The Outsider: My Life in Intrigue

“Er, yes.”

“Splendid. I’ll pick you up. Far end of the front car park, eight o’clock, red car.” Then he was gone.

The Peninsula in those days had not one but a fleet of chocolate-colored Rolls-Royces for its guests. At eight I was on the front steps peering through the regiment of Rollers when I saw a flash of a red car right at the back. It turned out to be the most clapped-out Jowett Javelin I had ever seen, with Johnny beaming at the wheel. The Jowett car company has long ago passed into history, and quite rightly, too.

Johnny clearly knew his Hong Kong intimately, but I was lost within seconds of entering the narrow alleys of the Walled City. Finally, even the Javelin could go no farther, so it was parked by the curb and we walked.

The thought occurred to me that if the British taxpayer, accustomed to seeing James Bond in his Aston Martin, could see this rolling scrapyard, he would realize he was not actually being overcharged by Her Majesty’s overseas intelligence arm.

Johnny strode knowledgeably down alley after alley until we came to a door studded with heads of big black nails. He knocked. A small panel opened. There was a rapid exchange in Chinese, though whether Mandarin, Hakka, or Cantonese, I could not tell. Then the door creaked open and we were inside. That was when I realized that my host for dinner was an honored guest.

The restaurant was not large, perhaps fifteen tables, and entirely populated by Chinese diners. Not a single “round-eye” in sight. I was not surprised; they could not have found the place.

The serving staff appeared to be two young men, alike enough to be brothers (which they were) and both strapping six-footers with black buzz-cut hair. Out of the kitchen came the proprietor and chef, evidently the father, also over six feet with am iron-gray buzz cut. He greeted Johnny as a friend.

There were no menus. Johnny ordered for both of us, and what he asked for was met with beaming approval. When we were alone, I asked, “They are pretty big for Chinese.”

“They are Manchu,” said Johnny. “They grow big up there.”

“And the language?”

“Mandarin.”

The meal was beyond excellent, probably the best I have ever had. I commented on the warmth with which he had been greeted.

“Well, they are colleagues in a way.”

“Working for London?”

“Good Lord, no, they are Beijing’s intelligence branch down here.”

I was getting a bit confused.

“I thought they were the enemy.”

“Good heavens, no, the Russians are the enemy. The KGB. Beijing can’t stand them, so they keep us up to speed on everything the Sovs get up to, and they always know first.”

Now the old perceptions were really spinning.

“So we get along with the Chinese, although we are supposed to be on different sides?”

“Absolutely. Except for the Nationalists, the residue of the old Kuomintang. They are a pain in the arse.”

“I thought the Nationalists were anti-Beijing.”

“They are. That’s why they are a pain. They have a colony several bays along the coast. They scrimp and save until they have enough to buy some illegal guns, then they set off in a sampan or two to invade Mainland China.”

“What happens to them?”

“Oh, I tip off my friend here”—he nodded toward the kitchen—“and the idiots are intercepted as they land.”

“Aren’t they executed?”

“Oh, no, we have an arrangement. They just disarm them and send them back. Then they have to scrimp and save for another year to buy some more guns, then it happens again. Look, the People’s Liberation Army could take this place before breakfast if they wanted. We are very much guests here.

“A peaceable Hong Kong suits both sides. For Beijing, it is a valuable income stream and a meeting point where we can talk unobserved. Their new man, Deng Xiaoping, is more of a pragmatist than a dogmatist. For us it is a trading center and a listening post. Anything that threatens to disturb that cozy relationship is a menace. That includes the Kuomintang for us and the KGB for them. All we have to do is keep Beijing sweet and the Russkies inside their box.”

As he settled up and we were bowed out the door, I realized that I had just learned over superb chow mein that what the Western newspaper-reading public had been told for years was complete bunkum.