by Robin Cook
“Are you carrying anything on your person?”
“Nothing.”
“Do you have any drugs with you?”
“None.”
“And you are doing this for money?”
Tse nodded. “We have been promised many years’ wages. I was already given one year’s wages before I left.”
“How long are you supposed to be away?” Tristan asked.
“I am unsure,” Tse said. “One year, maybe two at the most.”
Tristan ran a hand through his hair. He shook his head and cast a dismayed look at Marissa. “I’m afraid I don’t have anything else to ask. I’m baffled.”
All of a sudden the group realized they weren’t alone. Looking up, they saw that the captain had come forward. Once he had gotten their attention, he spoke.
Bentley translated: “The captain wants to know if we want to eat. His wife has prepared a meal for all of us.”
“Why not?” Tristan said, getting to his feet. “We should get something for my bloody three thousand five hundred Hong Kong dollars.”
Several hours later, Marissa and Tristan were lying together on bamboo mats on the poop deck. It was the only place they could be alone. Except for an occasional mosquito and the cool, damp breeze, they were comfortable.
Marissa had not eaten anything. Instead she’d drunk most of the water they’d brought on board. Her nausea and vomiting earlier had left her dehydrated.
“I’ll have to apologize again, luv,” Tristan said. “I was so sure that coming here and talking to these blokes would solve everything. As it is we’re no better off than before we’d come to Hong Kong. It appears as if we’ve risked our lives and made you bloody sick for nothing.”
“I thought this would give us answers, too,” Marissa said. “It’s strange. I don’t understand what we could be missing. There just doesn’t seem to be any explanation why Female Care Australia is making this elaborate illegal effort to bring in Chinese nationals.”
“I still think it has to involve drugs in some way,” Tristan said. “It’s got to be the heroin from the Golden Triangle.”
“But these men are carrying nothing,” Marissa reminded him.
“But it’s the only way I can think to justify FCA’s level of expense,” Tristan said. “Not to mention the extent to which they are willing to go to protect whatever it is they’re doing. They thought it was important enough to gun us down in public. It’s gotta be drugs; don’t you think?”
“I don’t know what to think,” Marissa said. “What you say makes some sense, but only to a point. And we still haven’t figured where the TB salpingitis comes in. And if it is drugs, how does it involve a country doctor and a Buddhist monk?”
“I don’t have a clue to any of those questions,” Tristan said. “I’m at a loss. At one point I had an idea that this scheme might somehow involve Hong Kong being given back to the Chinese in 1997. But even that wild idea has nothing to recommend it. I’m afraid we’re at a dead end.”
Marissa wished he hadn’t used that expression. She closed her eyes. With all that had happened, she didn’t expect to sleep. But despite her physical discomfort and her emotional pain, exhaustion prevailed. Almost instantly she dozed off.
But once asleep, she started to dream. In her dream Robert was sinking into quicksand and she couldn’t reach him. She was holding on to a branch, reaching for his hand. Then the branch broke and she fell . . .
An hour after falling asleep, Marissa sat bolt upright, half expecting to be in quicksand. But she was on a hard bamboo mat with Tristan sleeping next to her. Around her head was a swarm of mosquitoes and on her forehead were beads of cold perspiration.
Marissa became aware of sandaled feet moving about the deck and she opened her eyes. It was before dawn, yet the misty world had become brighter. They were enveloped in a dense morning fog that completely shrouded the nearby island. The sound of birds could be heard but nothing of the shoreline could be seen.
Sitting up, Marissa noticed that the crew was already preparing to pull up anchor. The sail was unfurled and ready to be hoisted. Below she heard a baby cry for a moment.
Getting up, Marissa stretched her cramped muscles. She was surprised that she’d slept at all, especially after waking up from the nightmare she’d had about Robert.
Once she was limber, she walked over to the railing. After making sure all those on deck were preoccupied, she swallowed what pride she had left and relieved herself over the side of the boat. When she was finished, she was comforted that no one had taken the slightest notice.
Tristan was still fast asleep. Rather than wake him, Marissa climbed down the ladder and went below. Water was boiling on the pressure stove. With the help of the wife of the captain, Marissa made herself some tea and carried it up to the poop deck. By then Tristan had awakened.
“G’day, luv,” he said with his usual good humor.
Marissa shared her tea with him as the huge sail went up. Then they felt the engines start.
“Our man must be eager to get back,” Tristan said. “He’s going to sail and motor at the same time.”
As it turned out, the captain merely used the engines to move the junk from the lagoon. Once they were clear of the land, the engines were switched off and the sheets connected to the boom were pulled in taut and cleated.
Sailing along on the light morning breeze, they began to move south, approaching a point of the mainland. As the mist rose they saw fishing boats putting out from shore. It was quite peaceful until from somewhere in the distance they began to hear the distant roar of a motorized boat.
The captain responded to the sound by barking out orders to the crew. The sail came down with a whoosh and the diesels were started. Slowly the junk came around.
Bentley walked back to Marissa and Tristan to explain that the captain was heading toward shore.
“What’s happening?” Tristan questioned. He could tell the crew was agitated.
“We’re heading into one of those little bays along the shore,” Bentley said. “It’s for protection. The captain is afraid that sound we hear might be a PRC patrol boat. He said it couldn’t be a motorized sampan or junk; the engines are too big. He said if it weren’t a PRC boat then it could be pirates.”
“Oh, God!” Marissa said.
They were able to get within a hundred yards of shore before the source of the roar appeared. It was a cigarette boat. It seemed to be coming right toward them. Since most of the mist had evaporated, they could see the boat clearly.
The captain barked another order and both of the crewmen disappeared below. When they reappeared they were brandishing AK47 assault rifles with bandoliers looped over their forearms.
“I don’t like this,” Marissa said. “I don’t like this at all.”
The captain turned to them and yelled. Bentley translated by telling them that the captain had ordered everyone below except his deckhands.
Everyone rushed to obey. Bentley closed the wooden door that led to the foredeck, then joined Marissa and Tristan, who were standing next to the junk’s entrance port. The shore was clearly visible in the early morning light.
“Is it a PRC patrol boat?” Tristan asked Bentley. From where they were standing, they could plainly hear the captain and his men conversing as the boat approached the starboard side of the junk.
“They still don’t know,” Bentley said nervously.
They heard the cigarette boat pull up beside the junk. Its powerful engine rumbled menacingly. Then they heard the captain shout loudly.
“He’s telling them to stand clear,” Bentley translated.
A shouting match developed between the captain and the people on the cigarette boat. Each sounded angry. The apparent dispute went on for some time, and as it did so, Marissa noticed that Bentley became progressively more agitated.
“What are they talking about?” Marissa asked nervously.
“This is very strange,” Bentley said. “The people in the powerboat say they h
ave come for the white devils.”
“What are white devils?” Marissa asked.
“I’m afraid they are talking about you and Tristan,” Bentley said. “But the captain is furious that they have come out here and jeopardized him.”
Marissa grabbed Tristan’s arm. The argument on deck heated up. They watched Bentley’s face, but couldn’t read his expression.
“What’s happening?” Marissa finally asked.
“It doesn’t sound good,” Bentley admitted. “The captain has ordered the powerboat to leave, but the boat refuses to go unless you are given to them or—”
“Or what?” Marissa demanded.
“Or you are shot!” Bentley said. “It is the Wing Sin.”
“Anything you can do?” Tristan gulped.
Bentley shook his head. “Not much at this point,” he said. “I can’t fight the Wing Sin. Besides, the captain took my gun last night. He said he didn’t allow people on his boat to be armed without his say-so.”
“Oh, God!” Marissa repeated.
Tristan glanced at the shore about a hundred yards away. He wondered if they could swim for it. But just as the thought flashed through his mind, the wooden door to the foredeck was kicked open with a resounding thud. In the doorway stood one of the captain’s men. He spoke rapidly, motioning with his gun.
“I’m afraid he insists you two go on deck,” Bentley said. “My apologies.”
Tristan turned to Bentley. “Since your bodyguard skills are a bit limited at the moment,” he said, “perhaps you can still provide us with your interpreting skills. Would you mind accompanying us?”
“If the captain permits,” Bentley said.
“Come on, luv,” Tristan said. “This is Hong Kong, where everything is for sale. Let’s see if we can’t do some business with the captain.”
Feeling more terrified than she had at any time in her life, Marissa let Tristan lead her past the man with the assault rifle and out into the morning light. It was turning into a pretty day now that the sun had burned off most of the haze. The water, which had been gray, had now assumed its usual emerald green. Marissa could hear the sound of songbirds coming from the nearby shore over the muffled roar of the cigarette-boat engine. The powerboat was slowly pulling up to the junk to grapple to its side.
The captain was on the poop deck. He looked down on his Caucasian passengers morosely.
Tristan spoke quickly with Bentley, who shouted up to the captain in Tanka: “The white devil offers to pay fifty thousand Hong Kong dollars for you to get him and his wife safely back to Aberdeen.”
The captain’s expression changed. He stroked his goatee, then glanced at the approaching cigarette boat.
Marissa recognized the two men in the front of the boat as the two who’d been throwing the chum overboard the day Wendy died.
“The white devil has just raised his offer to one hundred thousand Hong Kong dollars,” Bentley yelled in Tanka.
The captain started to speak to Bentley, but then he stopped midsentence. His eyes were riveted to the cigarette boat. Finally he shook his head. “I cannot fight the Wing Sin,” he said.
Bentley faced Tristan and told him what the captain had said.
“Tell him we’ll double it to two hundred thousand,” Tristan said.
Before Bentley could yell out this new offer, they heard a second engine’s roar. All eyes were drawn to a small offshore island about a quarter mile to the east. The roar grew louder as a large, gun-metal-gray ship with a two-inch cannon mounted on its bow rounded the tip of the island.
The captain shouted to one of his crew on the main deck. The man tossed him his AK47. The captain grabbed the gun and fired a burst from the rifle over the heads of the men in the approaching cigarette boat and yelled something at the top of his lungs.
The other crewman herded Marissa and Tristan back into the hold and slammed the door on them.
“What’s happening?” Tristan demanded.
“It’s the PRC,” Bentley said. “It’s a naval patrol boat.”
“What did the captain yell when he fired his weapon?” Tristan asked.
“He yelled ‘Thieves,’ ” Bentley said.
From the hold they heard the cigarette boat take off with a roar of its powerful engine. The junk rocked when the boat’s wake hit the side.
Within seconds they heard the low-pitched concussion of the patrol boat’s cannon, followed by a high-pitched whistle.
“Are they firing at us?” Marissa demanded.
“They must be firing at the cigarette boat,” Tristan said. “Otherwise we’d probably already be in the drink.”
The roar of the patrol boat’s engine grew louder as it bore down on the junk, but then it went by with a swoosh. The junk rocked again as the departing patrol boat’s wake hit the side.
“I never expected to be saved by the Chinese Communists,” Tristan said.
The wooden door to the deck crashed open again. One of the crewmen stood at the door. He stepped inside and yelled something.
“What now?” Tristan asked.
“He’s telling us all to get on deck on the double,” Bentley said.
“All of us, even the two refugees.”
As Marissa reached the deck again, she could see the patrol boat heading southeast. Far in front of it the cigarette boat was speeding away.
The captain bellowed out another order. Bentley blanched. Even the refugees were upset. Chiang Lam began speaking to the captain. He seemed quite frantic.
“What’s the matter now, mate?” Tristan asked.
“The captain has just ordered us to jump overboard,” Bentley said.
“What!” Marissa gasped. “Why?”
“Because he knows the PRC will be back and when they do, he doesn’t want to be caught with any contraband.”
Chiang was still addressing the captain. He’d grown hysterical and was yelling at the top of his lungs.
“What’s with the monk?” Tristan asked.
“He’s telling the captain that he cannot swim,” Bentley said.
The captain glared down at Chiang and pointed toward the shore. When Chiang continued his harangue, the captain pulled the AK47 off his shoulder and, without a moment’s hesitation, riddled the monk with bullets. The monk’s body smashed back against the railing before falling to the deck.
Marissa turned away. Tristan looked up at the captain in disbelief. Bentley climbed over the railing.
The captain yelled at one of his crew and the man rushed to the dead monk. Lifting the body from the deck, he tossed the corpse into the water.
Hastily, Tristan helped Marissa climb over the railing. Bentley went in first. Marissa and Tristan jumped together. Tse Wah was the last to leap.
As soon as Marissa was able to stop her downward plunge in the surprisingly icy water, she stroked to the surface. Turning around, she looked up at the junk. It was already moving, heading north, away from the direction of the PRC patrol boat.
“Take your shoes off,” Tristan suggested. “But don’t let go of them. Hold them in your hands. It’ll be much easier to swim.”
17
April 20, 1990
8:05 A.M.
Between the weight of her wet clothes and the shoes she held in her hands, Marissa found swimming an effort. Although she had been at it for some minutes, she hardly seemed to have moved closer to the shore. Bentley and Tse had swum ahead, but Tristan stayed alongside Marissa.
“Just stay calm, luv,” Tristan said. “Maybe you should give me your shoes.”
Marissa gladly handed them over. Tristan had tied his laces together and had strung his shoes around his neck. Taking Marissa’s, he jammed them into his pockets. Without the shoes, Marissa’s swimming improved.
The shock of the shooting and the panicked jump into the water had totally occupied Marissa’s consciousness, but as she swam and thought about the fact that she was in the ocean, she began to think about Wendy’s death. In her mind’s eye she started to see the hungr
y gray monsters cruising silently beneath the surface. Knowing that there was a bleeding body in the water made the fear that much more poignant.
“Do you think there are sharks around here?” Marissa managed to ask between strokes. She was hoping for reassurance.
“Let’s worry about one problem at a time,” Tristan said.
“Of course there are sharks,” Bentley called back to them.
“Thanks, mate,” Tristan yelled ahead. “That’s just what we wanted to hear!”
Marissa tried not to dwell on it. Yet with each stroke, she half expected to be yanked from below. If Tristan had not been next to her, she knew she would have panicked.
“Just keep your eyes on the land,” Tristan advised. “We’ll be there soon enough.”
It took a long time, but gradually the trees seemed closer. Up ahead, Marissa saw that Bentley had stopped swimming. He was standing waist-deep in water. From there he walked to shore.
By the time Marissa and Tristan arrived at the same depth, Bentley and Tse were already wringing out their clothes.
“Welcome to the PRC,” Tristan said as he took Marissa’s hand for the last twenty feet.
The beach was sickle shaped, extending about three hundred yards between rocky promontories. Behind the beach were lush, semitropical trees bordering a swampy marsh. Seabirds and marsh birds were everywhere. Their din was constant.
Facing back to sea, Marissa gazed out over the emerald expanse dotted with tiny offshore islands. It was a peaceful, picture-postcard view. Sea gulls lazily circled above. There wasn’t a trace of the junk, the cigarette boat, or the patrol boat.
The group relaxed on the beach, soaking up the warm sun after having been so chilled by the cold water. Tristan took their passports out of his money belt and opened them to the sun to dry. He did the same with his Hong Kong currency, weighing down the bills with seashells.
“I don’t believe the captain could kill the monk like that,” Marissa said with a shudder. “He didn’t hesitate for a second.”
“Life is cheap in this part of the world,” Tristan said.
“I wonder if I’ll ever recover from all this,” she said. “First Wendy’s death, then Robert’s, now this shooting. And all for nothing!”