JADE TIGER - Book review

Craig Thomas’s espionage thriller Jade Tiger was published in 1982 and subsequently reprinted at least thirteen times; my edition is dated 2000. (I’m gradually catching up on my backlog of ‘to-be-read’ books!) He was a very popular author in the 1980s and 1990s.

His debut novel Rat Trap was successful, but it pales by comparison with this outing. By this book, Thomas has improved in style and in conveying tension and suspense and characterisation.

The story begins with a Chinese officer from the Ministry of Public Tranquillity plotting operation Jade Tiger with an unnamed American.

Then a Chinese officer, Colonel Wei, ‘walks in’ to British Intelligence in Hong Kong. British SIS veteran Kenneth Aubrey is tasked with interrogating the man, for the Colonel apparently possesses potentially destabilising information about a high-placed German politician, Zimmerman. In 1940, when he was a wet-behind-the-ears spy Aubrey knew Zimmerman. He’d captured him but it was during the BEF retreat to Dunkirk. There developed a grudging companionship as they evaded strafing Messerschmitts and bombs. The war-time flashbacks are very effective.

Apparently, during a cultural visit to China Zimmerman was drugged while visiting Wuhan and then interrogated by the Chinese, who learned of his allegiance to the KGB and the USSR. (Wuhan is not sinister in this tale, however!)

Aubrey is ageing now; he has featured in 10 or 11 books; he appeared in three or four before this one. He is accompanied by Australian Patrick Hyde as his bodyguard. In Hong Kong they meet up with the CIA representative Buckholtz who is keen to take Wei off their hands.

Aubrey is the old school. He owes his life to Zimmerman so he needs to confirm that Wei is telling the truth about Zimmerman being a mole for the Soviets. At risk is the Berlin Treaty, the reunification of Germany, the pulling down of the Berlin Wall (in 1982).

The investigation also involves a Chinese-American CIA agent, Liu, who is inserted into Shanghai to verify Wei’s revelations. These are the days before China had embraced the ubiquitous facial recognition cameras. Liu’s attempts to obtain proof and avoid detection are well told and suitably tense and realistic.

Aubrey and Hyde follow a trail to Australia where an old associate of Zimmerman still lives. Again, the details and descriptions are first rate.

Throughout, Aubrey, Hyde and Buckholtz are shadowed and even on occasion attacked by Hyde’s nemesis, the Soviet Petrunin. Hyde and Petrunin have had previous encounters; the fact that I haven’t read these did not spoil my enjoyment of the book.

Like The Day of the Jackal, we’re aware that there’s a failure at the heart of the story; for we know that the Treaty must fail since the fall of the Wall did not occur until 1989. But that doesn’t matter; we want to know what happens to the individuals concerned, which is a measure of a good writer.

Sadly, in 2011 Craig Thomas died of pneumonia, aged 68, having also suffered from leukaemia.

Ten Years Hence - a story in 4 parts (4)

TEN YEARS HENCE (4)

 

 

*9*

They didn't block the road till the suburbs.

            There were five, masked and armed.

            The Patrolman who'd escorted me from Singers, the same one I'd punched and kicked, he must have had a sense of duty. I tried stopping him but he leapt at the nearest masked gunman. He crumpled in an agonised heap, clutching a bloody thigh.

            Cliché it may be, but red-anger splashed my vision. ‘Take me for any fanatical reason you like, but stop the shooting!’ Quite a speech. Or epitaph.

            They understood and shoved me into the back of a hover-van. I was stripped: naked. Before the nothingness of a blindfold, I glimpsed how I was destined to die: alongside me lay my very own see-through coffin.

            Their continual Chinese jabbering bombarded my ears - until I was bombarded on my still-delicate cranium - this was getting monotonous! - and slithered yet again to a gratifying oblivion.

 

*10*

 

The rubble of earth being shovelled onto my coffin was the first sound I heard.

            At first I clawed manfully enough at the lid. But to no avail. Frustration. Vexation. Chagrin, at not knowing why I was being done to death.

 

*Epilogue*

Seems fitting, an epilogue.

            Without fresh air or sustenance I felt worse than dead as I lay there, eyes red and sore with staring into nowhere. Breath was short and pained, ears as if muffled. Clinging, the humid musty odour of earth and of aged rotten manure. Fingers and skin, they felt emaciated, but this could be my recent tattoos...

            Try as I would, I was unable to keep my aching eyes open; and as they closed, I remembered ten years ago, of a young rather callous matelot wending his drunken way home, of his apparent stumble and of his premonition.

            But now I could see all the rest. Right up to the moment I fell unconscious my first morning in Singapore's Verdun Road. Rolled, yes, I was. But my compassionate bed-fellow had found me, dazed and still drunk. She'd taken me back, removed my uniform and folded it away in her wardrobe. We'd made love, and somehow I had no thought of my own, none at all, like a child, really.

            I learned my youngish Oriental saviour was called Lee Fong, but for some obscure reason I called her Tai-tai.

            In that state I possessed only a simple smattering of English, but soon picked up phrases Tai-tai used and quickly assimilated meanings.

            Mamasan, the head of the brothel, wanted to return me to the authorities, but Tai-tai and the other girls pleaded to keep me. Under Mamasan's voluminous folds of skin she must have had a heart of gold, for she consented. I think I became their mascot. I suppose it was different for them, a change from having drunken Westerners and esoteric aliens pawing them, rancid breath smothering their faces, brutally thrusting to get their money's-worth, particularly if coupling was for a ‘short time’ only. Me, I was undemanding, compliant with their wishes. If I'd but known it, I was in heaven.

            In the six years that I stayed there my life comprised sleep, food and copulation: existing.

            Physically, I reacted admirably well and obviously enjoyed every minute of it. But I suppose I wasn't much better than one of Pavolv's dogs - just responding with much delight to very pleasurable stimuli.

            When Tai-tai, my surrogate mother-lover, entertained visitors, I thought nothing of lying beneath her bed, awed by the grunts and groans: our love-making was so serene and quiet in comparison... I could never touch enough of her cool beauteous olive skin, so fragrant, with a lovely sheen. Yet the sensation of jealousy never entered my addled brain. As she often told me, ‘entertaining’ was her job.

            Then came that night of storm. As usual, I lay under the bed, Tai-tai and a customer on top. Suddenly, the door burst open to reveal a massive roaring Manchurian, parchment cheeks suffused with anger, claiming he was Tai-tai's master.

            A row, violence, shadows flashing, screams, a glinting sword raised... Her olive skin, torn, rent asunder, marred, all red, oh God! The jealous suitor departed, still in a rage, his one solitary eye and thrice-scarred face scowling horribly.

            In a daze, I crawled out to see if there was anyone I could contact, to seek succour, a new mothering mistress, a fresh sense of security.

            The crowd found me there, rifling through drawers with Tai-tai's grisly corpse yet warm on the floor, that of her late bed-mate nearby. A large well-dressed Chinese aristocrat entered. Every movement poetry. He looked down upon his despoiled treasure, his wayward daughter. His long-nailed fingers clicked, twice. My uniform was snatched up; then I was taken to his private grounds where he told his beautiful wife what I had supposedly done. She broke down in front of me - thereby shaming him - wanting to scratch my eyes out, hurling abuse, verbally castrating me. But he had a better idea.

            Chang Loi was an artist, a tattooist; brilliant, really.

            Below his resplendent house I lay out-stretched. He did his work well. What part of me he left without pictographs has equally meaningful pictures tattooed thereon. A bloody walking willow-pattern, that's me!

            He wouldn't listen to my protestations of innocence. As time passed and his wife's hate faded, I tried my scanty Malay on her whenever Chang Loi was away visiting Tai-tai's shrine. I discovered she had been of Tai-tai's calling, and not of such fastidious tastes as her spouse...

            As I lay spread-eagled she began idly caressing parts of my body still unmarred by needle and ink. Soon, her touch affected me, but she wasn't shocked. Her pupils dilated and her pointed red tongue moistened slightly parted lips.

            After about half-a-dozen similar meetings, she attained such a pitch of expectancy that before I could blink she was straddling me.

            But the release her horse-womanship provided quickly cloyed. Secured as I was, she completely drained me, and soon I dreaded the subservient role I was allotted.

            Eventually, even this palled for her and I grasped her boredom immediately and suggested I could best give her pleasure if released.

            It was a gamble; but I had nothing to lose.

            Surprisingly, my colourful promises convinced her and she turned me loose.

            Once free, I needed her help to stand, to walk; sex during those painful minutes was far from my mind. But her ministrations helped get the blood flowing, tingling, and when my circulation was adequately restored, I ran hellish fast! I escaped three days before I was due to die by Chang Loi's hand, his needle cutting me as he believed I'd savaged his daughter... I'd lain there only existing for his needle to pierce yet another pigment for three years and six months... With me went my shoddy uniform, clothing to conceal my nakedness, my obscenity.

            I ran and ran. Until I stumbled into a monsoon ditch...

            But Chang Loi had many friends, for here I now lay, buried alive...

            Dimly, I heard high-pitched sirens. Then the crackling, hammering above. Deafening after the stillness! Splinters of Plexiglas jabbed my face. Light, painfully thrusting at me. Fresh air burst into my lungs, I gulped and heard voices: ‘Get them in the Maria...’

‘He's here, all right - we might be in time...’

            Before I collapsed in their helping hands, I glimpsed the Reg standing by the Police Maria, his thigh heavily bandaged. His radio-box hung on his belt, intact.

            In hospital, the shock of Tai-tai's gruesome murder finally hit. I cried.

            Thoughts of vengeance, of seeking out the murderous Manchurian, passed through my ravaged mind, but eight million people at Sinapore's last count is a lot of people... The hunt for the one-eyed Manchurian? I'd leave that to The Fugitive - I couldn't face it.

            Patricia? I tried saying no, but she went ahead and married me a year back. She has been with me ever since I walked away from Whitehall a free man. She has compassion; I need her and, strangely, she seems to need me. Our daughter's ten and called Veronica.

            Doubtless my rescue and subsequent good fortune will seem an anti-climax, as though Fate had contrived a happy ending. Far from it.

            My luck held the other month when a mysterious explosion rocketed the driverless tracked taxi I was travelling in. The capsule leapt off its computer-routed over-head guide-way and I ended up with multiple bruising and a broken arm. And, only two weeks ago I barely saved myself from being ‘accidentally’ shoved onto the Portsmouth tube-line as an underground train approached.

            Now, I know my death is near. Chang Loi has lost face and will use his long and powerful arm to regain his honour. Persistence will pay.

            Patricia and Veronica are well provided for. When the time comes, as surely it must soon, I've expressed a strong desire to be cremated.

            One of Tai-tai's quotations springs to mind. Rather apt, really. ‘Life is a lodging place, death is returning home.’

            I am ready, Chang Loi.

 

***

Originally published in Nova SF, 1993. Copyright Nik Morton, 2014

If you liked this story, you might like my collection of crime tales, Spanish Eye, published by Crooked Cat, which features 22 cases from Leon Cazador, private eye, ‘in his own words’.  He is also featured in the story ‘Processionary Penitents’ in the Crooked Cat Collection of twenty tales, Crooked Cats’ Tales.

Spanish Eye, released by Crooked Cat Publishing is available as a paperback and as an e-book.

 

 

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Spanish-Eye-Nik-Morton/dp/1909841315/ref=tmm_pap_title_0?ie=UTF8&qid=1399383023&sr=1-4

http://www.amazon.com/Spanish-Eye-Nik-Morton/dp/1909841315/ref=tmm_pap_title_0?ie=UTF8&qid=1399382967&sr=1-5

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Spanish-Eye-Nik-Morton-ebook/dp/B00GXK5C6S/ref=sr_1_4?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1399383023&sr=1-4&keywords=nik+morton

http://www.amazon.com/Spanish-Eye-Nik-Morton-ebook/dp/B00GXK5C6S/ref=sr_1_5?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1399382967&sr=1-5&keywords=nik+morton

Year of the Horse

No, this isn’t about equestrianism or westerns, though it could be… Tonight, all round the world, Chinese will be wearing red and celebrating New Year. Currently, it’s the year of the snake. At midnight tonight, we’ll enter the year of the horse.

‘Seeing is easy, learning is hard’ – old Chinese proverb.

I might abhor the Chinese predilection for medicines that require powdered rhino horn and the slaughter of endangered species, but there is still much to admire in their ancient culture, their resilience in the face of a traumatic history, and their ability to innovate.

The Middle Kingdom, Zhongguo or Tschin or Da Qin – the People’s Republic of China is the third-largest nation in the world in land area and has the largest population. It has the longest continuously recorded history and has given the world some of the most significant scientific and technological inventions.

‘Everything in the past died yesterday; everything in the future was born today.’ – wisdom of Kung Fu master.

 

According to the world view of ancient China, the Middle Kingdom lay precisely below the centre of the firmament. The further you were from here, the lower in the cosmic hierarchy. The unfortunate people and cultures living on the dark peripheries of the earth were considered barbarians. Until more enlightened times, the westerners thought much the same about the far east.

‘In painting the tiger, you may delineate his skin but not his bones; in your acquaintance with a man, you may know his face but not his heart.’ - wisdom of Kung Fu master.

It was supposedly Napoleon who warned, ‘Let her sleep, for when she wakes, she will shake the world’, alluding to China. As we know, in recent years there’s been no doubt that China is wide awake, an already formidable power for the new millennium, intent on perhaps dominating world commerce. This is a remarkable transformation for such an ancient country that has historically focused inward.

‘Read a few more books and talk a little less.’ – Chang Chao.

Perhaps the dark days under Mao are now merely shadows in the past. It’s too early to say.

I’ll conclude with a jewel of a truism from the Inscription on the temple of Everlasting Harmony: ‘A gem is not polished without rubbing nor a man perfected without trials.’ I think this can be applied to real individuals, male and female, as well as characters in our fiction.

Happy New Year!

 

 

Write a western in 30 Days by Nik Morton (John Hunt Publishing)

 

Bullets for a Ballot by Nik Morton (BTAP Publishing)

 

Old Guns by Ross Morton (Robert Hale)

 

 

 

Torn from the news – ‘endangered species’

Spanish Eye contains 22 cases from Leon Cazador, half-English, half-Spanish private eye.  Its just been published by Crooked Cat Publishing.

The vast majority of these cases are based on true events…  The short story ‘Endangered Species’ was first published in magazine format in 2006: here is a very brief excerpt:

Endangered Species

 “She ensures you get the best product

your money can buy.”

He had large eyes, big ears and, surprisingly, his middle finger was very long on each hand.

“He looks cute,” I said, lowering the photograph of the little aye-aye. His hair was black, and he had a long bushy tail. His eyes seemed to be expressing surprise at finding himself in a cage rather than the diminishing rainforests of Madagascar. Perhaps the daylight conditions affected him, too, which wasn’t strange really, as his kind is nocturnal. “But,” I added, shaking my head in mock concern, “my fiancée wants something a bit more exotic. Know what I mean?”

“A pity, Señor Santos, because we have many aye-ayes.” Lazaro Perez shrugged his broad shoulders as if the fate of his primates was of little concern to him.

It was a hot day, as usual, and we were glad of the air-conditioning in the roadside bar. Condensation formed little globules on the sides of our small glasses of Mahou beer. The plates had recently contained tasty tapas but were now empty, save for the odd breadcrumb.

Brushing a few crumbs off the table, Perez slid across another colour photograph. “This, I think, will be more to your fiancée’s taste, no?”

In times like these, I wondered what in my childhood had influenced me to lie so well. While I certainly had a lady close to my heart, I had no fiancée. My calling required that I adopted an alias from time to time, and as far as Perez and his business associates were concerned, I was Carlos Ortiz Santos, rather than my true self, Leon Cazador. What was one’s true self, though? I shook off such heavy introspective thoughts and studied the photograph.

*

For the rest, please read Spanish Eye…

From time to time news reports echo the Cazador tales, and this is but one of them. According to some reports, the US is the third biggest market for products obtained from this illegal trade: every Chinatown is a magnet…

Yesterday, it was reported that Prince William stated, ‘Each one of us can help by raising our voices to support [the fight against this evil]. We have to be the generation that stopped the illegal wildlife trade.’ Next February, he and others will set up a summit to urge the governments of 50 countries to fight back. See my blog of ________________.

And here’s an excerpt from my book Blood of the Dragon Trees:

‘Tigers are being hunted to extinction,’ Andrew Kirby said, ‘but I’m sure you know that.’

            Condescending swine, Laura thought, and nodded.

‘Well, tiger bone is supposed to help rheumatism. The poor animal’s nose is used for treating epilepsy and its brain gets rid of pimples and cures laziness!’

            ‘You’re kidding me, aren’t you?’ She lowered her Dorada glass, and licked the foam off her upper lip. ‘This is the twenty-first century, you know.’

            He shook his head and said ruefully, ‘I wish I was kidding. Believe it or not, Chinese stores in UK sell this banned stuff – and a lot more besides. And similar shops exist throughout Europe.’

She put out a hand and rested it on Andrew’s. ‘That’s absolutely awful. Maybe they’re only wild animals, but they’re beautiful creatures and don’t deserve to be slaughtered for idiotic reasons like removing pimples!’

            Andrew sighed. ‘If it were only so simple. For over a thousand years, the poor old tiger has been known for its supposed healing powers – pills, creams, plasters, powders in traditional Chinese medicines. And it’s not just tigers they rely on for their medicines: leopard and rhino are slaughtered to pander to their needs.’

            ‘I know the rhino isn’t the most attractive of creatures, but even I have heard that the white rhino is close to extinction.’ She smiled, gazing into memory. ‘Their babies, like the hippos, are cute, just miniatures of their parents…’

            ‘Cute doesn’t cut it where big money’s involved, Laura. Not so long ago, 150 rhino horns, valued at over two million pounds, were seized in a couple of London lock-ups.’

 

Spanish Eye paperback - UK here

Spanish Eye paperback Amazon com here

Spanish Eye uk kindle here

Spanish Eye Amazon com kindle here

Blood of the Dragon Trees uk paperback here

Blood of the Dragon Trees uk kindle here

Blood of the Dragon Trees Amazon com kindle here

“Why isn’t it selling?”

Today I was telephoned by an acquaintance whose autobiography has been published as an e-book by a small press in UK. She despairs because the book hasn’t sold very well at all, barely getting into two figures.

I sympathised. I pointed out that no matter how well written, sadly, autobiographies by ‘unknowns’ – that is people who are not celebrities – will not sell well unless they’re aggressively marketed. Even then, it will be an uphill struggle; but I've seen it done. A small publisher will have little or no marketing budget. I would advise against paying large sums of money to advertise the book, too. I asked if she used the Internet. Her answer: no, but I have a friend who does…

Whether we authors like it or not, if we want readers, we usually have to get involved in marketing our work. And that means books published by publishers as much as those self-published.

‘If I could I would always work in silence and obscurity, and let my efforts be known by their results.’ – Emily Bronte.

Most authors would prefer simply to create the next book. Now, that’s fine, but if the first one doesn’t get out there, a second one won’t necessarily do any better.

Things haven’t changed all that much, really, since the ‘good old days’.

Mid-list authors, like Jack Higgins who served his apprenticeship on crime and action fiction, were retained and nurtured in the hope of finding an audience that would not only follow them but also in the belief that the author would produce that breakout novel after years of honing his craft (as Higgins did, spectacularly, with The Eagle Has Landed) .

Mid-list authors didn’t sell in large numbers, as a rule, but gained a following as they added to their output. Reviews in the press for mid-list authors were virtually non-existent. Sales, not reviews, determined whether the mid-list author would be retained.

I’m generalising here, and there are always exceptions even to generalisations, but the trend seems to be along these lines.

Nowadays, publishers’ so-called mid-list authors are rarely maintained by the big five, since they’re considered uneconomical. They can’t afford the cost and time to nurture mid-listers.

Actually, mid-listers haven’t gone away, they’re read in the e-book world.  

E-book authors are also published in Print On Demand paperback format, but these are not mass market paperbacks, so they’re always going to be dearer to buy.

Print reviews of mid-list authors in e-book or POD are virtually non-existent.

Now, however, new authors and mid-list authors can market their books via the social media. Now, they can gain reviews online at online bookstores, and in various book blogs and Facebook groups. Indeed, mid-list authors can obtain reviews where before they never could.

You can probably see where this is heading.

‘A boy has to peddle his book.’ – Truman Capote.

Authors need to market online, because that’s where your book will be visible most.

Yes, authors love to have their books on bookshelves in bookstores. But stop to think about it. Unless you’re a big name, who commands considerable shelf-space, you’ll be lucky to see one or two copies of your book there – and they won’t be there long, because every week thousands more books are published, all fighting for that same limited shelf-space; your book’s life on the shop’s shelf is measured in weeks, if not days. Online shelf-space is slightly more egalitarian – new unknowns can rub shoulders with the famous by dint of the category or selection of the online browser.

I’m a writer, not a salesperson! That’s the cry of many authors. Fair comment. But it won’t wash in the floodtide of competition out there. You’ll just be sunk – almost without trace.

Primarily, I believe the majority of writers have to write because they want to be read; payment for honest toil is welcome, of course. But we need to be read – and unless we produce a tome that sells by word of mouth, we’re going to have to market it. No, don’t use the sales pitch of a snake-oil salesman – ‘a wonderful account of…’ Be honest about what your book offers; it won’t be for everyone – so think about the niche market it will appeal to, and try aiming your endeavours there. If you get honest reviews, quote them, because the reviewers have been good enough to read and comment on your work, after all.

‘A book is like a garden carried in the pocket’ – Chinese proverb.  Now, the author has to sow the seeds to see his book grow in popularity and readership.

This doesn’t mean posting a blatant sales pitch every day on Facebook. Besides being irritating to regular browsers, they’ll be deleted from email links without reading. You need to genuinely connect with your online readership. If a subject crops up that relates to your book’s theme or subject, fine, give it a plug, but don’t belabour the point. The most annoying adverts on TV are the ‘shout ads’ that demand you use this, buy that; I’m surprised they’re still around, surely they turn off most viewers?

Bear in mind what Isaac Asimov once said: ‘Writing is the most wonderful and satisfying task in the world, but it does have one or two significant flaws. Among those flaws is the fact that a writer can almost never make a living at it.’ You might, if you grasp the marketing nettle. If you don’t, then you probably won’t.

 

Torn from today’s headlines-01

While I write fiction, much of it is based on real or even current events. Whether that’s my Tana Standish spy stories set in the 1970s-1980s, or my contemporary tales about Sister Rose and PI Leon Cazador.

PEOPLE-SMUGGLING GANG UNCOVERED

Reported this week, a Chinese smuggling gang was busted by French and Spanish police. Seventy-five people were arrested, 51 in Spain, 24 in France, including the two Barcelona-based heads of the organisation. Some of the people trafficked ended up in the sex trade. The gang charged up to £43,000 to transport Chinese nationals to Britain, the US, Spain, France, Greece, Italy and Turkey. The gang’s main European hub was Barcelona airport, a stopping off point where false documentation was prepared. (Photo - 2 days ago)

The truth is, Europe is being swamped by illegal immigrants from Africa, the Middle East and even Asia, many of them fleeced by criminal gangs of life-savings for the promise of a better life.

Excerpt from BLOOD OF THE DRAGON TREES

Vargas gestured at the beach. ‘As you can see, Mr Kirby, I have my hands full these days.’ He spoke in English as Kirby had confessed his Spanish wasn’t too good.

‘Yes, I can see only too well,’ Kirby replied. Tall, blond, tanned and dressed in khaki shirt and shorts, Kirby felt rather unkempt next to Vargas, who was immaculate in his avocado green uniform with its two gold star shoulder-flashes. Vargas had thick lips, a prominent chin and slightly protruding ears. He exuded competence and authority.

Kirby looked out to sea. Offshore, the twin diesels of the Guardia Civil boat Rio Palma purred, perhaps reflecting the satisfaction of its crew.

Forty-four African illegal immigrants were being helped ashore from their dilapidated 30ft-long open boat. The immigrants struggled to stand, their legs unused to firm ground after a seven hundred mile sea journey. Policemen wore protective facemasks and paper bodysuits and, with practiced ease, they stripped the Africans of their filthy clothing and dressed them in garish shell-suits and flip-flops. A mobile field hospital was drawn up on the dockside. Ambulances started ferrying the few who were being brought ashore on stretchers.

UK short Url is - http://goo.gl/fsLk3X

Amazon.com short Url is - http://goo.gl/wHQpQp