BLOOD DRAGON

by Freddie P Peters

  Jack hesitated for a short moment he had a clean shot. He pulled back, remembering the taxi had been shot at and suddenly remembering the cabbie inside it.

  The old man had dived sideways, hands over his ears. Jack worried he had been hit. He opened the door in one swoop and leaned over the driver.

  “Are you alright?” Jack touched his shoulder lightly.

  The cabbie shuddered and removed his hands from his face. He sat up slowly. “Fifty years I’ve been driving a cab … 50 years … never been shot at.”

  “I’m very sorry about this …” Jack was genuinely upset for the old boy. “I’ll make sure the damage is taken care of.”

  “Fifty years …” The cabbie kept shaking his head in disbelief.

  Jack could almost hear it. Bloody Yanks … come to London and think it’s Chicago.

  “I know … I’ll make sure you’re not out of pocket.”

  The old man’s face broke into a smile. “Wait until I tell Di …” He chuckled. “Never … in 50 years.” He pushed his cap back on his head still smiling.

  “That’s the second time in less than 24 hours, Jack.” Jethro had poured himself a coffee and Jack had opted for water. “Don’t you think it’s time you got back to work? Clearly holidays do not suit you.”

  “Or perhaps I need a change of destination.”

  Jethro Greeney raised a quizzical eyebrow. “If you’re not safe in London, where else in the world are you going to be safe?”

  Jack pursed his lips. He did not need to be safe, he needed answers.

  “Anyway, we’ll take care of the cab once the police have received your statement. The British are going to want some answers. It’s one thing being set upon by some thugs late at night. It’s another when you have a gunman targeting you in broad daylight in the middle of London.”

  “I’m a CIA agent. I’m sure you can convince them I’ve made a few enemies in my long and distinguished career.”

  “That’s the problem. The Brits don’t want to have a high noon gunfight on their doorstep, and frankly, I can’t blame them.”

  “I’d love to give you the name and address of those guys, but I didn’t get a chance to ask for a business card.”

  Greeney did not dignify Jack with a response.

  “Seriously, I really have no idea who they were.”

  “I hope not …” Greeney drank some of his coffee and scanned Jack with a doubtful eye. “And unfortunately, we have to let your boss know.”

  “I’ll take care of that.” Jack cleared his throat and drank some water.

  “You have until the end of today to do that, after that I’ll make the call myself.”

  Jack said back in his chair, nodding an okay.

  “Now, about this Nancy Wu you’ve been talking about. I’ve made some progress.”

  You mean your team has made some progress. But Jack shut up. He simply wanted the information.

  “She has just booked a ticket on today’s last BA flight to Hong Kong.”

  * * *

  Nancy parked the Aston Martin in one short sweep and opened the door. She bent forward over the gutter. She was about to be sick. The taste of bile in her mouth felt acrid. She gave a few gasps and slumped back into the car seat.

  What had she been thinking off?

  The complexity of the search for her father, the Ollie Wilson case and Pole’s dangerous position had created the perfect storm. But she was damned if she would let herself drown. She was a survivor, and a seasoned one too.

  She opened the water bottle kept in the dividing compartment between the two front seats and took a few gulps. The clock on the dashboard of the Vantage indicated it was 2.30pm. The flight departed at 9pm from London Heathrow.

  She had booked business class. First class seemed too ostentatious and might attract attention. In business, she would merge with the crowd of businessmen and women who regularly commuted between the two countries.

  She needed to be at the airport an hour beforehand, she would allow herself another hour’s journey time. It might be cutting it fine, but she was used to travelling on a tight schedule.

  Back in her apartment, Nancy moved straight to her computer. She resumed her search and within seconds found Deng Xiao Ping’s profile again. Nancy read a few times the small paragraph which told her that Deng’s ancestors and family had come from Sichuan province. His father, a mid-level landowner, had studied in Chengdu, at its Law University. He was by all accounts a prominent local man.

  Born in 1904, Deng received a traditional education and joined the Communist Party of China in 1923.

  Nancy’s heart was racing as she read the text once more.

  The garden is immaculate, and she has been running around the white pebbled alleys. The famous Sichuan pepper trees form part of a row of trees that define the borders of the narrow paths. There are orchids and other flowers she can’t quite make out. Bamboos taller than the house lean against the garden wall. She plays hide and seek with her mother. Her father is calling them yet they are having too much fun.

  He is trying to sound annoyed, but his heart is not in it. He would much rather join them in the giddy race.

  But someone else is in the house.

  Her mother finally catches her and tickles her. He can hear the laughter.

  “We’d better go … grandfather is visiting, and he doesn’t like to be made to wait.”

  The house smells of spices … she is now sitting on a chair with her mother. Her father is speaking to a man that looks so very old … she has been told not to stare but she can’t help it.

  Her mother squeezes her arm to make her stop and she drops her gaze. She doesn’t quite understand what they are saying. Her Chinese is good, but the conversation is too complicated. There are lots of words she still doesn’t know … grown up words.

  Her grandfather calls her Bo. It’s her Chinese name and he asks her to approach him. She looks at her mother who nods at her and mouths “It’s okay.”

  The old man bends forward. She can smell his breath, and she almost recoils, but has learned to be polite. The serious face comes closer to hers and breaks into a smile. He takes something out of his pocket and hands it over to her. It’s the most exquisite carving and she is struck by its beauty.

  Nancy hadn’t recalled this early memory for years. She never discussed it with her father nor her mother. All that might have helped her trace her ancestry has been thrown away. Anger had not been a good counsellor.

  Most of the papers that her father and mother had carefully saved on their perilous trip to escape China had been burnt to a cinder. It had been reckless but there it was.

  She looked at her watch, another three hours to go before she must leave.

  Was it all worth it? Discovering whether her father had been an ally of Deng? But the anxiety of not knowing who he truly was would not disappear until she had the answer.

  She gave a short exhale and returned to the screen.

  She browsed a few websites. After all, everything was on the net these days, and, nevertheless amazed, she found a web page dealing with Chinese ancestry. It was written in English since it was targeted at the Hong Kong market.

  She inputted with feverish fingers the name of her father, Li Jie Wu, his birth date and Chengdu, the main city of Sichuan province, and pressed the return button. The English page remained blank but a link appeared to two pages written in Chinese.

  Nancy thumped the desk in frustration and abandoned the search. She went to the small box in which she kept some of the older papers. A couple of them were written in Chinese. She had kept them because the calligraphy on the finest rice paper was exquisite.

  She tried to recall the meaning of the characters but it had been too long.

  It was hopeless. She needed more time. She would need to expand the search when she had reached Hong Kon
g.

  There was a more pressing matter that needed her attention. To convince Cora not to follow her on the trip. She was going alone. She had to.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  “I have spoken again to the Jersey bank that holds Ollie Wilson’s bank account. I’ve investigated their track record, and called the FCA to check their credentials. Nothing major to report, a few incidents like in any other bank. The guy I spoke to on the phone was helpful. He was cautious but I didn’t sense he felt guilty about the transactions we discussed. He is coming back to me with an explanation as to why they didn’t query the flows when they started happening regularly.”

  “But was he the person in charge of Wilson’s account?” Pole was sitting at his desk, toying with the mobile phone that lay on it.

  “No, he runs the team of advisors who speaks to the clients direct.”

  “So could the person who authorised the transactions, have left of their own accord or even being sacked?” Pole had hung his jacket over the back of his chair and rolled up his sleeves, tie loosened from around his neck.

  The cold spell outside had pushed the office temperature to almost tropical … the women in the office loved it, but the men not so much so … so far, the women were winning.

  Andy scrolled through his iPad. “Ollie Wilson’s account has been allocated to a new person … you’re right. His predecessor took early retirement.”

  Pole stopped playing with his phone. “He ‘s been paid off.”

  Andy removed his thick glasses from his nose, fished a well-used tissue out of his pocket and dabbed his eyes. “That’s a good point, Guv … he could have been offered good money to keep quiet about the regular payments.”

  “Once the first payment is authorised, and as long as the other payments are for a similar amount, they don’t trigger the money laundering alert.”

  “That must be what happened here.” Andy was meticulously cleaning his glasses with the corner of his shirt. He replaced the spectacles on his nose with a smile … much better. “And no one is going to do another check on the origin of the funds or the identity of the account holders.”

  “What about the banks making and receiving the payments?”

  “Some progress there … from Malta we’ve reached an account in Estonia with Deutsche Bank.”

  Pole loosened his tie a little more. “We are getting closer to identifying the owner of the account?”

  Andy nodded.

  “Check again with Yvonne, will you, about the composition of the drug that sent Ollie Wilson over the edge. Rob’s NCA contact sent me the molecular composition of what they intercepted from the Russians. She’s already got that.”

  “You think there might be a link?”

  “I’m not a betting man, but if I were, I would say yes … That would link Wilson to a Russian drug cartel.”

  “You don’t seem to be convinced, Gov.”

  “I might have been convinced if Branning hadn’t turned up the documents Wilson sent to his colleague in Hong Kong. Wilson seemed to be a damn site more concerned and involved with China than the Russians …” Pole interrupted himself, his attention diverted by a voice he seldom heard on his floor … an excellent thing in his view.

  Marsh walked from the lift onto the open plan office. He stopped, as he always did whenever he honoured them with a visit, to speak to some poor sods who were trying to do their jobs.

  At least Pole had the advantage of knowing he was on his way, his booming voice carrying across the space.

  Andy began to look a little nervous. Pole for once shared his DS’s feelings as he remembered Marsh’s plan for a four-eye review of the evidence found in the Ferguson inquiry.

  “Wait to go back to your desk until he’s come in here, otherwise he’ll insist you go through the burner phone evidence from A to Z with him.”

  Andy looked truly alarmed at the thought. Marsh did not like details, which Andy revelled in. Marsh liked speedy conclusions, Andy preferred to take his time.

  “One quick question before the Super comes in … the burner phone we identified, you said it was on the premises, but could it simply have been very close by? For example, across the road on the banks of the Thames Embankment opposite the building itself or even near the reception area?” Pole spoke with a sense of urgency.

  Andy’s head was turned towards the door, surveying Marsh’s progress.

  “It would have to be closer than the embankment, but the pavement outside the building or the entrance next to the reception area would work …” Andy started to stand up. “Or perhaps the back of the building … there is a little garden that very few people use.”

  Pole nodded encouragingly. “Someone outside surveying the building from close up, for example, and using a burner phone.”

  “That’s possible.”

  “How sure are you about that?” Pole’s voice became insistent.

  “Yes, yes … that is definitely possible.”

  Marsh stood in the doorway, waiting for Pole to welcome him with the courtesy owed to his seniority.

  “Sir, how good of you to pay us a visit.” Pole stood up.

  Andy made his excuses, muttering something about Ollie Wilson’s account.

  Marsh moved out of his way to let him through. His lunch with Nancy had gone well. The Super was in a good mood.

  “Has your DS made some inroads into the burner phone issue?”

  Pole invited Marsh to sit. He needn’t have bothered, as Marsh had already grabbed the back of the chair to place it at an angle to Pole’s desk.

  “We were just talking about that.”

  Marsh squeezed his heavy frame into the seat, resting his elbows on the armrests. He was all ears.

  “It might be tempting to think that the burner phone was on the Scotland Yard premises, but it is equally possible that the phone and its owner were outside the building.”

  Marsh cocked his head. “You mean someone undertaking surveillance, keeping tabs on the place and the people inside?”

  Pole had to give it to Marsh, he was not a complete dickhead. “That’s a real possibility.”

  Marsh moved his head forward. His fingertips had joined in front of his face, lightly touching his lips. “There are hundreds of CCTV cameras in the area … We should be able to see something.”

  “That’s what Andy is going to do next. Although the Ollie Wilson case is starting to gain traction.”

  “Any new developments worth mentioning?”

  “Nothing that requires your attention, Sir.” As much as Pole very much wanted to direct Marsh’s attention away from the Ferguson inquiry, he judged that it might not justify the bother, if Marsh got involved in that case to the same extent.

  Marsh pursed his lips, disappointed.

  “Well, I have news of my own … I spoke to Ms Wu.”

  Pole sat back in his seat, bracing himself for a lengthy account in which Marsh would give a blow by blow account of their lunch.

  “As reluctant as I am to admit it, I think Ms Wu is not quite telling us the truth.”

  * * *

  She rested the book slowly on the immaculate white sheet. She had heard it was good for coma patients to hear familiar voices, voices of the people they loved and who loved them. Johnny had run to the bookshelf and brought back a small compilation of Yeats love poems. Cora had found the words that Ollie used to recite to her when they had first met … All to show her he was not a soulless biotech geek …

  It had worked. She had only put up a resistance, because she’d been too frightened to let him know how much she already cared for him.

  “The rose in the depth of his heart,” she murmured and sank back a little into the chair, still holding his hand. The rhythmic noise of the instruments now attached to Ollie’s body permanently had become almost unnoticeable.

  From time to ti
me his hand twitched, raising her hopes, but the doctor had been very clear that this happened with most patients, a simple reflex of the nerves to touch.

  Her mobile phone buzzed in her jacket pocket. She hesitated but dragged it out, prepared to ignore it. Nancy’s name was flashing on the screen. She stood up in a small jump. A call from a friend was exactly what she needed.

  “Cora … how are you? Can you talk?”

  “I’m at the hospital. It’s good to hear your voice … it’s so bleak here.”

  “Perhaps I could call a little later.”

  “No, that’s fine … please tell me what’s on your mind.” Cora had gently laid Ollie’s hand back on the sheet, and moved to the window. Perhaps a warm drink would ease the tightness of her throat. “Wait a moment if you don’t mind, I need to fetch a drink.”

  She walked through the sliding doors and almost bumped into a tall nurse. Her face looked somehow familiar, but the woman turned around and disappeared into another patient’s room.

  Cora hesitated but parked the thought. She approached the vending machine, ordered a tea and when it was ready moved to a row of empty chairs.

  “Sorry, Nancy, I’m with you now.”

  “I’ve made some progress in researching possible contacts with Randy Zhang.”

  Cora’s heart jumped up in her chest. “That’s great. Do you have another address?”

  “Not as such, but I found someone at the same Institute in Hong Kong … and I also spoke to Philippe.”

  “I should have called him … it’s been so strange and difficult.”

  “He understands better than anybody else … but you would not have been able to speak to him in any case … he’s gone to Hong Kong.”

  “He’s mad … what is he going to do out there on his own? Let me call him now.”

  “I’ve left messages already.” Nancy’s voice trailed off. “I won’t try to justify what I’m about to do, but … I too am on my way to Hong Kong.”

  “… but you have barely lived there … how will you manage? Let me come with you.” Cora was pacing up and down the corridor.