O'Keefe.
Quinn nodded at the sacks of fertiliser. 'Weird, isn't it?' he said, wiping his hands on his overalls. 'Gardeners all over the country spread this over their lawns, and we're gonna blow a building to kingdom come with it.'
The two men walked over to the window.
'What's weird about that?' asked O'Keefe. 'Give us another cigarette, will you?'
'McCracken said we weren't to smoke here.'
'Fuck McCracken.' He gestured at the smoke detector.
'Anyway, this is a blind spot.'
'You sure?'
'I fitted the thing myself. I'm sure.'
Quinn shrugged and tossed the pack of Silk Cut over to O'Keefe.
O'Keefe took a cigarette, lit it, and tossed the pack back.
Quinn lit a cigarette for himself, and looked over at the sacks of fertiliser. 'I just meant it's weird that like this it's dead safe,
right? Regular fertiliser. But add other stuff to it and . . . you know . . . bang!'
'Bang?' O'Keefe pushed the blinds to one side and peered across at the Nat West Tower. Thousands of men and women going about their business. Worrying about careers, office politics, their home life. Worrying about a million things, but totally oblivious to the one thing that was going to change their lives for ever. A four-thousand-pound bomb only a few hundred metres away.
'Yeah, bang. Kaboom!'
O'Keefe let the bunds fall back into place and turned to look at Quinn. 'You think a four-thousand-pound bomb's going to go bang? Or ka-boom? You ever heard a bomb go off? A big one?'
Quinn shook his head.
'Well, I can tell you from the horse's mouth, bang doesn't come into it. Bang's what you get when you burst a balloon. Or fire a gun. Bombs don't go bang. Not big ones.'
'What sort of noise do bombs make, then?'
O'Keefe narrowed his eyes as he took a long pull on his cigarette. He exhaled a tight plume of smoke. 'Are you taking the piss?' he said.
The Mercedes swept up the driveway and parked in front of the two-storey house. Two men in dark suits walked up to the car,
nodded when they saw who was inside, then walked back to their post by the front door. Deng sat where he was until his bodyguard had climbed out of the car and opened the door for him. He stood for a moment to admire the view of Hong Kong harbour far below him. Some of the most expensive real estate in the world towered over the narrow strip of water between the island and the mainland of Kowloon. Deng turned back to the house. It had once been the home of one of the richest taipans in Hong Kong, a man whose family had made their fortune running opium into China and who had left the day before the colony was handed back to its rightful masters, vowing never to return. Now it was the property of the People's Liberation Army.
Deng climbed the stairs to the verandah and walked across it and into the house, his Bally shoes squeaking across the polished oak floors. The general was in the taipan's study, the Avails still bedecked with the books he'd left behind, bought by the yard and never read. A wooden-bladed fan spun silently above the general's head as he stared out of a picture window that gave him an unobstructed view of Kowloon. In Cantonese, Kowloon was Nine Dragons, signifying the hills that surrounded the peninsula.
In fact there were only eight hills -- the ninth dragon represented a warlord who'd visited the area hundreds of years earlier. 'What is this place called?' he'd asked.
'Nine dragons,' he was told.
The warlord counted the hills. 'But there are only eight,' he said.
'Until you arrived, sire,' he was told. 'Now there are nine dragons.'
Flattery could be a dangerous thing, Deng knew. It was flattery that had got him into his present predicament. He'd believed everything he'd been told, and now he stood to lose millions of dollars. And more. His life was on the line. His life and the life of his family.
Behind the general's wheelchair stood a Chinese nurse in a starched white uniform, her hair hanging down to the middle of her back like a black veil. Deng walked to
Quinn nodded at the sacks of fertiliser. 'Weird, isn't it?' he said, wiping his hands on his overalls. 'Gardeners all over the country spread this over their lawns, and we're gonna blow a building to kingdom come with it.'
The two men walked over to the window.
'What's weird about that?' asked O'Keefe. 'Give us another cigarette, will you?'
'McCracken said we weren't to smoke here.'
'Fuck McCracken.' He gestured at the smoke detector.
'Anyway, this is a blind spot.'
'You sure?'
'I fitted the thing myself. I'm sure.'
Quinn shrugged and tossed the pack of Silk Cut over to O'Keefe.
O'Keefe took a cigarette, lit it, and tossed the pack back.
Quinn lit a cigarette for himself, and looked over at the sacks of fertiliser. 'I just meant it's weird that like this it's dead safe,
right? Regular fertiliser. But add other stuff to it and . . . you know . . . bang!'
'Bang?' O'Keefe pushed the blinds to one side and peered across at the Nat West Tower. Thousands of men and women going about their business. Worrying about careers, office politics, their home life. Worrying about a million things, but totally oblivious to the one thing that was going to change their lives for ever. A four-thousand-pound bomb only a few hundred metres away.
'Yeah, bang. Kaboom!'
O'Keefe let the bunds fall back into place and turned to look at Quinn. 'You think a four-thousand-pound bomb's going to go bang? Or ka-boom? You ever heard a bomb go off? A big one?'
Quinn shook his head.
'Well, I can tell you from the horse's mouth, bang doesn't come into it. Bang's what you get when you burst a balloon. Or fire a gun. Bombs don't go bang. Not big ones.'
'What sort of noise do bombs make, then?'
O'Keefe narrowed his eyes as he took a long pull on his cigarette. He exhaled a tight plume of smoke. 'Are you taking the piss?' he said.
The Mercedes swept up the driveway and parked in front of the two-storey house. Two men in dark suits walked up to the car,
nodded when they saw who was inside, then walked back to their post by the front door. Deng sat where he was until his bodyguard had climbed out of the car and opened the door for him. He stood for a moment to admire the view of Hong Kong harbour far below him. Some of the most expensive real estate in the world towered over the narrow strip of water between the island and the mainland of Kowloon. Deng turned back to the house. It had once been the home of one of the richest taipans in Hong Kong, a man whose family had made their fortune running opium into China and who had left the day before the colony was handed back to its rightful masters, vowing never to return. Now it was the property of the People's Liberation Army.
Deng climbed the stairs to the verandah and walked across it and into the house, his Bally shoes squeaking across the polished oak floors. The general was in the taipan's study, the Avails still bedecked with the books he'd left behind, bought by the yard and never read. A wooden-bladed fan spun silently above the general's head as he stared out of a picture window that gave him an unobstructed view of Kowloon. In Cantonese, Kowloon was Nine Dragons, signifying the hills that surrounded the peninsula.
In fact there were only eight hills -- the ninth dragon represented a warlord who'd visited the area hundreds of years earlier. 'What is this place called?' he'd asked.
'Nine dragons,' he was told.
The warlord counted the hills. 'But there are only eight,' he said.
'Until you arrived, sire,' he was told. 'Now there are nine dragons.'
Flattery could be a dangerous thing, Deng knew. It was flattery that had got him into his present predicament. He'd believed everything he'd been told, and now he stood to lose millions of dollars. And more. His life was on the line. His life and the life of his family.
Behind the general's wheelchair stood a Chinese nurse in a starched white uniform, her hair hanging down to the middle of her back like a black veil. Deng walked to
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