Dragon Breath Read online

  Somebody, Bob Chen or one of his merchandisers, had agreed on a higher price and pocketed the difference. When the factory had been told to refund the money until a new order for improved product was placed they had mistakenly refunded the five per cent “under-the-table” money as well. Jim knew it was common practice for these kind of sweeteners to be paid to the local office. It was a Chinese habit. Usually the percentage ranged between one to two per cent so five per cent was on the high side. But usually this was all done discretely and one could never find any evidence. Here was evidence. Not enough to go to court but it was the faint smell of corruption. It was the tip of the dung heap. What else was going on?

  Should he tell Dougie Campbell about it? Or wasn’t it worth stirring up things? It was a way of life out there and as long as the goods were delivered on time and the clients were happy with the prices and McPherson Ferguson kept their own margins…

  Jim wasn’t sure what to do. He’d leave it for a while. He didn’t know how Dougie would react. The GM wasn’t predictable these days. He could go flying off the handle and cause all sorts of rumpus. Or he might just shrug and ask Jim again when he’d be firing Sawyers.

  “It’s lunchtime, Jim,” Doris said from the door. He looked up and, taking in her high cheekbones, the generous mouth and the inviting dark brown eyes, decided that Chinese women, breasts or not, were surely the most beautiful in the world.

  * * * *

  They went to one of those Asian fusion restaurants that had been emerging in London recently. Although the atmosphere was principally Japanese and one sat on long, hard benches at long refectory style tables the food was eclectic and drew heavily on Chinese cuisine.

  Jim snapped his chopsticks apart and handed them to Doris who rubbed the wooden sticks against each other to ensure there were no splinters.

  “I’ve never come here before,” she said, glancing around the room. A young, professional crowd filled the place and the noise level was only just bearable.

  “Sushi, Sashimi and Dimsum set?” Jim suggested. He ordered a glass of orange juice for her and a Singha beer, which was from Thailand, he thought.

  “Lunch is on me,” she said. “For putting you into such a terrible situation.”

  Jim pulled a face. “You could have told me before that your brothers and cousins are all homicidal maniacs and I’d be taking my life in my hands asking you out for a drink.”

  “We Chinese have a great sense of pride. To them its loss of face to see a Chinese girl spending time with a foreigner.”

  “Foreigner? This is my country. It’s them that have come here from overseas.”

  She nodded quickly in agreement. He leant forward as he poured himself the beer. She always smelt so good. A fragrance of flowers hung around her but she insisted it wasn’t perfume, just soap and shampoo.

  “I meant, to them you are a foreigner,” Doris went on. “You know, a Western guy, Long nose, white skin, foreign devil. It’s hard for them to get used to living here.”

  “But some of them were born here. You were born here, weren’t you?”

  She shook her head. “No, I was born in Hong Kong and came over here when I was eight. So I’ve adapted to the English lifestyle. And the weather.” She scowled.

  “Famous for our weather, we Brits.”

  “Even if Chinese people are born in another country they will always remain Chinese. Follow Chinese customs, marry a Chinese partner, behave in a Chinese way. And our loyalty is always first to the Chinese race, not the country where we live or have business.”

  “So you’re really coming here and taking advantage of the benefits of England but don’t want to fully integrate into the society?”

  “That’s not really fair. I think of myself as English, sort of. But my parents would not accept me being anything but one hundred per cent Chinese.”

  “Nor would your cousin. What’s his name again?”

  “Wah-jai.”

  “And what does Wah-jai do for a living?”

  “He works in a Chinese video shop in Soho. You’ve probably walked past it. It has posters of Bruce Lee and Jackie Chan in the windows. It’s called ‘The Flying Fist.’”

  “So what does your mother think of you going out with a white guy, then?”

  Doris looked a bit coy. “I’m not going out with a white guy. I’ve had a few drinks and dinner with a cute white guy. But I’d never tell her I was seeing a Westerner.”

  “Why not?”

  Doris sighed. “She’d be furious.”

  “And she’d call up Wah-jai and his mates and send them round to torch my car.”

  “No, she’s not the type. But she might not speak with me for weeks. And my father would lose face.”

  Jim felt frustrated at the way the lunch and the conversation were going. “Doesn’t sound like there’s much chance for me then. Why are you wasting your time with me?”

  “I don’t think it’s a waste of time.” The Chinese girl said, touching his hand softly with hers. “I think you’re very sweet.”

  * * * *

  It wasn’t long before Jim Beauregard found another piece of dodgy dealing. He would probably have overlooked it except that he was now actively keeping an eye open for anything that hinted of rottenness in the state of their Hong Kong Office.

  He was cross-checking a number of the shipping schedules when Rupert Sawyers walked into his office with a big grin, tossing a coin up and down in his hand as was his habit.

  “Do you have an appointment?” Jim said.

  “Do I need one?”

  “I’m just a bit busy and I’m not really in the mood to talk with you at the moment because you’re giving me a headache.”

  “What have I done?” said the younger man, perching himself on the edge of Jim’s desk. He didn’t seem to be bothered by the comment.

  “You know that you should have been on top of that shipment and it’s all screwed up now. The GM wants your head.”

  “Come on, Jim. It happens all the time. I can’t be expected to anticipate every late shipment.”

  “You are expected to have a handle on them. It’s the main purpose of your job. The client will go ballistic and we might even lose this one. It’s not the first time it’s happened.”

  Sawyers grinned. “Oh, come on. It can’t be that serious.”

  “They didn’t teach you much at university about the real world of international business, did they?”

  “Well, I studied geography so I know where all the factories are located. That’s useful, you know, sometimes.”

  “Rupert, you are about one foot away from being out the door. Maybe that doesn’t bother you but it’s causing me aggravation.”

  Sawyers looked crestfallen, like a little boy being told that he wasn’t being selected for the rugby team. They should never have hired him but his grandfather knew the Old Man.

  “Look we’ll talk about this later, just go back and check over your shipments. Take this really seriously. I know that may be difficult for you but… Welcome to the real business world.”

  “I don’t know what the fuss is all about,” the younger man muttered, hopping off the desk, then left giving Jim the sort of smile one gives an older brother who will undoubtedly take care of things.

  Jim brought the pile of files to the GM's office and dumped them on the man's desk. Campbell looked up from a sheet of paper he was studying. He was old school and didn’t believe in personally using a computer. His secretary printed out all correspondence that was sent to him and then placed them into different coloured folders according to their importance.

  “What is it now, lad?” the GM said with good humour. He’d calmed down after two lunch-time whiskeys.

  “I figured you might need a break from reading that stuff and would like to hear some more about Hong Kong.”

  “Go on,” Campbell said, pushing his glasses up onto his forehead and leaning back in his chair. He reached for his packet of cigarettes.

  “I went ove
r the shipment schedule for the last three months and found that in nearly every shipment coming from Ningpo in China, the various factories have short-shipped us anything between two to five cartons.”

  “Losing a few cartons happens every once in a while. The buggers at China customs help themselves, especially if its clothes or electronic stuff.”

  “Right, Dougie, but this is happening every time. It’s too much of a pattern. It’s as if it was scheduled.”

  “Probably is, they are nicking stuff on a regular basis because they can. They’ll only stop if somebody raps them over the knuckles.”

  “In China they still shoot people for serious instances of theft and smuggling. Every year they put a bullet in the back of thousands of people’s heads. Quick trial and quick execution,” Jim reminded his boss.

  “Well, I know that. Serves them right. No shortage of the little yellow bastards. Billions of them. A few thousand in an unmarked grave… Who cares?” Dougie smirked through the clouds of blue smoke.

  “What do you think we should do about this?” Jim said tapping his papers.

  Campbell shifted in his chair and puffed some more on his Rothmans. “Make me a summary of the information. Dates, quantities, product description etc. and give it to me before I get on the plane tomorrow.”

  Jim nodded; it’s what he had expected. He’d get Doris to do it. “What’ll you do then, Dougie?”

  “What do you think I’m going to do, laddie. I’ve had enough of that tosser Bob Chen.” He leant forward and waved a fax at Jim. “You know what this is? Reservations on the plane to Hong Kong for Tuesday. Face to face is best to deal with a problem. Now it’s your job to find me all the evidence I need to make the fellow sweat. He’ll either pull up his socks pretty smartish or he’s for the high-jump. Localisation or not.” The GM glared at Jim for a few seconds then added. “A bullet in the head might be too good for the little tosser.”

  “Maybe he’s not taking back-handers himself. Maybe he’s not managing very well. Letting others get away with stuff.”

  “I’ll let him explain that to me, Jim.”

  Chapter 2

  In Hong Kong, the Complaints Against Police Office is located on the seventeenth floor of a nondescript office building in Causeway Bay. Somebody had decided it might be less intimidating for members of the public to venture there with their concerns rather than into the fortress-like building of Police Headquarters on Arsenal Street.

  Senior Inspector Theo Scrimple sat at his desk in the CAPO offices trying to work out on a piece of A4 paper why there was no money in his bank account. The end of the month, with pay-day, was still ten days away. He shared the room with another bom-baan, but Bill Hawkins was on vacation leave, playing golf in the Philippines—or so he’d given his German wife to believe.

  Scrimple was practically bald which made him look older than his thirty-two years and it didn’t help his looks much that he was about thirty pounds overweight, bearing the white man’s burden of too much booze imbibed over too many years in Asia.

  He picked up the phone and dialled a number but it was engaged, so he slammed the receiver back onto the cradle of the old-fashioned black government device and swore under his breath. He’d been trying to get hold of Kenworthy for an hour but the man had either taken his phone off the hook or was hard at work chatting up a new girlfriend.

  The office was pleasantly cool. The air-conditioning unit was noisy but it kept the outside temperature of thirty-two degrees and ninety per cent humidity away on the streets. It had been five years since Scrimple had to walk the pavements of Hong Kong as a uniformed inspector and he was grateful that he could sit in this comfortable room and go home at five p.m. sharp, even if his work was mind-numbingly boring. He’d had his fair share of excitement in the past but now, with the former colony flying the flag of the People’s Republic of China, he was grateful that there was a nice steady job for a man with a record of service as undistinguished as his.

  “You no take lunchie?” the old Sergeant said, standing in the doorway. He was within two years of retirement and had been recently put out to grass in CAPO. He was of the old school: respectful and resourceful. Scrimple appreciated Sergeant Leung and sometimes took him for a beer in the evening to the Old China Hand in Wanchai.

  “Later.” He frowned. “I don’t understand why I’ve got no fucking chin again this month. Mo lun chin, no fucking money.”

  “Maybe you give too muchee money for your girlfriend, Ah-sir,” the Chinese Sergeant suggested.

  “Maybe, but I didn’t even go out for dinner that much this month.”

  Sergeant Leung changed the subject. “Some new case come in.”

  “Anything interesting?”

  “Foul language and the other one steal money.”

  “Oh, great,” Scrimple said, looking up from his calculations, “just what I need to get me excited.”

  The Sergeant was oblivious to the Englishman’s sarcasm. He gave a non-committal nod and disappeared in the direction of the lifts and his bowl of noodles.

  “Why the fuck doesn’t this fucking well add up,” Scrimple said aloud to himself, then tossed the pencil down in disgust. He thought he knew where the problem was. He’d miscalculated the mortgage payment for his three-bedroom house in Halifax and since he couldn’t get a tenant into the place for love or money it was draining his disposable income every month. He should never have listened to the investment councillor who’d persuaded him to buy property in the United Kingdom and then shell out for life insurance on top of it. The bastard was getting rich on his commissions and Scrimple was still only scraping by, despite receiving what was considered, these days, a decent salary plus a fat gratuity at the end of every two and a half year contract he completed.

  They’d given him another double-linked contract just last year which meant at least he had a job until the year 2001. After that there was no knowing. Only three hundred and forty-two expatriates left in the Force and half of them were dying to jump, if only they had a place to land. A couple of lucky buggers had managed to get into the private sector, working in commercial investigations, or for airport security, but Scrimple doubted he’d get a call from any of these companies. He didn’t have the old boy network that made this kind of position possible.

  For the moment he’d just have to keep on plugging away, putting up with Harriet Cheung, the scrawny Woman Chief Inspector who made his life a misery.

  The phone rang and it was Bob Kenworthy.

  “Who the hell have you been talking with for the last hour?” Scrimple asked his mate.

  “None of your business. Usual place?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Just had my first snatching case come in but the statement will take at least another hour. Tsim Sha Tsui isn’t what it used to be. Hardly any crime at all.”

  “No tourists coming here anymore to steal from,” Scrimple said, placing the paper with his personal budget figures into a drawer and banging it shut. He agreed on a time with Kenworthy and sauntered out of the office.

  In the lift lobby he bumped into his boss.

  “I want report number 22376 finish today, you understand?” Harriet Cheung said without greeting him.

  “Which one’s that, Madam?”

  Her fish-like eyes behind the large glasses squinted at him in annoyance. She knew the reference numbers of every case being investigated by her teams and couldn’t understand how the two Western Inspectors working for her didn’t have the same numeric abilities.

  She identified the case she meant by the offence that had supposedly been committed.

  “Oh, you mean the one where the SDS inspector supposedly burnt the AP’s balls with a lighter?”

  Harriet nodded grimly just as the lift doors opened.

  “I’ll have it on your desk before five, Madam,” Scrimple said knowing that it was already complete but not wanting to explain why he’d been sitting on it for a day and a half. Nowadays he didn’t think twice about the obsequ
iousness of his language. He’d become used to all sorts of things in the Force. Even having a female boss who obviously disliked the fact that there were still gwai-lo inspectors working in the organisation and who didn’t hide her disapproval of their old colonial ways. However as long as he “yes-madam and no-madamed” her she couldn’t touch him and it was only another three months to his next long leave and then hopefully a new posting.

  There were still some good ones about. Only last year Fenchurch had snared the DVC Lantau’s job. Not glamorous, not demanding, but enjoyable, lording it over the fishermen on the island and keeping an eye on the new airport from a distance while jockeying around in the Divisional Land Rover like some well-to-do gentleman farmer.

  “Fucking bitch, who the hell does she think she is?” Scrimple let off steam when Bob Kenworthy eased himself into his seat at the Maharani Mess ten minutes later.

  “Harriet?”

  “Does she think she’s running some sort of OSCB team that’s trying to crack a major drug cartel or what? We’re investigating crappy little police complaints, most of which never get substantiated.”

  “She’s just a bong-head. She can’t help it.”

  “We’ll have two Kingfishers and the usual crap, Gobby,” Scrimple growled at the Manager who’d sidled over.

  “The usual,” the Indian repeated and made some marks on his notepad.

  “She can’t help it really,” Kenworthy pointed out, stabbing the poppadoms with his index finger until they fell apart into small pieces. “She doesn’t know any better. Given the fact that she probably hasn’t had sex ever in her life, it’s hard for her to deal with the stress of her job.”