Chapter Twenty-Eight.

The Purser returned to the cabin and reported his findings to Lambert. They would be flying direct to Hong Kong. Lambert nodded and thanked Sinclair, retaining a bearing of professional impartiality; although, inwardly, he was breathing a sigh of relief. In these circumstances, the close protection régime he had mentioned could be reverted back to the normal methods that he, and Hollis had operated so far. With the limited number of passengers, and no anticipated newcomers; the Oriental girl could be kept under covert close observation, and their two clients would be afforded a secure remainder of their flight.

Peter Kincaid peered ahead through the cockpit windscreen. A dark line had appeared on the distant horizon, and there... a little closer; a dark blob set in the pristine blue of the sea below... Cheduba Island, with the Burmese mountains rising out of the faint mistiness inland from the coast. He sighed under his breath. That mistiness meant that the humidity was high... it would certainly cause the engines to develop more power for the same amount of fuel... and thus increase the flight safety margin; but, it also caused the controls to become sluggish... not dangerously so, but enough to make flying the old girl hard work.

The landmass was growing larger in his windscreen. As he brought her in over the rocky north cape of Cheduba Island, he glanced out of the port-side window. The humidity-soaked mist rose to something like twelve-hundred-feet above the green carpet of the primary jungle that cloaked the flanks of the range of near-impassable mountains known as Arakan Yomas that ran down the west coast of Burma. Turning onto Simon's fresh heading, he scanned his flight-path ahead. The tallest peaks were up to the north, rising to four thousand feet. Down at this end of the range they were more like fifteen-hundred-feet... so there would be no likely obstructions. The trouble was; there was almost no ground reference. The humidity-soaked mist bank lay below like a great white sea.

"Pembroke" was skating over... almost planing on the mist bank's upper layer. It was still bright blue sky and sunlight up here, but, as she boomed across the impenetrable Irrawaddy valley, a bright, rainbow shimmer of water vapour streamed off the tips of her propeller blades in the near-one-hundred-percent humidity that rose from the steaming jungle below.

The controls were becoming heavy as the leading edges of the wings and tailplane aerofoils squeezed the moisture out of the sodden air that they were passing through, causing spiderweb-like rivulets of moisture to creep back across the wing upper surfaces, and whip away off the trailing edges in the blusterous slipstream of the engines. Peter Kincaid felt the perspiration trickling down his back between his shoulder blades. The combination of humidity and sun through the perspex was turning the flight deck into a greenhouse. He reached for the sliding clear-view panel to pull it back. Anything for a little cooler air... but, with it open; the moisture in the air began to condense into beads of water on the inside of the windscreen, magnifying and refracting the sun's rays and obscuring his forward vision with their reflected glare. Swearing beneath his breath, he pushed the panel closed again. The blanket of mist seemed to stretch unbroken to the Thai border. Oh well, they'd just have to sweat it out. He glanced at the clock on the instrument panel. A quarter-to-eleven. He estimated that, subject to not running into any sudden monsoon weather conditions, they would cross the Vietnamese coast north of Hue in something like two-and-a half-hours at their present speed. The towering cumulus clouds out to the north over the Shan States were edging down towards the south but the blanket of mist below was beginning to disperse. Occasional glimpses of the ground were beginning to become more frequent... although the carpet of green was pretty featureless. He glanced over his shoulder towards Simon.

'How are we doing for track, Simon?'

Simon glanced up from his charts and pushed his ex-RAF Course and Speed Calculator away.

'From my calculations and the odd glimpses of the ground; I reckon we should be flying over Lake Nong Han in about sixty-five minutes. That'll take us over the border between Thailand and Vietnam in about another twenty minutes. We should hit the coast in a little over two hours, between Dong Hoi and Quang Tri... about seventy-five miles to the north of Hue. Stick to the present heading. I'll give you a new one when we cross the coast.'

Down in "B" cabin, Charlotte was gazing out of her window seat at the mist draped panorama below, when she noticed a strange phenomenon. The 'boat was flying at fifty feet or so, above the surface of the white carpet. It might have been the slipstream, but it was almost as though the mist had seemed to notice the flying boat skimming above. It appeared to grow long, sinuous tendrils which gave the odd impression that it was reaching up to grasp this thundering intruder to its vapoury dominion. In places, as the shadow of "Pembroke" crossed its surface; she saw what could only be described as a "halo" of multiple coloured rings surrounding the boat's shadow on the surface of the mist. Areas of the mist seemed to be spiralling in upon itself as though it was forming a tunnel of some sort, to suck the 'boat down into its depths.

This was really very peculiar... unlike anything she had ever experienced. The Purser had mentioned that bizarre environmental changes frequently occurred during the monsoon conditions... but there were no monsoon conditions evident... just the mist. She was suddenly clutched by a cold shiver... her companions didn't seem to have noticed anything strange. Max was reading, Lambert and Hollis were carrying on a conversation; but it was as if, at that same moment, a grey goose had flow over her grave.

The door to "A" cabin opened, and Cameron Bray and the Oriental girl appeared. Bray smiled and nodded as he passed. The girl inclined her head in the quintessentially Oriental feminine fashion of implied meek subservience, and gave the three men a demure smile as she passed, then glanced at Charlotte. Her black eyes resembled those of a cobra... cold, dark; frightening, and entirely unreadable; a glance that was minacious... almost as if she possessed the ability to delve deep into Charlotte's thoughts.

Then, she had stepped through the aft door into the promenade deck, leaving Charlotte with an alarmingly conscious awareness of the feeling of the raw nothingness of having no secrets.

Max sensed there was something wrong. He put down his book and laid his hand on her arm.

'What's wrong, Milaya Moya? You're quite pale.'

She turned to him, and quietly said,

'That woman. It's hard to explain... it's just an intuition.... there is something deep inside her, evil. You didn't notice the way she looked at me. It's something to do with the Red Horseman... I'm certain of it.'

Max said nothing. There was nothing for him to say. Her intuition, to him, was something unquantifiable. His understanding of such things was determined by his Russian "Dushá"... his soul... sensitive, revere, imaginative, compassionate... an integrity that conformed to his inner notion of what a human being should be. He possessed a remarkably astute brain, but he had the heart of a child.

In spite of his profession, it was the inherent totality of his behavioural and emotional characteristics that would always be with him, and she loved him for it... his open and unashamed honesty and integrity seldom seen elsewhere in the shadowy world of Intelligence. What he said he meant, and what he meant, he said with complete commitment and faith, no matter what that faith might be related to.

He smiled gently.

'Calm yourself, Milaya Moya. We are in a secure environment. You have three protectors, and we are all suspicious of her identity and motives, and therefore alert and watchful of her movements on this journey. She cannot move against you even if she holds any intention to do so.'

He glanced across the aisle at Lambert and Hollis, who had been listening discreetly. Both the men nodded their agreement.

Any further conversation on the subject was interrupted by Sinclair appearing and inviting them to go up to the dining room for lunch.

They rose, and followed him through the aft promenade deck, and up the stairway. As Charlotte reached the top, she glanced into the cocktail bar. Bray and Sophie Thị Chung were sitting at the bar, enjoying what appeared to be dry Martinis. The girl didn't look round. Sinclair ushered Charlotte and Max to the table for two at the rear of the dining room. Lambert and Hollis were shown to one of the tables at either side of the dining room.

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The stewards were waiting patiently to serve lunch in the manner to which their passengers had become accustomed on the flight. White linen table cloths and serviettes, cutlery, side plates and cruets for the number of covers had been assembled on trays, taken through to the dining room, and the tables laid up for the meal. Food was served on ceramic, crested plates. Drinks were served in glass. The Cutlery was hallmarked silver.

The chief steward proffered the menus to them. Today's menu comprised foie gras on toast, or iced melon; Roast chicken, York ham; Veal Galantine with asparagus tips and tomatoes; Seville orange jelly or Peach melba; followed by Cheshire, Cheddar or cream cheese and biscuits; crystallised fruit, coffee and brandy, or a choice of cool drinks, including the Gin-based Pimm's No 1 fruit cup, and assorted-flavour sherbets to individual choice.

Charlotte chose iced melon, and York Ham followed by Peach Melba. Max chose the same. She smiled at the steward.

'What on earth is a Pimm's Number 1?'

He smiled

'It is the original Gin Sling, Madam. It is a famous English thirst-quenching cocktail. Pimm's is purchased in the bottle as a ready-made cocktail. It is a blend of gin, spices and fortified wines; quinine, and a secret mixture of herbs. It has a deep, aromatic nose with hints of citrus and a certain bitter-sweet undercurrent. The aromatics continue in the actual taste, along with some spice and sweetness, though the finish has a decided bitter edge and a slight heat. Two parts lemonade are added to one part Pimm's No1 Cup, garnished with slices of orange, lemon, apple and cucumber and one sprig of mint. The fruit is cut into a combination of thick wedges and thin slices, stirred in, and served in a tall straight glass. It's a very refreshing and cooling beverage, and I can thorough recommend that Madam samples it.'

She smiled at his impeccable description.

'Mmm! It sounds wonderful. I shall have one please.' Max nodded.

'Yes, I'll have one too.'

The steward smiled.

'Certainly, Madam. Certainly, Sir. Enjoy your lunch.'

With a practised flourish, he removed the wine glasses, and went forward to the bar to order their drinks.

As the carpet of mist thinned, Kincaid saw the coast about five miles ahead, and beyond, the cobalt blue expanse of the South China Sea stretching away into infinity. He turned and called to Simon.

'Coast ahead. Position and bearing please.'

Simon looked up from his chart. You should soon see two rivers with a long straight stretch of beach between them. There will be a maze of paddy fields inland and a little village between them and the sea. As soon as you reach the sea turn onto one-hundred-and four-degrees, East by South. Then, it's one-and-a-half hours to the turning point at seventeen-degrees, nineteen-minutes North, one-hundred-and-eleven-degrees, forty-seven minutes East; and finally, just over an hour into Kai Tak.'

"Pembroke" came off the top of the mist carpet at twelve-hundred-feet indicated altitude. Kincaid exhaled relievedly. It was good to have a visual reference again. Tippy-toeing along relying on instruments alone was tiring and difficult.

He fed in a little port aileron and rudder to bring her onto course as she swept out over the narrow beach. Her shadow appeared on the surface of the South China Sea, holding pace as she settled into the final leg of her journey; keeping her company until they touched again on the placid waters of Hong Kong harbour. Settling into level flight, he began to gain altitude gently, up to his cruise height of ten-thousand-feet.

Fifty miles out, Johnnie Blake suddenly reached for the tuning knob on his radio receiver and began to carefully turn it back and forth in order to get the strongest signal. Simon glanced back over his right shoulder. Johnnie's body language told that something important was being picked up. As he watched curiously; Johnnie was scribbling furiously on the message pad on his table. He reached forward and flicked a switch, then began to attentively tap out a message on his Morse telegraph key. When he had finished transmitting, he removed his headphones, pushed back his chair and stood up. Turning he stepped forward to Kincaid. His face was even more serious than usual.

'Skipper; that was Samah Airfield on Hainan Island. They've just sent an area warning for all civilian traffic to keep clear of their airspace. The Red Chinese and the Chinese Nationalists are still struggling for control, and Samah says that Red Chinese MIG 15 fighters are in the area. I identified us, and they said they will send a couple of their fighters to escort us out of the area. Keep an eye out to port. You should spot them in a few minutes. Our track is only eighty miles south of the Island.'

Twenty minutes later; suddenly, Tim's arm shot out, pointing off to the port quarter. Kincaid strained to see what his co-pilot had spotted. Tim had been second pilot on Sunderlands during the War, and had often manned one of the gun stations on the long maritime patrols out across the grey Atlantic. He had retained the air-gunner's sharp eyesight and concentration, and frequently spotted things long before Kincaid ever did.

Then Kincaid saw them. Two tiny silver dots approaching fast... but, were they the Nationalist escort... or Communist MIG fighters? As they closed on "Pembroke," he saw they were prop-driven.

Two Chinese Nationalist P51D Mustangs swept across his nose, pulled up, and split; one circling away to take station on his port flank; the other one orbiting out to hold, some thirty feet above "Pembroke," and a hundred yards out to starboard. Their Nationalist markings of a twelve-pointed white star in a blue circle, and alternating horizontal blue and white bands down their rudders, shone bright in the sunlight. The Chinese pilots throttled back to match the flying boat's speed, and escorted them for another three quarters of an hour; but the skies were clear; with no sign of any other aircraft. Simon plotted that they were close to the edge of the Chinese territorial waters, and sure enough; as he looked out of the rear side window of the cockpit, the Mustang out to starboard waggled its wings and both fighters pulled up and soared away.

Simon returned to his chart table and began to make calculations. He turned and called to Kincaid.

'Turning point in ten minutes, skipper. I'll time you down for the last ten seconds. On my count, turn onto heading twenty-seven point eight degrees, North-east by North.'

Back in Singapore; the old Chinese jeweller was muddling about in his shophouse in Temple Street, when the bell over the street door tinkled as someone entered. He shuffled out from the back room-cum-workshop to be faced by a tall, thinly-built man of Eurasian appearance... a "bun tòhng faan"..."someone with one Chinese and one other parent"... wearing an impeccably cut, linen tropical suit.

His skin was pale, and he had prominent cheekbones and thick eyebrows above cold, slitted blue eyes resembling two chunks of lapis lazuli. His hair was jet-black and grey-flecked, thinning at the temples above a domed forehead. He spoke quietly, and his tone of voice made the old man shiver.

'You have recently had dealings with a Korean merchant sailor. What did he sell to you?'

The old Chinese peered at the man through the thick lenses of his spectacles.

'May I humbly ask your interest in this matter? Such transactions are confidential.'

The man's eyes glittered.

'Revered Sir, it would be advisable for you to answer my question.'

The old man hesitated.

'Why? Are you the Police?'

The pale line of the man's lips stretched in a thin smile.

'I will ask you again. What did he sell to you?'

The old Chinese was becoming alarmed. Was the beautiful sapphire stolen? He studied the man's expression. There was nothing there to read. Perhaps it would be better to tell the bun tòhng faan what he wanted to know. He drew a deep breath.

'I purchased a flawless Burmese Mogok Valley sapphire of just less than one carat from the man that you describe'.

The Eurasian nodded.

'Do you know the whereabouts of this man?'

The old Chinese shook his head.

The Eurasian shrugged. A squat, silenced pistol appeared in his hand. There was a dull "Phut" as he pulled the trigger.

A look of complete surprise flooded the lined face of the old Chinese, and he uttered a soft "Oh" as the nine-millimetre bullet tore into his chest. He pitched backwards behind the counter, gave one heave, and lay still. He was actually dead before he hit the floor. The Eurasian leant over the counter; fired another shot into the old man's head to make sure, and then felt under the counter for the shop ledger. He quickly scanned the neatly notated pages. He was not fully familiar with the traditional vertical Cantonese text that the old man had used; but he could understand the gist of it. On the fifth page for this week he found the reference to the Burmese Mogok Valley sapphire, complete with... as the Law demanded... a name and address. The address would be false, but the name was Korean. Great store was placed on family names in Korea, so, the name would probably be correct. He smiled grimly. Now all he had to do was track down this Seong Kim Hyong. He would start down at the docks and work back from there. He replaced the ledger under the counter, turned and stepped out into the street, carefully closing the shophouse door behind him.

As he walked back up Temple Street towards New Bridge Road, he nodded to himself. Yes, this was the correct seaman. He was probably waiting to take passage on some grimy tramp steamer heading east towards Korea, right now. The information that had travelled half-way round the world was indeed accurate. The Korean mob tentacles were far-reaching. Lee Jeong Kwon, the boss of the notorious Yu Leu Yong mob, had ordered that a large Garnet gem that this seaman had obtained was to be secured at any cost, and "Geu lim ja Baem"... the mob executioner with the capricious nickname of "Shadow Serpent;" had been sent to track him down.

As he turned into New Bridge Road and headed down towards the waterfront, he shrugged again. The old Chinese jeweller had simply run out of luck. He shouldn't have been quite so obvious. He should have tried to conceal the loathing in his face with regard to Shadow Serpent's mixed-race features.

As he increased his pace, he wondered, perhaps for the millionth time, what it would feel like to be all White, or all Chinese, rather than to be descended from an illegitimate son of an Australian opium runner and a Shanghainese singsong girl from a sleazy little whorehouse that still existed in a filthy alley off the Sichuan Road in Shanghai... and to be despised for it by both races?