The Black Dragon

by Julian Sedgwick

  She gets to her feet and lurches sideways. Surely not that groggy? Now she feels the remnants of the gaffer tape on her wrists, the sore patches around her mouth. Must have trussed me like a chicken and taped my big mouth shut. Oh boy.

  She staggers again in the semi-darkness. The floor’s falling and rising, falling and rising. And from somewhere below comes the throb of a big diesel engine.

  A door opens, a bare bulb in the corridor beyond silhouetting a man as thin as a stick, advancing into the cabin. He’s got a pistol and is waving it at Laura. All spiky angles.

  “Lie down. You lie down!”

  “OK. I’m lying down.”

  Another figure, as fat as the other is skinny. He crouches over her now waving a large pair of scissors in her face. They don’t look at all clean. And the man carries an overpowering smell of fish with him that makes her gag.

  “Your hair,” he says. “Need hair now. Not move.”

  “OK. You’re the boss. Just a little off the length, please.”

  “Shut up!” Fatty shouts, and clunks the scissors rapidly together twice. “Or I cut something else.”

  What a mess, Laura thinks. Still, if I get out of it I’m going to have quite a story. Front-page stuff.

  The thought gives her a tiny lift. She shuts her eyes as the scissors start snapping away close to her ear, thinking of the great copy this will make. It helps to think of something else, and to distract herself she experiments with opening sentences.

  “Hey! Watch it, lardboy. That was nearly my ear.”

  20

  HOW TO IMPROVE YOUR LUCK

  The Happy Laundry truck heads for home.

  It’s pitch black in the basket in the shuttered back of the van, but it’s a relief, Danny thinks, not to have to make decisions for a few minutes. He closes his eyes and settles back amidst the sheets and towels, thinking about Ricard again.

  Could the man be OK? The look on his face was one that has become very familiar of late. It said, I know a bit more than you do, Danny. Everyone seems to know more than he does: Laura, Zamora, Sing Sing . . .

  And now Ricard. As Zamora said, Laura’s message on the wall could be read either way: Watch out for White Suit. Trust White Suit.

  How to know who to trust?

  He remembers Dad doing the “safety” on the escapes. Always do your own checks, old son—you may trust everyone around you, but you only know the thing’s ready if you’ve done it yourself.

  So what went wrong in the water torture cell? And at some point, surely, you have to trust someone other than yourself. So start from a firm base and work up from there. I trust Zamora. Stupid even for a moment to think there’s a problem there.

  He looks in Zamora’s direction. In the darkness it seems easier to ask certain questions.

  “Major Zee?”

  “Yes, amigo.”

  “Who did you trust—when we were in the Mysterium?”

  “Everyone. Well, nearly everyone. A couple of the temporary roustabouts gave me a bad vibe, if you know what I mean. Couple of the Khaos Klowns too. Rosa agreed with me about them.”

  “No. I mean when you were doing the cannonball. Or the Wall of Death. Who did you trust to set the equipment?”

  “Well, I let the riggers do most of it,” Zamora says, considering. “But I always checked things at the last moment. That way I could only blame myself if something went wrong. Like the popcorn accident. Oversight on my part. It’s a matter of responsibility.”

  Danny thinks about this for a moment. Makes his decision.

  “I’ll take the responsibility if we’re wrong.”

  “Shared responsibility, Mister Danny. Tell you what, though, the other person I didn’t like—” The major’s about to say more, but the truck slams over a speed bump, knocking the words from his mouth. They’re dropping down a ramp. Danny feels his stomach rise—as if they’re on a roller-coaster drop—and then the brakes are bringing them to a squealing stop.

  “Last stop,” Zamora says brightly. “Let’s hop out before someone puts us on a boil wash!”

  They’re out of their basket and waiting when the shutter at the back of the van comes flying up. A sleepy laundry worker looks bemused at the sight that greets him. To say the least.

  “What are you doing in truck?”

  “What do we owe you, señor?” The major beams and hops down. “And where are we?”

  They’re standing in a basement loading bay. Other Happy Laundry vans are pulled up to the raised concrete walkway at the back. The heat and noise are oppressive.

  “Kowloon,” the man says. “Shantung Street.”

  “Muchas gracias,” Zamora says, patting the man heartily on the back. He turns to Danny, his smile fading.

  “We’re back across the harbor again then. What now? We could try Kwan again. See if he can come and drive us around. Cheung Chau maybe?”

  Danny nods. “OK. But first I think we should see what Inspector Ricard has to say.”

  “I’ll borrow the phone here,” Zamora says, bustling off toward the laundry office.

  “Hurry. I’ll wait for you at the top of the ramp.”

  Danny trots back up to the bright street. Images form in his mind, different versions of what is happening to Laura. He sees her chained and bound to a chair; locked in a tiny, airless room; trussed up in a canvas sack; curled up in the trunk of a car. Dimly he’s aware that all of these are versions of challenges that he saw Dad tackle and defeat—and that they probably bear no relation to the truth. But every time he sees the words dim sum or chop suey he can’t help thinking of Laura chatting away gaily on the plane, and sees her finger poised in the jaws of the cutters.

  Kowloon hurries past. Smart ladies doing their shopping carrying small, preening dogs, teenagers trying to look cool, businessmen with their phones glued to their ears, tourists hogging the pavement with semi-permanent cricks in their necks and city guides in their hands.

  It’s just another day for them. Strange how the world carries on as normal when your own version of it is falling apart. Danny recognizes the sensation from the interminable days between the trailer fire and the funeral. Berlin went on its way all around him. Everything—the people doing their shopping, the dogs on their leads, the market traders, the schoolchildren hurrying home—all frustratingly blind to the fact that Mum and Dad were dead and gone. The stars, hard and clear overhead.

  Oblivious to his shock.

  Different country, different weather—same feeling. How strange that the worlds of the ordinary and the extraordinary can live so closely side by side, divided by the thinnest of spaces. You take one step and you’ve slipped from one to the other. And if Laura hadn’t been kidnapped then he and Zamora would be just like the other tourists, looking for the next place to eat, the next sight to see and photograph. And yet that’s not quite right either. The whole story—from the arrival and kidnapping to Ricard’s intervention—feels as if it was bound to happen. Fate.

  Zamora comes up the ramp scratching his head, blinking in the sunlight. “You’re not going to believe this. The taxi dispatcher says Mr. Kwan’s gone missing, Danny. Nobody’s seen him since he dropped us at those horrible Mansions yesterday. His wife is worried sick, apparently.”

  Danny shakes his head. Can’t be happening—it feels like a bad dream, one that just gets progressively worse as the night wears on, no matter which way you turn. “We shouldn’t have involved him.”

  “Maybe he’s just gone on a jaunt? Maybe his wife’s an old dragon,” the major says, sounding unconvinced. “He certainly looked stressed . . . Come on. We’ve got to focus on Laura.”

  “Agreed. But let’s start at Ricard’s.”

  “But keep our wits about us, no?” Zamora says firmly, stepping out into the roar of the traffic. “TAXI!”

  The taxi driver spins them back toward the tip of Kowloon. Sun and shadow whipping across them as they tick off the blocks.

  “I guess they must pay these Interpol types well,” Zamora
says, watching the buildings become grander, the shops and their brands more exclusive. “Or maybe he’s on kickbacks from the triads too!”

  “I don’t think so,” Danny says.

  The taxi is pulling up at a corner of Kowloon Park, a welcome oasis of greenery bubbling between the concrete and glass. A nameplate on the nearest building says Preston Villas.

  “Six fifty,” the taxi driver says, cranking around in the seat.

  “Excuse me asking,” Zamora says. “But do you know a driver called Kwan Kar Wai?”

  “Being funny?” the man says. “How many thousand taxi drivers in Hong Kong, do you think? People come. People go. Who knows who anyone is these days, right?”

  The Villas are older than the other buildings around the park. The stairwell is steeped in faded grandeur—a taste of incense mingling with the tang of floor polish, and the doorways to each apartment are decorated with potted plants, Buddha statues, welcome mats.

  It feels quiet and restrained after the hustling streets of downtown Kowloon.

  “Fourth floor,” Zamora says, glancing at an apartment guide on the wall. “Let’s see what old White Suit’s got up here.”

  On the third-floor landing a black cat is curled in a wicker chair, eyeing them from a deep red cushion. It hisses at them. Eyes flash quick green slits in their direction. Then it settles back down to sleep.

  Number forty-two leads directly off the next landing, a small brass plaque next to the door simply says: RICARD.

  Zamora rattles the handle. “No luck. Shall we just wait for him?”

  “He said we’d work out where the key is,” Danny says, looking around. But, unlike the other doors, Ricard’s is uncluttered by statues or mats or potted plants or any of the other places you’d normally tuck a key.

  The plain wooden door looks back at him defiantly.

  Danny eyes the locks. One deadlock and one Yale type. Could probably tickle the Yale open, given time. But the deadlock’s beyond me, he thinks. Dad trained me for stage handcuffs and big chunky padlocks. Not breaking and entering. What did Ricard say? Key’s obvious. You just “need a bit of luck.”

  He closes his eyes, trying to picture the moment that the Interpol man said that. He was looking down as he said it. That hair he picked off his sleeve!

  Danny’s away down the stairs to the floor below.

  The black cat is still slumbering away on the cushion. As Danny approaches, it pops its eyes wide open and hisses again unpleasantly, hackles rising, claws extending.

  “Easy,” Danny says soothingly. “Ea-sy.”

  The cat doesn’t look at all at ease.

  Danny drops his eyes to avoid direct contact, trying to make his approach seem less threatening, and approaches sideways. Then he reaches out quickly and taps the cat twice right on the top of its skull. It’s an acupressure point: governing vessel twenty. Calms animals down if you get it right, just like Blanco did when his dog was acting up.

  The cat hesitates, then lies down again as if suddenly very heavy, purring like a windup toy.

  “Excuse me,” Danny says, and reaches under the cushion.

  And sure enough, there are the keys.

  The apartment is decorated in minimalist style. Simple furniture on the bare floorboards. Clean white walls with just one massive piece of calligraphy, the ink splattered where an enormous brush must have struck the paper explosively. Danny takes it in, trying to get a sense of Ricard and his world.

  Despite the spare decor, it feels comfortable—the home of someone at ease with himself. With his conscience? Or could a crooked cop, a gangland boss, manage the same calm, cool atmosphere? You can imagine Ricard coming in, kicking off his shoes, making a coffee, lounging on the sofa. Putting his feet up.

  “Might as well make ourselves comfortable,” Zamora says, peering into the kitchen. “I’m still annoyed about breakfast.”

  Danny walks over to a rolltop desk against the far wall—and stops in his tracks.

  There next to the phone, in a silver frame, is a photo of Dad and Mum.

  Danny has to blink hard twice to make sure he isn’t conjuring the thing out of his imagination. Out of his need to see them. But, yes—there they stand, in costume: Dad in his natty black suit, thin red tie. Mum in a striped leotard, leaning against him as they stand on the trailer steps. It’s not a publicity shot—too informal—and not a photo Danny’s seen before. There’s a quiet smile on Dad’s face and Mum has turned to look up at him, blurring her face in the camera’s blink. Danny gulps hard, shuts his eyes. Not now. It won’t help.

  Focus. What on earth is it doing here?

  “Major! Take a look.”

  “What have you got then?” Zamora says, picking out the urgency in Danny’s voice and coming over. “Madre mia! Harry and Lily. Some time ago, by the looks of it.”

  “Any idea when?”

  “I guess around the time you were born. Your trailer was new then so it can’t be before. And your Mum’s not pregnant—you can see that! But what’s it doing here on White Suit’s desk?”

  Danny shrugs, pushing thoughts around in his mind. Trying to make sense of things.

  “It’s got to be a sign we can trust Monsieur Ricard, don’t you think?”

  “Yes. But then again, you thought he was being interrogated at the police station. And we only have his word about Lo.”

  “But you only put a photo in a nice frame—and keep it out—if you care about the people in it. Don’t you?”

  Zamora nods, conceding the point.

  He rustles the papers on the desk. Nothing of note lying about, just a few bills, receipts. The drawers are locked.

  “What do you think, Mister Danny? Should I break them open?”

  “No. We’ll wait. See what he has to say.”

  Zamora takes a breath.

  “Well, I might just check the kitchen out then. The man said make yourself at home. Mi casa es su casa. Words to that effect.”

  Danny’s eyes are fixed on the photo. There they stand. Caught in evening light, radiant. Relaxed. Not a clue what was coming their way. Is that what it’s like for all of us? he wonders. Smiling at the camera because we don’t know what’s around the corner. Or can we grab control of things now and then? He takes a breath. Well, you can certainly try.

  The phone breaks his train of thought, old-fashioned bell tone jangling, making him start. He waits, listening, his hand hovering undecided above it. Then the voicemail cuts in: “Jules Ricard. Please leave a message. Laissez-moi un message, s’il vous plaît.”

  And then Ricard’s voice comes again, this time live, urgent. “Hello, Danny. If you can hear this, please pick up—hello?”

  Danny grabs the phone from its cradle. “Hello. I’m here.”

  “Listen, sit tight until I get there, oui?”

  And then before he has a chance to control the words, Danny is blurting them out: “Why have you got a photo of my parents? Did you know them, Monsieur Ricard?”

  Silence.

  “Hello?”

  “Danny. It’s a long story. And I’d rather tell it in person. We don’t have much time now. And listen very carefully to me: don’t answer the door if anyone calls—”

  Zamora has come to stand beside Danny, leaning in to try and hear the conversation.

  “But why—”

  “Listen to me. Things are heating up,” Ricard says. “We’ve had a ransom demand from the kidnappers. It’s the Black Dragon all right. They’ve sent a big chunk of your aunt’s hair. Ash blonde, oui?”

  “Yes.” Danny nods. Knees have gone a bit wobbly. But at least it’s just hair for now, not fingers. “How much? The ransom?”

  “Ridiculous amount, Danny—” Ricard pauses, coughs at the other end of the phone. “Off the scale. But more than that, they’ve put out a reward amongst the other triads. For you and Zamora.”

  “For us? Why?”

  “Don’t worry. Just keep out of sight. These gangs have a lot of members, but their organization and communica
tion is quite loose. And they don’t all get on. None of them like Black Dragon much. Still, best to be on the safe side.”

  “We’re trying to get hold of Mr. Kwan.”

  “So are we. And Lo’s sniffing around too. He knows someone tipped you off at the Pearl. I’ve got to play a careful game, Danny. They have a saying here: ‘Bad Dog gets rewarded, Good Dog gets punished.’ It means that things aren’t always fair. And that good dogs need to be very careful.”

  Things aren’t always fair. Danny looks at Dad smiling back at him from the photo. “You’ll tell me about Dad? And Mum?”

  “Later. I promise. Well done finding the key. Knew you would. Spike can be vicious if he doesn’t take to you.” He laughs. “Did you see that scar on Lo’s face?! Look, one more thing.” His voice falters, for the first time betraying something other than resolute optimism. “I’m sorry to say we don’t need to waste any time trying to find Detective Tan. They just pulled his body out of the harbor. A hundred cuts, the medical examiner says. It’s just like the old days. Don’t answer that door. Wait for me.”

  “Monsieur Ricard—” But the line has gone dead.

  Danny stands there for a moment, the receiver clutched in his hand, imagining Tan’s body trailing blood in the murky waters of the harbor, sinking slowly to the bottom.

  And then a furious hammering breaks on Ricard’s front door.

  21

  HOW TO RISK YOUR LIFE

  Danny holds his finger to his lips and crosses the floor on the lightest feet he can manage. He motions Zamora to draw the curtain—that way it won’t be obvious when he takes a peep through the spyhole and blocks the light.

  Zamora nods and moves to darken the room.

  One more burst of knocking. But less sure now. Danny puts his green eye to the peephole and sees Charlie Chow standing in the hall.

  The man’s face looks dark as ever, but stormier. An effort to mask the emotion playing there, but there’s anger for sure. His right hand is clenching slightly, unclenching. He’s a little out of breath. A bit more than you’d expect from three flights of steps.