General Wong pushed back a curtain behind his desk and revealed a safe. He twisted the knob a few times, unlocked it, and carefully removed a large piece of parchment enclosed in a transparent plastic cover.
The document was brown with age, but the lettering was still intact. One side was written in English and the other in Chinese. To Bond’s untrained eye the wording and legality of the agreement seemed to be in order.
“This is quite an artifact,” Bond said. “I’ll need a photocopy to take back to England.”
At that moment, the phone buzzed. Wong answered it and listened. He looked at Bond suspiciously, then barked an order in Mandarin. He hung up the phone and said, “Forgive me. There is matter I must take care of.”
Bond heard footsteps in the hallway approaching the office, followed by a loud knock on the door. Wong snarled an order to come in.
Two guards entered carrying a man who had been recently beaten. His clothes were tattered and torn, and his face was bruised and bloody. They threw him on the floor, where he curled into a foetal position and groaned. Wong walked over to the man and roughly turned him on to his back.
Bond was horrified to see that it was T.Y. Woo!
“Mr. Pickard,” Wong said, “this man was caught spying. Do you know him?”
Bond had to lie. If he gave the slightest indication that he knew Woo then his cover would be blown and they would both die. The lesson he had taught Stephanie Lane in Jamaica just days ago hit home with a vengeance.
“I’ve never seen him before in my life,” Bond said. “Who is he? What happened to him?” He played the shocked British civilian unaccustomed to such violence.
“Never mind what happened to him,” Wong said. He gave an order to the guards, who pulled Woo up by the shoulders and started to haul him out of the room. For a brief moment Woo’s eyes met Bond’s. There was sadness there, but also a sign that he understood what Bond did and why. Bond turned away, feigning revulsion. He really felt rage and despair. He might as well have aimed the gun at Woo’s head and fired it himself.
After they were gone, Bond said, “I’m sorry, I’m not used to seeing things like that.”
Wong just stared at him. There was an awkward moment of silence.
“Maybe I will have that glass of water now,” Bond said.
Wong didn’t say a word. He took the ancient document off the table and replaced it in his safe. Then he picked up his phone and pushed a button. He spoke into the receiver and hung up. Once again, Bond heard the footsteps in the hall. This time the guards didn’t knock. They came straight into the room and stood on either side of Bond.
Wong said, “You are imposter. You are not lawyer. You are spy.”
“Now wait just a minute …” Bond began, but one of the guards punched him hard in the stomach. Bond doubled over and fell to his knees.
“Who are you? Who do you work for?” Wong demanded.
Bond didn’t say anything. What had happened? Had Woo talked? No, that was impossible. He was as professional as they come. Where had something gone wrong?
“I got phone call before you arrive,” Wong said. “Mr. James Pickard never step into Hong Kong airport. My people were there.” He held up a photo of the real James Pickard. “You are not this man.”
Bond didn’t move.
“Are you going to tell me who you are? Talk! I give you one more chance. Who do you work for?”
Bond stood silent and to attention, like a soldier.
“Very well,” the general said. “We move on to next step.”
SIXTEEN
AGONY AND ANGER
“REMOVE YOUR CLOTHES,” WONG COMMANDED IN CANTONESE.
My God, Bond thought. What were they going to do? He felt cold fear. He suddenly had total recall of another time long ago when he had been tortured naked. It had been hours of excruciating agony, and had damn nearly killed him.
“You heard me!” Wong shouted.
Bond did as he was told. As he undressed, Wong opened a cabinet behind the desk and removed a white sheet. He walked to the middle of the room and spread it out. The sheet floated down and settled neatly on the carpet. It wasn’t completely white. There were several suspicious stains on it.
When Bond was naked, Wong gestured for him to stand in the middle of the sheet. Bond stood to attention in front of him. Wong slowly walked around him, inspecting him, admiring the man’s body.
“You think you are fit, Mr. Englishman,” Wong said. “We shall see how fit you really are.”
A guard trained an AK-47 on Bond while General Wong returned to the cabinet and removed a long white stick with ridges on it. He held it in front of the vulnerable man. For the first time since Bond arrived, Wong smiled. In fact, he had become a completely different person. The sour face and unpleasant demeanour were completely gone.
“This is rattan cane, Mr. Pickard or whoever you are,” he said. “I have friends in Singapore who not only employ it for punishment, but swear that it is also effective persuader. Now, I ask again. Who do you work for?”
Bond said nothing. He knew he was in for a great deal of pain. In Singapore, the maximum number of strokes with the cane was usually five; ten for extreme cases. What kind of damage could it do? He knew that the lashes would leave welts on his skin, possibly permanent scars. What if he was caned many, many times? Could he force himself to pass out, as he had trained himself to do? It was one of the most difficult tests of willpower that he knew of.
“Bend over and grab ankles,” Wong said.
Bond did so. He felt humiliated and dangerously exposed.
Wong took a position on Bond’s left side, and held the cane to O07’s buttocks. He rubbed the rough stick against the skin there, indicating to Bond how the cane might feel if it struck him hard.
“Who are you and who do you work for?” Wong asked again, his voice trembling with excitement.
Bond kept his mouth shut. He closed his eyes tightly and gritted his teeth. Concentrate! Focus on something! He opened his eyes and saw a dark stain on the bedsheet a few inches from his face. It was probably dried blood. Bond stared at it, willing himself to fall deep within the confines of that dark, shapeless haven.
The cane struck him with such force that he nearly lost his balance and fell forward. There was an intense, burning pain across the middle of his buttocks. They felt as if they were on fire.
Bond gritted his teeth harder and continued to stare at the spot. He had begun to sweat profusely; a drop slid down his forehead, on to his nose, then fell on to the sheet.
“You see what it can do now?” Wong asked pleasantly. “Now will you talk?”
Bond concentrated on the spot in front of him, attempting to conjure up whatever peaceful thoughts he could manage. My God, give me something of beauty to look at. Give me something pure. Give me …
The cane struck again, slightly lower than the first blow. Christ, it hurt! He kept up his internal litany, forming a mental picture in his mind of the image he invoked. Give me my house in Jamaica … Give me my flat in Chelsea …
The third blow slashed Bond across the tops of his thighs. It was dangerously close to more vulnerable parts of his body. God, not that again! He might not be able to take that … Give me … give me … Sunni …