The Black Dragon

by Julian Sedgwick

  “What do you mean?”

  “Just that there were deep waters there, Danny. Did you not feel that?”

  “I don’t know. It’s hard to tell what’s normal, isn’t it? When you’re small.” Especially somewhere like the Mysterium.

  They’re interrupted by the static of a walkie-talkie, a burst of Cantonese. The gang members are all looking out in the same direction across the wide, rolling field of the sea.

  Danny scrabbles to his feet, unsteady on the boat’s roll. Coming into view are two small islands—furry green caterpillars crawling on the surface of the water.

  And anchored tight against one of them is an ugly block of a boat. A bulk carrier, low in the water, figures visible on the deck by the bridge. It’s covered with a massive camouflage net, softening its lines, blurring it against the island and the water. But Danny recognizes it at once.

  The hijacked cargo ship.

  32

  HOW TO HANDLE A REUNION IN DIFFICULT CIRCUMSTANCES

  It takes another half hour to get alongside the vessel, but time now feels like it’s running very quickly. Soon they are swallowed by the carrier’s shadow.

  Faces appear over the side and throw down mooring ropes. Then a long rope ladder unfurls, snaking against the boat’s side, just long enough to reach. Chips of orange rust falling down on them and the water.

  Ponytail urges Danny and Zamora to their feet. “You climb now.”

  Zamora looks up at the swaying rope ladder, shakes his head. He holds up his hands. “Can’t do it with these taped, now, can we?”

  Ponytail confers with the others in quick whispers. He takes out a razor-sharp flick-blade.

  “Don’t move,” he says to Zamora. “Don’t do stupid thing.”

  There’s a riffle of safety catches going off as the thugs surround Danny and Zamora, guns trained on them.

  “No problem,” Zamora says. “I’m incapable of doing anything stupid.”

  Ponytail slices the thick tape around both of their wrists, and the circulation goes thickly back into Danny’s hands. Pins and needles firing. Agony. But good too. He flexes his fingers, rubs his hands together, massaging life into them.

  “Now climb.”

  There’s no arguing with that firepower, Danny thinks. And I want to see what’s going on first. If this is about me and Mum and Dad—and not just Laura and the hijacking of some rusting bulk carrier—I want to know as much as possible. Even if . . .

  Well, don’t think about it. Clear the mind. With a blank mind you can’t add a judgment—a good or a bad—to the situation. So everything’s a lot clearer.

  “After you, Mister Danny. Just like climbing to the highwire rig, hey?”

  “You’ll be fine, Major.” Then he adds as quietly as possible. “And let’s do what they say for now.”

  “OK. But if I see a good chance, Danny, by heavens, I’ll take it. And as many of them as I can with me!”

  It’s a good thirty feet from the fishing boat to the deck of the carrier. The rope ladder swings against the hulk of the ship and Zamora shouts, “Hold the bottom tight! What kind of roustabouts are you, anyway?”

  If anything, the twenty or so men on the deck of the hijacked vessel look meaner than any they’ve yet seen. Unshaven, unwashed. There’s a fanatical glow in their eyes. They’re all carrying heavier weaponry than Ponytail and Jug Ears—and train most of it on Danny and Zamora.

  In complete silence the gang members motion them across the hot deck of the boat. The dappled shadow of the camouflage netting plays across their faces. Nothing else moves.

  Danny glances over the side—the smaller of the two islands lies less than two hundred feet away, thickly wooded, surrounded by jagged rocks. The larger island maybe half a mile away. Nothing else to be seen but water and sky. Jump and swim for it? Even if they reached the island, what then?

  They’re marched swiftly to a bulkhead door. There’s a steady clicking sound coming from nearby. It takes Danny a moment to find its source—a small box dangling around the neck of a man behind him. A Geiger counter, presumably. Keeping track of the radioactive waste in the hold below?

  Then they’re in a metal-floored companionway and it’s much hotter. There’s a strong smell of engine oil, cigarette smoke, the pervasive hint of vomit. Down a steep flight of stairs, along another corridor to a watertight door. A sense of claustrophobia starts to tug at Danny’s mind.

  Turning the round-handled lock, one of the gunmen swings the door open—and Danny and Zamora are both sent sprawling, tripping over the raised threshold, into the darkened room beyond.

  “Danny! Danny!”

  A familiar voice calling in relief, alarm. A voice he thought he’d never hear again.

  Zamora fishes the lighter from his pocket and kindles the flame.

  And there in its feeble glow is Laura.

  She looks very tired, her face smudged with grime, her hair a strange lopsided mess. She helps Danny up from the floor and hugs him hard.

  “I was praying they wouldn’t get you. I don’t know if I’m glad to see you, or sad. My poor boy!”

  “Madre mia, Miss Laura, it’s good to see you, though,” Zamora says.

  “Are you OK?” Danny asks.

  “I’m not sure,” she says. “It’s not been the most wonderful trip, has it? And I’ve just had the worst haircut ever.”

  The door clangs shut behind them and they hear the lock turn.

  “I’d like to say I’ve been in tighter spots than this . . .” Laura says, but lets the thought die. She looks as dejected as Danny has ever seen her look. But he has to ask her now, before it’s too late.

  “I need to know some things,” he says slowly. “I need you to tell me about the bomb at school. Anything you know about Dad and haven’t told me.”

  “OK.” She sits down. “OK. But first tell me what’s been happening. Did you find Ricard? Does he know where we are? If he does, then there’s still a chance.”

  33

  HOW NOT TO JUDGE BY APPEARANCES. AGAIN.

  Danny tells their side of the story succinctly, as precisely as he can. No point wasting energy.

  “. . . And then we gave the triads the slip on Cheung Chau. Found the sheds at the pier,” he concludes, rubbing his head. “We found a chart on the wall. We were about to try and find Sing Sing and go back to Ricard. Then we saw Chow—and then they got us.”

  They’re sitting in the dark on the bare floor of the storeroom, trying not to move too much, to breathe easily, but the heat and humidity are almost unbearable, pressing against them, sweat welling on their skin.

  “Poor Charlie,” Laura says. “He was a decent guy. What about Sing Sing, though? Do you think she got away?”

  “We don’t know.”

  Silence.

  Laura forces a laugh, trying to lift the atmosphere.

  “Well done, though, boys! I’d have given anything to see you on that ladder, Major. And the fireworks! And you mesmerizing that triad, Danny.”

  “But we failed,” he says.

  “We’re not beaten yet. We’ll get a chance, I’m sure. Maybe Sing Sing got back to Ricard.”

  “So Ricard is a friend?” Zamora asks.

  “Oh yes. One of the best. I’ve never met him before, but he comes highly recommended.”

  “Who by?” Danny says, but he knows the answer even before Laura says it.

  “Your father, Danny. They go waaaay back. We can trust him.”

  So my instincts were right, Danny thinks. I read him right. And the link to Dad gives his mood a kickstart.

  “And Sing Sing?” he asks. “And Chow? Where do they fit?”

  “Sing Sing kind of works for Ricard now and then. Like an informant—unofficial capacity. Keeping an eye on the nasty fish swimming around Chow. He was generally on the side of the angels since his conversion. But nasty acquaintances. And they never noticed Sing Sing. She’s been a part of that world all her life as far as I can tell.”

  “And Lo?”
<
br />   “As bent as you like. Most of the Hong Kong police are clean these days. But he’s up to his neck in kickbacks and cover-ups.”

  Danny inches closer to Laura.

  “And you, Aunt Laura? What happened?”

  “Made a mistake. Underestimated the size of their operation. They bundled me into their car and chloroformed me—or something similar. I woke up in that gym or whatever it was and managed to scribble you a message. Then they hooded me, bundled me out the back into another car. Then we had an awful drive through the city with me crammed in the trunk squashed up against a spare tire. Then a speedboat to Cheung Chau. Then another one out to here. And I only managed to hit one of them the whole way.”

  “But what about Dad? And Ricard? Does this have anything to do—”

  The light flickers on overhead, making them all look up—blinking hard—to see the door swinging open, silhouetting a small figure.

  “How nice of you all to drop by.”

  The figure steps forward into the sickly fluorescent light.

  Kwan.

  He’s squinting through the thick glasses. Smiling at a private joke. Slowly he removes the spectacles and tosses them to one side.

  “I forgot to tell you something,” Laura says. “Guess who’s in charge round here.”

  Danny stares in disbelief at Mister Kwan. Zamora too.

  “Carajo! Are you trying to tell me—”

  “Yes, Major Zamora. I’m the top dog round here. Mr. Kwan, the nice taxi driver. In Chinese we have a saying: trying to judge by appearances is like trying to measure the sea with a bucket. Hopeless task.”

  “But I picked you randomly! Third one off the rank.”

  “Which is what I guessed you would do. Took a bit of doing to elbow into the line. Time it so that I was in the right place at the right time. It’s quite easy to read what people will do sometimes. But I expect you know about that, Danny. Don’t you? A kind of magician’s force.”

  “Who are you?” Danny says, squaring up to Kwan.

  Two gunmen step forward, guns flicked in Danny’s face.

  “Black Dragon Number One. This is my operation.”

  “And what do you want from us? A ransom?”

  “Not at all. This ship—the radioactive cargo—that’s our bargaining chip. We’re selling it on to another party. They want to use it in the Mediterranean. Release the sand onto beaches there, let it blow in the wind. Still radioactive enough to create havoc.” He steps up to Danny. Face to face.

  “That’s mass murder.”

  “That’s their business, not ours. I’m just the middle man. No, I’m just carrying out orders, Danny. For someone higher up. They want you out of picture. Seems you could cause big problems. And they want you dead. It’s personal, apparently.”

  “No.” Laura’s getting to her feet, color rushing to her face. “I won’t allow it.”

  “You don’t have a say in it,” Kwan says quietly. “We’re holding all the cards.”

  He turns on his heels and is gone, guards backing out, closing the door tight.

  34

  HOW TO STARE DEFEAT IN THE FACE

  This time the light is left on. They sit huddled together in the middle of the floor. No windows, just a small ventilation grille high on the wall. Danny hugs his knees and looks from Laura’s face to Zamora’s and back again. Neither of them can meet his eyes, and both gaze down at the stained floor.

  “But . . . what does he mean, ‘someone higher up’? What am I supposed to know?” he says, and this time he can’t hide the impatience in his voice. He needs to know. So much is always hidden from him, he feels. Mum, Dad, then Zamora and presumably his aunt too! They all think they know best, that he’s just a kid to be protected from the truth. But that’s wrong. Wasn’t the trailer fire the day he grew up? The return of anger is strong enough to drown out any fear. For now. It flickered briefly into life after the ladder escape. Long held in check, the emotion forces its way out now.

  “Tell me!” he shouts. “Tell me what’s going on! Now!”

  Laura shuffles uneasily. “I’m starting to think this myth of the Forty-Nine may not be so much of a myth after all, Danny. I don’t know much, to be honest. Always thought they used it to frighten the sheep. Stop people from prying into the bigger organized crime gangs. But what with the diagrams, the explosion at your school—”

  “And how’s Dad involved? Why am I involved?”

  “Your dad worked for Inspector Ricard from time to time, Danny. They—Interpol—called Harry in when they needed special skills. Hypnotism, ‘mind reading,’ impossible bugging or surveillance operations, that kind of thing.”

  And although Danny’s mouth drops open at this, for some reason he isn’t completely surprised. Now that he comes to think about it—beyond the card tricks, the warm smile, beyond the Mysterium—beyond the husband and father, was another man, one with eyes on a further horizon.

  Zamora shakes his head. “Well, bless my soul. I thought he was up to something.”

  Laura puts her hand on Danny’s shoulder. “He was sworn to secrecy. Not even Lily really knew. Your dad took his confidentiality clause very seriously. And I only know little bits.”

  “And how do you know?”

  “Harry sent me a letter. Just before he and Lily died. It said that he hoped I would look after you if . . . if anything happened to them. He said that you could ‘take care of things,’ Danny. That you had the ability and the heart to do the right thing. That you would find the things you needed close to you. The key, he called it.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me all this before?”

  “I was waiting for you to get a bit bigger . . . and trying to fill in the gaps. See what he had been up against.”

  Zamora’s nodding now. “It makes sense. I always knew he was up to more than guest billings at other circuses. Otherwise he’d have taken me, wouldn’t he? I even thought he was having an affair at one point. May he forgive me!”

  “But why did they want to kill Dad?”

  “There I’m guessing, says Laura. “Maybe he’d angered someone very powerful. Maybe he’d found something that was going to expose the Forty-Nine. I don’t know.”

  Danny fingers the lock pick around his neck. He’d almost forgotten it’s there. Now he holds it tight—a palpable link to his past. Is that the key? It seems too obvious for Dad. He liked to hide things in riddles.

  Something else then? Maybe whatever Dad meant him to keep was burned to a cinder in the fire. There were a few things he kept in the strongbox under a bunk, though.

  There was money in there. Passports. Birth certificates. Nothing obvious . . .

  But then he knows. It must be the Escape Book—it must be! What was the first quote written in there, printed in neat capitals? LIFE IS A NEVER-ENDING MYSTERY, BUT THE KEY IS ALWAYS IN YOUR HANDS. But then how would Dad know that Danny would run away with it that night? How would he know that Danny would keep the thing safe?

  He bites hard on his lip. Thinks about the notebook tucked in the secret compartment in his own desk back home. Say nothing. Not for now, anyway. Nice to have my own secret . . . And, if we ever get out of this, that’s the first thing I’m going to do. Take another look at Dad’s notes and diagrams. Have another go at cracking his codes—if we ever get out of this.

  The anger is gone again, its energy mutating back into concentration. When Laura glances anxiously his way she is astonished to see the look firing his two-colored eyes: the kind of thing she saw on her rare visits to the Mysterium, playing in Harry’s eyes before he attempted a new and potentially dangerous trick. What he called a thousand-yard stare. The determination to face down the danger.

  To believe that something seemingly impossible was actually possible.

  35

  HOW TO PREPARE FOR THE WORST

  Another hour drags by. The heat is still intense, stifling the storeroom. It doesn’t feel like they’ve got much oxygen left.

  “At least the sun will be down soo
n,” Laura says. “Then it might at least start to cool down a bit . . .” Her voice falters. It feels such a lame thing to say. Danny needs more than that from her.

  “Did you manage to see much of the ship?” he says. It feels better to be thinking—at least going through the act of planning—than simply waiting. I feel strangely calm, he thinks. Like everything’s been building to this. For days, weeks. All my life. I’m going to face it squarely. And if it’s the end . . . ?

  Then better to go out like that. Calm. Clearheaded. Wonder what Mum and Dad thought, felt . . . Did they know it was the end? I’ll never know. Danny breathes in sharply.

  “Well? Did you see much of the ship, Aunt Laura?” he repeats.

  “Not much. We came in darkness. There’s the cargo tanks, a service deck up front. Lots of it taped off with radiation warnings. All the crew quarters, engine rooms, stores like this, the bridge, are all here at the stern. Some of the ship’s crew are still on board, I think. Prisoners.”

  “How many of the Dragon?”

  “Twenty-ish? Armed to the teeth. Looks like they’re expecting a war.”

  “We’ll get a chance,” Zamora says, cracking his knuckles one after the other to clear his head. “Give it a go.” But he doesn’t sound convinced.

  And then, deep below them, the engines grumble into life without warning. The ship vibrates and rattles as if it will shake itself to pieces. Sounds like every bolt in the hulk is working loose. Then they’re moving.

  What does it mean? Danny listens hard, trying to pick out any sound that will give him a clue as to what Kwan and the Dragon are doing. But the shudder of the engines lasts no longer than ten or so minutes and then the engines die, and in the silence they hear the distant roar of the anchor chain as it drops to the seabed.

  “Moving away from the island, perhaps?” Laura says. “But why?”

  From some way off, they hear the buzz of a much smaller engine now. The waspy sound of a motor launch. You can hear the slap, slap, slap as it skips across the waves. It cuts close. Closer. Comes alongside and falls to an idle.