by Todd Merer
“No negotiation,” he said to Missy.
“No? But I thought we—”
“Just take the damn hat.”
CHAPTER 22
Manhattan. November 2006.
At his advanced age, Uncle Winston Lau had survived so many dangerous situations, he’d developed an almost uncanny knack for detecting the presence of warning signs well before they appeared. Over the years, he’d groomed a network of hundreds of loyalists: extended family, workers both legal and illegal, assorted allies of the Foochow Tong. Not to mention he had ears in the NYPD’s Fifth Precinct, hardly a stone’s throw from the Pagoda on Elizabeth Street, and several sources in NYPD HQ over on Police Plaza, which he frequently passed while walking to the Wah Wing Sang funeral home on Mulberry Street. Too frequently, he thought. One by one, the last of those who’d shared his lifetime were dying. Just last night, he’d learned his old bodyguard Hong Fat had passed.
And so, on a rainy afternoon, Uncle walked through Police Plaza. Always when he ventured out, he was protected, but today his men had already gathered at Wah Wing Sang, so Uncle walked alone, untroubled by his lack of security. He felt good being alone.
Danger? Pah!
He was in clear sight and shouting distance of NYPD HQ and SDNY security personnel; there were dozens of other kinds of police all over, and crowds of people shielding from the rain beneath the arch of the municipal building. All in broad daylight in Police Plaza. In this area, no one would dare attack him.
He went down Saint Andrew’s Alley between the US Attorney’s office and the federal jail. Places he’d managed to evade. He gave a little shudder, then quickened his pace. He hurried by the old federal courthouse and the new one at 500 Pearl, and moments later emerged from the no-vehicle zone, entering the brightly jumbled maze of Chinatown. Wah Wing Sang lay just ahead—
Uncle never got there.
A gloved hand covered his mouth, sturdy hands lifted him up, and he was put on the rear floor of a car that drove off.
Frail as he was, Uncle remained an iron-willed pragmatist. Never mind why or who, all that mattered was surviving—
The car lurched around a corner, tossing Uncle an inch away from a large pair of smelly shoes. The man above them spoke:
“We killed Hong Fat to draw you out, fool. Where is Lucky’s hat?”
Uncle thought the voice eerily familiar. Could it possibly be . . . him? But his orderly mind shelved the thought. It didn’t matter. Whether him or not, they knew he had Lucky’s hat. Deny it, and he was dead. Give it to them, and maybe he lived. During the ride to the Pagoda, he counted his abductors: Six. Lucky number. Two remained in the car. The three who escorted him inside the Pagoda and to his private office had the expressionless demeanors of Red security. The sixth man—him—who had spoken in the car watched from a shadowed corner.
Uncle spun the safe’s dial. Once, twice . . . but then he paused, not yet able to ultimately commit, still desperately seeking a way out. Hopeless. He spun the dial to the third number. A click, and the lock was undone; at the same time, he suffered a wave of self-revulsion, for the coded number was Kitty’s birthday. He felt as if he’d somehow besmirched her.
He opened the door to the safe—
Which, to his stunned disbelief, was empty. How could . . . ? He viewed Lucky’s hat once each year. On Kitty’s birthday, of course—
Forget that. Think.
Uncle was shoved to the floor. The man who’d been in the shadows pressed a filthy shoe atop his cheek. “Where’s Lucky’s hat?”
It is him, Uncle concluded. He was doomed, for without the hat, he had nothing with which he might barter for his life. It was as if a shadow had fallen over his soul; not because he was about to die, but because he’d been determined to outlive both Ming Chan and Marmaduke Mason. But damned if he’d go out a coward.
“I do not know,” said Uncle. “If I did know, I would not tell you.”
The man laughed. “A mouse that roars. It’s good that we’ll be rid of you.” Slowly, he increased the pressure on Uncle’s skull—
A deafening explosion reverberated in the windowless room. Even as it rang in Uncle’s ears, he realized it was a pistol shot, followed by a volley of gunfire. The foot left Uncle’s head. More shots. One of the Reds fell across Uncle; another dropped nearby. More shots. The third Red fell. Then . . .
Silence.
Uncle lay still, pretending to be dead. But the cordite stink made him sneeze—
Footsteps approached, then a voice: “Are you all right?”
It was Scar and a pair of his former Green Dragons, all crouching carefully as they looked around.
Uncle found his voice. “I’m here, Grandson.”
“Three of them down,” an ex-Dragon said.
“The two in the car as well,” said another.
“There was a sixth man,” said Uncle.
But the sixth man had vanished.
“I’ll find him,” said Scar.
Uncle respected his grandson’s abilities but doubted he was up to outwitting Ming Chan. He gingerly felt his bruised face. Scrapes and lumps were the least of his worries. The inescapable fact was that Ming Chan was still alive—the old fox would never die—and Uncle would never sleep well again.
Scar helped him to his feet. Looked from the empty safe to Uncle, brows raised in a question.
“Not important,” said Uncle. “Clean up this mess immediately.”
Scar motioned, and the Dragons began wrapping the bodies in canvases. Uncle realized Scar had brought the drop cloths for just such a need. “You’ve been watching over me, haven’t you, boy?”
Scar allowed a rare smile. “Like a hawk.”
“From now on I will live here, in the Pagoda,” said Uncle. “See to security measures. No one is to enter without my personal permission.”
“It will be done at once.”
Uncle retreated to his office. Closed the door. Sat, thinking:
Albert has clearly stolen Lucky’s crown. What to do? All right. Do not kill him . . . yet. He might prove useful.
CHAPTER 23
Long Island. November 2006.
For the first time in many years—hell, in his whole life—Duke enjoyed a family Thanksgiving, introducing Katrina to his old friend and partner, Smitty, and his wife; a son-in-law and daughter by a wife long dead; and their child, his granddaughter Stella. On the Sunday evening following Thanksgiving, Duke, ordinarily hyperaware of strangers, was lulled to relaxation by the weekend and did not notice the three dark SUVs cruising nearby Duke’s estate but avoiding the road just outside it.
The SUVs were in radio contact with one another and with Missy, who waited in the woods across from the mansion. She was dressed in black fatigues, wore a shoulder-holstered 9mm automatic, and held powerful night-vision binoculars to her eyes.
She had been doing the same thing every night for weeks, waiting for the right opportunity. This night she’d stood there for hours, watching the house, which for the first time was brightly lit. Some kind of gathering finally seemed to be ending. She watched people leave the house . . . she counted seven people, two of them smaller, young adults. A bullet-headed white man got behind the wheel. The others climbed into the rear of an extended Suburban festooned with antennas. Doors slammed, headlights came on, and it started down the driveway.
Missy gave orders to her SUVs.
The three vehicles each had a task: part of a plan to block the Suburban, grab Katrina at gunpoint, and spirit her off. A ransom would then follow, and Lucky’s hat would be theirs, and eventually Lucky would be, too.
So much for carefully laid plans.
When the SUVs suddenly blocked the road, the Suburban driver, a former mercenary, spotted the setup and put the big car into a skid that stopped so his side faced the SUVs. A moment later, his window was down, and he was emptying a clip at them.
His first salvo tattooed one SUV’s windscreen, and that vehicle veered off the road and rolled over. By the time the driver
had reloaded, the other two SUVs were returning fire. The Suburban was armored, but a round went through the opened window. The driver slumped, his foot came off the brake, and the big truck rolled forward and tumbled down the side of the steep hill.
The attacking SUVs stopped above, and its occupants got out. One hundred feet below, the Suburban lay upended, its cabin crushed. Nearby, the bodyguard/driver sprawled where he’d been ejected.
“All dead,” said one of Missy’s men.
“Let’s make tracks,” said another.
“Call the boss,” said a third.
The call went unanswered.
From her position, Missy had watched the opposing sides converge and, quickly realizing what would ensue when they met, immediately ran toward them, leaping down the embankment when she saw the Suburban flip.
When she got to the scene, there was a strong smell of gasoline; a stream of gas poured from a ruptured tank. The sight stunned her. Joyfully.
They were all dead.
“Better than kidnapping,” she said aloud, thinking that the death of Marmaduke Mason’s granddaughter was a message that would make him shit his drawers.
But then Missy frowned.
Although the Suburban appeared crushed flat when viewed from above, its roof had come to rest between two small knolls and remained intact . . . and Missy could see people moving inside. She watched them and thought of bodies floating in the Yangtze in the civil war, when her grandfather and his comrades had fought for, and won, their country. The bodies in the Yangtze were innocent peasants, victims of Nationalist cruelties. But the bodies in the car were whites whose country still supported the Nationalists.
Missy’s radio crackled. She ignored it. She reached into one of her cargo pockets, her nimble fingers searching for something among her tools and weapons.
She found it.
A waterproof canister of matches. She opened it and took out a match and tossed it atop the pooled gasoline.
Poof !
CHAPTER 24
Long Island. November 2006.
Albert Woo and Richard were alone in the rear dining room of a Pell Street restaurant when Albert’s phone ding-donged. Albert looked at the phone, then paused, glancing at Richard.
“Recognize the number, do you?” said Richard.
Albert shrugged. “Just a friend of mine.”
Richard twisted Albert’s ear. “Who?”
“Little Ching. He’s Uncle’s man.”
“Take the call.”
Albert took the call, listened, hung up. “The Reds tried to get Lucky’s hat from Uncle. Fortunately, Uncle was able to convince them he doesn’t have it.”
“Convince?”
“Five dead Reds. Uncle . . . he wants to see me.”
“Worried, are you? Tell me everything, Albert. If you lie, I’ll hurt you so badly, you’ll spend the rest of your years in a prison hospital.”
Like sinners, scammers were relieved to confess their sins. And so Albert told Richard he had stolen Lucky’s hat from Uncle’s safe. Then he’d reached out to Missy Soo. “I thought she’d be interested in buying it because of her mainland sympathies.”
Richard smacked Albert hard. “Shove your thoughts. The facts.”
Albert cleared his throat. “We agreed on a price. Five million.”
Richard leaned in, put a hand to his ear. “Say again.”
“Sorry,” said Albert. “Ten.”
“You just used your last free lie. The next one will cost you your life. How was the price to be paid?”
“Deposited in a numbered account they’ll give me when they get the hat.”
Richard considered taking the hat from Albert. But the Reds were its only potential buyers, and Richard couldn’t risk personally dealing with them. He gripped Albert’s collar and yanked him close. “Three things you’re going to do: First, tell Missy Soo you have the hat. Second, tell her when the money’s in place, you’re ready for the exchange. The third thing? Tell Missy Soo I want to screw her.”
“But Missy Soo, she’s . . . I can’t just say that.”
“I know exactly who she is. Say it, or—”
“She’ll want to know who you are.”
“Just say I’m your partner in crime.”
Albert whined, “Uncle’s angry with me.”
Richard shrugged. “Good luck with that.”
CHAPTER 25
Long Island. November 2006.
Duke stood on the roadside, looking down at the still-smoking wreckage. The night smelled of burned flesh. He’d led a solitary life, but that seemed to have changed. But as quickly as it had come, so it had gone: in an instant, he’d lost Smitty and his wife, Aung; his daughter and son-in-law; and both his granddaughters, Katrina and Stella. Duke did not cry. He internalized his grief and used it to steel his resolve. He knew his adversaries were Reds and that he needed help, big-time.
He called his old handler, Richard.
“On my way,” said Richard.
Duke awaited in his den.
The den door opened.
“Richard, thank God—”
It wasn’t Richard.
It was his granddaughter Katrina. Her clothing was grass-stained. Like Duke’s now-dead mercenary driver, Katrina had been thrown free from the vehicle. Everyone else had been burned alive.
“I heard one say they wanted to kidnap me,” she said, sobbing.
“It’s all right now.” Duke saw everything clearly. The Reds would try to snatch Katrina again in exchange for learning the whereabouts of Lucky’s hat. The goddamn Ming Treasure business. Jesus, what fools. Gripping Katrina’s shoulders, Duke spoke hard and low.
“Hear me. Katrina is dead.”
“No, it was Stella in the—”
He shook her again.
“It was Katrina.”
“I don’t under—”
“You’re Stella.”
After a long moment, the girl wiped a sleeve across her eyes. Nodded. “Stella’s parents are dead, too. And your friend Smitty and his wife.”
Duke hugged her. “But Stella’s alive.”
Duke hoped that as “Stella”—whom the Chinese did not know was his granddaughter—she would be free from danger. Katrina’s death would appear in the local papers. The girls had been nearly the same age and physical type. No one would realize “Stella” was Katrina.
The girl composed herself. “I saw the one who started the fire. I saw a photograph of her when we were very young. But I recognized her as Missy Soo, my cousin. I ask only one thing. When the time is right, help me kill Missy.”
Duke nodded. She was just like him. “When the time is right.”
When Richard arrived shortly afterward, Duke filled him in on everything but the switched identities.
“Cremate the bodies immediately,” said Richard. “If the bodyguard is autopsied, cause of death will be murder. We don’t need that complication.”
“I don’t have the right to have the bodyguard cremated—”
“Sure you do. If the price is right, you can buy anything.”
“Right. I . . . I’m not thinking clearly.”
“Never fear, Richard’s here.”
Their course of action was planned immediately. Bribes would be paid, the remains then quickly cremated and death certificates issued, the legalisms would be accomplished. Richard upgraded security to form concentric rings around the house. Years ago, after Duke—at that time Archie—had operated while cooperating with the DEA, he’d kicked back 15 percent to Richard. Now Richard was on Duke’s payroll again.
“Your price?” said Duke.
“Duke, you dildo, I’d work for you for nothing,” said Richard. Not that he planned to. Before the gig was over, he’d be deep in Duke’s wallet. Then he’d close Albert’s $10 million deal for the hat. Thinking of which . . .
The Reds had forsaken negotiation for aggression. That ran contrary to their style. It was almost as if one of them had taken the mission personally.
Fine. He was in the mood for a hardball game.
One week later, Richard orchestrated the double assassination of Missy Soo’s mother and father. In Shanghai, no less. After rendering Missy’s parents helpless, he’d doused them with gasoline and set them on fire. He’d used his device to record the scene and anonymously e-mailed the video to Missy.
The following week, Richard texted Missy a message:
End the fight and we’ll do the deal as promised.
Her response:
Who killed my parents?
His reply:
Not me. Deal?
Her final text:
Deal.
And so, despite nearly interminable delays dictated by caution—one step at a time, a dozen fail-safes to ensure neither side could cheat—the deal was done. The Reds got Lucky’s hat and Richard, cutting out Albert Woo, got $10 million parked in a numbered account.
Only it wasn’t over.
Richard had a bug implanted in Lucky’s hat, tracked its movement, and unleashed a team to steal the hat back—an item that Richard had been eyeing for himself.
His plan worked, but not quite as he’d hoped.
Albert—correctly fearing Richard would cut him out—had schemed sole possession of the first seven numbers of the numbered account in which the payment had been deposited. It was a secret no amount of threats from Richard could overcome. Albert made it clear he’d prefer dying to revealing his numbers. Richard wanted to accommodate him but decided there was no hurry. Richard anonymously took over the negotiations and gained sole possession of the last seven numbers. Moreover, in order for the money to be released, it was necessary to answer a security question posed by the banker—an answer only Richard knew.
Satisfied that the $10 million was secure, Richard was in no hurry to get it. He had lots of other action in play; afterward, he’d break Albert. Besides, moving and hiding that kind of cash was dangerous, even for Richard, who knew every trick of his trade. One day, when Richard had wearied of government service, the numbered account would be his golden parachute.
