woman takes it; her touch makes Linehan glad he is not on his feet. He forces himself to let go of the hand.
"OK. Mr. Sean Linehan, you tell me yourself."
Linehan leans in towards her and, in a low voice modulated by countless conferences and committee meeting, gives her an abridged version of his life story so far: his birth in north London, the third child of Irish immigrant parents, his childhood fixation with soccer, the long legal studies, his fortuitous job with the International Olympic Committee, the move to Switzerland, his head-hunting by the World Football Association after its takeover of the game's former governing body, and his rapid rise up its ranks. He avoids mentioning the perks of that job: the stuffed envelopes, the high-class tarts, all things he has now resolved to do without. Nor does he mention the failure of his first attempt since then to find a real steady girlfriend of his own. That hurts too much, but maybe his luck is turning. The woman's gaze focuses on Linehan's mouth, as though reading the lips better to understand his words. Suddenly, she is looking behind him, startled. A calloused hand falls on Linehan's shoulder.
"Sean, you dirty so-and-so! Can't leave you for half a minute and you're seducing some beauty. Some very special beauty. Well, go on mate, introduce me."
Linehan has recognized Wayne's voice. He keeps his eyes on the woman in front of him, but realizes he has not asked her name.
"You call me Beauty, I'm happy. Kind man, must be police. But my name is Hypatia."
Linehan's mouth goes dry as his new acquaintance shakes the hand of his old friend. He takes a gulp of his beer, which has warmed to room temperature. He turns to Wayne and gives him a warning look. Wayne laughs, showing bad teeth, and Linehan decides to take advantage of having failed to get his friend's drink in. He stands up.
"You having the usual, Wayne? Same again Hypatia?" Funny bloody name.
But Hypatia's gin and tonic is untouched.
Linehan puts an arm around Wayne's shoulder and guides him to the bar counter, out of earshot of Hypatia, who watches them coolly. When they return to the table, Linehan is carrying a large bottle of mineral water and Wayne a pint mug of Guinness that already holds less than half a pint.
"What makes you think I'm a policeman, Hypatia? We ain't famous for our kind words."
"Hong Kong police is learning to keep iron fist inside velvet glove. And I see you walk: like police."
"What else do you know about me?"
"You and Sean Linehan old friends."
"OK. Yeah, body language would tell you that."
"You his landlord. I saw you giving him key."
"Well, I'm putting him up while he's here. Clever girl, you are."
"You got funny religion."
"What?"
"Strange pendant under shirt. Not Christian on Cross. Say quick prayer before drink, not just Sl?inte or Cheers."
"No, that was like Here's to you, mate, best of luck. But I did have a soft spot for old Sai Baba, before he ruined his act by dying. The pendant is just a mojo. I'm sure you know what that's for."
Wayne empties his glass.
"Anyway, I gotta go. Here's to you, mate, best of luck. Don't wait up for me."
Wayne gives Linehan a stage wink, takes his leave of Hypatia by grinning at her, collects his umbrella from the doorway and ambles out into the rain like a constable on his beat.
Hypatia stares at Linehan until she is sure his attention is fully back on her.
"Good. Now I have you all to myself, Mr. Sean."
"Hypatia ? beautiful name."
He knows they have the place to themselves. Wayne has promised to sleep at a girlfriend's. Linehan does not bring Hypatia immediately into the guest room of the spacious flat which the Hong Kong Police grants an upper-echelon officer. He sits her in the lounge, presses a glass of gin and tonic into her hand, and talks to her. And listens to her. By the time he leads her into the bedroom, he is under the impression they know each other well.
Linehan is already impressed by her life history of overcoming poverty, prejudice and ill-health to become the attractive, successful business woman that she is now, but as he gets to know every centimetre of her silky skin, his appreciation of Hypatia reaches new heights.
Hypatia shakes Linehan awake early the next morning.
"Sean, I have to get up."
"What? No. Stay a while. Make love with me again."
"Cannot. I have a big deal to put to bed."
Cheap puns spring to Linehan's made, but he does not voice them. Instead, he gets up and makes tea and toast for Hypatia while she has a quick shower and puts on yesterday's clothes, which Linehan has dried for her overnight. The sky outside is grey, but no rain is falling. Thick double glazing muffles the rising sound of harbour and road traffic. Hypatia ignores the toast, but drinks the tea, without milk, while it is piping hot. She fetches her handbag, opens it, pulls out a business card and, with both hands, gives it to Linehan. The card affirms that she works for "Hypatia Agency Import Export". Linehan turns it over and sees that she has hand-written an extra mobile phone number on the back.
"For personal personal calls."
She gives Linehan a chaste kiss on the cheek and moves to the door.
"Now you see me, now you don't. Tomorrow you see me."
Linehan's palms tingle as he watches the back of her leave the flat. He feels bereft. He moves to the window and looks down to the street. It is a couple of minutes before Hypatia appears at the entrance far below and saunters off into the morning human traffic of Causeway Bay.
Linehan is light-headed. He has not felt this way since he was a teenager. He finds his mobile phone and keys in Hypatia's "personal personal" number. She answers straight away.
"Sean Linehan. You a good man. We see wechother soon."
The line goes dead.
Linehan basks a while in the sweet sadness of solitude, then remembers that he has his own business to see to today. He phones Lim Sa-Choi, the events manager at the Hong Kong Football Association, and arranges to inspect the SplattaDome right after lunch.
Good, eh? Hypatia called me good! I must be getting somewhere.
It is cloudy but hot when Linehan emerges from the MTR's brand new SplattaDome station in the New Territories. The site is still sealed off behind its imposing, electrified perimeter fence, but everything is ready for the grand opening ceremony, to which Linehan is bringing the immortal Franz Splatta not in the flesh but in hologram form. The armed men on the gates recognise Linehan and usher him in. One of them accompanies him in silence to the executive suite inside the stadium, where Lim is waiting for him.
"Mr. Linehan! Welcome to our little marvel! You are very prompt. I take it you were not inconvenienced by the demonstrations."
"Good to see you again, Mr. Lim. No, I came through Umbrella Square yesterday, but nobody was demonstrating for democracy, as far as I could tell."
"Well no, they would not need to, since the government in Beijing met most of their demands. It is the Maoists who take to our streets these days. They demand less democracy."
Linehan does not care about degrees of democracy. He just wants demonstrators, or the people sent in to deal with them, not to incinerate foreigners and interfere with soccer.
"Whatever. Are you ready to show me the SplattaDome?"
"With the greatest of pleasure. You will love it."
Linehan does. It is a magnificent stadium, though its capacity is limited to 40,000 for safety reasons. It has a retractable roof, an all-year hybrid grass-and-plastic pitch of deepest green, a comfortable seat for every spectator, an array of eateries for every taste and pocket, executive suites for those who can pay and for dignitaries, and its own conference hall. Brimming with infectious enthusiasm, Lim brings Linehan to the conference hall last.
"Down here is where Herr Splatta will address the world. The world wants to hear him, but unfortunately the people of Hong Kong do not. They just want to get on with the show, so while the show goes on outside, our leader will address the world game's ?li
te in glorious Mondovision."
Linehan nods vigorously.
"And since we haven't yet mastered 360-degree holographic projection, that is very handy for us, too. We just line them up in front in front of the pyramid so that none of the great man's charm gets blurred or distorted. You're a genius, Lim!"
"No, no, Linehan, just a humble servant of our master and his enduring legacy."
"OK. Well, let's make sure it works."
This is what Linehan has come to Hong Kong for. He had unstitched the micro- drive from its hiding place before leaving Causeway Bay. Now he brings it out of his shirt pocket and shows it to Lim, who grins.
"Magnificent!"
Lim leads him up a ramp to the concealed projection area at the back of the hall. The projection room is full of state-of-the art equipment. Lim indicates a sturdy Lenosoft computer placed in the middle of an uncluttered table.
" Go ahead. It is on. All is ready."
Linehan inserts the micro-drive. His procedural memory guides his fingers over the keyboard. He is in his element.
In the auditorium, the chubby figure of Franz Splatta appears to rise from below the stage into the glass pyramid. It acknowledges non-existent applause, then launches into a speech enhanced by his endearing mannerisms, a speech that warms the hearts of all those who love the Beautiful Game and its ability to bring the peoples of the world together in peace and harmony and joyous competition. Splatta goes back the way he came, and Linehan ejects the micro- drive.
"Perfect! No living double could match that, could they, Mr. Linehan?" The two men beam at each