Silencer (15 page)

The usual defence was that the fight had started because someone had brought the battalion into disrepute. That covered a whole shitload of options: taking the piss out of the cap badge, calling the colonel a wanker, saying you’d like to shag the brigadier’s daughter. If it was the navy or the RAF you were beasting – or, better still, somebody else’s – you claimed that they’d taken the piss out of the British Army. That was normally enough to get away with a fine or restriction of privileges. You were given your belt and beret back and, most importantly, got to turn your offence into a badge of honour.

So off I went to the local nick with five lads from other units,
sat on the cell floor in a torn and blood-stained T-shirt and waited for the MPs to arrive and take us away. But that didn’t happen. Why not? It always did! When did I get awarded my badge of honour? Not this time …

All six of us were taken to Stanley Prison on the south side of the island, within spitting distance of our camp, given a crew-cut and orange overalls, and put in a cell with seven very pissed-off Triad members. It turned out the battalion had been called back early to the border, so by the time we were due to be collected, everybody had fucked off. That was us in the hands of the local police until they got back two weeks later.

I spent the time learning how to break rocks to make gravel, in what was known in polite circles as the Hong Kong Correctional Service facility. But at least the army brought us ration packs each day so I didn’t feel totally abandoned.

I returned to the battalion as soon as my two weeks were over, to be given another short, sharp shock – and that didn’t just mean the serious piss-take for failing to do a runner from Ned Kelly’s. I was treated as if I’d been given a military sentence, which meant I was charged for the ration packs and for any medical care I might have needed, to the tune of forty-seven pounds a day. It didn’t stop there: I also had fifteen days’ pay docked. I was only earning twenty-one pounds a day, even with my overseas allowance, so it took me months to pay everything back.

It was getting dark now. Explosions of light peppered the skyline as far as the eye could see. Every building, streetlamp, boat and vehicle seemed to want to join the party. From where I was standing, it took my breath away.

It was a pity I wasn’t there just to gaze out of the window.

I stretched out on the luxurious bed and picked up the phone, but didn’t dial immediately, just rested it on my chest.

Eventually I punched in the numbers, and listened to it ring.

When she finally picked up, Anna sounded knackered.

‘I’m in the hotel. A nice one – well booked! You ever been to Hong Kong?’

‘Years ago, as a student.’ That was what she said. What she meant was: ‘I haven’t had a moment’s sleep in the last four days. Why did you wake me up now to ask such a fucking stupid question?’

‘How’s the boy? Still pink instead of blue?’

‘Nicholas …’ It sounded like she was swallowing hard. Maybe she was winding up to give me a full Cantonese-style bollocking. ‘He had real problems with his breathing last night. They had to ventilate him. He’s stable now, but it was touch and go …’

I suddenly realized I was short of breath. I’d only ever felt that a handful of times before, but being thousands of miles away, with no control of things, seemed to make it worse. I knew I couldn’t have done anything even if I had been there, but that didn’t seem to make any difference. All I could manage was, ‘He OK now?’

‘He settled down about three hours ago.’

‘Do you want me to come back?’

‘No, Nicholas. No.’ Her tone wasn’t aggressive, just firm enough to make the point. ‘The poor little thing has got even more tubes and monitors sticking out of him than before, but he’s alive.’ Her voice wavered. ‘You can’t do anything here. Find Katya.’

‘The lads still there?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good. Then listen.’ I went into sitrep mode. It was probably easier for both of us. ‘I need your help with my cover. Are you OK with that? You’re going to have to give up your phone number.’

‘Of course. That’s what these men are here for, isn’t it?’ She sounded a bit pissed-off that I’d even had to ask her.

‘From now on, you’re my Hispanic partner in Moscow and the little guy doesn’t exist.’

‘I understand.’

‘I’m calling on the hotel phone. Your number will have been flagged for the bill, complete with Russian area code. I’ll be texting and emailing you daily with concerned-partner stuff. You think I’m here on business, the energy market, oil and gas. You don’t know I’m here to get you a kidney.’

I heard movement. ‘OK, understood.’

‘You’ve got my number. The kisses are what you put when someone you love is dying of CKD. Can you send some back?’

There was a moment’s silence. ‘Yes.’

‘Did you ping Katya’s blood type?’

‘O positive. Is that good?’

‘Very good. I’m going to start looking straight after I clean up. Get some rest.’

‘OK.’

I went to fill the limestone bath, and tapped out an email to Anna while the tap was running.

Going to meet some clients now. Will text soon. xx

Ten minutes later I climbed out of the water and shrugged on a huge fluffy bathrobe, towelled myself dry, then ruined it by putting my very smelly boxers back on.

I pictured the look Anna would have given me if she’d been watching. Maybe if I could convince her that I …

No, that was for later. I had to cut away now from everything except the mission.

The door to my suite closed itself behind me with a gentle
shush
and I headed for the lift.

My view of the sea was blocked by high-rises and the mass of traffic as I headed down towards the Admiralty area. After a while I hung a series of rights to get me into Wan Chai. Last time I was there, it was the place for a big night out. Perhaps because it was so close to HMS
Tamar
, it had also been the place for fights.

The whole stretch used to throb with neon, mostly splashing light across decaying buildings with rusty old air-conditioners. The bars advertised dancing girls and Tiger beer, neither of which were a whole lot fresher. The rats in the alleyways kept themselves busy, scampering over the bodies of drunken sailors who’d given up trying to remember the best way home.

I could see immediately that Wan Chai had lost its red-light district and gone upmarket. Shiny new shopfronts displayed Louis Vuitton bags and all that sort of gear – the genuine articles, because they were right next door to Starbucks. The rip-offs were peddled at market stalls.

The super-high buildings might look like glass, concrete and steel space rockets, but the scaffolding they used to move the construction workers and kit around the sky was still made from bamboo tied together with string – by husband-and-wife teams, legend had it, because they could trust each other to make sure the knots were tight.

I went into a cutting-edge men’s boutique and bought three pairs of jeans, three long-sleeved shirts, all white, three pairs of
boxers and three pairs of socks. That was all I needed: one on, one clean, and one in the wash. Then I grabbed some toothpaste and stuff, a frothy coffee and a chocolate muffin.

My Starbucks name today was Ebenezer. I hated that ‘And what’s your name?’ shit; it wasn’t about to make my coffee taste any better. I’d amused myself one morning in Moscow by saving a page of Biblical names on my laptop and picking out the weirdest. The Russians never saw the joke, of course, and neither did the twenty-something behind the counter today. He just stood there, Sharpie in hand, waiting for me to spell it.

‘Ben will do, mate.’

The rain had eased to a light spit, but it didn’t make much difference to me. I was still acclimatizing, and already as damp under my sweatshirt as I was on top of it. I hovered for a moment on the kerb for a tram to rattle past. The old double-decker jobs were still going strong, two-storey advertising boards that ploughed along their tracks, oblivious to the teeming masses on foot. There wasn’t a word in Cantonese for ‘pedestrian crossing’.

I eventually found an Internet café on Jaffe Road. These joints are pretty much a thing of the past now, no matter where you are in the world. Most city dwellers are self-connected, and South East Asia has no shortage of free Wi-Fi. Eyes were glued to cell phones and thumbs were popping everywhere I looked.

This place was open 24/7. I paid my forty Hong Kong dollars for two hours, and cracked on. I replayed the video of the riot of Beige’s people-carrier leaving the airport car park, then Googled
extra black number plate + Hong Kong
and logged onto the car registration website. The Toyota carried a mandatory cross-border plate for Guangdong Province, which meant the vehicle was registered to a foreign national or a Hong Kong Chinese, not a citizen of the PRC. So why did she have one? And how hard was it to get?

The answer seemed to be that you had to invest at least a million US dollars in China if you were based out of Hong Kong and wanted to check your investments in the PRC on a regular basis. But there were other ways. The blog sites claimed you could rent one from somebody who was already qualified, as
long as you had more than three hundred thousand US dollars a year to spare. That was steep even if the Upper House room rates didn’t make you blink, but I guessed it added up to no more than a couple of brokered kidneys or a lung or two in Donorland. Peanuts, if it meant she could come and go as she pleased.

Shenzhen, the nearest town across the border, was easily accessible to Hong Kong residents, but only on foot. Thirty years ago it had been a tiny fishing village. Then the PRC had decided to get busy and convert the surrounding area into their very first Special Economic Zone to kick-start their new-found enthusiasm for the capitalist ethic. It was now one of China’s busiest container ports. The global supply of garden gnomes had to start their lifetime’s adventure somewhere.

Hong-Kongers did shopping trips to Shenzhen the way Brits used to do booze cruises to Calais. A lot of stuff was still cheaper in the PRC, so they rode the Mass Transit Railway until the train terminated at the border, picked up a day visa at the station immigration desk, and legged it over the bridge into the world’s biggest shopping mall. They’d load up their wheelie baskets and take the train home.

Google’s next task was to tell me where I could give blood. I could always have gone and bought some – there was no shortage of hospital workers or clinicians in search of an extra payday – but that would take time, and I’d have had to take the blood type on trust. I’d also have had no guarantee of quality – it might have been contaminated with an STD or HIV. Katya was O positive; I was O negative. I’d read in the int that the rhesus factor didn’t matter, so if I took my own, at least I’d know it was clean.

There were plenty of places queuing up for a pint or two of my blood: the Red Cross, every hospital and some private clinics with jazzy marketing campaigns showing happy teens giving each other high fives as they paid their weekly visit to donor clubs. But I wasn’t looking for the happy-clappy approach. I needed somewhere a bit more hardcore.

I found a place on Kowloon that was open until eleven p.m. that night and hit the iPhone. The receptionist picked up before the second ring, and treated me to a ringside seat at a Cantonese cat-fight.

I interrupted her before she had a chance to get a full head of steam. ‘Hello? You speak English?’

She ignored me and rattled on.

I tried again. ‘Hello. Do – you – speak – English?’

She stopped, offended. ‘Yes –
course
I speak English. You want appointment?’

‘I need to give some of my blood for—’

‘You need blood bank. You need Red Cross.’

‘No, I understand. I don’t need the Red Cross. I need the blood for myself. I want to take the blood with me. I need it for an autologous donation. You understand what I mean – autologous donation?’

Silence.

I’d probably stretched her English. I’d certainly stretched my own.

‘I want
my
blood. Can you do that for me?’

‘
Wei
.’

‘How much does it cost?’

I heard some rustling, and some fighting talk in the background.

‘Seven hundred dollar.’

‘Hong Kong dollars?’

‘Seven hundred Hong Kong dollar.’

‘All the equipment is sterile?’

‘Everything sterile. When you come?’

‘Tonight? Maybe in an hour?’

‘OK.’ The phone went down before I could even give a name. I left the café and turned back in the direction of the hotel. It was fearsomely hot and humid; thank fuck the MTR to the peninsula would have air-con.

It had stopped raining, but the branches were still dripping. Locals with their strides rolled up dodged puddles so energetically they looked like they were playing hopscotch. I couldn’t be arsed to do the same, so I just kept on going, the dickhead abroad, with my four bags of shopping and jeans soaked up to my calves.

I reached Admiralty station and put three hundred Hong Kong dollars, about forty US, on an Octopus travel card. Then I hit the Metro and headed north under the causeway at warp speed in a supercool aluminium tube. The air-con was so effective I felt like I’d just stepped into a deep freeze.

The carriage was only half full, locals mainly, but a couple of young female tourists too, backpacks dangling down their chests like baby-carriers, heads down, eyes locked on an MTR map. Everyone else was either checking their smartphones or talking into them.

As if on cue, my iPhone vibrated: Anna, replying to my email.

Have fun. Don’t work too hard. xx

Moscow was only four hours behind Hong Kong. It would be mid-afternoon for her.

I’ll try. How are you feeling? xx

The train kept dead level as it sped below the sea.

Not brilliant today. Miss you …

I felt myself break into a smile. We could still do ‘normal’, if only as a cover.

We stopped at the first underground station on Kowloon Peninsula, Tsim Sha Tsui. The MTR didn’t surface until further into the New Territories.