The older man indicated that Marie should look through the window. She parted two curved bamboo slats and gasped, astonished at the scene outside. The search was at its frenzied peak. The marine with scalded hands kept waving them in the air as he went from store to store across the street. She saw
Catherine Staples and McAllister in a heated conversation with a crowd of Chinese who obviously were objecting to foreigners disturbing the peaceful if hectic way of life in Tuen Mun. In his panic McAllister apparently had shouted something offensive and was challenged by a man twice his age, an ancient in an Oriental gown who had to be restrained by younger, cooler heads. The undersecretary of state backed away, his arms raised, pleading innocence, as Staples shouted to no avail in her efforts to extricate them both from the angry mob.
Suddenly, the marine with the hurt hands came crashing out of a doorway across the street; shattered glass flew in all directions as he rolled on the pavement, yelling in pain as his hands touched the cement. He was pursued by a young Chinese dressed in the white tunic, sash and knee-length trousers of a martial-arts instructor. The marine sprang to his feet and, as his Oriental adversary ran up to him, he pounded a low left hook into the young man's kidney, and followed it with a well-aimed right fist into the Oriental face, pummelling his assailant back into the store-front while screaming in agony at the pain both blows caused his scalded hands.
A last marine from Victoria Peak came running down the street – one leg limping, his shoulders sagging as if damaged from a fall – a fall down a flight of stairs, thought Marie as she watched in amazement. He came to the aid of his anguished comrade and was very effective. The amateurish attempts at combat by the berobed students of the unconscious martial-arts instructor were met by a flurry of slashing legs, crashing chops and the whirling manoeuvres of a judo expert.
Suddenly again, with no warning whatsoever, a cacophony of Oriental music swelled, the cymbals and primitive wood instruments reaching abrupt crescendos with each stride of the ragtag band that marched down the street, its followers carrying placards mounted with flowers. The fighting stopped as arms were restrained everywhere. Silence spread along the main avenue of commerce of Tuen Mun. The Americans were confused; Catherine Staples choked back her frustration and Edward McAllister threw up his hands in exasperation.
Marie watched, literally hypnotized by the change outside. Everything came to a stop, as if a halt had been ordered by an announcement from some sepulchral presence not to be denied. She shifted her angle of sight between the bamboo blinds and looked at the ragged group approaching. It was led by the banker Jitai! It was heading for the butcher's shop!
Her eyes darting, Marie saw Catherine Staples and McAllister race past the odd gathering in front of the shop. Then across the street the two marines once again took up the chase. They all disappeared in the blinding sunlight.
There was a knock on the front door of the butcher's shop. The old man with white hair removed the wreath and opened it. The banker, Jitai, walked in and bowed to Marie.
'Did you enjoy the parade, madame?' he asked.
'I wasn't sure what it was. '
'A funeral march for the dead. In this instance, no doubt, for the slain animals in Mr Woo's cold storage. '
' You...? This was all planned?
'In a state of readiness, you might say,' explained Jitai. 'Frequently our cousins from the north manage to get across the border – not the thieves but family members wishing to join their own – and the soldiers want only to capture them and send them back. We must be prepared to protect our own. '
'But me...? You knew?
'We watched; we waited. You were in hiding, running from someone, that much we did know. You told us that when you said you did not care to go before the magistrate, to "press charges", as you put it. You were directed into the alley outside.'
The line of women with the shopping bags-'
'Yes. They crossed the street when you did. We must help you. '
Marie glanced at the anxious faces of the crowd beyond the bamboo slats, then looked at the banker. 'How do you know I'm not a criminal?'
'It doesn't matter. The outrage against you resulting from two of our people is what matters. Also, madame, you do not look or speak like a fugitive from justice. '
'I'm not. And I do need help. I have to get back to Hong Kong, to a hotel where they won't find me, where there's a telephone I can use. I don't really know who, but I have to reach people who can help me... help us. ' Marie paused, her eyes locked with Jitai's. 'The man named David is my husband. '
'I can understand,' said the banker. 'But first you have to see a doctor. '
'What?'
'Your feet are bleeding. '
Marie looked down. Blood had seeped through the bandages, penetrating the canvas of her shoes. They were a sickening mess. 'I guess you're right,' she agreed.
Then there will be clothes, transportation – I myself will find you a hotel under any name you wish. And there is the matter of money. Do you have funds?
'I don't know,' said Marie, putting the silks on the counter and opening the white-shelled purse. That is, I haven't looked. A friend – someone who I thought was a friend – left me money. ' She pulled out the bills Staples had placed in the purse.
'We are not wealthy here in Tuen Mun, but perhaps we can help. There was talk of taking up a collection. '
'I'm not a poor woman, Mr Jitai,' interrupted Marie. 'If that is necessary and, frankly, if I'm alive, every cent will be returned with interest far in excess of the prime rate. '
'As you wish. I am a banker. But what would such a lovely lady like yourself know of interests and prime rates? Jitai smiled.
'You're a banker and I'm an economist. What do bankers know about the impacts on floating currencies caused by inflated interests, especially in the prime rates? Marie smiled for the first time in a very long time.
She had over an hour to think in the countryside quiet as she sat in the taxi that drove her down to Kowloon. It would be another forty-five minutes once they reached the less quiet outskirts, particularly a congested district called Mongkok. The contrite people of Tuen Mun had been not only generous and protective but inventive as well. The banker, Jitai, apparently had confirmed that the hoodlums' victim was indeed a white woman in hiding and running for her life, and that therefore, as she was in the process of reaching people who might help her, perhaps her appearance might be altered. Western clothes were brought from several shops, clothes that struck Marie as odd; they seemed drab and utilitarian, neat but dreary. Not cheap, but the kind of clothes that would be selected by a woman who had either no sense of design or felt herself above it. Then after an hour in the back room of a beauty shop she understood why such a costume had been chosen. The women fussed over her; her hair was washed and blown dry, and when the process was over she had looked in the mirror, barely breathing as she did so. Her face – drawn, pale and tired – was framed by a shell of hair no longer a striking auburn but mouse-grey with subtle tinges of white. She had aged more than a decade; it was an extension of what she had attempted after escaping from the hospital but far bolder, far more complete. She was the Chinese image of the upper-middle-class, serious, no-nonsense tourist -probably a widow – who peremptorily issued instructions, counted her money, and never went anywhere without a guidebook which she continuously checked off against each site on her well-organized itinerary. The people of Tuen Mun knew such tourists well and their imposed portrait was accurate. Jason Bourne would approve.