SHANGHAI #3
She went ahead of me to make sure the way was clear. Before the front doors, we stopped, only for someone to yell my – Langham’s – name. We had only seconds. Hilde leaned in and kissed me on the mouth.
‘Go,’ she whispered, tears in her voice. ‘Just go.’
I turned and fled. Behind me, I heard Hilde’s voice, falsely bright. ‘Oh, don’t try and stop him. He has some mad idea about taking out the yacht. I certainly can’t dissuade him …’
Ten to two. I slipped through the gates of Dar Portuna, the scent of jasmine catching at my jacket like the hand of a lover. In the dark, dusty street, I swiped tears from my face.
Don’t think, I told myself savagely. Hacer de tripas corazón.
I reached the Hotel Continental in record time, with minutes to spare.
I had almost run through the dark streets and was breathing hard, my chest constricted by the brassiere.
The wound on the back of my head had started to throb again, tiredness and anxiety making me sick.
Would Langham arrive with blood on his hands, staining his fine, white sleeves?
With Cabrera dead, would I finally be free from my past?
The illuminated sign of the Hotel Continental cast pools of red and green light on to the street. I edged into it, for comfort, glancing at the pocket watch. Three minutes to two.
From the terrace above, I could hear the sound of gentle conversation, smell wafts of tobacco.
I wished I was one of those guests; tipsy and oblivious to everything except the warm darkness and the ship lights that twinkled on the strait.
When a figure in white stepped to the edge of the terrace, I almost cried out, but it was only a waiter in a neat serving jacket, clearing one of the tables.
He saw me, though, and seemed to hesitate. Then he was gone.
It didn’t make my nerves any better. I had made up my mind to walk to the other side of the dark street, to listen for footsteps when a door creaked open in the lower part of the hotel terrace, and the waiter emerged.
‘Monsieur Langham?’ he called. The green and red glow didn’t make it easy to see. ‘Are you there? It is Monsieur Langham, isn’t it?’
My skin prickled. Was this part of the plan he hadn’t told me?
‘Yes,’ I said, keeping my voice low, doing my best impersonation of Langham’s familiar, clipped accent.
The waiter came forwards. I tipped my hat even lower, pretending to look at the watch.
‘Here it is, monsieur. As you asked.’
He was holding something out towards me. For a moment, I almost told him he was mistaken, until I realized what it was. It was Langham’s writing case, personalized, stamped with those two, golden letters.
Slowly, I took it. When did he leave it here? I wanted to cry. What did he ask? Why was he here at all? But I couldn’t, the waiter would think I was mad, asking those questions about myself.
‘Thank you,’ I muttered.
‘De rien, monsieur.’ He lingered, hoping for a tip. When I didn’t move, he gave up and disappeared back into the building.
What was going on? Maybe Langham had been early, I thought rapidly; maybe he’d left our bags here, so as not to be suspicious. I flipped the latch of the writing case, thinking he might have left some note for me inside.
But before I could open it, I heard scuffling, the sound of feet trying to walk quietly on the gritty stones. Two o’clock exactly. My heart leapt as I latched the case and stuck it beneath my arm, moving quickly to the corner.
‘I’m here,’ I called softly. ‘Is it—?’
Light flared, blinding me. I threw up my arms, the case thudding to the dirt.
Suddenly, I was surrounded, voices were shouting, hands were swarming out of nowhere to grip my arms and shoulders, shoving me face first to the ground.
I screamed in panic but my mouth was full of dust, and I choked.
Someone was pulling at my jacket. That sent me crazed, and I lashed out, clawing, kicking, thrashing at anyone within reach.
It didn’t stop them. One man – I could smell it was a man – kicked me, before leaning all his weight on to my back, ripping Langham’s watch from my waistcoat, scrabbling through my pockets.
Thieves, I thought wildly. I tried to yell for them to take what they wanted and leave me alone, but my voice wouldn’t work, all I could do was wheeze with pain and fear.
But a pair of shoes were stepping into the light, and they didn’t look like they belonged to a thief.
They were good shoes of black leather, below black suit trousers.
I struggled, craning my neck until I could look up.
A man was holding my passport in his hand, shining a torch down on to it.
They had pulled it from my pocket, which I didn’t understand, because I had put my passport in the suitcase, hadn’t I?
Then, through streaming eyes, I saw: it wasn’t my passport at all.
Every knot of bravery I had tied around my heart unravelled when I realized what was happening.
‘It’s him,’ the man with the torch called in English, before looking down at me. ‘Arthur Langham, I am arresting you in the name of Her Majesty’s Service for the crime of treason against your country …’