Vital Signs

by Robin Cook

  Ned opened the closet door, then roughly shoved the porter inside. He softly closed the door behind him, then locked it.

  Moving back to the connecting door, Ned listened. The water was still running. Slowly, he leaned into the room. It was empty, and the bed was stripped of its linens. But the bathroom door was ajar about four inches. Now he could hear the running water more clearly. The Blumenthal woman was filling the tub.

  Without a sound, Ned moved across the room to the bathroom door. Sucking in a deep breath, he raised a foot and kicked it open. In an instant, he was inside.

  The Blumenthal woman was kneeling by the tub. Her back was to the door. He had surprised her completely. She was beginning to rise to her feet when Ned pumped two bullets into the back of her head. She pitched forward into the tub, overturning a bucketful of soapy water in the process.

  Ned looked at the bucket with confusion. Stepping over the soapy water, he grasped the woman by the hair and yanked her head back.

  “Damn!” he muttered. It wasn’t the Blumenthal woman at all. It was a Chinese cleaning lady.

  Ned let go of the woman’s hair. She slumped lifelessly back into the tub. He went back to the first room. Going around the bed, he bent down for a closer look at Williams’ body. It was tough to get a good look at him, since the body was jammed between the bed and the wall. With some difficulty Ned managed to straighten Williams out. Then he sifted through his pockets and pulled out the man’s wallet. Flipping it open, Ned swore aloud. It wasn’t Williams! It was a Robert Buchanan! Who the hell was Robert Buchanan?

  Ned straightened up. What had happened? Had the bellboy given him the wrong room? he wondered. He gave the room a quick search. In a suitcase at the foot of the bed he found a packet of American Express travelers checks. The name on them was Marissa Blumenthal.

  Going to the door to the hallway, Ned put his ear to it and listened. Not hearing anything, he opened the door. The hall was empty. Taking the “Do Not Disturb” sign from its hook, he draped it over the outer doorknob. Then he left, closing the door behind him.

  Descending to the ground floor, Ned casually strolled around the lobby. He wandered through the breakfast room and several of the function rooms. Nowhere did he see anyone resembling Williams or Blumenthal. Finally, he gave up and headed for the door.

  Just outside the hotel’s entrance, Ned found Willy sitting in the Nissan with the motor running. Ned opened the door and got in.

  Willy could tell that something was wrong.

  “Williams and the woman weren’t there,” Ned said with irritation. “Are you sure you didn’t see them leave the hotel?”

  “No way!” Willy said. “And I’ve been here almost all night. They didn’t leave.”

  Ned stared ahead through the windshield. He shook his head. “Well, they weren’t in their rooms. And now I’ve succeeded in messing things up even worse than you did. I killed the wrong people!”

  “Hell!” Willy said. “What are we going to do now?”

  Ned shook his head. “One thing that we aren’t going to do is collect that bonus. That’s the sad part. I suppose we’ll have to turn it over to the Wing Sin. Let’s go.”

  “I hate to say this,” Marissa said, “but I think I like this watch better than the last one. It’s more feminine.” Marissa was admiring her Seiko tank-style watch.

  “Quite attractive,” Tristan agreed. He looked at his own. “Maybe I should have tried a different style. Well, maybe I’ll get my chance. We’re still in Hong Kong. So far it’s been a watch a day.”

  They inched ahead a few more feet.

  “How long is this tunnel?” Marissa asked. She was starting to feel the way she did when they’d been locked in the trunk.

  “Beats me,” Tristan said. He scooted forward and lowered the glass separating the back compartment from the driver. “Hey, Bentley, how long is this tunnel?”

  “A little less than a mile, Mr. Williams,” Bentley said.

  Tristan settled back. “Did you hear?” he said.

  “Unfortunately,” Marissa said. “At this rate, it will take an hour just to get over to Hong Kong Island. I’ve never seen traffic like this.”

  Marissa and Tristan were in the depths of the Cross Harbor Tunnel. They’d met up with their new driver that morning after leaving the hotel through the employee entrance. Tristan had thought it wise to leave as surreptitiously as possible.

  Bentley had turned out to be just what they’d hoped. Bentley Chang, their new driver, was all muscle and the size of a Sumo wrestler. In the language department, he could have qualified for work at the UN. He spoke the Queen’s English in addition to Japanese, Cantonese, Mandarin, and some Hakka and Tanka. He also convinced Tristan that he was knowledgeable in kung fu. He inspired Marissa’s confidence with the pistol he carried in a shoulder holster.

  His car was equally impressive. It turned out to be an armored Mercedes normally reserved for visiting dignitaries. When Marissa asked Tristan what it cost, he told her not to ask. He’d made the arrangements the night before, calling the limousine company himself instead of using the concierge.

  By the time they got to the lower tram station for the run up Victoria Peak, it was nine-thirty.

  “And I was hoping we’d be early,” Tristan said.

  Before they got out of the car, Tristan went over the instructions he’d given Bentley earlier, namely that Bentley was to drive to the peak and watch from a distance. If anything went amiss, Tristan would signal by running his hand through his hair twice. If Bentley saw that, he was to intervene as he saw fit. If everything went off without a hitch, Bentley would drive down to the dropoff point and wait for Marissa and Tristan to come down in the tram.

  “Any questions?” Tristan asked the muscular Bentley.

  “Just one,” Bentley said. “If you are involved with narcotics, please let me know.”

  Tristan laughed. “No, we’re not involved with drugs of any kind.”

  “I will be angry if you are not truthful,” Bentley said.

  “I wouldn’t want you to get angry,” Tristan assured him.

  The ride up in the red tram, which was really a funicular railway, turned out to be a delight. Quickly they left behind the concrete of Central and rose up into wooded slopes filled with bowers of jasmine, wild indigo, daphne, and rhododendrons. Even from the confines of the tram, they could hear magpies singing.

  The peak itself turned out to be a disappointment. The morning mist still shrouded the mountaintop, and Marissa and Tristan could see nothing of the reputed view. The foliage, however, was quite beautiful, particularly the exotic trees still beaded with dew.

  Trying to make their presence apparent, Marissa and Tristan circled the Peak Tower a number of times. The tower was a three-story shopping mall with restaurants, an ice cream stand, a drugstore, and even a supermarket. Marissa was intrigued by the stalls that sold Chinese handicrafts.

  As they wandered, they kept an eye out for the three men who’d abducted them the day before. But they saw no one they recognized except Bentley. He’d arrived as directed. As agreed, he remained unobtrusively in the background. Neither he nor Tristan and Marissa exchanged so much as a nod.

  By quarter after eleven, Tristan and Marissa were ready to give up.

  “I suppose word of the to-do at the Peninsula got to them,” Marissa said.

  “Damn,” Tristan said. “Now I don’t know what to do. We’re back to the beginning.”

  Slowly they ambled back toward the upper tram station, feeling depressed. After such high anticipation, this was quite a letdown.

  “Excuse me,” an elderly woman said, approaching them. She was wearing a broad-brimmed straw hat with black fringe. She’d been sitting on a bench near the tram entrance. “Are you Mr. Williams?” she asked.

  “I am,” Tristan said.

  “I am to extend apologies from Mr. Yip,” she said. “He was unable to make your morning meeting. But if you would please go to the old Stanley Restaurant, he will be h
appy to see you.”

  “When?” Tristan asked.

  “That is all I know,” the woman said. She bowed and hurried off with a shuffling gait.

  Tristan looked at Marissa. “What does that mean?”

  “I guess the man in the white suit is Mr. Yip.”

  “But when are we to go to the Stanley Restaurant?” Tristan asked. “And where is it?”

  “I would assume we should go directly,” Marissa said. “As for where, let’s ask Bentley.”

  They descended in the peak tram. Bentley was waiting in the armored Mercedes by the time they got down. Marissa and Tristan piled into the backseat. Tristan asked Bentley if he’d ever heard of a restaurant called Stanley’s.

  “I have indeed, sir,” Bentley said.

  “Where is it?” Tristan asked.

  “Why, it’s in Stanley, sir,” Bentley said.

  Tristan slid back in the seat. “Okay, Bentley,” Tristan said. “Let’s go to Stanley.”

  To Marissa’s chagrin, the first leg of the trip was through another tunnel that was over two miles long. Until the experience of riding in the trunk of the car, she’d never known she’d disliked tunnels.

  Thankfully the traffic moved relatively swiftly; although this Aberdeen Tunnel was longer than the Cross Harbor, the car went through it significantly quicker. When they emerged, the landscape had transformed from the urban sprawl of Kowloon and Central to an almost rural beauty. The beaches were rimmed with bright sand and the water was the emerald green Marissa had seen from the jet on their arrival from Brisbane.

  As they motored along the attractive coastline toward Stanley, Tristan slid forward again. “Bentley,” he asked, “have you ever heard of a man by the name of Mr. Yip?”

  “That is a common Chinese name,” Bentley said.

  “When we met this Mr. Yip he was wearing a rather distinctive suit,” Tristan said. “It was white silk.”

  Bentley turned to look at Tristan. The car did a little fishtail as he quickly redirected his attention to the road.

  “You met a Mr. Yip in a white suit?” Bentley asked.

  “Yes,” Tristan said. “Is that surprising?”

  “There is only one Mr. Yip that I know who wears white suits,” Bentley said, “and he is an enforcer.”

  “You’ll have to explain,” Tristan said.

  “He is a 426,” Bentley said. “That means he’s a red poll, which is an executioner for a triad. The executioner carries out all the triad’s dirty work, no matter the activity: loan-sharking, prostitution, gambling, smuggling, anything like that.”

  Tristan looked back at Marissa to see if she’d heard what Bentley had to say. She rolled her eyes. She’d heard.

  “We are going to the Stanley Restaurant to meet this Mr. Yip,” Tristan said.

  Bentley braked and pulled over to the side of the road. He put the car in Park and turned off the ignition. Then he turned around to look directly at Tristan. “We have to talk,” he said.

  For the next fifteen minutes, Tristan and Bentley renegotiated Bentley’s hourly rate. Going to a meeting with Mr. Yip was not something covered by his basic fee. Once the deal was settled, Bentley started the car, and they again pulled out into the road.

  “Do you know which triad Mr. Yip is with?” Tristan asked.

  “I’m not supposed to talk specifically about the triads,” Bentley said.

  “Okay,” Tristan said agreeably. “I’ll name the triad I think he’s with and you nod. How’s that?”

  Bentley considered for a moment, then agreed.

  “Wing Sin,” Tristan said.

  Bentley nodded.

  Tristan sat back. “Well,” he said. “That confirms our suspicions. Obviously Mr. Yip knows what we want to know. The question is whether he plans to tell us or not.”

  “This whole business has an unnerving way of escalating,” Marissa said. “Mr. Yip scared me the first time we met him. Now that I know who he is, I’m even more frightened.”

  “There’s still time to change our minds,” Tristan said.

  Marissa shook her head. “We’ve come this far,” she said. “I’m not giving up now.”

  Stanley turned out to be an attractive, modern suburban town built on a peninsula with broad sandy beaches on either side. The vista out over the emerald sea was magnificent. The buildings themselves were less impressive, most being four-story, unimaginative, white concrete affairs.

  Bentley pulled into a parking area along the shore line, then nosed the car around so that it was pointing out into the street. He turned off the engine and nodded toward the building to the right. “That’s Stanley Restaurant,” he said.

  Marissa and Tristan inspected the restaurant. From the outside it was as nondescript as the other buildings in the town.

  “You ready?” Tristan said.

  Marissa nodded. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

  Bentley got out of the car and opened the rear door. Marissa and Tristan stepped out into the bright sunlight. Before they could take a step, doors opened on a number of other nearby cars, and a half dozen Chinese men got out. They were all dressed in business suits. Marissa and Tristan recognized three of them. They were the men who’d kidnapped them the day before.

  At first, Bentley reached for his gun, but he quickly reconsidered. Several of the men had machine pistols in plain sight.

  Thinking that her worst fears had materialized, Marissa froze in her tracks. She was amazed at the cool nonchalance the men exhibited in brandishing such firearms in public.

  “Please remain where you are,” one man said as he strode forward. He reached into Bentley’s jacket and withdrew his pistol. Then he spoke to Bentley in Cantonese. Bentley turned and got back into the Mercedes.

  Turning his attention to Marissa and Tristan, he frisked them for weapons. Not finding any, he nodded toward the restaurant. Marissa and Tristan started walking.

  “Certainly helpful we brought Bentley,” Tristan said. “Nice to know my money was so well spent.”

  “They always seem to be a step ahead of us,” Marissa said.

  The interior of the restaurant was simple but elegant, with antique-style wooden tables and peach-colored walls. Since it was still before twelve, there were no customers. Waiters were arranging the flatware and polishing the crystal.

  A French maître d’ in a tuxedo welcomed them and was about to ask them if they had a reservation when he recognized their escorts. Immediately he bowed and showed them to a small separate dining room one flight up.

  Mr. Yip was sitting at a table. In front of him was his large ledger book as well as a cup of tea. He was dressed as before in a spotless white silk suit.

  Their escort spoke to Mr. Yip in Cantonese. Mr. Yip listened while he studied Marissa’s and Tristan’s faces. When his henchman had finished, he closed his ledger book and leaned forward on it with his elbows. “You have insulted me by bringing an armed guard,” he said.

  “No insult was intended,” Tristan said with an uneasy smile. “We had an unfortunate incident yesterday. Someone tried to kill us.”

  “Where?” Mr. Yip asked.

  “At the Peninsula Hotel,” Tristan answered.

  Mr. Yip gazed up at the man who’d brought Marissa and Tristan in to see him. The man nodded, apparently confirming the story. Mr. Yip looked back at Marissa and Tristan and shrugged. “Attempted assassinations are not so uncommon,” he said. “It’s the price of doing certain business in Hong Kong. There have been any number of attempts on my life.”

  “It is not something we are accustomed to,” Marissa said.

  “Regardless,” Mr. Yip said, “it was a mistake to bring a guard to a meeting with me. Besides, he could not have protected you.”

  “We are foreigners,” Marissa said. “We don’t know the rules.”

  “I will forgive you this time,” Mr. Yip said. “Did you bring the money?”

  “Too right, mate,” Tristan said. “But how about our information first?”

  Mr.
Yip smiled and shook his head in amazement. “Please, Mr. Williams,” he said. “Do not trouble or irritate me any more than you already have. And don’t call me ‘mate.’ ”

  “Righto,” Tristan said. “I suppose our bargaining position is a bit weak.” He dug into his pocket and pulled out a hotel envelope in which he’d put ten thousand Hong Kong dollars. He handed it to Mr. Yip. “For your entertainment expenses.” He smiled.

  Mr. Yip took the envelope. “You are learning our Hong Kong business practices quickly,” he said. He tore open the envelope and flipped through the money. Then he slipped the money into his jacket pocket.

  “I have learned that the Wing Sin are doing business with an Australian company called Fertility, Limited,” Mr. Yip said. “They have been bringing out pairs of Chinese men from the People’s Republic for several years, about every two months. The Wing Sin have been arranging transportation from a pickup on the Pearl River north of Zhuhai to Aberdeen. From there they take them to Kai Tac and put them on planes for Brisbane. It has been a comfortable, profitable business relationship: not overwhelmingly so, but it is adequate.”

  “Who are these men?” Tristan asked.

  Mr. Yip shrugged. “I don’t know and I don’t care. It was the same with the students from Tiananmen Square. We didn’t care who they were. We just wanted to be paid for their transport.”

  “Why are they being smuggled out of the PRC?” Tristan asked.

  “No idea,” Mr. Yip said. “It is not important for the Wing Sin.”

  Tristan threw up his hands in frustration. “You haven’t told us anything that we didn’t know before,” he complained.

  Marissa shifted uneasily. She was afraid Tristan would irritate the man.

  “I agreed to make inquiries,” Mr. Yip said. “And indeed I did. Perhaps to mitigate your chagrin I can offer one additional service. Perhaps you would find it beneficial to visit the captain of the junk who does the actual pickup.”

  Marissa could tell Tristan was livid. She was terrified he might do something to jeopardize their safety. She hoped he would be interested in Mr. Yip’s offer. She knew she was. Maybe the captain could provide the information they were looking for.