Noble House

Armstrong was watching her through the one-sided mirror in the darkened observation room, Wu beside him. Both men were set-faced and ill-at-ease. Sweat beaded Wu's forehead even though the room was pleasantly air conditioned. A tape recorder turned noiselessly. There were microphones and a bank of electronic equipment behind them.
"I think she's told us everything we need," Armstrong said, sorry for her.
"Yes sir." Wu kept his nervousness out of his voice. This was the first time that he had ever been part of an SI interrogation. He was frightened and excited and his head ached.
"Ask her again where she got the purse."
Wu did as he was ordered. His voice was calm and authoritative.
"But I've told you again and again," the old woman whimpered. "Please can I g—"
"Tell us again and then you can go."
"All right… all right . . . I'll tell you again. … It belonged to my Mistress who gave it to me on her deathbed, she gave it to me, I swear it and—"
"The last time you said it was given to you the day before she died. Now which is the truth?"
Anxiously Ah Tarn plucked at her ratty queue. "I … I don't remember, Lord. It was on her … it was when she died … I don't remember." The old woman's mouth worked and no sound came out and then said in a querulous rush, "I took it and hid it after she died and there were those old photos . . . I've no picture of my Mistress so I took them too and there was one tael of silver too and this paid for part of my journey to Hong Kong during the famine. I took it because none of her rotten sons or daughters or family who hated her and hated me would give me anything so I took it when no one was . . . she gave it to me before she died and I just hid it it's mine, she gave it to me. . . ."
They listened while the old woman went on and on and they let her talk herself out. The wall clock read 1:45. They had been questioning her for half an hour. "That's enough for now, Wu. We'll repeat it in three hours just for safety but I think she's told us everything." Wearily Armstrong picked up a phone, dialed. "Armstrong—you can take her back to her cell now," he said into the phone. "Make sure she's comfortable and well looked after and have the doctor reexamine her." It was normal SI procedure to give prisoners an examination before and after each interrogation. The doctor had said that Ah Tam had the heart and the blood pressure of a twenty-year-old.
In a moment they saw the white, almost hidden door open. A uniformed SI policewoman beckoned Ah Tam kindly. Ah Tam hobbled out. Armstrong dipped the lights, switched the tape recorder to rewind. Wu mopped his brow.
"You did very well, Wu. You learn quickly."
"Thank you, sir."
The high-pitched whine of the tape recorder grew. Armstrong watched it silently, still in shock. The sound ceased and the big man took the reel out of the machine. "We always mark the date, exact time and exact duration of the interrogation and use a code name for the suspect. For safety and secrecy." He looked up a number in a book, marked the tape, then began to make out a form. "We cross-check with this form. We sign it as interrogators and put Ah Tarn's code down here—V-ll-3. This's top secret and filed in the safe." His eyes became very hard. Wu almost quailed. "I repeat: You'd better believe that a closed mouth catches no flies and that everything in SI, everything that you have been party to today is top secret."
"Yes sir. Yes, you can count on me, sir."
"You'd better also remember that Si's a law unto itself, the governor and the minister in London. Only. Good old English law and fair play and normal police codes do not apply to SB or SI— habeas corpus, open trials and appeal. In an SI case there's no trial, no appeal and it's a deportation order to the PRC or Taiwan, whichever's worse. Understand?" "Yes sir. I want to be part of SI, sir, so you can believe me. I'm not one to slake my thirst on poison," Wu assured him, sick with hope.
"Good. For the next few days you're confined to this HQ."
Wu's mouth dropped open. "But sir, my … yes sir."
Armstrong led the way out and locked the door after him. He gave the key and the form to an SI agent who was on guard at the main desk. "I'll keep the reel for the moment. I've signed the receipt."
"Yes sir."
"You'll take care of Constable Wu? He's our guest for a couple of days. Start getting his particulars—he's been very very very helpful. I'm recommending him for SI."
"Yes sir."
He left them and went to the elevator and got out on his floor, a sick-sweet-sour taste of apprehension in his mouth. SI interrogations were anathema to him. He hated them though they were fast, efficient and always obtained results. He preferred to have an old-fashioned battle of wits, to use patience and not these new, modern psychological tools. "It's all bloody dangerous if you ask me," he muttered, walking along his corridor, the faint musty smell of headquarters in his nostrils, hating Crosse and SI and everything it stood for, hating the knowledge he had unearthed. His door was open. "Oh hi, Brian," he said, closing it, his face grim. Brian Kwok had his feet up on the desk and was idly reading one of the Communist Chinese morning papers, the windows rain-streaked behind him. "What's new?"
"There's quite a big piece on Iran," his friend said, engrossed in what he was reading. "It says 'capitalist CIA overlords in conjunction with the tyrant Shah have put down a people's revolutionary war in Azerbaijan, thousands have been killed' and so on. I don't believe all that but it looks as though the CIA and the Ninety-second Airborne have defused that area and the Yanks have done right for once."
"Lot of bloody good that'll do!"
Brian Kwok looked up. His smile faded. "What's up?"
"I feel rotten." Armstrong hesitated. "I sent for a couple of beers, then we'll have lunch. How about a curry? All right?"
"Fine, but if you're feeling rotten let's skip lunch."
"No, it's not that sort of rotten. I … I just hate doing white interrogations . . . gives me the creeps."
Brian Kwok stared at him. "You did the old amah there? What the hell for?"
"It was Crosse's order. He's a bastard!"
Brian Kwok put his paper down. "Yes he is, and I'm sure I'm right about him," he said softly.
"Not now, Brian, over lunch maybe but not now. Christ, I need a drink! Bloody Crosse, and bloody SI! I'm not SI and yet he acts like I'm one of his."
"Oh? But you're coming on the 16/2 this evening. I thought you'd been seconded."
"He didn't mention it. What's on?"
"If he didn't mention it, I'd better not."
"Of course." It was normal SI procedure, for security, to minimize the spread of information so that even highly trustworthy agents working on the same case might not be given all the facts. "I'm bloody not going to be seconded," Armstrong said grimly, knowing that if Crosse ordered it there was nothing he could do to prevent it. "Is the intercept to do with Sevrin?"
"I don't know. I hope so." Brian Kwok studied him then smiled. "Cheer up, Robert, I've some good news for you," he said and Armstrong noticed again how handsome his friend was, strong white teeth, golden skin, firm jaw, dancing eyes with that devil-may-care confidence about him.
"You're a good-looking sod," he said. "What good news? You leaned on friend One Foot at the Para Restaurant and he's given you the first four winners for Saturday?"
"Dreamer! No, it's about those files you snatched yesterday at Bucktooth Lo's and passed over to Anti-Corruption. Remember? From Photographer Ng?"
"Oh? Oh yes."
"It seems our fair-weather American-Chinese guest, Thomas K. K. Lim, who's 'somewhere in Brazil,' is quite a character. His files were golden. Very golden indeed! And in English, so our Anti-Corruption fellows went through them like a dose of salts. You came up with treasure!"