Shadow Creatures

by Andrew Lane

  ‘Xi Lang can probably fake one for you.’ Calum shrugged. ‘I’m sure he has this problem with all his exotic specimens.’ He shook his head, letting out a deep breath. ‘No, you’re right to raise these objections. The best thing to do would be to take a DNA sample and then hand the creature over to the Hong Kong authorities, along with the location of the warehouse. I don’t need the giant rat per se – I just need its genetic material.’

  ‘So you will let us notify the authorities?’ she pushed.

  ‘We?’ he questioned. ‘So you are part of the team, then?’

  ‘I guess I am.’ She smiled ruefully. ‘Besides, I can always sell it to Mom as an educational visit. If Rhino is going with us, then she’ll be content. She trusts him. And it’s not like it’s the back end of nowhere – Hong Kong is a major city, with five-star hotels and good restaurants and everything.’

  Calum glanced over at Gecko, who was just finishing typing a message into his mobile. ‘What about you, Gecko – are you in?’

  He nodded enthusiastically. ‘For sure. I have never been to Hong Kong, but from what I have seen in movies the opportunities for free-running will be incredible!’

  Tara put her hand up. ‘What about me? Can I go?’

  Calum shook his head. ‘Actually,’ he said, ‘there’s something technology-related that I need your help and advice on.’

  Tara glanced at the bionic legs in the plastic crate. ‘Would it be those things?’

  ‘It would,’ he confirmed. ‘Controlled using brain waves.’

  ‘Ooh!’ she said, brightening up. ‘That sounds like fun!’

  Gecko put his mobile back into his pocket. ‘I’ve texted Rhino and asked him to get in touch. I haven’t mentioned anything about giant rats or Chinese criminal gangs.’

  Calum nodded. ‘OK, thanks.’ He glanced from Gecko to Natalie. ‘I suggest that the two of you make sure your passports are in order, and that you’ve had whatever inoculations you’ll need for a trip to Hong Kong . . .’

  ‘Hepatitis A is recommended,’ Tara said, looking at the screen of her tablet, ‘and Hep B, typhoid, diphtheria and tuberculosis are suggested.’

  Natalie looked confused. Is “recommended” one of those understated British ways of saying, “you’d be stupid not to”? Like “we recommend you wear a sun hat if you’re going to spend several hours on Laguna Beach”? or “we recommend that you don’t put your entire arm inside a crocodile’s mouth”?’

  Tara shook her head. ‘No,’ she said, ‘that’s “strongly recommended”. Different category entirely. There are no “strongly recommended” inoculations for Hong Kong.’

  ‘Great,’ Calum said, clapping his hands together. ‘Go and start packing. Let’s meet back here tomorrow, and hopefully Rhino can be here as well.’

  The coffee shop was on the edge of a small unfenced area of trees and grass – more of a village green than a park, Rhino Gillis thought to himself. He was moving around casually, as if looking for something in particular. There was a pet shop on one side and an extreme sports shop on the other. There were also a lot of restaurants and wine bars – more than one might expect for an area like this.

  He was in Poole – a seaside town a stone’s throw away from Bournemouth. He was on business, and hadn’t chosen the location, but he was familiar with the area. The Royal Marines and the Special Boat Service – the SAS’s aquatic sibling – were both based in Hamworthy Barracks, just a walk away.

  That knowledge was going to give him an edge, and often having an edge was what saved his life.

  He could smell the distant sea, and more closely the bitter odour of roasting coffee beans. Seagulls wheeled overhead in a bright blue sky. Men and women were lying out on the grass, soaking up the sunshine, probably realizing that this was likely to be the only summer’s day that year. Dogs were being walked by relaxed owners in shorts or cargo pants. One of the dogs – a big black Labrador – was playing in the fountain in the centre of the park.

  With a practised gaze he checked out the various people around him. None of them seemed to be paying him undue attention. None of them looked as though they were poised to spring into action if anything suddenly happened. To all intents and purposes, everyone was what they seemed: local people relaxing in the hot weather.

  He walked into the cafe. It was small, wood-floored, with hand-painted cartoons on the walls.

  Rhino scanned the tables. Only two of them were occupied: one by an elderly woman and the other by two blond surfer types who were talking in low voices. His contact had not yet arrived.

  He put his jacket down on a chair close to the door and went up to the counter. A small blonde girl with a tattooed arm smiled at him. ‘What can I get you?’

  ‘A double espresso,’ he replied, smiling back.

  ‘Anything to eat?’

  ‘Too hot,’ he said. ‘I completely lose my appetite in the summer.’

  ‘I know what you mean. Take a seat and I’ll bring the coffee over.’

  He sat at the table he had already reserved with his jacket, making sure that his back was against the wall and that he could see the entire cafe.

  He checked his watch. One minute to go.

  The blonde girl brought his coffee across and placed it in front of him. He smiled a ‘thank you’ and took a sip of the bitter liquid.

  On the dot of one o’clock a man walked into the cafe. He was tall, black, with close-cropped black hair. He was wearing suit trousers, but had the jacket slung over his arm. His white shirt was crisp despite the heat. He had the sleeves rolled up. His tie was pulled loose.

  He saw Rhino, nodded, and came across to stand over the table.

  ‘Mr Gillis?’

  Rhino nodded.

  ‘My name is Tzuke.’ His voice was deep and almost theatrical. ‘Forgive me, but given the circumstances I won’t shake hands.’

  ‘Worried that I might be able to trace you through DNA transfer?’ Rhino asked, smiling.

  Tzuke smiled back, but didn’t say anything.

  ‘Can I get you a drink?’ Rhino asked.

  ‘Let me pay for your drink, and get one for myself.’ He smiled, revealing perfect white teeth. ‘It’s the least I can do.’

  He turned and went up to the counter. Rhino glanced outside the cafe. Nobody else was standing there. Either Tzuke had come alone or his bodyguards were being exceptionally discreet.

  The man returned with a glass of cloudy lemonade, placed his jacket on the back of a chair and sat down. He glanced at Rhino’s chest. ‘Thank you for leaving your jacket off. I can see no evidence of any recording device on you.’ He ran his hands beneath the table, leaning forward to cover the area nearer Rhino. The floral smell of his aftershave was almost overpowering. ‘And nothing hidden beneath the table either. Well done.’

  ‘Your instructions were clear,’ Rhino said calmly. He nodded his head towards the coffee roaster. ‘And, besides, I presume you chose the location and the time so that there would be enough background noise to prevent any eavesdropping.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Tzuke said casually, ‘but technology has come a long way; it’s best to take all precautions possible. Speaking of which, may I see your mobile phone?’

  Rhino took it out of his jacket and placed it on the table. While Tzuke checked it over with economical, practised movements he took another sip of his espresso, nearly finishing it.

  ‘Already switched off,’ Tzuke said. ‘Thank you. I am carrying a mobile-phone jammer in my suit, of course, but I always believe in a “belt and braces” approach.’

  ‘You’ve done this before,’ Rhino murmured.

  Tzuke raised an eyebrow. ‘You need to be aware that I am just a facilitator,’ he said, ‘a go-between. I am not a criminal.’

  ‘You just work for criminals,’ Rhino said.

  ‘I make no moral judgements. I am a solicitor. I am hired to do a job by a client. The job is entirely legal.’

  ‘Two people were kidnapped by Somali pirates while they were sailing
off the coast of Africa,’ Rhino pointed out, ‘and you are here collecting the ransom. That doesn’t sound legal to me.’

  ‘I don’t know what the money is for,’ Tzuke said, smiling cheerfully, ‘and I don’t know where it is going. I have merely been hired to collect a payment and pass it on.’

  ‘While taking a cut yourself.’

  ‘I am providing a business service. That does not come free.’

  ‘Speaking of the “service” you provide, I believe you have to give me proof of life,’ Rhino countered. ‘I need to know that Peter and Sarah Wilkerson are still alive and in good health; otherwise the ransom does not get paid and you do not get your cut.’

  Tzuke reached into his jacket and removed a brown A4 envelope, which had been folded in half. He handed it across to Rhino. ‘I do not know what is in the envelope. I was just told to give it to you.’

  Rhino pulled the flap open and removed a single sheet of paper. It was a photograph, printed by a laser printer. It showed a couple who looked as if they were in their thirties. It also looked as if they had been wearing the same clothes for several weeks, and had spent most of that time either worrying or crying. There were shadows beneath their eyes, and the man – definitely Peter Wilkerson, based on other photographs Rhino had seen, provided by his family – was unshaven. They both looked as if they were at the end of their tether. Peter Wilkerson had his arm protectively around his wife’s shoulders. She was holding up an African newspaper so that the front page was clearly visible. Rhino presumed that it was yesterday’s newspaper, proving at least that they had been alive and in relatively good health twenty-four hours ago. He would make sure later, from his laptop.

  ‘Is that sufficient?’ Tzuke asked.

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Thankfully, the days when the envelope would have contained a severed finger or an ear are long gone. Digital cameras and emails are a boon.’

  ‘By the way,’ Rhino said, ‘if we checked, I presume we wouldn’t find out that this image had been printed on your own home or office printer?’ He folded the page back up and put it back into the envelope.

  ‘Of course not.’ Tzuke smiled his easy smile again. ‘I am not that stupid, and neither are my clients.’

  ‘Of course.’ Rhino smiled back at him. ‘You are Somali though, aren’t you?’

  ‘As are several million other people, most of whom are neither engaged in acts of piracy nor working for or with the pirates. I am, as I said, just a solicitor.’ He indicated the envelope. ‘Are you satisfied?’

  ‘Very little about this business satisfies me, but that’s a cross I have to bear. You seem to have fulfilled your side of the agreement.’

  ‘Then I believe you have an envelope for me.’

  ‘For you?’

  ‘To transfer to my clients,’ he continued smoothly. ‘Unopened.’

  Rhino removed a smaller white envelope from his own pocket. He slid it across the table. ‘This is a banker’s draft for half a million pounds. Being a banker’s draft, it cannot be rescinded or cancelled. It is as good as cash.’

  ‘With the advantage,’ Tzuke said, taking the envelope, ‘of being a lot easier to carry. I would not want to be carrying around a briefcase with half a million pounds in it. Not in this heat.’

  Rhino indicated the envelope. ‘Don’t lose it. Mr and Mrs Wilkerson are depending on that money to free them. It would be tragic if it was carried away by a freak gust of wind.’

  ‘Worry not. I will take all possible precautions with this envelope before passing it to my clients.’

  Tzuke held the envelope up and stared at it for a moment. He ran his fingers along it, looking for the telltale bulge of an electronic tracking device, Rhino presumed. Finding nothing, he slid the envelope into an inside jacket pocket.

  ‘As I said,’ Rhino murmured, ‘you have done this before.’

  Tzuke ignored the taunt. ‘Was it their family or their employers who provided the money?’ he asked.

  ‘Does it matter?’

  The solicitor shrugged. ‘I suppose not. I am merely interested in the generosity of people in the Western world towards relatives, friends and work colleagues.’

  ‘I take it your . . . clients . . . wouldn’t do the same for you?’

  Tzuke glanced sharply at Rhino. ‘You and I both know what the penalty for failure, carelessness and bad luck is in our respective professions,’ he said quietly.

  Rhino smiled. ‘You’re just a solicitor,’ he said, ‘and I’m just a postman.’ He paused. ‘What are the arrangements for the handover?’

  ‘I understand from my clients that the . . . goods . . . will be released in the port of Mogadishu, close to the British embassy. Then they will be on their own.’

  ‘And you know, of course, that if you don’t release them then nobody will ever pay a ransom again?’

  Tzuke nodded.

  ‘Then I think our business is complete.’

  Tzuke picked up his lemonade and drained it in one go. He reached into a jacket and pulled out a plastic bottle with a spray top. He sprayed the empty glass with some colourless fluid, and then, using one napkin to pick up the glass, he used a second napkin to wipe the glass dry, then very carefully wiped down any part of the table that he might have touched, including the underneath.

  ‘More DNA and fingerprint paranoia?’ Rhino inquired.

  Tzuke shook his head. ‘Call it a pathological desire to leave everything neat and tidy.’ Placing the glass down on the table, he stood up and retrieved his jacket from the back of the chair. ‘I have taken the liberty of paying for another coffee for you. I suggest you stay here for at least twenty minutes before you leave. Do not try to follow me. Mr and Mrs Wilkerson would not be happy if you did that.’

  Rhino watched the man leave. As he sat there, draining the last bitter dregs of his espresso, he turned his mobile phone back on. Immediately it told him that he had a text message. He checked it curiously, and was surprised to find that it was from Eduardo Ortiz – or Gecko, as Rhino had learned to call him. The message was terse, but informative. Strange animal seen in Hong Kong. Need your help to travel out and find it. Are you interested and free?

  A strange animal? Presumably it wasn’t going to be anything the size of an Almasti. Maybe it would just be a snake, or a beetle, or something.

  A few days away in a place he liked with a bunch of kids whose company he enjoyed? And presumably paid as well? What could go wrong?

  CHAPTER four

  The car was arriving at seven o’clock in the morning to pick up Calum and Tara.

  Tara had slept in one of Calum’s spare rooms, and she had stayed up late working on ARLENE at Calum’s request: deleting all information from the robot’s memory on where they had used it. Seven o’clock in the morning was a lot earlier than she normally got up. When she came out of the bathroom ten minutes before the car was due, she was rubbing her eyes – smearing her heavy eyeliner – and yawning.

  ‘Sleep OK?’ Calum asked, sipping at the breakfast smoothie he had made himself. He had been awake for a while.

  ‘Uh, I guess,’ she slurred. ‘I kinda stayed up, checking stuff out on the internet. I’ve got a lot of background material on Hong Kong and the Triads that I can give to Rhino, Gecko and Natalie before they go.’ She winced. ‘I think I lost track of time.’

  ‘What time did you actually go to sleep?’

  ‘About an hour ago.’

  He raised an eyebrow and slid another smoothie across to her. ‘A couple of times I thought I heard you laughing. I guess that research must have been pretty funny, huh?’

  She blushed, and wouldn’t meet his gaze. ‘OK, I also got emailing with this guy I know. He was awake as well.’

  ‘A guy? You mean you were laughing and joking with an actual male person?’ He stopped and thought for a minute. ‘In my apartment?’

  ‘It’s not like he was actually here.’

  ‘That’s not the point.’

  ‘It’s exactly the point.’
She glanced at him suspiciously. ‘Besides, what were you doing awake so late?’

  He wouldn’t look at her. ‘I kept waking up.’

  ‘Worried about today?’

  He shrugged, not really wanting to talk about it.

  ‘It’ll be OK, you know?’ she said.

  He nodded. ‘I suppose it will. I just don’t want to get my hopes up.’

  She nodded. ‘I can understand that.’ She hesitated, putting her head to one side and staring at him. ‘The problem is, I think, that you want success to be all or nothing.’

  Her words stung him, because he’d come to the same conclusion himself, lying awake in bed, but he just scowled and said, ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘I mean that you either want to be completely cured of your paralysis or not cured at all. You don’t want to have to compromise with a half-solution that still leaves you with problems.’

  ‘And you’re a psychologist now, as well as being a computer programmer?’

  ‘Hey,’ she said, smiling, ‘if the brain is just an advanced computer, then the two are essentially the same thing, aren’t they?’

  ‘No,’ he said firmly, ‘they aren’t, and you know it. Computer programmers deal in hard facts and testable algorithms, while psychologists just make good guesses based on what people tell them and then try to pretend they have some big theory that backs it all up.’

  ‘Actually, I think that’s “psychiatrists, rather than psychologists, but I know what you mean.’ She bit her lip briefly. ‘Did you ever . . . you know . . . see a psychiatrist after the . . . the crash?’

  He laughed bitterly. ‘“I keep seeing purple cows. Am I going mad?” “Tell me, have you seen a psychiatrist?” “No, only purple cows”.’

  ‘Look, if you don’t want to answer the question . . .’

  He shook his head. ‘Sorry. I have a bad habit of getting sarcastic when someone asks me something personal. It’s a defence mechanism.’

  ‘You don’t say!’ she murmured innocently.

  He glared at her, and then had to smile. She was just trying to help, he knew that. ‘Yes, I saw a psychiatrist for a while. Gillian arranged it. “Trauma counselling”, she called it.’