The Vets (Stephen Leather Thrillers) (46 page)

She kissed him on the cheek and smelt his aftershave, spicy and seductive. “You look fantastic,” she said, linking her arm through his.

“You too,” he replied.

“Why thank you, kind sir. Come and say hello to my mother.”

She took Chung around the room, introducing him to everybody and impressed by the way he handled himself. It was only when they were going through to the dining room that she noticed that he was the only Chinese there.

William Fielding sat at the head of the table with Sally Remnick on his right and Debbie on his left. Anne Fielding sat at the far end of the table, opposite her husband, with Michael Remnick on her right and an American lawyer on her left. The food was superb and the conversation was typical of any Hong Kong gathering: the future of the colony after 1997; falling property values; the disintegration of law and order; and who was leaving.

Sally Remnick asked Chung for his view of what was happening to Hong Kong and he studied her face before answering. “I think that the laissez-faire attitude which has allowed Hong Kong to flourish will be stifled under Chinese rule,” he said. “I think it will be a slow death. A gradual increase in bureaucracy, higher tax rates, more interference, until eventually Hong Kong loses all the advantages which made it so successful.”

Ronald Sager, a senior editor on one of the colony’s more successful business magazines, nodded in agreement as he helped himself to more salad. “And the people here know it,” he said. “That’s why so many are leaving. I had to get an American visa in my new passport, and you know how long I had to queue at the consulate? Nine hours! The queue starts at four o’clock in the morning. I got there at six o’clock and I didn’t get to the front until the afternoon. The line winds all the way up Garden Road, and they’re all Hong Kong Chinese wanting to emigrate. America, Canada, Australia, they don’t care where so long as they get out. Tell me, Anthony, what sort of passport do you have?”

“French,” said Chung.

“See,” said Sager, looking around the table. “That proves my point. Any smart Chinese already has his safety net, just in case. Isn’t that right, Anthony?”

Debbie rubbed Chung’s leg with her own under the table, letting him know that she sympathised with him and was sorry that he’d been adopted as the token Chinese viewpoint. He smiled at her and didn’t seem over-worried.

“You have to understand that we are all refugees here in Hong Kong. Either refugees or the children of refugees. The people here fled from China, either for economic reasons or because they felt they couldn’t live under communist rule after the communists took over in 1949. They know all too well what life is like under communism and have no wish to go back to it.”

“It’s unusual for a Hong Kong Chinese to have a French passport?” asked Sally Remnick.

Chung nodded. “Most Chinese don’t like Europe, it’s true. They feel happier where there are established Chinatowns in cities like Vancouver, Sydney, San Francisco. But I love Paris, I am very comfortable there.”

“It’s a beautiful city,” agreed Sally.

“And the food is good,” said William Fielding.

“But not as good as this,” smiled Chung, indicating his empty plate. “I have never eaten such excellent Thai food.”

“We have a superb Thai cook,” said Fielding. “A real treasure.”

“Speaking of treasure, Mr Fielding, I wonder if you, or rather your bank, might be able to offer me some assistance.”

“In what way?” asked Fielding. He showed no signs of irritation at business being raised at the dinner table. In Hong Kong, there were no restrictions on when or where business could be discussed.

“I am expecting a delivery of Chinese antiques from the mainland, and I will have to have them placed in a high-security area until I am ready to ship them to France. Does the bank have such a facility?”

“We do have a depository in Kowloon, Anthony, but it is expensive. You might not find it worth paying the charges. What would the value of the shipment be?”

Chung shrugged. “In the region of two million dollars,” he said.

“Hong Kong dollars?” asked Fielding.

“Oh no, US dollars,” said Chung. Fielding raised his eyebrows, impressed. “They are very valuable pieces,” continued Chung. “Small but extremely valuable.”

“How small?” asked Fielding. “The charges would depend on their size.”

“I suppose in total they would take about as much room as two cabin trunks. They’re mostly jade, so they don’t take up too much room.”

Fielding nodded. “I don’t think they’d be a problem,” he said.

“But how secure is the depository? I can’t afford to lose them.”

Fielding smiled. “It’s the safest place in Hong Kong, I can assure you of that,” he said confidently. “It’s even more secure than the vaults of the Hong Kong and Shanghai Bank. Look, if you’ve any doubts I can arrange a tour for you.”

“That would be great,” said Chung.

“I’ll speak to our head of security, George Ballantine. I’ll tell him to expect your call on Monday.”

Marie and Theresa began to clear away the dishes and Anne Fielding led the guests back into the lounge for coffee and liqueurs.

After tending to the Remnicks, Anne went over to Chung with a silver coffee pot and a cup and saucer.

“Coffee?” she asked.

“Please,” he said, holding the cup and saucer while she poured.

“I thought it was illegal to take antiques out of China,” she said.

“It is, without an export licence, and they’re hard to get hold of.”

“So you managed to get a licence?” she asked.

“No,” he smiled, “unfortunately I didn’t. That dress is lovely. It’s a Calvin Klein, isn’t it?”

“My, you have a good eye for clothes,” said Anne, genuinely surprised. “I doubt if any of the women in this room would be able to identify the designer just by looking at the dress.”

“He’s almost never wrong,” said Debbie, walking up to them.

“It looks stunning on you,” said Anthony. “You have excellent taste.”

“He’s right, Mum. It’s a gorgeous dress.”

Anne held the coffee pot out to her daughter. “Here, Debbie, can you give this to Theresa? I’m fed up with playing at waitress. And send Marie over with a brandy, please.”

“Another brandy?” said Debbie.

“Watch it, young lady,” warned Anne.

Debbie took the empty coffee pot and moved away, giving Chung a big smile as she went. Anne took her own coffee cup off the mantelpiece.

“Your husband is a very lucky man, having such a beautiful wife,” Chung said once Debbie was out of earshot.

Anne smiled and felt her cheeks redden at the unexpected compliment.

“And such a pretty daughter,” he added.

Anne studied Chung over the top of her coffee cup. “Are you trying to flatter me, Anthony?” she said.

He smiled disarmingly. “Me, Anne?” he said. “What on earth makes you think that?”

“And why, Anthony, am I ‘Mrs Fielding’ when either Debbie or my husband is around, and ‘Anne’ when they’re not?”

Chung thought about her question as he sipped his coffee. “I suppose because a woman is often defined by the people she surrounds herself with. When you’re with your husband you are his wife, when you’re with Debbie you’re a mother.”

“And when I’m with you?”

“Then, Anne, you can be yourself.” He looked at her and she felt his eyes bore deep inside her as if he were rummaging through her closets looking for secrets. “Tell me, Anne, how long has it been since you’ve been able to be yourself?”

He waited for her to answer, but they were interrupted by Debbie’s return.

“So what are you two so engrossed in?” Debbie asked.

“I was asking your mother where she got her clothes,” said Chung. He looked at Anne as he spoke and she felt the lie bind them together like an invisible chain.

“The Landmark,” said Debbie. “She’s there almost every afternoon visiting one boutique or another.”

“Oh, Debbie, you make it sound as if I do nothing but spend money,” scolded Anne. Marie came over with a balloon glass of brandy which she handed to Anne. She held it up to her nose and breathed in its heady bouquet, her eyes on Anthony Chung.

Anthony Chung telephoned George Ballantine on Monday morning, just before noon. His secretary put Chung through straight away so he figured that William Fielding had been as good as his word and paved the way for the tour of the depository. Ballantine spoke with a Scots accent, but with a guttural tone as if he was a heavy smoker.

“Aye, Mr Chung, I was told to expect your call,” said Ballantine. “Would you be able to come over some time this afternoon? Say three o’clock?”

“Three o’clock will be fine,” said Chung. “But there’s one problem – I’ve no idea where the depository is.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” chuckled Ballantine. “We do try to keep a low profile.” He gave Chung the address and told him to telephone if he had any trouble finding the building. “I warn you, there’s no sign on the outside,” said Ballantine. “Not even the bank’s logo.”

Chung thanked him and hung up. He spent the morning working on the Porsche. He had taken part in three races including his first meeting, and he’d won the most recent, taking the one million dollar prize and a kiss from Winnie Lo. She’d made it quite clear that she was willing to give him more than a kiss but he’d politely declined. The money would go some way to deferring his expenses and he’d put the briefcase of cash under his bed. The racers were used to seeing his Porsche and he’d begun to open up the throttle and show them what it was capable of. He’d also compiled a list of the best drivers and had already approached five to see if they’d be willing to help him. None had so far refused.

At three o’clock he drove down the road in Kowloon where Ballantine had said the depository was located but couldn’t find it. He parked the Ferrari in a multi-storey car park and retraced the road on foot. The area was mainly residential blocks with some low-rise offices, featureless buildings which were a far cry from the glass and marble towers of the Central business district.

There was no block which matched the number Ballantine had given him, but he found the building eventually, more by elimination than anything. It was on the corner, and when he walked a few yards down the side-street he saw an entrance where vans could drive through a metal gate. Each wall of the building bordered the sidewalk and it had none of the barbed-wire-topped security walls which he’d expected. There were no windows on the ground floor but from the second floor up it looked like every other office block in the area. He stood back and shaded his eyes so that he could scrutinise the upper floors. Only then did he see the concealed cameras set into the walls, covering all the approaches.

He walked back to the main road and along the front side of the building. Ballantine had been right – the bank kept the lowest of low profiles. The main entrance was a metal and glass door through which he could see a simple lobby with a grey carpet and a teak reception desk. There was a print of an old sailing ship on the wall and a potted palm which was beginning to go yellow from over-watering. There was a grey metal elevator door but Chung noticed that there was no strip of lights above it to indicate which floor the elevator had stopped at.

Chung pushed open the door and walked into the lobby, feeling the sweat on his face dry under the fierce air-conditioning. Behind the reception desk sat a middle-aged Chinese woman in a light blue blouse and a floppy red scarf. There were no guards but Chung saw a closed-circuit camera fixed to the wall behind her. Other than an appointments book and a telephone the woman’s desk was empty. She smiled but said nothing, waiting for him to speak.

He introduced himself and she checked his name in the appointments book before asking to see his identity card. Ballantine had explained that he’d need some form of identification so he’d brought his passport with him and he handed it over to her. She compared his face to the picture, smiled again, and gave it back. She asked him to take a seat and pointed to the sofa under the sailing print. As he sat down she picked up the telephone and two minutes later the elevator doors hissed open and a grey-haired man in his early fifties stepped out. His face was fleshy and his cheeks and nose were criss-crossed with broken red veins as if he were over-fond of alcohol. He had a pot belly which was accentuated by the tightness of his grey suit. He’d fastened all three buttons and the material was stretched taut. Clipped to his breast pocket was a laminated security badge which contained his picture.

He introduced himself as George Ballantine in the rough Scottish brogue which Chung had heard over the phone. Ballantine’s handshake was moist and limp and Chung had to resist the urge to wipe his hand afterwards. Chung followed Ballantine into the lift, the doors hissed closed, and Ballantine pressed the upper of the two buttons on the control panel. There was no indication of which floor the elevator stopped at, though Chung could tell from the way his stomach lurched that they had travelled up. The doors opened on to a white corridor and Ballantine led him along to a large corner office with windows which looked down to the streets below.

“You managed to find us all right,” said Ballantine, handing Chung a business card.

“As you said, it wasn’t easy,” said Chung.