?’
‘Craig is working for the CIA,’ Kirov answered. His companion waved his hand limply as if saying goodbye to everything. He looked around for a place and then squatted heavily on the ground.
‘Who cares?’ he said wearily. ‘What does it bloody matter?’ He looked up like a fat schoolboy looking for guidance. ‘Were you ever on a foreign posting?’ he asked.
‘Once.’
‘Where?’
‘Washington.’
‘Ever talk to the CIA? You know what I mean, on a friendly basis.’
‘Sometimes.’
‘I’ll bet you did!’ Korn moved uncomfortably on the paving. He spread his buttocks like a suction cup. ‘Our political lords and masters,’ he resumed in a quiet, thoughtful tone, ‘don’t give a toss about us. We’re expendable. It’s the same on the American side. They’d have us at each other’s throats and blood all over the place just so long as we came up with the goods. And good luck to them! But what about us? Don’t us poor dumb animals who don’t know what’s going on — don’t we have a say?’