The back flap of the envelope was held fast by a red wax seal. “You chaps must have gotten yourself into quite a snit,” Sir Hodley-Smythe observed. “Bloody nuisance, using our top-grade communications and this RAF station for a message drop. Most unusual. But then, using a multimillion dollar reconnaissance aircraft for personnel transport is hardly common either.”
It sounded like he was fishing, but I wasn’t about to satisfy his curiosity until I’d read what was in the envelope even though a printed line along its lower edge read: In Her Majesty’s Service.
Hawk’s teletyped message was brief. One part referred to a facsimile of a computer printout which was enclosed. The printout listed names of persons having the highest potential to be murder victims based on carefully selected criteria. The nine names were divided into two groups. A footnote told me that the five in the top group had died within the year. I recognized the names of those North Vietnamese officials who had met with violent ends in the past two days.
I was reading the second part of Hawk’s message when Willow came into the room. She was wearing a sky-blue, knee-length Chousan tunic with a choke collar over black trousers. The traditionally loose garment, however, was fashionably form-fitted to accentuate her generous curves. Sleek, straight-banged black hair draped her lovely oval face. I got up and offered Willow my chair. Sir Hodley-Symthe remained seated. His eyebrows bobbed up appreciatively until he subdued his rash act and brought them down into a frown of antipathy. His die-hard colonial chauvinism rejected association with all races of “colour.”
Harrington, visibly embarrassed, quickly offered Willow a mug of steaming tea. I perched on one corner of Group Captain Harrington’s desk, mildly fuming inside.
“Please, gentlemen, go right on,” Willow said graciously. “I apologize for taking so long.” She nodded thanks to Harrington as she accepted the tea. She filled the silence that followed. “Any new developments, Nick?” she asked. I held back an answer while she seated herself in the low chair I had vacated. Her smooth, fluid movements as she did so stimulated my imagination. It took an effort to dispell my daydreaming and get back to Hawk’s message.
I picked out the part designed to cement international relations. “I’m instructed to thank the representatives of Her Majesty’s Government in Hong Kong, for their cooperation and most valuable assistance on such short notice. It says here that those individuals will be given recognition through official channels at an appropriate time.” My last words were unheard because of the thunderous rumble of a heavy jet taking off. I glanced outside. The incredible SR-71A that had brought us to Hong Kong was streaking skyward. Its powerful engines were making the window panes rattle.
Willow jumped up and ran to the window. She put on her dark glasses to shield her eyes from the morning sun. She kept them on when she turned around. “You’d think that Major Griffiths would want a rest.”
“Oh, he’ll get it, but not here. At Okinawa. For him, that’s only twenty five minutes away. You see, we didn’t mind your being dropped off, but it wouldn’t look right to some of our neighbors if we kept that fantastic machine here any length of time. Your government seems to be very touchy about conditions in our area just now, too. So he leaped off for home ground as quickly as he could be serviced. Perhaps you’re tired?”
“Strangely enough, I am,” she admitted.
“It’s a syndrome connected with long-haul, high-speed flight. Jet lag, actually. It becomes more pronounced at supersonic speeds. Experience with the Concorde shows that most passenger have a bit of a physical letdown. After some rest, they’re in the pink again.”
I interrupted the tête-à-tête. “We’ve got to be moving on.”
“There’s something encouraging then?” Willow asked.
“In Bangkok. A positive sighting from a well-established source,” I answered.
“British?” interjected Sir Hodley-Smythe. I made a mental note. The British had a first-rate agent in Thailand.
“The name is Lak Bu Chen. If he’s one of yours, we owe you more thanks.”
Sir Hodley-Smythe’s jowls quivered when he shook his head. “Never heard of the bloke.”
“But I have,” Willow said brightly. “He worked for the Americans in Saigon for years. I’d give any of his reports a high validity.”
“So you’ll be off again, you two,” Sir Hodley-Smythe said cheerfully. He sounded happy to be rid of us.
“As soon as we can get a plane out.” I silently thanked Hawk for anticipating my need for a passport, then wondered if he had more than a hunch that it would be necessary. The closer I got to confronting Martin the more help seemed to be coming my way. It was a good feeling.
“Ah — let’s see,” mused Harrington. “If memory serves me, the next non-stop flight, the kind you’ll have to use so there won’t be any complications because of intermediate stops, is Air India that leaves about fourteen hundred hours. Two o’clock, sir,” he translated for the Deputy Governor General.
“Well, see that you’re right about that and get them — ah — accomodations.” Despite his efforts to appear congenial, Sir Hodley-Smythe’s interest seemed to be preoccupied with getting us out from underfoot.
“We don’t wish to be any trouble, sir,” I said.
The way the pair of Queen’s men looked at me, I could tell we were just that. Sir Hodley-Smythe spoke up first. “We’d like to make your short stay as comfortable as possible.” He swept the room with his sausage-fingered fat hand. “This won’t do. I should think you’d prefer the facilities of the public terminal across the field.”
It was obvious he hadn’t been told about the Honolulu hit-and-run action. “Do you suppose you could arrange something on a short-term basis across the harbor in the Glouster?”
Sir Hodley-Smythe’s eyes snapped over to lock on Willow. Harrington got the message. So did I. The Glouster is Hong Kong’s oldest and most sedate hotel. It is old-line Empire from top to bottom. Despite the many changes Hong Kong has undergone, none have disturbed the pukka atmosphere of the Glouster Hotel. It remains a holdout and monument to early British colonialism. It was unthinkable that any Chinese, especially a half-breed, would be welcome as a guest.
The whole idea of declaring Willow Kane persona non grata irked the hell out of me. Sir Hodley-Smythe was a potbellied bigot. He deserved to have some gravy dropped on his old school tie. Three sentences in Hawk’s message gave me the leverage to do it. They assured me that I had uncontestable authority. “I’m dead beat,” I said quickly. It was a half-truth. “The Glouster will do fine.”
Sir Hodley-Smythe coughed. “I say, old chap, ah... there’s the small matter of—”
“Oh, don’t worry about that,” I cut in. “Our State Department will make full reimbursement of fuel, food, and all services your Foreign Office has agreed to provide. Would you mind getting us on our way, Group Captain Harrington?”
Harrington looked askance of Sir Hodley-Smythe. The stout man’s face was flushed from inner rage. He wasn’t quite sure whether I was naive or deliberately squeezing him. No matter, he could respond in only one way. The red-cheeked man made the concession. “I’ll phone ahead. Knowing that you wish to... ah... draw no attention to your presence here... we’ll take reasonable precautions... ah... in keeping with what we’ve been told. I suggest, however, that you get out of that ridiculous orange flying suit if you hope to remain inconspicuous.”
Aboard the RAF air-sea rescue launch that dodged slow-moving junks and freighters, I felt little satisfaction from having forced Sir Hodley-Smythe into a corner. Our final handshake had been perfunctory. I rationalized my spiteful behavior as evidence that I was beginning to tense as the final stages of my assignment approached.