“My dear man, it’s always been a hotel.”
“Getting back to the photo, Lady Mars,” Sutherland said. “I’d like to ask you about this gentleman here. With the orange hair.”
“Yes?”
“He’s naked.”
“So it would appear. You see, I retire precisely at the stroke of midnight. To be alone with my memories, as they say. The party, naturally, continues full bore into the wee hours. I usually import a band from the States. Last year it was Jimmy Buffett. He was simply marvelous. Breakfast is served at five next morning. What goes on in the house after witching hour doesn’t interest me. Only that everyone wakes up next morning with a terrible head remembering what a splendid time they had in dear Nigel’s honor.”
“Marvelous,” Ambrose stated for the record.
“Yes,” she said. “As for me, I don’t tipple. One reason I don’t drink, you see, is that I do want to know when I’m having a good time.” She looked from one man to the other, her eyes alight.
“If you drink, don’t drive,” Congreve said. “Don’t even putt!”
“Now, that’s a good one, Chief Inspector. Wonderful! You play golf, I take it? So do I.”
“About the photograph,” Sutherland said, with a hard glance at his superior.
“Yes, yes. Is there anyone that you do recognize, Lady Mars?” Ambrose asked, leaning forward with his hands on his knees. Sutherland breathed a sigh of relief. The man was back, or at least making a brief appearance.
“This woman here,” she said.
“Which one?” Congreve said.
“This one. Bianca Moon is her name. Quite notorious. She’s been here a few times, I think. She and her twin sister, Jet. At this party or that. Never for luncheon or supper, naturally.”
“And may I ask why not?” Sutherland said.
“No one is comfortable talking about things in her presence, that’s why. We all think she’s a spy.”
“Of course she’s a spy,” Congreve said, all his prior consternation seemingly vanished. “The question is, why is this particular spy so—interested—in an English employee of the French embassy?”
“Why, the Chinese and the French have gotten very cozy lately, it seems,” Diana Mars said. “A big oil deal. Of course, you knew that. Everyone does.”
“Of course,” Congreve said, his innocent baby’s eyes doing their utmost to convey genuine sincerity. “We knew that.”
And, before he could stop himself, Sutherland blurted out, “We did?”
Chapter Fourteen
Hong Kong
MADAME LI ARRIVED AT THE GOLDEN DRAGON PROMPTLY AT nine o’clock that evening. He had traveled to the floating palace by water taxi, very fastidious in his white gloves and very careful not to smudge his beautiful pink suit or the pink pillbox hat he’d whimsically perched atop his coiffure. Perfect, he’d thought, spinning in front of his full-length mirror, for strolling the gay boulevards of the City of Light.
Dear departed Marge had taken a bit longer to dispense with than anticipated (that oven just wasn’t working properly!), but still he’d managed to arrive at the appointed hour. After all, he didn’t want to keep his “date” waiting.
I love Paris in the springtime…
The bustling harbor and the sky above it were absolutely filled with color and radiant light. So much so, that, en route, he was able to read his copy of the South China Morning Post (a good prop for his evening flight to Paris) as the water taxi made its way across the harbor through the maze of sampans and crisscrossing ferries.
I love Paris in the fall…
The Golden Dragon wasn’t the largest floating restaurant in Hong Kong Harbor. Oh, no. That honor fell to the Jumbo Kingdom, a vastly popular tourist haunt. But, because it was not at all what it seemed, the Dragon was by far the most interesting. Four stories high above the waterline, and two below, the Dragon was over three hundred feet in length. It was lovingly decorated in the style of an exquisite Chinese imperial palace and festooned with every manner of gilded dragon and deity. One might dine there for years never suspecting the Golden Dragon was the official headquarters of the Te-Wu, the world’s oldest and most brutal secret police society.
“Good evening,” said one of the many handsome young maître d’s fluttering around the ebony black reception podium, “I am Wu. Welcome to the Golden Dragon.”
Hu Xu was delighted at the deferential treatment his new persona seemed to encourage among the staff. All the young men wore perfectly tailored evening clothes with soft black silk shirts. This one bowed with natural elegance, smiled at him, and said, in lilting English, “How may we serve you this evening, madame?”
The general, Hu Xu well knew, was obsessed with beauty in everything that surrounded him, and that obsession obviously extended to the human form. Everyone under his command, from his general staff to the busboys here at the Dragon, was a study in human perfection. There were exceptions for those with exceptional skills. A tattooed genius with a sketchy haircut, someone like himself, was tolerated. And even rewarded.
“Good evening,” Madame Li said. “I’m meeting someone. I’m sure he’s expecting me. Major Tang?”
“Ah,” the beautiful boy said, and the flicker in his eyes was imperceptible to anyone but him. But there was a new sincerity and deference there. He picked up one of the pearlescent vintage telephones arrayed before him and spoke softly into it, waiting for and getting an answer.
“Certainly, madame,” Wu said, his voice now barely above a whisper. “The major is expecting you. You will be dining this evening up in the Typhoon Shelter Bar. Will you be so kind as to sign our guest register and follow me, please?”
He signed and then followed the boy down a short roped-off corridor of gleaming and fragrant teakwood. At the far end was a small private elevator, the doors solid bronze and beautifully carved. Scenes, no doubt, of the farming village in the mountains where General Moon had been born and spent his idyllic childhood. Every carving, every painting, every work of art aboard depicted some aspect of General Moon’s glorious life story.
Wu pressed the button and then clasped his white-gloved hands behind his back. This boy was just too pretty for his own good, Hu Xu decided, he needed some slight physical flaw in order to have some character. I can arrange that, he thought to himself as the doors slid open.
“Please, madame,” Wu said, bowing and sweeping him into the elevator. “This will take you directly to the Typhoon Bar. I hope you have a lovely evening here with us.”
“Oh, I shall,” he trilled.
“And I hope to serve you again.”
“Oh, you will, my child, you will indeed.”
Alone in the elevator he threw his head back and roared with laughter.
He was such a romantic old soul.
The Typhoon Shelter Bar was on one of the uppermost decks, just below General Moon’s suite of private offices. The views of the harbor at night were spectacular. And so was the food. And so were the martinis. And, knowing Major Tony Tang as he did, so would be the company. He was the most charming man on General Moon’s staff. And one of Hu’s closest allies.
He had dined with the major at the Dragon any number of times in other guises. On the main deck was a five-hundred-seat restaurant, the Dragon Court, decorated in classic Ming Dynasty style. The cuisine, if one could manage a reservation, was Cantonese and it was superb. Signature dishes included the White Shark’s Fin and Seafood Soup with Bamboo Fungus. But the most celebrated entree on the menu, and Madame Li’s personal favorite, was Chef Gong Li’s Lobster, served whole, the bright red fellow served seated bolt upright, steaming in his own gilded wicker chair.