The apartment itself was much as he had left it: sparsely furnished, comfortable but still mostly utilitarian, devoid of any real decoration save a few pictures of the family he had once had. He ignored the photos for the moment; there would be time for that later. He dragged his suitcase into the bedroom and unpacked it quickly. The digital alarm clock on the cheap nightstand next to his king-sized bed was flashing; apparently, the apartment had lost power at some point while he was away. Manning sat on the edge of the bed and went through the process of resetting it, checking it against his watch to make sure the time was correct. He then picked up the cordless telephone and dialed his voicemail; most of the messages there were from solicitors of one variety or another. Nothing important, and nothing he decided to save.
He treated himself to a shower to clear some of the post-travel fuzziness in his mind, then pulled a pair of worn jeans from the closet and tugged them on. After that came a T-shirt, over which went a denim shirt which he tucked into his jeans. He then headed down the stairs to the single-stall garage allocated to his unit.
The 1970 Pontiac GTO was in perfect shape. It had been in almost mint condition when Manning had purchased it almost two years ago. When he had first relocated to the city, he had been driving a GMC 2500 crew cab pickup; while the rig had perhaps reflected the more austere aspects of his personality, it was hardly the easiest vehicle to navigate through the streets of San Francisco. Not that the starlight black GTO was much easier—it was almost as long as the truck had been—but at least it fit in the garage. Manning ran his fingertips along the car’s flank as he walked toward the driver’s side door; the car was a little dusty, but the wax still made the paint feel as smooth as silk. Manning smiled to himself wryly as he unlocked the door and pulled it open. Driving the Goat would be one of the pleasures of coming home.
He started the car and the garage was almost overwhelmed by the basso rumble. Manning tapped the button on the remote clipped to the passenger side sun visor, and the garage door rolled up on its tracks. As the GTO’s big 455 cubic-inch engine warmed up, Manning opened the cabinets at the rear of the bay. He pulled out his drip pan, a funnel, a new oil filter, and several quarts of oil. Once the engine had warmed up enough to loosen whatever sediment might be in the engine’s crankcase, he switched the engine off and went to work.
Less than half an hour later, Manning was done. He went back upstairs and washed his hands and arms in the half-bathroom across from the kitchen, then went back to the garage. He started the GTO again, checked for any leaks, then pulled the car out of the garage. The cloud cover had burned off at last; the day was bright and sunny, the air clear and cool. As Manning turned down Lombard Street, he found himself hoping the highway was clear. Both he and the GTO needed to run a bit.
He caught the 101 heading southbound and found that the afternoon traffic was already starting to mount; commuters were beginning to head back to their homes in the Santa Clara valley. Manning decided he would take the I-280, the freeway which ran down the peninsula’s left side. It would make for a longer trip, but speed wasn’t exactly of the essence at the moment. Driving on the right side of the surface streets and the freeway felt proper, and Manning had no problems falling back into the old rhythms of driving in California. As he goosed the Goat toward the merge with 280, he felt good. Real good. Japan was a complex and at times difficult society to traverse, with more dead-ends than one would experience in America, from finding a restaurant that would serve a gaijin to just braving the flow of traffic. Here in California, Manning felt as if a ponderous weight had been lifted from his chest. He dropped the GTO into third and gunned the engine; the GTO fairly leapt forward as it responded with a throaty bellow and relentless, almost intoxicating power. Manning caught himself grinning in the rearview mirror as the speedometer’s needle wound past 90 miles per hour. He felt like a kid again.
And that felt good, too.
###
As the news of Lin Dan’s death spread, James Lin had left instructions that he would accept personal calls from only the mayor and the chief of police. All other calls were screened by Han, who would express gratitude for the caller’s offered condolences, and promised to pass on the message as soon as it was convenient. The list of callers had grown to fill an entire page. Lin mentally segregated them into two groups: those who warranted his personal attention and whom he would call back later, and those who would instead receive a thank-you card delivered by courier. What irritated him was how quickly the news had spread across the city. He imagined that if he were to open the windows of his study he would hear the beat of drums, broadcasting his personal misery to the world. The mayor had warned him that the story had leaked to the media despite attempts to have it suppressed. Television news channels were already featuring Lin Dan’s murder as their third or fourth item. Their speculation on the “mysterious assault and murder” was supported by information from “an unnamed source,” thought to be a hotel employee. Lin knew that as other news items lost their impact, the murder would slowly rise until it became the leading story of the day. He prayed for an airline disaster, or for a new hurricane to form in the Gulf of Mexico with unexpected speed and fury. But his fatalistic side knew that such a miracle would not come. They never did.
“Lin Yubo?” Han’s voice tore Lin from his thoughts. He stood in the study doorway, a shadow within a shadow, his hands clasped before him.
“Yes.”
“I have received a telephone call from the Medical Examiner’s office. They say the preliminary report is available. But they cannot release Lin Dan’s body until tomorrow.”
“I would like to see my son.”
“Lin Yubo, forgive me. I believe that would be inadvisable at this time. Let us remember Lin Dan as he was. The undertaker will inform us when he is prepared for his onward journey.”
Lin thought about that, and nodded. Han was taking care of the funeral arrangements. He’d recommended a small family business that exclusively served the Chinese community, and which could be trusted never to divulge private matters. Lin still wasn’t sure whether he would prefer Lin Dan to be laid to rest here in the United States, or shipped back to Shanghai for burial beside his brother. While family tradition demanded the latter, the fact was that his sons, Lin Jong and Lin Dan, had never liked each other. There had always been conflict between them. To place their remains and thus their ghosts in close proximity was to invite eternal unrest. Not that Lin believed in ghosts. Communism had all but stamped out such ideas, together with ancestor worship. Nearly fifty years ago Lin had been swept up and swept along by the Great Proletarian Cultural Revolution. As much as he hated to admit it, it had changed his way of thinking forever. But he’d been younger and more foolish then, at twenty-five years of age one of the youngest political officers in the region, granted enormous power in addition to the influence already enjoyed by the Lin family as ranking members of one of Shanghai’s most notorious Tongs. Of course the Tongs had gone underground for a period, until Mao’s raging storm passed by and it was safe to come out again. But their strangle-hold upon crime remained, and they were canny enough—with Lin’s help of course—to prosper at a time when the country teetered on the edge of almost total self-destruction. So long ago....
Bu zhan bu he.
No war, no peace.
It seemed almost laughable now, a distant memory, a confused dream. His campaign for political reform had demanded absolute obedience and a willingness for every man and woman and child to question their own worth. Changing one’s appearance and verbally expressing one’s loyalty to the Party wasn’t enough. Only by changing the inner self was it possible for someone to serve the Party and China better. That was the true meaning of Bu zhan bu he. “If you never go to war with yourself and reinvent yourself as a better citizen of the State, you will never know peace.” The young political officer known as Lin Yubo had presented his reform to the Politburo, which immediately endorsed the plan and promoted him again, giving him everything
he required to carry it through. He had traveled from town to town and from village to village accompanied by two regular companies of Red Guards, soldiers who had much experience in suppressing civilian populations, and who carried out their duties with exuberance.
Boxes within boxes, locked and pushed to the back of his mind. Reopened now by the deaths of his sons on two different continents, and a message written in blood.
“The Medical Examiner refuses to send the report by courier,” Han said. His expression remained unchanged but his tone conveyed a subtle irritation which, Lin imagined, few people would have picked up. “They say it is too late in the day. I told them I would collect it personally.”
“It can wait until tomorrow,” Lin said.
“With respect, Lin Yubo.” Han bowed his head to take the sting out of his disagreement. “It may tell us something we do not already know, however unlikely that may be. The police will undoubtedly be given a copy. We should share their awareness.”
Lin admitted that Han had a point, but a suspicion had been growing in Lin’s mind ever since the policeman Ryker had brought him the news of Lin Dan’s death. “I am not at ease,” he said. “First, Lin Jong was executed in Shanghai. Now Lin Dan, here in San Francisco. Perhaps the killer, whoever he is, will come after me next? Then again, perhaps not. It occurs to me that perhaps he has not finished delivering his message?”
“I have had the same thoughts, Lin Yubo,” Han said. “Tao Baozong and Fan Guolong are waiting for me in the car.” Lin knew the names, both men were members of the select bodyguard cadre that Alexsey had personally trained, and were highly competent. Han patted his jacket, beneath his left armpit. “And I am taking an old friend with me. Its familiar weight brings back memories.”
Lin gave an involuntary bark of laughter. Han had served his family for decades, but he had also worn the uniform of the People’s Army. Alexsey, upon witnessing Han’s shooting skill on the firing range, had declared there was no need for him to adopt the cadre’s methods lest Han’s natural ability become impaired.
“I should have known your instincts would alert you,” Lin said. “But, be careful, won’t you? Call me when you get there, and when you leave to return.”
“As you wish, Lin Yubo.”
Han bowed and withdrew, leaving Lin to his thoughts, which turned now to business, and specifically to his latest dealings with his American partners, which could not be ignored. The investment was huge, the stakes enormous, and if an unknown enemy hoped that these petty distractions would incapacitate Lin or sway him from his path, then they would be sadly disappointed.
###
Han relaxed as best he could in the rear seat behind Tao Baozong, who confidently maneuvered the sedan through San Francisco’s swollen traffic stream en route to the Medical Examiner’s office. Han didn’t expect to find any surprises in the M.E.’s report. After all, there was little doubt that Lin Dan had been murdered by the same hand that had slain his older brother. As Lin Yubo had intimated, the killer could still be in the city of San Francisco, planning further mayhem against the Lin family, and its adopted members. Han found this possibility unsettling. They were dealing with an unpredictable psychopath, the worst kind of enemy, against whom ordinary security precautions might well prove useless, unless the Russian and his men maintained round-the-clock vigilance. Which, as Han knew only too well from personal experience invited tiredness, disorientation, and fatal error.
“We should be there in another five minutes,” Baozong said over his shoulder.
“Traffic could be a lot worse,” Fan Guolong, in the front passenger seat, said.
Han’s cell phone rang. He fished it out of his pocket and opened it. He expected to see Lin Yubo’s name on the display, but instead “Caller unknown” showed. “Hello?” he said cautiously.
“Ah, Mr. Han? This is Michelle Huang in the Medical Examiner’s office.” He recognized the woman’s voice; they had spoken half an hour ago. Evidently she had stored his cell phone number, an impertinence. “I’m really sorry to bother you again, Mr. Han. There’s been a mix-up here.”
“What kind of mix-up, Miss Huang?” He detested the Americanization of Chinese names, the willingness to blend into the alien environment. Lin Yubo himself used the pseudonym James Lin when dealing with American politicians and businessmen, which was necessary, but what Chinese family would willingly name their daughter Michelle?
“The report, Mr. Han,” the woman said, sounding distressed. “It’s been sent to our offsite records facility by mistake, along with some other stuff. I’ve been trying to contact the driver, but I can’t get hold of him. You aren’t on your way to the M.E.’s office, are you?”
“As a matter of fact I am.”
“Oh dear. Mr. Han, would it be an inconvenience if I asked you to meet me at the records facility instead? I’m on my way there now to find that report.”
Han considered the request. It was not too outrageous, although clearly the San Francisco Medical Examiner’s administrative procedures were inadequate, oand the staff incompetent. “Where is this facility?” he asked.
She gave him the address, which he repeated to Baozong. The driver nodded and immediately moved into the right-hand lane. “No problem,” Baozong said. “Another couple of minutes, that’s all.”
“I will see you there, Miss Huang,” Han said.
“My car’s a red Toyota hatchback. It’ll be parked outside the rear entrance.”
“Thank you.” Han hung up and slipped the phone back into his pocket. “Aiyah. The stupid whore has managed to misplace the Medical Examiner’s report,” he told the two men. “We are to meet her at this other address. She drives a red Japanese whorehouse. A Toyota hatchback.”
Guolong said, “I bet she fucks with the hatch wide open. She likes the cool breeze on her ass.” They laughed, and Han conceded a smile.
As they navigated the streets their surroundings changed from a mix of stores and residential apartments to older office and utility buildings, some of which appeared empty. Traffic thinned, then became non-existent, with only a handful of vehicles parked in otherwise deserted alleyways. Baozong slowed while Guolong consulted a street map he took from the glove box. They reached agreement and the sedan entered a dark city of one-story buildings and tall warehouses. It reminded Han uncomfortably of times long past in his faraway homeland, of entire towns left populated only by ghosts.
The street narrowed so much that two cars would have found it difficult to pass. The shrinking dimensions gave Han an acute feeling of claustrophobia. “There,” Guolong said. He pointed to the alleyway directly ahead, in which a red car sat near a stairway that led up to a sheltered doorway.
Baozong said, “Is that it, Mr. Han?”
“It has to be,” Han said, irritated by the question.
“Maybe she’s fucking someone in the back seat, hey?” Guolong said.
“She can’t be, the hatch is shut,” Baozong said, cackling with amusement. But Han found himself focusing on something other than their asinine humor, something external and inexplicable that chilled his spine and caused his stomach to lurch.
Guolong leaned forward and twisted his head to look upward. A shadow passed over his face and he said, “What the fuck?” A heavy weight struck the sedan’s roof, the boom reverberating through the car like a gunshot. The windshield shattered a split-second later, showering Guolong with a storm of glass. Han, even as he reached inside his jacket to draw his pistol, a copy of the Russian Makarov, from its cracked leather holster, understood that someone had leaped from the roof of the warehouse. The analytical part of his mind calculated the height and distance, and told him that such a leap should not be possible.
Baozong’s side window exploded and the driver abruptly jerked sideways, his head dragged outside by his tie. He choked and fought back, pulling with all his strength. But then a knife descended and slipped so easily across his throat, opening Baozong’s carotid artery and windpipe in the same fluid motion, as if th
e tough cartilage of the throat posed no obstacle to the gleaming blade. Blood sprayed across the dashboard and Baozong began to die, his brain deprived of vital oxygen.
Han fired upward through the roof, five deliberate shots that drew a straight line from corner to corner. He didn’t wait to see whether he’d hit anything; while he remained inside the sedan with his back to the rear window he was at his most vulnerable. He kicked the rear door on the driver’s side open, a diversion, then opened the opposite door and threw himself from the sedan, trusting his fate and his life to the gods. He rolled as he landed and came up on one knee, facing the sedan with his gun in both hands, the hammer thumbed back, two rounds still in the magazine.
Guolong, his face cut to bloody ribbons by the glass, recovered sufficient presence of mind to pull an Uzi submachine pistol from inside his jacket and cock the weapon. Absurdly, Han wondered how he would have explained the Uzi if they had been stopped by the police for any reason and searched. So sorry, officer, I didn’t realize automatic weapons were illegal here, they’re all the rage in Shanghai, don’t you know? Guolong screamed his rage and blindly unloaded his Uzi into the sedan’s roof, even as Han realized there was no one up there.
Death came to Guolong not from above but from beneath the sedan, as a figure clad all in black slid out between the wheels, wrenched Guolong’s door open and, with a clinical precision that a surgeon might have admired, inserted the point of a long, straight sword into his exposed lower back. Han watched, utterly fascinated, as the blade slid up and completely disappeared inside Guolong’s torso. There seemed to be no resistance at all. Guolong threw both arms wide and arched his back, his mouth open but making no sound. Han could barely imagine his agony. The Uzi barked once more as confused nerves caused dying fingers to tremble. Brass cartridge cases pinged and bounced on the asphalt. Then the door was slammed shut and Guolong slid down out of sight, leaving bloody streaks on the side window.
White Tiger Page 18
