Read Online The Fireman by Stephen Leather - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Stephen Leather
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picked up off the roof and flown to safety. That’s the story anyway.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘That’s just one of the rumours about Sandberg’s Folly. They say there’s an underground tunnel, big enough to drive an armoured car through, linking the building to the harbour so that when the shit hits the fan they’ll be able to drive all the money out. And they say that the typhoon shields around the bottom of the building aren’t there to keep out the wind but are there to be dropped if the bank is ever attacked.’
‘True or false?’
‘Act your age. These days money is shunted around the world at the touch of a button, you don’t have physically to pick it up. And most of the bank’s business is overseas now, anyway. If ever Beijing did decide to screw up Hong Kong the money would haemorrhage out in minutes, to Bermuda, Canada, America, the UK. All the banks have their own contingency plans drawn up and they don’t involve armoured cars racing through tunnels.’
Dramatic though it was, the Hong Kong Bank building was dwarfed by a tall tower pointing to the sky like an accusing finger. It was of an order of magnitude bigger than the rest, towering over the Central office blocks like a schoolmaster surrounded by his pupils.
‘And that one?’ I said.
‘Ah, the heir apparent,’ he said. ‘The Bank of China. They’re already the real power in Hong Kong. The Hong Kong Bank and Standard Chartered might print the notes and make a lot of noise, but it’s the little men in that building that will be running this place as soon as it’s given back to China. That’s the sixth tallest building in the world, and it put a few noses out of joint at the Bank when it was first announced. The Bank had gone and ordered the most expensive building in the world as a sign of their long-term faith in Hong Kong and then the Chinese went and built a taller building right next door. Massive loss of face.’
The road twisted again and Central was hidden from sight as we drove through Mid-levels, a mixture of new residential blocks and old low-rise buildings, lots of trees and greenery. As Howard had said, it was a place for expats, not locals.
It was a pink building, a dirty washed out pink like a block of soap that had been in the shower too long.
The block had been built on a slope in the fork between two roads. As a result the ground floor on the upper road was actually the third floor. I handed the keys to Howard and he unlocked a metal-grilled door, an ornate work of art that squeaked open as he put his weight against it. We climbed the stone stairs shoulder to shoulder up four flights to the top floor where there was another grille in front of the entrance to the flat. I was short of breath and my shirt was wet but Howard was relaxed, not a bead of sweat on his forehead. He had trouble with the lock, pushing the key in and out several times and jiggling it around until finally it slotted home and he pulled the grille outwards. There were two locks in the blue-painted wooden door but Howard had no problems with them and we were soon in the flat.
The door opened straight into the main lounge area, about eight paces wide and about fifteen paces long to a large sliding window. I walked across the perfectly-polished parquet flooring and pushed the window open. Beyond was a tiled balcony with two white wooden chairs and a slatted table. The balcony looked down across the harbour and over to Kowloon. To the right of the balcony were two towering green plants, palms or something, I couldn’t identify them but they looked like they’d been growing for twenty years or more. A small, almost translucent, lizard scuttled from under one of the chairs, through my legs, across the floor and up a wall. There it stopped, feet splayed out like fingers, then it bolted across the ceiling and behind a rattan bookcase. I turned to look at Howard who was standing by a large mirrored bar built into the wall, laden with bottles of
‘Are you serious?’
‘That’s just one of the rumours about Sandberg’s Folly. They say there’s an underground tunnel, big enough to drive an armoured car through, linking the building to the harbour so that when the shit hits the fan they’ll be able to drive all the money out. And they say that the typhoon shields around the bottom of the building aren’t there to keep out the wind but are there to be dropped if the bank is ever attacked.’
‘True or false?’
‘Act your age. These days money is shunted around the world at the touch of a button, you don’t have physically to pick it up. And most of the bank’s business is overseas now, anyway. If ever Beijing did decide to screw up Hong Kong the money would haemorrhage out in minutes, to Bermuda, Canada, America, the UK. All the banks have their own contingency plans drawn up and they don’t involve armoured cars racing through tunnels.’
Dramatic though it was, the Hong Kong Bank building was dwarfed by a tall tower pointing to the sky like an accusing finger. It was of an order of magnitude bigger than the rest, towering over the Central office blocks like a schoolmaster surrounded by his pupils.
‘And that one?’ I said.
‘Ah, the heir apparent,’ he said. ‘The Bank of China. They’re already the real power in Hong Kong. The Hong Kong Bank and Standard Chartered might print the notes and make a lot of noise, but it’s the little men in that building that will be running this place as soon as it’s given back to China. That’s the sixth tallest building in the world, and it put a few noses out of joint at the Bank when it was first announced. The Bank had gone and ordered the most expensive building in the world as a sign of their long-term faith in Hong Kong and then the Chinese went and built a taller building right next door. Massive loss of face.’
The road twisted again and Central was hidden from sight as we drove through Mid-levels, a mixture of new residential blocks and old low-rise buildings, lots of trees and greenery. As Howard had said, it was a place for expats, not locals.
It was a pink building, a dirty washed out pink like a block of soap that had been in the shower too long.
The block had been built on a slope in the fork between two roads. As a result the ground floor on the upper road was actually the third floor. I handed the keys to Howard and he unlocked a metal-grilled door, an ornate work of art that squeaked open as he put his weight against it. We climbed the stone stairs shoulder to shoulder up four flights to the top floor where there was another grille in front of the entrance to the flat. I was short of breath and my shirt was wet but Howard was relaxed, not a bead of sweat on his forehead. He had trouble with the lock, pushing the key in and out several times and jiggling it around until finally it slotted home and he pulled the grille outwards. There were two locks in the blue-painted wooden door but Howard had no problems with them and we were soon in the flat.
The door opened straight into the main lounge area, about eight paces wide and about fifteen paces long to a large sliding window. I walked across the perfectly-polished parquet flooring and pushed the window open. Beyond was a tiled balcony with two white wooden chairs and a slatted table. The balcony looked down across the harbour and over to Kowloon. To the right of the balcony were two towering green plants, palms or something, I couldn’t identify them but they looked like they’d been growing for twenty years or more. A small, almost translucent, lizard scuttled from under one of the chairs, through my legs, across the floor and up a wall. There it stopped, feet splayed out like fingers, then it bolted across the ceiling and behind a rattan bookcase. I turned to look at Howard who was standing by a large mirrored bar built into the wall, laden with bottles of
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