Читать книгу Typhoon - Charles Cumming - Страница 18

By coincidence, Miles, Isabella and I were drinking at Club 64 in Wing Wah Lane, a Hong Kong institution named after the date of the Tiananmen massacre, which took place on the fourth day of the sixth month of 1989. Shortly after midnight, in the middle of a conversation about Isabella’s new job – she was working for a French television company in the run-up to the handover – Miles excused himself from our table and went downstairs to make a phone call.

On the consulate recording of the conversation, the official who picks up sounds startled and sleepy.

‘I wake you?’

‘Hey, Mr Coolidge. What’s happening?’

Miles was using the bar landline, feeding coins into the slot. ‘Just a question. You guys have any idea where Joe Lennox went tonight? He got a call at dinner and took off pretty quick.’

‘Heppner Joe?’

‘That’s him.’

‘Let me check.’

There was a long pause. I walked downstairs on my way to the gents just as Miles was taking the opportunity to check his reflection in a nearby mirror. He wiped a sheen of sweat from his forehead, then ducked his nose into his armpits to check for BO. He saw me looking at him and we exchanged a nod as I passed.

‘Mr Coolidge?’

‘Still here.’

‘We’re not getting anything from the computer, but Sarah says somebody’s using Yuk Choi Road.’

‘The safe house?’

‘Looks that way.’

‘Who’s in there?’

‘Hold on.’

Another lengthy delay. Miles had another look in the mirror.

‘Mr Coolidge?’

‘Yup.’

‘From the audio it sounds like just Joe and one other guy.’

‘British or Chinese?’

‘Chinese. But they’re speaking English. You know anything about this?’

‘No,’ Miles said. ‘But I know somebody who will.’