BLOOD DRAGON

by Freddie P Peters

  “It’s not completely closed, if you’re looking for somewhere to stay.” A young Asian man was moving towards the building, slowing down to speak to Jack.

  “Do you live here?”

  “Just got a room a few days ago … they’re renovating a few floors but the rest of the building is pretty decent. And the price has come right down.”

  “Much appreciated …” Jack gave the young man a thumbs up. He carried on towards the building. Some of the floors were plunged into darkness whilst others looked inhabited.

  Jack made a mental note of the floors still under repair. He continued walking towards the building and stepped into the reception area, lifting the tarpaulin door. The space was more welcoming than he had anticipated … light stone and cream colour walls. The reception desk, a long slab of tropical wood, looked brand new. Two receptionists were waiting for guests to arrive. One of them moved towards Jack from behind the desk with a smile.

  “I need a room … just for a couple of nights.” Jack looked around him as he spoke.

  He was presented with a choice of options and price.

  “Which floors are under repair? I wouldn’t want to be below one of them.”

  “Floors one to five, Sir. How about floor ten?”

  “Floor seven would be better.” No need for an explanation.

  Jack grabbed his key but didn’t go to his room immediately. He walked outside again, looking for somewhere to sit in the small garden that spread in front of the entrance. He could see the building well from there. He bought a beer from the little shop that sold drinks and snacks. Jack settled down to survey each of the YMCA floors that were not taking any guests. He had time to check them for movement before he needed to decide on his next move.

  “If I had to live somewhere anonymously … that’s where I would go.”

  * * *

  “Inspector Pole of the Metropolitan Police.”

  The door opened with a click. Pole’s team headed by DS Andy Todd walked into the Viro-Tech Therapeutics building. Two PCs were left downstairs to ensure no one either entered or left the premises.

  The rest of the team took the lift to the first floor where the flustered receptionist awaited them.

  Andy showed him the search warrant and the search team fanned out into the premises with Ollie Wilson’s office as the site of primary interest.

  Jared Turner, the CEO, was at a meeting elsewhere in the City.

  Turner’s office did not disappoint. The requisite expensive desk, expensive ergonomic armchair, the luxurious sofas in a corner to huddle with guests. Despite the contemporary artwork on the walls, the place felt perhaps too clean. Pole noticed the absence of files or even filling cabinets.

  The people working and running Viro-Tech belonged to the age of virtual everything, no paper scattered on desks, no note of any kind hidden underneath piles of documents … no document apart from those stored away on their computers, parked on a cloud and protected by the latest cyber technology. And yet, some documents were perhaps better kept away from even the most secure systems.

  Pole moved slowly around the room. It had been rearranged recently. The furniture had left dents in the pile of the deep carpet which had not yet disappeared. He crouched next to one of the couches and managed to move it a little despite its weight. Another piece of furniture had been standing there, but he could not quite make out what it had been.

  Pole stood up and resumed his systematic search. The desk had a couple of screens plugged into a laptop docking station … a ThinkPad laptop. Pole ran a gloved hand over the equipment. There was no dust and, unless their cleaners were unusually efficient, the computer had been either replaced recently or deep cleaned.

  The choice of a Lenovo ThinkPad, the only laptop certified for use by astronauts on the International Space Station, spoke volumes.

  Viro-Tech kept its research well under wraps.

  Turner’s PA arrived to announce her boss would be back any minute now.

  Pole thanked her. She stood there almost certainly under instructions not to let the policeman out of her sight. He smiled. “A glass of water would be welcome if I can trouble you with such a request.”

  She shifted from foot to foot uncomfortably before making her way to the nearest water cooler. Pole returned to the sofa, trying to make sense of the mark on the carpet and finally took a seat to wait for Jared Turner.

  Turner’s PA came back with the water but felt too embarrassed to stay any longer. She left Pole to his thoughts and a review of his day so far.

  Ferguson had left his office glowering.

  Andy came in as soon as he had left to find his boss still deep in thought.

  “I’ve got a little more information about the Eastern European connection.”

  “Let’s hear it.”

  “The drug squad has given me information about the group they are targeting. They managed to catch a couple of these guys but they turned out to be only couriers … not the senior bods, or even middle ranking gang members. Their theory is that the top men are ex KGB or FSB people. They have recruited from the agents they worked with in the past.”

  “Is it a large organisation?”

  “That’s the theory … well, a bit more than that. The problem is that not a lot of people are talking about them, and those who do don’t live long afterwards.”

  “Apart from the obvious drug link, any other information that could be helpful to us?”

  “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. They have a small team of assassins they use to ensure everybody toes the line. The drug squad has a bit more on them, because when they target a victim, they make it very obvious. It’s like a code that tells other members of the gang why that person has been executed.”

  Pole perked up. “Those assassins.” He highlighted the word with air quotes. “Are they for hire too?”

  “That’s the thing, Guv … the squad doesn’t think so. That’s not part of what the gang offers … However …”

  “… for the right price, which must be pretty high, they might make an exception.”

  “That’s what Ted, my contact at the squad, said.”

  “I wonder how someone gets to know this Russian gang well enough to hire their hitmen … or rather to be allowed to hire their hitmen.”

  “I wondered that too and I think the point of contact is drugs.”

  Pole frowned. “You mean …”

  “An illegal substance is only illegal because it’s not used to manufacture medications. Opium is used to create all sorts of drugs, approved and regulated, sold around the world to hospitals, and used under strict medical supervision.”

  “If you’re in the drugs business …” Pole rolled his chair towards his desk. His fingers were running over the keyboard. You sent me a file on Turner.”

  “I did, and I also sent you details about his father.”

  “Turner Junior is a repeat CEO of biotech companies … He buys, builds and sells, and then moves on.” Pole was scrolling down a document. “Turner Senior sits on the board of a couple of companies … one of which is a large US pharmaceutical company.”

  “It might be a bit of a leap, but those people will know a lot about drug production … legal, that’s for sure, but perhaps illegal too.”

  Pole finished reading the document in silence. He rolled his chair away from the computer to face his DS.

  “Both Turners were part of a group that pushed for allowing opium production in Afghanistan to be used for medical purposes. I can’t recall the details but the idea pissed off a lot of people in the London drug squad. The idea might have been a good one, trying to channel the Afghan production into something legal, but the truth of the matter is that the Afghan government doesn’t have enough resources to police production.”

  Andy nodded with a smile on his face. “I remember … they sa
id it could drive production up as well as price, and would be a disaster.”

  “I’m glad you recall that too … check how involved the two Turners were.”

  Andy was about to leave.

  “Hang on … I have another request, if you don’t mind.”

  “Fire away.” Andy was keenly waiting.

  “We have Turner’s schedule to China … and we assume he stayed in Beijing. Could you find out whether this is the case? He spent a week there every time he visited. It gives him plenty of time to do a little sightseeing …”

  Andy pulled a face. “China is a bit of a difficult nut to crack.”

  Pole heard some voices approaching. He recognised Turner’s PA and another male voice that sounded irritated yet contained.

  The young woman hurried into her boss’s office, flustered. She had brought more glasses and a bottle of water which she left on the coffee table in the sofa area and retreated without a word.

  A man that looked in his late 30s, lightly tanned and with an immaculate haircut, walked in. Jared Turner extended a hand to Pole, who had stood up as he entered.

  The grip was light but firm.

  Jared Turner turned towards the door and a second man entered.

  “This is Dominic Tinker, my solicitor. We have just come from a business meeting in the City and were about to debrief. I hope you won’t mind if he joins us.”

  Pole shrugged. “Not at all …” Pole managed a courteous smile that did not reach his eyes.

  * * *

  “Mo Cho, your father, I never met him.” Licot poured everyone a glass of wine and picked at a bowl of prawn crackers.

  Nancy felt relieved, yet a little deflated. She sipped some wine without caring much for its taste.

  “But I did meet some people who knew him … young artists.”

  “How long ago was that?”

  “Early ‘90s. It was soon after the Tiananmen Square massacre. The art world was up in arms, literally. There was talk about retribution but nothing materialised, the uprising was driven to the ground … hopes dashed … democracy, free speech in tatters.”

  “Of course, it was before Hong Kong reverted to China.” Philippe placed a few rice crackers in the palm of his hand.

  “Very true … Hong Kong was a hub for those who had fled repression … once again.”

  “My father spent some time in Hong Kong after the events of Tiananmen Square. I have a few photos that show him there.”

  Licot drank a little wine and nodded. “Yes, I’m certain he did retreat to Hong Kong for a while. The artist I met told me he had been around for a year or so after the massacre.”

  “He went back?” Philippe couldn’t help asking.

  “That’s what my artist friend told me. Perhaps in ‘91 or ‘92.”

  Nancy inhaled deeply and held her breath for a moment. She needed to scream … why?

  “Was he part of the political elite, part of Deng’s close entourage?” Her question was bluntly put.

  “You mean, did he support the government and the People’s Communist Party?”

  Nancy nodded. “Was he a traitor? He is pictured with Deng Xiao Ping. There is also a picture of Deng with artists at the 1989 China Vanguard event in Beijing.”

  Licot nibbled at one of his crackers. “I came across that photo when I was doing my research in 1994. That’s when I decided to find out more about your father.”

  “My family and Deng’s are both from the Sichuan province. It’s totally possible they knew each other. Deng was my grandfather’s age and they belonged to the same social class.”

  Licot looked surprised. “Very good, that is also what I gathered from the artists I interviewed. Your father knew Deng. For a while, I think he trusted his political judgement.”

  “Deng was the reason why he returned to China in the first place.” Philippe sat at the edge of his seat, fascinated.

  “Mo Cho was already strongly portraying his political convictions in his work. He might have regretted the way the Communist Party dealt with artists during the Cultural Revolution, but he still believed in the ideal of communism.”

  “Did he not realise the Communist Party did what it did because there was no place for freedom and democracy in their ideology?” Nancy’s voice hardened.

  Licot smiled kindly. “Perhaps not when he returned, but I believe Tiananmen Square changed all that.”

  “So why go back?” Philippe gave Nancy a worried look. Was he interfering in a very personal matter?

  “Did he think he could change things all on his own?”

  Licot placed his hand over her arm.

  Her hand clenched her glass so hard he feared she would break it. She placed it on the table. “Apologies.”

  “Nothing to apologise about.” Licot’s warm voice was soothing. He paused for a moment considering his answer. “As I said earlier, I never met your father. But he was a determined man, defending what he believed was right … freedom of expression, freedom to be who you are. He somehow reminded me of Ai WeiWei.”

  “Are you being kind to me?” Nancy couldn’t help asking.

  “No, I assure you I am not. Based on all the things I heard then and the pieces of his art I also saw at the time … his art was a means to an end.” Licot nodded. “Hence the Beijing event.”

  “This is almost too good to be true …” Nancy stood up and walked to the large window overlooking the hills. “Or perhaps I don’t like the implications of what that means?”

  “He was a dedicated artist and people liked him … he followed his vocation come what may.”

  “Even sacrificing his family?” Nancy had managed to speak with little anger.

  “Perhaps it was not a sacrifice for him. You and your mother were safe, after all.”

  She had never considered this aspect. He had ensured they were both safe, creating an environment in Paris where they were surrounded by friends and supporters.

  “The messages of his work were unambiguous and critical. He had hoped at one time that it would make a difference. When the uprising came and its subsequent suppression, everything collapsed around him.”

  “So why not return to Europe, or at least stay in Hong Kong?” Nancy had returned to her seat.

  “Sometimes you have to carry the fight right to the door of your opponents,” Licot said gently.

  Nancy closed her eyes. “Even if it means losing your life?”

  “Perhaps … I do not know what happened to him after he returned. The artists who who spoke to me became vague about his whereabouts.”

  “They may not have wanted to tell you …” Philippe shook his head. “… To protect him.”

  Licot said nothing but locked eyes with Nancy. The conversation would be continued, but only on a one-to-one basis.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  The light looked faint, or was it the reverberations of Kowloon nightlife that gave him this impression? Jack took another swig of the second beer he had just bought. The night was turning chilly and he would have to decide whether he was going to spend the night at the YMCA or return to the Mandarin Oriental.

  He rose to his feet, still surveying the window through which he thought he had spotted movement.

  There it was again … A faint glow, most probably the beam of a torch.

  “Second floor, fifth window from the left.” Jack murmured.

  He shouldered his rucksack, took a last swig of beer and moved swiftly towards the hotel entrance. He slowed his pace a fraction as he walked through the lobby. A couple of young men came out of the lift, loud and boisterous. Jack stopped the doors from closing with his foot.

  Predictably, the lift had been programmed not to stop at the floors that were being renovated. Jack alighted at the seventh floor, went into his room and without taking time to inspect it, turned to the floor plan show
ing the fire exits. He was not far from one of them. Jack walked out of his room again, turned left. The exit was a few doors away from the end of the corridor. He inspected the door frame, then the push bar that opened the door itself. There seemed to be no alarm linked the door. He ran his eyes along the walls. This place had no need for high security.

  Jack pushed the bar. The door resisted a little and then gave way. The cold air that rushed in smelt stale and damp. There was no handle on the other side of the door. Once on the stairwell there was only one way … down and out.

  Jack took a ballpen out of his rucksack. He crushed the plastic casing with his foot, chose a splinter of the right size and pushed it into the latch bolt. The piece retreated into the frame. As long as it held, the exit door would remain open. Jack lodged another piece at the bottom of the door leaving it with the groove facing upwards to provide a handle.

  The beam of his small torch illuminated concrete stairs that looked surprisingly clean. When he reached the second floor, Jack inspected the door that led to the unoccupied rooms. He smiled briefly. The latch had been pushed back with heavy duty duct tape and a long piece of wood was sticking out, creating a handle. He pulled the door open slowly and it responded without any resistance.

  Jack stepped into the corridor, switching off his torch. He waited a short moment for his eyes to become accustomed to his surroundings. Despite the lack of electricity, he could see the outline of the corridor fairly well. Doors had been left open along it. Jack started at a slow pace towards the room in which he had seen the movement of a light.

  The rest of the floor was silent, without signs of any occupation. When Jack reached the room, he waited for a moment and then walked in. The room had been gutted of its carpets and bathroom fittings. Jack stopped abruptly. A beam of light had just appeared in the corridor, a door had opened at the far end and someone was moving towards the exit.

  The exit door opened and closed. The sound of footsteps climbing down faded away. Jack waited for a minute before moving around again. His eyes surveyed the contents of the room. There was little there … a small calor gas heater, on which an old kettle sat, and a grocery bag half full. A sleeping bag had been stretched out where the wardrobe would have been.