The Chinese Assassin (16 page)

6

Outside the red
gates of
the
Soho Market at the
end
of Gerrard
Street
the
Chinese street
photographer
was
working hard on the lunchtime
flood
of
tourists. Shirtless, and streaming with perspiration,
he
snapped his shutter and handed
out
address
tickets with an unflagging,
metronomic
regularity. The
amplified
output of three or four competing
pop
record stalls beat the ears of the jostling crowd with a
heavy, discordant jangle
of
noise, and
the pungent
reek
of star anise
and
other acrid
Chinese
spices from
steaming food stalls assailed
the senses in
their noses and
mouths with
equal ferocity.

When
Scholefield
’s
taxi drew
up at
the gates
the photographer glanced
back along Gerrard Street
He
saw the pursuing mini-cab turn
the corner
and flash its headlights twice.
He
switched immediately
to the second camera
slung around his
neck. This
was fitted with
a telephoto
lens and
while appearing to
focus
on
tourists
on the pavement he took several
fast frames
of
Scholefield
paying off his driver
against
the
background
of the blue
and
white
striped awning
over the market
entrance.

He watched
and waited
while
Scholefield
pushed
his way slowly through the throng to where Yang, with his back to
him, was
buying
Chinese leaves
from the corner vegetable stall. The man in the
rear
of
the
cruising
mini-cab
lifted a
hand in brief
acknow
ledgement
to the photographer as the car
swung
sharply left
and
accelerated
fast
away towards Shaftesbury Avenue. inside the black Mini with smoked
windows that was parked on a meter on the other side of the street, Razduhev and
Bogdarin were watch- Yang
and
Scholefield so intently that they
failed
to notice that
the
photographer
was
recording several frames of them,
too.

Yang wore
dark
glasses but
Scholefield
recognised
him because, despite
the
heat, he
was
still dressed in the dilapidated fawn raincoat. He was holding three pale green. bomb-shaped lettuce
plants
in his arms, arguing loudly in
Chinese with the
stal
l
holder about the price, given on a ticket as
1
6p a pound. Eventually an abacus
was
produced and Yang received an
extra
ten pence in
change
from
the disgruntled
merchant. He turned with a
snort
of contempt
and
found himself face to face
with
Scholefield
.
Thirty
yards
away
the
street photographer surreptitiously
pushed
the long telephoto lens through a gap in
the
chain link fence and got off three shots of the
two
men facing
each
other in profile. ‘Follow me,’ said Yang
softly,
scarcely moving his lips, and brushed the
Englishman
aside without giving
any
outward sign
of recognition.

Scholefield
stood
staring after him as
he
hurried
away
between the
stalls, dragging his left
leg in
a shuffling,
ungainly limp.
He removed his jacket and loosened his tie then
started
through the crowd
in pursuit. Tan Sui-ling, standing in
the shadowy interior of a
tiny
kiosk selling Communist publications from Peking,
watched
them threading
their
way
through
the
stalls
towards her. Revolutionary figures in bold
primary
colours strode across posters on
the
kiosk
walls
proclaiming
‘Socialism
Advances
in Victory Everywhere—Our
Great Motherland is
Thriving’.
She drew further back into the shadows
behind
the
girl
serving
and studied
Yang’s face
intently
as he approached the stall.
Her
expression softened suddenly and she
saw
the
faint surprise in his
eyes as they fell on the
Communist
slogans. He paused to look more closely at the
books and magazines
from the
Chinese
mainland spread out on the stallfront. He
was scrutinising
an
English
paper-backed
edition
of
Dawn Blossoms
Plucked
at
Dusk
by Lu Hsun as
Scholefield
approached.

‘Have you got this
in Chinese?’ Yang screwed
up his eyes to
penetrate
the gloom and spoke quietly
in
English. In the shadows
behind
the counter he suddenly
caught
sight of
the
slender
figure
of the
Chinese
woman, standing
against a giant
portrait of Mao
Tse-tung
on the rear wall. Scholefield
saw
his eyes
widen
s
u
ddenly
as though in elation.
He looked
sharply into
the shadowy
interior
of the. kiosk—but he
was
not
near
enough to see
the
woman’s
face. Then
almost
immediately
the
expression had gone
and Yang
placed
his purchases deliberately on the
counter to leave
his hands
free

Tan Sui-ling didn’t
move as the
girl
bent out of sight and
rummaged
for a
m
oment
beneath
the counter. When she stood up
again
she
was
holding a
Chinese edition
of the
book.
She
dropped
it
into a
paper
bag and
banded
it over. He put down some coins without
looking
at her. Half
turning
to conceal his action, he lowered
the book
below the level of
the
counter
and took a folded
wedge of
pink
paper
from
his raincoat pocket. He inserted it
carefully
between
the
pages
then dropped
the book back into
its
bag. ‘I’m going into the
cinema
for an hour to get out of this
heat,’
he
said
quietly to Scholef
i
e
l
d,
and the street
photographer managed to
get
three more
frames
of them side by side as he
thrust the
package quickly into
the Englishman’s hands.

As Yang limped
hurriedly
away Scholefield. pulled the
book
from
its
wrapper
and studied
the
Chinese characters
on
the
cover. Then he glanced into the kiosk. He found Tan
Sui-ling
staring t
him intently. His eyes
locked with
hers for a moment but her broad face,
indistinct
in the shadow, remained blank
and
unsmiling. He replaced the book hurriedly in
its bag and
gazed out over
the milling
crowd again, looking for Yang. He
was
nowhere to be seen
and
Scholefield had to run to the market gates before he
caught
sight of the
Chinese
on
the far
side of the street, hobbling awkwardly round the
black Mini and
up a flight of
steps
to a side entrance of the Kowloon
Cultural
Services Emporium.

The
street
photographer got
two
last
shots
of Yang going
th
r
ough
the door that led to a
tiny cinema, and
a few moments later he recorded
two
back
views
of Scholefield as he followed him in. In both shots he had included the anonymous-looking car in which the
two Russians
were concealed. Behind the
Mini’s
smoked
windows Ra
z
duhev looked
at his watch
and smiled
grimly. ‘Twelve forty-seven, Boris. He’s keeping admirable
time. I think the Chinese outdo even the Germans when
it
comes to obeying orders.’ He lifted a hand briefly in the direction of the Chinese propaganda kiosk and when he saw Tan Sui-ling nod, he gave the order to Bogdarin to move of
f

When he stepped into the air-conditioned gloom of the cinema the wall of cold air struck Scholefield’s hot face with a pleasant sense of shock. At the same instant a hand grabbed his sleeve. Because of the sudden darkness he stumbled and almost tell. But Yang steadied him and led the way
cl
umsily towards two seats at the end of the back row. Because of its air conditioning the cinema was almost full. Posters in the foyer had announced a double bill of Hong Kong-made films,
Be
hind the Lines
and
Massage Girls,
and on the screen two shrieking queens of kung fu were already kicking and chopping their way along the roof of a speeding train aswarm with enemy soldiers. A steady hubbub of Chinese conversation rose above the frantic clamour of the film’s vernacular sound track as traders and businessmen closed deals and exchanged gossip in the coolest lunchtime spot in Gerrard Street.

Yang dumped his greengrocery on the floor and lowered himself into the end seat with a grunt. He removed his dark glasses and stretched his deformed leg stiffly into the aisle, then leaned
towards
Scholefield, speaking softly in Chinese. ‘You have decided to offer your help, Mr.
Scholefield
, I presume.’