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I met Clive Leevering last December, during dessert at the home of a soon to be in law in Shanghai. I’d registered his existence over the previous courses. Firstly as a shell of a man lying in a wheelchair. Then as a grumpy, irritable sod with a long suffering Chinese nurse a third of his age (which’d put her in her mid twenties) spooning mashed up confit of duck and pouring thimblefuls of wine into his mouth.
By this time I was glad that I hadn’t pitied him and engaged him in conversation. By the time he’d quite deliberately dribbled mashed up sea bass onto his lap – forcing the nurse to attend to his crotch with a damp cloth – I decided that he fully deserved to be left alone and miserable. It was a condition he seemed to thrive on.
So, while I was enjoying my ice cream and pistachio financier, I was a bit put out to see the old letch gazing over the table and fixing me with a curious, exploratory stare.
“You look bored young man.” the old soak said. Hie spoke with a somewhat out of date accent that originated in the years prior to 1939 and his speech was further confused by the splutter of his paper thin lips and his almost heroic consumption of alcohol.
“No not at all.” I replied, in as pleasant a tone as I could muster.
“You do. You look bored.” He insisted, nodding to himself with certainty and revealing that for all his abundant faults, he was a man with a good insight into character: I was indeed bored out of my mind.
“Leave the fellow alone grandfather.” Said a gorgeous, willowy blonde in a little black dress at the head of the table as she gave me a look that said “Sorry, he does this all the time.”
“Why don’t you leave him alone?” replied the old man, warming to his misanthropic theme. “I’m sure this young man’s bored out of his wits by this talk of stocks, share portfolios and how you’re all going to retire at forty to renovate farmhouses in Tuscany.” A titter of laughter came from another old man at the far end of the table.
As the other guests did their best to not look uncomfortable, Leevering continued his rant. “This chap looks like the only one here with lead in his pencil. Tell me young man, do you like……” he left the air heavy with an ominous pause. “…spy stories?” he said finally. Next to him the Chinese nurse stood to attention, stony faced and betraying just a trace of irritation, like a well behaved Persian cat.
“Yes… why not?” I could only reply. I have to say my politeness was beginning to give way to actual interest in what the old man had on his mind.
“Splendid. Ting Ting, wheel me into the study and bring a bottle of brandy. Come young fellow lets leave these number crunchers to their private hell.” I stood warily, glanced at my fiancé who gave me a “You probably ought to” smile together with a “you should have ignored him and shut up” roll of the eyes and I followed the Chinese nurse as she wheeled Clive Leevering from the dining room to the afore mentioned study. The tittering man at the far end of the table, also elderly and rather stern if quite sprightly, had also decided to leave and passed me in the corridor. He twirled a walking stick which brushed uncomfortably against my leg as he passed me without a word. “Leaving already old man? Cant say I blame you.” called out Leevering cheerily. Obviously he found it easier to be civil with others just as old and obnoxious as himself.
The study was filled principally by two padded leather armchairs and a rather inconsequential, unloved few shelves of books. At a glance they were all either atlases, dictionaries and autobiographies. All looked to be in suspiciously immaculate condition. I doubt very much whether this room had ever lent itself to any sort of studying. Out the window was a terrific view of Shanghai: lit up in yellow and red like a forbidding far eastern theme park, which is exactly what the place is.
I sat opposite Leevering. The nurse poured good measures of brandy into two glasses and, leaving the second chair empty, stood to attention next to her employer’s wheelchair.
“Now young man, time for a story all about spies. This happened to me far before your time. 1959. At that time, I too had lead in my pencil but I was much keener on spreading it around and not sticking to one woman like you. Getting married at your age – what a barmy notion! Not a good idea young fellow. I don't think you're really the marrying kind. Too keen on the ladies. I can tell you’re rather struck by my granddaughter, the blonde in the little black dress...aren’t you? You don’t need to answer. At my age all I need is a pair of ears to listen to me. Don’t worry though, I shan’t bore you with this story.” The nurse poured some of the brandy between his lips. I took a sip myself as he cleared his throat before continuing.
“So, it was 1959. I’d just made an
of myself in the City. I shan’t go into too much detail. The official unofficial reason for my dismissal was that I’d been licking a little cream from the top of the company’s pot and had quietly been asked to resign. The actual reason was that I’d been…. over friendly with the Chairman’s youngest daughter. Anyway, the point is that I was FILTH. You know that one? Stands for Failed In London Try Honkers? I was off to the far east with a suitcase, some over generous references and the vague conviction that it was a place where a man could take a good stab at getting himself some easy lolly and easy young lovelies. From take off at Heathrow I was toasting this happy fact and the fellow next to me was all too happy to join in.”I drained my glass. The nurse obliged me by instantly refilling my glass as Leevering went on.
“So it was that I met my first spy. I’ve met others since so now I’m in a position to say that he was rather good at his job. In fact, he was absolutely first class. Naturally, back then I didn't know the first thing about that world and in any case I hadn’t a clue he was a spy for some time yet. I took at face value his story of being employed by an import export company and made small talk as I annoyed the waitresses by ordering round after round of drinks. He more than held his own when it came to knocking back the vodka and we made the sort of small talk two fellows make when they’re complete strangers getting plastered together on a long haul flight.
Now, in those days it was the done thing for long haul flights, even by jet, to make several stop offs. Planes had to refuel you see. One of these was in Calcutta and it was there, as I was getting my first blast of the damned Asiatic heat, that he made me a proposal. If I hadn’t had been drinking solidly throughout the time it had taken to cross one and a half continents I’d have wondered what he was on about and not found it at all funny. As it was, I was three sheets to the wind and found his idea hilarious.
Now, we were about the same height. He had maybe half an inch on me. The same build. The same dark hair in the same style. The same colour eyes. He was a couple of years older and his skin was a bit darker as he was more used to the tropics but the only big difference was a thin scar on his right cheek. He pointed out that we could easily pass as identical twins in the eyes of a Cantonese customs officer. So he suggested, for chuckles, to swap passports and pretend to be each other for an evening then meet up later and have a good old laugh about it. I know, not the best practical joke you ever heard eh? But after all that vodka it seemed a great idea.
Back on the plane we swapped passports. His name was Bond, James Bond. Passport was full of stamps from all sorts of places. He laughed that off when I asked him about it and we went back to the drinking before a good long snooze.
So, at Hong Kong I passed through customs smiling dutifully to the customs officer and holding in my hand the address of a hotel in Kowloon that Bond was in the habit of staying at. I turned to wave goodbye to Bond but he made a point of avoiding my gaze and a rather chubby girl standing behind him looked bright eyed as she decided that my wave was aimed at her. I turned in a hurry and made my way to the baggage carousel where I picked up Bond’s suitcase. I then headed straight for a sign bearing his name held by a lovely Chinese girl with those delightfully pert breasts they often have. “Clive old fellow”, I said to myself, “You’ve well and truly landed on your feet here!”
Thinking myself the king of the orient I was taken to a car which brought me straight to the hotel. There, the clerk commented that I seemed to’ve lost a little waight since I’d been away. I was then taken to my “usual suite” which was filled with the “usual comforts” - bottles of vodka and bourbon were waiting for me.
I was in the middle of a shower when the phone rang. I walked across the room naked and dripping to answer it. The voice on the other end was parrot like and squawked in the way only an excited China girl can. The gist was that I was invited to partake of the delights of Madam Wai’s House Of A Thousand Heavenly Pleasures and that the girls were most excited to see me again after my last visit. She asked when I’d like the driver to pick me up. My meeting with Bond wasn’t until 10pm and it was only 7.30. I decided there was plenty of time for some heavenly pleasure on his account first so I asked for the car to come straight away.
The car was not up to the standard of the first motor. It was driven by a turbaned Indian, which took me back a bit, and was full of Hindu junk of the green jade elephant sort. He dropped me off in an alleyway next door to a place where skinny Chinese lads were piling fish heads into the back of a truck (I’ve never really come up with a satisfactory reason why this should be, never seen it since). When he saw that I looked perplexed the Hindu chap waved me toward a green doorway with paint flaking onto the floor beneath it. I hurled it open expecting to be faced with more sweaty boys in vests carrying buckets of fish heads but instead found a crimson carpeted, oak panelled room flanked by two young China girls in silk gowns, beckoning me in. I decided that these must be at least two of the thousand heavenly pleasures and stepped inside, taking a second to pinch each of their bottoms, at which they gave rather forced twittery giggles.
I walked deeper into the heart of Madam Wai’s House of a Thousand Heavenly Treasures and was met by an older, decrepit wretch of a China woman I took to be Madam Wai. She mentioned that I’d gotten a little paler since my last visit and hoped that on this occasion I would be free to sample her wares. She then led me to a corner table. Along one wall were a dozen of the nimblest, tastiest creatures you ever saw, from all corners of the globe.
I waved over a tall, blonde example with aristocratic looks. Haughty yet tarty - like a lusty fox. You know the type? Madam Wai introduced her as Irina, daughter of white Russians who had escaped the revolution. I gave her a good look over then waved over another, a splendid little China girl introduced as Mingmei. I decided it was high time I had a taste of the local delicacies and selected the china girl.
No sooner had I got her disrobed and onto a bed than I heard footsteps trudging down the corridor outside. The door burst open and in marched three great big china men with meat cleavers.
One of them dragged me from the bed and pushed me up against the wall. Then they started talking. Apparently, if I didn’t let them know some scientist’s whereabouts and leave Hong Kong within the next twenty four hours they would find me again, cut off my old chap, fry it with spring onions and feed it to me.
They then took it upon themselves to take my trousers, underpants, shirt, wallet, shoes – the lot – and walked off with them.
I walked back into what I suppose you’d call the reception, completely starkers. Madam Wai, quite unfazed, handed me my bill. It was twice what we had agreed. I was being charged for Irina as well as Mingmei’s time. Clearly talking was equal to copulating in Madam Wai’s eyes – or at least the two things cost the same. At that point I really ought to have grabbed hold of Irina and had my money’s worth but I wasn’t really feeling up to it. With a snarl, Madam Wai grudgingly accepted my apologies related to the loss of my wallet and clothes. She provided some replacements, which turned out to be an old sweaty vest - probably from the fish head place next door - and a pair of shoes and trousers, presumably from clients who’d also left in a hurry.
I made it to the meeting at a half past ten. Bond was there waiting, not obviously perturbed and already he seemed to know that I’d be telling him something along the lines of: “Listen old son, you need to tell some Chinese chap whose name I didn't catch about the whereabouts of some scientist within twenty four hours or you run the risk of having your old fellow lopped off and fed to you. Oh and you owe Madam Wai’s House of a Thousand Heavenly Pleasures a few thousand too.”
He nodded solemnly and suggested I try the shark’s fin soup, I might find it reviving.
“This is a small problem. Small beer. Loose change.” He murmured. I told him he was very noble, but that the fellows had seemed very serious. He told me not to worry. They were only Chinese secret service. Too busy shooting intellectuals in Sichuan to put much of their resources into Hong Kong. The real battle was elsewhere.
Then he told me that he needed me to keep being him for twenty four hours. He also commented, rather condescendingly, upon my poor choice of hotel.
I was too damned frightened to argue. But I think my lack of enthusiasm was obvious. Needless to say I’d have preferred the confusion over who was who to've been sorted out long before the fellows with meat cleavers came back on the scene. Anyway, the next evening I found myself fortified with scotch and in Macao, at the Casino Lisboa. Macao was really something in those days. It still is of course but it’s far more vulgar. The Americans have come in from Las Vegas to take advantage of the Chinese addiction to gambling. In those days it was still vulgar but our sort of vulgar, if you follow me. Far better. I didn’t feel out of place in a tuxedo. Now I’d feel out of place in anything other than a Hawaiian shirt.
I sat at the baccarat table and, as Bond had told me, an obscenely fat Chinese who looked like he might be single handedly responsible for the food shortages on the mainland was in residence, winning slightly more often than he lost. He was rather like an oriental Churchill: he’d the same regal, stubborn air. His name was Fatty Wang and after an hour or so he finally acknowledged me with a hate filled look which accompanied words of infinite pleasantness and good humour.
He complimented me on my game (which I’d only learned that afternoon from Bond in his hotel room - I was enjoying a run of thoroughly undeserved beginner’s luck which on any other night would have greatly improved my mood). He announced he was leaving the table and offered to buy me a drink. As per my instructions from Bond I did exactly as he asked. He bought me what has to be the worst cocktail I’ve ever tasted. Rice wine laced with tiger penis mixed with grenadine and gin. A foul creation. Anyway, we got down to business.
He wanted twenty thousand dollars in return for the location of the scientist. Incidentally, I never knew who this wretched scientist was. I’d been instructed to haggle as best I could and that was where my instructions ended.
At that moment the casino was rocked by a dreadful explosion. Have you ever seen gamblers panic young man? Amusing sight. They abandon all decorum and sense of dignity as the survival instinct takes hold - yet they still grab onto as many chips as they can carry. Then someone drops a stack and suddenly no one knows whether to keep running or to grab a free few hundred dollars. So, the floor of the casino became a writhing mass of people either rolling around on the floor grabbing at chips, or being catapulted through the air as they tripped over the greedy fools.
For my part I was petrified to the extent that not only blood but every muscle and bodily organ had turned cold and it would’ve required a bomb under my own chair to move me. You see, I’m not proud. Bravery isn’t much different from stupidity in my opinion.
However, this stationary performance motivated by sheer terror created the impression that I was a cool customer and Fatty Wang – who certainly was a tiresomely calm, collected sort - regarded me with a sort of respect... as well as intense annoyance. The same was true of the two tough sorts that had appeared either side of his slobbery, tuxedo’d frame.
The room gradually cleared, and there was no sound other than the occasional gunshot from the second floor. “You do no impress me Mr Bond. I have little time for these games.” said Wang.
I could only muster a sort of croak from my throat, “Games?”
“The stiff upper lip does not amuse me. Stop this. Call off your men.” He said, or words to that effect. I was one gun shot away from wetting myself. Then, one of the chaps next to him pulled out a long, thick blade, I’d imagine it was the ideal sort of size for todger chopping. I had to hold very tight on my sphincter I can assure you. Then he held it against my neck, the blade grazing against the skin and cutting into maybe a tenth of an inch of flesh. Fill up your glass old man? Ting Ting!”
I was feeling a bit giddy but didn’t complain as the surly nurse uncorked the rapidly emptying bottle once more and filled my glass to the brim.
“I don’t even know why I did it, but I began drinking. The blade was pushed to my throat and some motor reflex forced me to grab at every available glass on the table and swallow the contents. I drank everything within arm's reach: Martini, Negroni, Daiquiri, Screwdriver - one after the other. Fatty Wang began counting to ten. At that point, just to prove my total lack of backbone, I passed out.
When I woke, my situation had changed somewhat. I was tucked up in bed and a cup of what turned out to be cocoa was at the side of the bed, sadly cold. After I’d passed out, Bond had been able to accomplish what he’d come to do: which was to blow Fatty Wang's brains out. As he'd begun counting to ten, Bond had crept up behind him, one shot to the base of the skull and it was over. I, Clive Leevering, had been a diversionary tactic.”
Sensing the story had come to an end, I didn’t quite know what to say, “.....did you mind?”
“Young man, when one is in that far over one’s head you don’t have enough awareness of what’s going on to be outraged. I was, at that point, like a pot plant: dumb and unable to really engage with what was happening around me. They could have dumped me on a street. Luckily, they took pity on me and put a good word in with some employers in Honkers. I haven’t seen England since. Then there’s Ting Ting?”
“Ting Ting?”
“Yes, a freebie from Madam Wai’s House Of A Thousand Heavenly Pleasures, organised by Bond himself.”
“So you saw him again?”
“Indeed I do, once every year. The fellow hates being in England at Christmas and feels a sort of debt to me, just as I owe him for every time MI6 have had a word in the right person's ear on my behalf - they've more than paid me back for those few hours of sheer terror in service of Her Majesty.
“Every Christmas? So you'll see him soon?”
Leevering smiled. “These days he uses a stick.”