‘What do you know of the Mimosa Drug Company?’
‘Why do you want that information?’ Korn asked.
‘You don’t want to tell me?’
The other man flashed his gold incisor. ‘Did I say that, Pete?’
‘Who are you expecting? Why do you keep looking at your watch and the door?’
Korn came over as if he would cry. ‘Hey, Pete, is that any way to carry on? I’m just nervous. Aren’t I allowed to be nervous — here, on my own, with all these Chinks forever spying on me? You’re not an easy bloke to get on with,’ he added reproachfully.
‘The Mimosa Drug Company.’
‘Mimosa — OK,’ Korn said hastily, then paused to think. ‘It dates from the early seventies. There’s one factory, some place in Kaohsiung. They make medicines, antibiotics, a whole range of stuff.’ He halted. ‘I could bore you with the details, what do you want to know?’
‘What’s the involvement of the CIA?’
‘You pick your questions.’ Korn let out a laugh. It was all air and no enjoyment. ‘Seriously — you haven’t been listening to what I’ve been telling you. Sure, the CIA set the factory up so that they could play nasty games away from prying eyes; then they sold out in ’seventy-five or around then to the Chen brothers. But it’s all a front. The CIA couldn’t have operated in the first place without the Bamboo Society taking a piece. And who do you think provided the Chen brothers with the money to buy? You see what I’m getting at? Out here the boundaries aren’t too clear. Maybe Mimosa is still working for the CIA.’
‘Or maybe for us?’ Kirov enquired calmly. He caught sight of his hand lying still on the table, a remote object flickering distantly. He went on: ‘Or maybe for both of us — KGB and CIA? You just said it, Harry: out here the boundaries aren’t too clear. And we’re all policemen doing policemen’s work, aren’t we, so we don’t care who we work for? If Ferenc Heltai gives you orders and a bit of money to soothe your problems, then you don’t mind carrying the orders out, do you? What did he ask you to do, Harry? Organise shipments of antibiotics so that he and his friends in the Army could make money on the black market? And then perhaps arrange some fancy poisons that the CIA have been producing over here? Who does Heltai want to poison, Harry?’
The last question was final like a door slamming. Korn’s fingers tightened and snapped one of the wooden chopsticks.
‘Well, Harry?’ Kirov asked reasonably.
‘You bastard!’ Korn whispered in a dry weepy voice. His hand began to move towards his jacket. ‘You’re a dead man,’ he added and probably meant the words to be scary but they sounded as though he wanted his ball back. The steps to the restaurant rattled with feet.
As Korn pulled his gun, Kirov glanced to the side. Three Chinese, taut as springs, appeared at the entrance to the room. Kirov kicked under the table at the fat man’s shin and tipped the table forward. Korn was too slow to avoid it. He went down in the crash. Kirov dived low to avoid a shot from the direction of his three new assailants, and, as they came at him, sprang up, grabbed the copper steamer from the closest table and threw the whole boiling mess into the face of the nearest man. The other two hesitated, frozen by the scream that issued from the injured Chinese. Kirov used that split second to scoop up a tablecloth and fling it over the head of a second man before heading for the nearest door. A couple of shots followed him.
The door led into the kitchen. A gaggle of cooks and waiters cowered at the far end by the exit. By the near wall was a trolley. Kirov grabbed it and pushed it against the entrance door. For a second he held the door closed, then the wood shivered as bullets came through it. He released the trolley, backed down the space between the stoves and seized a pan of vegetables from one of the burners as the door from the restaurant burst open. He let fly with the pan at the intruder’s head and looked around for another weapon.
And then silence.
The door stood open and empty. The wreck of the trolley lay on its side in the gangway. The pan was on the floor in a pool of water and vegetables. Water dripped from a corner of the stove. A faint hiss of steam came from somewhere and a low jabber of voices from the terrified cooks. A digital clock dropped a number like a brick. All that noise and silence. Then an Australian voice said, ‘Go in and get him, you slant-eyed prick!’ And a man appeared in the doorway firing.
He fired wildly. One of the cooks went down with a whimper. The others yelled murder and scattered. The shots ricocheted from the cast-iron stoves and the tiled walls and blasted pans from the burners. The burst lasted a couple of seconds and stopped. The door to the restaurant swung open and empty as before.
Kirov found himself on the floor in a gap between racks of plates and vegetables where some reflex had thrown him. The stillness was like death. The Chinese cooks, in their white cottons, were stacked like mummies. From the direction of the door came the click of bullets being fed into a magazine and of a magazine being jammed into position and a bolt action doing whatever bolt actions do. A foot crashed into the door, which flew back and smacked the wall. One of the cooks let out a wail and was drowned in hushes from the others. Slow footsteps echoed on the tiled floor.
Kirov slid a few feet to a gap in the racks with a view of the main gangway and a glimpse of feet in soft robber-soled slippers and legs in black trousers and, over the stove, a sallow expressionless face. His assailant picked up a spatula and drummed it on the cast iron — clack — clack — rhythmically, each hit as sharp as a firecracker. Another couple of steps and he was invisible.
‘Where is he?’ Harry Korn yelled from his shelter in the restaurant. Then, feebly, he tried, ‘Hey, Pete, let’s talk about this! What do you say? Come on, Pete, you’re a professional, you know when you’re beat!’ A pan was knocked from the stove and crashed to the ground. After a pause, a plate followed, then another. Stacks of crockery were swept from every surface and smashed on the tiles. The kitchen resounded to a crescendo of breaking plates, and, as suddenly, the noise stopped and there was nothing but cautious footfalls.
Kirov edged again into shelter from the direct view of the other man. Across the gangway, on a table in a mound of vegetable rind, was a cleaver and by the cleaver a glass bowl holding a black sauce. The distance was only a few metres, but the open gangway was between and he had only an approximate idea where the man with the gun was located. But the cleaver was the only visible weapon. He could not stay put. He had to take what chance he had and use it. He moved into a crouching position ready for a leap into the open.
He sprang to his feet and threw his body across the gap. No one in the gangway. He reached the table and his hand stretched out to grasp the cleaver. A yell from nowhere shattered the silence. A figure appeared suddenly from the same nowhere on the other side of the table. The gun swept down and smashed his fingers and another hand reached for the cleaver. Two shots rang out. Kirov’s injured hand rested on the blade and the other hand grasped his and fought for it. His wrist was yanked and forced back. The face grinned. His fingers lost the cool feel of the cleaver blade and he was flung backwards against the stove. The yell again and a nightmare vision of the Chinese cooks dancing a mad gibbering dance. His eyes rolled in pain and his attacker was there again, close against him, his face flat and pale as the moon. Kirov thrust out his hand to grasp at the gun, but already he had lost the cleaver and it was held by his enemy, and swinging through the air towards his head. In desperation he released the other man’s gun-hand, took up the bowl of black liquid and dashed it into his face. There was an unearthly scream as the salt and acid in the sauce burned the other man’s eyes. He let fall the cleaver and rolled forward with his face in his hands.