“Just chance,” Girland said, moving to the door. “You might still need me, Dorey, old pal. If I can put up with you, I can’t see why you can’t be big-minded and put up with me. Bye now,” and he went out of the office.
Mavis Paul was typing, making the machine sound like a quick-fire machine gun. She didn’t look up nor pause as Girland came to rest by her desk.
Girland studied the little plaque bearing her name that stood on her desk. He picked up a scratch pad and pen and wrote the name down.
“Pretty name... pretty girl,” he murmured. He put the slip of paper into his shirt pocket and went out into the anti-room where Carlota was waiting.
“Go on in,” he said. “He’ll talk a lot, but the foundation is laid for you. I’ll get off. See you sometime soon.”
They touched hands, smiled at each other, then Girland went down to where he had parked his Fiat 600.
The following morning Girland arrived by taxi at Orly airport to catch the 9 a.m. flight via Rome to Hong Kong. He was carrying a lightweight suitcase and he wore a well-worn, slightly crumpled tropical blue suit. He handed his suitcase to an elderly porter, and followed him to the Air France reception desk. He tipped the porter and paid the airport dues. He was told his flight was A.F. 632 and there might be a slight delay in Rome.
Jean Redoun, the porter, listened long enough to register these facts, then he walked quickly to the nearest telephone booth. He remembered Girland by his photograph, and he knew the Soviet Embassy was more than interested in him. He put through a call and spoke briefly to Kovski.
After the call, Kovski sat for a long moment, frowning into space. Malik, somewhat in disgrace, had been sent to Rome to check on a British agent who seemed ready to defect. Why was Girland going to Hong Kong? Kovski asked himself. The woman was dead. They were certain of that. Then why Hong Kong. He didn’t hesitate for more than a few seconds. He reached for the telephone and called Rome.
... Girland believed in luxury at other people’s expense. He had decided to travel first-class, but he did have some difficulty in persuading Jacques Yew to advance the fare. Yew couldn’t see what was wrong with travelling Economy Class, but eventually Girland talked him out of this way of thinking.
Girland enjoyed the trip. The first-class section on the aircraft wasn’t crowded, and the air hostess, a pretty little thing with a lively smile and flirtatious eyes, didn’t hold his shabby suit against him. She thought he could be an eccentric millionaire, and besides, he had a charming smile. She was continually pampering him with caviar, champagne and snacks.
At Rome, Girland left the aircraft and had two quick double Scotches in the airport bar. He stretched his legs, bought the latest Hadley Chase paperback and returned to the aircraft.
Three minutes before the aircraft took off, Malik, slightly out of breath, hurried across the tarmac and climbed the stairs into the Economy Class compartment. As he fastened his safety belt, he congratulated himself on the speed of his driving and his luck to find an empty seat on the plane.
Kovski had been very emphatic. Malik was not to lose Girland. Girland would not be travelling to Hong Kong unless Erica Olsen had given him some important information before she had died. That, Kovski felt, was certain. The Soviet Security wanted this information. Malik’s instructions were to get it at all cost. The Soviet Agents in Hong Kong had been alerted. They would work under Malik. This was Malik’s opportunity to make good on his reputation.
Malik had sneered to himself, but he had made frantic efforts to get on the plane, and by three minutes to spare, he had succeeded.
While he and Girland were being shot through space towards Hong Kong, Yet-Sen at the Paris Chinese Embassy was making a report in code that was to be cabled to Pekin. Yet-Sen was satisfied with himself. Admittedly, he had lost three promising agents, but after all, agents were expendable. The point was he had carried out his instructions. The woman was dead.
As an afterthought, he added a description of Girland to his report.
“This man,” he wrote, “is dangerous and should be in our files. A photograph and details of his method of operations will follow in the diplomatic bag.”
This cable arrived in Pekin eighteen hours before Girland landed in Hong Kong. A warning about Girland, with his description, was flashed to every airport in Asia. Not that they were expecting Girland, but the Chinese are thorough and it was part of their system to take no chances.
So without being aware of it, Girland was heading for a wasps nest. He not only had Malik on his plane, but now a certain Chinese Customs official at the Kai Tak airport had his description.
Eating an excellent sauté of chicken, washed down with a very presentable Bordeaux wine, Girland at that moment hadn’t a care in the world. He was heading towards riches, and about to arrive at the foot of his rainbow.
Girland was no stranger to Hong Kong. This, he thought as he walked out of the airport into the blistering sunshine, would be his fourth visit. Once he had met a young, American heiress on a world tour. She had insisted that he should be her bodyguard. Since her body was exceptionally inviting, Girland had raised no objections. They had spent four exciting and somewhat erotic weeks in Hong Kong. Later, he had been assigned by the C.I.A. to help to break up an opium ring and Hong Kong had been the centre of operations. He and Harry Curtis, the resident Agent, had spent days in a police boat and Girland had got to know the various outer islands around Taipang Wan, Tathong and in the East Lamma Channel.
Curtis was the last person Girland wanted to run into at this moment, and knowing Curtis had the habit of meeting aircraft from Europe, he kept a sharp eye out for him. He was so occupied watching for Curtis’s burly figure that he failed to notice Malik trailing along behind him.
The Chinese Customs officer at the barrier studied Girland’s passport and then looked thoughtfully at him. Then he returned the passport, saluted and motioned Girland through the barrier. As soon as Girland began walking towards a row of taxis, the Customs officer jerked his thumb in his direction and a fat Chinese, wearing a well-worn black business suit, went after Girland.
All this wasn’t lost on Malik whose sharp eyes had seen the signal and the fat Chinese wander after Girland. Malik glanced around.
Branska, the resident Soviet agent, came out of the crowd and shook Malik’s hand. Branska was a short, heavily-built man with sandy, thinning hair and freckles.
“It’s all right,” he said. “He’s taken care of. I have three men covering him. Let’s go to the hotel. We’ll get a report as soon as they find out where he is going.”
Malik nodded and the two men walked over to a waiting car.
Girland told the taxi driver to take him to the Star Ferry. He relaxed back in the cab as it rushed him along the crowded waterfront with its hordes of trotting coolies, carrying enormous burdens, slung on bamboo poles, the rickshaws, the overladen trucks, the big American cars driven by sleek rich-looking Chinese, bicycles making suicidal dashes through the traffic and every now and then a lovely Chinese girl, her cheongsam slit to four inches above her knees, in a rickshaw, her legs crossed, her hands demurely in her lap.
Girland loved Hong Kong. This was a town, he thought, teeming with life and energy where anything could happen and where money could be made.
He paid off the taxi at the ferry, then passing through the turnstile, he got on board the waiting boat.
Two of Malik’s agents and the fat Chinese also got on the boat.
Ten minutes later, Girland left the boat station on the Hong Kong side and took a taxi to a small hotel on the Wanchai waterfront where he had stayed previously.