by Rob Jones
He raced up the ladder and reached the stern deck. The coffee drinkers weren’t so amused when they saw the Smith & Wesson stuffed into his belt and they fell over each other to get out of his way.
Hawke barely noticed their terror. Pulling the weapon from his belt he stalked forward along the portside wraparound deck and raised the pistol into the aim. With each step he took he swung he muzzle into every nook and cranny in his search for the two surviving men and the stolen manuscript.
The ferry slowly grumbled through the freezing, fog-filled harbor and now Joe Hawke had reached a door near the bow. He stepped inside into the warm and was met by several alarmed ferry workers. He was inside the wheelhouse and looking directly at the captain.
“Oh, my God!” the old man said, reaching for his radio.
“I’m not here to harm anyone,” Hawke said. “So just relax.”
“Who are you?” the captain said, still staring at the gun in the Englishman’s hands.
“That doesn’t matter, but I’m in pursuit of two men who just stole something of great value from the Boston Metropolitan Museum.”
“You could be anyone,” one of the younger men said.
“True, and you’re just going to have to live with that,” Hawke said. “If I wanted to hurt you you’d all be dead by now, no?”
The men exchanged a weary glance.
“I guess so,” the captain said.
Hawke lowered the gun. “Happy?”
The captain sighed. “Not exactly, but it’s better than it being pointed in my face.”
“So what now?” the younger man said.
“Turn the ferry around,” Hawke said.
“We can’t do that.”
“Yes, you can. The men are trying to get to the airport. If you look to the stern you might notice Boston’s a funny blue color. That’s the police lights.”
The young man peered outside. “He’s right, Hank.”
“So if you turn the boat around the thieves are out of luck, right?”
The captain made a call on his radio and then started to turn the ferry around. He made a passenger announcement and then the boat was facing west again and sailing directly toward the enormous bank of flashing blue and red lights all over the wharf.
“So what now?” the captain said to Hawke.
“Now we wait. They could be hiding anywhere on a boat this size, but when we’re back on the wharf the police will come aboard and search it.”
They waited as the ferry made its way back to the wharf, slowly pushing through the cold water and fog. Hawke saw the chaos through the drizzle-soaked windows of the wheelhouse and hoped knowing the President might just be enough to stop him being sent to Gitmo Bay for hijacking a ferry.
His thoughts were shattered by the sound of single gunshot and a blood-curdling scream.
The captain and the younger officer exchanged a grim look. “Sounds like it came from the starboard deck,” the older man said, and fumbled for his radio. “Al? Come in! Are you reading me, Al?”
The younger man started to turn a green-white color, and Hawke knew it wasn't seasickness. “They shot Al?”
“They’ve worked out we turned around,” Hawke said. “Damn it all! I banked on them laying low below deck.” He pulled back the slide on the semi-automatic and put a round in the chamber.
The young ferry worker swallowed hard and took a step back. His eyes were fixed on the gun. “What are you gonna do, man?”
Before the reply came to his lips, Hawke heard more submachine gunfire on the starboard side. Everyone in the wheelhouse shared a worried look, and then Hawke pushed past the captain and stepped out onto the deck. Leaning over the metal rail he saw the men he had pursued climbing down into a police boat that was sailing alongside the ferry.
A number of dead officers lay strewn on the small boat’s deck, and one was bobbing up and down in the water behind it. The men had clearly seen the police escort and surprised the officers with their superior firepower, and now they had seized the boat and were taking off into the fog.
They were no longer heading to the airport but out to the coast and he guessed they had changed their plans since the shooting started. He heard a police chopper heading over but it was no use. The stolen police boat had raced away from the ferry and totally vanished in the heavy sea fog.
Hawke cursed, tightened his right hand into a fist and punched the side of the lifejacket box as hard as he could.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Macau
The man known to the Chinese Ministry of State Security simply as Tiger, stepped through the lobby of The Venetian Macau and walked past the reception desk. As luxury hotels and casinos went, you had to go a long way to beat this place, not least because gambling was illegal in the rest of China.
No one batted an eyelid as the government assassin walked smoothly down the carpeted steps and made his way to the top of the escalators. He was dressed the part in a smart suit and tie and gently adjusted the middle button as he made his way forward. The right lens and temple of his Persol glasses flashed in the light as he stepped onto the escalator and slowly descended into the casino’s Great Hall.
The whole place was decked out to look like Venice, with gondolas cruising calmly along working canals and Venetian architecture so exquisitely reproduced that you could be forgiven for thinking you were in Italy instead of on the south coast of China. Tourists wandered in and out of expensive Western jewellery franchises and relaxing muzak drifted from concealed speakers in the walls.
Tiger was unimpressed. He was here for business and had only one thing on his mind – locating the man he knew only as Rat.
And he knew where to find him.
He made his way through the Great Hall and passed various gaming areas – Phoenix, Imperial House and Golden Fish – until finally reaching the Red Dragon. This was where Rat liked to throw away his life. Slot machines buzzed and flashed, but Rat was above such things and Tiger knew it. Deep in the Red Dragon lounge now he looked across to one of the gaming tables to find his colleague sitting at a blackjack table with a large pile of chips at his elbow.
The diffused amber lighting flashed on Rat’s golden cufflinks as Tiger drew closer and made his way through the throng of gamblers and drinkers. Waiters dressed in red delivered dim sum and red dragon noodles to diners seated at candlelit tables and polite laughter danced on the air, but the look on Rat’s face when he saw Tiger told him that his pleasant evening had now come to an end.
Rat pushed back from the table and gave Tiger a resigned smile. “Despite my best efforts, I see Zhou has tracked me down once again.”
Tiger nodded.
“Who?” Rat asked.
“Dragonfly.”
Rat paused a beat, then excused himself from the table. “Let’s walk.”
The two men strolled slowly through the comforting, brash glow of the casino. Silent for a long time, Rat spoke next. “Pig?”
Tiger offered another solemn businesslike nod. “He says it’s his last job before retirement.”
“He always says that.”
“This time it’s true. He’s planned out his retirement to the letter. His wife is waiting for him in a new apartment. They have it all worked out. He wants to leave all this behind.”
Rat scoffed, and Tiger understood his reaction. No one ever left the Ministry or its good works behind. Being part of a top-level government assassination squad like the Zodiacs was not something you ever walked away from.
As if he had read this thoughts, Rat said, “He can move to the coast physically, but this will always be Zhou’s.” He tapped the side of his head to indicate his mind.
Tiger agreed, and turned to watch the punters pouring their money into a bank of never-ending neon slot machines. The clatter of the cheap, nickel-plated steel yuans being greedily fed into the coin slots echoed in the large gaming room. Tiger shook his head as he studied the sad faces of the gamblers, hopelessly addicted to pumping their earnings into the machin
es and desperately waiting for a payout to tumble down the coin chutes.
“And what about him?” Rat said.
Tiger knew who he was talking about.
“I tracked him down to Guangzhou. He’s been living in a whorehouse in Tianhe for weeks now. They’re too frightened to ask him to leave.”
Rat gave an appreciative nod. “I suppose Zhou is insisting he come along?”
“Yes. He is part of the squad.”
“But after last time, I wondered if he might re-evaluate his position on the team.”
Tiger shook his head. “Monkey’s unpredictable savagery is an essential part of our work. He can make even the most steadfast person give up all their secrets with his methods.”
Both men were quiet now. They both knew what the great philosopher Lao Tzu meant when he wrote that silence is a source of great strength.
Tiger imagined how Agent Dragonfly would react to some quality alone time in a Chinese torture chamber with just Monkey for company. That would be a show worth watching, he considered. Unfortunately, their orders were the immediate execution of the traitor – not that he would tell Monkey that. A man like that needed the proper motivation.
“I presume we’re leaving at once?” Rat asked.
“Yes,” Tiger said. Everything Zhou wanted done was always done at once. He was that kind of boss.
Rat nodded pensively and rubbed his nose. Tiger caught him glance back over at the blackjack tables with a look of longing in his eyes. He sniffed hard and turned his eyes back to Tiger. “And how are we to trap our dragonfly?”
“The same way you trap anything else,” Tiger said quietly. “With high quality bait.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Dublin
Lea Donovan tipped up the potted hydrangea under her brother’s kitchen window and slid out the back door key. Finn had left it there when they had arranged for her to collect the box of personal effects the Haven Bay Nursing Home had sent. He was on holiday with his wife and kids, and didn’t give a damn about any box of junk left by some little old lady no one had ever heard of. Besides – the box was addressed to Lea and that was just fine with him.
“I’m not sure I’m ready for this,” she said, turning the key in the lock and pushing open the kitchen door.
“Whatever it is, we’ll deal with it together,” Hawke said. “We’re a team... a family, and we’re all here with you.”
She stood on her tiptoes and kissed him. He and Kim had met them in Dublin Airport an hour ago after their flight from Boston less than twenty minutes before her flight from London. She was glad he was here at her side, but even having Joe Hawke beside her hadn’t taken away the nerves she felt when she thought about the mysterious box that was waiting for her on the dining rom table.
She walked into the house and was met with various pictures of her brother and his young family – but not one picture of her. As if he had read her mind, Hawke put his arm around her shoulder. “Let’s have a look at this box and get out of here. We still have that manuscript to track down.”
“Sure,” she said and gave him her best fake smile.
She felt sad, but then the rest of the team traipsed into the small Dublin semi and looked so out of place a genuine smile soon replaced the fake one. If Finn Bloody Donovan could see these guys huddled around in his kitchen he’d have a proper fit.
She turned her attention to the box on the table. It was just a normal, small packing box. She opened it up and was met by an array of old junk, just as Finn had described it – old, dog-eared paperbacks, some well-worn reading glasses and a plastic hearing aid. She searched through the box, growing more confused with each passing second. “Finn was right – this is all just crap.”
“Aren’t any fags in it, are there?” Ryan said, leaning in.
Scarlet Sloane, who had also met them at the airport, looked at Ryan in horror. “Scrounging cigarettes,” she said with disgust. “How very you.”
“You get off a plane from Vegas less than an hour ago and you’re already as obnoxious as ever,” Kim said. “No wonder Camacho stayed in the States.”
“I was not being obnoxious, and Jack’s on a mission for the CIA,” Scarlet said. “Besides, it doesn’t count if you insult the help.”
Ryan moved to give some back, but he was stopped by Lea gasping.
“What have you found?” Lexi said, taking an interest for the first time since they’d landed in Ireland. “If it’s the Mona Lisa we can all retire.”
“It’s not the Mona Lisa,” Lea said, her voice almost trembling with shock. “It’s this.”
She pulled a sleek, but dusty golden idol from the box and held it up for the rest of the team to see. It was the same dimensions as the other idols they had seen, with the same intricate, seven-pointed star shape in the base and an identical inverted ziggurat receding inside the bottom of it.
A long, tense silence was broken by Scarlet: “Jesus Holy Christ on a Brontosaurus.”
Hawke frowned as he studied the idol. “What the hell?”
Lea looked almost distraught. “What’s going on, Joe? What the hell is all this about?”
Scarlet snapped her fingers. “Nerd needed! Code red emergency! Ryan, get that skinny little arse over here right now or I’m going to beat it with a Runic cursing pole.”
Ryan scowled at her as he walked to the table. “I’m impressed you’ve heard of one, to be honest.”
Scarlet tipped her head and blew him a kiss.
“Any ideas?” Hawke said.
“Looks like Tinia to me,” Ryan said.
“And now in English, boy.”
He turned to face her. “Tinia is a primordial god of the ancient Etruscan religion. A sky god... a chief deity of that belief system as a matter of fact.”
“Isn’t that what you said about the other idols?” Lexi asked.
He nodded. “It is, yes. The idol of Tanit that we found in Mexico was one of the chief deities of the Carthage civilization, which we now know included Atlantis, and the one of Bórr we found in Valhalla was at the top of the divinity tree for Norse culture as well.”
“So this is yet another golden idol of a head god,” Hawke said.
“Seems that way,” said Ryan.
“And covered in more of these sodding symbols,” Lea said.
Kim ran a hand through her hair and stared at the team with a confused expression on her face. “Please, will someone remind me how statues from so many different places can all have the same carvings on them?”
“Ryan, you’re up again,” Scarlet said.
“Our current, working hypothesis is that the symbols belong to some kind of parent culture, but it’s controversial.”
“Hey! I know what it is!” Scarlet said, jabbing Ryan in the arm.
“I’m sorry?” he said.
“I know what’s different about you – you’re not wearing glasses!”
“You only just noticed that?” Ryan said, offended.
“Well, yeah.”
“Some witness you’d make,” Ryan said. “Yes, your honor – the thief was definitely wearing glasses...”
“Sorry, but I just don’t spend that long looking at you, boy. I only noticed because right about now you’d be pushing them up the bridge of your nose – doing that Ryan Thing you’re always doing.”
“It’s contacts from now on,” Ryan said firmly.
Hawke smiled, but the truth was he hadn’t noticed either. Ryan Bale losing the glasses was just an outward sign of the way he was changing on the inside. To Hawke, these changes could go either way – they could strengthen him or break him.
“You know what I need right about now?” Scarlet asked.
Ryan smirked “Half an hour with Jack Camacho, a bottle of Good ol’ Sailor vodka and some Italian lounge music?”
“Piss off, Bale,” she said. “But yes, I do need one of those and it’s not Jackie boy or the cheesy listening. I want a drink.”
“What’s new?” Lexi said.
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p; “It helps settle my nerves and concentrate the mind,” Scarlet said. “You should try some – it might improve your personality.”
“That’s fighting talk, Cairo,” Lexi said.
“Seriously though,” Ryan said. “How was Vegas?”
Scarlet pulled out her phone and showed them all a picture of her and Camacho with their arms around each other’s shoulders outside the Mandalay Bay Casino.
“Looks great,” Ryan said.
Scarlet sighed. “And Jack’s still there, the lucky bastard.”
“Say, I hope Camacho’s all right,” Kim said. “Vegas is a tough town – guns, knives, drugs, smuggling, punishment beatings, blackmail...”
“But enough about Cairo,” Ryan said. “Tell us about the Mafia.”
“Hey!” Lexi said, slapping his arm. “ I was going to make that joke!”
“You gotta get to the punchline faster than that to beat a wit as razor-sharp as mine,” he said.
“So what about that drink, darling?” Scarlet repeated. “I was being serious.”
“Over there,” said Lea, pointing her chin in the direction of a wooden cabinet on the opposite wall.
Scarlet rummaged through it for a few seconds before hauling a half-empty bottle of Jameson’s Irish Whiskey over and plonking it on the table. “Anyone else?”
“Any glasses?” Ryan said.
“Nope,” Scarlet said. “Stop being such a girl.”
“Glasses in the kitchen, Ry. Don’t bother bringing one for me.”
“Anything else in there?” Hawke said.
Scarlet shook her head. “No, just some warm cans of Heineken.”
“I was talking about the box.”
Scarlet winked. “I knew that, sugarcube.”
Lea shook her head. “No, just bits and bobs... wait – there’s something under one of the flaps down at the bottom.”
“What is it?” Hawke asked.
She sighed, long and deep. “It’s a letter.”
