by Mark Dawson
“And then?”
“I grabbed a picture from her profile,” he said, pointing to a .jpg file on the screen. “He clicks that because she encourages him to open it, and a little Trojan script that I’ve brewed up deploys on his computer. I’ll have access to everything then, including the IP address he’s using. As soon as we have that, you can tell the others to go and get him.” He moused over to the send button. “Ready for me to send it?”
“Do it,” Navarro said.
38
Jimmy Wang was in the sitting room of his villa in Stanley. He was focused on the twin disasters of the last thirty-six hours: the botched abduction on the boat and then the loss of three of his men to a woman—a woman—in Chungking Mansions. He had not told the American of the second mistake for fear of compounding the first; better to keep that one to himself for as long as he could.
He had been watching a recording of the Manchester derby between City and United, trying to put the ongoing frustration of the Wu situation out of his mind. He had been drinking, too, and when that hadn’t been enough to settle his nerves, he had smoked a cigarette that he had laced with the opium that he sold in the dens around the docks in Kowloon. That, thankfully, had had the desired effect, and he was as chilled as he had been all week when he noticed that his phone was vibrating on the sitting room table.
He picked it up and saw that it was Raymond Chong.
He accepted the call, putting it on speaker. “Anything?”
“Still nothing, boss.”
“The boat?”
“No one has been out to it all day. It’s just… sitting out there.”
Wang was distracted by the game on the TV. Rooney was one-on-one with the keeper and missed, rolling the ball the wrong side of the post. Shit. He had a thousand dollars on United to win, and they were losing with ten minutes left to play.
“Boss?” Chong pressed. “What do you want us to do?”
Wang looked away from the screen and took a long drag on his cigarette. He thought about what move he should make. More than a day had passed since Wu had been flushed from the boat, and there had been no sign that he was coming back. He was acutely aware of Navarro’s impatience, and, despite his own reputation for ruthlessness, there was something about his employer’s character that made it plain that it would be unwise to irritate him. The man hadn’t explicitly told him not to go out to the boat; perhaps they would find something there that would be useful, something that might direct them to where Wu was hiding, or something of value that Wang could offer in return for the consideration that he had already received.
“Boss?” Chong repeated.
“Search the boat,” Wang said. “If you find anything, bring it back to me.”
39
Beatrix knew that there was a very good chance that Logan would try to run surveillance on her in an attempt to find Danny, so she took her time making sure that she was clean. She took a long walk, following the harbour to the Maritime Museum and then strolling to the Zoological Gardens.
She collected the car and called Danny. He picked up quickly, anxious to ask her how the meeting had gone. She told him about Logan and about how Lincoln was under investigation by the OIG. She confirmed that what they had suspected was true: that Danny surfacing after forty years had caused consternation and that Lincoln and Navarro were scrambling to get to him. She said that Logan had confirmed that the situation with Wang wasn’t what it looked like. The problem was with Lincoln; Wang was just his stooge.
“Jesus,” Danny said when she was done.
“Logan has made you an offer. You’ll get a new identity. Something clean.”
“In exchange for?”
“You helping to bring Lincoln down.”
“What? He wants me to give evidence?”
“No—easier than that. He just wants the tapes.”
“But I’m not sure I still have them.”
Beatrix stood. “You’d better hope you do. I’m going to the boat now.”
Beatrix drove the fifteen minutes to the harbour, around Mount Cameron and Deep Water Bay and over the Ap Lei Chau bridge. She parked the Mercedes a quarter of a mile from the dock, got out of the car and walked down to the waterside. She passed a truck with a pile of sand in its bed, cut through an open construction site and then clambered down a slope to the promenade.
She took a moment to acclimatise herself. The channel here was narrow, with the high-rise apartment blocks and office buildings opposite in Tin Wan and Aberdeen twinkling in the darkness. The Jumbo Floating Restaurant was on the other side of the water, loud bass drifting over to her from the party that was evidently taking place on board. She looked out over the water and saw the boats bobbing at anchor. There were cargo ships and trawlers, with smaller water taxis and sampans darting between them. The Constance was still out in the middle of the channel, visible in the light that spilled across the water from a neighbouring vessel.
Beatrix was idling at the barrier when two younger men came towards her from the opposite direction. They had swagger and bounce, and their tattoos marked them out as members of one of the triad organisations that ran the Hong Kong underworld. Beatrix had been given quite an education on the triads these last few months, on the fraternities and organisations that all coalesced into the Wo Shun Wo. Yeung held them together, but, even with his influence and the fear of his name, she had seen that the larger body struggled to contain the rivalries and resentments that swirled between the constituent parts.
The two men descended the stone steps that were cut into the wall, making their way across the narrow lip that was just above the water to a line of small tenders that had been roped to barnacle-encrusted mooring rings. The tenders had outboard motors, and she guessed that they would have been used to take people out to the larger vessels. The men reached one at the end of the line and hopped down into it. The boat bobbed and the men put out their arms until they found their balance.
Beatrix turned away from them and took a moment to look around the promenade. There were restaurants and cafés, and ornate pagodas that led through to a narrow strip of parkland. Signs pointed back to the Ap Lei Chau Sports Centre and a public library; there were a handful of pedestrians making their way along the waterside, and many more enjoying drinks and evening meals. No one stood out.
One of the restaurants had two rows of outside tables set out beneath a wide canvas awning. Beatrix took one of the empty tables and ordered a drink and a bowl of noodles from the waiter. She was able to see the junk from here and, as she gazed over at it, she saw the tender that had just been commandeered apparently heading straight for it. She squinted out into the gloom as the boat passed through the chequered lattice of light that fell from the window of the boat before Danny’s. The tender rose and fell on the swell as the man in the prow swung a weighted rope around his head and released it, sending an anchor over to the larger vessel. The anchor snagged on the deck and the man used it to drag the speedboat alongside.
So, she wasn’t the only one waiting for darkness to go over to the boat.
But was she too late?
40
Morley had the second watch. Farrow had arrived three hours after him, and the two of them had grabbed a little sleep until the afternoon, when they had driven out to Aberdeen Pier, close to the jetty that offered access to the Jumbo Floating Restaurant. Schroder and Millman had been on the other side of the channel, but, conscious of the risk of standing out, Morley had decided that they would select a different vantage point. They were away from the hubbub here, although people still wandered along the promenade and idled by the stalls offering street food, music playing loudly from cheap speakers. The path had been planted with tall palm trees; the air was soupy and hot despite the late hour, and the fronds drooped limply, as battered by the heat as the people who passed beneath them. The high-rises of Ap Lei Chau sparkled before them, their reflections cast across the dark body of water.
He went up to the metal railing that marke
d the boundary of the path. There were dozens of boats. He took his binoculars from his pack and trained them on PROSPERO’s junk. The boat was illuminated in the glow from another boat that was moored close to it.
Farrow joined him. “Anything?”
“No.”
Morley handed Farrow the glasses and then reached inside his jacket and adjusted his shoulder rig; it was brand new, and it had been chafing under his arm. He checked his watch.
“Look,” Farrow said. “You see that?”
A tender that Morley had noticed earlier had drifted right up to the side of the junk. Morley took the binoculars back and, as he watched, a man secured the two vessels with a mooring line. The man shinned up the side of the larger boat and hauled himself over the gunwale, opened a door and disappeared inside the vessel.
“Two men,” Morley reported. “They look young. Can’t see much more than that—too far out.”
“What are they doing?”
“One of them went inside.”
“Shit,” Farrow said. “Better call the boss.”
“I’ll do it,” Morley said, handing the binoculars back to Farrow.
He took out his burner phone and dialled Navarro’s number.
“What is it?”
“We have a problem. A speedboat’s just tied up next to the junk.”
“Who?”
“Two young guys. Might be triads.”
Navarro cursed. “Fucking Wang.”
“You think he’s playing us?”
“I don’t know, Morley. I specifically told him to stay away from the boat, so you tell me.”
“What do you want us to do?”
“Can you get out there?”
“Not without being seen. There are people here.”
“Watch them,” he said. “Follow when they leave. Find out where they go.”
The call went dead. Morley put the phone back into his pocket. Navarro was a legendary hard-ass and not the kind of man you wanted to get on the wrong side of. Everyone working TEMPEST had been with him for years, most of them all the way back to OTHELLO and the insertion into Tora Bora after 9/11, and they all knew about his temper. They also knew how loyal he was, and how, once you were on his team, he made sure you got everything you needed. Morley had been shot in Afghanistan, a stray round from an al-Qaeda rifle that had drilled him in the gut. The mission parameters did not allow for the possibility of a medevac, but Navarro had ignored the SOP and sent a Super Stallion to go and get him out. Morley knew that Navarro had saved his life that day: he would have bled out on the sand without him.
They all had stories like that. It was why they were so loyal to him despite his temper.
“What does he want us to do?” Farrow said.
“Follow.”
“We’re on the wrong side of the channel. They came from the other side.”
“So we get over there.”
The rented Toyota Prius was parked nearby, and it took them two minutes to run back to it.
Farrow took out the map of Hong Kong that they had been given. “Back the way we came and then south on the bridge. It’s ten minutes. We’re going to need to punch it.”
Morley started the engine, swung the car through a hard one-eighty and then hit the gas, racing along Aberdeen Praya Road at fifty before swinging through the roundabout and heading for the bridge.
41
Danny took another swim, drifting in the warm water and watching the sun sink down into the horizon, the sky darkening from pastel blue to mauve and then indigo. The pool wasn’t heated, but it didn’t need to be; the sun warmed it throughout the day and the temperature never dropped far enough for the water to cool. He rested with his forearms on the rail and looked out into the darkness of the bay, watching the lights of the boats that followed the line of the coast, a handful of them heading back to the yacht club on Middle Island. He found himself thinking about Beatrix and wondering whether she had been able to get over to the Constance.
A jet carved a path across the dark sky, its lights winking on and off. Did he trust Beatrix? She was opaque and closed off, and the opium made her unreliable, but he realised—slightly to his surprise—that he did. He knew, too, that he had no other choice. She was still his best way to get a new passport and get away from Hong Kong. She was his best chance to meet Melissa, the only way for him to start the new life he had been dreaming of ever since he had found his daughter.
The thought of Melissa lingered, and he kicked over to the shallow end and got out. He towelled himself dry and then pulled on the dressing gown that he had found in his wardrobe. It was monogrammed with GS; he remembered that George had always been a little flashy. He had a half-finished gin and tonic that he had made earlier, and he collected that now and took it over to the table where he had left his laptop.
Danny opened his email and saw, with a skip of his heart, that he had a message from his daughter. The header was SEE YOU SOON. He moused over and clicked to open it. The message was brief, just the suggestion that she was looking forward to finally meeting him and that—picking up a thread from a series of previous messages—she had included a picture of her walking in the Vista Hermosa Natural Park during her California vacation last month. Danny dragged the cursor down and double-clicked. Something happened—the cursor changed into the rotating ball that indicated that the computer was working—but then the cursor resumed its usual appearance and the picture opened. He had seen the picture before from Melissa’s Facebook. She was smiling into the camera, her happiness evident.
He couldn’t wait to see her.
“Hello?”
Danny turned away from the screen.
“Danny? You in here?”
It was George Soto. Danny left the laptop and went back into the cottage.
“In here,” he said.
Soto came inside, closing the door after him. He had a bottle in his hand.
“Busy?” he asked.
“Not at all,” Danny said.
“Where’s your friend?”
“She’s in the city,” he said.
“You didn’t fancy it?”
“She’s gone to a bar,” he said, ad-libbing. “Not my thing.”
“Really? It used to be your thing.”
“Long time ago.”
“What? You’re too old for a drink now?”
“I didn’t say that,” Danny said.
“Good.” Soto held up the bottle. “You still like whisky?”
“Of course.”
Soto handed him the bottle. Danny looked down at the label: it was a Balvenie single malt.
“Fifteen years old,” Soto said. “Been saving it. I thought we could have a couple of glasses and catch up properly.”
“I wouldn’t say no,” Danny said.
42
Beatrix could just see out to the Constance. The man had been inside the boat for twenty minutes. He was making a thorough search. The driver of the speedboat had kept the engine idling; she could hear it turning over, despite the sound of the lapping water and the chug of a barge that was hauling garbage to the municipal dump.
“Madam,” the waiter said, setting down a bowl of soba noodles and a bottle of beer.
“Thank you.”
“Can I get you anything else?”
Beatrix saw motion aboard the Constance.
“No,” she said. “This all looks perfect. Thank you.”
The waiter gave a little bow and moved over to clear the plates from the table that had just been vacated to Beatrix’s right. She ignored him, her attention focused on the junk and the speedboat. The man who had boarded the Constance had reappeared. He carried a bag to the edge of the boat and lowered it carefully to the man below. The first man unhooked the grapple and slid down the hull of the junk. He landed in the tender just as the driver gunned the motor, the boat curving away from the junk and heading back to the promenade.
Beatrix busied herself with the bowl of noodles as the tender reached the moorings just twent
y feet away. The passenger secured it to a ring beneath a streetlamp, and then both men disembarked and made their way up the steps. The two of them approached the restaurant, seemingly unconcerned that they were observed, the man at the back carrying a large bag over his shoulder.
They went right by her table, climbed up the slope and headed in the direction of the construction site near to where Beatrix had left the Mercedes. She left enough money on the table to cover her bill, abandoned the bowl of noodles and followed them.
43
Morley looked at the map as Farrow drove the Prius onto the island. The guys on the speedboat had started out opposite the floating restaurant, taking their tender from the promenade opposite the position that they had chosen for their surveillance. It was just bad luck that they had been on the Aberdeen side of the channel and not Ap Lei Chau, where the previous team had been; their job would have been a lot easier without having to find them again over here. Still, as Morley looked down at the map, he saw that there really was only one way to go if they were going to get off the island: they would have to take the bridge.
They turned right, following the signs to the promenade, then left, then followed the road around to the right.
“There,” Farrow said. “You see?”
Morley saw two men walking across an open space that had been earmarked as a construction zone, heading for a parked Lexus RX. They were both young and tattooed, and one of them was carrying a large rucksack.
Morley and Farrow had been lucky.
“What’s he carrying?”
