The Black Dragon

by Julian Sedgwick

  The gang members are silent, ill at ease, as they escort her, Zamora, and Laura back toward the crew quarters.

  She lifts her head for a moment. Looks out at the water. The night is pooling across it and clouds roll in to block out the sky.

  She comes to an abrupt stop. There’s a lifebelt on the rail here—and she grabs it and, more as a gesture than anything else, hurls it as far as she can out over the side.

  The man behind shakes his head and jabs her with his machine pistol in the back. Behind them, Tony watches the lifebelt as it floats away into the gloom. Thoughtful . . .

  They sit dejectedly in the bulkhead storeroom.

  When Zamora peels the tape from Laura’s mouth she has nothing to say. Just puts her head in her hands and sets her shoulders heaving silently.

  “Maybe there’s still hope,” Zamora says.

  “Come off it, Major . . .” she sobs.

  “I managed to get a message to Ricard,” Sing Sing says. “At least, I hope I have. I had to bribe one of the triads on Cheung Chau to call Ricard . . . but I guess it’s too late. Sorry, sorry, sorry.” She kicks at the ground.

  “That makes three of us,” Zamora says.

  38

  HOW TO COME TO THE SURFACE

  . . . As if he’s watching himself in super-slow motion.

  As if—because time is up—he suddenly has all the time in the world. Serenity embracing him in the blue-black depths.

  Which way’s up? Doesn’t really matter. Let go . . .

  A school of red fish ghost across his eyes. Very close.

  The cell falls away, a pale shadow fading to nothing. That must be down then. Or is it up?

  The last of the air escaping.

  Another choking mouthful of water. Swallowing . . .

  This is drowning then.

  And then it comes to him in one crystalline, pure memory.

  That day when Dad failed to escape from the water torture cell, there was something wrong. They’d painted the equipment the evening before and left it sitting in the wings near the processional door. That bright-red paint looked so nice . . .

  . . . And the next day it was bone dry.

  But when one of the Klowns came rushing to help Dad, leering in his skull mask, there was a red smear on the knee of his pants. Not big. But exactly the same red.

  The Klowns hadn’t helped paint the thing. So this one must have been near it that night . . .

  It must have been sabotage.

  A pulse of energy from somewhere. I’ll get out of this—I’ll surface. Find the trail. Find out what happened.

  It feels like his lungs are pressed flat, useless, as he tumbles in the sea’s grip—but now he steadies himself and then kicks toward what he hopes is up.

  Toward life.

  Not just because he wants to live, but because now he knows he has a hope of finding the truth.

  Another mouthful of black water forces its way to his stomach. He pulls loose the ragged tour T-shirt and leaves it to the depths. The fateful tour itinerary on its back—pale butterflies and empty-eyed skull—disappearing into emptiness.

  Another kick from his exhausted legs . . . pushing up, up.

  Where is it? Where’s the surface? How long has he been under . . . ? Come on. Come on!

  . . . And Danny breaks the skin of the waves, spluttering, choking, shaking, drowning, not drowning. Treading water.

  The heavy bulk of the carrier stands some three hundred feet away, the island silhouetted beyond that. There’s a dim glow of light from the boat but otherwise not much else. Maybe—maybe—far off to the northeast, a light on the water. But it could be a low star where the air’s still clear. It’s swamped by the waves running before the oncoming storm.

  Mustn’t go under now. So tired, though.

  Then something nudges the back of his head and he freezes, imagining sharks or a boat from the ship. It nudges him again and he reaches around—and has his arm through the orange and white lifebelt.

  The sea is getting choppier.

  Bring it on, thinks Danny. Bring it on.

  He floats there for a while. Coughs up some water and lets his head clear.

  And then a broad smile cracks across his face—and he feels like yelling at the top of his voice: I did it! I did the Water Torture Escape! Me. Danny Woo . . .

  He slaps at a wave joyously and shakes his head.

  And then starts to kick determinedly toward the ship as the first of the rain peppers the water.

  39

  HOW TO EXHIBIT DECENCY

  No one sees or hears him coming.

  The decks have cleared as the rain squalls hit the boat. Two guards duck for shelter under the lee of a lifeboat—and so don’t see Danny reaching the anchor chain.

  They don’t see him climb it, as easy as you like despite the weather. After all, it’s only like going up a rope at the Mysterium, and he could do that before he could walk.

  Struggling to light their cigarettes, the guards don’t see him make the deck of the ship and glide into the rain-lashed shadows.

  The plan of the crew quarters is clear in his head. Tony’s pocketknife is open in his right hand, blade jagged and broken from his desperate escape from the freezer. Eyes blazing, senses alert.

  No one’s looking for him. So no one sees him . . .

  He crosses beneath the boom of the crane, ducks under an awning as a triad sprints toward shelter, flip-flops splashing on the deck.

  Through the door and into the first corridor. There’s not a soul in sight, but a tangle of voices not far off. He lets the door close noiselessly, then drops down the companionway in one smooth jump, hands gliding on the rails.

  Left here, past the galley. A cacophony inside. Dinnertime, presumably.

  Think of nothing and nobody can see you, Dad used to say, so that’s what he does. He shoves every thought away and becomes nothing but silent movement . . .

  Another stairway, sinking into the heart of the ship, and then down the corridor to the room which is acting as a brig. No lock—just the ring handle on the outside of the watertight door.

  He grips the rough metal and heaves.

  It’s surprisingly stiff and almost takes the last drop of his strength.

  Laura is the first to look up and see him. Her face is a picture, jaw dropping slack—and then she reaches to shake Zamora by the shoulder. Sing Sing leaps to her feet in one acrobatic flip, hands flying to her face to suppress a scream of relief. The rain and wind dashing at the ship, affording them some cover, but they all have the sense to keep their voices down . . .

  Soaked, bare-chested, Danny slips into the brig and closes the door behind him. His arms and chest are lacerated, the cuffs still dangling from his right wrist, and he must look close to exhaustion. But still he smiles—the sense of triumph still pumping in his body.

  The major staggers to his feet: “I knew it! Caramba, I knew you could do it.”

  Laura shakes her head and hugs Danny just as hard as the day of the explosion.

  “Blast Houdini,” she says. “You’re the greatest. Of all time!”

  And Zamora beams, wiping a tear from his eye. “You’ve joined the greats, Danny. If your dad could see you now!”

  “We’ve still got to get out of here,” Danny says. “All of us together. In one piece.”

  “We need more help,” Laura says, checking the corridor. “I think I know where we can find it. Laundry. This way.”

  The corridor stretches ahead, voices echoing over the weather outside.

  “Let’s take it steady—” Laura starts to say.

  “Forget that!” Zamora says. “I’m angry right now.”

  He steams ahead and, wheeling round a corner, goes full speed into one of the pirates. The man has dinner on his mind—not enraged dwarf strongmen—and before he has time to register what’s happening, Zamora has lowered his head, increased his gallop and butted the gangster full force in the chest. The air rushes from his lungs in a whoosh and he sinks
to the ground, mouth gasping for air.

  “Buenos noches,” Zamora says and, taking the man’s cleaver, thumps him on the back of the head with the handle.

  “See? I’m showing restraint here! Decency!”

  He rushes on down the corridor, closely followed by the others.

  Three guards are sitting round a folding table outside the laundry room in a fug of smoke. Their eyes are fixed on the cards in their hands, and on the money piled on the table in front of them. So they don’t see Zamora’s whirlwind attack.

  He has the first two grabbed by the scruff of their necks before they can struggle from their seats.

  “Nobody messes with Mister Danny,” Zamora growls, and brings their heads smartly together. An earsplitting crack resounds between the tight walls and they’re slumping across the money and cards and beer cans, out for the count.

  The third Dragon is lifting his gun, aiming at Zamora’s neck. But then a sharp burst of Cantonese stops the man in his tracks.

  It’s Ponytail—Tony. And he has his pistol jammed against the back of his fellow Dragon’s head, whose eyes bulge in surprise.

  “Maih yuka!” he says. “Don’t move!”

  “I don’t think your pal is bluffing,” Zamora says. “I’d do what he says.”

  The man lets his gun fall with a clatter to the floor and raises his hands slowly.

  Tony turns to look at Danny. There’s a smile at the corners of his mouth. “You are number-one amazing kid,” he says.

  “I should punch the stuffing out of you,” Zamora says. “Again.”

  “No,” Danny says. “I couldn’t have done it without him.”

  He hands the folded knife back to Tony. “I’m sorry. The blade snapped as I was cutting myself free.”

  Laura puts a hand on Tony’s shoulder. “We’ll give you the benefit. Open this door for us and Major Zamora will let bygones be bygones.”

  There are ten or so crew members inside, a mix of Chinese and Filipinos. They look weary, hungry, their cheeks hollowed.

  A heavily built man steps forward from amongst them, face set resolutely. His face is black and blue, one eye closing tight from a nasty blow. Blood dried on his white shirt. He eyes Tony with contempt but reads the situation quickly, before turning to Zamora.

  “I am Captain Zhang. Who are you?”

  “We’re cleaning up the ship,” Zamora says. “Care to help?”

  “The bridge,” the captain says. “We’ll try and take control. Seal ourselves in and get radio help.”

  His men gather what weapons are available: a meat cleaver, two guns.

  Danny looks round to ask Tony to help them, but the man has slipped away into the shadows. Just the quick flight of footsteps echoing in the distance . . .

  “The rat’s going to raise the alarm,” Sing Sing says.

  Danny listens to the fading sound. “No, I don’t think so. He’s making a break for it.”

  40

  HOW TO STORM THE BRIDGE

  Captain Zhang leads them through the bowels of the ship, past cabins, storerooms, down long service gangways that still hold the heat of the engine, the humidity of the muggy day just gone.

  No one talks.

  Danny is lagging toward the back, still soaked from the immersion, still short of breath from the near drowning. His right arm doesn’t feel good after wrenching it against the chains, and his vision keeps flickering white as exhaustion tugs away at his mind.

  But I’ll be OK, he thinks. And feels it suddenly with certainty. Whatever happens, I’ll be OK. We’ll be OK.

  They have come to the bottom of a steep ladder.

  “Bridge is directly up here,” Captain Zhang whispers. “Tactics?”

  “No tactics,” Zamora says. “We attack!”

  And he’s away, up the rungs, closely followed by Zhang and his men, with Laura and Sing Sing struggling to catch up.

  Danny suddenly feels as though his legs won’t go any farther. The tiredness and shock and cold have hold of him now. He slumps down on the bottom step, trying to control the shakes that are creeping up his legs.

  From above there’s an eruption of sound. A burst of clattering gunfire, jarringly loud. Everyone shouting at once and the thump and crack of close quarters fighting. Stench of cordite in the air.

  Zamora shouts above everyone, “That’s for Mister Danny! And that’s another one!”

  A man comes tumbling down the companionway and Danny just has the wits left to dodge the body as it crumples unconscious at his feet.

  More gunfire stuttering. Single shots. Breaking glass.

  A distant splash from outside—and then the alarm is sounding and Danny can hear footsteps approaching fast.

  He gathers his strength, trying to summon some life back into his legs, and starts to climb heavily to the battle raging above . . .

  It’s a quick, intense fight. Kwan and the Black Dragon men are caught off guard. Zamora lets loose, fists flailing, tattoos jumping, sending one—then two—triads sagging to the ground. A third hurtles through the bridge window into the sea far below.

  And Zhang’s men want revenge too. They soon have two more triads down and have sent the others scuttling from the bridge. Amid the confusion of gunshot and close-hand fighting Laura makes straight for Kwan. He pulls a gun from his belt but Sing Sing is there, kicking it violently from his hand, and then she and Laura have him held tight against the ship’s control panel. Sing Sing pushes her face right into Kwan’s.

  “You are just about the worst taxi driver I have ever come across,” she hisses. “I’m going to think of something really unpleasant to do to you. Really unpleasant. And then I’m going to turn you over to Charlie.”

  “Charlie’s dead,” Kwan whispers. “I saw to it myself—”

  But then he sees Danny stumbling up onto the bridge, and his eyes almost pop from their sockets. As if a ghost has materialized from out of thin air. Kwan’s mouth works frantically but can make no sound.

  “Seal the bridge,” Zhang shouts. “All lights up.”

  “What do you mean about Charlie?” Sing Sing shouts. But she’s interrupted by raking gunfire from outside.

  The bridge window detonates in a shower of glass, sending them all crouching to the ground. Kwan takes his moment, wrenches himself free, and makes a dash for the door to the deck beyond. There’s a searing whoosh in the cabin—a blinding blue line of fire that arcs across the bridge and strikes Kwan on the upper back as he makes his escape. He screams as the flare hits, and then he’s spun around by the force and propelled over the rail to the sea below. The blue light burns itself out on the deck, casting an eerie light over everything.

  “Get the radio up,” Zhang shouts, the flare gun still gripped tight in his hand. “Put out a distress call.”

  But now, in the sudden lull, they hear the thrumming of an engine approaching fast, the smack of bow on wave.

  Strong searchlights rake the camouflage netting. It’s as bright as broad daylight on the bridge and a megaphone barks through the night, an authoritative Chinese voice.

  And then a different voice in English, with a slight accent. “You are all under arrest. Stay where you are. Drop your weapons. This is the Hong Kong Police. And Interpol. Inspector Ricard. The Chinese Navy and OCTB have you surrounded.”

  “We’ve done it, Danny,” Laura shouts.

  She looks around. Danny has slumped to the floor, eyes clamped shut, and the major is crouched over him, slapping his cheek.

  “Mister Danny? Mister Danny?”

  The rain squall beats against the ship.

  “Danny?”

  There’s more shouting outside on the deck. One long, low dragon-like roar of thunder and then silence returns again.

  “He’s still breathing,” Zamora says. “Come on, Mister Danny. Get a blanket, someone, he’s shivering like anything.”

  Danny half smiles. And opens his eyes.

  Electric green, deepest brown, they flash in the glow of the searchlights. He blink
s hard, trying to work out where he is. Trying to make sense of the world.

  “Did I get out in time?”

  “You did it, Mister Danny. You did the escape. The Chinese water torture! Just wait till I tell the old Mysterium crowd about this. Blanco and Rosa are going to freak out!”

  Danny looks around at the wreckage of the bridge. Yes, it all makes sense, he thinks. At least some of it does now.

  41

  HOW TO SEE THE WONDER

  The rain has cleared to leave a cool, calm morning. The predawn breaks green on the horizon as the police launch surges toward the harbor.

  Danny is standing in the wheelhouse, wrapped in a first aid blanket, next to Ricard. Despite the sea crossing, the night, the arrest of most of the Black Dragon, the Interpol man looks immaculate as ever in his white suit. Just a hint of tiredness in the lines around his eyes.

  Laura and Sing Sing are on the front deck, watching the buildings heave themselves skyward in the first light, the whaleback hills rising up from the sea.

  And in the cabin below Zamora is sitting with the police, watching over Jug Ears and some of the other half-drowned and bloodied triads, fighting sleep, rousing himself every now and then to list a few more of their shortcomings. It’s a very long and specific list . . . and he’s only halfway through.

  Danny turns to Ricard. “What about Kwan?”

  “No sign. We’ll keep a boat searching, but he’s probably shark meat now.”

  “Did you know about him?”

  “Heavens, no. He was completely off our radar, as far as I can tell.”

  “And Lo?”

  “He’s suspended and under investigation by Internal Affairs. Should go down for a long time. We’ve just been trying to get enough on him. You’ll be our star witness. And Laura.”

  “Monsieur Ricard, what do you really know about the Forty-Nine? Tell me.”

  “I’m still not sure one way or another, Danny. Maybe Kwan was all hot air and bluster—or maybe there is something to this fairy tale after all. Maybe it has become real and Kwan was just one of those dots on the diagram. In that case he’ll be replaced now with someone else . . .”