JACK HIGGINS

Sad Wind from the Sea

Table of Contents

Title Page

Dedication

Chapter 1 - Macao 1953

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Publisher’s Note

About the Author

Also by Jack Higgins

Copyright

About the Publisher

Dedication

For Amy

1 Macao 1953

When Hagen emerged from the gambling casino at the back of Charlie Beale’s café he was drunk. He heard the door click into place behind him and for a moment he stood swaying as the cold night air cut into his lungs.

For several minutes he leaned against the wall, his forehead on the cool brickwork. After a while he pushed himself away and stood squarely, his feet braced firmly apart. He moved along the alley, taking slow, careful steps, and stood at the front of the café breathing deeply to clear his head. He fumbled in his pocket and found a crumpled packet of cigarettes. He lit one slowly and carefully and drew the smoke down into his lungs.

A thin sea-fog rolled in from the harbour, pushed by a cold finger of wind, and he coughed as it caught at the back of his throat. Except for the lapping of the water against the wharf pilings silence reigned. He wondered what time it was and instinctively lifted his right wrist and then remembered that his watch had followed the last of his money across the green baize top of one of Charlie Beale’s tables. He decided it must be about three o’clock because he had that sort of feeling, or perhaps it was just that he was getting old. Too old for the kind of life he’d been living for the past four years. Too old to be making fortune depend on the turn of a card or the throw of the dice. He laughed suddenly as he considered his present position. His boat impounded by the Customs, his only means of livelihood cut off, and now the last of his money gone. You’ve really done it this time, he told himself. You’ve really excelled yourself. Somewhere a woman screamed.

He pushed himself from the wall and stood listening, head slightly forward. Again a scream sounded, curiously flat, and muffled by the fog. Even as he told himself to mind his own business he was running. The liquor rolled heavily in his stomach and he cursed the poverty that forced him to drink cheap beer. He turned a corner, running silently on rope-soled feet, and took them by surprise. Two men were holding a struggling woman on the ground in the sickly yellow light of a street lamp.

As the nearest man turned in alarm, Hagen lifted a foot into his face and sent him spinning backwards over the edge of the wharf. The other leapt towards him, steel flickering in his right hand. In the brief moment of quiet as they circled each other Hagen saw that the man was Chinese and that murder shone from his eyes. He backed away as if frightened and the man grinned and rushed him. Hagen lifted an arm to ward off the knife-thrust and felt the sudden sharpness of pain even as he lifted his knee into his opponent’s groin. The man writhed on the ground, an agony of twisting limbs, and Hagen coolly measured the distance and kicked him in the head.

There was quiet. He stood breathing deeply and looking down at the still form, wondering if he had killed him and not caring, and then he turned and searched for the woman. She was standing in the shadow of a warehouse door. He moved towards her and said, ‘Are you all right?’

There was a faint movement of the white-clad figure and a soft voice said, ‘Please stay where you are for a moment!’ The voice surprised him and he wondered what an Englishwoman was doing on the waterfront of Macao at that time in the morning. There was more movement and then she stepped out of the shadows and came towards him. ‘My dress was torn and I had to fix it,’ she said.

He hardly heard what she was saying. She was only a girl, not more than seventeen or eighteen, and she was not English, although from the purity of her speech one of her parents must have been. Her skin had that creamy look peculiar to Eurasian women, and her lips an extra fullness that gave her a faintly sensual air. She had a breath-taking beauty of the kind that is always associated with simplicity. She stood before him looking gravely and steadily into his face and Hagen suddenly shivered for no accountable reason, as if somewhere someone had walked over his grave. He moistened dry lips and managed to speak. ‘Where do you live?’

She mentioned the best hotel in Macao and he cursed silently, thinking of the walk that lay ahead of him. ‘Can I get a taxi?’ she asked in her clear, bell-like voice.

He laughed shortly. ‘In this part of Macao, at this hour? You don’t know this town, angel.’

She frowned and then her eyes widened and she reached forward and grabbed his arm. ‘But you’re hurt. There’s blood on your sleeve!’

He smothered an oath as the sudden wrench caused a stab of pain to run through him. ‘Take it easy,’ he said and moved away to examine the wound under the light of the street lamp. His jacket had an ugly, bloodstained slit in it and when he wiped away the blood with a handkerchief he saw that he had sustained a superficial slash, more painful than anything else.

‘How bad is it?’ she asked him anxiously.

He shrugged. ‘Not too bad. Hurts like hell, though.’

She took the handkerchief from his hand and twisted it neatly around his arm. ‘Is that any better?’ she said.

As he nodded he saw that her dress was badly torn. She’d made a pathetic attempt to pin it together, but it hardly measured up to the usual standards of decency. He made a sudden decision. ‘There’s only one way to get you back to your hotel,’ he told her. ‘We’ll have to walk.’ She nodded gravely and he added: ‘We’d better call in at my hotel. You can fix this arm properly for me and I can get you a coat or something to cover yourself with.’

He nodded towards the bodice of her dress and she seemed to blush and instinctively put a hand there. ‘That seems the best thing to do,’ she said calmly. ‘I think we’d better hurry, though. That handkerchief is proving an inadequate bandage.’

He was surprised at her calm acceptance of his suggestion. Surprised and also intrigued, because for a young girl who had just been through a pretty bad experience she seemed remarkably unaffected. His hotel was only a quarter of a mile away and as they approached it he suddenly felt uncomfortable. As he held the door open for her he reflected bitterly that the place looked what it was—a flea-bag. A blast of hot, stale air met them from the small hall and an ancient fan creaked, slowly and uselessly, above their heads, hardly causing a movement in the air.

The Chinese night-clerk was asleep at his desk, his head between his hands, and Hagen motioned the girl to silence. It didn’t work. Half-way across the hall a polite cough sounded behind them and Hagen turned wearily. The night-clerk, now fully awake, smiled in an apologetic manner. Hagen felt in his pocket and then remembered that he was broke. ‘Have you got a petaka?’ he asked the girl. She frowned and looked puzzled. ‘I’m broke, flat, and I need a petaka.’ He gestured helpfully at the fly-blown sign on the wall: NO FEMALES ALLOWED UPSTAIRS. He grinned tiredly as she turned from reading the notice. ‘They much prefer to supply their own, you see!’ This time he had her in a better light and she did blush. She fumbled in her handbag and gave him a Straits dollar. He flipped it to the clerk and they mounted the rickety stairs.

He felt even more ashamed of his room than he had done about the hotel. It looked like a pigsty and smelled like one. Empty gin bottles in one corner and soiled clothing in another, combined with an unmade bed, did not make a very savoury picture. The girl didn’t seem to notice. ‘Have you got any bandages?’ she demanded.

He rummaged about under the bed and finally produced the first-aid kit he had salvaged from the boat, and she led the way into the bathroom and told him to strip to the waist.

She carefully washed the congealed blood away and frowned. ‘This should be stitched.’

He shook his head. ‘I heal quickly.’

She smiled and pointed to the numerous scars on his chest and stomach. ‘You must do.’

He grinned. ‘Souvenir of the war. Shrapnel. Looks worse than it was.’

She carefully bandaged his arm and said, ‘Which war—Korea?’

He shook his head. ‘No, my war was a long time ago, angel. A thousand years ago.’ She pressed surgical tape across the loose ends of the bandage and looked quickly up into his face. The sharp triangle that formed his chin was covered with a dark stubble that accentuated the hollowness of his cheeks and the dark sombreness of the eyes. For a brief moment he looked down at her and then he said, ‘You’ve done this sort of thing before,’ and gestured to his bandaged arm.

She nodded. ‘A little—but even that was too much.’

Suddenly she began to shiver uncontrollably and Hagen slipped his arm about her shoulders and squeezed. ‘You’re all right,’ he told her. ‘It’s all over.’ She nodded several times and broke away from him, and stood over by the window, her back towards him. He opened a drawer and by a miracle discovered a clean shirt. By the time he was properly dressed again she had recovered.

‘That was rather silly of me,’ she said. ‘The essential feminine weakness coming out, I suppose.’

Hagen laughed. ‘What you need is a drink.’ He poured gin into two moderately clean glasses and, crossing the room, kicked open the window and led the way out on to the balcony. The girl sat in the only chair and Hagen leaned on the balcony rail and for a short time there was silence.

‘Do you think I might have a cigarette?’ Her voice spoke gently from the darkness. He fumbled in his pocket and finally discovered the battered packet. As the match flared in his cupped hands, and she leaned forward, the delicate beauty of her face was thrown into relief. He held the match for a moment longer than was necessary, and they looked briefly into each other’s eyes, and then he flicked the match out into the darkness in a long, curving arc. ‘I’d like to thank you for what you did back there.’ She spoke slowly and carefully as though searching for words.

‘Girls like you shouldn’t be on the waterfront in the early hours,’ he told her.

As if she had suddenly arrived at a decision her voice sounded again from the darkness, this time more assured and confident. ‘My name is Rose Graham.’

So he had been right about one of her parents, at least. He half-turned towards her. ‘Mark Hagen. Captain Hagen I’m known as in these parts.’

‘Oh, you are a sea captain?’

‘I have a small boat,’ he told her. It came to him that he was wrong. The operative word was ‘had’. I had a small boat, he thought. What have I got now? Another thought struck him, more immediate, more urgent. ‘Was I in time back there?’ he said. ‘I mean, did those mugs really harm you or anything?’ He felt suddenly awkward.

The chair creaked as she stood up. ‘They didn’t harm me, Captain Hagen. It wasn’t that kind of an assault.’

She moved to the rail and stood beside him so that his shoulder touched hers lightly each time he stirred. The wind blew in from the sea and the mist rolled across the harbour, and the riding lights of the ships glowed faintly through the gaps that appeared every so often when the wind tore a hole in the grey curtain. From the balcony the view was magnificent and suddenly Hagen felt at peace and restless, happy and discontented, all at the same time. It had been a bad day and the past came too easily to mind. He decided that it was all the girl’s fault. It had been a long time since he had been so close to someone like her. He sighed and straightened up.

She laughed lightly. ‘What are you thinking about? It must be something pretty sad to make you sigh so heavily.’

He grinned and took out another cigarette. ‘I was contemplating a misspent life, angel,’ he told her. ‘I seem to be making a habit of it lately. I must be getting old.’

She laughed again. ‘How ridiculous. You aren’t old. You’re still a young man.’

‘I’m thirty-five,’ he said. ‘When you’ve lived the life I have, then believe me—it’s old.’ A thought came to him and he smiled to himself and added, ‘How old are you, anyway?’

She said eighteen, in a small voice. Hagen laughed. ‘There you are. I’m twice your age. I’m old enough to be your father. In fact I’d say it’s about time you were safely tucked up in bed.’

He walked back into the bedroom and started to put on his jacket. She followed at his heels and stood watching him, playing nervously with the silk scarf that was twisted round her throat. She spoke in a high-pitched voice. ‘I don’t think it would be very wise for you to see me back to my hotel.’

He straightened up slowly and looked at her without speaking. She flushed and dropped her eyes and he said, ‘If you think I’m going to let you walk two miles through the worst part of Macao on your own, you’re crazy.’

She darted past him and had the door half open before his hand gripped her arm and pulled her back. She struggled for a moment and then relaxed suddenly and completely and said despairingly, ‘Captain Hagen, I’m trying to tell you that if you take me back to my hotel you may be involving yourself in more ways than you think.’

Hagen took a crumpled linen jacket from behind the door and handed it to her. ‘Here, woman! Cover thy nakedness!’ He intoned the words with deliberate pomposity.

She dissolved into laughter and for a moment or two they laughed together. When she spoke again the edge of nervousness had gone, but she was still desperately serious when she said: ‘You’ve been very kind to me. It’s just that I don’t want to see you get mixed up in something that isn’t your concern.’

‘I suppose this all ties in with your being on the waterfront at such a peculiar hour?’

She nodded. ‘I had to see a friend. He telephoned and asked me to meet him at a certain warehouse. The taxi-driver wouldn’t wait and then those men…’

‘I still think it was a funny hour to see a friend and if he knows this town he shouldn’t have asked you to come to a quarter like this at such a time.’ Hagen was surprised to discover that he really felt angry about the whole thing. ‘If I hadn’t arrived you’d probably have ended up in the harbour.’

She turned away, desperation on her face again. ‘But don’t you see,’ she said, ‘it wasn’t that kind of an assault. Those men wanted some information and they’ll try again. If you are seen with me…’

She left the sentence unfinished and shrugged her shoulders. Hagen considered the point for a moment and then he went over to his bed and felt under the pillow. When he straightened up he was holding an American service issue Colt automatic. He checked the action of the weapon and slipped it into his pocket. He grinned and, opening the door, motioned her out. ‘I love trouble, angel,’ he said. ‘It makes life so much more exciting.’ For a brief moment she stared at him and then her face relaxed into a smile and she went through the door without a word.

It took about forty minutes to reach her hotel. The girl hardly spoke a word on the way. Hagen guessed that she was almost on the point of collapse and finally slipped a hand under her arm. She leaned heavily on him and a faint, delicate perfume tingled in his nostrils. For a moment he savoured its sweetness pleasantly and then impatiently shrugged it aside and concentrated on keeping alert in case of trouble.

At the foot of the steps leading up to her hotel they halted. Hagen said, ‘Well, this is it.’

She nodded sleepily. ‘Will I see you again?’

For a moment he considered the question and doubts raced through his mind. The girl meant trouble—big trouble. He was sure of that and he had enough troubles of his own at the moment. He made his decision suddenly as she swayed forward tiredly and bumped against him. ‘Yes, you’ll see me again, angel,’ he said. ‘I’ll drop in around noon.’

He smiled reassuringly and patted her on the shoulder. ‘Noon,’ she said and suddenly warmed into life. A deep smile bloomed on her face. She reached up and pulling down his head, kissed him lightly on the mouth, and then turned and ran up the steps and into the hotel.

For a moment Hagen stood there, her fragrance still with him, then he turned away and began to walk briskly back towards the waterfront. He smoked a cigarette and thought about her and now and then a tiny smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. As if he didn’t have enough trouble. ‘You never learn,’ he said, half-aloud, and as he bent his head to sniff again at the fragrance on his shoulder where her head had rested, a bullet dunted the wall beside him.

As he ran for the shelter of a warehouse doorway, a car engine started up, and a large limousine appeared through the fog like a menacing monster and hurtled towards him. Hagen scrambled into the safety of the doorway and, turning, pulled out his automatic and loosed three shots in rapid succession at the car. It swerved wildly and scraped a fender as it rounded the corner of the street and disappeared. The whole thing had happened in a matter of seconds. Only the reflex action of several years of hard living had saved him.

He kept to the wall for the rest of the way to his hotel and held the automatic at the ready, but nothing happened. When he entered the hall the night-clerk was still asleep, head propped between his hands. Hagen had reached the foot of the stairs before a thought struck him. He turned back to the desk and shook the sleeping man by the shoulder. It was several moments before he awakened. Hagen was intrigued. Only a short time before the man had been awakened by the faint sounds made by two people quietly crossing the hall. Now it took several moments of hard shaking to wake him. The man raised his head and looked at him in surprise and said politely: ‘Ah, Captain Hagen. You are back.’

Hagen leaned on the desk and said casually, ‘Has anyone been asking for me?’

‘At this time in the morning?’ The clerk was trying to sound surprised and failing badly. ‘You joke me?’

Hagen lifted the flap and was on the other side of the desk in one smooth movement. ‘No, I don’t joke you,’ he said and grabbed the terrified man by the lapels. ‘Now start talking. Who enquired after me?’

‘No! Please. I have nothing to say.’

Hagen produced the automatic. ‘That’s a pity,’ he said, ‘because you’ve got about ten seconds to change your mind before I start wiping this across your face.’

He chucked the man under the chin with the barrel by way of encouragement and the clerk cried out suddenly. ‘I talk! I talk!’ His voice was cracked and high-pitched like an old woman’s and he was sweating with fear. ‘Just after you and lady leave, two men come in. Very nasty, very rough. They ask about you. One have knife. He say I not talk, they cut my throat. What I do? I tell what they want to know and they leave.’

The sing-song voice finished mangling the English language and he stood shaking like a frightened little bird looking for some place to hide. Hagen thought for a moment and said, ‘Were these men white men?’

‘No! They Chinese.’

Hagen nodded. ‘Do you know them? Have you ever seen them around here before?’

The night-clerk’s eyes dropped and he looked more afraid than ever. ‘Not from Macao. Me think they from mainland.’

Hagen left him there, frightened and whimpering, and went slowly upstairs. He took all the time in the world to enter his room. He kicked open the door and went in at ground level with the automatic at the ready, but there was no one there. He poured himself a drink and lay on the bed in the dark, smoking and thinking about the whole affair. Men from the mainland. So the Commies were mixed up in this thing, were they? He felt sorry for Rose Graham. It didn’t pay to cross those people. He’d had dealings with them before. Anyway, why was he worrying about the girl so much? He had his own worries. Getting his boat back was the only thing that mattered at the moment. To hell with her. He’d saved her life. That was enough.

He stubbed out his cigarette and lay back and as sleep pulled its dark cloak over him, he chuckled quietly, because he knew damned well that he would keep the appointment at noon. He seemed to feel her lips pressed against his and his last conscious thought was of her face glowing in the darkness and she was smiling at him.

2

Noon of that day found Hagen entering the swing door of her hotel. He was immaculately dressed in a white shark-skin suit, specially pressed for the occasion. He crossed the spacious lounge to the desk and the receptionist, an aristocratic-looking White Russian, glanced up from a letter he was reading. His eyes flickered over the expensive suit and a smile appeared on his mouth. ‘Good morning, sir. What can I do for you?’

Hagen asked for the girl and there was an immediate drop in the temperature. The smile was replaced by a slight frown and the Russian told him coldly that she was in, but that it was a rule of the hotel that visitors must first be announced on the internal telephone before proceeding upstairs. He lifted the receiver and asked to be put through to her room. Anger and instinctive dislike stirred in Hagen. He waited until the man had Rose Graham on the phone and then reached across and twisted the receiver from his grasp. The Russian stalked away, an outraged expression on his face. Hagen turned his back and said: ‘Hello, angel! Did you sleep well?’

Her voice sounded clear and sweet as a ship’s bell across water. ‘Captain Hagen! But I’ve only just awakened.’

He laughed pleasantly. ‘As you’ve obviously missed breakfast, how about having lunch with me?’ He fingered the few notes he had in his pocket, his final reserve, and she asked him to give her twenty minutes to shower and dress.

Hagen sat in one of the numerous easy chairs and leafed through a month-old American magazine. He was only half-interested, however, and most of the time he found himself thinking about the girl and waiting with anticipation for the moment when she would join him. It was a new feeling. A disturbing feeling. He hadn’t been so interested in a woman for a long time. There was something ingenuous and refreshing about her. She had accepted his lunch invitation with a delight that she had not attempted to conceal and he wondered, suddenly, if he was getting involved in something serious. He dismissed the idea from his mind with a shrug. This would be their last meeting. Lunch for two to round the whole affair off. He beckoned to a passing waiter and ordered a gin-sling. As the drink was brought to him he noticed the Russian receptionist sneering at him from the desk and instinctively Hagen tossed the waiter a large tip. The Russian’s sneer vanished rapidly. He must have imagined he was now on bad terms with a tipping customer. Hagen sipped his drink and sighed. A few more grand gestures and he really would be broke.

He glanced idly across at the lift doors as they opened and the girl stepped out. He stood up and walked towards her and she looked eagerly around and then she saw him and a warm smile appeared on her face. She came towards him and as she passed the reception desk a voice said: ‘Oh, Miss Graham. Have you a moment?’

It was the Russian who had spoken. Hagen stood, hat in hand, a few feet away and feigned an interest in some travel brochures. He tried to pick up as much of the conversation as he could. The gist of it seemed to be that she hadn’t paid her hotel bill for three weeks and the Russian wasn’t being too polite about telling her. Hagen half-turned towards them, wondering whether he should intervene, when the girl opened her handbag and took out a cheque-book. She scribbled furiously for a moment, tore out the cheque, and flung it into the Russian’s face.

She turned to Hagen and cursed the man fluently in Malay, Cantonese and a dialect that was new to him. ‘They think because I am a Eurasian they can treat me any way they like, these people.’

Hagen smiled. ‘The cheque act was the best part of the show,’ he told her.

She smiled up at him, a tight little smile, and suddenly her face seemed to crumple and she began to cry. Before they could attract any attention Hagen gripped her arm and rushed her into the American Bar. Everyone had gone to lunch and for the moment the bar was cool, dark and empty. He left her in a booth to get the crying fit over and went and sat on one of the high stools at the bar and had a whisky-and-water.

He was puzzled. The girl was well educated and her clothes were expensive. She was obviously used to the best. One didn’t usually leave hotel bills unpaid for three weeks when one had a cheque-book. He began to wonder just how much was left in that bank account. He even wondered whether the cheque she had just written would bounce right back into the Russian receptionist’s face. It was a pleasant thought. The girl moved on to a stool beside him. She had fixed her face so that only an unnatural brightness in the eyes indicated that she had been crying. ‘Could I have a drink, please?’

‘Surely! A gin-sling?’ She nodded and he ordered the drink. He didn’t speak until the barman had placed the drink before her and retired to the other end of the bar to polish glasses. ‘Can you meet that cheque?’

She smiled wanly and sipped her drink. ‘Only just. A few dollars left and then…’ She shrugged her shoulders; a hopeless gesture that seemed to say she was at the end of her tether. This was the moment for the gallant gesture, Hagen thought. It suddenly occurred to him how ironic it was that of all the people in Macao she should have met him and he laughed aloud. She flushed angrily. ‘What’s so funny?’ she demanded.

He hastened to reassure her. ‘I’m not laughing at you, angel. It’s just that I’m in a pretty poor state myself at the moment. We make a nice pair.’ She began to laugh herself and Hagen remembered that he still had a little money left. Suddenly he felt reckless and past caring. He grabbed her arm and propelled her firmly out of the bar. ‘There’s one thing we can do,’ he said. ‘And that’s to have lunch. Things always look brighter after a decent meal.’

He kept up a running flow of conversation on the way to the dining-room and by the time they were seated at a table there was a smile on her face again. During the meal they talked little. She had a healthy appetite and he found himself covertly watching her at every opportunity. Once or twice she noticed his eyes and blushed. ‘That was lovely,’ she said at length. ‘I couldn’t eat another bite.’

Hagen suggested a drink on the terrace and ordered a couple of brandies before following her out there. She was seated at a table on the very edge of the terrace. Below them was Macao and the view stretched across the blue water to Kowloon and the Chinese mainland. ‘It’s beautiful,’ he said, and offered her a cigarette.

She nodded and refused the cigarette. ‘It’s a lovely city. Very lovely.’ She paused as the waiter brought the drinks and Hagen suddenly sensed that she was on the verge of telling him about herself.

She still hesitated and he said, quickly, ‘Have you been here long?’

She shook her head. ‘Only the three weeks that I’ve been staying at the hotel.’ She gazed out over the harbour. ‘I should have found somewhere cheaper I suppose, but a girl on her own! It’s very difficult.’

Hagen reached across the table and placed his hand gently over hers. ‘Why don’t you tell me about it?’ he said softly. ‘I know it’s something to do with our Red friends across the water.’

She straightened up, fear on her face. ‘How do you know?’

He explained briefly. ‘So you see,’ he concluded, ‘I’m mixed up in this thing enough to get shot at. The least you can do is tell me what it’s all about.’

For a little while she stared at the table, her fingers nervously interlacing, and then she began to speak. ‘I’m from Indo-China—the North. My father was a Scot. Mother was Indo-Chinese. I went to school in India, spent the war there. Afterwards I returned to my father’s plantation. He’d been on some special service during the war, in Malaya. Things were just beginning to settle down again when the trouble started between the French and the Viet Minh.’

Hagen nodded. ‘That must have messed things up pretty badly. Especially as you were living in the North.’

‘Yes, things couldn’t have been worse. It wasn’t long before we were completely surrounded by Communist territory. At first they didn’t bother us, but then one day…’

For a moment she seemed to have difficulty in finding words. She turned her head away a little and Hagen reached across again and took her hand firmly. ‘Go on, angel. Get rid of it.’

She smiled tightly. ‘My mother. They killed my mother. Father and I had been out for the day. We got home just as three Communist soldiers were leaving. My father had an automatic rifle. He shot them.’ She gazed away out over the water, into the past. ‘He did it very expertly. He must have had quite a hard war.’

‘Finish your drink,’ Hagen told her. ‘Brandy is the best pick-me-up I know.’

She gulped the brandy too fast, choked and made a wry face. After a moment she continued. ‘Dad couldn’t forgive himself for not getting us out sooner. You see he’d been preparing for quite some time. He had a thirty-foot launch hidden in a nearby creek and we were going to go down-river to the coast and then south to Hanoi.’

‘Why had he delayed so long?’ Hagen demanded.

She traced a delicate pattern with a finger in a pool of spilled brandy. ‘Because he’d promised to take something with him and it wasn’t ready.’

Hagen swallowed some of his brandy and said, ‘Was it all that important?’

‘If you’d call a quarter of a million dollars important,’ she said calmly.

Hagen finished his brandy and put the glass down very carefully. ‘How much did you say?’

She smiled. ‘I’m not exaggerating. A quarter of a million—in gold. There was a Buddhist monastery near the plantation. The gold was theirs. They knew that sooner or later the Communists would arrive to loot the place. They decided that they’d rather see their treasure doing good in the hands of some relief organization than swelling the war chest of Ho Chi-minh.’

‘Did you say in gold, angel?’ Hagen asked.

She nodded. ‘Gold bars. That’s what caused the delay. They melted down some statues. It was the only safe way of transporting the stuff.’

‘What happened?’ Hagen demanded. ‘What did your father do with it?’

She fiddled with her glass for a little while. ‘Oh, he had it loaded into the cabin in boxes and we set off. There were just three of us. The deck-hand was our Malayan house-boy, Tewak. We reached the coast and ran into a gunboat. There was a fight. I remember my father ramming the other boat and throwing a hand grenade. I don’t know, really. It’s difficult to recall these things clearly. It was confused—and besides, he was badly hit.’ She brooded for a moment and then looked up suddenly. ‘Do you know the Kwai Marshes, just over the border from Viet Minh into China?’

Hagen nodded. ‘I know it. It’s a pest hole. Hundreds of miles of channels and reeds, lagoons and swamp. Rotten with disease.’

She nodded. ‘That’s the place. That’s where Dad took the boat. She was leaking badly. He ran her into the Kwai Marshes. She sank in a little lagoon surrounded by reeds.’ Hagen waited for the end. She sat back suddenly and said briskly: ‘After that it was simple. My father died the next day. It took Tewak and me three days to get out of the marshes. We went down the coast to Haiphong and from there to Saigon. Luckily I had a little money in a bank there.’

‘What about the gold?’ Hagen said. ‘You told the French authorities, I suppose?’

‘Oh, yes,’ she said. ‘I told the French. They weren’t interested in sending an expedition into Communist China to retrieve a mere quarter of a million dollars. It wouldn’t keep the war going for ten minutes.’

‘I see,’ Hagen said carefully. ‘So the gold is still there?’

She nodded. ‘Still there. I’ve tried to get a boat to take me back to the marshes. At first people were too scared to take the risk. Now, I’ve not got enough money to pay. That’s why we came to Macao.’

‘We?’ Hagen said.

She explained. ‘Tewak. He’s stayed with me the whole time. He has friends in Macao. We came here because it was our last hope. He’s been trying to borrow a boat for the past three weeks.’

Light suddenly dawned on Hagen. ‘It was Tewak who rang you last night?’

She nodded. ‘That’s right. He asked me to get a taxi at once and meet him where you found me. When I got there he wasn’t to be seen. After the taxi had left those two men appeared.’

Hagen said, ‘It looks as though the Reds don’t intend to let that gold slip through their fingers.’

‘Not if I can help it,’ she said, and for a moment her face was cold and hard.

‘You know the position where the boat sank?’ Hagen asked, casually.

‘Oh, yes,’ she told him. ‘I memorized it. One could search for ever in those marshes without it.’

Hagen stood up and leaned on the parapet, and stared out over the water into the far distance. His eyes didn’t see the ships in the bay or the ferry from Kowloon as it ploughed its way towards Macao. They saw a quiet lagoon surrounded by giant marsh reeds and a thirty-foot launch lying in clear water, and the boxes in the cabin that contained the discoloured gold bars. A quarter of a million dollars. His palms were sweating slightly and his mouth had gone dry. It could be the one stroke a man dreamed of. The big deal. No more waterfront hotels in stinking, godforsaken ports. No more smuggling and gun-running, being betrayed and twisted and double-crossed at every turn. If he could lay hands on that gold he could be set for life. He turned back to the table and she looked at him sadly. ‘Cheer up, angel,’ he said. ‘Things have been pretty rough but they’ll get better. Just wait until you’ve got your hands on all that loot. You’ll be able to live like a princess.’

She looked puzzled for a moment and then understanding came and she hastened to correct him. ‘The money for the sale of the gold is not for me.’ Hagen sat bolt upright in his chair. ‘I’ll only get a little for expenses. The rest goes to the relief organization in Saigon just as the monks and my father wanted.’

She was absolutely sincere in what she had just said. She really meant to give all that money to some crackpot relief organization. For a moment Hagen was tempted to tell her the facts of life, but that could wait until later. ‘How deep was that lagoon, angel?’ he said.

She looked surprised. ‘I couldn’t be sure but not very deep. Perhaps twenty or twenty-five feet. Why do you ask?’

He shrugged and lit a cigarette carefully. ‘I have a boat. I’ve done some pearling. I’ve also been to the Kwai Marshes.’

She gazed at him searchingly for a moment. ‘You mean you would be willing to take me to the Kwai?’ She frowned. ‘But why?’ He gazed at her steadily, hating himself, and suddenly she gave a little, breathless laugh. ‘I see, I…’ She was lost in her confusion and colour flooded her face.

Hagen squeezed her hand and firmly pushed every other consideration from his mind. He must think only of the gold. After all, it wouldn’t be too hard to pretend that he loved her. ‘I’d better be honest with you from the beginning,’ he said. ‘And then there won’t be misunderstandings or hurt. I’m known pretty well round these parts and not for the best of reasons. I’m a smuggler, gunrunner, illegal pearler. In fact, anything that pays.’ She nodded slowly and he went on: ‘At the moment my boat is in the hands of the Portuguese Customs. The funny thing is that for once I was genuinely innocent.’ For a moment he thought about ‘Inter-Island Trading Incorporated’ and his sleeping partner, Mr Papoudopulous. Beware of Greeks bearing gifts. Still, it was all in the game. He smiled sardonically at the girl and went on: ‘They found gold under the cabin floor. I was fined rather heavily. In fact, I didn’t have the money, so—they impounded the boat.’

‘Can you get the money?’ she said.

He nodded. ‘Yes, I can borrow it from a friend, but you’ll have to agree to the payment of my expenses and the loan from the proceeds of the sale of the gold.’

She nodded eagerly. ‘Oh, yes. That will be fine. It will be well worth it.’ A puzzled frown creased her brow and she leaned across the table. ‘Mark, all those things you did. Why? I don’t understand. You don’t seem to be that kind of a man.’

He realized dispassionately that she had used his Christian name and that it had never sounded quite so well before. He grinned. ‘It’s a long and sordid story, angel. One of these days I might tell it to you, but for the moment there are more important things to consider. Tewak, for instance. I’d like to know what happened to him last night. Are you sure it was his voice on the telephone?’

She nodded emphatically. ‘He had a lisp. No one could have simulated it in quite the same way.’

Hagen decided that it didn’t look so good for Tewak. The story was beginning to take shape. The Commies had traced the girl all the way from the Kwai to Macao. They had agents in every Eastern city and it must have been pretty simple. It was natural they should go to so much trouble. After all, the gold was actually in their own territory. He decided that either Tewak had been forced to make that telephone call or, alternatively, had been known to make it and had been dealt with afterwards.

‘What’s the next move?’ Rose said.

Hagen snapped a finger at the waiter and put most of his remaining money on the table. ‘The next move, angel, will be a quick call at my hotel. From now on I don’t intend to take a step without that Colt automatic’

They left the hotel and took a taxi down to the waterfront. Hagen left Rose in the cab and ran up to his room for the automatic. As they completed the journey to the address she had given the driver Hagen checked the automatic and reloaded the clip. Rose shuddered. ‘I hate guns,’ she said. ‘I hate them.’

He patted her hand. ‘Next to the dog they’re a man’s most faithful friend.’ The cab stopped with a jolt in a deserted street and he handed her out and paid the man off.

He recognized the building. It was a seedy tenement used as a hotel by coloured seamen. It wasn’t the sort of establishment that kept a receptionist. They entered a dark and gloomy hall and before them stretched a flight of dangerous-looking wooden stairs. Hagen groped his way upwards and Rose followed behind, gripping his belt. The smell was appalling and a brooding quiet hung over the place. Hagen held the automatic in his right hand against his thigh and, with his left, held a flickering match, by which light he attempted to read the numbers on the room doors. Number eighteen was the last door in the corridor on the left-hand side and it swung open to his touch.

The room was in darkness. He paused for a moment and listened. There was utter silence everywhere. He decided to risk it and struck a match. There was a man sitting in a chair in the centre of the room. His hands were bound behind him and he was completely naked. Hagen gazed in fascinated horror at the scores of cuts and slashes that covered the body, and then his gaze travelled lower down and he shuddered with disgust as he saw what had been done. He heard Rose move into the room behind him and even as he turned to warn her to stay out she cried, ‘Tewak!’, and then she screamed. At that moment the match burned Hagen’s fingertips and he hurriedly dropped it, plunging the room into darkness again.

The girl sagged against him, half-fainting, and he quickly walked her from the room. He stood in the hall holding her close to him for a minute and then said, ‘Are you all right?’

She straightened up. ‘Yes, I’ll be fine. Really I will. It was just the shock.’

‘Good girl.’ He handed her the automatic. ‘You know how this thing works, I suppose. The safety is off. If anyone comes near you just pull the trigger. I’ll only be a short while, I promise.’

He went back into the room and closed the door behind him. He struck another match and the light was reflected in gruesome fashion from the eyes of the dead man which had turned up so that only the whites were visible. Hagen moved to the window and tore down the blanket that had been improvised as a curtain. He began to examine the room. It was not pleasant moving around with that macabre horror sitting in the centre, but he had to see if anything of interest had been left.

The room was devoid of furniture except for an old iron bedstead and the chair. There was a cupboard but it contained only a few odds and ends of clothes left there by previous occupants. Hagen finally steeled himself to examine the body closely. In any Western country the murder would have been considered the work of a lunatic, but Hagen, familiar with the Oriental mind and its refinements in cruelty and contempt for human life, drew no such conclusion. The men who had done this thing had wanted information badly. Torture was to them the obvious key to a stubborn tongue. The final mutilation looked as though it had been committed in a fit of rage after death. Hagen decided that Tewak had probably refused to talk. Sweat stung his eyes and as he wiped it away he realized why the building was so unnaturally quiet. With their usual sixth sense for trouble he knew there wouldn’t be a single seaman left in the place. He opened the door with a final glance round and stepped outside.

The girl tried to smile but only succeeded in looking sick. Hagen took the gun from her and slipped it into his pocket. ‘You need a drink,’ he said and, taking her by the arm, he hurried her from the building.

He took her to a little bar he knew nearby and they sat in the privacy of a booth cut off from the noisy world by a bead curtain. He lit a cigarette and put it into her mouth. She inhaled two or three times and seemed to be a little better. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘It was the most horrible thing I’ve ever seen.’ She shuddered.

The drinks came at that moment and Hagen pushed hers across. ‘Drink up,’ he said. ‘It’ll do you good. I’m not exactly soft myself but it’s one of the worst things I’ve ever seen.’

She smiled tightly. ‘You seem to have done nothing but rush me into quiet bars while I cry,’ she said. He smiled and gripped her hand tightly. ‘What am I going to do?’ she moaned.

‘Do you still want to go after that gold?’ he demanded. She nodded. ‘Then that’s settled. Now, the best thing for you this afternoon would be to go back to your hotel and lie down.’ She started to protest. ‘No buts,’ Hagen added. ‘I’m in command. Anyway, I’ve got a lot to arrange and you’d only be in the way.’

They left the bar and he hailed a taxi. When he paid it off at the hotel he was left almost penniless. He was going to leave her at the entrance but she begged him to come up for just a moment. The lift took them to the third floor. Her room was at the end of the corridor and she gave him the key. When he opened the door the room was a shambles. Clothing and personal effects were strewn about the place and most of the drawers had been taken out completely. ‘But why?’ she said. ‘What did they expect to find?’

Hagen pushed his hat back from his forehead. ‘The directions for finding the launch, angel. They were hoping you might be stupid enough to leave them lying around.’

‘The fools,’ she exploded. ‘What do they take me for? I know the position by heart.’

Hagen said in a satisfied tone: ‘One thing it proves. Tewak didn’t talk.’ Suddenly Rose began to curse in the same fluent manner in which she had blasted the Russian clerk. ‘Heh, hold on,’ Hagen said.

‘Oh, damn them!’ she said. ‘I’m beginning to get annoyed.’

‘No tears?’ he said.

‘They’re all used up.’

He grinned and took off his jacket. ‘Let’s get started packing your things.’

‘Why the hurry?’ she said in surprise.

‘You can’t stay here. I think I’d better take you to visit a friend of mine.’

She shrugged her shoulders and started to pack the things in her cases as he handed them to her. Within twenty minutes they were leaving the room preceded by a couple of boys carrying the luggage. The Russian was scrupulously polite and remote when making out the bill. As they turned away from the desk Hagen suddenly shouted, ‘Here, boy!’ and tossed a coin which the man instinctively caught. He stood glaring after them in fury and several people laughed. Hagen decided that the coin had been worth it.

As the taxi headed up into the residential part of Macao on the hill, Rose said curiously, ‘What is this friend of yours like?’

Hagen said casually, ‘All right, I think you’ll like her.’

‘Oh, a woman.’ There was a faint edge to her words. ‘An old friend?’

He laughed. ‘Yes, in both senses of the phrase.’ He patted her hand. ‘Don’t worry. She’s very well known. All the best people go to her house. All the best men do, anyway.’

It took several moments for the implication of his words to sink in. Rose gasped. ‘You don’t mean she keeps…’—she fumbled for words—‘a house!’

‘She certainly does,’ Hagen said. ‘The best house in Macao.’ Even as he spoke and Rose sank back in her seat, crimson with embarrassment, the taxi turned into a side road and braked to a halt outside a pair of beautiful and intricate wrought-iron gates set in a high stone wall.

3

Hagen told the taxi-driver to wait, and he and the girl walked up to the ornate iron gates. He pulled on a bellrope and after a while a huge, misshapen figured shambled up to the other side of the gates. A flat, Mongolian face was pressed against the ironwork as the owner peered short-sightedly at them. Hagen reached through and pulled the man’s nose. ‘What the hell, Lee,’ he said. ‘Don’t you remember old friends?’

The face split into a grin and the gate was hurriedly unlocked. As they passed through Hagen punched him lightly in his massive chest and said, ‘Bring the luggage in when I tell you, Lee.’ The Mongolian nodded vigorously, his smile fixed firmly in position.

As they walked up the drive towards the imposing-looking house, Rose said: ‘He’s so grotesque, like an ape Why doesn’t he speak?’

Hagen laughed. ‘The Japs cut out his tongue. He’s the bouncer here. He could break the back of any man I ever knew.’ She appeared suitably impressed and he added: ‘Just remember, angel. If you stay here that so-called ape will protect you when I’m not around. Maybe that thought will make him look a little prettier.’

A maid admitted them with a smile of welcome for Hagen, and showed them into a large reception room. Rose was fascinated by the incredible luxury of the room. There seemed to be a small fortune in Chinese objets d’art. Somewhere nearby a loud voice could be heard and then the door was kicked open and the most fantastic-looking woman Rose had ever seen stormed into the room. ‘Mark Hagen—you young hellion.’ Her voice was like a foghorn and she swept across the floor and crushed him in her arms.

She was wearing a gold kimono and black lounging pyjamas, and the colour scheme clashed terribly with vivid red-dyed hair. ‘Clara, do you still love me?’ Hagen demanded.

‘No one else, handsome.’ She kissed him enthusiastically on one cheek, leaving a smear of vivid orange, and turned and boldly regarded the girl.

Hagen said: ‘Rose, I’d like you to meet Clara Boydell. Clara, this is Rose Graham.’

Clara reached for a silver box and offered him a cheroot and took one herself. ‘My God, Mark,’ she said, ‘I wish I could find a few like her. I’d make a fortune.’

Rose coloured and dropped her eyes and Hagen said, ‘Look, Clara, I need a big favour.’

Clara flung herself down in an easy chair that protested loudly at her weight. ‘Anything I can do. I owe you a favour or two.’ She straightened up and added, ‘Anything except money, that is.’ She turned and explained to Rose: ‘One thing I never do, honey, is part with cash. I need it all for my old age.’

‘It isn’t money, Clara,’ Hagen said. ‘I’d like you to put Rose up for a few days. There are a few people she wants to avoid in town.’

The woman looked at him through narrowed eyes for a moment or two and then she smiled. ‘Sure, why not?’ She rang a hand-bell. ‘It won’t cost me anything.’

Hagen grinned. ‘There’s just one thing, Clara. I’ve a taxi waiting at the gates with the luggage. I’m afraid I’m flat.’

She scowled at him ferociously and then, as the maid came in, her face broke into a smile. ‘Okay, handsome. Just this once.’ She gave the maid an order in execrable Cantonese and said to Rose: ‘Go with her, honey. She’ll fix you up in one of the guest-rooms.’

Rose smiled her thanks and as she went out of the door Hagen said, ‘I’ll see you later, angel.’

‘And I’ll see you now,’ Clara Boydell said. Hagen closed the door and turned towards her. She poured two generous measures of gin into glasses and said: ‘Okay, Mark. Tell me what you’re mixed up in this time.’

Hagen dropped into an easy chair and relaxed. He was more tired than he had realized. Over the top of his glass he regarded Clara Boydell. In the past they had served each other too well for mistrust to enter into their relationship at this stage. He knew that this woman had a genuine affection for him. He told her most of what had happened and what he intended to do.

When he had finished she sat silently staring out of the window. She looked serious and he had never known her to be serious in the four years they had been friends. ‘Well, what do you think?’ he said.

‘I think the whole thing stinks.’

He jumped up and restlessly paced back and forth across the room. ‘What the hell, Clara. I know it’s risky but you don’t get anything easily in this world.’

‘I’m not just thinking of the risks,’ she told him. ‘I like the look of that kid and you’re going to swindle her.’

‘For God’s sake,’ he said angrily. ‘I’m not throwing the kid to the sharks. I’ll see that she gets a cut.’

‘Who says she’ll want a cut and, anyway, she’s in love with you.’

Hagen laughed shortly. ‘Don’t be a fool. I only met her a few hours ago.’

‘Yes, and saved her life. She was in a spot and you came along and pulled her out of it and since then you’ve taken charge of things for her. If she doesn’t love you at the moment she soon will do.’ Hagen snorted and poured himself another drink and Clara continued: ‘Don’t be a fool, Mark. Forget about the girl and look at it from the other angle. If you go into those marshes the Commies will never let you come out alive. They’ll be watching every move you make. They may let you in. They may even let you do all the work, but in the end they’ll strike. It’s suicide, Mark. Are you that desperate for money?’

Hagen walked to the window and spoke without turning round. ‘Clara, I’m sick of the life I’ve been leading. I’ve had enough. The years are rolling by and what have I got to show? Nothing. I want to go home with my pockets full before it’s too late. Is that a bad thing to want?’ He turned and looked at her and she shrugged helplessly. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘I’ll put it plainly. If I don’t take this chance I’m all washed up. Just another bum on the beach. Maybe I will get killed—so what? I’d rather take the risk. If I don’t get the gold I’m better off dead anyway.’

He walked over to the door and opened it. ‘Okay, Mark,’ she said. ‘Have it your own way.’

He smiled sadly. ‘I intend to, Clara. Tell Rose I’ll be back to see her this evening, will you?’ She nodded and he closed the door gently behind him.

He had hoped at the back of his mind that Clara, properly approached, might be willing to finance the deal for him. That hope was dead now and he directed his steps towards the centre of Macao to start the rounds of the bankers and money-lenders. It almost seemed as if there was a runner ahead of him. Most of the Europeans didn’t even bother to be polite. They had heard of him and he was a bad risk. On the other hand he found the Chinese money-lenders too polite. They offered him tea and fluttered their hands expressively but couldn’t see their way to lending him the money. He even tried one or two merchants who in the past had not been above buying the odd cargo of contraband goods, but in every case he was politely shown the door.

It was late in the afternoon when he turned into Charlie Beale’s café. It was the one place where his credit was still good for a drink. He sagged down into a booth and, as he gratefully swallowed the cold beer the waiter brought him, someone sat down. Hagen looked across the table and saw Charlie Beale. Charlie smiled. ‘Hello, boy! I hear you’ve made a proper cock-up of it this time and no mistake.’

Hagen gave him a tired grin. ‘You mean the boat? I’ll raise the money somehow.’

Charlie snapped his fingers and the waiter hurried over with a bottle of Scotch and two glasses. ‘Have a decent drink, Mark,’ Charlie said. He raised his glass. ‘Luck, and you’ll need it. The way I’ve heard it you’ll be lucky if you can raise a brass farthing in this town. Somebody has put the word out. The shutters are up as far as you’re concerned.’

Hagen was interested. There wasn’t much that went on in Macao that Charlie didn’t know about. ‘Who is it, Charlie?’ he said. ‘Is it Herrara the Customs chief? I know that bastard would love to see me lose the boat permanently.’

Charlie shook his head. ‘It’s a queer business,’ he said. ‘From what I can hear it’s political. Are you in trouble with the Commies?’

Hagen didn’t answer because suddenly a wild idea was smouldering in his brain. ‘Charlie,’ he said. ‘How would you like to lend me ten thousand petakas?’

Charlie’s eyes narrowed and his face became devoid of expression. He didn’t laugh because he knew that Hagen must have some extraordinary proposition to make to him. ‘You got something up your sleeve?’ he said softly, and the Cockney accent of his youth became suddenly more pronounced.

‘Something big, Charlie. Really big.’

Charlie stood up and motioned Hagen to follow him. He led the way upstairs and into his office. ‘We can be private here,’ he said. They sat facing each other across a wide desk. ‘Let’s hear it, boy, and it better be good.’

He was now the complete business man. Facts and figures were all that interested him. He listened to what Hagen had to say and then sat smoking a cigarette and thinking about it. After a while he opened a drawer and producing a map unrolled it on the desk. ‘Look at this, boy,’ he said. ‘From here to the Kwai Marshes the coast is alive with gunboats and on top of them you’ve got the pirates. You wouldn’t stand a chance.’

Hagen nodded. ‘All right. It’s going to be difficult, but it could be done.’

Charlie lit a cigarette thoughtfully and then said: ‘Wouldn’t you be better off in a motor sampan? You’d look like an ordinary fisherman from one of the coast villages.’

Hagen shook his head and said decisively: ‘No, I don’t agree. This whole thing has only one chance of success—speed. It’s got to be done so fast that we’re in and out with the gold before they know what’s happened. To do that successfully I need a fast boat and mine’s the best on the coast, as nobody knows better than you.’

Charlie Beale grinned. ‘All right! So your boat saved my neck once. I’ve paid for that favour a long time ago.’

Hagen nodded. ‘I know, but I’m not asking for favours now. This is a business proposition.’

Charlie shook his head. ‘Is it hell a business proposition. It’s a gamble, but on the other hand I’m a gambler as well as being a business man.’ He studied the map for a couple of minutes without saying anything and Hagen sat with sweating palms praying for the right reply. ‘What would you need in the way of equipment?’ he said at last.

Hagen had his answer off pat. ‘Next to nothing. The boat is lying on a sandy bottom at a depth of twenty-five feet. The job should be easy. I’ve got an aqua-lung. A block and tackle to haul up the gold is easily rigged. The main thing is the money to pay that damned fine so I can get my boat back.’

Charlie nodded. ‘That’s not so bad. The whole thing could be done for peanuts.’

Hagen suddenly remembered something. ‘One thing more,’ he said. ‘Important! I’ll need some good automatic weapons and possibly a few grenades.’ Charlie frowned and Hagen added, ‘It would be silly to lose the gold simply because of an inability to defend the boat properly.’

‘All right,’ Charlie said. ‘That would be difficult, though. It’s pretty hard to get that kind of stuff these days. Who would you take with you?’

Hagen had the answer to that one, too. ‘The girl, of course. She might get suspicious otherwise, and I need a deck-hand. O’Hara would be best. A Chinese boy might be a Commie plant.’

Charlie Beale snorted. ‘What good would that old rummy O’Hara be? He gets the shakes if he doesn’t have his two bottles of rot-gut a day.’

Hagen grinned. ‘I know, but when he’s sober he’s a damned fine sailor and at least he can be depended on to keep his mouth shut.’ Besides, he’s a friend of mine.’

There was a long period of silence and a light breeze rattled the slats of the bamboo window-blind. Hagen lit a cigarette nervously and waited. Charlie studied the map and fiddled with an ivory-handled paper-knife. Suddenly he straightened up and put down the knife. ‘Okay, Mark,’ he said. ‘Come back tomorrow. Not too early, not too late. I’ll think about it.’

Hagen kept his face straight as he left the office and clattered down the stairs and out into the crowded street. A tiny finger of excitement moved inside him and his face broke into a broad grin. Charlie had bitten. The whole thing was set. A feeling of tremendous confidence and hope surged through him. Very soon now, perhaps in a matter of days, he would be on that ferry going over to Kowloon. Then there would be a plane winging its way across the Pacific and then suddenly he knew that he didn’t want to go back to the States. There was nothing left there for him. He considered the point and a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. Ireland was the place. A country house with plenty of liquor and good horses.

It was thinking about Ireland that made him remember O’Hara and he decided to find the old man. He worked his way along the waterfront calling in all the bars and gin-palaces. He spent an hour in this way and was about to give up the search when he found O’Hara in one of the worst dives in Macao. A large French sailor with a Marseilles accent had the old man half over a table, holding him firmly with one ham-like fist while he poured beer over him with the other. Hagen pushed his way through the laughing, drunken crowd of spectators, picked up the nearest chair and crashed it down on the Frenchman’s head and shoulders. The chair splintered a little and the man sagged to the floor without a sound. Hagen slung O’Hara over his shoulder and the crowd respectfully parted to let him through.

He called a rickshaw and dumped O’Hara in it, then walked beside it until they came to the seedy hovel the old man called home. He carried him upstairs and dumped him on the bed in his room. From the looks of him O’Hara had been on the bottle for at least two days. Hagen locked the door from the outside and put the key in his pocket.

Night was beginning to fall when he reached his hotel. There was a new desk-clerk on duty, a thin, vicious-looking Chinese. ‘Any messages?’ Hagen asked.

‘No, Captain Hagen. No messages,’ the man replied.

Hagen was half-way up the stairs when it suddenly occurred to him that the man had known his name and then he began to wonder what had happened to the other desk-clerk. He walked softly up to his door and stood listening for a while. He decided that he was being silly and unlocked the door and went in.

When he turned on the light there was a man sitting on the bed gazing pensively at the wall. He was small and dark and impeccably dressed in white sharkskin. His gloved hands were folded over a silver-topped Malacca cane. Hagen leaned against the door, lit a cigarette and waited. Small, black, shining eyes had swivelled to a position from which they could observe him. The man half-turned his body and, still remaining seated, raised his panama and said in clipped, precise English, ‘Have I the honour of addressing Captain Hagen?’

Hagen decided that he was too charming. The eyes were deadly and unwinking like those of a puff-adder, despite the polite, birdlike expression on the face. Hagen blew a cloud of smoke in his direction and said, ‘Look, I’m busy, so kindly state your business and then get the hell out of here.’

The little man half-lifted his cane reprovingly and smiled like a father dealing with a recalcitrant son. ‘Captain Hagen, how would you like to earn twenty thousand American dollars very easily? No risk, in fact no trouble at all’

Hagen walked into the bathroom and came back with the gin bottle and two glasses. He poured the drinks and they sat side by side on the bed without speaking. He knew that this must be someone very special. A Russian working for the Reds in China would hold a very high position. They must be pretty determined to get their hands on that gold. He reached for the bottle and poured himself another drink. ‘How are things in Moscow these days?’ he said.

The Russian smiled and inclined his head. ‘I bow to your perspicacity, Captain. However, I have not been in Moscow, or indeed in Russia, for ten years, and between ourselves’—and here he lowered his voice with a conspiratorial air—‘the arrangement suits me perfectly. I find the Oriental way of life very appealing, Captain. The standards, the moral values, even the food, are all infinitely more preferable. What comparison can be made between a brawny collective-farm girl and the fragile Eastern blossoms that are to be found in various parts of this city?’

The Russian’s eyes became smoky and a dreamy look came over his face. Hagen shuddered with distaste but he had to find out what the other side were up to. He schooled his face to smile. ‘How do I earn twenty thousand so easily?’

The Russian’s face broke into a radiant smile and he stood up and formally clicked his heels. ‘Ah, so we can do business? My name is Kossoff, Captain Hagen.’ He extended his hand formally and then went on, ‘My principals will pay you the agreed sum of money if you will lead them to the position of a certain boat which sank, I believe, somewhere in the vicinity of the Kwai Marshes.’

Hagen put back his head and laughed. ‘What do you take me for?’ he said.

Kossoff smiled thinly. ‘I take you for many things, Captain, for you have been many things to many people. British naval lieutenant, American naval commander. How do you like your new role as protector of innocence?’

It was with difficulty that Hagen held himself in check. He said calmly: ‘Your proposition stinks. Why should I tell you where the boat is for a paltry twenty thousand when I can get the gold myself?’

Kossoff squinted along his cane. ‘Ah, but can you, Captain? I think not. In the first place you must raise the money necessary to retrieve your boat. Have you had any success, by the way? Secondly, you must leave Macao and enter the Kwai Marshes without being observed. An impossibility, my dear sir.’ He smiled charmingly. ‘However, as I cannot do business with you I must of necessity pay a call on Miss Graham, Women, I find, are so much more co-operative.’

Hagen was on him before he reached the door. He grabbed him by the lapels and twisted the collar about his neck until the little black eyes protruded. ‘You dirty little rat,’ he cried. ‘If you lay a finger on that kid I’ll—’ Instinct made him jerk his head to one side as he sensed a presence behind him. A leather, shot-filled sap grazed his shoulder and he jerked Kossoff round and into his assailant.

They must have been waiting on the balcony, he thought, as he turned to meet them. There were two of them, flat-faced Mongolians, not as big as Lee but large enough. He ducked under the arm of the nearest one, dug his right fist into the man’s belly, and vaulted over the bed.

For a moment there was quiet, the lull before the storm. One of the men sat Kossoff in a chair and gave him a glass of water while the other faced Hagen across the bed, the leather sap twitching nervously in his hand. Finally Kossoff became articulate again. He fingered his throat gingerly with one hand and then pointed at Hagen and said softly in Cantonese: ‘Beat him. Beat him but do not kill him.’

Hagen decided he had waited long enough. From the look of them Kossoff’s apes would draw a very thin line between a beating and a killing. He gripped the edge of the blankets and, as he lifted them, sprang on to the bed. His hands spread and he threw the blankets as a fisherman casts his net, so that they enveloped Kossoff and the man who was standing beside him. Almost in the same motion he jumped feet foremost at the other man. The force of that terrific blow sent the Mongolian backwards, through the window and on to the balcony.

Hagen landed on his forearms in the classic Judo manner and twisted to face the other thug. In his effort to avoid the blankets the man had stepped back and fallen over Kossoff’s chair bringing them both to the floor. As he cast the blankets aside and started to get up, Hagen kicked him in the face as he would have kicked a football, beautifully judged and timed.

Hagen stood breathing heavily as Kossoff scrambled to his feet and backed to the door. He pushed past the Russian, wrenched open the door and dragged the unconscious Mongolian outside. At the same moment the other man appeared from the balcony. He was doubled over in agony and there was blood oozing from his mouth. Hagen gestured fiercely and the man passed him and staggered along the corridor. They all went downstairs in procession, Hagen bringing up the rear dragging the unconscious man by the collar. The clerk pretended to be extremely busy as they crossed the hall.

On the other side of the narrow street there was parked a large American limousine that somehow looked familiar. The one who was still able to walk opened the door and Hagen bundled the other inside. As he straightened up he suddenly felt a slight prick as something needle-sharp nudged into his back. ‘I underestimated you, Captain Hagen,’ Kossoff said. ‘A Judo expert. I must be more careful in the future. However, I win the trick, I think?’

‘By one point,’ Hagen said, bitterly.

The pressure was removed and he turned to find Kossoff replacing two feet of wicked-looking steel in the Malacca cane. Suddenly Hagen felt utterly weary and deflated. The little street was empty and quiet. Through the darkness he could see traffic passing at the far end but somehow it seemed unreal and very far away. Even the sounds were subdued and meaningless. Kossoff said: ‘You are surprised that I do not kill you? Allow me to explain. As I told you, I have not been to Moscow for ten years. The point is, Captain, that I do not intend to return to Russia at all if I can avoid it. I have what you would call a ‘plum’ job in China. I live very well indeed but my standard of living is threatened, Captain, and by you. The party is harsh with failures. If I do not get that gold I may very easily be recalled to explain my failure. However, I do not intend to fail.’ He adjusted his tie and the angle of his panama. ‘I give you two days in which to consider my proposition.’

Hagen decided that it would be pointless to tell him to go to hell. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’ll think about it.’

Kossoff got behind the wheel and said: ‘My poor fellows. You were really extremely rough with them, Captain. Thank you for delivering them to the car. That’s what I call service.’

‘Go to hell,’ Hagen told him. ‘I only did it to keep the police out of this.’

‘In two days, my friend.’ The car slid away from the kerb and Hagen turned wearily and went back into the hotel.

He had a shower and changed and then came downstairs. He told the clerk to get someone to clean his room and that if anyone wanted him to say he had gone out for a drink. The clerk bobbed his head and Hagen went out of the front door. He stood outside for perhaps a full minute and then quickly went back into the hall. The clerk was speaking into the telephone. ‘He has just left for the evening. I think—’

Hagen lifted the flap and stepped behind the desk. As the man backed away from him he grabbed him by the front of his jacket and pulled out the automatic with his free hand. He slammed the barrel twice against the man’s face and the heavy metal opened a jagged groove down his right cheek. The man collapsed across the top of the desk, moaning bitterly, and Hagen said: ‘I don’t like snoopers. You’d better not be here when I get back.’ He turned and left the hotel.

He walked to Clara Boydell’s place, twisting and turning through back streets and stopping many times to see that he wasn’t followed. When he reached the house it was a blaze of lights and there were many cars parked outside—some with diplomatic plates. He let himself in by the front door. The gaming tables that Clara ran on the ground floor were doing a roaring trade, and he could see her standing in the lounge talking animatedly to a group of distinguished-looking gentlemen. He went upstairs and asked a passing maid to show him to Rose’s room.

The room was in darkness. A shaft of yellow light shone through the window from a lamp outside. The girl was lying under a mosquito net and he was unable to see her clearly, only to get a vague impression of rounded limbs and blue-black hair spread across the pillow. Faintly in the distance he heard a snatch of laughter and then the sad, sweet strains of a clarinet as the band started to play. Very quietly he tip-toed from the room.

He was tired when he reached his hotel. There was a smart-looking Chinese girl at the desk now. He asked her where the man was and she said that he’d left in a hurry. Her uncle, who was the proprietor, had been compelled to ask her to come at very short notice. It was really most inconvenient. Hagen agreed with her and went up to his room. Suddenly he was more tired than he had been in a long, long time. He flung himself down on the bed and lay staring at the ceiling and after a while it moved a little and then he was asleep.

He awakened suddenly and completely. Because he was not aware of the thing that had disturbed him, his hand slipped under the pillow and curled around the butt of the automatic. There was an urgent tapping on the door and the Chinese girl’s voice said: ‘Captain Hagen! Come quickly! There’s an urgent telephone call.’

‘Who is it?’ he said through the door.

‘No name. Lady say very urgent.’

He jerked open the door and rushed past her, taking the stairs three at a time. He stood at the desk and spoke into the receiver, ‘Hagen here.’

‘Mark, this is Clara. I’m sending Lee for you in a car. You’d better get here fast. They’ve kidnapped your girlfriend.’

Somehow her voice suddenly drifted away into the distance. For a moment he swayed as for the first time he realized that the girl was important to him, and then he recovered and said: ‘Thanks, Clara. I’ll be with you in fifteen minutes.’

He dropped the receiver and turned and ran past the astonished girl up the stairs to his room.

4

He had barely finished dressing when he heard the car brake to a halt outside. He ran downstairs, wrenched open the door, and scrambled into the rear seat. Before he could get the door closed the car had roared away from the kerb. They turned a corner on two wheels, scattering pedestrians, and then Lee turned into a maze of quiet back streets, driving like a demon.

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