I grab the machine guns, step up to the hole in the wall and look down. The hood of the Mercedes got smashed in by a radiator, and the entire yard is littered with debris.
I shuffle towards the stairs, passing the lifeless bodies of my attackers. Whether the two are unconscious or dead, I don’t care anymore. If they regain consciousness and attack me, I’ll shoot them. I’ve had enough now! I’m gradually starting not to care about anything anymore.
The SUV is unscathed while the Mercedes, on top of the embedded radiator, has extensive damage. With the barrel of a machine gun, I rap on the rear, tinted window.
It would be interesting to have a chat with Mrs. Evans, although it’s unlikely she’d explain everything to me and provide an extensive confession to the police afterwards.
Nothing happens.
Of course I could add some authority to my request to open the door with a rapid-fire statement. Even armored glass windows will give way if shot at in the same place for long enough.
However, for someone with my limited experience with weapons, it would be easy to accidentally kill Mrs. Evans. Besides, when the Chinese police sees the bullet-riddled car, the term "forced confession" might come to mind.
So I drop the idea and walk towards the SUV. The two attackers drove this car, so it’s now empty and unlocked. I put my backpack and guns on the back seat. Later, I’ll dispose of it all somewhere, but for now I’m taking everything with me.
Suddenly, I get grabbed from behind. Two huge paws clutch me like a vice and press on. My arms get pinned against my body and I start to be lifted up. No matter how wild I thrash, I can’t budge a single millimeter. I try unsuccessfully to kick back into the shins of my latest opponent with my heels.’
"I will kill you," he whispers into my ear.
I can neither think of a witty answer, nor force out a single word. The guy clutches with such violence, he squeezes all the breath out of me.
Again, I’m fighting for my life. I try to kick him in the balls. But while my lungs are desperately waiting for some fresh air, my defense is absolutely useless.
I switch tactics and try to gain some space with my arms. The guy doesn’t care a fig about my efforts. The vice remains as strong as concrete.
Unexpectedly, my left hand strikes against a hard object in the pocket of my thin jacket.
My switchblade!
I try to get my hand in this pocket, but my narrow range of motion doesn’t allow it.
I need to do something; pretty soon it would be really time for a breath.
From the outside of the pocket, I feel around the knife and, through the fabric, I actually find the trigger mechanism. I press it hard. A slight vibration gives reason to hope for a successful deployment of the blade. However, it is questionable whether there is enough space to lock the blade in my pocket.
With all my strength, I clasp the knife, and thrust it. The brand-new blade easily cuts through clothing, skin and everything that lies beneath. Out of sheer malice, I turn the knife and wiggle it back and forth.
The guy screams and loses his balance. We fall backwards and, with incredible presence of mind, I curl up. With the knees bent and ducked head, my entire body weight of at least 220 pounds crashes onto the chest of my opponent.
The sudden release of air from his lungs produces a dull cough.
I immediately roll off and jump on him. He is bleeding a little above the hip. Unfortunately, he recovers way too fast and tries to get up. Instinctually, I kick right into his face. This tips the scales in my favor; he collapses and remains motionless. At a subway station in Berlin, one would now repeatedly kick him with raising enthusiasm, but we are in Shanghai, and one must be more civilized. I let him lie, catch my breath on the car and grab a machine gun.
The door of a car slams behind me. I instantly turn around with the gun. The yard is deserted; the door was apparently closed from the inside.
For the time being, I’ve had enough surprises. I quickly check if the car key is inserted in the ignition of the SUV and then head for the Mercedes. About thirty feet away, I open fire.
With German thoroughness, I shoot the front and rear tires, send a volley into the windshield and empty the rest of the magazine into the engine.
The windshield withstands the attack, but not without extensive cracking. Even if the car is still operational, the driver won’t be able to see anything.
Satisfied, I climb into the SUV, start the engine and press the accelerator down. I race like crazy, slide screeching around corners and turning off at random. After a few minutes, I'm sure not to be followed. In half an hour the sun will be rising, so the streets are still empty. I stop on the next bridge and throw all the weapons into the river below.
Thank god the navigation system speaks English and gives me directions to the airport, which I reach about half an hour later. I park in front of the terminal on the taxi strip with one front tire perched up on the sidewalk.
I allow myself a little joke. On a sheet of paper, I write in big letters: "Fuck the police!!" and put it clearly visible behind the windshield. Grinning, I get out, lock the car, throw the key into a ditch and flag down a tuk-tuk.
"To the railway station, please," I instruct the driver and fall into the seat exhausted.
Chapter 11
Forty high-paced minutes later, I enter the pompously restored Shanghai Station. Here, chaos reigns. Fortunately, I’m a head taller than most Asians, which is pretty helpful to get a good overview. On the digital screens for the departure and arrival times, extreme delays are displayed.
Eight hundred miles separate Shanghai from Beijing. A high-speed line has recently connected the two cities. Unfortunately fast trains are too expensive for most Chinese people, so they still use the old connection, and most of the compartments in the modern trains are empty. I earned some rest, so I’m looking forward to the trip. However, the new route has several teething problems, which cause major delays. So the next train to Beijing is behind schedule by almost five hours. After what happened tonight, I have no desire to wait that long at the station.
The SUV at the airport will buy me some time. Mrs. Evans will be on the wrong track for a while, but if they don’t find me at the airport, they’ll no doubt start searching the other airports and train stations. Five hours are obviously too long. The railway line towards the north is not passable, and I don’t want to go domestic, so my only chance is to escape through the south.
I study the screens and come across something amazing: there’s actually a rail connection to Hong Kong. A twenty-hour train ride is certainly not my dream scenario, but it’s essential for me to get out of here fast. I buy a sleeper cabin ticket and roll out of Shanghai seventeen minutes later.
An enterprising Chinese has set up a vending machine on the train where you can buy Internet surf-sticks. A USB stick with a flat-rate Internet access for a day: just what I need!
I make myself comfortable in a compartment, fire up the netbook and take out the files I stole from the hall.
The computer logs into the Internet without any hassles. While it downloads my emails, I turn my attention to the folders.
In each one, all relevant documents for a single container shipment are filed: authorizations, bills of lading, packing lists, fuel invoices, pay slips for crew members; everything registered and carefully merged into a cost / benefit analysis. The thorough accounting immediately reveals that regardless of whether the destination is Auckland, Jakarta or Buenaventura, the freighters make zero profit. For each run, all costs are indeed covered, but that’s it. No profit, no nothing.
After a while, I come to two conclusions. Liz Evans owns another company that sells electronic items. In this case, the shipping company would subsidize this second company with very low freight rates. But somehow this doesn’t make sense unless it brings a tax advantage. For now, I can’t think of any reason how this would work.
Or, the cargo ships are carrying something else that doesn’t appear on the bil
ls of lading.
Christine was convinced that Andrews was dealing in weapons. Until now, all our evidence and Steve's observations corroborate this theory. What else would be in the containers that he exchanges at sea?
South America has an enormous potential for terrorism. Offers from weapons dealers undoubtedly fall on fertile ground there. And the voyage from Shanghai to Buenaventura leads right past Hawaii.
A freighter full of consumer electronics sets sail in Shanghai, slows down halfway and arrives in Buenaventura with one container now packed full of explosives.
There’s little traffic on the sea around Hawaii, so nobody will notice when a freighter makes a short stop to take additional cargo on board. Shanghai’s papers are clean and, in Buenaventura, port authorities are bribed, so they don’t check this particular container. This is almost perfect!
However, it doesn’t explain why GSS maintains unprofitable routes in the South Pacific, New Zealand and Indonesia. But I might find that out later.
I need to share my latest conclusion with Steve and Alex, so I dedicate myself to the netbook. I apparently missed that Skype was flashing the whole time: several communications from Alex arrived on the instant messaging service.
"Hi Tom, the ‘Hope of California’ is cruising straight past Hawaii right now. It’s sailing under Colombian flags, comes from Shanghai and is expected to arrive in Buenaventura in six days. The shipping company is not specified, but I’m pretty sure this is your ship!"
Stunned, I flip the "Buenaventura" folder open and search. In fact, the freighter is named ‘Hope in California.’
"Alex, how do you know that?"
"Internet."
"What, internet???"
"www.marinetraffic.com - you can watch all ships live from there, but only near the coast. I was lucky to see the freighter just as it sailed past Hawaii."
I can’t believe it.
"Thank you, Alex. In the meantime, I've managed to get the same information, but I had to blow up a warehouse and possibly killed two killers!"
"Oh - that was YOU?"
"Boy, you're killing me. What do you mean by that?"
"This morning, I read Shanghai’s newspaper the ‘Daily Shanghai’ online. A gas explosion in the harbor area was mentioned. The article mentioned there were four injured watchmen, but no casualties.”
"Anything in the article about a battered Mercedes?"
"They shot at you?"
"Ah… no. In fact it was the other way around."
"You should write a book about all this!"
"Maybe later," I reply, "I'll tell you everything someday over a few drinks. Are you gonna be online for a while?"
"Sure. Why?"
"I’m on a train for the next 20 hours and desperately need a beer or maybe even something stronger. I almost got killed twice, survived a gas explosion, shot a Benz to pieces and now you’re telling me a quick search on the Internet would have given me the same information. I need some time to digest this all!"
In the on-board restaurant they have my new favorite beer Lone Star available, so the long trip should be bearable.
While the friendly waiter taps beer into a large pint, I realize my efforts were not completely in vain. Without my trip to the warehouse, I wouldn’t be in possession of the three folders.
Satisfied, I return to my compartment where I’m fortunately alone. Alex is still online.
We chat for a while, and then I call Steve. His phone is turned off; it’s the middle of the night in Hawaii now. I write him a long email and attach photos of the most important pages of the three folders. I send a copy of it to Alex.
It feels as if my harbor tour was already three weeks ago, but it’s only been twenty-four hours. I swing out my bed and make myself comfortable. A few seconds later, I’m already in dreamland.
When I wake up, we are already in Dongyuan, just before Hong Kong. I have enough time for a quick breakfast. Shortly after, I stand in front of the immigration desk with my own passport in hand.
Although Hong Kong has belonged to China since 1997, there’s a passport control. Evans and Andrews know Steve’s name, but maybe not mine yet. They’re searching for "Steve Schneider," but I enter as "Tom Greenall."
The officials appear to be taking liberties with controlling passports today, and actually wave through anyone who has a passport. They probably don’t see the need for strict monitoring because it’s an internal Chinese border rather than a "real" border or an airport.
I finally feel truly free without having to worry about someone constantly breathing down my neck. I even contemplate taking a stroll into the city now that I’m in Hong Kong.
After walking for a few hundred yards, I change my mind; I hate to wander aimlessly and without destination through a foreign city. I reach the airport an hour and a half later on the S52.
From the terminal, I call Steve.
"Hi Steve, it's me Tom!"
"Just reading your email – you’re already in Hong Kong?"
"At the airport, yes."
"You already have a flight?"
"Nah, I just arrived. Need to check when the next plane to Hawaii leaves. I don’t even know if there’s a direct flight."
"No, no directs there. Most connections are via Tokyo or Seoul. Do you still have my Singapore Airlines pilot’s license?"
"Yeah."
"Okay, let's do it differently. Enter the security area using my pilot ID. Then go to a gate for Singapore Airlines or any of our partners and fly standby to Singapore. With my ID you don’t need a boarding pass to get through the security check. From Singapore, I pilot you to Hawaii."
"As a pilot you can fly for free with your own airline?"
"Unfortunately no, but you can always go to a gate and see if there’s a seat left for you. Normally you don’t get a boarding pass and so your name doesn’t appear on the passenger list. Therefore, it will be hard for Andrews to find you."
"Well, hopefully none of the real pilots get sick and I have to land the bird..."
"In that case, call me. I'll tell you how to bring her down. It’s easy."
"How reassuring."
"Call me from Singapore; by then I’ll have a return flight for you. Have a good flight!"
At the gate, I easily get a seat on the plane. I spend the four-hour wait in the "SilverKris Lounge," Singapore Airlines’ VIP area. A lounge like this significantly increases your travel comfort. Apart from drinks, a major international buffet awaits each traveler. You can even enjoy Internet access or take a shower. Everything is free and posh, of course.
The flight to Singapore is quiet and goes without incident. The real pilots take care of the landing and nobody pays any attention to me.
At the airport, I immediately notice that something’s not right: the terminal is crowded, and everyone is cranky and stressed. A glance at the monitors brings clarity and confusion at the same time: all flights operated by Australian airline Qantas are cancelled.
Singapore is a hub between Europe, Asia and Australia, and, accordingly, many travelers fly with Qantas. All these passengers have to be rebooked; thousands will be stranded here for a while.
The other airlines don’t have the capacity to take care of all Qantas’ passengers. Under these circumstances, it’s difficult, if not impossible, to get a stand-by seat, no matter where your destination is.
"Hi Steve, I’m in Singapore. But, it’s pure chaos - all Qantas flights are canceled."
"I know," Steve answers into the phone.
"Is there a terror threat for Qantas? What's going on?" I ask.
"No, their management is on strike."
"I beg your pardon?"
"No joke, the airline has been in the red for a while. Qantas CEO Alan Joyce announced austerity measures, which means cuts in salary and redundancies in personnel. The pilot, baggage handling and engineer unions all reacted by announcing strikes. But Alan Joyce was quicker; he cancelled all flights instantly and grounded all Qantas planes worldwide. The s
taff is going home and won’t return to work tomorrow."
"How cool is that?"
"Tom, I don’t see anything cool about that.”
"So the staff gets to know how it feels when the company goes bust."
"The campaign costs Qantas about 20 million dollars a day, so Alan Joyce will make the airline go broke before you can say ‘buckle up!’”
"Oh, 20 million is nothing against the idiocy the trade unions are demanding. Let me guess: they want higher salaries and protection against dismissal?"
Half way to Hawaii Page 17
