Hungry Ghost (2 page)

He was ten minutes late and Grey was waiting for him at the entrance to the drive. He was holding open a wooden gate which he closed behind Donaldson’s Toyota as it pulled up in front of the thatched farmhouse.

As he climbed out of the car Donaldson instantly felt over-dressed in his light blue suit. Grey had swapped his customary Savile Row pinstripe for baggy cord trousers and a thick white fisherman’s sweater. With his greying temples and weather-beaten face he looked more like the head of a farming family than an off-duty civil servant. He shook Donaldson limply by the hand and took him along the hall past a selection of tasteful hunting prints and into a sitting-room packed with plush settees and Victorian furniture. It was very much a woman’s room, with pretty lace things on the backs of the chairs and a collection of old perfume bottles on a circular table in one corner. On top of a large television set was a collection of brass-framed photographs of the Grey clan. A fire was burning merrily in a white-painted metal fireplace that looked original and Grey gestured towards the two floral-patterned easy chairs either side of the blaze. In between the chairs was a low coffee table on which stood a fine bone china tea-set and a silver teapot. There was also a plateful of crumpets dripping with butter.

The two men sat down and made small talk while Grey poured. The conversation turned towards the office, and workloads and politics. Donaldson felt uneasy; Grey wouldn’t normally even say hello to him if they passed in a corridor. Donaldson was a Grade 2 admin assistant, albeit with a high security classification. His main job was to keep track of expenses of agents in the field, he was always at arm’s length from operations. The nearest he got to the sharp end of intelligence work was to read thrillers by Brian Freemantle and John le Carré.

The fire crackled in the grate, the logs moving against each other like uneasy lovers. A gust of wind blew down the chimney and a plume of smoke bellowed under the rim of the fireplace and wafted gently towards the ceiling, filling the air with the fragrant scent of burning pine.

‘There’s nothing like an open fire,’ said Donaldson, settling back in the chair and enjoying the warmth but wishing that his host would just get on with it. Men of Donaldson’s rank didn’t get social invitations for tea and crumpets in deepest Suffolk.

‘It’s worth the effort,’ replied Grey.

Sure, thought Donaldson. Grey probably kicked his wife out of bed in the morning to empty the ashes, fill the grate and blow on burning newspapers until the bloody thing was lit. Either that or he’d have a servant to do it. Grey wasn’t the sort of man who’d be caught dead with a dustpan and brush in his liver-spotted hands.

‘More tea?’ asked Grey, proffering the silver teapot.

‘Thank you, no, sir,’ Donaldson replied politely. He already wanted to visit the toilet.

‘I suppose you’re wondering why I asked you here,’ said Grey, as he poured himself another cup.

Of course not, you silly old fool, thought Donaldson, but he merely smiled and nodded, once.

‘We have a problem in Hong Kong,’ continued Grey. ‘Or to be more precise, we have a problem over the border, in China.’ He stirred his tea thoughtfully, the spoon clinking gently against the cup. ‘You are of course aware of the massive loss of confidence in the colony, especially after what happened in Tiananmen Square. There has been a rush to get out, businesses are thinking twice about investing there, the place is a shambles. The British Government is struggling to make the transition in 1997 as smooth and painless as possible.’

He replaced the spoon in the saucer and sipped the tea with relish.

‘The Government has already made it clear that we cannot offer sanctuary to all the six million Chinese who live in Hong Kong, so it’s vital that we keep the lid on things, if you follow me. Once Hong Kong is part of China, of course, it is no longer our problem. Until then our intelligence services are doing everything they can to nip any trouble in the bud. We are actively seeking to dissuade those local politicians and businessmen who are trying to delay the handover, or to impose restrictions which we know the Chinese will find unacceptable.’

Grey gave his pale imitation of a smile and leant forward to place his cup and saucer on the table between them.

‘That is background, background you are no doubt aware of. Now to the problem in hand. There is a nuclear power station in China, some six miles away from Hong Kong. The authorities in Beijing have received a threat to destroy it, to blow it up.’

‘My God!’ said Donaldson. ‘A nuclear explosion six miles from Hong Kong?’

‘Strictly speaking, it wouldn’t actually be a nuclear explosion,’ said Grey, clasping his hands and resting them in his lap. ‘As I understand it, a conventional explosive device has been placed in the foundations, close to the reactor. If detonated it will crack open the reactor and lead to the sort of thing we saw at Three Mile Island and Chernobyl. Not a nuclear explosion, but the release of a cloud of radioactive material. Hong Kong, I should add, tends to be downwind of the power station.’

Donaldson fell silent as his mind tried to grasp the enormity of Grey’s revelation. There were so many questions to ask that he didn’t know where to start and he was relieved when the old man began speaking again.

‘MI6 tells us that the ultimatum was delivered to Beijing by one of the triads in Hong Kong, the Chinese mafia if you like. They are especially fearful of what will happen when the colony comes under full Chinese jurisdiction. They execute criminals in China, you know. In football stadiums. Parents take their children to watch.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘It’s a simple matter for the big hongs like Jardine Matheson to switch their domicile to Bermuda, or for the Hongkong and Shanghai Bank to invest money overseas and transfer its capital around the world, but the triads are firmly rooted in Hong Kong. They cannot afford to give up their illegal activities in the colony. They simply have too much to lose. So with only a few years to go before the British pull out they have decided that their only hope is to delay the handover. They want the
status quo
to continue, for fifty years at least.’

‘Why fifty years, sir?’ asked Donaldson.

Grey smiled thinly at the man’s lack of knowledge. ‘In 1997 Hong Kong will be given back to China, but for fifty years after handover it will operate under its own rules and regulations. It will have its own Government, including its own elected representatives, and its own laws, which are currently being drafted. It will be part of China, but at the same time separate from it. Special Administrative Region, I think they’re going to call it. It will stay that way until 2047 when it will become just another part of China. But during those fifty years the policing of Hong Kong will be the responsibility of the Chinese. And it is that which is worrying the triads.’

‘I thought they were bailing out along with anyone else who can afford to buy a passport, sir,’ said Donaldson, and was rewarded with a nod from the older man.

‘Yes, but it’s not as simple as that. Any sort of criminal record will stop them getting into Canada, Australia or the United States. The middle classes and the rich have no problems buying second passports, but it’s standard practice in most Western countries to cross-check with Special Branch in Hong Kong to ensure that applicants don’t have triad connections. I’ve no doubt they could buy a passport from Andorra but most of them have nowhere to go. Some have managed to get out and as a result many of the triads are active overseas. They operate anywhere where there are Chinatowns . . . or Chinese restaurants. But the bulk of their income comes from vice, drugs and extortion in Hong Kong. And they are naturally reluctant to lose that revenue.’

‘But surely, sir, contaminating Hong Kong is no answer?’

Grey shrugged and reached for his cup and saucer again. ‘It seems to be a sort of scorched-earth policy. If they can’t have it, no one else will. But I suppose they assume that their demands will be met.’

‘All they want is for the police force to remain British, you say?’

Grey drained his cup and sighed. ‘You know what happens when you give in to blackmail, particularly where terrorists are involved. You submit once and the stakes are raised next time. The Chinese are not stupid. They know if they give in to this demand then more will follow. And to be frank, there is not one hope in hell of the Chinese – or the British – agreeing. The British Government just wants a clean withdrawal and the Chinese want complete control. No, their demands will not be met. The men behind it must be stopped.’

Donaldson nodded.

‘That’s why I need your help,’ said Grey.

‘I don’t follow, sir,’ said Donaldson, feeling out of his depth.

‘On no account must the Chinese be aware that we know of the blackmail threat. We haven’t been approached officially, nor will we be. That is why we cannot deal with this through normal channels, as news would soon filter back to Peking.’

‘I hardly think we have any Chinese double-agents, sir,’ said Donaldson smugly.

‘If we have I wouldn’t expect you to know about them,’ said Grey, and Donaldson winced at the reprimand. ‘No, our department cannot be involved officially. Or unofficially for that matter.’

‘So you want me to arrange a freelance, sir?’

‘No,’ said Grey, carefully putting his cup and saucer back on the table and looking wistfully at the now empty teapot. ‘No, not a freelance.’ He looked up at Donaldson, eyes shining like a ferret’s. ‘We want to use Howells.’

Donaldson stiffened as if he’d been plugged into the mains.

‘Howells is dead,’ he said.

‘Retired,’ stressed Grey.

‘That’s what I mean,’ said Donaldson.

‘No,’ smiled Grey. ‘I mean he really
was
retired. Pensioned off. He’s alive, and available.’

Donaldson sank back into the easy chair, his mind whirling as it tried to come to terms with what he’d heard.

‘Howells is a psychopath,’ he spluttered.

‘Actually, I think the phrase the psychologists use is sociopath, admittedly with homicidal tendencies. Though you’ll have to take it from me that Geoff Howells is a changed man, for the moment at least. Have you seen the garden?’

The change in subject caught Donaldson by surprise. ‘I’m sorry, sir?’ he said.

‘The garden, have you seen the garden? Come on, I feel like a walk.’

He led the younger man down along the hall to the back door where he pulled off his slippers and donned a pair of green Wellington boots. He gestured towards a matching pair.

‘The grass is still wet. Try those for size. They’re my son’s, he’s up at Oxford.’

He would be, thought Donaldson. The boots fitted, though.

Grey hauled open the door to be greeted by two heaving Labradors, one black, one golden-brown, tongues lolling out of the corners of their mouths, tails wagging madly, overjoyed to see their master. Donaldson had seen similar reactions from section heads going into Grey’s monthly think-tank meetings. Not that Donaldson had ever attended one. The black dog leapt up and tried to lick Grey’s face and he pushed it away, though obviously pleased at the show of affection.

‘Down, Lady,’ he said, but there was no harshness in his voice.

The dogs ran in circles around the two men as they walked along the edge of the lawn which sloped gently down towards a small orchard. The grass formed a triangular shape with the base at the house and the clump of apple trees filling the apex. The garden was bordered by a thick privet hedge some ten feet high and between it and the lawn was a wide flower bed packed with plants and bushes. The air was cool and moist and Donaldson breathed in deeply, savouring its freshness.

‘Do you live in the country?’ asked Grey.

‘Ealing, sir,’ replied Donaldson.

‘Ah,’ said Grey quietly, as if he’d just heard that Donaldson was an orphan.

‘I have a garden, though,’ Donaldson added, and then inwardly squirmed as he realized how lame that sounded. They walked in silence for a while until Grey sniffed the air and turned to peer upward at the roof.

‘Damn chimney’s smoking too much, I’ll have to get it swept. Have you any idea how much it costs to have a chimney swept?’

Donaldson didn’t; his three-bedroomed semi had radiators in every room.

They wandered into the orchard, a dozen or so trees twice the height of a man, a mixture of apple, pear and plum, and Grey carefully inspected each one.

‘Do you think they need spraying?’ asked Grey, but Donaldson guessed it was rhetorical.

You never knew with Grey, that was the problem. He was often so subtle, so obtuse, that it was easy to miss what he was trying to say. He’d once called in one of his departmental heads for a half-hour chat and the poor man had walked out of the office without even realizing that he’d been sacked. It wasn’t until Grey passed him in the corridor a week later that he discovered he was still on the payroll. It wasn’t unusual for group meetings with Grey to be followed by a flurry of phone calls along the lines of ‘what exactly did we decide?’ Donaldson was on edge for any hint, any clue as to what it was that Grey wanted. All he knew so far was that it involved Geoff Howells, a man he thought had been dead for more than three years.

That was the last time one of his expense sheets had passed over his desk. Ridiculously high, as usual. Donaldson had enjoyed wielding the red pen, often slashing them by half. Until the day Howells had burst into Donaldson’s office. Jesus, he’d been terrified. Damn near pissed himself.

‘Did you ever work with Howells?’ asked Grey.

Donaldson shook his head. ‘No, but I followed his career with interest.’

‘Short but eventful,’ said Grey. ‘He managed to gain quite a reputation in a relatively short period of time.’

‘Captain in the SAS, wasn’t he? Trained to kill.’ And the bastard damn near killed me, thought Donaldson. He’d grabbed him by the throat and pinned him to the wall. That’s all Donaldson remembered until he woke up in the empty office with one of Howells’ expense sheets shoved between his teeth. That was the last time he’d used the red pen.