Guangzhou itself is the sixth largest city in China, with an estimated population of three and a half million. It is the transportation, industrial, and trade centre of southern China. It has shipyards, a steel complex, and factories that produce many heavy and light industrial products. It had been the seat of Sun Yat-sen’s revolutionary movement and was a Nationalist centre in the 1920s until its fall in 1950 to the Communist armies. Hong Kong was crowded, but it was nothing compared to Guangzhou. The streets were packed with vehicles and there was a traffic jam at every intersection. However, most of the people got around on bicycles, and there were hundreds zipping along the major roads in specially marked bike lanes. Open-air markets were in abundance. Also prominent were huge billboards displaying images of united workers, looking off into the distance towards a bright, bold future.
Bond found himself thinking that it was a world terribly behind the times, and that its people had absolutely no idea that the rest of civilization had passed them by. Over the years he had attempted to become more tolerant of governments such as China’s, but the imperialist blood of long-forgotten generations welled up inside him when he saw the squalor and misguided complacency of the humanity around him. He had spent most of his career battling communism. These days he had to concentrate on suppressing his own personal prejudices against it.
The minibus drove along Jeifang Beilu down to Dongfeng Zhonglu and passed a large octagonal building designed like a traditional Chinese palace. It was the Dr. Sun Yat-sen Memorial Hall, an auditorium built between 1929 and 1931. The building was in a graceful park with a magnificent garden in front of it. A bronze statue of Sun Yatsen overlooked the garden and faced conspicuous government buildings across the busy main road. The hall itself had a solemn outer appearance with red walls and panels and a roof made of blue Shiwan tiles, with four tiers of rolled, protruding eaves. It was simultaneously ornate and gaudy.
The minibus turned into the intimidating gate of the main and largest government building, a tan seven-storey structure with a red roof. The gate was set within a brick façade with a blue roof, and was connected to a high fence which surrounded the building. The driver spoke to a guard, the gate opened, and the minibus pulled into a parking area full of military vehicles—jeeps, a couple of troop transports, and one tank.
When they got out of the minibus, the guard pointed across the road. “Dr. Sun Yat-sen Memorial Hall,” he said. “Nice tourist attraction.” He gestured to the building in front of them. “This is our local government building. General Wong will see you here.”
The guard escorted Bond into the building, where he had to sign a visitors’ book under the watchful eyes of other soldiers. The next thing they did was curious—Bond was frisked from head to toe. Why would they do that to a visiting solicitor? He attributed it to the rigours of Communist China. He was then led to a lift and taken to the third floor, where the guard let Bond into a small office.
“Wait here,” the guard said, then left him alone.
Bond sat down in a straight-backed chair. The room was bare except for a conference table and a few chairs. A water cooler sat in the corner. It was very hot. Either the air conditioning was off, broken, or they didn’t have it at all. The weather outside had finally hit the humid summer temperature for which southern China was known. Bond had to wipe his forehead with a handkerchief.
After a moment, a man entered and stood in the doorway. He was dressed in full Chinese military regalia and appeared to be about sixty years old. He was short, probably no more than five and a half feet, but broad-shouldered and muscular. He had white hair cut short to the scalp, a snub nose, and wore spectacles with round lenses.
“Mr. Pickard?” he asked in English. “I am General Wong.”
Bond stood up and shook his hand. “How do you do?”
The man didn’t smile. “I trust you had pleasant journey.”
“It was fine, thank you.”
General Wong’s expression remained sour. “We get down to business. You know about my takeover of EurAsia Enterprises.”
“Yes, of course. I must admit, though, this document of yours took us all by surprise at Fitch, Donaldson and Patrick.”
“Guy Thackeray was fool,” Wong said. “He kept it secret. He should have told you in 1985 when I first saw him. He was idiot. He should not have held press conference to tell world he was selling company. He was not selling at all! What happened to him?”
“He was killed by a car bomb.”
Wong’s eyes narrowed. “I know that. Why? Who did it?”
The general did not have a pleasant disposition. It was as if he was doing Pickard a favour by stepping down from his pedestal to speak to him.
“No one knows, General,” Bond said politely. He smiled in an attempt to bring some levity to their conversation. “There are quite a few people who believe you had something to do with it.”
“Me?” the general shouted. “You accuse me?”
“I didn’t accuse you, General. I merely said that there is speculation in Hong Kong that the People’s Republic was behind the act. But that’s not why I’m here, is it? Aren’t we going to talk about your claim to Thackeray’s company?”
“Why would I kill Thackeray? His death spoiled everything! Market value of EurAsia Enterprises went down! Company is losing money! He deliberately made announcement to bring value of company down! Why would I want him dead? You tell your friends I did not do it.”
“General, I assure you, they are not my friends. I just got here from England.”
The general took a deep breath and tried to control his temper. The insinuation had ruffled his feathers. Bond’s instinct that Wong had no motive for killing Thackeray seemed to be sound, but he still could have been behind the murder of Donaldson and the tragedy at the floating restaurant.
“General, my colleagues at Fitch, Donaldson and Patrick have yet to see the document which gives you the right to take over EurAsia Enterprises. My first task is to see that document and make photocopies of it to take back to England.”
“Document very fragile. I keep it in plastic inside safe.”
“I understand that. Still, I must see the original. I must ascertain that it is genuine.”
“Very well. Come.” He stood up. “You want water? Very hot today.”
Bond would have loved to drink some water, but he was wary of its purity. “No, thank you, I’m fine.”
He followed the general into what was presumably his private office. In contrast to the rest of the building, it was full of expensive furniture, antiques, and fine art. A tiger’s head was mounted on the wall, and there were objets d’art scattered around the room. What appeared to be a gold-plated bust of Mao Zedong sat on a bookshelf. The most impressive artifact in the room was a life-size terracotta horse and soldier. Bond imagined that it had been part of the fantastic, archaeological dig around the tomb of Ch’ing Dynasty Emperor Qin Shi Huang near the city of Xian, where over six thousand clay soldiers and horses had been unearthed and found arrayed in oblong battle formation as an artistic reflection of the emperor’s great army. Most of the terracotta figures were left in place, but a few made it to museums around China. General Wong must have spent a fortune in order to obtain one. Anyone who saw this opulent office would not have believed its inhabitant was a Communist.