Tempest

by Mark Dawson

  She took her things into the restroom and locked the door, then undressed and changed. She took out the cropped wig and settled it onto her head, fixing it into place with a series of clips. She applied kohl to her eyes and darkened her lashes. She smudged the make-up a little before stacking the rings on her index and ring fingers and putting on the necklace. She looked at her reflection when she was done and recognised a face from another time, years ago, when she was still executing files for Control. The woman who stared back at her was Caprice, a woman who looked perhaps just a little older and more shopworn than she had back then. The effect was still good: she was submerged beneath the disguise, practically unrecognisable as herself.

  She hid her eyes behind the shades and stashed her old clothes into the bag with the second wig and the make-up. She unlocked the door and stepped out of the bathroom and into the noise and business of the mall.

  17

  It was midday when Navarro drove into the parking lot outside Cheung Sha Wan Wholesale Food Market on Yen Chow Street West. Cheung Sha Wan was an industrial district, and this particular area was used to park the trucks that delivered produce around the city. Jimmy Wang had a business here and it had served as a rendezvous between the two men before. Wang was keen to maintain his anonymity, and Navarro had no wish to be observed in conversation with a local triad underboss; the privacy offered in the gaps between the trucks was of benefit to both of them.

  Navarro saw Wang approaching the car. He opened the door and got into the passenger seat.

  “Well?” Navarro said.

  “We found him,” he replied in broken and heavily accented English.

  “So where is he?”

  Wang grimaced and looked away.

  “Wang? Where is he?”

  “Did not go well.”

  “Please tell me you didn’t let him get away.”

  “Wu had gun. Men were surprised. Boarding boat not easy when he has gun.”

  Navarro put his hands together, tapping the tips of his fingers. Nakamura was known to the Hong Kong underworld as Danny Wu. “Where is he now, Wang?”

  “We do not know. Not on boat. We ask on dock, and they say he boarded walla walla this morning.”

  “What?”

  “Water taxi. Then, after he get off, he got normal taxi. We found driver. He went to Kowloon.”

  “I told you no mistakes, Wang,” Navarro said, struggling with his temper. “He is a seventy-year-old man. How hard can it be?”

  “I am sorry,” Wang said.

  Navarro tried to damp it down, if only for the moment. “What was he doing in Kowloon?”

  “Wu told driver to stay. He said he spoke with woman. Driver took them both to Tsim Sha Tsui. To Chungking Mansions.”

  “A good place to hide.”

  “Very good. But not impossible to find him. I have many friends there. Many people who look for him now. If he is there, we find him.”

  Navarro exhaled. “You’d better,” he said. “I saved your life, Jimmy. Have you forgotten that?”

  “I have not.”

  “And all I asked in return was that you find Danny Wu and bring him to me.”

  “I understand.”

  “Let me put it another way in case you’re having trouble understanding how this relationship is going to work. I’m a very good friend to have. I pay well, and I have influence. You want Yeung out of the way? I can make that happen for you. But, on the other hand, I’m the last person in the world that you’d want to disappoint. And I’ll be honest, Jimmy—right now, I’m very, very disappointed.”

  “We find him.”

  “See that you do. Now—get out of my car.”

  Wang looked as if he might have been about to say something, but he thought better of it and got out of the car. Navarro watched him speculatively as he went back in the direction from which he had arrived. Jimmy Wang was a clown. Navarro had hoped that he could rely upon him for something that should have been simple enough to accomplish, but perhaps he had been wrong.

  He made up his mind.

  It was time to bring in some more reliable help.

  18

  Beatrix left the mall, walked to Temple Street and went into the GlobalLink cybercafé. She bought an hour’s time and eased a plastic chair up to a terminal that was sitting on a folding table in the far corner, angling her screen to make it harder for anyone else to see what she was working on. She took a sheet of paper from the printer and a pen from a cup on the desk and started to work.

  She navigated to Google and searched for information on Vietnam deserters. It didn’t take her long to confirm that Danny’s fears had been well founded. There had been a time in the eighties and nineties when deserters would have been treated leniently, but then 9/11 had happened and the climate had changed. A new chief warrant officer had taken over the Marine Corps Absentee Collection Centre and had seen to it that cold cases were reopened and investigated, with deserters court-martialled and, if found guilty, imprisoned. The policy was clearly intended to serve as a deterrent for soldiers being sent to Iraq and Afghanistan.

  Danny had been right. He couldn’t apply for a passport himself; she would have to help. She surfed to an old Usenet forum dedicated to collectors of rare wristwatches and posted a comment. She cleared the browser history, logged off, and went outside.

  A street vendor outside was selling curried fish balls. Beatrix bought a cone and ate them as she wove her way through the crowd. She ambled north, following Nathan Road until she reached Ocean City Cyber on Sai Yeung Choi Street. She went inside, bought another hour, and sat down at an empty terminal. She navigated to the forum and saw that there was a reply to her comment. She closed the window, cleared the cache, and went back outside.

  She checked her watch.

  She had an hour before the ferry left.

  Beatrix arrived at the ferry terminal early enough to conduct careful surveillance. A small group of tourists was already boarding the Shining Star, a modern replica of the vessels that had crisscrossed Victoria Harbour before World War Two. She bought a token at the vending machine and crossed the gangplank ahead of them. She climbed to the upper deck and, as the tourists claimed tables in the air-conditioned lounge and jockeyed for seats next to the big windows, she made her way forward.

  A set of glass doors opened out onto the bow. Beatrix saw a woman standing alone, looking out over the water. There was no one else with her on the open deck.

  The woman saw her. “Caprice.”

  Beatrix took a space next to her on the rail. “Hathaway.”

  The American tossed the cigarette she was smoking overboard. “How are you?”

  “Very well. Thank you for coming out. Sorry for the short notice.”

  Hathaway shook her head. “Not a problem.”

  Beatrix had first met Kimberly Hathaway while she was working for the Group. There had been a leak inside the CIA’s Hong Kong Station, and MI6 had been asked to attend to the guilty party. The traitor was the old deputy chief of Station, a wily and experienced operator who took special care over his personal security. He rarely left the consulate or the staff compound up on Victoria Peak, and, when he did, it was with a paranoia and expertise that made it almost impossible to follow him. On the other hand, the man had a series of unfortunate predilections that occasioned regular visits to a BDSM establishment in Kowloon. Beatrix had arranged for his usual girl to succumb to an unpleasant stomach bug and had taken her place. The DCoS had been found dead in the brothel, the ligature that he favoured during his visits there tightened just a little bit too snugly.

  Beatrix knew that Hathaway had profited from her expeditious handling of that case; she had been promoted soon after, and she had continued on her upward trajectory ever since. She was DCoS now, with designs on the top job. Beatrix knew that she had credit in the bank with her. She had spent part of that credit purchasing the information that had helped to plan the unsuccessful hit on Wang. Now she was going to have to ask to cash in the balance
.

  “I heard you were unfortunate with Jimmy Wang.”

  “What did you hear?”

  “That he knew you were coming.”

  “He did. He was warned. Do you know how that might have been?”

  “There is something,” she said, looking meaningfully at Beatrix. “But it needs to stay between us.”

  “Of course.”

  “I heard that he might have been recruited as an Agency CI. The scuttlebutt is that this was a recent thing—as in within the last month.”

  “And how would his handler have known that he was in danger?”

  Hathaway shrugged. “That much I can’t say. All I can tell you is that it didn’t come from me. I had to get sign-off, but, even then, it was kept on the down-low. I ran it past the CoS, but, beyond that, I’m at a loss. I’m sorry, though. I hope it didn’t mess with your plans too much.”

  The ferry chugged out across the harbour, gently rising and falling as it crested the waves.

  Hathaway was looking at her. “I’m not going to count that information as repayment for the favour owed.”

  “That’s good—because I have something else I need your help with.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “It’s a smaller ask. I have a friend in Hong Kong. An American. He wants to go home.”

  “So take him to the airport.”

  “He’s a Vietnam deserter.”

  “And he’s worried about the reception he’ll get when he gets home?”

  “Yes.”

  “He’s right to be. That could be a problem.”

  “How much of a problem?”

  “The sort that might get you locked up. We had a guy try the same thing six weeks ago. USMC found out; we locked him up until they sent someone out to bring him back.” The ferry passed a sister craft, the passengers waving at them from the upper deck. “You could try to sneak him over the border. Mexico or Canada?”

  “Wouldn’t work with him,” she said.

  “So you want a new passport?”

  “That would be very helpful.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Daniel Nakamura,” she said. “Born in Los Angeles.”

  “How long was he in Vietnam?”

  “Served for a couple of years. Deserted in sixty-eight.”

  “You got a photograph of him?”

  Beatrix reached into her pocket and took out the strip of photos that Danny had given her. He had visited a photo booth prior to his visit to the consulate, and he had been storing the strip in his wallet in the hope that they still might come to good use. Hathaway looked at the pictures and then put them into her pocket.

  “Could you pull his OMPF for me, as well?”

  “What for?”

  “I want to see if there’s anything in it that he needs to be worried about.”

  “Should be easy enough. When do you need it?”

  Danny was going to be under her feet until she could get this sorted out. “As soon as you can.”

  The ferry sounded its horn, the boom rolling out across the waves.

  Hathaway looked out to the approaching dock. “Nearly there,” she said. “Leave it with me. I’ll be in touch.”

  19

  Beatrix took a cab back to Chungking Mansions, changing out of her wig in the back of the car and stowing it in the bag with the rest of her purchases and her clothes. She met Danny in Syed Bukhara again and ordered another two plates of food and two bottles of water.

  “Well?” he asked her as they sat down at a spare table.

  “Seemed to go okay.”

  “The passport?”

  “In hand.”

  He beamed. “No questions?”

  “I was owed a favour,” Beatrix said, draining the bottle. “They’ll get it done.”

  “Thank you.”

  The waiter brought over their food: Nasi Lemak for him and Mee Goreng for her. Danny broke apart his chopsticks and set about the meal.

  “What now?” he asked.

  “What about your boat?”

  “I’ve sold it,” he said. “There’s a guy at the harbour. He’s been interested in it for months. He told me I could come by any time in the next few weeks to pick up my stuff.”

  “How’d you do that?”

  “Do what?”

  “Sell it, Danny.”

  “I had coffee with him.”

  “What? When?”

  “While you were out.”

  “I told you to stay in the room.”

  “There’s a place downstairs—”

  “Did you go anywhere else?”

  “They were busy,” he said. “We couldn’t get a table. There’s a Starbucks just outside. I… I…”

  “Jesus,” she said. “You went outside?”

  His brow crinkled with concern and, she thought, confusion.

  “It didn’t take long… I’m sorry.”

  She was about to chide him when she remembered what he had told her about the dementia. She should have thought about that.

  He was about to apologise again, but she shut him down with a flick of her fingers.

  “Never mind,” she said. “We won’t be here long. You’ll have your passport by tomorrow. We should probably be thinking about getting you a ticket.”

  They finished their meals and went back to the room, taking the stairs to the grubby door of the guesthouse. Beatrix led the way inside. The old woman on the desk was still engrossed in her phone and took no notice as they passed through the lobby. The corridor that led to her room was empty.

  Beatrix was about to reached for her keys when she noticed the door was ajar.

  She tensed.

  “You okay?” Danny asked her, right behind her.

  She put her right hand to her lips and her other hand on Danny’s chest, gently impelling him back down the hall toward the lobby. They made it back at the exact time that a man emerged from the corridor. He was wearing an olive-coloured vest that exposed sleeves of tattoos that ran down both arms to his hands, together with additional markings on his chest and neck.

  The man stopped as he saw Beatrix and Danny. He reached for his pocket, withdrew his hand and flicked his wrist; the blade of a balisong snapped out with a hungry snick.

  “I don’t suppose you have your revolver?” Beatrix asked Danny.

  “It’s in my bag,” he said.

  “In the room?”

  “Sorry.”

  “Pity.”

  The man passed the knife from hand to hand and started forward, narrowing the distance between them.

  “Stay behind me,” Beatrix said.

  “Hey!” the woman behind the desk protested, but her voice was timorous, and when it failed to have any effect on the advancing maa jai, she retreated to the office and shut the door.

  The man closed in, passed the knife from his left to his right hand, and then stabbed out with it. Beatrix brought up her left hand in a circular motion, the outside of her wrist clashing against the inside of the man’s wrist, diverting his thrust harmlessly to the side. He drew back his hand and stabbed again; Beatrix stepped to the left, using her right hand to slap the man’s thrust aside. The rhythm and motion of combat came back easily, natural cadences and patterns she had practised so many times that they had become automatic. The man was outmatched, that knowledge gradually dawning on him as she parried him effortlessly; there was confusion on his face, and Beatrix encouraged more with a relaxed half smile.

  He stabbed at her again, and, this time, Beatrix caught his wrist in both hands, turned, twisted the arm and then dragged up against the joint. The motion was sudden and powerful; she felt the point of resistance and pulled harder, popping the elbow joint and tearing the tendons, waiting for the knife to loosen in his grip. She reached for it, disarmed him and then, with the same easy economy of movement, turned back around and slashed him across the throat.

  The man took a single step back, and then another, put his hand to his neck and gasped at the blood tha
t pumped between his fingers. He dropped to his knees, teetered there for a moment and then toppled over onto his side.

  “Jesus,” Danny exclaimed. “That didn’t take long.”

  “Stay here.”

  Beatrix went to the end of the corridor, put her head outside and looked left and right. There was no one else there. She assessed. The fight had been brief and quiet; the building was busy, and any sound that they might have made would have been hidden amid the constant drone in the background. Beatrix was confident that the fight would not have attracted undue attention.

  But, even so, she knew that they didn’t have long. The owner of the guesthouse would call the police and they would be here soon enough. The authorities didn’t pay much attention to what went on in the building, but dead gangsters were bad for business.

  How had they known where they were?

  Danny’s trip to the coffee shop.

  They must have been watching.

  She thought of the door left ajar. Had the man she had just taken out been inside her room, or were there others? Her go-bag was still inside and she couldn’t leave without it.

  She had to check.

  20

  Beatrix was halfway down the corridor to her room when the door opened. Two men emerged. One was short and the other was tall. They were relaxed, talking in Cantonese, oblivious to what had just happened to their colleague in the lobby.

  That ignorance did not last long; the men saw Beatrix and Danny and, behind them, the body on the floor.

  The shorter one stepped up. He took a knife from his pocket. The taller one held a cleaver.

  Beatrix held the balisong that she had confiscated from the first attacker in a loose grip and teased it around her fingers. The blade moved in a silvered blur, but her evident dexterity with the weapon didn’t dissuade either man.