‘And after,’ Bond commented.
Myra gave a little nod. ‘When I was born, in the November of ’48, there was bitter fighting around Peking. But the memory of my childhood in Peking itself was one of happiness. We lived in a small but pleasant house on the outskirts of the city. My parents taught me and brought me up as a Christian, which I thought odd, because the Communist Revolution was in full flood and I knew that we were different by the time I was seven or eight. There seemed to be no other Americans that we could mix with. In fact, we saw very few white people, though a number of Chinese, most of them officers of the Red Army, visited us.
‘When I was sixteen, I was told what had happened. During the fighting between Mao’s Red Army and the Nationalist troops at the time of my birth, my parents had sheltered a young Red Army officer. He had been badly wounded and my mother nursed him while my father lied to the Nationalist soldiers who came looking for Communist stragglers.
‘When Peking was taken and the Revolution began in earnest, the young officer told my father that he would see to it that we were not harmed. Later, he returned and said it was impossible for him to get us out of the country, but if we made no political trouble, he would ensure that we could live in peace. The house was found for us and there we lived. Both my father and mother embraced Mao’s brand of Communism and my father did some translation work for the new government. For this, we were left in peace.
‘I understood little of the political implications, though I know that in my late teens I began to feel very uncomfortable about some of the things my father had to do.’
She stopped, as though a host of memories had come drifting back to her, and Bond was forced to prompt her to go on.
‘I was twenty-four when the officer who I had been told was the man my parents had sheltered came late one night and spent hours alone with my father. It appeared that he could do little to help us any more. I didn’t understand it all, but he seemed to have lost some of his previous power. For several weeks we were confined to the house and there was an armed guard at the door. Then he came again. Apparently there was one way he could save us from being tried as spies and probably executed – we knew many had faced trials and summary death for what was called spying. If my parents would consent to my being taken to the United States, they would be safe. I was to find work in New York and we would be allowed to exchange letters once a month. The officer told me it was not likely that I would ever see my parents again, but at least I would be sure of their safety in their old age if I did as I was told.’
‘So you came to America?’
She gave a small nod, biting her lip. ‘I think I should have stayed. I was ordered to do anything my parents instructed me to do. I don’t think they’re alive any more, but I still get letters which appear to be from them.’
‘And you obey instructions?’
‘Yes. There was no problem with my passport, social security, anything. There was even a job for me. I am a translator at the UN. I speak several Chinese dialects; German, quite good Russian, and French.’
‘Your mother must have been an amazing lady.’ Chi-Chi had come through with a tray loaded with cups and a large thermos of coffee.
‘Oh, she was. She taught me well.’
‘The jobs you were asked to do . . . ?’ Bond began.
‘There haven’t been all that many. I carry a great sadness about my family, but I live comfortably, my work is interesting. I’m modestly happy.’
‘The jobs?’ he prompted.
‘Delivering messages. Picking up letters and forwarding them to various people, both here and abroad. This is only the third time I’ve had to let people stay here.’
‘Chinese people?’
‘The first time – oh, six years ago – there were two Caucasians, foreigners who did not speak English well and a Chinese – a young man who was very kind. He comes back to see me quite regularly. He’s a good man. Then, last year, there were two Chinese, a man and a woman. They stayed for six days. There were telephone calls and, finally, a rough-looking Chinese came and took them away.’
‘This Chinese? The one who comes back to see you. Does he ever give you instructions?’
‘No. No, never. We have a kind of . . . well . . .’
‘You sleep with him,’ Chi-Chi said harshly.
‘Yes. Yes, I sleep with him from time to time.’
‘Can I make a guess at something?’ Bond took a proffered cup of strong black coffee.
‘What?’
‘I would guess that the young officer your parents saved – the one who had you brought to America – is called Hung Chow H’ang. Right?’
Myra gave a little gasp, ‘Yes. How did you . . . ?’
‘One of the injuries he suffered when your mother nursed him was to an eye, right?’
‘Why, yes. He wears a patch over his left eye.’
‘Has he ever visited you here?’
The hesitation was too long. ‘He has?’ Bond nudged her and she gave a minute nod.
‘He’s quite an old man now.’ She was almost whispering. ‘But he visits about twice a year. Always calls a week ahead. Takes me out and buys me dinner. Always correct, but he lies to me.’
‘About your parents?’
‘He tells me they are fine, but in his stories they are just the same as when I left China.’
‘Do you know what you’re doing when you pass on messages, post letters and put people up?’
‘I think so.’ Again the very small voice.
‘Then tell me.’
‘I think it’s something to do with . . . with spying, espionage.’
‘It would seem that way. Drink your coffee, Myra. Then tell us about your friend Jenny Mo.’
She sipped nervously at her coffee, eyes restless and cheeks flushed as though she were running a fever.
‘She worked in one of the accounts departments at the UN. I got to know her well and we became friends.’ There was an extended pause. ‘Close friends.’ Another silence as though she were trying to tell them more. ‘One day, Jenny said she was having problems with the lease on her apartment, so I let her use the spare room here. We shared this place until two years ago, when she was offered a very highly paid job in San Francisco. So she left. I had a couple of telephone calls and several letters, then she wrote to me saying she was worried. She said she thought it was necessary to go to the police . . .’
‘She tell you why?’ asked Bond.
‘You still have the letter?’ asked Chi-Chi.
‘Yes, I still have it. You want to see?’
‘Later, maybe. Just tell us what else happened.’
‘Nothing happened. Just this strange letter, then nothing, except the Chinese boy, the one I told you about, the one who still visits from time to time. He made a remark one night when he was here. I thought it odd.’ She stopped as though that was all there was to it.
‘How odd?’
‘Well, he was always nice. Kind and good. But he was pretty casual. I mean he usually wore jeans and a shirt, or a windcheater. Then, on this particular night, he arrived wearing an Armani suit. He had a gold Rolex and a heavy gold ID bracelet, two gold rings on his fingers. I was only joking. I said, “Business must be good,” and he just laughed. So I told him maybe I would have to go to the police and inform on him if business was that good. I was teasing him. He slapped me, beat me up, but before he left we made it up. He apologised, but he did say that I should be careful talking like that otherwise I’d end up like my old friend Jenny Mo.’
‘You follow up on that?’
‘I asked him what he meant, and he said he wasn’t being serious, only, as I hadn’t heard from Jenny in a long time, she must have disappeared. It worried me. Then I had the instructions about you. They simply said that a man called Peter Argentbright, who would identify himself as Peter Abelard, would call and then come with his wife, who would be called Héloïse, but was really Jenny Mo. I thought . . . I thought, well, I thought it must be Jenny. It’s been so long, and I had been very worried. Then, when you came, it was as though she were truly dead.’