"Darling!"
She pressed Transmit and shifted the radio to her lips, vividly aware that the thin, unlocked door was all that stood between her and Mr. Jack, and that Moss's microphones were embedded in the ceiling. "I'm here," she whispered. "Don't board the ship.
We'll lower a rope to Veronica. Choose a time."
He waited a full minute before he answered. "Half an hour after the morning fog. Thirty minutes. Do you copy?" "Thirty minutes after the fog."
"Out."
He would have traded a year of life to talk to her a minute longer. A year to hear her whisper that she loved him, that Ronnie was well, that soon they would have their life again. It was her whisper that threw him—a throaty, intimate sound, yet fraught with the danger staring them both in the face.
He shivered, partly from emotion, partly from the damp cold emanating from the ground and the icy brick wall. The square it enclosed was enormous, with room for a baseball diamond and spectators. If the dark corner into which he wedged his back was center field, then home plate diagonally opposite was a good five hundred feet away.
A light in that corner silhouetted what he had thought, when he first scaled the wall, was a squad of soldiers standing at attention. But as he watched in silence, crouched where he had landed, he gradually realized that they were too still. Now they looked like sawed-off trees, six or eight feet of trunk shorn of their branches. The rest of the enclosure was as black as the dark corner where he hid.
Suddenly there was activity at the entrance. He thought he saw a person pass before the light. Then a gate swung open on a moving clump of light. The search party. He heard conversation—brusque exchanges that sounded military or hierarchical in tone. The soldiers were demanding entrance. He rose on aching legs to vault back over the wall.
There was a shouting match, and then the guard sent the patrol away and shut the gate.
But a minute later, possibly reconsidering his position, the guard commenced a sweep of the grounds himself, walking the wall with a flashlight.
Starting from home plate, he walked toward first base and on into right field. Stone followed his progress by his light and when it veered toward his corner in center field, he loped quietly in the dark toward second base and doubled behind the searcher, settling back into his corner as the man explored the edges of left field.
He dozed and woke shivering. Dozed some more, starting awake with anxious looks at his watch. The hours crept by—two, three, four. He thought of the chances he must take and grew crazy with doubt. He slept from five to five-thirty and woke feeling little refreshed, his stomach alive with hunger, his mouth dry, craving coffee.
He was gazing across the enclosure, studying the wooden posts that studded the distant ground, before he realized that dawn had already broken, casting enough light through the overcast for him to see the far walls. The posts—for that was what they definitely were, wooden posts sunk in the ground—stood like the sentinels he had imagined in the dark. Warily, he stirred, studying the walls to the left and right. The light revealed a scruffy field of uncut grass and very little cover. If anyone at the home plate end were to study the far walls carefully, they'd spot him.
The light grew stronger.
He cursed himself for waiting too long. He should have awakened earlier. On the other hand, what fog there was lay thinly on the ground. Was it the same beyond the walls, or did the walls block the fog on its route from the river? Sarah would make her move half an hour after the fog was thick. Only by climbing the wall could he see, and if he tried they would surely spot him. Yet better to try now before more people came.
He focused his binoculars on the far corner. A wooden shed sat beside a wide gate in the brick wall. It had a door and a window, and a stovepipe which emitted a curl of white smoke. The guard had disappeared. He scanned the area one last time. Empty. Not even a face at the
window. It was the best chance he would get and he started to his feet.
Pain shot through his knees and lanced up and down the stiff muscles of his legs. He forced himself to stand and felt a bone-deep ache in his feet the instant they took his weight. Then his knees collapsed and he sank half falling back to the ground, virtually paralyzed from yesterday's long run through the fields, the leap from the train, and the night in the cold damp. In his bag he found three ibuprofen, which he swallowed dry, and started massaging his leg muscles and working his knees and ankles, loosening up to try again.
Suddenly the shed door banged open. The guard rushed out and put his shoulder to the gate, sliding it open for a white truck. Behind it came a line of canvas-covered-stake trucks. The white truck stopped by the wooden posts. The other trucks parked haphazardly. Soldiers jumped down, shouting, brandishing rifles.
Stone counted twenty prisoners descending awkwardly from beneath the canvas covers.
Chained wrist and ankle, they were shivering in light cotton shirts and trousers. Their cuffs had been tied with cord.
The soldiers herded them toward the wooden posts.
Stone clenched his binoculars in shock and amazement, his eye riveted by a familiar cocky stance. The prisoner's fine clothes were ripped and stained, his face puffed with bruises. But he was still Ronald, his gaze turned hopefully skyward, sure that some old friend would send a helicopter.
They forced him to his knees and removed his handcuffs to chain his arms behind him around the post. Ronald shouted something with a grin. They looped wire around his neck and the post and twisted it tightly so he could no longer speak.
The squad leader blew a whistle.
The soldiers stepped forward, one to each post, and raised their rifles. The whistle blew again and they fired a ragged volley. The prisoners' heads jerked. The boom of the heavy weapons echoed around the walls. Ronald slumped against the wire, his body convulsing like a netted fish.
Stone felt his own body tense, bracing for the coup de grace. But no death shot was delivered. Instead, a photographer flashed a camera over each body and an official wearing white gloves removed the chains and wire. At the same time, a gang—the only word that the sickened Stone could apply—of white-coated hospital staff jumped from the white truck, which was, Stone realized at last, a large and gruesome ambulance. They listened with stethoscopes and, working quickly, carried some of the bodies, including Ronald's, to the ambulance.
Even the executioners seemed disgusted as the butcher's crew sorted out the temporary survivors whose vital organs were available for transplant. They stood to one side, smoking and staring at the ground.
When the ambulance was full, it lurched away, blaring a siren at the gate, which, when it opened, revealed a second ambulance truck waiting to come in, and fog thick as snow.
Stone jumped for the wall, dug his toes into the slots between the bricks, grabbed the wire between the rusty barbs, and hauled himself up and out of the execution ground.
The fog embraced him as he ran, but sporadically, like an unstable lover, dissolving without warning, thinning to a windblown mist. The ship breaker's shed loomed like a distant mountain or an unconvincing mirage. Suddenly lost when the fog billowed thick as cotton, he tried to puzzle out his position by the wail of a steam whistle; wind swirled and he was just as suddenly alone in the middle of a broad circle. A train rumbled into the circle. Stone veered away, running in the direction he thought he had seen the breaker's yard.
AT TEN TO SEVEN, WHEN THE LIGHT HAD GROWN STRONG
enough for Sarah to see the river traffic, the fog had rolled up the Huangpu and tumbled over its banks. It gathered like petticoat pleats around the vessels in the stream, doubling, lapping over, crumpling. When it had enfolded the ships entirely, she had begun timing Michael's half hour.
If the weather held to its usual morning pattern, they might have three, even four, hours before the fog lifted. But the wind, light and from the northwest, had started backing. If it backed all the way to the northeast, as it had yesterday morning, it would blow hard and disperse the fog.
At a quarter past seven, she clicked Transmit on her handheld. No response. At twenty past, she clicked again. And when Michael did not reply, she decided she had no choice but to stick to their plan. Ronnie was in bed. As Sarah paced from window to window, Ronnie followed her with her eyes.
The old man still hadn't come to bed.
Sarah leaned over Ronnie and whispered in her ear. "Daddy found us."
Ronnie's face lit like the sun. "Daddy's h—" "Shhh!"
"He's here? Oh, Mummy, what will Mr. Jack—"
Sarah whispered, "We're going to escape with Daddy on Veronica. I'm going to go get Mr. Jack now. Get dressed. Your warmest things."
She felt for the hypodermic and opened the door to the lounge, which had grown quiet around five-thirty. Two leather-skinned People's Liberation Army generals were sprawled on the couches, collars open, shoes off. One was snoring. The other was so still he looked dead.
Mr. Jack was sleeping in his chair, his skull-like head slumped to one side, his thin lips shut, his breathing regular. As Sarah approached, his eyes glittered.
"Whadya want, Doc?"
"I'm putting you to bed."
"Good idea." His gaze swept the empty bottles and overflowing ashtrays. "Jesus." He rose unsteadily. Sarah took his good arm and steered him toward the bedroom. "You wanna check my pals for signs of life?"
"It's your signs I'm worried about, Mr. Jack. Are you trying to kill yourself?"
"Don't worry. I'm not jumping the gun."
She had already opened his bed. Kicking the door gently shut behind her, she guided him toward it, got him seated on the edge, and knelt to remove his slippers.
"You're good at this, Doc. Hubby a drinking man?"
She lifted his skinny legs and slipped them under the sheets. "My father drank, after my mother died."
"Thought you went to school in England."
She pressed him gently down, arranged a pillow under his head, and covered him, except for his right arm, which she held gently on top of the blanket. "After the civil war I went home on holiday. He was very lonely."
Her hands were shaking.
"Close your eyes, Mr. Jack."
"Thought you said he had a mistress."
"Not at first." She sat on the edge of the bed and patted his hand. "I want you to sleep.
And I want you to promise you'll stop all this drinking."
"Life's short, Doc."
"You're making it shorter." She arranged the sheet over the blanket and under his chin.
He was watching her closely, even as sleep fogged his eyes. While tucking the blankets, she slid his loose pajama sleeve toward his elbow.
"I'll wake you around noon," she said, "try and get you on a better sleep schedule. I'll send your friends packing and request that they stay away for a night or two. Would that be all right, Mr. Jack?" She could see the vein pulsing in the crook of his elbow.
"I'm on schedule," he murmured. "No sweat."
With one hand lying on his forearm, she reached with the other for the needle; snagging the rubber guard on the edge of her pocket, she drew the needle from her coat.
"Christ, I'm tired," Mr. Jack whispered. "Night, Doc." He closed his eyes. Sarah sat poised with the needle in one hand, his arm in the other. She could almost feel the wakefulness ooze from his body. "Mr. Jack?"
His chest rose with a sigh, the rough planes of his face grew smooth, and he was deep, deep in sleep. Sarah hesitated. She looked at Ronnie, watching from the bathroom door.
Ronnie made a jabbing gesture. "Do it, Mum!" she mouthed.
If she jabbed him and missed, he'd be up and screaming for Moss. This was better. Also, it gave her a second shot for Moss.
Sarah hesitated a moment longer, then rose lightly from the bed, the needle at her side.
She pointed at the closet where their bags were ready. Ronnie slipped soundlessly across the carpet, put on her backpack, and handed Sarah hers. Sarah took the radio, took one last look at Mr. Jack.
She opened the door a crack and looked into the lounge.
The Chinese generals were exactly where she had seen them last, both old men dead drunk and fast asleep. Mother and daughter tiptoed around them toward the door to the aft balcony deck. The fog was so thick now she could see nothing of the river. Even the pillars and roof of the ship shed were invisible. The Dallas Belle's owner's suite might have crowned a mountain in a cloud.
But when she opened the outside door, there soared from the wet, smoky-smelling cloud a cacophony of machinery and ship whistles. One old general groaned and turned over.
The other half rose on one knee, blinking in confusion, a hand driven by decades of instinct reaching for a sidearm. Sarah pushed Ronnie through the door, followed, closed it, and looked back through the window.
When the Chinese's hand found only rich broadcloth
where weapons used to hang, he too sank back down on his couch. Sarah released her breath. "Ah Lee hid a rope in a garbage bag. Look for it."
Together they searched the narrow balcony, but there was no rope. "Maybe Moss got him," Ronnie whispered.
Sarah's heart sank. "Never mind. He probably left it on the main deck." If not, she had brought towels they could use to slide down the ship's mooring line.
"Do you think he hurt Ah Lee?"
"No. Shall I go first?"
Ronnie looked at the ladder, which disappeared down the side of the house into the fog. "
I better go first." "Now hold on tight."
"Mum!"
"Both hands. Here, give me your pack."
"It's not heavy."
With that, Ronnie swung over the railing and started down the ladder. Sarah gave her a deck's head start and, swallowing hard with fear, turned her back to the invisible abyss and climbed clumsily, haltingly, over the railing, found purchase for both feet, and started down, her arms and legs stiff with tension.
Descending past two rows of portholes, two decks, she found her knees shaking almost uncontrollably and her strength failing. It felt like fear was dissolving her muscles, and that the cold fog had penetrated every aching injury Moss had given her. Two more decks, and she could barely close her hands around the metal rungs of the ladder.
Ronnie tapped her foot. "Stop."
"What?"
"There's people on the deck," Ronnie whispered. Sarah looked down. She couldn't see anything but fog. "Wait. I think they're leaving."
Now she heard them talking. Chinese. The workmen who'd been swarming over the ship.
Someone spoke sharply and shuffled off, dragging something that clanked. A cold, wet wind brushed her cheek. The fog parted for an instant, but before she could see more than a vague outline of the bulwark that rimmed the main deck, the fog rushed in again, thick and gray and stinking of coal smoke.
Whistles echoed; the fog made them sound close, as if ships were passing directly under the stern.
Ronnie tapped her foot again. "Okay."
She climbed down, counting rungs and portholes. One more deck. One more to go. Here, in the lee of the bulwark, the fog was thinner. She saw Ronnie land lightly and step away from the ladder. Around her were dark shapes—machines, material, she couldn't tell. As she hurried down the final rungs, she searched the shadows for Ah Lee's rope.
Her foot touched the deck. She stepped down, her legs shaking so hard she had to hold the ladder to recover.
Ronnie was darting among the clutter, searching. Sarah joined her, wondering whether her arms had the strength to descend a rope, fifty feet to the Swan's deck. Ronnie started toward another shadow, then stopped abruptly as it moved.
"You looking for this?"
Moss loomed out of the fog, swinging the garbage bag with the rope coiled inside. He had blood on his white T-shirt and as he swung the bag at Sarah's face, he looked less angry than pleased that again he had license to hurt her. The blow knocked her backward, and she would have fallen if she hadn't crashed into the bulwark. Her backpack protected her from the steel. The blow of the
coiled rope inside the plastic was more shocking than painful.
Sarah plunged her hand into her pocket and closed her hand around the hypo. Ronnie rushed between them. Sarah tried to push her away.
Moss raised his arm to hit her again. But before he could, his head snapped around sharply at a new sound that penetrated the machinery noise, barking sampans, and the ships' whistles. Sarah heard it too, the most beautiful sound imaginable—a familiar burp, and then the weary growl of an old, old Perkins diesel grumbling to life on Veronica.
Moss saw the joy light Ronnie's face. "Daddy's home," he smirked.
Sarah stepped inside his swing and slammed the needle into his massive bicep.
"BITCH! You CUT ME!'
Moss jerked back, mistaking the needle for a knife, and swung hard at her face. Sarah drove the last of the drug into his hand. He yelled when he saw the hypodermic needle dangling from his palm and flung it away.
"What—"
Sarah pulled another from her pocket.
Moss's eyes widened. "What was—wha'd you—?" He staggered back, raising the garbage bag like a shield. Sarah lunged. He whipped the bag around and knocked the needle from her hand.
Ronnie flew at him. Imitating a kung fu movie jump kick, she drove both feet into Moss's knee. The big man swatted her away like a mosquito. She tumbled across the deck, squealing with pain. Sarah slid her rigging knife from its side pocket in her pack and dove at Moss.
Startled by the ferocity of her attack, he backed away but quickly recovered, gauging her moves with a savage smile. The drug seemed to have no effect. "Kiss your pretty face good-bye, Doc."
He came at her, shifting the plastic bag from hand to hand.
Sarah drew the knife near her side and knew at that moment with dreadful certainty that she would kill him and spend the rest of eternity in futile penance. She remembered for the ten thousandth time her father slaughtering the men who had attacked her mother.
She saw his
ceremonial sword flash in the sun and knew at last that in the heat of battle her father had fought with cold precision.
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