“You take me to her room now, alright?”

Milton knew taekwondo and all of the pressure points. His thumb was pushing on the nerve, sending exquisite bolts of pain up the arm. The man winced and thought better of trying to inveigle another hundred out of him. “Okay, I show.”

Milton smiled politely and released the man’s hand.

He led them through a narrow corridor to a tiny box of a room with a single bed, a suitcase propped against the wall and an old-fashioned cathode ray portable television set resting atop a rickety dresser. The A/C unit above the bed gurgled and expectorated a trail of moisture that had stained the wall. There were no windows and, although there was a bathroom, it was only just big enough for the toilet with the result that the shower head was directly overhead.

“How long has she been here?”

“Don’t know. Six month, seven month, maybe more.”

“On her own?”

“Yes.”

“Have you spoken to her?”

“No. No speak with guests.”

“And where is she now?”

He found a little courage. “Who are you?”

“Friends,” Milton said patiently. “We need to find her. Where is she?”

The man hesitated, calculating how much he stood to lose if his guest left in disgust at his impropriety against the damage this intimidating westerner might cause. He dipped his head and whispered, “She eats here, in Chungking.”

“Where?”

“There is a place. Syed Bukhara. Malaysian. Floor Seven, Block E.”

* * *

It took them another hour to find their way to the restaurant. There were dozens of places, mostly very small, and although Syed Bukhara was a little bigger than the average it was still only big enough for a half dozen plastic picnic tables and matching chairs. It was painted in schoolyard green and orange, with neat and tidy mauve cushions on the seats. There was a formica countertop, a revolving display case that advertised sickly-looking desserts and an Indian man in a turban who showed them to the only empty table. The overhead lights were bright and harsh and the laminated menu was stained with fragments of rice and sauce that seemed to have been welded to it. Milton scanned it. The prices were worryingly cheap but his fears were offset by the aroma that was coming from the kitchen: a delicious wafting scent of simmering meats and spices.

Milton ordered Nasi Lemak with egg, a Malaysian comfort food that he remembered from a particularly messy assignment in Kuala Lumpur. Anna ordered the mutton Bukhara biryani special. The dishes arrived and what they lacked in presentation they made up for in taste. The creamy sweetness from the coconut rice mixed well with the spicy sambal sauce and Milton, who found that he was very hungry, made quick work of the whole plate. Anna’s portion was even bigger than his and she couldn’t finish it all; he helped, polishing off the generous chunks of mutton meat that were meshed in fragrant basmati rice. By the time he was finished, he was sated. They ordered two cups of Indian chai tea and drank them slowly. When they had finished those, they ordered a couple more.

Milton’s chair was facing the corridor. He made sure that it was angled so that he wouldn’t be too easy to spot. He didn’t think that Beatrix would run, but he didn’t want to take the chances.

They had been there for two hours when Milton finally gave up.

“If she comes in here, she’s not coming today.”

“We’ll come back later?”

“Tomorrow,” Milton said.

“What now?”

“I need a shower.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

Milton had no interest in waiting in their hotel room. The rains cleared away in the middle of the afternoon and he decided to go out for a run.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“Out,” he said. “I need some exercise. I’ll be back this evening.”

“What exercise?”

“A run. Is that alright?”

Anna stood, too, and slipped her feet into her sandals. “Do you mind if I come too?”

He paused at the door. “I don’t know, Anna. I’m not feeling particularly sociable.”

“It’s not to keep an eye on you,” she qualified. “I don’t want to stay here all afternoon.”

“Then don’t. Go out.”

He looked at her. He felt the same primal response again, quickly suppressing it, and relented.

“Fine,” he said. “We’ll need some kit.”

He opened the door and they made their way to the lobby. She smiled sweetly at him as they waited for the elevator to arrive. Perhaps it would be useful to have her around. He didn’t know very much about her, and that was remiss of him; anything at all could prove to be useful. And, perhaps, she could be persuaded, or tricked, into passing him a little information about Shcherbatov and his plans for Control and Pope.

* * *

There was a small sports shop not too far from the hotel and they visited it to buy running shoes and socks, vests and shorts. They returned to the hotel, changed in the gym and then went back onto the street. Milton had run around Hong Kong before; the sidewalks themselves were not suitable, too clogged with people and sometimes too steep, plus the air was often thick with smog that could make for an unpleasant experience. He had learned his lesson and researched alternative routes. As they headed out, he decided to run his favourite of them.

They headed southwest through the Zoological and Botanical Gardens, past the Ladies’ Recreation Club and then started to ascend the Peak. The weather had cleared, a gentle breeze blowing in off the bay taking a little of the edge off the humidity. It was still hot, though, and it didn’t take long for Milton to work up a sweat. Anna kept the pace beside him. She was fit and strong and it was obvious that she ran often. The climb up Old Peak Road grew steeper and steeper and, eventually, she started to flag. Milton dropped his pace and she reeled him back in again.

They reached Peak Tower and ran around Lugard Road. It was car-free and, as a result, it was busy with dog walkers, other runners and families. There was a tower at the top, an upside-down wok shaped building with a galleria that contained shops and restaurants. The route was mostly shaded and, as they got up high, it offered postcard views over Central and Wanchai. They paused at the ten kilometre mark to look out at it: the sparkling skyscrapers and the deep blue of Victoria Harbour all the way to the green hills of the New Territories, the panorama slowly melting into the pink and orange of early twilight.

He was a little short of breath but Anna was breathing harder.

“Alright to keep going?”

“Sure.”

“Mostly downhill from here.”

He led the way again as they wound back around the Peak, picking up Harlech Road on the backside until they were at the Peak Tower again. They followed Findlay Road until it met Severn Road, home to the most expensive property in the world. That was the turn-off point, and they ran back down into Central and made their way towards the hotel. It was a fifteen kilometre route, all told, and Milton’s muscles were tingling as they finally stopped to warm down.

There was a small pharmacy across the road.

“Want a bottle of water?” he said.

“Sure.”

“Hold on.”

He went inside, picked up two half litre bottles and took them to the desk. He paid for them and spoke to the chemist for a moment. Tremazepan should not have been available without a prescription but he explained that he had been unable to sleep properly all week and that he needed it badly. A twenty dollar note laid on the counter was sufficient incentive and, with a nod of understanding, the man disappeared into the back and came back with a box of Restoril. Milton thanked him and went back outside to join Anna again.