Overmyer frowned. "You've heard me at night?"
He nodded. "Crying, 'get out!'"
Overmyer dropped his head and kicked at the sand. "For years I had nightmares about Nam. AK's firing. Grenades exploding. People screaming. I'd wake up soaking wet. They finally tapered off. Then, after what happened to Natasha, they started again. I'd dream I saw that damned building ready to fall. I'd yell at her to get out, but it was too late. The concrete broke all apart and crushed her. I've gotten where I sleep real light. I try to wake up before the dream starts. You may have heard me going outside at ungodly hours. I just roam around and try to tire myself out till the dream won't come back."
Chapter 20
The Pearl Hotel stood near the foot of Nathan Road in the midst of Kowloon's bustling commercial district, Tsim Sha Tsui. Looking down from his fifteenth floor window on Monday morning, Cameron Quinn could see the domed Space Museum to the left and beyond it ships from over the world crowding into Victoria Harbor. Shifting his gaze to the right brought one of those views that, had it been an instant photo, would have captured the essence of the place. He saw hundreds of workers spilling onto the sidewalks from the nearby MTR subway station like ants swarming from their nest. Crowds, he thought, was what Hong Kong was all about.
Somewhere down in that mass of humanity, he had no doubt, were two Bulgarians awaiting his next move. Well, let them wait. He wanted to have another chat with Miss Amy Lee, the pretty Chinese woman who served as receptionist-secretary at the Causeway Bay Business Centre. He had identified himself as an investigator from the United States Department of Defense. After first refusing to see him, she had wound up being totally cooperative. It turned out that Sam Allen, the pompous ass who served as Hong Kong Chief of Station, had badgered her with a heavy hand after receiving Quinn's request to check out the phone number of the intercept. Well, he would not dignify the idiot on Garden Road with so much as a courtesy call. He would report nothing to the Agency until he returned to Washington tomorrow. But he needed to chart a trail for Burke Hill in case anything should go wrong today. He ordered breakfast from room service and sat down at the table beside the window to write. As Burke would probably have admonished, this will likely be a total waste of time, he thought. But only the supremely confident could afford to forgo such an exercise in futility.
It was around ten by the time he had finished the lengthy letter, sealed it in an envelope and placed the document in the inside pocket of his seersucker jacket. He took the elevator down to the lobby and headed straight for the street, where a doorman hailed a taxi for him. He noted a small dusty blue Accord pulling in behind the cab as they sped out Mody Road and across to the Tsimshatsui Centre. Spotting a man scurrying out of the Honda as he entered the big shop-filled structure, Quinn promptly crossed over the elevated walkway to the Royal Garden Hotel. Striding quickly across the atrium lobby, lined with trees and greenery, he left via the entrance on the next street and took another taxi. After a succession of cab switches, he saw no further sign of the blue Honda. He instructed the driver to take the Cross-Harbour Tunnel to the Hong Kong side and deposit him at the entrance to the East Asia Bank on Queen's Road Central.
Banks are designed to project an image of strength and permanence. The East Asia's lobby achieved this through generous use of lustrous teak wood in walls, columns, tables, desks, you name it. Quinn took the teak-faced elevator to the fourth floor, where a receptionist sat beside a "Trustee Department" sign. He asked for Mr. Luk.
Moments later, a bespectacled Chinese stepped out of a nearby doorway and greeted him with a broad smile.
"Mr. Quinn, how good to see you again in Hong Kong. Please come in."
Before leaving the bank, Quinn stopped at a row of pay telephones and called the Causeway Bay Business Centre. Miss Lee answered.
"This is Mr. Logan Charles. I spoke with you yesterday about Emerson Dinwiddie, the salesman from London. You were most helpful, and I really appreciate it. I was wondering if I might drop by this afternoon and pose a few more questions?"
"I'm sorry, Mr. Charles, but I have to leave for an appointment shortly. I won't be back this afternoon. Could you make it in the morning?"
Quinn's voice mirrored his disappointment. "I'm afraid I'll be flying back to the States later tonight."
"Oh, I see. Well, if it's really important to you, you could come by my apartment this evening after seven."
"I hate to bother you at home," he said, "but if it isn't too much of an inconvenience, I would certainly appreciate it. Where do you live?"
"Shau Kei Wan, at the eastern end of the island."
"I could rent a car and drop by your place," he said, thinking aloud. "Then I could drive to Kai Tak in time for my flight." Traveling by rental car was not the best way to get around Hong Kong, if you valued your sanity. Traffic could only be described as atrocious, the drivers lethal. But he didn't want to miss his flight, and he feared there could be a problem finding a taxi in the area where Miss Lee lived. “Could you give me some directions?”
“It is back toward the hills,” she said, “away from the Typhoon Shelter. You must go up a curving road to get there. I could leave a map if you would like to come by my office this afternoon.”
“That would be fine, thanks.”
Though a bustling area along the island’s shoreline now, Shau Kei Wan was one of Hong Kong’s oldest settlements and had once boasted a sizeable fishing fleet. The protected harbor on Aldrich Bay called the Typhoon Shelter still served as home port for a number of deep-sea trawlers.
Next Quinn dialed the number for an innocuous governmental office that was in reality the local station for the British SIS. After a brief delay, Sydney Pinkleton came on the line.
"Cameron, you old walrus. You left them with nothing but a bit of air this time, what?"
Quinn smiled. "I thought your people would be watching. What did they do after I gave them the slip?"
"Wandered around rather lost at first. Then one of our young chaps managed a stupid move and they got onto him. Next thing you know, they've vanished on us. By the way, can you tell me yet why they should be watching you?"
"Unfortunately, no. I'll let you know if I can sort it out, though. I'm headed back for Washington tonight, Sydney. I really appreciate your covering my backside."
"Happy to oblige, old boy. Do take care."
Chapter 21
The morning sun bore down relentlessly as Burke paid the taxi fare and stepped out into the square in Old Jaffa. He did not expect to hear from Ben Shallit until after noon. For the present, however, it was necessary to keep up the charade of his photo assignment. In the cab he had watched carefully for anyone following, but his escort was evidently being a bit more discreet today. No one had strayed close, and he saw nothing of the car that had trailed him yesterday.
He checked out the remnants of a third century B.C. catacomb in an excavation area opposite the Franciscan Monastery. Then he crossed the main square and followed the steps down into the shady alleyways. He found Shimon Haburski Street and strolled toward № 8, the traditional location of Simon the Tanner's House at the bottom of a stone stairway. He had read the previous evening the passage in Acts 10 about St. Peter's visit to the house in "Joppa." It appeared as nondescript as the rest of the neighborhood.
On leaving Simon the Tanner's, he casually swept the area with his camera as though searching for a good scenic shot. But with the 300mm lens mounted, it was like holding a telescope. Mingling with a group of tourists up the street appeared the slim figure with the familiar face, hooked nose, and heavy brows. He quickly punched the shutter and then moved on.