by Chris Allen
“I don’t like it,” he said. “This Chan guy is a new development. The fact that he even knows about Reigns is bad news.”
“And how the fuck do they know about Lam’s connection to us – to Interpol, I mean?” Morgan mused. “How far now?”
“A couple more miles. Fuck it!” Sutherland thumped the steering wheel. “We can’t lose her.”
“We won’t, Dave,” Morgan replied. “Just stop driving like a grandma and get us there.”
As they headed onto an off-ramp, the speed limit suddenly dropped to fifty kilometers per hour, with warnings painted on the tarmac to SLOW DOWN, but Sutherland ignored it all, planting his foot down firmly and sideswiping a taxi along the right shoulder. The Range Rover surged off the narrow ramp at 65 mph. The move nearly cost them a collision with a bus but Sutherland skillfully redeemed himself and was on track to regain some ground when an old woman, struggling along behind a walking frame with bulky shopping bags strapped to it, wandered out on to the pedestrian crossing at Nairn House, oblivious to the fast-approaching, two-and-a-half-ton Range Rover with a maniacal Texan at the wheel.
Sutherland was left with no choice; he stood on the brakes and grit his teeth. Morgan’s eyes fixed on the old woman and his hands tightened hard against the plush interior of the vehicle, leaving permanent impressions in the leather trim of the armrests. The gap between them and the woman diminished terrifyingly fast, every yard of road disappearing beneath the car quicker than the last. Morgan’s field of view was consumed only by the old woman’s face, which she had now turned to them, petrified. She was standing dead still in the center of their lane. The anti-lock braking technology of the vehicle worked perfectly but it was a tense few seconds before Sutherland’s pull to the left saw them flash past, missing her by only a couple of feet.
Sutherland recovered the vehicle, stamped on the gas and spun the wheel hard left onto Argyle Street. They raced beneath the overpass and through the busy intersection of Argyle and Waterloo, continuing straight down the narrow double lanes of Argyle before they merged into four again as they headed toward the markets.
“We just crossed Sai Yee Street,” Morgan called out. “Time now is zero-nine-two-five.”
“Roger that,” Sutherland replied. “This traffic is no goddamn help.”
“You’re making good time, Dave. Let’s focus on the possibility that she’s alive and well at the meet with Lam, and we won’t even be needed.”
“You trying to convince me or yourself?”
“Me.”
They ploughed through the congestion, weaving in and out between cars, trucks and buses. A string of restaurants, followed by a 7/11 and then a Panasonic billboard flashed past on their right before Sutherland spotted the left turn he was looking for directly ahead.
“Hang on!”
Morgan extracted the black ski-mask from his pocket and prepared to pull it on.
Then, as the Range Rover screamed off the main road and down a narrow single-lane side street, the shrill peal of Sutherland’s phone told them a text had been received. Morgan grabbed it.
“It’s a message from Lam.”
CHAPTER 10
He saw her.
Lam made sure he was leaning forward in his seat. It was one of their agreed signals and meant “OK, but proceed with caution.” If he’d been leaning back it would mean that everything was definitely not OK and she should immediately abort the meeting. He knew she’d now be searching for the second sign: his coffee cup positioned on the left-hand corner of the table, pointing directly toward her direction of approach, although it would be difficult to see, given the constant motion around them. Thankfully a break in the crowd allowed him a clear view of her and she of him. Her bag was slung over her left shoulder, meaning “all clear.” His face turned to her for a micro-second, and while the cup and bag were sufficient acknowledgment to assure each other that they were clear and their meeting could proceed, he was troubled by the expression on her face. It was the first time he’d seen her look like this. Normally brimming with confidence, this morning she was scared.
Lam watched intently as she crossed the last few yards to his table. She was tall and fair-skinned, with long black hair pulled into a braid, her body lean and fit beneath tight black pants and Mandarin collar jacket. This morning her deep brown eyes were shaded behind fake Prada sunglasses. That was unusual. But she had made it and she was alive.
He quickly tapped out a text to Interpol: She’s here. All OK. Standby.
They were now over a month into the operation and Lam was confident that Mei-Zhen Tan knew all she needed to know about this place, including all the alternative routes between here and the illegal factory she had infiltrated. At a glance, she could orient herself north-south and, importantly, she had memorized the random assortment of cafes and stalls they had preselected as their primary and secondary meeting points. The market had been chosen because it was close to her workplace and it was busy. It also fitted her cover as a newcomer to Hong Kong; irregular visits to a favorite new market were to be expected should somebody be taking an interest in her movements about the city.
“Good morning,” she said quietly, as she sat down opposite him.
“Good morning,” Lam replied, and gestured to the green tea he’d bought for her. “Are you all right? You seem …”
Mei-Zhen Tan removed her sunglasses and Lam saw fresh bruising around her right eye and cheek.
“My God!” he hissed under his breath, careful not to draw attention. His fists clenched upon the table. “Who did this to you?”
“It’s OK,” she began, calmly replacing her glasses. “I was punished for getting in someone’s way. It could’ve been worse.”
“It’s not OK. I understood that the objective of getting you a job in that place was to enable you to get your eyes on their financial records, so that we – I mean, you and Interpol – could try to establish a connection to the principal operators.” He looked around quickly to ensure they weren’t being overheard. “Specifically Wu Ming. That’s the only reason I agreed to this.”
“I can take care of myself,” she said. “But I can tell you, things aren’t good in that place right now.”
“Things have changed out here, too, Mei-Zhen,” he said, frustrated. “Something happened to me this morning and I must tell you about it before we go any further. When I’ve told you, I know you’ll agree we have no choice but to pull you out and establish ’round-the-clock surveillance on the factory instead.”
She took a deep breath. “I’m not ready to pull out, Victor.”
“Please, Mei-Zhen. Let me tell you this first.”
“Go ahead, but it better be convincing.”
“The operation is blown,” he began, not pulling any punches. Lam took her through his confrontation with Chan back at the station. She remained silent throughout, listening intently as they maintained a systematic yet discreet surveillance of the area. When he’d finished, she asked about Chan, obviously looking for background on him and the credibility of his threats. Lam revealed he’d held concerns about his superior’s loyalties for many years. He concluded by telling her that he had just spoken with the Interpol contact, the American, with whom he had been required to communicate over the past month.
“What did you tell him?” she asked, obviously troubled. “Does he know about this Chan person yet?”
“Of course.”
“Damn it!”
“I contacted him specifically because of Chan. Have I done something wrong? The American is your contact, the one that you connected me with.”
“What did he say?”
“He told me to stay put and that he would make contact with me here.”
“He’s on the way here? Did he say anything else … anything about me?”
“Well, no. We don’t go into detail on the phone. Have they tried to contact you?”
She shook her head. “That would be against protocol. No, he’ll wait to hear from me.”
&n
bsp; Lam swallowed, thinking that he had made some monumental mistake, despite the fact that he had been following Interpol’s instructions. Then he blurted out, “Wait. When I saw you just now I sent him a message that you were OK and to standby.”
“And have you heard back from him?”
Lam grappled his phone from the table. He saw the message displayed on the screen and turned it around for her to see.
ACK. Standing by. Local.
She relaxed slightly, but was still clearly troubled, glancing around, searching in every direction.
“Listen, Victor, I’m not pulling out. Not yet, anyway. We’re close, really close.”
“Have you not heard a word I’ve said? Chan told me we’ll be dead by lunchtime if we don’t shut this down. They know about you. Haven’t you risked enough already? Going back in there—”
“How many years have you been hunting these guys?” she asked. “And what about all of the effort that’s gone into getting us this far? You can’t seriously think I’m about to pull out now.”
He glanced down and remained quiet. She leaned closer to him across the table.
“Listen, you’re a good man and nailing these guys is personal for you. Believe me, I get it.” The warmth in her tone reassured him. “You need to have faith, Victor. There’s backup now. You’re not on your own anymore, but that’s as much as I can say. I’ll leave it to my colleague to fill you in.”
“OK, OK,” he responded, rubbing his face with his hands. “Will you people ever let me in on whatever or whoever it is you’re really after?”
“When the time is right,” she said. “Just understand that this is one piece of a much bigger pie.”
A quick, unexpected movement caught Lam’s attention and he narrowed his eyes as he tried hard to determine who it was. A split second of anxiety gripped him when he realized it was someone he knew.
CHAPTER 11
The sound of fingernails drumming impatiently against the rough wooden surface of the table was the only sound to be heard in the smoke-filled room. The three heavily armed men positioned around the walls remained absolutely silent.
Wu Ming sat at one end of the table with his back to the large window overlooking the factory floor. The black silk jacket he wore strained at the seams. His perfectly round head was completely bald and his lined skin was the color of copper. His eyes were tar-black slits with no visible sign of the whites at all. He was still well muscled for a man of his age although a paunch had developed over the years. The big hands resting on the table, one drumming its surface, the other holding a cigarette, were like rocks waiting to be hurled at someone. Everything about him exuded cruelty.
The door at the far end of the room opened and a man wearing the uniform of a Hong Kong Police Force chief superintendent entered. Two younger men in black suits, white shirts and black ties followed him in. They remained at the back of the room, either side of the door. The policeman took up the seat he was directed to, immediately to the right of Wu Ming.
“I’m sorry I am late,” Chief Superintendent Chan Man-kin said awkwardly. He was used to wielding authority but not in this company. “I’m afraid it was unavoidable.”
“You have some news for me, Freddy?” Wu Ming answered, disdainfully. “Is there a problem?”
“Yes, it concerns Inspector Victor Lam. You recall that name?”
“Of course. I shot him years ago. Sadly, he did not die. So, he’s an inspector now. What of it?”
“It has come to my attention that he is collaborating with Interpol.” Chan risked a direct glance at Wu to reinforce the significance of the information, but received no reaction. “I believe he has recently managed to infiltrate this very factory with an undercover policewoman, possibly herself an agent of Interpol.”
Wu Ming remained outwardly unmoved although the drumming on the table abruptly stopped. “And how do you know this?” he asked.
“I have a reliable source who works in the office of the assistant commissioner responsible for this district. My source tells me that Lam is reporting to the assistant commissioner personally on this. No other areas of the department are involved.”
“Who is the assistant commissioner?”
“Kwong,” Chan replied.
Wu Ming appeared to deliberate for a moment, considering the name.
“What about this policewoman, who is she?”
“I don’t have a name but I have a photograph. One of my officers just took it. Very pretty,” Chan said lasciviously. He removed a cell phone from the pocket of his shirt, tapped the screen to open the gallery, and handed it across. “Do you know her?”
Wu Ming did nothing more than pass a cursory glance over the image. His visits to his factories were so rare he didn’t have the first clue what any of the staff looked like. Instead, one of the men behind him stepped forward, looked at the picture and mumbled something in Wu’s ear. He summoned one of the black suits standing by the door. The man instantly appeared at his master’s side and also looked at the image. He nodded and inclined his head in the direction of the factory office. Wu took in a long breath through his nostrils and slowly released it. He nodded to the black suit, dismissing him. The man returned to his position by the door.
“What are you doing about Inspector Lam, Freddy?”
“I have two officers following him as we speak. They believe Lam is being investigated for corruption,” Chan answered. “He went to the Mong Kok market to meet this girl. They are both there now.”
Wu Ming stood up and walked slowly across to the shelves that overflowed with the materials and tools needed to keep the apparel manufacturing side of the business operating. “I need to go and receive the little Russian bitch. I want her to keep thinking she’s actually in control. In the meantime, you bring Lam to me here, immediately,” he said, poking idly through the paraphernalia on the shelves until he extracted a large pair of scissors, a screwdriver and a hammer. He weighed this in his hand then, addressing the man in the suit, added, “The moment the girl returns, you bring her in here and question her while I think what to do with her. I want to know how much she knows and what she has passed on to her superiors.”
The men in the black suits nodded obediently and disappeared in silence. Wu Ming turned to the rest of the room, gesticulating with the hammer.
“Get out there, find whoever it was who hired her and drag them in here right now!”
CHAPTER 12
Still without knowing who he’d seen, Lam’s mind was screaming at him. It was definitely someone familiar; someone whose details were stored deep within his subconscious. Who was it? A cop? His mind trawled through the possibilities, trying to recreate a composite image from the blur he had seen. He stared over Mei-Zhen’s right shoulder into the crowd, searching for the face. He could sense her tensing in response to his sudden preoccupation. She was preparing to disappear when he raised his hand just an inch above the table.
“No. It’s OK,” he rasped. “Don’t move.”
“What was that?” she asked. “You looked like someone just walked over your grave.”
“Maybe they did,” he replied without humor, still searching.
“Are we good?” She took a deep, controlled breath.
He nodded although he was still unsettled. There was just too much activity. Too many faces. Who had he seen?
Lam was conflicted. Despite Chan’s threats to their lives, the uncertainty surrounding the operation’s viability and his instinct telling him he should convince Mei-Zhen not to go back in, he was also a cop impatient for progress; probably more so than her. He couldn’t stomach the idea of the operation being derailed, especially now. Chan’s warning to him was proof that they were on to something.
Lam had spent most of his career working these cases, identifying the emerging players, their weaknesses and patterns of operation. He had been pushing shit uphill for years, but now he knew them all – the big names in the region. The involvement of the Triads in human trafficking was his
particular specialty and it had made him very unpopular in certain circles. The forced labor trade was an accepted part of life in this part of the world and the operators who kept it running were well connected. But he was determined to continue; so determined, in fact, that he had kept the details of Interpol’s infiltration of the factory from his immediate superiors, convincing them that he was merely assisting an intelligence analyst in a mid-level investigation. Only Assistant Commissioner Kwong knew the real story and even that had been sanitized. Maybe Chan was right. Maybe Lam was nothing more than an annoyance to the hierarchy and they saw this Interpol connection as a final “make or break” – with emphasis on the “break.”
Mei-Zhen had spent a month working at the factory and, despite her best efforts, had found nothing that, from an evidentiary perspective, could link Wu Ming unequivocally to its operation or the transnational human trafficking consortium to which he was suspected of belonging. The fact that the factory ran exclusively on the back of forced labor was an issue that, to date, had been overlooked by the powers that be – Wu Ming was too well connected. But if there was even the slightest hope of cracking the consortium, or even just Wu Ming’s part in it, Lam felt that they had to try, no matter what the personal risk to them both. If they made it through then maybe he would finally retire and leave Hong Kong for good.
“So, if you are hell-bent on going back in there, tell me why,” he found himself asking her. “Tell me what has changed.”
“Things there were going along without incident; all routine, nothing noteworthy. But there’s been a significant buildup of activity over the past week, and out of nowhere two new arrivals showed up. Mid-level management types in identical black suits, obviously nothing to do with the factory stuff.”
