by Tim Maleeny
Sally interrupted by lifting the dragon off the table and handing it to Cape. He hefted it in his right hand, surprised at its weight. It felt warm, and as he turned it in the light, the dragon’s eyes seemed to glow.
“So what is it?” he repeated, looking at Sally.
“It’s a talisman,” she said. “A charm.”
Dong cut in. “If it’s in your possession, your victory is assured.”
Sally lowered her voice. “He who holds the heart holds the future.”
Cape frowned. “You sound like a fortune cookie.”
Sally shrugged. “I’m not saying I believe it, either.” She glanced at Dong. “I’m just telling you why it’s important.”
“To whom?”
“The Triads,” answered Sally before Dong could say anything. “When you think Triad, you probably think organized crime, and you’re right. But these societies, or clans, or whatever they call themselves-they go back hundreds of years.”
Dong added, “The original secret societies in China were established to overthrow an unjust emperor. They were patriotic, highly disciplined-”
Sally cut him off. “And very superstitious.”
Dong made a pouty face and poured more tea.
Sally continued. “Rituals, ceremonies, names.”
“Names.” Cape looked at Dong. “Like Incense Master?”
“Exactly.” Sally nodded. “These things have real power in the world of the Triads. And since the Triads have power in the real world…”
Cape finished the thought. “The power behind these things is real, whether you believe in them or not.”
“Yes.”
“So it’s valuable,” said Cape.
“That’s not why she stole it,” said Sally.
Dong said, “She was supposed to deliver it to someone.”
“Who?” asked Cape. “You?”
“Heavens, no,” said Dong. “Someone you know, here in San Francisco.”
Cape knew the answer before Dong said the name.
“Harold Yan.”
Chapter Forty-six
Xan looked at the man’s eyes and saw nothing but terror.
Truth always came from fear. He followed the line of the man’s arm as he pointed through the shop window, toward the alley across the street.
Xan released the man and nodded.
He was getting close.
Chapter Forty-seven
“Harold Yan,” said Cape.
Sally and One-eyed Dong nodded in unison.
“The mayoral candidate.”
“The same.”
“And Lin-the girl on the ship-she said Yan told her to steal this dragon’s heart?”
“No.” Sally frowned. “She just said she had to find him. Remember, she was delirious-she was bleeding and had a fever. She didn’t even tell me she had the stone-I found it on her when I dressed her wounds.”
Cape frowned. “If she was looking for Yan, why come to you?”
Sally shrugged. “She knew I was in San Francisco, and she was hurt. She couldn’t risk passing out while talking to Yan’s receptionist or falling down in the street. Someone could find the dragon’s heart and steal it.”
“But why does Harold Yan want the heart? It doesn’t make sense.”
“Of course it does,” said Dong.
Cape looked at him. “Why?”
“Isn’t that obvious?” asked Dong. “He’s about to enter a contest-an election. The heart would assure his victory.”
Cape looked at the elaborately carved piece of jade sitting on the desk in front of him.
“But you just told me the dragon’s heart was part of Triad history.”
“Right,” said Sally.
“Which means Yan is part of a Triad.”
“Or under their influence,” said Dong.
“C’mon.”
“My dear boy,” said Dong, his tone just this side of condescending. “You’d be surprised how many politicians are criminals.”
“I’ve been saying that for years,” said Cape. “Every time I pay my taxes. But a Triad?”
Dong huffed. “Do you have any doubt the Mafia has infiltrated American politics over the years?”
Cape chewed on that for a minute. Last year a local Congressman got caught taking bribes in exchange for his vote on funding for the new Bay Bridge project. The investigation found the construction company paying him off had mob connections.
“OK,” he said to Dong. “Say Yan has connections to a Triad, or, as you said, the Triad has some leverage over Yan.”
“If Yan gets elected, it gives the Triad a foothold in San Francisco.”
“And?”
“That would be very, very bad.”
“Very, very bad?”
Dong leaned forward. “There are tongs, street gangs, and a handful of criminals in this city that already have loose connections to the Triads.”
“Like Freddie Wang,” said Cape.
Dong frowned. “An unsavory example, but a good one.”
Dong loved being the center of attention, but Cape wanted to cut the lesson short. “You’re saying there’s no central organization here, no power base like Hong Kong.”
“Or Shanghai,” said Dong. “Or even New York.”
“So?”
Sally cut in. “Remember those people on the ship?’
Cape thought of the faces he’d seen on Treasure Island, the brutal stories Mitch had told him. “Yeah?”
“Multiply that times a thousand.”
“She’s right,” said Dong. “Right now smuggling people is a side venture for the Triads-they make more from heroin and guns, with less risk. But occasionally they’ll exploit a situation, pull together a temporary organization to turn a profit.”
“Hire a snakehead,” said Cape, remembering the lesson from Mitch.
Dong raised his eyebrows. “Precisely.”
“But if they had a permanent base here in San Francisco…” began Cape.
Sally finished his thought. “Things could get a lot worse.”
“It’s a disgusting business,” muttered Dong.
Cape looked at him again, wondering when the English sophisticate became the Incense Master. Maybe Dong preferred the heroin trade, considered it more gentlemanly. The man was charming on the surface, but Cape had no doubt Dong could molt like a snake at a moment’s notice. He turned his attention back to the ship and something that had been bothering him since the beginning.
“Why did Lin kill the crew?”
“They deserved to die,” replied Sally without hesitation. She breathed through her nose, then in a calmer voice said, “Lin was trained to shadow and kill men. Men who are killers-not women and children. Even in death, there is a code.”
Cape studied his friend, wondering where you drew the line after you’d crossed it so many times.
“The crew were sze kau,” said Sally. “Triad thugs. At school, we called them 49s.”
Cape remembered Beau’s description of the ship, the number drawn in blood.
“Everyone in a Triad has a name and a number,” explained Dong. “Based on tradition. The Dragon Head is 489, or sometimes 21, which is 4+8+9. Mine was 438. The foot soldiers are 49s.”
“Numerology is a big deal in China,” added Sally, shrugging. “It gets complicated.”
Cape looked at Sally, thinking complicated didn’t even begin to describe her upbringing. He rubbed his temples and tried to concentrate.
“But why would Yan take the risk now?” he asked.
“The heart,” replied Dong. “The election.”
“I don’t know,” said Sally, forever the skeptic.
“Why don’t we ask Lin?” suggested Cape.
Sally and Dong exchanged a look.
“What?”
“We’ve got a little problem,” said Sally. “Lin has disappeared.”
Chapter Forty-eight
Xan taught his students the value of patience, though he had none himself.
It had been a long day, and the night was turning cold. But as he looked across the street toward the alley, Xan smiled for the first time in days.
Patience had its rewards, after all.
Chapter Forty-nine
Sally told Cape that when she came back last night, Dong was asleep, his two guards were unconscious, and Lin was gone.
Sally had mistakenly assumed Lin was too weak to move. And since their view from the bunker was limited, Sally had gone out to patrol the neighborhood.
Cape asked why Lin had run.
“If Lin recognized Dong-and it’s not hard, with that eye rolling around-she’d know he was forced out of the Triad. She could have fallen into a trap or a plot to steal the dragon’s heart for himself.”
“Wouldn’t she have trusted you?” Cape had asked. “You said you were close to her sister.”
Sally’s eyes hardened. “That was a long time ago,” she said, adding, “And I’m not there anymore.” She looked at Cape, but her eyes were still somewhere else. “Lin is who I would have become, had I stayed. Trust isn’t part of her vocabulary.”
“You think she went to Yan without the dragon?”
Sally shrugged. “She wasn’t strong enough to risk stealing it, even if she knew where Dong kept it hidden. I might have come back at any minute. This way, at least she could tell Yan where it was. That’s better than being trapped or dead underground.”
“I thought I was paranoid.”
Sally shook her head. “You’re not even close,” she said. “Lin was trained to be suspicious.”
Time was running out now that Lin was missing. They needed to get an angle on Yan quickly, otherwise they’d be going in blind. And since Yan was a respected public figure and they were an exiled criminal, a trained assassin, and a private investigator with questionable judgment, the best they could hope for would be to get arrested.
So Cape climbed the ladder and crawled out of the hole. His phone couldn’t get a signal in Dong’s underground lair, and reception wasn’t much better between the buildings. He walked the length of the alley, checked the signal on his phone, and dialed Linda’s number.
It rang almost ten times before there was an answer.
Linda didn’t like to get too close to phones, so when it rang, she dashed across the room, pushed the button for the speakerphone, then retreated to a safe distance and shouted, which always made her sound angry.
“It’s the middle of the night!” she yelled, making Cape think maybe she really was angry. He visualized her hair lurching forward as she reprimanded his disembodied voice.
“Sorry,” said Cape. “But Sally and I-”
“Sally’s OK?” shouted Linda.
“Oh, yeah,” said Cape. “I forgot-”
“Then why are you calling?” demanded Linda, sounding pissed again.
“Remember when I asked you to look into Harold Yan?”
“Didn’t you get my message?”
Cape held out his phone and checked the screen, which read: 2 new messages. Beau had mentioned he’d called several times, but he wouldn’t have left more than one message.
“I got it,” said Cape, putting the phone to his ear. “I just haven’t listened to it.” He imagined Linda’s hair crouching down, ready to strike.
“Why not?”
“I’ve been in a tunnel,” said Cape. “Under a manhole cover.”
That put Linda at a momentary loss.
“So what did you find out?” asked Cape.
“Almost nothing,” said Linda, her voice dropping to a normal pitch. Cape could tell she was standing closer to the phone, fears of electromagnetic menace temporarily gone. “Lots and lots of press clippings, going back ten years, but it’s all pretty standard stuff for a public figure. The more public he became, the easier the trail is to follow.”
“OK,” said Cape, discouraged. “Is that what you said in your message?”
“No,” said Linda. “The Sloth and I tried to go back, to before Yan left China.”
“And?”
“And nothing,” said Linda. “Before immigration, the guy disappears.”
“Isn’t that because you’re trying to access records in China? That must be next to impossible.”
“Not for the Sloth,” said Linda. “He even has a program that can translate the characters into English as you scroll down a page.”
“So?”
“So either Yan had a really, really boring life in China,” said Linda. “Which I doubt. Or…he’s a criminal.”
“Who changed his name when he came to the States,” said Cape. “Because he wanted to get into politics.”
“Where the real power is.”
“The real power is in politics?”
“I heard that on an episode of West Wing.”
“Then it must be true. OK, so he gets a new identity.”
“Exactly,” said Linda. “Not that hard, really, if you know the right people.”
“But if I can prove Yan has a criminal past…”
“You’ve got some leverage,” said Linda. “You could really screw up the election.”
Cape started to get excited until he realized he didn’t have a single piece of evidence.
“I don’t have jack shit besides this conversation, do I?”
“I’m afraid not,” said Linda, her voice even softer. “Unless…”
“Yeah?”
“Sloth said you’d need his fingerprints.”
“Fingerprints,” said Cape to himself. “And then?”
“Then you’d need a friend at Interpol, the CIA, NSA, or the FBI.”
The last three letters of the alphabet soup got Cape’s attention. Linda was still talking, but he’d taken the phone from his ear. Carefully, he reached into his right-hand coat pocket and touched the sides of a round disk with his thumb and forefinger. As he pulled his hand from his pocket he saw the red and white letters against a blue background: Yan for Mayor.
Absently he raised the phone to his ear and said “thanks,” hanging up before she could answer. Gingerly dropping the button back into his pocket, he called John Williams at the FBI and left a message.
Ten minutes passed.
When his phone rang, Cape nearly jumped out of his shoes.
“You’re up late,” said Williams.
“Can you run a set of prints for me?” asked Cape. “Through Interpol or maybe the Hong Kong authorities? The records might go back ten or even twenty years.”
Williams coughed for almost a full minute before getting it under control. “You must have the wrong number-you want me to pick up your dry cleaning, too?”
“You said you wanted a lead on the ship.”
“We already got the jeans guy in custody,” said Williams. “You remember, the asshole you should’ve given to us, but instead gave to the police?”
“Big deal,” said Cape.
“We got him on conspiracy, murder, and tax fraud, for starters.”
“You think he’s the mastermind behind this?”
Williams was silent on the other end.
“Neither do I,” said Cape.
Williams grunted. “What’ve you got, cowboy?”
“A thumbprint, maybe,” said Cape. “On a button.”
“Not much,” muttered Williams. “What do you want?”
“A name.”
“That’s it?” said Williams skeptically. “And what do I get?”
“A name,” said Cape. “And maybe some answers.”
“Maybe?”
“That’s all I can offer,” said Cape.
Several long seconds passed. “OK.”
“How soon can you have it?”
“This is the FBI, junior,” said Williams. “Not the 1-hour photo.”
“Can’t you say it’s a matter of national security?”
“Is it?”
“Isn’t everything these days?”
“You got a point,” said Williams. “When can you bring it in?”
“I can’t,�
� replied Cape. “Can you pick it up?”
“Jee-zus, you are high maintenance.” Cape heard Williams cupping the phone, muffled voices in the background. “Where are you?”
Cape gave him directions to the nearest corner.
“OK, look for a blue Honda.”
“The FBI drives a Honda?”
“We might be on a budget, but we’re not stupid,” said Williams. “If you don’t drive an import in California, everyone thinks you’re a cop.”
“Sneaky.”
“That’s the idea.”
“One more thing.”
“What?”
“My prints are on this thing, too.”
“No problem, you’d be in the files ’cause of your license.” Williams held the phone away from his mouth again and shouted to someone in another room, then came back on. “Never mind-my man in the car will have a kit-stick your hand through the window, he’ll take your prints. It’ll save us time.”
“Thanks.”
“If this pans out, we’re even.”
“You’ll call me either way?”
“Sure,” said Williams. “Give me your number.”
Fifteen minutes later the car pulled quietly up to the curb next to a hydrant and cut its lights. Cape reached through the window and dropped the button into a plastic bag the driver held open, then extended the fingers of his right hand and felt them rolled across an ink pad one at a time. The whole exchange took less than two minutes.
Cape walked back up the block and turned down the alley. He had gone less than ten feet when he sensed someone behind him. Pivoting on his left foot, he raised his left elbow high and spun around, just as he felt an electric jolt across his shoulders. His body twisted backward as the muscles in his neck started to spasm, black spots appearing at the edge of his vision. He felt the breath leave his lungs as his momentum completed his turn, bringing him face to face with a man with a jagged scar cutting across his right eye and down his cheek.
Xan smiled, the scar dancing in celebration, as Cape felt the ground fall out from under him and saw the lights at the end of the street go out one by one.
Chapter Fifty
The driver’s license spun like a leaf as it fell, tapping sounds chasing after it as the plastic edge ricocheted off the rungs of the ladder.