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They were almost through the long, brightly lit Customs Hall now. "You going racing Saturday?" John Chen asked. "Who isn't!" The week before, to the ecstasy of all, the immensely powerful Turf Club with its exclusive monopoly on horse racing— the only legal form of gambling allowed in the Colony—had put out a special bulletin: "Though our formal season does not start this year until October 5, with the kind permission of our illustrious Governor, Sir Geoffrey Allison, the Stewards have decided to declare Saturday, August 24 a Very Special Race Day for the enjoyment of all and as a salute to our hardworking population who are bearing the heavy weight of the second worst drought in our history with fortitude. . . ." "I hear you've got Golden Lady running in the fifth," Armstrong said. "The trainer says she's got a chance. Please come by Father's box and have a drink with us. I could use some of your tips. You're a great punter." "Just lucky. But my ten dollars each way hardly compares with your ten thousand." "But that's only when we've one of our horses running. Last season was a disaster. … I could use a winner." "So could I." Oh Christ how I need a winner, Armstrong thought. But you, Johnny Chen, it doesn't matter a twopenny tick in hell if you win or lose ten thousand or a hundred thousand. He tried to curb his soaring jealousy. Calm down, he told himself. Crooks're a fact and it's your job to catch them if you can—however rich, however powerful—-and to be content with your rotten pay when every street corner's groaning with free silver. Why envy this bastard—he's for the chopper one way or another. "Oh by the way, I sent a constable to your car to take it through the gate. It'll be waiting at the gangway for you and your guests." "Oh, that's great, thanks. Sorry for the trouble." "No trouble. It's a matter of face. Isn't it. I thought it must be pretty special for you to come yourself." Armstrong could not resist another barb. "As I said, nothing's too much trouble for the Noble House." John Chen kept his polite smile but screw you, he thought. We tolerate you because of what you are, a very important cop, filled with envy, heavily in debt, surely corrupt and you know nothing about horses. Screw you in spades. Dew neh loh moh on all your generations, John Chen thought, but he kept the obscenity hidden carefully, for though Armstrong was roundly hated by all Hong Kongyan, John Chen knew from long experience that Armstrong's ruthless, vengeful cunning was worthy of a filthy Manchu. He reached up to the half-coin he wore on a thin leather thong around his neck. His fingers trembled as they touched the metal through his shirt. He shivered involuntarily.
"What's the matter?" Armstrong asked. "Nothing. Nothing at all." Get hold of yourself, John Chen thought. Now they were through the Customs Hall and into the Immigration area, the night dark outside. Lines of anxious, unsettled, tired people waited in front of the neat, small desks of the cold-faced, uniformed Immigration officers. These men saluted Armstrong. John Chen felt their searching eyes. As always, his stomach turned queasy under their scrutiny even though he was safe from their probing questions. He held a proper British passport, not just a second-class Hong Kong passport, also an American Green Card—the Alien Card—that most priceless of possessions that gave him free access to work and play and live in the U.S.A., all the privileges of a born American except the right to vote. Who needs to vote, he thought, and stared back at one of the men, trying to feel brave, but still feeling naked under the man's gaze. "Superintendent?" One of the officers was holding up a phone. "It's for you, sir." He watched Armstrong walk back to take the call and he wondered what it would be like to be a policeman with so much opportunity for so much graft, and, for the millionth time, what it would be like to be all British or all Chinese, and not a Eurasian despised by both. He watched Armstrong listening intently, then heard him say above the hubbub, "No, just stall. I'll deal with it personally. Thanks, Tom." Armstrong came back. "Sorry," he said, then headed past the Immigration cordon, up a small corridor and into the VIP Lounge. It was neat and expansive, with bar facilities and a good view of the airport and the city and the bay. The lounge was empty except for two Immigration and Customs officers and one of Armstrong's men waiting beside Gate 16—a glass door that let out onto the floodlit tarmac. They could see the 707 coming onto her parking marks. "Evening, Sergeant Lee," Armstrong said. "All set?" "Yes sir. Yankee 2's just shutting down her engines." Sergeant Lee saluted again and opened the gate for them. Armstrong glanced at John Chen, knowing the neck of the trap was almost closed. "After you." "Thanks." John Chen walked out onto the tarmac. Yankee 2 towered over them, its dying jets now a muted growl. A ground crew was easing the tall, motor-driven gangway into place. Through the small cockpit windows they could see the dimly lit pilots. To one side, in the shadows, was John Chen's dark blue Silver Cloud Rolls, the uniformed Chinese chauffeur standing beside the door, a policeman nearby. The main cabin door of the aircraft swung open and a uniformed steward came out to greet the two airport officials who were waiting on the platform. He handed one of the officials a pouch with the airplane's documents and arrival manifests, and they began to chat affably. Then they all stopped. Deferentially. And saluted politely. The girl was tall, smart, exquisite and American. Armstrong whistled quietly. "Ayeeyah!" "Bartlett's got taste," John Chen muttered, his heart quickening. They watched her come down the stairs, both men lost in masculine musings. "You think she's a model?" "She moves like one. A movie star, maybe?" John Chen walked forward. "Good evening. I'm John Chen of Struan's. I'm meeting Mr. Bartlett and Mr. Tchuluck." "Oh yes of course, Mr. Chen. This's very kind of you, sir, particularly on a Sunday. I'm pleased to meet you. I'm K.C. Tcholok. Line says if you . . ." "Casey Tchuluck?" John Chen gaped at her. "Eh?" "Yes," she said, her smile nice, patiently passing over the mispronunciation. "You see my initials are K.C, Mr. Chen, so Casey became my nickname." She turned her eyes on Armstrong. "Evening. You're also from Struan's?" Her voice was melodious. "Oh, er, excuse me, this, this is Superintendent Armstrong," John Chen stuttered, still trying to recover. "Evening," Armstrong said, noticing that she was even more attractive close up. "Welcome to Hong Kong." "Thank you. Superintendent? That's police?" Then the name clicked into place. "Ah, Armstrong. Robert Armstrong? Chief of CID Kowloon?" He covered his surprise. "You're very well informed, Miss Tcholok." She laughed. "Just part of my routine. When I go to a new place, particularly one like Hong Kong, it's my job to be prepared … so I just sent for your current listings." "We don't have published listings." "I know. But the Hong Kong Government puts out a government phone book which anyone can buy for a few pennies. I just sent for one of those. All police departments are listed—heads of departments, most with their home numbers—along with every other government office. I got one through your Hong Kong PR office in New York." "Who's head of Special Branch?" he asked, testing her.