Hunt Among the Killers of Men gh-5

by Gabriel Hunt

  During the Mediterranean leg of a Millenniumthemed speaking tour at the end of 1999, Ambrose and Cordelia Hunt were among the passenger contingent of the Polar Monarch, a luxuriously appointed cruise ship of Norwegian registry. The ship disappeared from sea radar for three days, then reappeared near Gibraltar without a living soul on board. Three crew members were found in the wheelhouse with their throats slit. Subsequently, bodies and stores began to wash ashore, but a dozen or so passengers were never recovered in any form—including Ambrose and Cordelia Hunt.

  “You’re not making this up, are you?” said Michael.

  “Kangxi Shih-k’ai was on Mom and Dad’s Most Wanted list. They were on the verge of something and they knew it; they just never had the time to pursue it. Now, I’m not saying there’s a connection to Michelle Quantrill and this Russian who wants to run China…but it’s enough to make me think there really is something there in China for us to find. It’s time, Michael. We should have gone after this years ago.”

  “Time for you to ruin my reputation on the lecture circuit, you mean,” Michael said sourly.

  “Come on, no one will pay attention to the lectures themselves,” said Gabriel. “You know how it goes in China—they’ll want to wine and dine us and tour us around to demonstrate their cultural diversity and goodwill. And I’ll be perfectly charming, I promise.”

  Michael put a hand to his forehead and massaged the deep furrows that had appeared there. “This is sounding worse and worse,” he said. Then, as he usually did, he diplomatically tabled the topic. “Let me think about it.”

  Which was all the approval Gabriel needed.

  It was still startling for Mitch to see uniformed police and soldiers carrying automatic weapons in an airport, even in a foreign country.

  The Customs official was unreadable: Round head, military crop, unblinking eyes, a knife scar on one side of his mouth. “Remove glasses,” he said to Mitch, speaking in fractured English.

  They examined each other. The official spot-checked the entry form boxes on Criminal convictions and Contagious diseases. Mitch had the feeling she had been processed and found lacking, no doubt an impression the uniforms cultivated deliberately.

  He did not stamp Mitch’s passport. “Stand in blue area, please.”

  Mitch was directed to a gauntlet of interview cubicles, where a burly Chinese soldier eviscerated her carry-on bag. She was directed to strip down to her underwear and was scanned with a multiband detector. Then into a scanning booth, to insure no contraband was up her ass or down her throat. Only then did a uniformed female supervisor show up, a black Eurasian who gave Mitch the once-over with disdain. It was designed to be as humiliating and intimidating as possible.

  The soldier handed a business card to the supervisor. She squinted first at it, then at Mitch. “Your work is in computers,” she said in flawlessly mellow Oxford English.

  “Yes,” said Mitch, trying to find her shirt in the tangle of clothing on the table.

  “You are a consultant for Zongchang, Ltd.” Nothing the humorless supervisor said was a question. It was rhetorical prodding, bald statements of facts intended to provoke a confirmation or denial.

  “Yes.”

  “That is a good job for a foreigner to have.”

  “Yes it is.”

  About an hour later, Mitch finally made it to the overburdened taxicab queue. If one arrived at the city’s more modern Pudong Airport, one had the option of taking the MagLev train the thirty kilometers or so into downtown. Mitch had flown into Hongqiao International, and as an outsider unfamiliar with the grid, was stuck with cabbing it. She knew that if the meter crested more than 200 renminbi she would have to have words with the “helpfull, clean, professional, English-spakeing Driver“—as a sign on the inside of the door informed her.

  Most commercial cabs in China are compact cars with a Plexi-shield folded around the driver’s seat only, giving the pilots an odd, bottled aspect and muffling nearly everything they say.

  “Is biggest of all large bridges,” the driver told her as they chugged across the modernist swath of Nanpu Bridge. “Most excellent photo opportunity!”

  “We are going to downtown Shanghai, right?” said Mitch.

  The driver nodded enthusiastically. “Three times! In 1997!”

  It was all right. She could already see the spire of the Oriental Pearl TV Tower on the Bund.

  Outside the Dongfeng Hotel, the scene was a casserole of Grand Central Station rush hour mixed with Casablanca; a huge and bustling open-air marketplace full of hucksters, eccentrics, exotics and bums. Even the poorest citizen was proud of his suit jacket; in fact, there was a thriving subindustry whereby designer labels could be sewn onto the sleeve of virtually any garment. The visible labels (usually on the left cuff) were a weird sort of status symbol, whether you were riding a bike or stepping out of a limousine. The sheer crush of human bodies was fantastic: thousands of people, hundreds of bicycles (ten abreast and moving fast on each side of Zhongshan Road), citizens hustling about in a floral rainbow of ponchos, pushcart cages of live food. Mitch saw one intrepid cyclist precariously transporting enough strapped-on TV sets to fill a 4x4.

  A liveried doorman took her shoulder bag at the entrance to the Dongfeng.

  The rooms at the Dongfeng featured card-access slots on the doors but still used old-fashioned keys. Mitch slumped on a double bed, trying not to let all her energy leak out, wondering where the surveillance camera might be hidden. They certainly were omnipresent in every other part of the hotel, particularly the elevators, which seemed to have two per car. She thought about this as she undressed, thought about the bored government functionary charged with watching this particular room’s feed. Probably just made his day, she thought as she pulled a black dress out of her bag and slipped it on over her head.

  Downstairs, a very polite but very confused concierge tried to help her get where she needed to go.

  Mitch tapped Valerie’s business card. “This? Here? Zongchang? Yes?”

  The concierge seemed conflicted; apparently there was more than one destination called Zongchang. “A taxi can take you from hotel if you really wish to go,” he said, implying that perhaps she did not want to go.

  “I have an appointment with Mr. Kuan-Ku Tak Cheung,” she said.

  “Oh. I see.” He scribbled a square note to be handed off to the next cabbie. “This is the Zongchang you seek.”

  “She’s lost her mind,” Lucy said.

  Gabriel and Lucy sat in the war zone that had once been Valerie Quantrill’s apartment.

  “Near as I can figure, she took all the cards,” said Lucy. “The business stuff, the photo ID, the credit cards. She left the keys so I’m guessing she wasn’t planning to come back.”

  Gabriel still had a clear mental image of Valerie Quantrill’s photo ID. The sisters had looked close enough to one another for Mitch to pass the quick scrutiny she’d get at an airport counter, especially if she’d done something to make her hair match. “A last-minute ticket to Shanghai’s not cheap…but if Mitch maxed out the credit cards she could’ve swung it. And if she got a style cut or a wig…”

  “She could pass for Valerie,” Lucy said. “Fly on her passport. It’s soon enough, maybe nobody knows Valerie is dead yet.”

  “The people who killed Valerie know.”

  “Goddamn it,” Lucy said. “Why’d she pull something like this?”

  “She’s your friend. Don’t ask me.”

  “Gabriel, if I’m not on a plane in four hours, I’ll have the police forces of two countries after me!”

  “So get on a plane,” Gabriel said.

  “Someone’s got to help Mitch,” Lucy said.

  Gabriel Hunt picked up a little snow globe from the floor. Something belonging to Valerie. Little Statue of Liberty, swirling fake snow. Big heart, for NYC.

  Lucy cleared her throat. “Will you do it?” she asked.

  “Like I’ve ever been able to say no to you,” Gabriel said.

&
nbsp; Chapter 4

  It was the first time Mitch had worn a dress in over six years, and the last time had been at a funeral. She felt askew in her rakish feminine attire, but it was necessary if she wanted to blend.

  Zongchang Ltd. had tentacles all over urban Shanghai, and the destination to which her cabbie took her turned out to be a casino.

  A floating casino.

  A floating casino housed inside a converted aircraft carrier anchored in the harbor. The word “Zongchang” was painted on its side in four-foot-high red characters, English and Chinese both.

  Inside a buoy-marked perimeter, scuba-capable security staff patrolled from one-man speed skiffs featuring gun mounts.

  Loudspeakers advised potential trespassers to stay clear of the boat zone.

  At the dock, more security men assisted patrons onto custom mini-ferries that ran to and from the ship’s ornate gangplank. The security men were dressed in nononsense, upscale eveningwear, rather like Mitch was.

  Except Mitch was not toting a visible MAC-10 with a huge, priapic SIONICS suppressor stretching the barrel.

  The carrier shell had been hollowed out and structurally reinforced to provide for broad, windowed views of the shimmering Bund, with outdoor restaurants on the flight deck. Inside, French staircases curved from level to level. Some bled off toward premium members-only gambling areas.

  The main casino floor was anything but Vegas, favoring baccarat and chemin de fer, though tables for blackjack, roulette and Texas Hold ’Em were also in view.

  At the armored cash windows, the currency of many different countries was being exchanged for the casino’s special chips.

  Mitch passed through another body scanner at the entry. There was no way she could have come in armed. She thought: Play it as cool as dry ice. You’re not Michelle Quantrill. You’re Valerie. You’re not dead. You’re seeking your employer. You’re a guest. Simple. Just ask. Don’t panic.

  A tray of drinks was being offered to her before she’d even found her focus on the gambling floor. Mitch hesitated. Chose a martini.

  “I’m looking for Mr. Cheung,” she said, but the server had already departed.

  She tried again with a passing security man who apparently “did not have the English.” He arched an eyebrow at her and strode away.

  Insane bass-heavy house/trance music thundered at her as she crossed an opaque dance floor of solid glass.

  Mitch didn’t know it yet, but she had already been made.

  Qingzhao Wai Chiu took note of the blonde woman crossing the dance floor. Another lost, clueless American. Another despised tourist.

  Qingzhao looked quite different from her previous public appearance, when an aerodynamic suit with a concealed mini-chute had permitted her to disappear into the blackness of the Huangpu River…instead of hitting flat water from a 300-meter drop, which would have been like landing on stone.

  Tonight she was dressed to kill, literally and figuratively. New wig of cascading black curls. Tinted designer glasses. She had applied makeup so as to cause light to change the planes of her face. Enough exposure of thigh and décolletage to ensure she could steer men. The prostitutes in the casino were tawdry and obvious. Qingzhao prided herself as a chameleon.

  She, too, had entered unarmed.

  She, too, sought the man known as Kuan-Ku Tak Cheung.

  Qingzhao found herself a likely security man. A bald East Indian, supersized, muscle packed atop more muscle.

  “Ladies’ toilet?” she said in a high, squeaky voice.

  The idol-huge man rolled his eyes, then jerked a thumb. “That way, gorgeous.”

  Qingzhao giggled, as though from too much champagne. In her real life, she almost never laughed anymore.

  The East Indian would not do. She needed somebody more reckless, younger, a hotshot on staff here.

  “Don’t mind Dinanath,” said a voice behind her. “He’s never polite.”

  She turned. Bingo. This guy was like a horny raptor with the eyes of a pit viper. He could be steered.

  “You’re funny,” she said vacantly. “Listen…I need to find the toilet. I might need a little help getting there without becoming embarrassed.”

  He offered his arm. “Certainly. My name is Romero.”

  Qingzhao and Romero navigated across the dance floor, Qingzhao keeping her pace just halting enough to be convincing. By the time they reached the nearest restroom, Romero had already brushed her breasts twice and her ass once, strictly to guide her.

  “Wait here, okay?” She gave him a little wave and tottered inside.

  What she had been doing while in transit was noting the locations of the security cameras in the non-gambling zones. While there was a spy-eye (much more discreet) in the powder room, there were none in the individual toilets, which were set up in Western-style stalls.

  Once inside a stall, she levered loose the stainless steel clip-lid of the toilet tank. The plunger works came loose easily enough. She bent the flimsy metal to form a spiked punch she could wrap around one fist.

  Then she ventured a shy around-the-corner peek at Romero through the bathroom door. “Hey,” she said. “This thing doesn’t work.” He stepped toward her. She smiled, grabbed his belt buckle, and pulled him along.

  The cameras would only see two hard partiers headed for a stall and perhaps a taste of inebriated hanky-panky.

  Qingzhao made sure Romero kept his eyes on her smile and other assets as she boxed him into the stall and quickly punched a gushing hole into his neck. One more strategic punch and the man was soundlessly down. She quickly stripped him of an automatic pistol and spare magazine, concealing the gun in the only place her show-offy dress would allow.

  Done, armed, and not a drop of blood on her. So far so good.

  Longwei Sze Xie had few peers or intimates, but nearly everybody called him “Ivory.” Even his employer, Kuan-Ku Tak Cheung, used this familiar form. Other times, when matters were more grave, Cheung called him “Long.” It had happened once or twice in nearly twenty years.

  He was taking a break in the Zongchang’s security nest—surrounded by monitors and exchanging monotonous chitchat with a console monkey named Zero—when he saw the blonde American stride across the dance floor. The whites of his eyes went stark with surprise at such naked boldness. He snapped his fingers and Zero backed up the feed in order to print out a photo of the woman, after choosing the best vantage.

  Ivory’s initial shock had come from seeing what he thought was a woman he knew to be dead, right there, seemingly alive, her body language practically broadcasting the rough retribution she sought for her own demise. Then his rational mind processed the image. No, it’s not her. Close, but no. He was already on the move.

  Ivory had feared something like this. Had prepared for its eventuality.

  Cheung was holding forth with some financiers in the craps alcove. This woman would spot him eventually, or locate him indirectly. Then nine kinds of hell would break out—if he didn’t get to her first.

  He glided up behind her. Took a breath. Spoke calmly.

  “Do you wish to enjoy Shanghai, Miss Quantrill?”

  Mitch spun, slopping her untouched drink. Sandbagged. “Who the hell are you?”

  “My name is Longwei Sze Xie,” said the handsome Asian. “Please call me Ivory.”

  “Do you know Kuan-Ku Tak Cheung?”

  Ivory was astonished at her directness. She was processing minor shock, he could tell, yet remained bullishly American.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “I don’t suppose you could point him out to me?”

  Ivory dipped into his vest pocket, his free hand cautioning her against rash action. He withdrew a packet of airline tickets. “First class back to New York City, with my compliments.”

  Mitch eyed him suspiciously. “What’re you supposed to be?”

  “I am the greatest friend you have in the world right now, Miss Quantrill.”

  Past the woman’s shoulder, Ivory saw Dinanath, the big bald op
erative, signaling to him from across the gambling floor. Summoning him.

  Ivory clenched his teeth as though mildly pained. “Come with me.”

  Kuan-Ku Tak Cheung made a habit of keeping tabs on his Number One, Ivory, and when he spotted his head of security chatting up a strangely familiar blonde, he snapped his fingers and Dinanath jumped to.

  It wasn’t quite an arrest, but had more insistence than a mere escort.

  Cheung excused himself from the company of his supporters after making sure they had drinks all around. Extra security, all first string except for Romero (who was MIA somewhere), formed an outer ring for privacy as Dinanath, Ivory and their visitor came over. She was not a beautiful woman, noted Cheung. More…handsome. But there was something compelling about her, something about the hardness in her eyes.

  Mitch stared. It was not polite, but she couldn’t help herself. Cheung was burly, bristly. Nothing about him seemed Chinese except for the epicanthic folds of his eyelids, and she realized, with a jolt, that the man had probably had surgery to acquire the look. In any event, his eyes were bright blue.

  “And, this is…?” said Cheung, not speaking to Mitch, but to Ivory.

  “I’ve come about Valerie Quantrill,” said Mitch.

  Dinanath was upending her small clutch purse on a vacant table, rummaging.

  “Who is Valerie Quantrill?” said Cheung, again to Ivory.

  “A woman you left dead in a Dumpster in New York,” said Mitch, reddening.

  Upon hearing this, Dinanath turned to Cheung and shrugged. It was all we could find. A garbage bin. As if to say, so what?

  Cheung looked around to his fellows as though he had missed something, like a punch line. “And…?“

  “And I want to know what you had to do with it,” said Mitch.

  Cheung splayed his fingers across his mouth, pondering. “Hmm. All the way from the United States? Seems like a lot of trouble just to hurl an accusation. Why bother?”