All MTR tickets are the size of cards, but the ordinary sort contain electronic strips recognised by the turnstiles. These are swallowed up when each journey has been completed so that they can be reissued, creating a saving of thousands of dollars a year. The tourist tickets, however, each with a printed view of the harbour, allow unlimited travel and so save much time. There are high penalties for damaging the plastic smart cards – as there are for smoking, or bringing food and drink into the hallowed, cool atmosphere of the MTR system. Hence the scrupulous cleanliness.
Still keeping both Ebbie and the holdall close to him, Bond headed down more stairs and on to the platform. A train hissed in, heading for Kowloonside.
They just made it. Settling themselves on the somewhat spartan seats, they studied the simple map that Bond had picked up when buying the tickets. He pointed a finger to the station where they would get out and then began to look around casually. No one seemed to take any notice of them as the train pulled into Admiralty station and then out again to start the crossing under the harbour to Tsim Sha Tsui, a short way up the famous wide Nathan Road. This was where they planned the first jump-off. The trains travelling over to Kowloon followed the same route until Mong Kok or Prince Edward, where the railway branched either to the westbound Tsuen Wan line or the Kwun Tong line, which followed a great curve to the north east. Their train was bound for the latter line, which would take them too far from the centre. Bond reasoned that he should contain the action within a relatively small area for his own ease of movement.
As they alighted, he noticed bunched among the crowd of passengers two well-dressed young Chinese, their eyes carefully averted from Bond and Ebbie. He turned left, as though to make for the exit, noticing the Chinese duo getting closer.
‘Get back on again at the last minute,’ he whispered as they came abreast of a set of carriage doors. It was an old trick but it could still work. As the doors began to close, he pushed Ebbie in and followed her quickly. To his frustration, he saw the two Chinese do the same thing one carriage down. He told Ebbie to get off at the next station, Jordan, but not until the last moment.
It took but a few moments in the scurrying crowd to realise that the two men were still there keeping pace with them, and too close for comfort. Both wore light grey suits, neat collars and ties, even in the afternoon heat. They could easily have been taken for two businessmen returning to their office. But to Bond’s practised eye, they worked with a polished precision. He had little doubt that another team was at work, possibly in front of them. They came out of Jordan station and turned right into the noisy, bustling Nathan Road, Bond edging Ebbie in the harbour direction. Smiling, he quietly told her about their being followed.
‘Stay casual,’ he said. ‘Stop and look in the shop windows. Move slowly. At the bottom of the road we come to the Peninsula Hotel. We’ll try to lose them there.’
The sidewalks were tight with people, more Chinese and Indians than European. Nathan Road seemed to be a meeting place of the Eastern cultures. Garish banners overhung the street. At ground level modern shopfronts squeezed together, yet above them there could still be seen the ramshackle buildings dating back to the 1920s or 1930s. Neon and paper signs hung drunkenly at angles, sprouting to catch the eye, while the omnipresent food produced an amalgam of smells. There were many camera and electronics shops, so Bond and Ebbie were able to stop regularly, as though comparing prices, while they watched for the watchers.
Bond had mentally christened their tails Ying and Yang, and they kept pace with a cunning that bespoke thorough training. Nevertheless, within five minutes, Bond thought he had latched on to the team in front. A girl and boy, around eighteen or nineteen, were seemingly engrossed in each other’s company, but they always stopped when Ebbie and Bond stopped. The boy wore a long, loose shirt outside his jeans, enough cover for a weapon. Ying and Yang, in their tailored grey suits had plenty of hiding places for hand guns. The thought crossed Bond’s mind that they could just as well be an execution squad. Had Swift not already been killed? No, he reasoned. Chernov would wish to be present at the end. There should be witnesses from within Moscow Centre.
At last they reached the Peninsula and entered by one of the side doors leading into a bright shopping arcade. Bond remembered someone telling him that this area of the hotel had been the officers’ club in the period following the Second World War. He wondered what ghosts of boozy majors haunted the opulent arcades.
As they turned to climb the stairs to the main lobby, Ying and Yang followed them in. Doubtless the younger pair had made for the front of the hotel to complete the box.
‘Go ahead,’ Bond muttered to Ebbie as he handed her the holdall. ‘Take the armoury with you and make for the loo. I’ll be in the lobby as soon as I’ve dealt with this.’
At least this would be a thorough test of Ebbie’s loyalty. He nodded to her, smiling and relaxed, as he reached for his cigarettes, placed one between his lips and began to pat his pockets for a lighter. Ying and Yang looked slightly startled as they saw him stop but they could hardly run from their quarry, so they came on, paying no attention until Bond stepped in front of them and asked in English if they had a light.
Close to, they looked like twins with short jet hair, round faces and darting, cruel eyes. For a second they paused and Ying muttered something as his hand went up to reach inside the unbuttoned jacket. When his arm was almost level with his lapel, Bond grabbed his wrist, twisted hard, then pulled down, his right knee coming up with all his strength behind it. He could almost feel the man’s pain as the knee smashed into his groin; he certainly heard the gasp of agony. Almost before it came, Bond had spun the man around and jerked him forward towards Yang, propelling him downwards so that the top of his skull caught Yang’s face. The blow was head on, for he heard the crunch and felt Ying’s body go limp in his grip.
Before anyone appeared from the shops along the arcade, Ying and Yang lay heaped together, only partially conscious. Ying was doubled in pain from groin and head, and Yang’s face looked as though he had met a heavy lump of concrete: there was blood pouring from his broken nose and in all likelihood his cheekbone had been cracked. Loudly Bond called for someone to get the police.
‘These men tried to rob me!’ he shouted, and there was a jabber of Chinese and English. He bent down and reached inside each man’s jacket. Sure enough, they were armed with neat, stubby .38 revolvers.
‘Look!’ he said loudly. ‘Somebody get security. These men are bandits.’
The outraged noises from the crowd told Bond that they were on his side. He edged back into the growing circle, dropped one of the weapons, slid the other into his belt, where it was concealed under the Oscar Jacobson jacket, and slipped up the stairs.
‘Down there,’ he said to the two security men who were descending, almost bumping into him. ‘A couple of brigands just tried to rob my friend.’
Ebbie waited inside the doors, in a corner of the vast, gilded hotel foyer where waiters scurried around the tables serving late tea, watched over by a silver-haired head waiter. A four-piece orchestra seated high up in a regal box played selections from old and new musicals. Mainly old.
Bond took the holdall, muttering that they should move fast. He headed towards the main doors, his eyes swivelling around to catch the young couple he had fingered as the back-up team. But there was no sign of them either in the lobby or outside in the forecourt. They crossed the road when the heavy traffic allowed and headed towards the harbour front, littered with building sites. Bond’s eyes were still moving restlessly to try and spot the other team.