by Gabriel Hunt
“Coffee. All Americans like coffee,” she said, her voice having an almost African lilt concealed within it.
She saw him look at the money she was burning. “You wonder why I would burn—”
“For the dead to use in the next world,” said Gabriel. “Don’t burn enough, and you’re considered cheap. That’s the superstition, anyway. How much have you burned?”
“You can never burn enough.”
She offered him a tin cup of strong coffee that smelled just the way Nirvana is supposed to.
Gabriel’s eyes had adjusted to the sputtering light long enough for him to now make out a mural of a frothing demon on the far wall, obscured by wear and time and the overgrowth of underbrush. He touched the bandage on his head while Qingzhao, apparently, read his mind.
“You are embarrassed,” she said. “You are a strong American man, it is your job to save the girl, and here I have saved you instead.” She almost smiled. Almost. “I will not tell anyone and thus embarrass you further.”
Gabriel was silent for a moment. Then he said, “Why did you bring me with you?”
“I think you and I wish to kill the same man.”
“Sorry to say, lady, you’ve got that wrong. I’m not here to kill anybody.”
She stopped what she was doing and regarded him.
“I came here to find someone in trouble who needed help,” he said. “She jumped the gun and came here sloppy. Emotions on high-burn, full up with revenge. She didn’t even have a plan worthy of the name.”
“The blonde woman at the Zongchang.”
Gabriel nodded. “Now she did want to kill the same man you do—she believed Cheung murdered her sister in New York City, or had her murdered.”
“I sensed we had a connection,” Qingzhao said quietly.
“Wanting to kill Cheung? I think you’ve probably got that in common with quite a few people.”
“No. Something deeper. This woman wished to avenge her sister, who has been murdered.” She tossed some more money into the fire. “Cheung murdered me, as well.”
In a high-security chamber with walls of pumice situated atop the Peace Hotel, Cheung conducted his own rituals in the incense-choked, churchlike ambience.
Seated behind an artful, almost ephemeral desktop of hewn onyx, Cheung was working with a leather rollup of antique carving tools, delicately carving a detailed cherrywood casket about ten inches long.
Past the altarlike desk, past the bank of flat-screen monitors, several of his operatives worked damage control by phone, but none would proffer information or news, good or bad, until Cheung addressed them directly.
Finally, Cheung looked up and lit a long, poisonous-looking cigarette.
“Mr. Fleetwood,” he said.
Fleetwood, a rangy Anglo wearing octagonal glasses wired around his completely shaved head, terminated the call on his headset.
“How much will last night cost us?” said Cheung, meaning the free-for-all at the Zongchang, including janitorial services.
“Ten days to reopen at a cost of $2.6 million New Pacific dollars. That’s the repair versus the lost income.”
“They’re robbing us because they think we’re desperate,” Cheung said. He picked up a hardwood abacus and started clicking the beads on the device’s lower deck, bottom-to-top, right-to-left, carrying totals to the upper deck, where each bead represented five times more value. It was the simplest base-ten counting system in the world.
“Get everything right. Tell them they have twenty days to reopen. Give them one point one. More time, but less loss.”
“What about General Zhang’s military loan?” said Fleetwood. “What about the interest the police owe us?”
Cheung waved this away because Longwei Sze Xie had entered.
“Ivory,” Cheung said. “My Immortal. Tell me true things.”
After a formal bow, Ivory exhibited several printouts salvaged from the surveillance cameras at the casino ship.
“The Nameless One,” he said, unnecessarily. “Same as at the Oriental Pearl Tower. And here, again. And again.”
“Is she a ghost?”
“No,” said Ivory.
“Tell me,” said Cheung, his voice succoring. “Is she a genuine threat, or is she just crazy and lucky?” The implication that Ivory’s job hung in the balance was clear.
“She will be no threat. I will see to it.”
Cheung rose and—very uncharacteristically—laid an avuncular hand on Ivory’s shoulder. He rarely touched any of his employees.
“Longwei Sze Xie,” he said, using respect language, “I shall need you close by at all times. You help enable my…mad little schemes, and I shall always be grateful. There is one small errand to which I would like you to attend.”
“Name it and it is done,” said Ivory.
He whispered into Ivory’s ear.
“Sir, Nairobi’s finally calling back on line two,” Fleetwood announced.
“I’ll take it,” said Cheung, who picked up his phone and began speaking in perfect Kenyan dialect.
Ivory had already vanished from the room.
Qingzhao was punching holes in a sheet of tin with a mallet and chisel. Each time she smacked the metal the perforation made a pank! sound that echoed inside the shrine room.
“Was she a soldier, this woman?” she asked.
“Yes,” said Gabriel. “A U.S. Air Force pilot.”
“Then she knew about soldiers in battle. They die.”
“Her sister was no soldier. She was a database engineer at the American office of a Chinese corporation.”
“Cheung’s?”
Gabriel nodded.
“Cheung is a warrior. Anyone who works for him has to be prepared for the worst.”
“Bet they don’t tell employees that before they take the job.”
Qingzhao shrugged this away.
“What’s your connection to Cheung?” Gabriel asked. “Were you an employee, too? Before you were…what did you say, murdered?”
She flared with anger: “You have no right to show disdain. Have you fought and killed another man? Ever been wounded in battle?”
In his nearly twoscore years on the planet Gabriel had been shot six times and stabbed or cut with edged weapons over a hundred.
“Lady, trust me, I’ve been wounded plenty,” he said.
“Lady,” Qingzhao repeated as though testing a new word and finding it inadequate.
Qingzhao inverted the holed metal so the sharplipped edges of the punctures were facing her. Then she punched the metal with her bare fist.
Gabriel winced.
Qingzhao pounded the metal like a boxer, then turned to a basket of lemons at the base of the shrine. She squeezed one freehanded until it burst, and worked the juice into both bleeding hands. Gabriel knew the pain must be incredible, but Qingzhao’s expression did not change.
“Toughens the skin,” she said, as though that was answer enough. It ended their conversation.
Some lady, Gabriel thought.
At the archway to the pagoda, there had once been a gate guarded by immense stone lions of marble. Now there remained only weathered pedestals and severed stone paws, one holding a child, the other, a globe of the world.
Gabriel stood between them watching the setting sun, trying to frame an argument. Mitch Quantrill was lost; swallowed by the Huangpu with a bullet in her. The odds that she had survived were low. Lucy would be distraught when she found out. And furious with him. Still—was it his responsibility to pick up her doomed mission? Would that make things right?
No.
Then there was this woman, with the motorcycle and the tough skin and the story about having been murdered. All right, chalk some of it up to the language barrier, but still, she seemed mildly crazy. And whatever mission she was on seemed fraught with who knew what sort of damage in her past. If she wanted to go after Cheung, was that his problem?
No.
It would be the easiest thing in the world to make his way b
ack to the city. By Gabriel’s reckoning they were perhaps fifty miles into the mountains along the Yangtze River. He could jet back to the States. Michael could reschedule the lecture tour, make apologies for Gabriel’s mysterious absence. And all this would become a bad bit of history. It made sense.
So why did he feel no desire to do it?
Gabriel tried to kid himself that he was still recovering from the bullet skid to the temple, but he knew better. Maybe he was attracted to Qingzhao; was that it?
He was still trying to work out the answer to that one when she appeared silently beside him.
“Don’t let them see you.”
Gabriel’s senses instantly hit high alert. “Who?”
“The soldiers.”
His body tensed, automatically crouching down and scanning the grounds for cover. “What soldiers?” he said.
“My army,” said Qingzhao. “The Killers of Men.”
The pair of Tosa dogs were schooled aggressors, each nearly 200 pounds. Also known as Japanese Fighting Mastiffs or “Sumo Dogs,” their jaws could render nearly 600 pounds of crush pressure, and this brindle pair stood 25 inches at the shoulder. Highly prized as fighters, this type of dog had been banned in the UK, Ireland, New Zealand and Australia. As a breed they were alert, agile, and quick to respond with unbelievable reserves of stamina, which meant that gladiatorial training amplified all their most dangerous traits.
Dinanath had overseen the training of this pair. Neither dog had a name. Right now, Ivory was holding the remote fob keyed to their electronic discipline collars.
In his other hand he held the gleaming meat cleaver he had just confiscated from Lao, the fisherman.
Aboard his sampan, Lao was busy pleading for his life in Mandarin.
“It appears,” Ivory said, “that Qingzhao Wai Chiu had not one ally, but two.”
“This is getting out of hand,” said Dinanath.
Ivory sighed and nodded. He was tired of trying to maintain a standard of honor that was increasingly irrelevant.
He keyed the fob and the Tosa dogs tore into the terrified Lao. His screams disappeared down chomping gullets, and Ivory rendered the man the small mercy of shooting him in the head before it was all over.
Gabriel gazed with breathless disbelief at one of the full-sized terra-cotta warriors inside the shrine room Qingzhao had led him to.
There were four in all, half-buried in deep dirt trenches, broken and weathered like long-vandalized tombstones. Two vacant slots suggested two figures had already been removed.
But that was not the most awe-inspiring thing in the shrine room.
Suffocated by vines and tree roots at the far end of the chamber, clotted with decades of dried mud and impacted dust, was a large bronze statue of a Chinese grotesque, pointing one bony sculpted finger toward the center of the room. Underlit by torchlight it was positively ghoulish, a nightmare vision, an evil god. The scaling and tarnish on the bronze made the looming grotesque appear to be leprous.
“Is this supposed to be Kangxi Shih-k’ai?” asked Gabriel. “The Favored Son of China? He looks like Nosferatu.”
The reference was lost on Qingzhao. “I do not know. I only know of Kangxi Shih-k’ai’s history because of Cheung’s obsession with him. Whether this statue depicts him, I cannot say. But the phrase ‘Killers of Men’ struck me as appropriate for the others. My soldiers here help my cause.” She pointed out one of the terra-cotta figures, missing an arm. “He was a bowman.”
“Now he doesn’t have a bow or an arm to draw it with,” said Gabriel, marveling at the possibilities. “His face is almost gone.”
“They all had weapons of bronze, a long time ago. They did not need shields, nor helmets. Cunning and ferocity were their protection.”
Was she referring to the men who’d been the models for these figures or the figures themselves? Gabriel wasn’t sure.
“You found them here? Out in the open? Or did you excavate them yourself?”
“They were buried,” she said. “I dug them out.”
“How did you find them?” She didn’t answer. “How did you know they were here?”
“I knew.” It was all she said.
“Does Cheung know they’re here?”
She shook her head. “I found them; he does not know.”
“And were there more? More figures?” She shook her head. “Not necessarily in this room,” Gabriel said. “Maybe one of the other shrine rooms, or…is there a way into this mountain? A path to the inside?”
“You mean like a secret chamber?” She seemed amused. “No. I have seen all the caves and passageways this mountain has to offer. I was hoping to find more of the Killers of Men myself; I would certainly have use for them. These are all that there are.”
Gabriel began scraping debris off the base of the huge bronze statue against the far wall. Maybe she was right that she’d found everything there was to find. But maybe she wasn’t. A half-mad assassin using one of the leaning pagodas as a hideout would not search the way Gabriel Hunt could search.
“How do you use the warriors?” he asked as he continued to work his way around the sculpture’s base.
“Tonight I will take the bowman to a friend at the Night Market,” said Qingzhao. “Perhaps if you come you will find out what you wish to know. I would welcome your help.”
She very pointedly did not remind him that he was in her debt.
What the hell, thought Gabriel. He could give China one more day.
Chapter 7
Trash fires choked the street with milky smoke. The pedicab in which Gabriel and Qingzhao rode, with their inanimate charge wedged between them, threaded its way through the riot of human shapes that constituted the nightlife beyond the favored, protected realm of the Bund. Here were thousands of vendors, prostitutes, thieves, huanquiande bartering for money, DVD hucksters, homeopathic herbal medicine men, pirate electronics dealers, clothiers, all blurring past. Open petrol and propane tanks warned in English NO NAKED LIGHT, meaning fire.
They stopped at the Beggar’s Arch, which was a long stone tunnel like a Roman aqueduct, its shadows lined on both sides by castoffs and derelicts. According to beggar etiquette, the seated and squatting men kept their eyes down and their cups (or cupped hands) up as Gabriel and Qingzhao passed, carrying the canvas-wrapped statue of the bowman carefully between them.
They emerged into one of Shanghai’s many Night Markets, a tightly packed maze of tents reminiscent of an American swap meet or flea market, interspersed with solo hustlers and other racketeers working out of the shells of now-useless automobiles. Gabriel saw several more people burning ceremonial cash at drumfires, and a man putting trained birds through their paces inside an entire corridor of bird-sellers.
“It’s like Mardi Gras,” Gabriel said.
“More dangerous,” said Qingzhao.
“You’ve never drunk a Hurricane, I bet.”
Qingzhao ignored the remark. Wit, charm or humor were not her coinage.
Presently they emerged into a large open area completely engirded in stonemasonry, with drains in the floor. It could have been a covered outdoor patio or a deceptively big space between buildings with a canopy overhead. It reminded Gabriel a bit of an abandoned food court. There was a scatter of tables and chairs. At one, a wizened, skeletal man ceaselessly folded squares of paper into origami shapes and dropped them into an iron pot. Across from him, an equally ancient woman sat surrounded by disassembled cell phones, probing them with tiny jeweler’s tools. They were both clad in simple Maoist tunics and the woman smiled at Gabriel as they passed. Every other tooth was missing.
Qingzhao spoke briefly to the old man in a dialect Gabriel could not place.
“Who are we talking to here?” Gabriel asked.
“Sentries.”
“Sentries,” said Gabriel.
Now the old man was grinning, too. Apparently he had scored all the woman’s missing teeth.
Qingzhao whispered a monosyllable, and the next thing Gabriel
knew, two guns were pointed right at his head.
The old folks were still smiling at him.
A big, booming, basso laugh rebounded from the rock walls.
The entryway to the next chamber in the maze filled up with a large black man, six-six easy in flat slippers, with a calm Buddha face and vaguely Asian eyes below a close-cropped crewcut.
“Your expression!” The big man thundered with mirth. “Priceless!” He took a moment to settle. “Forgive me.”
The oldsters stowed their firepower and resumed their innocuous activities, the woman still smiling sweetly at Gabriel.
“I know what you want, I’m sure of it!” The big man embraced Qingzhao. Even more surprisingly, Qingzhao allowed this.
“And I know what you want,” she said before the breath could be squeezed out of her.
The big man stuck out a hand the size of a catcher’s mitt toward Gabriel. “Ni chi le ma?” It was a common greeting for a stranger—have you eaten?—testifying to the centrality of food in most Asian culture. Gabriel shook the proffered hand in the Western fashion. A more traditional Chinese handshake would have consisted of the men interlocking their fingers and waving them up and down a few times; but today this was done mostly by the very elderly or the very etiquette-conscious.
“Tuan, at your service,” boomed the big man, “and the service of our little snapdragon, here.”
Like some grandiose, benevolent street pasha, Tuan escorted Qingzhao and Gabriel through the heart of his domain, which rose in tiers from the cobblestoned street into a labyrinth of subdivisions and alcoves overpopulated with mercantile bustle. Over here, you could get your head massaged, cheap. Over there, your ears swabbed out. It was indoor-yet-outdoor; the grandest treehouse of all.
Besides Beggar’s Arch, three other tunnels fed into the amphitheater. At one end was a traditional Chinese teahouse accessed by a zigzaggy footbridge over a turbid flow of water.
“Four people are in charge of the Bund, now,” said Qingzhao as they trailed Tuan, their fragile burden held between them.
