Danny turns to Zamora and mouths the words “Charlie Chow.” Zamora raises his eyebrows.
Chow steps back from the door and hits the touchscreen on his phone. He cocks his head sharply, listening. Inside the apartment, the phone behind them on the desk starts ringing again.
The voicemail clicks in again. “Jules Ricard. Please leave a message—”
Chow snaps his phone shut irritably and shoves it in his pocket. He didn’t dial the full number, Danny thinks. Must have had the number stored. Or he’s replying to Ricard. So they know each other for sure.
The man stares at the door again, as if defying it—and then stumps away down the stairs. He’s got a jiffy bag in his hand, and he shoves it into a jacket pocket as he goes.
Danny makes up his mind. “Come on, Major. We’re going to follow him.”
“You sure about that?”
“We’ll see where he goes. Then come back to meet Ricard.”
“You heard what he said. About triads, Danny. I’m responsible for you—”
“Shared responsibility, remember? We’ll keep to public areas. It’s broad daylight, after all.”
Zamora jams his hat back on his head. “Well, I’d rather be doing something than sitting here twiddling my blinking thumbs.”
Danny takes a piece of paper from the desk and scribbles on it: Back very soon. Danny.
They merge into the thick crowd in Tsim Sha. Chow is just about visible ahead—his burly form parting the crowds as if he owns the very pavements. A big shark among small fish, top of the food chain.
Zamora grabs a free copy of the Hong Kong Standard from a stall as they go.
“Camouflage. Come on, we’ll lose him in a moment.”
Chow marches along, looking neither left nor right. Not once does he glance over his shoulder. Danny keeps watching him. He’d look around, wouldn’t he, at least now and then, if he thought he was in any danger himself? And he’s going toward something, not away from something. Pulled, not pushed. More hunter than hunted? It’s hard to say.
Zamora, seeing Danny’s focus on Chow, takes up the guard, scanning the pavement for trouble, watching each scooter or parked car with care.
Chow crosses against a pedestrian light, oblivious to the oncoming traffic, and Danny and Zamora have to scramble to get across the road themselves, keeping their quarry in sight, dodging taxis and delivery vans.
“Let’s close it up a bit, Major. He’s not looked round once.”
The big man turns into a side street, then makes a fade left, moving fast, his jacket flapping, before suddenly ducking right into a camera shop.
“He’s on to us,” Zamora says.
“No. I think he’s going through the motions. Just in case.”
They enter the bright interior of the shop, disorientated a moment in the sharp lights, mirrored displays. Chow is jogging heavily toward a door at the rear.
Danny and Zamora whisk across the polished floor and follow him out the same way, through the corner of a congested mall and out again, just in time to see Chow march onto an escalator and disappear into the underground rapid transit station. The sign overhead says TSUEN WAN LINE, HONG KONG ISLAND.
“I wonder if we’re heading toward the bad guys,” Zamora puffs. “Or even your aunt?”
“Only one way to find out,” Danny says. “Keep following. To wherever he’s going.”
The station concourse is crowded. Chow has slowed, presumably sure he has done enough to fox anyone who might be tailing him. Who does he think might be following him? Danny wonders. Not us, surely. More likely it’s other triads. Or the cops. He watches as Chow wafts a card over the reader at a barrier and strides through.
“Tickets!” Zamora says, fumbling in his pocket for change and squinting hard at the machine, trying to work out the system.
“No time, Major.”
Danny swipes a couple of discarded tickets from the floor. Brushes the dust off them against his jeans. “Come on.”
He strides up to a bored-looking guard on one of the gates. No time to waste. Look into my eyes, right into them. That’s it. Weird to see two colors, isn’t it? Distracting.
“We just bought these and they won’t work on the barrier.”
The man looks down at them, but Danny moves them in a quick tight circle. “They’re good!” he says, nailing the tone with a chopping motion from his hand on the barrier.
The guard blinks, nods. Then opens his gate and waves them through.
Zamora chuckles to himself as they hoof it down the descending escalator, but there’s no time to dwell on the success. Chow’s out of sight on the packed escalator . . .
They hustle past the commuters, pushing past bulging shopping bags . . .
And at the bottom there’s no sign of him. They can hear the hiss of an approaching train, the hot breath of wind surging through the station. There’s not much time.
“Which platform? North or south?” Zamora shouts over the noise, glancing at the line information on the wall.
“The Island,” Danny says. “South.”
“How do you know?”
“Just a guess.”
The train comes thumping out of the dark maw of the tunnel alongside the crowded south platform. Danny jumps up onto a bench and, amidst the jostle, catches a glimpse of Chow boarding a carriage at the far end of the train.
“Got him, Major!”
He jumps down and pushes through the crowds, with Zamora following close behind. They’re just a carriage away from the end of the train when the alarm sounds and they duck through the sliding doors in the nick of time.
The train pulls speed from the rails, diving under the harbor, back toward Hong Kong Island.
Catching his breath, Danny stares out at the dark tunnel walls. It seems that Mum or Dad or both of them must have known Ricard personally. But if so, how? And if Chow has come calling on Ricard, does that mean the triad-turned-businessman can be trusted? It’s like one of those Venn diagrams in math. There’s a circle for “trustworthy” and one for “dangerous.” He can be fairly sure that Ricard belongs in the first one and believes—hopes—that Sing Sing sits there too. And Tan would be there if he was alive. Ponytail and the Black Dragon are in the second one, obviously. But how big is the overlap? Who is in that shady area in the middle?
He shakes his head. An announcer rattles off a burst of Cantonese. Then English: “Next station: Admiralty.”
Danny peers into the front carriage. Chow is standing near the doors.
“Is he getting off?” Zamora says as the train slows. “I can’t see.”
No. Chow’s body is heavily set. Shoulders down. Energy passive. “Not going anywhere yet.”
The doors swish open, passengers pushing to get off, others to get on. Chow has his eyes on the floor. Then suddenly his head swings their way. Danny’s been waiting for that: he just has time to flip up the newspaper and cover his face. And then the train is pulling away again.
“Last stop coming up,” Zamora says. “Central. Sure you don’t want to head back to Ricard?”
“I’m sure. If he does spot us then we can just have it out with him on the street. Not much can happen to us if we’re surrounded by other people.”
The pre-recorded announcer is calling out the stop.
“All change. All change!”
22
HOW TO HIDE IN EXOTIC UNDERWEAR
The crowds in Central are even heavier, and they take the chance of closing right up behind Chow as the escalator carries them back to the surface, the muggy air wrapping itself tight around them again.
“Let’s be very careful about this. God knows who might be hanging around here,” Zamora says.
A police car is parked outside the exit to the station. Chow’s feet hesitate for a second, and then he ducks close along the buildings, shielding himself from the patrolmen with the other pedestrians. So he’s wary of the police. What does that mean? If he’s dodging the good ones, then that makes him suspect. If he’s
trying to hide from the crooked ones, then he could be in with the “trustworthy.”
Whatever happens, they mustn’t lose him now. Need to make sure we’re not seen by the police, Danny thinks.
There’s a raucous teenage school group coming toward them down the street and, as the boys jostle past the subway exit, Danny tugs Zamora by the sleeve, maneuvering them in among the noise and good humor. One of the boys swipes the major’s bowler and tries it on, laughing. Safely shielded in the group, they allow themselves to be swept past the squad car and around the next corner.
Chow is still in sight as they detach from the push-pull of the teenagers. Zamora snatches back his hat, and they hurry to close in on Chow as he turns inland. Above them now the Peak rears up above the skyscrapers, its lush summit towering over the harbor.
Chow jinks right on one corner and then left on the next. And then suddenly his feet change their rhythm, hesitating, skipping a beat. As if he’s about to turn around.
“In here,” Danny hisses, simultaneously pulling Zamora through a shop doorway—just as Chow spins around on his heels.
The assistant in the exclusive lingerie shop eyes them quizzically as Danny and Zamora hover in the doorway, peering between the frilly bras on a rack.
“Can I help you, gentlemen? Perhaps something for a lady in your life?”
“Er, no thanks,” Danny says, surveying the racks of underwear with some alarm. “Come on, Major.”
“Reminds me of the Aerialisques’ trailer!” Zamora says nostalgically, hesitating for a moment —and then he hurries after Danny. “Wait up . . .”
When they catch sight of Chow again he’s moving toward a curved building that sits squat on the next corner. His pace is slowing, as he gathers his solidity around him. A ray of sunlight splashes on the sign, picking out the words: HONG KONG PEAK TRAM.The railway itself runs at an improbably steep angle away up the hillside, cutting between the buildings, dodging under a flyover and twisting out of sight. High above, the Peak soars against the wind-torn clouds.
But Danny’s attention is snared by a small figure sitting on the station steps. It’s Sing Sing.
His first thought is of how pleased he is to see her, and he almost calls out her name. But then he hesitates. We want to see what Chow’s up to, after all. And maybe we don’t want him to see us.
And something more. Sing Sing has set her shoulders tight in a defensive posture. She’s not feeling at ease. He watches her carefully now as Chow approaches. Her head is buried in some kind of manga, trying to look like she’s not waiting for someone. But her left foot is tapping away at the stone steps, all her anxiety focused into that one part of the body.
“Let’s watch what happens,” Danny says, slipping into the shadow of a doorway.
Sing Sing looks up at Chow, who does no more than nod in greeting before reaching inside his jacket. He takes the envelope and gives it to her, talking quickly. Sing Sing nods twice, then thrusts the jiffy bag away in her backpack, the big sunglasses still cloaking her eyes.
The firm line of her mouth gives nothing away as she watches Charlie Chow turn, step out into the road and hail a taxi. She waits impassively until Chow is safely in his cab, then tosses her manga away into a bin and turns to stride into the Peak Tram Terminus.
Danny’s eyes follow her until she’s out of sight, then move to see Chow’s cab negotiating its way into the traffic. There are three options: follow Chow, follow Sing Sing, or split up and follow them both.
“What do you think?” Zamora says, clearly computing the same choice.
“Follow the envelope. That’s more important than who’s carrying it, I reckon.”
“Could be misdirection. Like when magicians want people to look one place so they don’t look another—”
Danny shakes his head. “That envelope’s heading to someone. We need to find out who. We’ll keep on Sing Sing’s tail.”
Zamora’s watching Danny’s face closely. He smiles: “Hey, Mister Danny. You’re not developing a bit of a fancy for old Sing Sing, are you now?”
“No!” Danny blushes. “It’s not that. But there’s something about her. Can’t quite figure it out yet.”
“You know what the philosopher said, Mister Danny. ‘Everything about woman is a riddle.’ At least to us poor hombres.”
There’s no rush now. Only one place Sing Sing can be heading: Victoria Peak by way of the crazy angle of the incline railway.
Danny and Zamora hang back and buy their tickets at the last moment as the red carriages of the tram rumble into the bottom station. Sing Sing’s up near the head of the line and gets a prime seat at the top of the sloping carriages, facing resolutely away up the steep tracks. She doesn’t see Danny and Zamora slip to the back and open their newspaper wide, enveloped in the chatter of the tourists, the ping of their digital cameras.
“We’re getting good at this cloak and dagger stuff,” Zamora whispers as the packed tram lurches into motion. “But give me the circus any time.”
The carriages pass under the flyover, then corner hard, quickly gaining altitude, squeezing between towering buildings, flashing in and out of the sunshine. They pass within touching distance of balconies hung with washing, roof gardens littered with plastic chairs, and TV antennae. Zamora looks back over his shoulder. The track drops away dizzyingly and they’re already higher than some of the skyscrapers, a panoramic view of the city, the harbor slowly unfurling below.
Zamora takes a breath. “Here we go again.”
But Danny’s eyes have fallen on a story on page 3 of the paper. The headline barks: “Ship with radioactive cargo still missing. No risk to public, say authorities.” Underneath is a photograph of a heavy-jawed man staring straight at the camera. A caption says: “Contact lost with Captain Zhang Kaige and crew on Tuesday. Piracy suspected.”
He nudges the major, raising an eyebrow.
“I dunno, Mister Danny. Do you think Laura got involved with all of that somehow?”
“It would be just like her,” Danny says.
“Wouldn’t it just!”
Danny turns the pages. And right on cue there’s a picture of Laura accompanying a brief piece about the kidnapping. Danny skims it. Nothing he doesn’t already know—but it concludes with a quote from Lo. “We are turning every stone in the search for Miss White. But at present we have no definite leads. And we urgently need to make contact again with a relative and friend. One Danny Woo from the United Kingdom and one Mr. Zamora—first name unknown.”
Danny looks at the tiny photo of Laura. They’ve obviously culled it from her website. He remembers taking it for her in the back garden, not long after she formally became his guardian. “Make me look serious and intrepid,” she had said. But no matter how many they took that day they couldn’t get rid of that playful gleam in her eye. “Oh well,” Laura said in the end. “We are what we are, I suppose.”
I wonder, Danny thinks. Wherever she is, whatever predicament she’s in—he wonders if that gleam’s still there in her eyes. Wouldn’t surprise me. As long as she’s alive. As long as they’re not hacking through her little finger. Preparing the dim sum.
Despite the warmth in the packed carriages, he shudders.
23
HOW TO GET AN OVERVIEW
The tram rattles on up the wooded hillside.
The houses are spacing themselves out and are much grander, with expensive cars tucked beside them and the bright rectangles of swimming pools punctuating the lush, dark greenery. The Peak is topping out and a vast panorama unfolding.
Danny pulls his eyes from the view, back to Sing Sing. It’d be daft to lose her now. She’s already on her feet, edging toward the door as they enter the upper terminus. Backpack held tight to her side.
Through the ticket barrier, the station, through the complex of restaurants and souvenir shops . . . Danny and Zamora keep their distance from the girl, but never allow her from sight. Her body is tense—she’s trying to look calm, trying to swing her arms as if jus
t out for a saunter on the Peak, but something’s coming, Danny thinks again. Something snagging at her movements.
The wind’s gusting, scudding clouds across the Peak as they emerge from the summit complex.
Sing Sing climbs up toward a viewing terrace perched above the massive drop to the city and water below, the height slowing Hong Kong’s bounding pulse to a crawl.
But the view is the last thing on Danny’s mind. Everything concentrated on Sing Sing’s slim form. In fact, he’s so intent on reading her movements—so fixed on deciphering the nuances of her body language—that it’s Zamora who spots Ponytail first.
The major puts out a strong hand, blocking Danny on the steps.
“Oh boy! Our old amigo.”
And there’s another man standing next to Ponytail. He’s got a knobbly bald head, polished by the sun like an irregular billiard ball. Cauliflower ears that look as if they’ve been torn and imperfectly healed more than once. A lollipop clenched between his teeth and an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt in clashing purple and orange that flaps in the breeze.
“Bit of a looker that, one, no?” Zamora says dryly.
The two gangsters are lounging against a telescope, backs to the view. No attempt to blend in among the tourists, confident in their domain. Danny and Zamora duck behind an interpretation board and peer round it as Sing Sing steps up smartly to the men.
She’s waving her hand in the direction of Kowloon, talking fast. Danny tries to lip read, but it’s Cantonese. No chance of working out what she’s saying. What’s she doing talking to them? His spirits are sinking—maybe she’s thick with the Dragon after all? Sliding from the good guys circle into the shady area? Or worse?
A snort of laughter from Ponytail. Jug Ears’ mouth cracks in a lopsided grin, then he draws a finger across his throat, slowly. He does it a second time, just to make sure he’s getting his message across.
Who’s that for? Danny thinks. For Sing Sing? Laura? Us even? Could be Tan, I suppose.
Whatever it is, it makes sense to Sing Sing, who nods, setting her shoulders firmly as if facing up to them, trying to look braver than she feels. Then she reaches inside her backpack and hands over the envelope. Jug Ears pockets the thing in his baggy jeans and then claps Ponytail on the shoulder, almost knocking him off his feet. And then they’re both moving, toward Danny and Zamora—straight toward them at full speed.
The Black Dragon Page 12