hat?’
The woman watched him with only faintly concealed distaste. ‘The Party leadership says there were no survivors.’ The hollow tone of her voice was both contemptuous and disbelieving. ‘We shall see tomorrow.’
The croupier began grinning inanely again, but the expression dissolved abruptly at the sound of a tap on the door. A moment later the old floor-sweeper poked his grizzled head into the room. He held the door wide to show the same crowd of faces now gathered around the table again. They had taken up precisely the same places as before, like a tableau reformed behind a theatre curtain. All were staring obediently towards the squat youth, trying hard to ignore the crisp, incongruous sound of leather- soled shoes descending the stone basement steps. The buttons had been spread again on the table top but nobody had placed any bets. The gamblers kept their eyes dutifully averted but were obviously following the slow, deliberate footsteps with all their other senses as they came nearer along the bare concrete floor of the corridor outside.
The next moment a tall Caucasian man wearing a pale suit, a straw fedora and dark glasses appeared in the doorway. His lips parted in a broad confident grin as he raised his right hand and mimed a silent knock on the open door. The eyes of all the illegal gamblers swivelled as one man to see if approval was to be given to the stranger.
The woman stared at the tall man for a moment then motioned the ho l low-chested croupier quickly from the room. As he hurried out a babble of solid sound rose from the men round the table again as they began placing bets once more.
When she had closed the door behind him, the newcomer offered his hand formally and greeted her in fluent Mandarin that bore only the faintest trace of his native American accent. ‘Very glad to see you again, Tan Sui-ling. It ’s been too long.’
‘You are very welcome, Mr. K etterman.’ She spoke formally, moving another rickety chair up to the table that was covered with a frayed and faded oil cloth. She set out the brandy bottle and two clean glasses, and Ketterman removed his hat as they sat down opposite each other.
‘Your information was correct, Mr. Ketterman. Scholefield was contacted an hour ago.’
He raised his shoulders and both hands in a silent ‘What else did you expect?’ gesture. He removed his sun glasses and gave her another crin kl e-eyed smile. His steel grey hair was clipped short and his lean alert face and spare frame hinted at hours spent on summer tennis courts and winter ski slopes far from the unhealthy S o ho gambling cellar. ‘We don’t make a habit of passing you “bum” information, Sui-ling, you should know that. Remember Seventy-one.’ He smiled broadly again as he injected the crude Americanism deliberately into his easy flow of Chinese, and picked up the bottle. He filled the glass nearest her, but left the other empty and replaced the bottle gently on the table top as if afraid it might explode. ‘I told you, about Marshall Lin in this very room, right? And this little dilly came from those same Israelis in Moscow too.’
She nodded her head gravely in formal tha n ks for his courtesy in fling her glass, but left it untouched. Before sitting down she had removed her jacket and her long, slender arms were bare to the shoulders. Although her breasts appeared boyishly fiat beneath the sleeveless white blouse, he spent several seconds openly searching the weave of the thin cotton for signs of a brassiere underneath. He grinned broadly again when she folded her arms deliberately in front of her. But the level gaze she turned on him was unusually self-possessed for a Chinese woman, betraying no hint of embarrassment.
‘And do they really think anyone in the world will believe that this so-called “survivor” is genuine?’ Although her tone was contemptuous he noticed that she was watching his face closely.
He grinned again. ‘Let’s just say we’re keeping
The woman watched him with only faintly concealed distaste. ‘The Party leadership says there were no survivors.’ The hollow tone of her voice was both contemptuous and disbelieving. ‘We shall see tomorrow.’
The croupier began grinning inanely again, but the expression dissolved abruptly at the sound of a tap on the door. A moment later the old floor-sweeper poked his grizzled head into the room. He held the door wide to show the same crowd of faces now gathered around the table again. They had taken up precisely the same places as before, like a tableau reformed behind a theatre curtain. All were staring obediently towards the squat youth, trying hard to ignore the crisp, incongruous sound of leather- soled shoes descending the stone basement steps. The buttons had been spread again on the table top but nobody had placed any bets. The gamblers kept their eyes dutifully averted but were obviously following the slow, deliberate footsteps with all their other senses as they came nearer along the bare concrete floor of the corridor outside.
The next moment a tall Caucasian man wearing a pale suit, a straw fedora and dark glasses appeared in the doorway. His lips parted in a broad confident grin as he raised his right hand and mimed a silent knock on the open door. The eyes of all the illegal gamblers swivelled as one man to see if approval was to be given to the stranger.
The woman stared at the tall man for a moment then motioned the ho l low-chested croupier quickly from the room. As he hurried out a babble of solid sound rose from the men round the table again as they began placing bets once more.
When she had closed the door behind him, the newcomer offered his hand formally and greeted her in fluent Mandarin that bore only the faintest trace of his native American accent. ‘Very glad to see you again, Tan Sui-ling. It ’s been too long.’
‘You are very welcome, Mr. K etterman.’ She spoke formally, moving another rickety chair up to the table that was covered with a frayed and faded oil cloth. She set out the brandy bottle and two clean glasses, and Ketterman removed his hat as they sat down opposite each other.
‘Your information was correct, Mr. Ketterman. Scholefield was contacted an hour ago.’
He raised his shoulders and both hands in a silent ‘What else did you expect?’ gesture. He removed his sun glasses and gave her another crin kl e-eyed smile. His steel grey hair was clipped short and his lean alert face and spare frame hinted at hours spent on summer tennis courts and winter ski slopes far from the unhealthy S o ho gambling cellar. ‘We don’t make a habit of passing you “bum” information, Sui-ling, you should know that. Remember Seventy-one.’ He smiled broadly again as he injected the crude Americanism deliberately into his easy flow of Chinese, and picked up the bottle. He filled the glass nearest her, but left the other empty and replaced the bottle gently on the table top as if afraid it might explode. ‘I told you, about Marshall Lin in this very room, right? And this little dilly came from those same Israelis in Moscow too.’
She nodded her head gravely in formal tha n ks for his courtesy in fling her glass, but left it untouched. Before sitting down she had removed her jacket and her long, slender arms were bare to the shoulders. Although her breasts appeared boyishly fiat beneath the sleeveless white blouse, he spent several seconds openly searching the weave of the thin cotton for signs of a brassiere underneath. He grinned broadly again when she folded her arms deliberately in front of her. But the level gaze she turned on him was unusually self-possessed for a Chinese woman, betraying no hint of embarrassment.
‘And do they really think anyone in the world will believe that this so-called “survivor” is genuine?’ Although her tone was contemptuous he noticed that she was watching his face closely.
He grinned again. ‘Let’s just say we’re keeping
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