by Andy Maslen
“How are you feeling?” Xi asked, his head cocked to one side, a soft breeze ruffling his fine grey hair.
“I don’t know. I don’t feel anything. I thought maybe there would be this rush of grief or shame or something. But no, there’s nothing there. I’m sorry, Master.”
“Do not be sorry. We wish to impose order on the internal world as much as on the external world. But neither is ours to control. We must simply act, and let our feelings take care of themselves.”
Gabriel shrugged. “That’s just it, Master Zhao. I have no feelings.”
“Come. You need to focus your mind on something else for a while. Did you pack training clothes?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Then I will give you some instruction in Yinshen fangshi. We can see whether you have been keeping up your practice.”
50
The Golden Dragon
THAT evening, at ten-thirty, Xi and Gabriel stood outside an ornate golden door flanked by carved wooden dragons. The seven-foot-tall reptiles held illuminated glass globes in their fanged mouths. The dragons themselves were flanked by two more monsters: men wide of chest, thick of bicep and seemingly carved from the same hardwood, though wearing black suits rather than a skin of gold paint. Despite the expert tailoring of their jackets, Gabriel detected telltale bulges under the left armpits of their jackets. Above the door, in red neon Mandarin characters, was the club’s name. Golden Dragon. What else?, Gabriel thought.
Xi had told him to dress well for the visit to Fang Jian. He had therefore donned a plain grey, lightweight suit with a navy windowpane check; a white shirt with a herringbone weave to the cotton, and French cuffs secured with gold-plated nine-millimetre pistol rounds; a knitted navy silk tie with a square end; and his polished black Oxfords. Xi himself wore a traditional Chinese suit with a high collar, in black silk, and matching slippers.
In Mandarin, Xi told the doormen, “We have a personal invitation from Fang Jian.”
“Name,” one said, his features scarcely more mobile than those of the reptiles to his left and right.
“I am Zhao Xi and this,” he extended his right hand, palm outwards, “is my friend from England, Gabriel Wolfe.”
The doorman unhooked the thick, twisted scarlet rope from its brass pole and motioned for them to enter the club.
Beyond the cloakroom area was a red-and-gold silk curtain. They pushed through it. Gabriel had been expecting loud music, the blare of conversations held at shouting level to make the participants heard, shrieks of drunken laughter. Instead, the Golden Dragon was subdued. Such music as there was came from the clatter and skip of ivory balls bouncing around roulette wheels, the flicker of cards being dealt and checked, the rattle of dice and the clack of dominos on hard wooden tables.
The air was thick with cigarette smoke. It hung in a bluish haze above the heads of the gamblers. Gabriel’s nose twitched and he sneezed, twice. He realised how rare it was in England now to inhale that pungent, bitter smell in a public space.
The Golden Dragon’s patrons were dressed in Western-style lounge suits or dinner jackets for the men, and cocktail dresses for the women. There was a lot of gold in evidence, shimmering over the curves of the women’s bodies, dangling from their earlobes or draped over their collarbones, and worn on the fingers of the men like eighteen-karat knuckledusters.
Between the gamblers and the occasional knot of spectators, waitresses weaved, carrying aloft circular trays of drinks. They wore red cheongsams, slit up the right thigh and embroidered with more golden dragons. These beasts clawed their way up from the women’s knees, over the hips, around the back to the chest, where their open mouths snarled at any punter who got too close.
Gabriel scanned the room, looking for the man they had come to see. Knowing nothing of the man’s appearance, he was at a disadvantage to Xi, who smiled and waved, before descending the flight of stairs carpeted in more scarlet and gold, and walking into the centre of the room.
Coming towards them through the crowd was a wide-shouldered man with the build of a heavyweight boxer. He wore a gold dinner jacket over black dress trousers. Even at this distance, Gabriel could see that the backs of both hands were inked in colourful designs.
Arriving in front of them, the giant smiled at Xi, revealing large, yellowish teeth, and enveloped him in a bear hug. They clapped each other on the back, then released their arms.
In Mandarin, he asked Xi, “Is this the Wolfe Cub?”
“Yes. Do you remember him?”
“He has grown into a man, but yes, I see something of the spark he had as a boy.”
Xi turned to Gabriel. “Wolfe Cub, this is Mr Fang.”
Gabriel extended his hand, which Fang ignored with a roar of laughter. “Why so formal? Don’t you recognise me?” before grabbing Gabriel and enveloping him in another crushing embrace.
When he could draw breath again, Gabriel scrutinised the man’s face. The nose had been broken at some point and the flat planes of the cheeks bore a couple of old knife scars.
“I’m sorry,” he said, sticking, like the other two men, to Mandarin. “I can’t place you. Have we met before?”
“Come to my office and I will tell you.”
They followed him across the floor of the club and Gabriel noticed the way the waitresses flowed around Mr Fang like river water round a boulder, while the punters eyed him nervously and bent closer to their cards, dice or brightly coloured chips.
Inside Fang’s office, the noise of the excited gamblers dropped to a murmur. On a sleek silver monitor fixed to one wall, eight full-colour views of the gambling floor were tiled on the screen. The room was lit with a soft, yellow light from four more of the golden dragons with glass globes in their jaws. Everything in the room came in the club’s signature colour scheme of scarlet and gold, from the buttoned leather armchairs and matching sofa, to the low lacquer table between them, and on to the wallpaper. Sitting dead centre on the table was a golden ice bucket and three tall flutes, decorated with yet more dragons. Protruding from the surface of the ice was the foil-wrapped neck of a champagne bottle. Gabriel recognised the design. It was Pol Roger – his favourite brand, and also, he’d found out at a Regimental ball, Winston Churchill’s too.
Pulling the bottle free of the ice with a metallic rattle, Fang gestured with his other hand for Gabriel and Xi to seat themselves on the sofa. With a loud pop, he opened the champagne and filled the glasses.
“A toast,” he said, switching to fluent, if ungrammatical, English. “To Wolfe Cub who grew up into Wolfe.”
They clinked glasses. Gabriel let the champagne slide down his throat, enjoying the prickling of the bubbles on his tongue and, as they tricked his stomach into letting them through into the gut, the almost immediate hit from the alcohol.
“You said we had met before, Mr Fang,” Gabriel said.
“Yes, we have. Tell me,” he said, extending his left hand, showing Gabriel the back, “you know what fish this is?”
Gabriel examined the tattoo. The fish was plump, with large silvery-blue scales, and barbules drooping from the corners of its wide mouth. It was clear that the background of water lilies and abstract green and turquoise swirls extended back inside the man’s cuff and up his forearm.
“It’s a carp.”
“It koi carp. Very special fish. And scales should really be white, but that hard effect to achieve with tattoo needle. Now do you know me?”
Gabriel stared at Fang. The clang when the penny dropped was almost audible. “Wait. The White Koi? Are you . . . ?”
Fang threw his back and roared with laughter. Dabbing his eyes with a display handkerchief he whisked from the pocket of his dinner jacket, he returned his gaze to Gabriel.
“Yes! I am Ricky Fang. I don’t know why we take English names in those days. Maybe we think it make us sound cool. You came asking me for job. You were just small boy. You arrive on little bicycle, offering to deliver drugs for me. Do you remember?”
Gabriel smil
ed at the memory. It was the story he’d told Fariyah at one of their sessions together. He’d seriously fancied himself as a drugs courier, whizzing around Hong Kong on a BMX bike with five-dollar bags of weed or coke stuffed into his jeans pockets.
“Yes, I remember. Only I got into a fight with one of your boys and you threatened to cut my throat if I ever showed my face again.”
“Ha! Don’t worry, I won’t carry out my threat. Now, tell me. Why does my good friend Xi bring you here? You know what I do, who I am?”
Gabriel nodded and took another sip of the champagne. “I know what the White Koi is. And I know you are the man in charge. Can I say it? You run a triad.”
All business now, his face grim after the humour of a few seconds ago, Fang leant across the table towards Gabriel, his shoulders bulging under his jacket yet not straining the seams. Excellent tailoring, Gabriel thought. Better than your goons on the door.
“That is right. I am very bad man. Breathing same air as me put you on list at police headquarters. Right. At. The top!”
He slammed his hand down on the table, making Gabriel jump. Then he burst out laughing again. “But don’t worry, Wolfe Cub. If they come for us, we go down fighting, eh?” Gabriel smiled, shaking his head and trying to recalibrate his emotional responses to this bear-like man and his sense of humour. “Xi tells me you are in trouble of your own. Is that right?”
Gabriel turned to look at Xi.
“Go on Wolfe Cub,” he said. “Mr Fang can help you. I am sure of it.”
51
How to Kill a Snake
GABRIEL explained the situation once more, hoping Xi wouldn’t mind hearing the details all over again.
“And what do you think I can do for you?” Fang asked, when Gabriel had finished.
“I’m not sure. I have a vague plan of getting her to admit what’s she’s been doing and recording it. And I need to retrieve my friend’s remains from Mozambique. And there’s this mysterious Gordian, which could be a person, but I feel it’s more likely to be a company. An American company. One with access to mercenaries and military-grade hardware.”
Fang drained his champagne, belched loudly, then refilled all three glasses. He sat back, legs spread, and slapped his meaty palms down on his thighs, looking first at Xi, then at Gabriel.
“There is a snake in a hole. You want snake dead, because it threaten your family and attack your livestock. But it only comes out when you are not there to kill it. You could put your hand into the hole, but then it bite you and you die. What do you do?”
Gabriel thought for a moment. A test. He was used to tests. But they were usually physical or logistical, not exercises in lateral thinking.
“I stick a gun barrel in there and start shooting.”
“Terrible idea! Snake just retreat further into tunnel. You will never hit it.”
“Grenade, then.”
Fang smiled, clearly enjoying himself. “But snake’s burrow is beneath your house. Blow up burrow and you destroy own home.”
Gabriel smiled back and opened his arms wide. “Then I must give up and learn from a master snake-killer.”
Fang nodded. “There another triad here some years back. They call themselves the Coral Snakes. In beginning, White Koi and Coral Snakes live side by side happily. But their leader very ambitious man. He tried to muscle in on our businesses and territories. It become necessary to deal with him and his organisation. But he always very cautious about going out in public. Many bodyguards. But I know of something he want so badly, he abandon his own rules.”
“What was it?” Gabriel asked, leaning forward, ignoring his drink.
“Painting. By young mainland artist. Very collectable. Very valuable. China has many billionaires now, just like Russia. They want art as well as fast cars and gold. He think he can join them if he has this painting. It bought at auction few years before by unknown buyer. I put out word on street I have it. Then, guess what?”
““I don’t know. What?”
“The man contact me. The rival he trying to put out of business. Say he want the painting and can we sit down together and hammer out deal.”
“You didn’t have the painting though, did you?”
“Your boy see the truth of things quickly, Master Zhao. He has a wise teacher.”
Gabriel turned to look at his old teacher. The old man smiled and inclined his head.
“I did not have painting,” Fang continued. “I get someone in Guangzhou create copy instead. Librarian, can you believe it? The man was genius. I send photo to Coral Snake leader and say we meet at workshop of old carpenter we both know.”
“How did you persuade him to come without protection?”
“I say to him I have people watching building and streets leading to it. We see muscle and deal off.”
“Did it work?” Gabriel asked.
“Like charm. He comes on time to the workshop. Alone. I set up fake on easel by carpenter’s workbench. Bench has clamps screwed along one edge and vices bolted to the wood. Woodworking tools hang on wall behind bench. Where practised hand can find them without looking away from work.”
Gabriel could feel what was coming next, even if the hapless Coral Snake leader could not. “And then?”
“And then, while he lost in admiration of my fake, I hit him on back of the head with wooden mallet. When he comes round he clamped to top of workbench. Then I hammer out deal. After that, Coral Snakes slide away and find another house to nest under.”
Xi spoke, startling Gabriel, who had been absorbed in Fang’s story.
“What do you learn from Mr Fang’s tale, Wolfe Cub?”
Gabriel paused before answering. His mind was processing the story and using it as an overlay on the map of his own challenges.
“You draw the snake out of its hole far enough then cut off its head with one swift, sharp strike.”
“Exactly!
“I need to find a way to draw Sutherland out into the open, away from her minders and then deal with her so she stops being a threat. I need something she is desperate for.”
“And does such a thing exist? No, let me rephrase that, because everyone has something they are desperate to possess. Do you know what she wants so badly that she would meet you, alone, to acquire it?”
Gabriel thought of the dossier on Melody’s computer.
“Yes. I do.”
“Then you can follow Mr Fang’s example and you can triumph.”
What about Smudge? And Gordian? There are too many loose ends. I can’t just go back to England. I need some help.
Gabriel took another swallow of the champagne and looked straight at Fang.
“Mr Fang. Thank you for telling me your story. And for welcoming me after my behaviour the last time we met.” Fang inclined his head. “I need to ask you for some help with other, related problems.”
The big man leaned forward.
“Zhao Xi bring you to me. So ask for whatever you need,” he said.
“I need a fake passport. And I need someone with computer skills. Really, really good computer skills.”
The crinkles in the big man’s forehead disappeared and his narrowed eyes widened again. “I thought you ask for something difficult. Send me your passport and new photos. It take forty-eight hours. Second thing also easy. In my organisation is boy called Wūshī. You know word?”
“Wizard.”
“He is wizard. But with code, hacking, whatever. I introduce you to him.” Fang checked his watch. “Believe it or don’t, even clubs like Golden Dragon must close from time to time. I have business across town. But you stay in bar as long as you like. Order more champagne, on the house. When you ready to leave, my security men on the front door lock up after you. And take this.”
Fang gave Gabriel a business card, which he pocketed. Then Xi and Gabriel stood, following Fang’s lead. The three men walked back to the gaming floor, which was now deserted apart from the croupiers and dealers tidying up their stations, stacking chips and plaq
ues and disposing of used decks of cards.
“I am tired, Wolfe Cub,” Xi said after they had shaken hands with Fang and he had disappeared. “You stay. I will see you in the morning.”
Gabriel took a seat at the bar. As the last of the staff left, leaving eddies in the pungent smoke curling lazily in their air on the stairway leading to the exit, Gabriel smiled. At last, he could see an end game that he might just win.
52
Hello Again, Darling
BEFORE leaving, Fang had been quite clear in his instructions to the barman.
“My friend stays here as long as he wants. You serve him. You don’t charge him.”
Then the big man had left, accompanied by two slightly built women dressed in white leather, whom Gabriel suspected could inflict unimaginable pain and suffering on anyone unwise enough to attempt an unscheduled meeting with their boss.
It had been a long day, but Gabriel was wide awake. He signalled to the barman.
“Bring me a bottle of the Pol Roger, please.”
The bottle brought, and a tall, rose-pink flute set beside it, the barman vanished through a door. Gabriel unwrapped the white foil himself this time, enjoying the way the heavy yet pliable metal twisted between his fingers. He removed the wire cage around the top of the bottle and dropped it onto the bar. Then he held the cork still with his right hand and twisted the bottle to let the pressurised carbon dioxide inside escape with a hiss. “Pops are for arrivistes,” a diplomat friend of his father had once confided to him at the beginning of an Embassy reception.
He was just tilting the rim of the glass to his lips when a couple of muffled thuds from beyond the door made him look up. The red and gold silk curtain over the entrance bellied out towards him. Then it was swept aside and a woman stepped into the space between the tables. It was the woman he’d drunk gin and tonics with in Harare.
She had taken the club’s dress code and perverted it, just a little. Instead of a cocktail dress, she wore black dress trousers, a fitted dinner jacket over a white silk blouse and bootlace tie secured with a silver clasp of some kind, and high-heeled, cream and black snakeskin boots. Where she had been sitting for their previous meeting, now she was standing and Gabriel could take in her physique. She was about five feet six, with an athletic build that spoke of long hours training in a gym somewhere. She moved gracefully, sinuously, always on balance, weight distributed carefully, feet light on the ground. She was carrying a zipped, black leather document case in her left hand. And a pistol in her right, aimed at his chest.
