with betting patterns, and with spending by players and match referees.”
“Ah, the referees.”
“Oh, yes. They have so big chance to help the result. Was he tripped or did he dive? The ref decide. Red card or yellow card? The ref decide.”
“So they looked at whether a certain team always does well when a certain official referees their matches?”
“Obviously. But also more subtle things, like the foul-to-bookings ratio.” Mo is in his element.
“Like, if my team gets a yellow card for every twenty fouls it commits, and yours gets one every six, something is probably not right.”
“You bet!”
“You can bet on anything in football these days.” Linehan sighs.
“And that means that anything can be corrupted. That’s why gambling was one of the Five Evils. And now that we have caught some bad guys red-handed, we will shoot them. Bang-bang.”
“Yeah! I mean, no, you can’t. Not Brazilians, anyhow.”
“Tell that to the Minister, tomorrow.”
“Especially not on the first United Nations Day of the Sports International.”
“What better day can there be? Did you bring me that photo of Splatta?”
“Sure.” Linehan reaches for his pocket.
“Save it for the Minister. I hope it is signed.”
“Of course.”
Linehan takes his leave. He needs to get back and study the case file on the Brazilians.
Linehan gets a taxi back to the hotel. He wades through the heap of business cards inside his door, unlocks his suitcase and pulls out the file on the Brazilians.
It is a badge of honour among Greater China Super League teams to field a couple of South Americans, and Lhasa Lenovo are no exception. Even though no-one back home had heard of Teasharer and Avlanjy before their death sentence, being Brazilian gives them extra status here.
Teasharer and Avlanjy claim they did not know what was going on. They picked up their red envelopes like everybody else, but say their team-mates told them the money inside was ‘an incentive from the sponsors’. They certainly look surprised on the police video, which unfortunately has no sound. The authorities’ position is that if the money went to the whole squad, so should the punishment, even when that means public execution. Linehan knows the Chinese will get to stage the World Cup whatever happens. He will just have to insist on the damage to the nation’s international image if two Brazilian footballers are shot in public. He wonders if the authorities are going to televise the spectacle.
The phone rings. Linehan answers it.
“You like me. I come you now.” The voice is female.
“What? Who?”
“You like me. I love you long time. Come now.”
“What? No.”
“Come now.”
“No! I said no! Understand? No!”
Linehan slams down the phone and unplugs it. Anyone he wants to talk to will call his mobile. He goes down to the Reception and gives the clerk a piece of his mind.
The clerk looks at him coldly over his computer. Then he answers, loudly.
“Hear, no un’stan.”
“What?”
The clerk replies calmly.
“I heard what you said perfectly well. It’s just that I didn’t quite catch your drift. So I should be grateful if you would be so kind as to repeat it, perhaps enunciating a little more clearly.”
“So you know damned well what I said, you deceitful little bugger!”
Linehan storms out of the hotel and starts to walk off his anger. His mood improves at the sight of so many attractive women.
The fashion among young women is for head-to-ankle covering. Some of the dresses are slit to the waist, and most alternate opacity with flashes of transparency. The effect is heightened, now that dark has fallen,by their inner lighting systems. Linehan is mesmerised. He decides to head back to the hotel.
On the way, he diverts his eyes from the sartorial street scene to the shopfronts. Among the fruit-sellers and clothing stores, all open late, he notices a few places offering foot massage.
His feet are aching. Can’t be bad, he thinks. Must be legit. It’s only feet. He sees a place that looks clean and bright, and goes in.
Several men are sitting in recliners, chatting with each other while white-clad women or men rub their feet or cut their nails. A middle-aged woman in a nurse’s uniform approaches Linehan.
“You want massager?”
“Yes, please. Foot.”
The woman indicates a price list on the inside of the door. Linehan points to a picture of feet with pressure points indicated. “Foot.” The price is low.
“You want foot massager?”
“Yes, please.”
She waves to a sofa, where a few white-clad young women and men are sitting, apparently half-asleep. The women immediately look at him and smile, but Linehan points to an older-looking man.
“Him.”
“Him?”
“Him.”
The woman says something to the man, who gets up and joins them. He mumbles a greeting to Linehan. The woman leads them out of the main room and down a well-lit corridor with numbered doors on either side. Linehan notices that there is no number four. They stop outside number ten. The woman opens the door and ushers them in. It is a narrow room with a camp bed in the middle, covered by a thin mattress and a crisp sheet. There is a wash basin and beside it a table with plastic bottles. Acupuncture charts line the walls.
The woman indicates that Linehan should lie on the bed, on his stomach. He does so, and the woman leaves the room. The sound of Cantonese pop music wafts in from the hallway.
Instead of starting on the feet, the masseur starts on Linehan’s head and neck, using not only his fingers but also his knuckles. Linehan does not find it relaxing.
The masseur progresses to Linehan’s back. Now he is also using the bones near his wrists, and Linehan finds this painful. It is not what he bargained for. He asks the man to stop, but the massuer carries on, regardless. Linehan brushes the man’s hands off his back.
“Stop, for Christ’s sake! Stop!”
He twists around on the bed and points to his feet.
“God damn you! Massage my feet, will you? Bloody hell fire!”
Linehan lies on his suffering back and points at his feet until the man starts to work on them. Linehan relaxes.
His comfort does not last long. The man is as tough on his feet as he was on his back, but this time Linehan is determined not to lose face by acting like a sissy. He grits his teeth and closes his eyes.
He opens his eyes when he feels a pair of hands unbuttoning his shirt. He looks into the round, sun-tanned face of a smiling young woman. The foot massage is continuing, getting even more painful. There must be something in the idea of pressure points, because it is not just his feet that are hurting. The woman begins to rub his chest, softly. Linehan wants to tell her to go away, but he is immobilised by the pain.
“You want happy ending?” she asks.
Linehan just wants the whole experience to end.
“Yes,” he croaks.
The woman slides her hands over Linehan’s stomach and starts to massage his thighs through his trousers. Then she unbuckles his belt, unzips his fly, slips her hand into his underpants and leans in towards him. The pain in his feet is too much to bear. Linehan passes out.
When he comes to, concerned faces are peering down at him. Strong arms help him to sit up, and someone else presses a mug of of lukewarm, leafy tea into his hand. Linehan sips it. The pain has receded. His neck is even feeling good. He gets to his feet, puts down the mug of tea, adjusts his clothing and staggers to the door.
“Thank you. I’m all right. Thank you.”
The owner of the massage parlour refuses to let him pay. Instead she summons one of the masseurs, not the one who caused Linehan so much agony, and has him accompany Linehan back to his hotel.
When they arrive, Linehan gives the man the massage fe
e as a tip. His feet still ache, but his back is better. He has no trouble getting to sleep.
His interpreter is waiting when Linehan comes down the next morning. Veronica has not been able to send a message and Linehan feels desolate. Daniel takes him to a Cantonese place for brunch. A waitress approaches them, pushing a trolley laden with dimsum. Linehan recognises them from the Hong Kong Palais, which he frequented in his student days in Brighton. The waitress is veiled in full-body black.
“Is she a Muslim?” Linehan asks Daniel.
“No.”
“Then what’s with the burqa?”
“Burkan,” Daniel corrects him. “Kan means see.” At that moment, the middle third of the waitress’s garment turns transparent. She does not appear to be wearing underclothes. Linehan’s eyes open wide.
Daniel explains. “We have suffered a lot of terror attacks recently. You probably heard about a few of the bigger ones. Islamo-fascists. The Army provides a military response. Our women, some of them, provide a cultural response. To show they will not be intimidated.”
Linehan is staring at the woman’s midriff, but she has turned her burkan opaque again.
Daniel is filling Linehan in on the Islamist insurgency when Linehan’s phone rings. It is Mo. The Minister will see them in the evening. Linehan is pleased. If he can tie up this business fast, he will be able to pay Veronica a surprise visit in London before heading home to the hallowed halls of the WFA in Zurich.
“Do you time need to prepare?” Daniel asks.
“No, I’m ready. I’m always ready,” Linehan blusters. “Let’s see something cultural. And old. Is the East Tower open today?”
“Sure.”
“Let’s go there now.”
The East Pagoda is around 2,200 years old. At least,