an open mind.’
‘There can be no survivor. The Party leadership made a thorough and conclusive investigation!’
Ketterman raised his hands before his face mockingly as though at gun point. ‘Maybe your betters in Peking have never told all, even to people like you.’ He dropped his bands suddenly on the table, palms downward, making a loud slapping sound. ‘What is the reaction of your comrades in Peking to our information?’
Her dark eyes glittered. ‘Those the Soviet revisionists wish to incriminate want this lying imposter brought to Peking to be exposed.’
Ketterman pursed his lips and whistled in wonderment: ‘Is that all?’
‘Yes! And the degree of your assistance in this will be a test of your sincerity.’
He tipped his chair onto its back legs and grinned at her through half-closed eyes. ‘Hey, this is England, remember. They have some old-fashioned notions here about individual freedom backed up with real live written, laws. The “survivor”, whoever he is, might want to stay.’
‘Your agency has resources and manpower wherever it has the will to use them!’
‘We also have allies cl oser to our way of thinking, who we love just a shade more than we love Chairman Mao.’ Ketterman pulled out a packet of cigarettes and lit one. He threw back his head and tipped his chair again, staring reflectively into the spiralling smoke. Suddenly he let the chair crash down onto its front legs and cl apped his hands together in front of him, staring at her ‘Who runs the Triad protection teams around here, Sui-ling?’
She cocked her head curiously on one side. ‘A man named Johnny Fei. Why?’
‘Where is he now?’
‘Outside playing fan tan.’
‘Johnny the Fat-boy e h ?’ said Ketterman softly to himself; translating the name into English. ‘Can you get him in?’
She went to the door and a moment later came back followed slowly by a slender, expensively dressed Chinese man in his middle thirties. Without waiting for an introduction Ketterman stood up. ‘My face is pale, but my heart is red, Johnny.’ He spoke slowly in Mandarin and advanced towards Fei grinning broadly and holding up his right hand with the middle finger extended.
Fe i ’s thick dark hair was slicked smoothly back with oil in the fashion of a Thirties film star. His narrow body had obviously won him his nickname, but his loose relaxed stance as he watched Ketterman approach, betrayed a high degree of physical self confidence. His features were sharp and regular but his heavily lidded eyes gave his hooded face a waxy, watchful expression. A pale calf 1km jacket was thrown loosely round his elegant shoulders over a floral silk shirt, and crisply tailored check sports trousers. On his feet he wore crocodile skin shoes.
Ketterman stopped in front of him and he eyed the American suspiciously for a long moment without speaking.
‘The red rice of our army contains sand and stones. Can you eat stones?’ Ketterman’s grin broadened and he held his right hand higher in front of the Chinese man’s face. ‘Can you, Johnny? Huh?’
‘If our brothers can eat them, so can we!’
‘Attaboy, Johnny.’ Ketterman slapped him on the shoulder with his left hand. ‘Come on, ask me now where I was born and I’ll say “under the peach tree” and where I live and I’ll give you that stuff about the “topmost summit of Five F inger Mountain”.’ He laughed uproariously and waved his extended finger in the air again. ‘In that ho us e that is third from the right—and third from the l eft ’.’ He shook his head. ‘I like that.’
The Chinese watched him silently without smiling. Ketterman suddenly stopped laughing and put his hands back in his pockets.
‘You know Triad ritual well, Mr. Ketterman.’
‘I know a Red Stick when I see one, Johnny,’ said Ketterman quietly, his face suddenly serious. ‘And fools don’t reach that rank in the Triads. You could be just the man to help me. I might need one of your
‘There can be no survivor. The Party leadership made a thorough and conclusive investigation!’
Ketterman raised his hands before his face mockingly as though at gun point. ‘Maybe your betters in Peking have never told all, even to people like you.’ He dropped his bands suddenly on the table, palms downward, making a loud slapping sound. ‘What is the reaction of your comrades in Peking to our information?’
Her dark eyes glittered. ‘Those the Soviet revisionists wish to incriminate want this lying imposter brought to Peking to be exposed.’
Ketterman pursed his lips and whistled in wonderment: ‘Is that all?’
‘Yes! And the degree of your assistance in this will be a test of your sincerity.’
He tipped his chair onto its back legs and grinned at her through half-closed eyes. ‘Hey, this is England, remember. They have some old-fashioned notions here about individual freedom backed up with real live written, laws. The “survivor”, whoever he is, might want to stay.’
‘Your agency has resources and manpower wherever it has the will to use them!’
‘We also have allies cl oser to our way of thinking, who we love just a shade more than we love Chairman Mao.’ Ketterman pulled out a packet of cigarettes and lit one. He threw back his head and tipped his chair again, staring reflectively into the spiralling smoke. Suddenly he let the chair crash down onto its front legs and cl apped his hands together in front of him, staring at her ‘Who runs the Triad protection teams around here, Sui-ling?’
She cocked her head curiously on one side. ‘A man named Johnny Fei. Why?’
‘Where is he now?’
‘Outside playing fan tan.’
‘Johnny the Fat-boy e h ?’ said Ketterman softly to himself; translating the name into English. ‘Can you get him in?’
She went to the door and a moment later came back followed slowly by a slender, expensively dressed Chinese man in his middle thirties. Without waiting for an introduction Ketterman stood up. ‘My face is pale, but my heart is red, Johnny.’ He spoke slowly in Mandarin and advanced towards Fei grinning broadly and holding up his right hand with the middle finger extended.
Fe i ’s thick dark hair was slicked smoothly back with oil in the fashion of a Thirties film star. His narrow body had obviously won him his nickname, but his loose relaxed stance as he watched Ketterman approach, betrayed a high degree of physical self confidence. His features were sharp and regular but his heavily lidded eyes gave his hooded face a waxy, watchful expression. A pale calf 1km jacket was thrown loosely round his elegant shoulders over a floral silk shirt, and crisply tailored check sports trousers. On his feet he wore crocodile skin shoes.
Ketterman stopped in front of him and he eyed the American suspiciously for a long moment without speaking.
‘The red rice of our army contains sand and stones. Can you eat stones?’ Ketterman’s grin broadened and he held his right hand higher in front of the Chinese man’s face. ‘Can you, Johnny? Huh?’
‘If our brothers can eat them, so can we!’
‘Attaboy, Johnny.’ Ketterman slapped him on the shoulder with his left hand. ‘Come on, ask me now where I was born and I’ll say “under the peach tree” and where I live and I’ll give you that stuff about the “topmost summit of Five F inger Mountain”.’ He laughed uproariously and waved his extended finger in the air again. ‘In that ho us e that is third from the right—and third from the l eft ’.’ He shook his head. ‘I like that.’
The Chinese watched him silently without smiling. Ketterman suddenly stopped laughing and put his hands back in his pockets.
‘You know Triad ritual well, Mr. Ketterman.’
‘I know a Red Stick when I see one, Johnny,’ said Ketterman quietly, his face suddenly serious. ‘And fools don’t reach that rank in the Triads. You could be just the man to help me. I might need one of your
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