The Chinese Assassin (17 page)

In the faint light from the screen Scholefield saw that Yang’s eyes were closed in concentration as he waited attentively for an answer. ‘I take
it
we’re no longer talking about homosexual acupuncture students defecting to Cuba? I’ve checked with the Foreign Office. There’s no clinic at Oxford and no acupuncture students from Peking in England at present.’

Yang smiled with his mouth without opening his eyes and waved a dismissive hand. ‘Oh, before I forget, Mr. Scholefield, your Ming scroll is a fake—a Ch’ing reproduction. Check the signature sometime if I don’t have a chance to show you myself:

As for last night’s subterfuge, I apologise. I could not be sure your apartment was not monitored. Nor could I be sure that you would be sympathetic.’

‘What makes you so sure I’m sympathetic now?’

Yang cocked his head to one side as though straining to isolate
some important detail from the confused babble of
conversation around him.
‘I think you have tasted
the chocolates
I left for you by now, yes?’

Scholefield
looked
quickly along
the row of
heads
in front of them, but none had turned in
their direction.
The
Chinese
waited for his reply
with his eyes still closed.
‘Mr. Yang,
correct
me if I’m
wrong,
but you
seem
to be claiming that you’re the sole
survivor
of the Li. Piao crash. Is
that
right?’

The
sarcasm was evident in
Scholefield
’s
voice and Yang
leaned
forward suddenly on the arm-rest
separating their seats,
his eyes
dilating
in anger. ‘Marshall Li
n
was murdered!
Lao Kao was
murdered!
Look
if you don’t believe!’ He
ripped open his
raincoat, unbuttoned his
shirt and turned round, tugging
it back off his
s
houlders Even in the
half-light
the twisted
skeins of livid white scar tissue were
clearly
visible
spreading
in a
n angry torrents across his shoulders and
down his bac
k
He swung round
again
on Scholefield
and refastened his shirt, his eyes blazing.
‘Do you
still
doubt that I have suffered?’

Scholefield
looked away
and didn’t
reply.

‘Do you
still
doubt that I want to avenge myself on
those
animals who are even now plotting to murder
Chairman
Mao himself?’

Scholefield
took a
deep
breath
and
turned back to
the Chinese.
‘You
acted the
part of a homosexual PL
A
hero last night. Perhaps you’re
acting
another role now.’

‘I want only to save the
Chairman and
save my country from
these
monsters!’ Yang was forcing the words out between his
cl
enched teeth. ‘Why
should
I want
to
act?’ He turned away
and gazed
furiously at the
screen. One
of the
lissom
kung flu
queens had
been
captured
and
was about
to be tortured in a cellar by enemy troops for what
she
knew. Yang continued
watching as
the face of her
determined colleague appeared behind an
iron
grille in
the ceiling.

‘There
are
a hundred or so
questions
I’d
like
answered
before
I
could
begin to believe your story.’
Scholefield
leaned
closer.
‘Like
how did you get to London? Who’s helping you here?
And
who
exactly
“killed” Li
n
and
why?’

The ceiling
grille crashed inwards
in a shower of dust
and a female screaming fury hunched herself down
onto the unsuspect
ing heads
of
the
torturers
with arms and
legs
flailing.

‘You already have some of the
answers
to those questions in your possession.

Scholefield
stared
at him,
puzzled.
Then, remembering, he glanced down at the
Chinese
book in
the
paper bag in his lap. When he
looked
up again
Yang was still
staring
unblinking
at
the
gaudy kaleidoscopic image of
the film.
‘Yes, Folio
Seven and
Folio Bight,’ he said
quietly.

A long
burst
of
gunfire
and
mingled
screams of
simulated
Asiatic
death
rang out. ‘In return for those folios, Mr. Scholefield, I want you to do something for me.’ The noise
from
the
soundtrack
grew deafening
and
Scholefield had to lean closer to
catch
Yang’s words. ‘I have conclusive
evidence
that Marshall Li
n
was
murdered. I wish to make this evidence available to
experts in the
study of China in
Britain and, with
the added authority of their approval, to the world at large.’ He
turned
in his seat to face Scholefield. His
features,
lit only by the glow from the
screen,
were expressionless. ‘I
wish
to reveal
this
to those who
can
influence high-level policy here in London
and
in other major Western capitals. I
wish this to
be done very urgently.
And
you will
assist
met’

Scholefield’s expression hardened. He stared into Yang’s face but
the Chinese did
not shift his gaze this
time. ‘That sounds
suspiciously
like an
imperative.’

Yang nodded once,
almost
absently. ‘The East Asia Study Group of the
British
World Affairs
Institute
of which you are
chairman
is a very
influential
body. I
know
that leading
China
academics, Foreign Office and Cabinet Office
experts and
specialist
journalists
are all represented on
it.
Convene an urgent
meeting
of the Group for five thirty this afternoon.’

Scholefield
smiled
humourlessly. ‘Mr. Yang, your naivety is touching. Members of that group, as you say,
are
all prominent men in their fields. They can’t be prod
u
ced at a moment’s notice
like
rabbits out of a hat. They aren’t your subjugated
luminaries
from the Academy of
Sciences
in Peking—or Moscow—who have to come
running
without a pressing reason when the party
crooks its
little finger.’

A whole battalion of troops fired
blindly
into the darkness into which the
kung
fu maidens, dressed now in
black silk pyja
m
as, had disappeared. Failure to wing them seemed to convince the superstitious pre-Marxist Chinese soldiery that they had encountered supernatural avenging angels and they flung their rifles aside and ran screaming into the darkness where they were methodically cut down
by
more lightning kicks
and
chops
from
svelte female limbs. Yang watched all this then turned slowly back to Scholefield. ‘You do have a
very
pressing reason for summoning an emergency meeting.’ The face
of the Chinese creased in a sudden
glittering smile.

Scholefield
frowned. ‘Are you
m
ak
ing
so
me
kind
of
threat?’

Yang relaxed suddenly in
his seat and returned his
attention
to the film that was now moving towards a noisy cli
max
‘I
have simply taken some
small precautions to
ensure that
you
comply with my wishes.’

Scholef
i
eld grabbed Yang’s l
e
ft arm and swung him round in the seat. On the screen
the
nimble kung
flu
girls were now charging
the
enemy’s munitions depot, holding
f
lam
ing
explosive charges aloft
in
their tiny fists. ‘What
precautions
have you taken?’

Yang didn’t flinch. He glanced calmly down at the watch
on
his free wrist. ‘Telephone
your wife.
She will give
you the details.’

The
first
small ammunition dump exploded in a sheet
of
flame.
Scholefield
grabbed Yang
with his other
hand and shook him bodily in his seat. ‘That
wasn’t my
wife last night.’

Yang
freed himself
and slowly straightened his coat.
‘I am not talking about
the actress. Telephone your wife.
Ask
her about Matthew.’

Scholefield
’s eyes widened in disbelief as
another roar of
flame lit
the faces of the
audience
with a
fiery
glow. ‘If you want to see
Matthew
again, simply convene the
meeting. I shall be
at the Institute at five
twenty-five.
Your members will be
addressed
by the man now sitting beside you
on
your left.’

Scholefi
el
d swung round
in
his
seat as
the
main
arsenal went up and the bright orange
glare
from the
explosion illuminated
the man
hunched in
the seat on the
other
side of him. Thin, narrow-
shouldered
and English-looking, he
h
ad a big
shock
of
white
hair and a
straggling moustache’ stained blonde at the fringes with nicotine. He wore thick spectacles and in the flaring light
from
the screen
S
ch
olef
i
eld saw that although
the cigarette between his
lips
had
almost
bu
rn
ed
away
the
dead
ash
still
hung
from
it
in a long,
bent spike.