The Viking sailed around the southern tip of Macau and made its way up the western side of the peninsula. Woo explained that it was easier to dock unseen over there, and they could take a taxi to the casino. They found a decrepit wooden dock hidden in some overgrowth.
“We use this dock before,” Woo said. “Be careful when you step on it. It not very safe. Oh, I almost forget. We cannot take guns in casino. They have high security. Metal detectors. We must leave them here.”
Bond remembered that from previous visits, and it made him very uncomfortable. Reluctantly, he handed J.J. his Walther PPK. “I hope I’m not going to need that later,” he said.
J.J. told T.Y. in Chinese that he would stay with the boat, then proceeded to stretch out on the bunk in the cabin. Bond and Woo carefully stepped on to the dock. It was a short walking distance to an urban area, and they found a taxi within minutes. The Hotel Lisboa was a barrel-shaped concrete building painted mustard and white, with walls corrugated like a waffle and roofs fashioned to resemble roulette wheels. As they entered the lobby, Bond noticed a collection of oddities on display: a small dinosaur skeleton, giant junks of carved ivory and jade, and a tapestry of the Great Wall. After passing through an unusually stringent security check, Bond followed Woo into the noisy, gaudy casino, where he had gambled a few times before. He was always amazed by the joylessness of the Macau casinos. Gambling there was taken very seriously and the participants did not look like happy people.
Woo stopped at a slot machine. “I must feed Hungry Tiger first,” he said. He slipped a two-dollar coin into the contraption and pulled the handle. He got a cherry, a bar, and an orange. He shrugged. “Come on, let’s go find mahjong game.”
The Lisboa was built on several levels, with different games of baccarat, blackjack, roulette, fan tan, and slot machines played on different floors. The main, rotunda room of the first floor was full of smoke and sweat. Playing mahjong at a casino was highly unusual. Thackeray’s game was a private affair, and was played in a secluded, rented room.
Bond and Woo took the stairs to the third floor, past the VIP baccarat room and into a less crowded area. Woo spoke to a guard, who gestured to his right. Bond followed Woo to an archway covered by red curtains. “We are in luck,” Woo said. “Thackeray not here yet.” He moved through the curtains and was greeted by an Englishman in his late thirties with wavy blond hair.
“Mr. Woo!” the man said. “I thought you had lost all your money the last time you were here! Don’t tell me you’ve come back for more punishment?”
“Ah, Mr. Sinclair, you know that I must save face and try again,” Woo said good-humouredly. “This is my friend and business acquaintance Mr. Bond. He would like to play tonight, too. Is that all right?”
Sinclair scrutinized Bond and recognized a fellow Englishman. He held out his hand. “Simon Sinclair.”
“James Bond.” The man had a firm handshake, he noticed.
“What brings you to Macau, Mr. Bond?” Sinclair asked.
“I’m a reporter for a Jamaican paper, the Daily Gleaner,” he said. “Covering the handover of Hong Kong next week.”
Sinclair rolled his eyes. “You and how many other thousand journalists? Well, come in, come in.”
It was a small room with a square table in the centre. Chairs stood at each of the four sides, and a set of mahjong tiles was spread out, face down, on the table. A Chinese stood behind a fully stocked bar on one side of the room, preparing a concoction in a blender. An archway on the opposite wall led into a small foyer, presumably to a private washroom.
“Do you know Mr. Thackeray, Mr. Bond?” Sinclair asked.
“No, I’m looking forward to meeting him,” Bond said. “Mr. Woo here tells me that he’s quite a player.”
Sinclair laughed. “He takes me to the cleaners twice a week. I don’t know why I continue to play with him—some sort of masochistic streak in me, I suppose.”
“What do you do, Mr. Sinclair?” Bond asked.
“I work for EurAsia Enterprises. I was … uhm … recently promoted to General Manager.”
As if on cue, the curtains parted and Guy Thackeray walked in, followed by two bulky men who looked like bodyguards. He stopped to survey the room, but for some reason became unsteady for just a moment. He regained his composure quickly.
“Hello, Guy,” Sinclair said. “You remember Mr. Woo?”
Woo held out his hand. “Hello, Mr. Thackeray, I have come to lose my money again, uh huh?”
Thackeray shook his hand but didn’t smile. “A pleasure to take it, Mr. Woo.” There was a slight slur to his speech.
Woo turned to Bond. “And this is my friend from Jamaica, Mr. James Bond. He is a journalist covering the Hong Kong handover.”
Thackeray looked at Bond, sizing him up. Bond held out his hand and said, “How do you do?”
There was a slight pause before Thackeray took his hand, almost as if he wasn’t sure whether or not he wanted to do so. But his grip was firm and dry.
“Welcome to the Far East, Mr. Bond,” Thackeray said. “I hope you’re a better mahjong player than your friend Mr. Woo.” Bond smelled alcohol. The man was very drunk.
“I’m afraid I’m mostly accustomed to western rules, but I shall do my best,” Bond said.
The man looked like his photograph. He was very handsome, even if his face was severe. Bond did note that Thackeray appeared tired, with the look of a man under a great deal of stress. After what happened to EurAsia’s Board of Directors, he must be dealing with a massive amount of red tape.
“What can I get you to drink?” he asked.
“Vodka martini, shaken, please. Not stirred.”
For the first time since he’d entered the room, Thackeray displayed the hint of a smile. “I like a man who’s particular,” he said, then walked over to the bartender.
Over the next few minutes, the two bodyguards turned away other prospective mahjong players who had enquired about the game. Although the room was private, the bodyguards didn’t prevent spectators from coming and going. By the time the men were ready to play, six or seven other Chinese men were standing around the edges, chattering quietly among themselves.
“Don’t let my sycophants disturb your concentration, Mr. Bond,” Thackeray said. “They like to bet on the various hands during the game.”
“The more the merrier,” Bond said.
Thackeray had brought Bond his martini and placed an entire bottle of vodka on the table for himself. He sat down, poured a glass, then took a gulp.
“Shall we begin?” Thackeray said, standing next to the table. “Do you know the rules for our game?” Without waiting for an answer, he continued. “Two-point minimum, ten-point maximum, 100 Hong Kong dollars a point, standard doubling, Maximum Hand is 38,400 dollars. No chicken hands allowed. Agreed?”
“Chicken hand?” Bond asked.
T.Y. explained. “Ah, in Hong Kong version of game, that is what we call a winning hand that has both types of sets—Chows and Pongs or Kongs. It is easiest type of winning hand to get. But remember, a chicken hand is okay if you have points from other things, like Flowers or Winds.”
Bond knew what Woo meant. A winning hand in mahjong consisted of fourteen tiles in a combination of “sets.” A Chow was a set of three consecutively numbered tiles from any suit, such as a 1–2–3 or a 6–7–8. A Pong was a set of three of the same numbered tiles from any given suit, such as three 6s in the Circles suit. A Kong was a set of four of the same numbered tiles from any given suit. To “go out,” a player’s hand must contain three or four Chows, Pongs, and/or Kongs, plus one Pair of the same tiles in any suit. Special hands consisting of a combination of specific tiles were worth more points.