What a spectacular sight! Seen from the window of my Learjet at ten thousand feet, Hong Kong is a dot surrounded by a group of the greenest islands you’ve ever seen. And don’t harrumph and snort through your nose and tell me you’ve seen greener when you were in Malaya with your regiment and a dose of the clap, old chap. Because unlike your average tropical islands, these ones are delightfully mountainous, great curved, folded slanting tentlike mountains, like a cloth of green baize draped over your balls and donger.
There are better ways to see them than this, what with the silenced colt shoved up under my ribs, the door open, and a Bulgarian drug smuggler attempting to shove me out sans parachute. But then, a spy’s job is never done, and one must catch these glimpses of scenery in the midst of being shot at, garrotted, and what have you. I recently boosted a female spy up a tree, simultaneously taking the time to admire the most gorgeous little birds’ nest between two branches. We spies can do several things at once. Multitasking, it’s called.
I really can’t overstress the majesty of Hong Kong islands seen from the air. Pretend to be falling out the doorway, then grasp your Bulgarian drug smuggler firmly to your chest as you tumble from the aircraft. He’s the one wearing the mini parachute, else he’d never have risked opening the door, what with your fearsome reputation for narrow escapes. Well, mine anyway, but I’m assuming you’re a similarly swashbuckling fellow? Splendid, I thought as much.
Position your Bulgarian drug dealer beneath you as you fall Hong-Kongward, using him as an air brake, and take the time to admire the little tracks in the sea between the islands. Is that a majestic old Chinese junk transporting nubile young women to some gambling tycoon’s luxurious private island? I can’t tell, there’s a Bulgarian’s earlobe in the way. Have you noticed, in passing, the size of the average Bulgarian criminal mastermind’s earlobes? No? These little details escape the average folk, but we swashbucklers are trained to notice. Looks like we won’t need the parachute, his earlobes are large enough to blot out Kowloon City.
At three thousand feet the mountain peaks are all around you, and you’re swooping past majestic green slopes. That’s an Airbus A 380 that’s just blasted past us, with some wobbly-chinned blubberguts foreign tourist staring at us out the window.
At this point it’s advisable to put your Bulgarian in a rear-naked-choke, so you can extract his parachute without too many objections. Drop him in the drink, there’s plenty more Bulgarians, and the sharkies here are a bit thin, the poor dears. Of course it’s rather cruel to feed them Bulgarians, but what’s a chap to do?
Glide down to a soft landing at Hong Kong airport, and take the train to the city. It’s as smooth as a South East Asian train, you’ll have a view of the islands and sea, and in forty minutes you’ll arrive at Hong Kong, or thirty mins for Kowloon.
How does one exit the underground train station? It’s a complex maze, fortunately it’s also an underground mall, so all conveniences are at hand. Take some time to laugh at the Americans who want to know the way to Starbucks. Dispose of the silenced Colt that you took from the Bulgaian by placing it in Hank’s butt crack, where it will never be found. Consider stowing your parachute there too. Leap over the railing and take an elevator up to ground level, and walk out into the street. That tall building above you is a great landmark to remember, it marks the train station, so as long as you can spot it, you won’t get lost.
Marvel at the taste of Britain! People driving on the left! London buses and electrified trams! Luverly! Take a moment to luxuriate in the pride of being British. The Empire lives and people are happy! Unlike over the border, in Guangzhou for example, where everyone’s busy driving on the wrong side of the road and being Chinese. Poor sods!
It can be hot here of course, but not the swelter of the tropics, and air conditioning is always close to hand. Take a stroll to Soho, where you’ll see a taste of Chinese street life, markets spread throughout narrow alleys and all over the footpath. This is the fabulous markets of Hong Kong! Don’t step on that crab, it’s crawled out of those plastic containers with the hoses and oxygenators, on its way back to the sea. Spirited little blighter, eh? You’ve had similar escapes yourself, naturally, being dunked in tanks with sharks and whatnot by evil Chinamen is an average day for the gentleman spy.
Your contact is named Liu, she’s alleged to be the real power behind the scenes here, and you’re to meet her at the Red Lantern Cafe, which is most definitely not a cafe. The curtains hang heavy at all the windows concealing secrets only guessed at, and the front room is extremely perfunctory in its cover of “Chinese Friendship Society”. These underworld heavyweights hardly need a front for their nefarious business, and you’re rapidly rushed through corridors heavy with the scent of opium, past sleeping chaps huddled beside long pipes and dreaming the dream of the addicted. Into a room of gilded rococo splendour, and there she is, twenty-two years old, with a curtain of raven hair and laughing eyes, and draped in the sheerest red dress ever made, slender and shapely as a Cheetah.
She’ll take your hand and lead you away to her luxuriously appointed private junk on Victoria Harbour, where you may probe her for information as you sail through the islands together. Egad, this relationship building with foreign powers really is a treat, what! Cheerio!
Lord Flynn Esquire, British Secret Service