The Black Dragon

by Julian Sedgwick

  At last! Someone actually acknowledging the feeling he’s had all along. Danny’s heart picks up its beat again. “I knew it! It always seemed wrong!”

  “Maybe. But one thing at a time, eh? Just like your dad did. Lock by lock.”

  The taxi slips down into the tunnel of the Eastern Harbor Crossing and they’re swallowed by the gloom. The major glances at his young friend. “I’ll tell you one thing though, my lad. He and your mum would have been very proud of you indeed today.”

  Danny turns away. Zamora’s words smart like lemon juice in a cut, and suddenly tears are swelling his eyes—some of the few he’s allowed himself since the night of the fire. He looks out at the passing tunnel walls and the tunnel lights blur and pulse.

  “We’re going to find Laura,” Danny says. “That’s the priority. And then I’m going to find out what really happened at the Mysterium.”

  When they come back up into the daylight he’s already wiped the tears away—and a renewed determination is dancing in his eyes. Zamora pats him on the shoulder and looks away, fighting his own emotion.

  “I’m with you, Danny. I’m right with you wherever you want to go.”

  17

  HOW TO ORDER UNUSUAL ROOM SERVICE

  Back at the Pearl they ride the elevator to their room, each locked in silent thought. No news of any kind was waiting for them in the lobby. The lack of communication seems ominous.

  “I reckon we should clear out,” Zamora says. “The Black Dragon must know this is where we’re based. And I’d rather not hang about and discover whether Lo and Chow are on our side or not. And White Suit or Ponytail could find us if they’re on the loose.”

  “We should head for that island,” Danny says. “Laura must have known she was going there. Or she wouldn’t have written it so forcefully.”

  “I’d have thought your embassy might have touched base at least,” Zamora says. “Let’s give Kwan a call. Get him to take us to Chop Suey island or whatever it’s called.”

  The taxi driver’s phone is switched to a voicemail message in Cantonese and Zamora leaves a message to call them back as soon as possible.

  “We’ll give him thirty minutes. Should be safe till then. Which is just enough time to stoke up.” He picks up the room service menu. “That’s good strategy. The circus marches on its stomach, we used to say.”

  While Zamora places a long and very precise order with the desk, Danny takes out Laura’s notebook, flipping rapidly through the pages. On the next-to-last page of the notes, there’s a roughly drawn table with three columns. The first is obviously a list of dates ranged back over the last twelve months or so. The second, a list of what look like names: The Yangtze, Grasshopper, The Hummingbird, Kanamaru.

  The third column is headed CARRYING and the scribbled entries below include Bauxite, Electrical Goods and Unknown. Some words have red lines drawn through them. Must be boats and their cargo? But why would Laura be interested in that?

  The last date is just a week or so ago. The name is unreadable, but the cargo is clear: TOXIC WASTE? A strong check mark is next to it. Danny unfolds the newspaper clipping with the picture of Chow on the waterfront.

  “I ordered you egg fried rice, prawns and extra noodles,” Zamora says, looking over Danny’s shoulder. “Sound good?”

  “Yeah. Great,” Danny says absently. “Maybe Chow’s OK after all. What do you make of Sing Sing, Major?”

  “Feisty. Bit full of herself.”

  “But she’s on our side, don’t you think?” he hedges. “Not against us, surely.” But how much of that is wishful thinking, heart trying to out-think the head?

  A smart knock at the door makes them both jump.

  “Food,” Zamora says, rubbing his hands together. “That was quick.”

  He pads across the carpet and whips the door open—to be greeted by White Suit.

  The man’s standing there with a half-smile lifting his long face. He doesn’t wait to be invited in but brushes past the surprised dwarf, his hand reaching into his inner jacket pocket.

  “Close the door, please, Major Zamora. I should like to have a little word with you both.” His voice is flat, calm, just a trace of a French accent.

  “Keep away from the boy! Who on earth are you?”

  White Suit walks over to Danny and snaps open his wallet to reveal an ID. “Inspector Ricard. Interpol, Hong Kong bureau. Pleased to meet you.”

  Danny takes the wallet in his hands and checks the photo against its owner. The thing looks authentic at any rate. So White Suit is part of the international police force. “What do you know about Laura’s kidnapping?”

  “Not much more than you, Danny. And I need to tell you that I have been unable to persuade the Hong Kong police not to press charges. Against you both.”

  “Charges?”

  Ricard counts them off, one finger at a time. “Criminal damage, tampering with a crime scene, removing items from said crime scene, trespass, assault. More recently, grievous bodily harm, trespass, and arson. Heavens, mes amis—I’m running out of fingers!”

  “But that’s ridiculous!” Zamora explodes.

  “Of course it is. It’s a ridiculous world, n’est ce pas?”

  “Hang on, Major.” Danny holds up a hand, studying Ricard intently. “Can you tell us why you were following us from the airport?”

  “Just keeping an eye.”

  “And the kidnapping?”

  Ricard looks him up and down and nods, as if he too is checking Danny against some internal information.

  “Black Dragon. No doubt about it. It’s odd that we haven’t had the ransom demand yet. I imagine we’ll have that soon enough.”

  “Aunt Laura doesn’t have much money. I don’t know who would pay it.”

  Both grandparents on Dad’s side died when he was very young. Isn’t there an uncle out in Canada? Danny’s not sure. The man could well be dead too. Laura is his only family.

  “I expect there’re ways and means,” Zamora says. “We could get in touch with the Circus Benevolent Fund. I don’t know.”

  “Do you have much money, Major?”

  “Me? No, señor. Not a huge fortune to be made in our racket. You know that.”

  Ricard crosses to the window, looking down at the street. “We may have to get a bit of a move on, my friends.” He frowns. “The police have just arrived.”

  “But aren’t you the police?” Zamora says.

  “Different kind.”

  “How do we know we can trust you?” Danny says.

  Ricard looks him full in the eyes. “If you’re anything like your father, Danny, you should be able to peek inside my head and see there’s nothing for you to fear. Go on. Take a good look.”

  “What do you know about Dad? What’s going on?”

  There was something about the way Ricard’s face relaxed as he mentioned Dad, though. Danny saw that so often in the Mysterium, how his father could stroll into a fraught rehearsal and clap someone on the back, give a word of encouragement and, hey presto, the mood was softened.

  “I know that he liked to make people smile.”

  That was true enough. After all, Dad was the kind of man who couldn’t fry three eggs without juggling them first—just for what he called the frisson of catastrophe.

  “And I know that he was a decent judge of character,” Ricard adds. “As, I’m sure, are you.”

  “OK,” Danny says, making his decision. “OK. We’ll do what you say.”

  The tall man smiles. He hands Danny a small card. “Grab what you need to lie low for a couple of days, and follow me. I’m going to show you the emergency exit. Make your way to this address. It’s my flat in Tsim Sha. Key’s obvious enough for a smart guy like you. Look out for a bit of luck. You’ll be safe enough there while I try to work out what’s what . . .”

  Danny scrutinizes the card: INSPECTOR JULES RICARD. INTERPOL. HONG KONG, it says. The bureau office address has been struck through, and underneath it, in an elegant hand, is another addre
ss: Flat 42, Preston Villas, Tsim Sha.

  “What about Lo? Is he someone we can trust?” Zamora asks, picking up his bowler and casting a longing look at the menu lying on the table.

  “Lo?” Ricard says. “Maybe not.”

  “And what about this other detective Miss Laura wanted to talk to?”

  “I’m sorry to say that Detective Tan is probably dead,” Ricard says, very deliberately picking a short black hair from the sleeve of his suit. “Those are the stakes we’re dealing with here. Very high. Now come on, gentlemen. It’ll be much harder for us all if you’re sitting in a cell. So what’s it to be?”

  Ricard takes a step backward, giving Danny space in which to think. That feels good. He’s not pressuring me. Letting me make up my own mind.

  “OK.” He glances back at Ricard. The worst thing to do now would be to lose momentum. Get pulled back into that frozen state, unable to act.

  Danny grabs his rucksack and shoves in a change of clothes, plus Laura’s notebook. At the last moment he swipes his cards off the bedside table and joins Zamora by the door.

  Ricard holds his finger to his lips. “Let me take a look.” He opens the door very quietly. At the far end of the corridor the elevator machinery is already purring, numbers ticking off the floors.

  “Quick!” Ricard says, leading them the other way down the corridor. “Whatever happens they mustn’t see me with you . . .”

  “Do you mean the police? Or the Dragon?” Danny says.

  Ricard ignores him. They have come to a polished steel hatch in the wall marked Laundry Chute.

  “Your emergency exit, gentlemen,” Ricard says, and the half-smile is back on his face.

  “You can’t be serious,” Zamora says. “We’ll be turned to mush.”

  “And this from a star of the Mysterium?” Ricard says. “This from the intrepid Captain Solaris?”

  “How on earth—”

  “Your reputation precedes you, my friend. I hear you were quite wonderful!” He opens the laundry chute and steps back, glancing down the corridor. “We have about ten seconds to spare.”

  Zamora takes a deep breath. “I’ll go first, Mister Danny. As a wise man once said, ‘I didn’t worry about being born, so why worry about dying!’”

  He doesn’t sound convinced, but puts one foot, then the other into the black throat of the chute. “If I can walk across that ladderrrrrr . . .” He pushes off and is gone in an instant.

  As Danny works his own feet into place, two sheets from a higher floor go swishing past. Flickering ghosts in the gloom.

  “I’ll see you later tonight,” Ricard says—and gives him a shove in the small of the back. “Bon voyage!”

  Gravity swallows Danny and he drops like a stone.

  18

  HOW TO MAKE AN EMERGENCY EXIT

  The acceleration is terrifying. The polished sides of the chute propel Danny downward, wind whistling in his ears, a rushing sound from below and a distinct thump and groan as Zamora’s knocked from side to side.

  The shaft kinks one way, then the other. Danny bumps an elbow hard, then takes a glancing blow to the back of his head that makes stars dance in his eyes. He hurtles past another open door to see the face of a cleaner flash past, staring in wide-eyed disbelief.

  There’s a long, drawn-out cry of “Gerrrrronimooo!” from below, then a thud as Zamora hits the bottom. The last few moments are the worst. The laundry chute makes two sharp twists, knocking the wind out of Danny’s lungs, and he hurtles full pelt into the waiting boat-sized laundry basket, landing in a confusion of sheets and pillowcases and towels and arms and legs, slamming into the half-buried Zamora.

  There’s a groan. And then silence for a long moment.

  “Are you OK, Major?” Danny says, checking his own body to make sure that everything’s moving properly.

  “Madre de Dios,” Zamora groans, struggling to come up for air. “That’s worse than the cannonball, I can tell you. And where’s my bowler?”

  Seventeen floors above their heads, Ricard stands in the corridor outside their room, watching Lo and two other detectives rifling through suitcases and drawers, throwing things over their shoulders, working fast.

  “Still nothing from the kidnappers?” he calls through the doorway.

  Lo looks up, pushing the thick mop of hair out of his eyes.

  “They take time sometimes, Ricard. You know that.”

  “And the missing boat?”

  “All in hand. No problem.”

  One of the other men is throwing things from Zamora’s case. He stands up, a big grin on his face now, holding a bag of white powder in his gloved hands.

  “Aha,” says Lo, feigning surprise. “Well, nothing is ever what it seems, is it, Ricard?”

  The Interpol man frowns again as Lo takes the bag of suspicious-looking powder from his inspector. “Looks like our short friend has been doing a bit of smuggling . . . We’ll throw more firepower at finding them. Got plenty to press charges now.”

  Ricard inclines his head and looks at Lo. He doesn’t smile back.

  From where the laundry bin sits in the service basement of the Pearl, Danny can see five other large baskets, filled to the brim, standing ready to be collected.

  “Let’s make ourselves comfortable,” he says. “Maybe we can get a lift out of here.”

  Every now and then a soft whisper in the chute grows to a hiss, and another sheet or towel comes tumbling down onto them. It would be comical—if Laura wasn’t in the hands of the gangsters, and threatened with the loss of digits or worse. If he and Zamora hadn’t just run for their lives, dodging bullets on a seedy rooftop. If Mum and Dad were still alive . . .

  His head still aches a bit from the bump in the chute and his thoughts are jumping from one to the next. He thinks of Laura and her predicament, which makes him think of Detective Tan and Ricard’s dark assessment of the detective’s fate. And that makes him think of the harbor and fish, which leads to the aquarium exploding in the Golden Bat, and that—the fish tank—brings him back again to the Water Torture Escape. And his parents and the Mysterium. Always now his thoughts are coming back to the Mysterium.

  It’s pulling me back, he thinks. Like gravity.

  The deck of cards is in his hands, and he’s working them like worry beads. Zamora looks at them snapping through his long fingers.

  “Hey, Mister Danny. You were going to show me the jumping man.”

  “Now?”

  “We’ve got time, no?”

  Danny smiles in spite of everything. He shuffles the cards, working the king to where he wants it, preparing the force, the actions relaxing him. Feels easier than it did at school. He remembers Dad doing the very same trick, sitting on the trailer’s steps, one summer’s evening long ago on the outskirts of Rome. First time he saw it. Some of the Aerialisques were watching and the evening breeze was ruffling the black ostrich feathers on their costumes. Someone playing flamenco guitar in the distance—and Dad’s hands looked so calm, so easy as he joked with everyone. That was the life . . .

  “Pick a card, Major.”

  The trick goes like clockwork, the king taking a decent jump, tumbling like a “flyer” on the trapeze, and Zamora applauds silently.

  “Good stuff, Mister Danny.”

  There are footsteps approaching. Voices in the corridor.

  Quickly Zamora pulls the lid shut and they burrow down into the sheets.

  They hear some of the other bins being wheeled across the concrete floor, and then suddenly their own basket lurches, and they’re on the move themselves—spun around, shoved out through flapping plastic doors, back into the humidity and heat of the afternoon, bumped up a ramp. Sunlight chinks through the basket onto their faces.

  “OK. Vamos!” Zamora mutters as the laundry men heave the basket onto the lift at the back of their waiting truck.

  “But where to?” Danny says, tucking the cards away.

  Zamora smiles, his face mysterious in the striated light, expression hard t
o read. “No straight roads in this world, Danny. Just labyrinths.”

  The Happy Laundry truck reverses out of the loading bay. Its smiling sun logo flashing yellow as it emerges from the back of the Pearl.

  Unnoticed, it slips from the service road and merges with the mangle of traffic on Connaught Road.

  It’s reflected in Sing Sing’s sunglasses as she sits impassively in a café across the street, mobile clamped to her ear, talking urgently in Cantonese.

  It passes—without raising any attention—a squad car, where Detective Lo sits pensively, chain smoking, running a hand through his shaggy hair.

  It glides effortlessly past three men waiting in a side street on their motorbikes, black-tinted visors pulled down over their faces. One of them takes off his helmet and shakes out his long slick ponytail, his back still smarting from the retribution cuts he has received from the triad. In his eyes, the desire for vengeance.

  Standing on the pavement, Ricard watches the laundry truck gliding past and tells himself that he too is doing the right thing. That it can all work out just fine. That the sun will smile on them all.

  The van turns a corner and disappears from sight.

  19

  HOW TO GET A TRIM WHEN KIDNAPPED

  Laura comes slowly to something like consciousness.

  Her head hurts like crazy and she has no clue where she is. The room’s dark and her vision is swimming uncertainly. Her mouth is dry and she has the nagging sensation that she might have been sick.

  Must have drugged me, she thinks.

  She remembers the gym, writing with lipstick on the wall. Frantic moments when she realized it might be her only chance. As long as someone finds that message there might be hope. Maybe even Danny?

  Come off it. He’s a clever lad, but still only twelve. One day he’ll be as resourceful as his dad, I should think. Not yet.

  Should have told Danny before. Should have written the message differently. Made it clear about White Suit. But then there was only a second—and no more—to scrawl on the wall and flip the chart back. Major Zee’s quite handy when the chips are down, though. Wouldn’t be the first time he’s stepped up to the plate. What’s wrong with the floor . . . ?