Ordinarily Porter liked Hong Kong, but wasn’t sorry he was leaving. In late June, when the combination of the heat and the overcrowding made the place unbearable, he preferred to be elsewhere.
An aeroplane that had just taken off thundered overhead at a height of only a few hundred feet. Every millimetre of ground was so valuable that no one thought it strange to locate the airport near one of the heaviest population concentrations in the Orient.
The taxi entered the Kai Tak grounds, shot past the passenger terminal and approached a gate that separated the freight warehouse area from the other buildings. The driver slowed, and two uniformed Crown Colony policemen pushed open the gate, then closed it again behind the car.
At last they came to a hangar with the number 4 marked on its side, and beyond it stood a Boeing 747. Ground personnel were 14 washing the windows and vacuum-cleaning the interior, while baggage handlers were loading luggage under the watchful eye of Hong Kong Preventive Service officials.
An officer in a khaki uniform with three stripes on each of his shoulderboards saw the taxi halt, watched the passenger disembark and immediately moved forward, intending to intercept Porter.
Chang, a slender, grey-haired man, materialized under the wing of the mammoth aircraft and waved the official away.
Porter’s face showed animation for the first time as he shook hands with Chang. They hadn’t seen each other since their joint caper, several years earlier, when they had smuggled a prominent defector out of Canton, by way of Macao, and the adventure had formed a bond between them.
‘You’re flying direct to New York,’ Chang said, ‘with refuelling stops in Tokyo and Seattle. You’ll be met at JFK Airport by a yellow Cadillac. The licence number is on your baggage stub. Drive straight up to Winthrop, Connecticut, and go to a hotel called the Inn, that overlooks Long Island Sound. Unless I’m very much mistaken, Davidson himself will meet you there.’
Porter whistled under his breath. ‘The great man is personally involved in this assignment?’
‘He even signed the cable sending for you.’
‘What’s up, Chang?’
‘Brian Davidson doesn’t take me into his confidence. All I know is that I don’t envy you. Any case that takes him out of Washington for as much as one day must be big.’
‘I need a drink,’ Porter said. ‘Let’s go to the bar.’
Chang shook his head. ‘You’re under maximum security restrictions. Come along.’ He led the way into the empty hangar, and two other Chinese immediately appeared to stand guard at the entrance.
‘Maybe you could send one of your lads for a beer,’ Porter said.
‘My staff is short-handed today.’
‘Oh, well.: Before I forget it, I’d better turn over the Nancy Wing case to you. I was softening her up when you phoned me. I have a hunch, nothing more, that she isn’t a Peking informer, but there wasn’t time to develop hard evidence.’
Chang grinned. ‘I’ve seen the film she made in Taipei. I think I’ll give myself that assignment.’
‘You won’t regret it. Any rumours that might give me a lead on what Davidson is up to?’
‘Mac passed through here day before yesterday and said the Corporation brass is jittery. So something important must be under way, but the lid is screwed on tight.’
Porter took a small sack of tobacco from his breast pocket, rolled a cigarette and struck his match on a No Smoking sign. ‘I thought I’d be making love to Nancy Wing for the next couple of weeks, but the job was too good to last. That’s the breaks. Any special reason for the maximum security?’
‘Not to my knowledge. I’d have been notified by now if you had been tailed coming out here.’
‘I don’t suppose Davidson had the courtesy to tell you who might want to put me under surveillance – Russia, China, Yugoslavia, North Korea, or Andorra? I always enjoy knowing the nationality of potential assassins, particularly when I’m the target.’
Chang shook his head. ‘Sorry.’
Through the open door of the hangar they could see an airport bus discharge a load of passengers, and soon the stairs leading up to the passenger sections of the 747 were filled.
Porter was morose as he watched them. ‘I’ll find out soon enough. Why don’t we quit this rotten business while we’re still healthy?’
‘Because,’ Chang said, ‘we’d soon die of boredom.’
Porter brightened. ‘I’m afraid you’re right. On my last holiday I went to visit some relatives in Sussex, and after three days of looking at every bloody rose in their bloody garden I went off to Cornwall and spent the rest of the month alone. Fishing.’
A second bus discharged its passengers.
A short time later the pilot opened a window and waved.
‘Off you go,’ Chang said, and they shook hands without bidding each other goodbye. Even the least superstitious of the Corporation’s field men knew better than to tempt fate by engaging in a formal farewell.
Porter knew without being shown that he was occupying a seat at the rear of the first class section on the starboard side of the aircraft. He loosened his .44 Magnum in its holster, buckled himself into his seat and gave the stewardess specific instructions. ‘Two cans of beer, any brand, will make me very happy. I don’t care what you bring me to eat, provided it isn’t American beefsteak. My name is Porter, and if any cables come in on the intercom for me while we’re in flight, bring them to me, but tell the captain not to call my name on the intercom.’ He twisted sideways in his seat so he could keep an eye on the other passengers, and settled down for the long flight to New York.
As always, he felt almost nothing, and was slightly irritated by the knowledge. A lifetime as an intelligence agent had transformed him from a reasonably sensitive, feeling human being into a cold-blooded automaton. A break-in with MI-5 as a counter-intelligence operative in London and Germany. A switch to cover operations behind the Iron Curtain under the umbrella of MI-6. And now, ten years with the Americans, in the employ of the Corporation.
Too many pretended friendships, all for a purpose. Too much sex, all for a purpose. Too much double-dealing, all for a purpose. Far too much violence, and for what purpose? Porter realized he was not unique, that senior agents of every nationality, especially those in the big-time – the Americans, the British and the French, the Russians and the Chinese – ultimately were sickened by their own callousness.
But there was no alternative. When you played the game you couldn’t afford to give in to the emotions that ordinary people took for granted. One slip and you were either dead or being subjected to treatment that made death preferable.
Porter could still enjoy a sunset. Occasionally he could listen to a symphony or read a book with appreciation. Now and again he relished the taste of a well-cooked meal. So it was possible he wasn’t as hard and cold as he liked to think. When he lowered his guard, which wasn’t very often.
The Eurasian girl was a perfect example. Could he have become involved in a real romance with her? Never. She was playing the game, too, on behalf of her bosses. But suppose neither was a member of the intelligence community, could he indulge in a bit of sentiment when he thought of her? No way. She wasn’t his type: too shallow, too young, too narcissistic.
Some day, provided he left the Corporation, perhaps he’d find a real woman and settle down. The very idea amused him, and he grinned wryly. Like everyone else who had played the game too long, he sometimes gave in to fantasies about leading a new, simple and peaceful existence. But it was too late for that, or was it?
It was a mild shock to realize he had killed more people than he could count, more than he cared to remember. Yet he didn’t think of himself as a murderer. Every day of his life he lied, cheated and dealt in chicanery; every day of his life he took advantage of the trust and basic decency of most people. Yet he still thought of himself as an honourable man.