1966 - You Have Yourself a Deal Read online

  “I want that passport back, Girland.”

  Girland stared blankly at him.

  “What passport?”

  “The passport I had faked for this woman.”

  “Of course.” Girland clapped his hand to his forehead. “I remember. Well, for Pete’s sake, I’m getting forgetful. I left it in the right hand top drawer of your desk in your villa. I’m sorry . . . I should have brought it with me . . . clean went out of my mind.”

  “It’s all right. I’ll get Diallo to mail it to me.” Dorey regarded Girland thoughtfully. “I have an idea you are up to something. What are you going to do now?”

  “I might take a little vacation. I have saved a little money and before returning to my job, I think I deserve a vacation.”

  Dorey wasn’t fooled for a moment.

  “Listen to me, Girland, if I find you have been untrustworthy, I’ll make it my business to fix you, and believe me, I could fix you.”

  Girland looked innocently at him.

  “That’s not very friendly. Just because you get landed with an addled egg, Dorey, you can’t blame me . . . now can you?”

  “Just remember what I’ve said. I don’t think I am going to employ you again. Whenever you have an assignment it goes wrong, but somehow you benefit.”

  “Just chance,” Girland said, moving to the door. “You might still need me, Dorey, old pal. If I can put up with you, I can’t see why you can’t be big-minded and put up with me. Bye now,” and he went out of the office.

  Mavis Paul was typing, making the machine sound like a quick-fire machine gun. She didn’t look up nor pause as Girland came to rest by her desk.

  Girland studied the little plaque bearing her name that stood on her desk. He picked up a scratch pad and pen and wrote the name down.

  “Pretty name . . . pretty girl,” he murmured. He put the slip of paper into his shirt pocket and went out into the anti-room where Carlota was waiting.

  “Go on in,” he said. “He’ll talk a lot, but the foundation is laid for you. I’ll get off. See you sometime soon.”

  They touched hands, smiled at each other, then Girland went down to where he had parked his Fiat 600.

  The following morning Girland arrived by taxi at Orly airport to catch the 9 a.m. flight via Rome to Hong Kong. He was carrying a lightweight suitcase and he wore a well-worn, slightly crumpled tropical blue suit. He handed his suitcase to an elderly porter, and followed him to the Air France reception desk. He tipped the porter and paid the airport dues. He was told his flight was A.F. 632 and there might be a slight delay in Rome.

  Jean Redoun, the porter, listened long enough to register these facts, then he walked quickly to the nearest telephone booth. He remembered Girland by his photograph, and he knew the Soviet Embassy was more than interested in him. He put through a call and spoke briefly to Kovski.

  After the call, Kovski sat for a long moment, frowning into space. Malik, somewhat in disgrace, had been sent to Rome to check on a British agent who seemed ready to defect. Why was Girland going to Hong Kong? Kovski asked himself. The woman was dead. They were certain of that. Then why Hong Kong. He didn’t hesitate for more than a few seconds. He reached for the telephone and called Rome.

  Girland believed in luxury at other people’s expense. He had decided to travel first-class, but he did have some difficulty in persuading Jacques Yew to advance the fare. Yew couldn’t see what was wrong with travelling Economy Class, but eventually Girland talked him out of this way of thinking.

  Girland enjoyed the trip. The first-class section on the aircraft wasn’t crowded, and the air hostess, a pretty little thing with a lively smile and flirtatious eyes, didn’t hold his shabby suit against him. She thought he could be an eccentric millionaire, and besides, he had a charming smile. She was continually pampering him with caviar, champagne and snacks.

  At Rome, Girland left the aircraft and had two quick double Scotches in the airport bar. He stretched his legs, bought the latest Hadley Chase paperback and returned to the aircraft.

  Three minutes before the aircraft took off, Malik, slightly out of breath, hurried across the tarmac and climbed the stairs into the Economy Class compartment. As he fastened his safety belt, he congratulated himself on the speed of his driving and his luck to find an empty seat on the plane.

  Kovski had been very emphatic. Malik was not to lose Girland.

  Girland would not be travelling to Hong Kong unless Erica Olsen had given him some important information before she had died.

  That, Kovski felt, was certain. The Soviet Security wanted this information. Malik’s instructions were to get it at all cost. The Soviet Agents in Hong Kong had been alerted. They would work under Malik. This was Malik’s opportunity to make good on his reputation.

  Malik had sneered to himself, but he had made frantic efforts to get on the plane, and by three minutes to spare, he had succeeded.

  While he and Girland were being shot through space towards Hong Kong, Yet-Sen at the Paris Chinese Embassy was making a report in code that was to be cabled to Pekin. Yet-Sen was satisfied with himself. Admittedly, he had lost three promising agents, but after all, agents were expendable. The point was he had carried out his instructions. The woman was dead.

  As an afterthought, he added a description of Girland to his report.

  “This man,” he wrote, “is dangerous and should be in our files. A photograph and details of his method of operations will follow in the diplomatic bag.”

  This cable arrived in Pekin eighteen hours before Girland landed in Hong Kong. A warning about Girland, with his description, was flashed to every airport in Asia. Not that they were expecting Girland, but the Chinese are thorough and it was part of their system to take no chances.

  So without being aware of it, Girland was heading for a wasps nest. He not only had Malik on his plane, but now a certain Chinese Customs official at the Kai Tak airport had his description.

  Eating an excellent sauté of chicken, washed down with a very presentable Bordeaux wine, Girland at that moment hadn’t a care in the world. He was heading towards riches, and about to arrive at the foot of his rainbow.

  Girland was no stranger to Hong Kong. This, he thought as he walked out of the airport into the blistering sunshine, would be his fourth visit. Once he had met a young, American heiress on a world tour. She had insisted that he should be her bodyguard. Since her body was exceptionally inviting, Girland had raised no objections. They had spent four exciting and somewhat erotic weeks in Hong Kong. Later, he had been assigned by the C.I.A. to help to break up an opium ring and Hong Kong had been the centre of operations. He and Harry Curtis, the resident Agent, had spent days in a police boat and Girland had got to know the various outer islands around Taipang Wan, Tathong and in the East Lamma Channel.

  Curtis was the last person Girland wanted to run into at this moment, and knowing Curtis had the habit of meeting aircraft from Europe, he kept a sharp eye out for him. He was so occupied watching for Curtis’s burly figure that he failed to notice Malik trailing along behind him.

  The Chinese Customs officer at the barrier studied Girland’s passport and then looked thoughtfully at him. Then he returned the passport, saluted and motioned Girland through the barrier.

  As soon as Girland began walking towards a row of taxis, the Customs officer jerked his thumb in his direction and a fat Chinese, wearing a well-worn black business suit, went after Girland.

  All this wasn’t lost on Malik whose sharp eyes had seen the signal and the fat Chinese wander after Girland. Malik glanced around.

  Branska, the resident Soviet agent, came out of the crowd and shook Malik’s hand. Branska was a short, heavily-built man with sandy, thinning hair and freckles.

  “It’s all right,” he said. “He’s taken care of. I have three men covering him. Let’s go to the hotel. We’ll get a report as soon as they find out where he is going.”

  Malik nodded and the two men walked over to a waiting car.

  Gi
rland told the taxi driver to take him to the Star Ferry. He relaxed back in the cab as it rushed him along the crowded waterfront with its hordes of trotting coolies, carrying enormous burdens, slung on bamboo poles, the rickshaws, the overladen trucks, the big American cars driven by sleek rich-looking Chinese, bicycles making suicidal dashes through the traffic and every now and then a lovely Chinese girl, her cheongsam slit to four inches above her knees, in a rickshaw, her legs crossed, her hands demurely in her lap.

  Girland loved Hong Kong. This was a town, he thought, teeming with life and energy where anything could happen and where money could be made.

  He paid off the taxi at the ferry, then passing through the turnstile, he got on board the waiting boat.

  Two of Malik’s agents and the fat Chinese also got on the boat.

  Ten minutes later, Girland left the boat station on the Hong Kong side and took a taxi to a small hotel on the Wanchai waterfront where he had stayed previously.

  By this time he had become aware that he was being followed.

  Girland had a strongly developed sense of self-preservation. He had quickly spotted Malik’s agents during the crossing, but he had foiled to spot the fat Chinese who was sitting near him, reading the Hong Kong Times.

  As Girland paid off his taxi, he saw a car drive past. The two thickset men were in the car and they looked studiously away from him as the car went on up the waterfront. Girland grinned. Well, he would have to be careful, he told himself. He paid no attention to a fat Chinese in a shabby black suit who was standing near him, buying a pack of cigarettes from a street vendor.

  Girland climbed the steep steps to the hotel lobby. He was greeted with a wide smile of welcome by an elderly Chinese with a wispy beard. Wan See had been the owner of the hotel for many years and he had an excellent memory for faces.

  After greeting him, Girland went up more stairs to a small clean room that overlooked the waterfront. He took a shower, changed into a sports shirt and jeans, and then went down to Wan See.

  The owner of the hotel was in the pay of the American Embassy and he could be relied on. Girland warned him that he was on official business and he must be careful no one got into his room while he was out.

  Wan See had housed a number of American Agents over the years and he knew his business.

  “That is okay,” he said. “No one comes here unless I know him.”

  “I have a telephone call to make.”

  Wan See waved to a booth.

  Carlota had given Girland a telephone number to call when he arrived. This number, she had explained, was to a villa on the Peak where Erica was in hiding. He dialled the number and waited.

  There was a brief delay, then a man’s voice said, “Who is that, please?”

  “A friend who comes from Paris,” Girland said, using the phrase Carlota had given him.

  He heard a quick hiss of breath.

  “I hope you had a good journey.” This was the counter password Carlota had given him and Girland relaxed.

  “Well, I’m here. I am at the Lotus Hotel, Wanchai. Do I come to you or will you come to me?”

  “It would be better if you come to me,” the man said. “The situation is difficult. It is safer not to talk now. I will send a woman to bring you to me. She will be wearing a red cheongsam and a diamond in her left ear.”

  “She sounds charming,” Girland said as the line went dead.

  He again consulted Wan See.

  “There is a girl coming. The hotel is being watched. She and I will be leaving and it is important we won’t be followed.”

  Wan See giggled.

  “There is no trouble. Every half-hour girls come here. The lower rooms are rented for love. There is a staircase to the roof. You can leave that way. You cross two roofs, descend by a fire escape to an alley that leads to the waterfront.”

  Girland returned to his room and waited. He thought longingly of an air conditioner as the heat flowed through the open window, turning the small room into an oven.

  An hour and five minutes later, there came a tap on the door.

  Girland got off the bed and opened the door. A slim Chinese girl, wearing a scarlet cheongsam, a diamond sparkling in her left ear lobe, smiled at him.

  “You expect me?”

  Girland liked Chinese girls. During his previous stays in Hong Kong he had slept with a number of them. They had technique and they took lovemaking seriously. This girl was not only pretty: she was sensationally sensuous.

  “Who are you?” he asked, moving back so she could come in.

  “My name is Tan-Toy. I work along the waterfront. I make professional love.”

  “You do?” Girland laughed. “That is something we might discuss later. Right now, let’s go.”

  They climbed the staircase to the roof and moving cautiously, they crossed two other roofs and descended by the iron fire escape into the alley below.

  They were watched by one of Malik’s agents who knew all about Wan See’s escape route. He had been posted on a nearby roof for the past two hours. Using a walkie-talkie, he alerted Malik that Girland with a Chinese woman was leaving his hotel.

  The fat Chinese had seen Tan-Toy arrive at the hotel. He knew about the villa on the Peak and had been watching it now for three or four days. He also alerted his men by short wave radio that Girland might be heading towards the villa.

  There was a considerable amount of traffic going up to the Peak and as Tan-Toy drove Girland in an Austin Cooper up the winding road, he kept looking back to see if they were being followed.

  She said, “It is all right. The lady is not there any longer. It is Hung Yan you are going to see.”

  “Is he the guy I spoke to on the telephone?”

  “Yes.”

  “If she’s not there, where is she?”

  “I don’t know.” Tan-Toy gave him a flashing smile.

  “Who are you? How do you get muddled up in this?”

  “Hung Yan is my friend. He helped me once when I was ill. I like to help people when they help me.”

  Eventually the car pulled up outside a small, dark villa, perched on the edge of the mountain with a fine view of Hong Kong and distant Kowloon.

  “Go right in,” the girl said as Girland got out of the car. “When you have finished your business, we might meet.”

  “Where do I find you?” Girland asked, bending down to look at her through the car window.

  “Wan See knows . . . ask him.” She waved her hand, looked again into his eyes, then reversing the car, she drove away.

  Girland looked down the long dark winding road, watching the red tail lights of her car disappear. No other car moved on the road.

  He walked quickly down a path that led to the villa and rang the bell. The front door immediately opened.

  “Please come in.”

  A shadowy figure let him into a small, stiflingly hot room lit by a small table lamp.

  The two men looked at each other. Hung Yan was a slightly built, young Chinese wearing a black, baggy, Chinese coat and trousers. His glittering eyes were feverish and when he shook hands, his skin felt dry and hot.

  Girland introduced himself.

  “The situation is very bad,” Hung Yan said. “They know I am here. I don’t think they can make up their minds whether she is dead or alive. Otherwise they would have got rid of me before now. Have you a passport for her? That is what she wants.”

  “I have it. Where is she?”

  “I will take you to her. She is on a junk, anchored off Pak Kok.”

  “How do you come to be here?” Girland asked curiously.

  “This villa belongs to my father who is in America. I brought Erica here a week ago, but she didn’t feel safe. She is very frightened. The junk belongs to my cousin’s fishing fleet. It is old and he is not using it. Erica thought she would be safer there than here.”

  “Is she alone?”

  “Yes, she is alone and frightened. I am sorry for her.” Hung Yan made a helpless movement wit
h his hands. “We are in love. She is in a very dangerous situation and it worries me very much.”

  “I’m not absolutely sure I haven’t been followed,” Girland said. “When do we go?”

  Hung Yan shrugged.

  “It doesn’t matter. They know I am here. They hope I will lead them to her.” He went to a cupboard. Opening it, he took from it two long knives in leather scabbards. “Can you use a knife? It is better than a gun.”

  “Oh, sure,” Girland said. He took the knife from Hung Yan, pulled it from its scabbard, regarded it and nodded his approval. He clipped the scabbard to his belt. “When do we go?”

  “Now . . . there is a footpath from here down the mountain to the main road,” Hung Yan told him. “There I have a car in a friend’s garage. There is a motorboat waiting at Aberdeen harbour.”

  The two men left the villa by the rear door, and a few minutes later, Girland found himself on a narrow, dangerously steep path that was shrouded in a damp mist that had come up from the mainland and now blotted out the view.

  He moved cautiously, following closely behind Hung Yan.

  There were moments when he could see nothing, then the mist cleared a little and he caught a glimpse of the Hong Kong lights far below.

  Suddenly a stone rattled down behind him, hitting his ankle and he reached out and caught hold of Hung Yan’s arm.

  “Someone’s behind us,” he whispered. “You go on . . . I’ll wait here.”

  Hung Yan nodded. He continued on down the path. Girland moved off the path down the slope and crouched behind a shrub, his ears pricked, his eyes peering into the half-darkness.

  There was a long pause, then he heard the sound of scuffling feet. Peering up, he could make out a small black figure coming cautiously down the path. He waited, tense. The man came on and moved past where Girland was concealed: a small Chinese, his head bent, his movements quick and silent.

  Girland pulled himself back onto the path. The man was now ten yards ahead of him. He turned as swiftly as a striking snake when he heard Girland behind him. A knife flashed. Girland went into a low, flying tackle, his arms gripping the man’s legs below the knees.