WHITE TIGER
By Stephen Knight and Derek Paterson
Copyright © 2011 by Stephen Knight and Derek Paterson
CHAPTER 1
San Francisco, California
Opulence.
There was no other way to describe the Taipan Suite at the Mandarin Oriental in San Francisco. Almost two thousand square feet of room, lavishly furnished and appointed, with accents that could lead one to believe he might be staying in its namesake in Hong Kong. But one look through the broad windows would have confirmed otherwise; barely half a mile away, the Transamerica building soared into the night sky, a stiletto of brilliance in the darkness. Further out was San Francisco Bay, still busy with ships of various sizes and shapes, either being nudged to their slips by tugboats or steaming underway for destinations unknown. The entire tableau was a lovely sight; San Francisco was, after all, the most beautiful of American cities.
Opulence. Lin Dan let the word roll off his mental tongue. It was such a strange word to him, a string of heavy vowels and sharp consonants that he could never hope to pronounce with the fluid grace of a native English-speaker. The word even maintained life and poise when pronounced by an American, though for true aural pleasure, one had to hear it spoken aloud by a Briton. A British tongue bestowed the word with the nobility it deserved, the promise of never-ending power; the words cáifù, fùyù, and even fengfu, all had the same meaning, but none approached the sheer descriptive power of the single English word.
Ah, the joys of language! As a youth, Lin had hated the desultory prospect of trying to wrap his mouth around foreign idioms, which at first seemed like the songs of aliens to him, rising where they should fall, flat where inflection begged to be injected. It took time for him to develop an appreciation for foreign tongues, and to use their power to suit him and further the fortunes of the Lin family. And Lin had the foreigners to thank for that. During the lifetime of his grandparents, and most of his father’s, the Lin family was a family of scarce wealth, eking out an existence as fisherman near the city of Xiamen, in China’s Fujian province. Day by miserable day, they toiled in near-poverty, existing on what they could catch in rickety ships that would set sail in the Pacific. Lin’s favored uncle had once set off on a cloudless morning in 1975, when Lin was but four years of age. He and his crew of fourteen sailors never returned, leaving the family with only his father’s vessel. Those were bleak years, when their income plummeted by fifty percent in less than 24 hours.
But the past lay far, far behind him. After opening itself to the West, and allowing the seeds of capitalism to be sown, the Lin family had made a name for themselves. First with shipping, then trade, then electronics and real estate. The role reversal was electrifyingly swift, when he paused to think of it. But for Lin, the one lesson he had learned from his childhood was to never again be poor.
This meant surrounding himself with such trappings as those offered by the San Francisco hotel in which he now stood. But even that was dwarfed by the luxury contained in his mansion in the Sea Cliff District, where the dwellings were almost stacked on top of one another in an attempt to garner the best view of the Pacific and the Golden Gate Bridge. Lin’s was one of perhaps four premier properties there, and the value and prestige of the residence only continued to climb.
But there were certain things that were not allowed to walk the fine carpets of his personal residence or, at the very least, not more than once a year. And such a thing was approaching him now as surely as a dagger aimed for a hated heart.
Xiaohui Zhu was all Shanghainese, which was both good and bad. Good in that she exuded a sexuality that filled a room and captivated the hormones of every red-blooded male. Bad in that she did embody the very thing Shanghainese women were reviled for—a love of only money and wealth. Lin did not fear her, for he possessed what she wanted, and through that, he could control her. While she would at times be tempestuous, fiery, petulant, he and he alone provided for her the luxury apartment in Pudong she called her home, the Audi TT she so adored, and the chauffeured Bentley when she didn’t feel like driving herself. Not to mention the closets full of clothes bought during excursions to Europe and the US; if there was a woman in all of Shanghai who had an outfit for any occasion, it was Xiaohui Zhu.
On this evening, however, she was dressed in a sleek blue qi pao, the ethnic dress of mainland Chinese women. It hugged her body like a second skin; a winding dragon made its way down her breast, its gaping jaws barely grazing the unseen sweep of her pubic mound. Her long black hair was held back by ivory pins—illegal in the United States, but where there was money, anything could be had. Her eyes were fashionably large for a Chinese, her nose thin, her lips full, her face a perfect oval. Her skin was as white as possible, never seeing more sun than what might be encountered walking from shop to automobile. A true porcelain beauty, she never failed to incense Lin. She embodied xingbiéde tèzhêng, the very essence of sex.
And sex was what they were about. For Lin, it could be nothing else; for Xiaohui, it was a means to an end. He was rough with her, as she desired it, dominating her totally as they wrestled on the king-sized bed, their bodies writhing across the fine Egyptian cotton sheets. Xiaohui cried out as he suckled her firm breasts, tongued her shaven mound, and groped her flesh with enough power to leave bruises. When the time came, he pinned her to the bed and thrust into her like a madman, and her cries of ecstasy were punctuated by the metronomic slaps of his body against hers. He covered her mouth with his own, forcing his tongue into her mouth, muffling her shrieks as his own passion began to build. He held the threatening explosion off for as long as he was able while quickening his tempo; it was a game he liked to play, seeing how long he could deny his pleasure while at the same time doing whatever was possible to entreat it forth. Beneath him, Xiaohui shuddered as she climaxed, and her muscles gripped him in a series of convulsive spasms that fractured his willpower. With a cry of his own, he ejaculated inside of her, his body trembling from the rapture which they both shared for the moment.
Afterwards, they lay panting on the bed, the sheets wet from their mingled sweat. Lin kissed her face gently, as a lover should; Xiaohui pressed her body against his, sated. For now.
“Come bathe,” she whispered after a time.
“Mei you. Let me lie here... I’ll shower later.”
“Aiyah. Don’t fall asleep all sweating!”
Lin patted her rump. “I won’t,” he promised. “Go bathe. The tub is lovely.”
Xiaohui clucked her tongue in disapproval, but kissed him gently before sliding out of the bed. She walked to the bathroom and, after a time, Lin heard the Jacuzzi-sized bathtub being filled. Then, music from the audio system—Wong Fei, her favorite artist. He stretched out on his back in the semi-darkness of the room, and gazed out through the large windows at the twinkling lights that adorned the City on the Bay. He smiled to himself, already wondering if he could contain himself until morning. Xiaohui would board a China Eastern airliner for Shanghai the next day; as always, their stateside liaisons were brief, which was perhaps for the best. She drove him nearly wild with lust when she was about; even knowing she was in the same city as he was too great a distraction. It was best for all involved that she retreat to Shanghai, where she could await him... or until he summoned her again.
After a time, Lin Dan dozed.
He awoke with a gasp to find his manhood fully engorged again. Xiaohui’s head pumped up and down like a locomotive, her tongue moving across his swollen member with an artistry he hadn’t been aware she possessed. The room was completely dark now; Wong Fei continued her musical expressions from behind the bathroom’s closed door. Lin made to reach down, to grasp Xiaohui’s head; he found his arms were tied at the wrists by satin bonds. His ankles were likewise
restrained at the foot of the bed.
Xiaohui felt his movements, and she stopped her motions. “Sssh,” she admonished, the sound barely audible above the music. Lin relaxed immediately, not from her admonishment, but because the pleasure—indescribable!—had ceased. He moaned in his throat and thrust his hips upward, stabbing at the dark air with his penis, hoping to find her willing mouth. He moaned again when he was successful; her warmth enveloped him, and a shudder ran through his body. He had no self-control left; the quality of her work was far too much for him to handle. In seemingly no time at all, he was on the brink of orgasm. He thrashed about on the bed, moaning, hips thrusting. Xiaohui fixed her efforts on the head of his cock, and it was more than Lin could bear. As he began to come again, he felt a startling thrill—almost electric—course through his member. But then, he was overcome by his orgasm. Xiaohui lifted her head, and Lin spurted across his chest and stomach in great heaving gouts, his body strumming like a string.
More wetness landed on his face. As his orgasm began to fade, he was surprised that his outpouring continued. Truly, he was a titan tonight! So much seed!
More warm wetness landed on his face. A droplet landed on his tongue; it had a coppery taste, not at all like ejaculate, more like—
Blood?
Light flooded the room as the lamp on the nightstand was flicked on. Lin blinked at the surprising brightness, and he squinted up at Xiaohui as she crouched over him, her hair bound up in a long queue that ran to the small of her back.
The eyes that glared back at him were not Xiaohui’s.
“Do you remember me?” the woman asked in Xiamenese, the local dialect of Lin’s home city. “Do you remember me, Lin Dan?”
Lin’s shock was matched only by a spreading discomfort in his loins. The woman squeezed something in her hand, which she held above his head; blood streamed out of it and spattered across his forehead. With a shock, Lin realized he was covered with blood, blood so rich and dark that it had stained the bedding almost crimson. With that came an additional reckoning.
The woman held his severed penis over his head.
Lin opened his mouth to scream, and the woman shoved the severed appendage into his mouth. Lin half-choked on it, but the woman slammed his jaws shut with such force that it broke several teeth. Lin struggled against the bonds that held him, half-gagging and half-screaming in his throat.
The woman’s free hand descended toward him, the small blade she held glittering for an instant like the brightest of diamonds.
CHAPTER 2
Tokyo, Japan
The Fujianese weren’t that hard to detect, even for a supposedly hapless gaijin like Jerome Manning. They sat in their parked car across from the Mansions at Azabu Towers, an extended-stay facility in Tokyo’s Minato-ku ward less than a mile from the crowning indelicacy that was Tokyo Tower. Despite having risen from the ashes of World War II under American stewardship, the Japanese loved all things European; Tokyo Tower was nothing more than a copy of Paris’s Eiffel Tower, although substantially less romantic. Manning had long grown used to the ugly up thrust—after all, his own home in Japan was just another half-mile past the tower. Manning wished he was there now, kicking back on the couch and watching some inane Japanese TV show. Regrettably, work prevented that.
The men in the Toyota sedan sat and smoked, unaware of Manning’s covert surveillance even though he was only twenty feet away. One of them, sitting in the passenger seat, spoke into a cell phone endlessly. Manning made him as the team leader, and took several pictures of him with his smartphone. The Chinese did not notice this.
Time for some closeups, Manning thought to himself as he approached the car from the rear. He put the phone to his ear and pretended to be in the middle of a difficult conversation, speaking a spattering of Serbo-Croatian curses he had learned some years ago. He paused next to the vehicle and took three quick photos while still holding the phone to his ear, pretending to listen carefully to the nonexistent conversation. He then slid the phone inside his jacket pocket, his fictional conversation over. The men in the car looked at him. Not in suspicion; it was just something to do while waiting.
Guess they don’t recognize me…
Manning took a gamble and approached the car as if noticing it for the first time. The passenger window was open, and the man with the cell phone looked at him as he strolled up to the vehicle.
“Roshia Taishikan wa doko ni aruka gozonji desuka?” he asked in less-than-perfect Japanese. Excuse me—where is the Russian embassy?
The man barked back something in a language that was neither Japanese or English, or even Mandarin, yet Manning deciphered it as a Chinese provincial dialect. Fujianese, he was certain. Manning stared back, perplexed for a moment, then the man motioned him away from the car. Manning bowed slightly, and resumed his walk up the street. He crossed it and walked to the slab-like Azabu Towers main building. He pushed through the glass doors. There were several people milling about in the lobby—some were definitely Chinese, but their presence didn’t necessarily implicate them as associates of the Fujianese thugs outside. While waiting for the elevator, Manning kept his eyes on the marbled lobby, hands clasped behind his back. No one seemed unduly interested in him.
One man, sitting in an overstuffed lounge chair with a copy of the Daily Yomiuri on his lap, was chatting into a cell phone. While he wasn’t apparently interested in the tall foreigner in the elevator bay, he was in a perfect position for reconnaissance. Manning watched him from the corner of his eye. Was the man Chinese? He couldn’t tell, though he had an eye for such things; then and again, Asians mistook each other all the time. Koreans would approach a Chinese thinking he was a fellow Korean; Japanese might be approached by a Taiwanese. Manning frowned. It could have been entirely coincidental, and how often did one see an Asian man using a cell phone? Asians lived or died by the instruments.
The man disconnected and placed the phone on his lap. He picked up the Japanese-language newspaper and thumbed through the pages. He wasn’t reading it, just gazing at the pictures.
The elevator arrived and Manning stepped inside. Chinese.
He rode alone in the elevator to the ninth floor. The hallway was deserted; it was early afternoon, and most of the guests and residents were out. Manning walked to his suite, rapped on the door once, and dipped his keycard into the lock. He opened the door slowly.
“Ke jian bao Bái Hu,” he announced as he stepped through. It is the White Tiger.
Chen Gui, his current charge, stood in the short hallway inside. He was a short, cherubic Shanghainese with a potbelly who enjoyed wrapping himself in extravagance like a fine coat. He also held a Taurus .380 pistol with both hands. The barrel wavered back and forth. Chen Gui was trembling.
Manning closed the door behind him. “Put that down,” he said evenly.
Chen Gui let out his breath in a rush and nodded. He lowered the pistol and pulled a kerchief from his jacket pocket. He used it to dab at the sweat that beaded on his shaven head.
“Where’s your nephew?” Manning asked. He remained standing by the door.
“Chen Song!” Chen Gui barked. “Guo lai!”
From the small hallway leading to one of the bedrooms, a tall Chinese stepped into the clear. He wore all black and gray, and his long hair was tied back in a ponytail. Raffishly handsome, he looked at Manning with a smirk as he slid his Beretta 92 pistol into a shoulder holster.
Manning didn’t bother to smirk back, just pushed past the two men and walked into the living room. The drapes had been closed; Manning opened them slightly.
“Don’t do that!” Chen Gui shouted in English. “They can see us in here!”
Manning looked back at him. “This is the only room with closed drapes,” he said. “That’d be a pretty big clue right there, don’t you think?”
Chen Gui wiped his face with his kerchief. “You saw them?”
“Four on the street. One downstairs in the lobby.” Manning pulled his phone and showed the pictures
to Chen Gui. “Recognize them?”
Chen Gui scrolled through the photos, looking at them carefully. “Yes, all of them. All Fujianese.” Manning reclaimed his phone as Chen Gui stalked to the cream-colored sofa and threw himself onto it.
“Damned Fujianese! We Shanghainese are too charitable—I should have had them killed years ago!” he said, holding his face in his hands.
Manning checked his watch. Chen Gui looked up at him from the couch as Chen Song slipped into the matching love seat. His movements were as sinuous as a cat’s.
“How did they find us?” Chen Gui asked.
Manning pointed at Chen Gui. “Wearing a flame red suit probably wasn’t such a good idea,” he said. And it was true; Chen Gui, lover of all things ostentatious, was indeed wearing a red suit. It looked ridiculous, especially to a Westerner like Manning. But to a Chinese, red was the most auspicious of colors, the color of good fortune.
Chen Gui looked down at his suit, and his face hardened. “How dare you make fun of me at a time like this!”
Manning waved for him to be silent. “Keep your voice down.”
Chen Song looked up at the taller American with hard eyes. “Watch how you address my uncle,” he said.
Manning looked directly at him. “I don’t work for you, dipshit.”
Chen Song got to his feet, facing Manning. His eyes flashed with anger; Manning did nothing more than cross his arms.
“Stop!” Chen Gui hollered in Chinese. “No fighting now!”
Chen Song looked from his Manning to his uncle and back again. After a moment of internal debate, he slowly settled back into the love seat’s embrace, but his thin smirk said it all: This is not yet over.
Manning remained unperturbed. He knew it would infuriate Chen Song more than anything else; like his uncle, he was a vain man, but his vanity centered on his masculinity. Not being taken seriously would bug him. Manning liked that.
“How will we get out of here?” Chen Gui asked.
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