But something’s wrong: it’s all taking far too long. He’s normally out of the first of the cuffs already. Close up, his father’s face shows anxiety. Fear even . . . The stopwatch is ticking away in Danny’s hand. Come on, Dad. Come on—
“Hey, Danny!”
Laura taps him on the shoulder, snapping him back to the present, the engine roar. “If you’re going to sleep, then use a cushion and a blanket and make the best of it.”
He turns to look at her drowsily. Something has been prompted by the waking dream.
“Aunt Laura. Did you ever see the Water Torture Escape? In rehearsal, I mean?”
“I was always too busy.” She sighs.
“There’s something weird about it. I mean, weird how it went wrong. And then the fire so soon after—”
“Danny, we’ve been over that—”
“You said we could see about looking into it again.”
“The police did a thorough job. Death by accidental causes.”
“But Mum and Dad were always so careful—”
“You saw the report. I’m sure it was kosher. Accidents happen.”
There it is again. No one ever wanted to listen, and when he persisted last year, a psychologist patiently explained that the doubts were all to do with shock—the difficulty in believing that someone was gone. That something as stupid as a cooking fire could take the lives of people who looked death in the face and cheated it on a daily basis.
“It doesn’t make sense. Two things going so wrong in a week.”
Laura sighs. “Life just sometimes has a habit of wrong-footing us, Daniel. God only knows that’s happened to me enough. We don’t know what’s coming round the corner. Good or bad.”
“But Dad always said—”
“Your dad didn’t know everything, Danny. He liked to think he did. I’m sorry, but we’re all of us groping in the dark sometimes.”
He nods, but isn’t convinced. One failed escape in the week, maybe. But not two. It doesn’t feel right—never has.
He stares out into the night again. Nothing to be seen of the unknown lands slipping by far below.
“Get some sleep now, Danny.”
But when he does eventually drift off, his dreams are dark and disturbed. Full of the rush and chaos of water closing over his head.
5
HOW NOT TO JUDGE BY APPEARANCES
Sunlight streams through the windows of the sprawling Hong Kong International Airport. Lushly wooded hills roll in the distance, their unfamiliar shapes pricking Danny’s excitement, the misgivings of the night before replaced by a surge of anticipation at finally seeing Hong Kong. And being reunited with Zamora.
There’s a thick scrum at the arrivals gate, but it’s not exactly hard to spot the dwarf. A good deal shorter than the rest, he nevertheless stands out at the barrier, raised up on tiptoe, his trademark bowler hat perched at a jaunty angle. One hand reaches up to smooth his moustache. Then he spots Danny and a broad smile breaks across his face as he bustles forward to greet them, arms working busily, head held high.
“There you are, there you are, Mister Danny. Miss Laura!” He gives Danny a powerful hug, lifting him clean off the ground. “You’ve blooming well overtaken me. I knew it. Oh well. Had to happen.”
“It’s been so long—” Danny says, recovering from Zamora’s grip. He wants to say more but can’t find the words.
“No problem for us, Mister Danny. No problema! Old friends can cope with time, you know. We’re here now. That’s all that matters.” He play-punches his young friend on the shoulder.
“How’s the hotel?” Laura says.
“Bit too posh. Made me put a shirt over my lovely pictures.” Zamora flexes his biceps, and the mermaids and tigers inked there jump and twist. “But otherwise like you asked. Anonymous. Central.”
“Let’s get moving then, shall we, boys?” Laura says.
Zamora takes the luggage cart and starts to shove it through the crowds, throwing words back over his shoulder. “We’ll have a good time, eh, Mister Danny? Catch up, talk about the old days . . . EAT, for heaven’s sake. You know what they say—food is an important part of a balanced diet! How’s the magic?”
Danny smiles. “I’ll show you the jumping man. I’ve almost got it.” The long year and a half since that snowy Berlin day feels like it’s melting into nothing.
“Never show a trick till you’re absolutely sure of it,” Zamora says. “Hey! Tell me I’ve grown!”
It’s an old joke. “You’ve grown, Major.”
“Four foot four! Not bad for an achondroplastic, no? Has Laura been telling you about the mess she’s—”
“Found a driver yet?” Laura cuts quickly across him, “I need to hit the ground running.”
Danny spots that easily enough. Somewhere Laura didn’t want to go.
“What mess?”
“Oh,” Laura says, “just too much to do and not enough time. As usual. How about this driver?”
Zamora changes tack smoothly. “Oh yes. Nice man. He’s here somewhere.” He lifts himself on the trolley handles, peering over the crowds. “There he is. Mr. Kwan!”
A short, rotund man—not much taller than the major himself—steps forward and takes hold of a case.
“Pleased to meet you,” he says, nodding at all three, squinting through thick round glasses. He reminds Danny of the barn owl that used to greet visitors at the Mysterium’s entrance. It always looked confused to find itself there—and took the first opportunity it got to escape into a dark Spanish night. That had pleased Danny, and the resemblance makes him warm to Mr. Kwan.
“This way, please,” the taxi driver says, leading them through the revolving doors. It feels to Danny as if they’ve walked into a solid wall of muggy air, and hot sun slaps him on the back of the neck. The change of atmosphere, from gray lifeless Ballstone to the heat of this morning—Cantonese sing-songing all around them—is stirring something deep inside. Genetic memory maybe? He opens up his senses, trying to take it all in.
Mr. Kwan’s red and white taxi is waiting for them, sunlight bouncing off dented bodywork. An advertisement for teeth whitening is plastered to the driver’s door. It looks as though someone’s taken a sledgehammer repeatedly to that side of the car, and Laura raises an eyebrow as Mr. Kwan starts banging cases into the boot.
“Don’t judge by appearances,” Zamora whispers. “Your brother always told me that, Miss Laura.”
“As long as he can actually drive the thing.”
“Remember what Shakespeare said, Miss Laura. ‘All that glitters is not gold.’ And vice versa. Mr. Kwan’s a good one. Picked him third off the rank, just like you said.”
“Point taken.”
“And don’t I know what it is to be misjudged,” Zamora mutters.
Danny is looking around, savoring the heat, watching travelers pulse in and out of the terminal building. I’m ready for this, he thinks. It feels right to be here.
Close by, a tall man is lounging against a lamppost, mobile phone casually held to his ear. The morning sun falls on his spotless white linen suit. Although seemingly immersed in his call, he casts a quick glance at them.
Despite the throng of new images coming at him, it registers with Danny. There’s nothing new about people staring at Zamora, of course. The major turns heads wherever he goes—and grumbles about it on a bad day—but there’s something about the spark in the man’s gaze that holds Danny’s attention for a second or two. It just doesn’t match the relaxed posture of the rest of his body. “Pay attention when things don’t fit,” Dad always said. “Be interested in the details.”
But then the man claps his phone shut, shoves it in a pocket, and ambles off toward the terminal doors. As if he has all the time in the world.
“Come on,” Zamora says, clambering into the rear seat of Mr. Kwan’s cab. “Your aunt’s in a blooming hurry. As usual. And I’m hungry.”
Mr. Kwan revs the taxi and they pull away toward the expressway.
“Whole lot better arriving here than the old airport,” Zamora says. “Safer too!”
Danny looks back at the terminal building—and sees the man in the suit dart back across the tarmac, summoning the next taxi on the rank with a flick of his fingers. He moves with precision, ducking his long, thin head as he jumps into the backseat—glancing in their direction as he goes.
“I’ll tell you, it was scary in a crosswind,” the dwarf continues. “Planes sliding sideways . . .”
But Danny’s not listening. His curiosity has been roused by the actions of the white-suited man, and he looks around again, trying to pick out the other taxi. There it is. Close behind.
It follows them across a couple of intersections and then down the ramp onto the North Lantau Highway. Most taxis from the airport would be going this way, of course. Then again, the man has no baggage, and he was in a hurry to grab a taxi as soon as they left the rank. A bit odd.
Mr. Kwan wipes his forehead with a red handkerchief, urging the car onwards. They climb an elegant suspension bridge, cables webbed against the sky. Zamora taps Danny on the shoulder, dragging his attention from the following cab.
“Take a look, Danny.”
All of Hong Kong and its harbor is spread out before them in one breathtaking sweep. Boats plow snow-white furrows on the water. Green hills rise and fall and rise again, cradling the bay. Everywhere the thrust of skyscrapers, towers of glass and steel vertical at the water’s edge, catching the light.
“One of the most densely populated places on Earth,” Laura says. “That’s why everyone builds upward. Up and up.”
“And me with my vertigo,” says Zamora, grimacing. “Ay caramba!”
The expressway snakes through flyovers and sprawling intersections. Danny’s eyes drinking in the approaching city. Signs flashing by in a clutter of Chinese characters, coded messages that feel as though they should be decipherable, but are beyond reach.
“It’s strange to think of Mum growing up here,” Danny says, watching the city grow around them, the towering blocks swallowing them up.
“How do you mean, Danny boy?” Laura asks.
“I mean, it’s like there’s a whole life she had here that I don’t really know.”
“Perhaps you’ll get a better feel for it . . .”
Danny smiles. “I’m glad I’ve come.”
“Good. I’m sure it was the right thing to do.”
Mr. Kwan pilots them surely enough through the hustling traffic and then down a ramp into the cross-harbor tunnel to Hong Kong Island itself.
Danny turns around to squint through the rear window. Is that taxi still following us? he wonders. No fewer than twenty other virtually identical red and white cabs crowd behind them. No chance of picking it out. Maybe he was mistaken anyway.
He keeps looking for a long time before finally twisting back again.
Zamora glances at him. Not hard to see the mixture of anxiety, excitement, and grief playing on Danny’s face. Going to be a bit of a balancing act, Zamora thinks. We need to lift the boy’s spirits.
But we need to keep our eyes open too. Just in case.
6
HOW TO TRUST YOUR INSTINCTS
They turn along the waterfront. The traffic has snarled, bumper to bumper. People nudge to change lanes. Horns blaring.
It makes Danny think of the Khaos Klowns doing their Demolition Derby routine: souped-up bumper cars ramming across the arena, colliding in flame and smoke as the band thumped out a fuzzed guitar riff. One by one the Aerialisques came dropping from out of the air on their bungee cords, plucking the drivers from their dodgems—the Klowns suddenly sprouting angel wings as they ascended in the girls’ arms—and calm slowly returned to the arena. He finds himself smiling. Almost as if he chose to have that memory . . .
Laura claps her hands, breaking the spell. “Attention in the back, please. I’m going to get Mr. Kwan to drop you and the bags at the Pearl. I’ve got to go and meet Detective Tan, my contact.” She scribbles on a business card and hands it to Danny. “This is a restaurant in Mong Kok. Across the harbor in Kowloon. Take the Star Ferry and meet me there. Eight o’clock sharp.”
They lurch onto the forecourt of the Pearl Hotel, a great slab of glass commanding Victoria Harbor. The taxi backfires as Mr. Kwan brings it to a stop, and Danny looks back at the puff of smoke from the exhaust.
Through it he sees White Suit again.
The other taxi, presumably the same one from the airport, has pulled up some way back and the tall, thin man is on the pavement, chatting to his driver through the window. Again, as casual as you like. But then the man glances, for a fraction of a second, straight in Danny’s direction, before a green tram trundles past, obliterating him from view.
A coincidence?
Danny nudges Zamora. “I’m not sure, but I think we’re being followed. Don’t look round too quickly, but a tall man, white suit.”
“Come off it, Mister Danny!”
“I’m sure he was at the airport. And now he’s here.”
“Then he’s probably staying at the same hotel.”
Mr. Kwan is piling cases onto the pavement and a bellhop starts loading them onto a trolley. “Here, let me help, young man,” Zamora says, swinging out of the cab and effortlessly picking up the two biggest. “Our fault for bringing so much.”
Laura ruffles Danny’s hair.
“Aunt Laura—”
“No time now. I just need to speed-freshen.” She takes perfume from her bag and sprays her wrist liberally. He’s never really liked its cloying smell and he wrinkles his nose. Laura looks into Danny’s eyes, holding his gaze for a moment. “Do what the major says. At all times. Understand?”
“But—”
“It’ll have to wait!”
Reluctantly Danny gets out of the taxi.
Laura taps Mr. Kwan on the shoulder. He crunches the gears hard and sends the car lurching into an almost nonexistent gap between the cars and a tram. In seconds they’re gone.
Danny turns round to check for White Suit. The man’s still there by his taxi and seems to hesitate for a moment, throwing another glance at Danny—right at him—before snapping back into his own cab. Kwan’s car is lost in the traffic ahead, but you can tell where it is by the exhaust coughing from its tailpipe. White Suit points after it, and his own taxi darts forward. It clips a delivery van a glancing blow and is away down Connaught Road, to a fanfare of protesting horns.
Danny watches it for a moment before turning to Zamora, eyebrows raised.
“You see?”
“I dunno, Mister Danny. Crazy place.”
“Didn’t you see him?”
“Just some josser in a hurry,” Zamora says. “Like always. Like your aunt. Not like us circus folk.”
He shakes his head and goes in through the revolving doors, keeping his eyes lowered. “Crazy.”
Maybe this White Suit business is nothing, Danny thinks. Maybe Laura did change her plans at the last minute. Maybe she has told me everything she knows. And yet, deep down, he knows that’s wrong. In the circus you were taught to trust that sixth sense, that survival instinct. Somewhere—quietly at the back of your mind—it might be whispering its warning.
And it might just save your life.
7
HOW TO CATCH A FURTIVE DWARF
The Pearl Hotel may be anonymous but it is certainly grand. Potted palms and acres of marble. Mirrors and polished chrome reflect the uniformed bellhops, while the wealthy men and women lounging around look bored and irritable.
Danny watches Zamora chatting to the receptionist, the dwarf’s infectious laughter punctuating their conversation. The major’s solid presence is reassuring, and despite the questions ticking away in his mind, Danny decides to let things lie. At least for now. Zamora turns away from the desk and comes back over, scratching his head.
“We’re on the seventh floor! Could be worse. Height-wise, I mean!”
“How’d you ever manage in the circus, Major?”
/> “It’s OK if I’m doing something. Like riding the wall. And the cannonball thing was always over so quickly I didn’t realize how blinking high I went. Until I saw it on video one day.”
The dwarf grimaces, shoulders Danny’s bag along with his own, and leads the way to the elevators. Danny checks over his shoulder as they go, the sudden urgency of White Suit’s actions out on the road still dogging his thoughts.
In Room 712 a floor-to-ceiling window reveals a dramatic panorama of the harbor, the sprawl of Kowloon on the far side, clouds boiling up over the hills, and China beyond. Zamora approaches the window and peers at the sky uncertainly.
“What shall we do first, Mister Danny? How about showing me this jumping man of yours?”
“OK. I’ll find my cards.”
“Good. Then we’ll see about—”
Zamora stops mid-sentence, his head cocked on one side, as if listening to something. Nothing obvious to be heard above the hum of the air con, but the lines on the major’s brow deepen.
“Tell you what. How about you practice a couple of times? I’m just going to have a quick word with the concierge. Won’t be a moment.”
It’s Danny’s turn to frown now. A distinct note of tension has crept into Zamora’s voice.
“I’ll do our secret knock when I’m back. Like the old days, no?”
Puzzled, Danny goes to sit by the window, riffling the cards through his fingers, watching Zamora move stealthily toward their door. The major pauses there for a moment, again listening hard, and then slips out of the room. Danny hears him muttering away in Spanish under his breath, and then the door snicks shut.
Weird. There’s definitely something up, and yet again things are being kept from him. He drops the cards back into his pocket and moves silently across the room, pausing by the door, and—yes—there’s a faint sound to be heard. Like someone breathing in a labored way, a dry rasping sound. OK then, so let’s see what’s going on.
He whips the door open and catches Zamora crouched on the floor, caught in the act—of what? The major half falls into the room, and then looks up at Danny. Something guilty in that glance.
The Black Dragon Page 3