Tempest

by Mark Dawson

  He ended the call and turned to Schroder. “You hear that?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Get over to Stanley. There’s a car parked near the main house. Take that. Get them out.”

  Schroder nodded and jogged outside, heading up the slope to the bigger of the two houses.

  Navarro was left with Harker and Millman. “Let’s hurry it up,” he said.

  The two men grabbed the unconscious PROSPERO and hauled him outside.

  Navarro led the way back up the sloping driveway to the gate. It was open, and the car that Schroder had stolen had just passed through it, the engine rumbling as it accelerated away. Harker and Navarro waited with PROSPERO while Millman went ahead to collect the SUV. He returned with it, parking the vehicle just outside. Harker grabbed PROSPERO’s shoulders and Navarro took his ankles and, shielded from the road by the SUV, they waited for Millman to slide back the door before they maneuvered the old man inside. They arranged him so that he was sitting with his weight against the side of the door, clicked into place with a safety belt.

  “Go,” Navarro said.

  Millman put the SUV into drive and set off, turning onto Repulse Bay Road and heading north.

  Navarro leaned back in his seat and allowed himself a moment of congratulation. It had been a well-organised operation, and, as soon as they returned to the safe house, he would be able to report success to Lincoln. It seemed possible that the whole sorry affair could be brought to an end this evening.

  Navarro glanced up into the rear-view mirror and looked back at PROSPERO’s recumbent form. He had already decided that he was going to put an end to him. It would be a simple enough matter to achieve. They would suffocate him, take him out into the harbour and toss his body overboard. He had been drinking tonight, and it would not take much conjecture to reach the conclusion that he had been on his junk, had got drunk and then fallen overboard. The two dead bodies at the house could be explained by way of a violent robbery gone wrong. Millman had already located the security cameras and had wiped the most recent recordings from the hard drives. The local police were competent, but that, at least, would slow them up. There was nothing to connect Navarro or his team to those deaths, and there would be nothing to connect them to PROSPERO’s, either.

  “Shit!”

  It was Millman. Navarro was turning away from the mirror to look back at the road ahead when he saw the vehicle approaching from a turning to the right. It was moving too fast for him to identify it other than it was a small van and that it was headed directly for them.

  Millman tried to swerve in order to avoid it, but there was not enough time and nowhere to go. The van slammed into the SUV between the front wheel and the driver’s door, shoving them hard to the left and spinning them all the way around.

  Navarro was blasted forward. The airbag deployed, his head sinking into it before his momentum was reversed and he was yanked back hard against the seat.

  They spun around again, crashing through an island in the road and eventually coming to rest against the metal barrier that marked the side of a bridge over a creek.

  Navarro sat still, dazed. He could smell the propellant from the airbag, could taste the dryness of the talcum powder lubricant in his mouth, could hear the sound of fluid dripping to the ground. He opened his eyes. He felt woozy. He tried to move his arm, but it caught against the belt. He wriggled it loose, touched his forehead, probed it, and felt the slickness of fresh blood.

  He felt as if he was going to be sick, fought it down and managed to turn his head. Millman was slumped forward, held in place by his rigid belt as his own airbag slowly deflated. His eyes were closed, and there was blood on his face. His door had crumpled into him, and the window was gone.

  “Sir?”

  It was Harker.

  “I’m okay,” Navarro said. He raised his head. Two cars had just screeched to a stop. The doors opened and four men got out, two from each vehicle. They were all carrying firearms: two had shotguns and two had pistols. The two with shotguns took positions at the front and back of the SUV, aiming into the cabin, while the other two went to the door next to PROSPERO and opened it.

  Navarro grimaced with pain as he turned his head to see them better. They were Chinese; both had buzz cuts, and both had tattoos across the exposed skin of their arms. One had a dragon design across his face, the tail disappearing down into the collar of his T-shirt. He shoved his pistol into the cabin while the other reached over and unclipped PROSPERO’s belt. They grabbed the old man, dragging him out of the vehicle and across the road to the nearest car.

  Navarro fumbled for the belt release, his bloody fingers sliding over the button, unclipping himself just as the first car screeched away. He reached up for his pistol, pulled it out of the holster and took a dizzied aim through the windshield. The second car fishtailed as the driver punched the gas. Navarro fired once, and then again, both rounds blasting into the side of the car, both failing to prevent it from racing away.

  He heard the approach of another car. He looked up and saw a Toyota Prius emerging from around the bend in the road. The driver saw the wrecked vehicles before him and flicked on the hazard lights as he slowed to a halt.

  “We need that car,” Navarro mumbled.

  Harker opened the rear door and got out. He waved his arm above his head, signalling to the driver of the Prius, and then limped over toward him. The driver had his phone to his ear, most likely contacting the emergency services. He opened his door and got out just as Harker reached around to his holster, pulled his pistol and shot the man at point-blank range.

  Millman exhaled and pushed himself away from the deflating airbag. Navarro glanced over at him; his nose was streaming blood and his right eye was inflamed, a purpled bruise already closing it up. Harker ran back to the car and opened Navarro’s door. He reached in to help him, but Navarro brushed his attention away.

  “I’m all right.” He gestured over at Millman. “Get him.”

  Navarro pulled himself out of the wreck as Harker ran around to the other side and helped Millman to exit. He thought he heard the up and down wail of a siren somewhere down the road, and, calling out that Harker should hurry, he hobbled over to the Prius.

  54

  Beatrix drove back to Repulse Bay. It took her ten minutes to reach Soto’s property; she used the remote to open the gates and drove inside, bypassing the main house and pulling up outside the cottage.

  She had the bag that she had taken from Wang’s property on the seat beside her. She opened it up and took out the contents. There were two old tape cassettes. She glanced at the labels, still legible despite the passage of time: each had been inscribed with the name of the interviewee—the first was Eñuol and the second was Ksor—the date, and then Danny’s initials, DLN. There was more: an old military ID card, Army ID papers, a pair of dog tags on a chain necklace, and a decent amount of money. She put the tapes into her go-bag, zipped it up, and went into the cottage.

  “Danny?” she called.

  There was no reply.

  She lowered the bag to the floor, opened it and took out the Ruger.

  She had a bad feeling.

  “Danny?”

  She stayed where she was for another minute, straining her ears.

  “I’m back.”

  She couldn’t hear anything save the buzz of the insects in the trees outside. She held the pistol in a loose grip and cleared the rooms one by one. She checked Danny’s room and noticed that his duffel bag was still there.

  But there was no sign of him.

  She saw that one of the French doors that opened out onto the terrace was slightly ajar. She pushed it back and eased herself outside.

  George Soto was slumped against one of the wicker chairs, his arms hanging loosely at his sides. His shirt was sodden with blood, and more had pooled around his legs.

  Gut shot.

  Dead.

  She went back into the house. She grabbed her go-bag and Danny’s duffel and hurried o
utside. She got back into the car, turned it around and started back up the slope to the road.

  55

  Danny slowly came around. He opened his eyes and could see nothing; he blinked, checking that his eyes were, in fact, open and, after confirming that they were, he started to panic. Still nothing. He held his breath and listened; he heard the sound of an engine, the sound of tyres running across asphalt. He felt motion and was jostled to the right and the left. His knees were pressed up to his chest, and his shoulders were bunched together. He tried to stretch out his legs, but he could not; his feet pressed up against something solid almost at once. He had been put into a particularly confined space.

  It was then that he realised: he was in the trunk of a car.

  He remembered what had happened—Navarro, George’s shooting, the cloth pressed to his mouth, the darkness that had overwhelmed him—and the panic grew stronger.

  Navarro had drugged him and put him in the trunk.

  Where was he taking him?

  The car slowed down, swung sharply to the left, and then drew to a stop. Danny was cramping from being curled in the trunk, bumped and bruised after being thrown this way and that with every corner that they had negotiated during the journey. He had no idea how long he had been like this. Time was difficult to judge in the darkness.

  He heard the doors open and the sound of footsteps coming around both sides of the vehicle. The lid of the trunk opened, and a little artificial light was admitted. He saw two men, their features hidden in the gloom, and felt their hands on his shoulders, fingers knotting into his jacket, and, without a word being spoken, he was half-dragged and half-lifted out of the trunk. His feet found the ground, but, as he tried to bear his weight, his muscles cramped painfully. He slumped down, strong hands holding him up on either side. He felt fingers at his wrists, heard a slicing sound, and then the cuffs were gone. His arms were raised and then draped across shoulders on his left and his right.

  He looked around. He saw a loading bay, dumpsters, a set of steps up to a concrete dock and then a solid metal door. He was brought up the steps and taken through the door into the building, where he was dragged along a plain corridor to an elevator. The doors slid open and he was taken inside. The elevator began to climb. There was a ping as the car came to a halt, and then the doors opened.

  He looked around.

  He was in the back room of the Eight-Ball. Michael Yeung was standing before him.

  “For fuck’s sake,” Danny said, indignation overwhelming his sense of relief. “You prick.”

  “Danny.”

  “Come on.”

  “No ‘thank you’?”

  “Was all that necessary?”

  “Did you think I would send you a limousine?”

  “No, but I didn’t think you’d put me in the trunk of a car.”

  “I wish I could say I was surprised by your lack of gratitude, but I’m not. You would have been floating in the harbour if it wasn’t for Huang and the others.”

  Michael gestured behind Danny. He turned: Jack Huang, the head of Yeung’s security detail, was standing at the side of the room with his arms folded.

  “You’re not going to thank him?”

  “Thank you,” Danny said awkwardly.

  Huang showed no reaction to his words; he stared at him impassively.

  Danny turned back to Michael. “What happened?”

  Michael nodded to Jack. “Tell him.”

  “You were taken from your friend’s house. They had drugged you. We stopped the car that they used to drive you away.”

  “How did you know where I was?”

  “Beatrix,” Michael answered.

  “She’s been to see you?”

  “She was concerned about you. With good reason, it would seem.”

  “What about the Americans?”

  Huang shrugged. “The police were coming. We had to leave.”

  Yeung unbuttoned his jacket and took it off, hanging it over a nearby chair. “Is there anything you would like to say?”

  “Are you going to make this harder than it needs to be?”

  Yeung gave a half smile and moved over to a table. He pulled out a chair and sat down. Danny followed, still stumbling slightly, and did the same. Yeung clicked his fingers and one of the girls who worked the bar downstairs came over to them.

  “Sake,” he said. “Two glasses.” He turned to Danny, his eyes impossible to read. “We have a lot to discuss.”

  56

  Danny fidgeted. He hated confrontation, and he knew that there were things that Yeung would want to discuss that he would expect him to apologise for. Yeung said nothing; he sat with his hands folded on the table in front of him, waiting for Danny to make the first move. Danny bit down on his lip, tried to think of the best way to start—he couldn’t—and then gave up and just decided to put it out there as best he could.

  “Look—I’m sorry, okay? I said some things that I didn’t mean. But can’t we forget it and move on?”

  “As simple as that?”

  “I said I was sorry. What more do you want?”

  Yeung sighed. “Frankly, I am disappointed—”

  Danny held up his hand to interrupt him. “Jesus, Michael, you can be a sanctimonious gau sometimes. I’m disappointed. You said some things, too. I worked with you for forty years. I thought that might mean I got a little more respect.”

  Huang was listening, an eyebrow cocked in surprise. Danny knew that not many people would have had the brass balls to disagree with Yeung like that, but he was past caring. Someone had boarded his boat, the potential deputy director of the CIA was keen to find him, and he had just watched an old friend get shot. How could it get any worse?

  Yeung paused and then looked up at Huang. “Go,” he said. “I want to speak to him alone.”

  Huang nodded and left the room, the bartender following behind.

  When Yeung finally spoke, it was without the brusqueness. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Tell you what?”

  “Beatrix says you are worried about your health. Your…” He paused, then laid his fingertips against his forehead. “Your memory.”

  Danny sighed. “She told you that?”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I didn’t really want to talk about it,” he said. “I still don’t.”

  “It explains a lot. It was your judgement that was concerning me.”

  “What about it?”

  “Persuading me to use a foreigner to do sensitive work for us.”

  “‘A foreigner?’ You mean Beatrix? Are you serious? You’re still questioning her?”

  “I am not judging her—she is impressive, in many ways—but she is not Chinese. She does not understand the way that things are done here.”

  “You never complained about how she did things before,” Danny said heatedly. “You do know that Wang was tipped off, right? That what happened wasn’t her fault?”

  “Yes, because she went to the CIA to ask for their help. How foolish! Or will you defend her for that, too?”

  Danny shook his head. He knew that he should take a breath and calm down, but Yeung could be insufferable, and someone had to tell him. “I knew you were ungrateful, but this is something else.”

  “Ungrateful? Really? Yet you are here, after I rescued you from a mess of your own making, and you still don’t see my point of view. After everything, you are still defending a dope-addicted gweilo we hardly know.”

  “Charming.”

  Yeung stopped. They both turned.

  Beatrix was in the doorway.

  “Really, Michael. That’s very hurtful.”

  “Beatrix, I—”

  “I’ve been called some things before, but that’s a new one. ‘Dope-addicted gweilo.’ You shouldn’t mince your words. Say what you mean.”

  She came inside, went across to the bar and grabbed the bottle of sake that had been left there. She unscrewed it, put it to her lips and took a long slug.


  “Fuck,” she said. “I needed that. What a day.”

  There were two ceramic cups—sakazuki—on the bar, and Beatrix brought them over. She put one cup next to Yeung and one next to Danny and poured generous measures into both.

  “Be good boys,” she said. “Have a drink and make up.”

  She held the bottle over the table, encouraging them to drink with her. Danny relented first; he reached for his sakazuki and held it up. He looked across the table at Yeung and, for a moment, worried that Beatrix had offended him. His face was stern, but, like clouds moving across the sun, his expression cleared; he smiled and gave a low, throaty chuckle. He took the second sakazuki. They both touched the cups to Beatrix’s bottle.

  “That’s better,” she said. “Now, then—we have a lot to talk about. Shall we get started?”

  57

  Beatrix put the bottle down and dropped into an empty chair. She was exhausted. The day had been testing, and she felt like she had been on edge for hours. The adrenaline was gone now, and she was beginning to crash.

  “Where have you been?” Yeung asked her.

  “You asked me to take care of your Jimmy Wang problem.”

  Yeung gave a shallow nod. “And?”

  “I took care of it.”

  “He’s dead?”

  “Deader than disco.”

  Beatrix took out her phone, selected the picture that she had taken of the body in the lounge of the house in Stanley, and slid it across the table.

  “I was right about the CIA,” she said. “Wang was working for Lincoln and Navarro. He sent two of his men to Danny’s boat. They took these.”

  She took her go-bag from her back, unzipped it and removed two plastic cassette cases. She put them on the table.

  “I did have them,” Danny exclaimed.

  Yeung picked up one of the cases. He opened it and took out the tape that was stored inside.

  “This is the evidence you mentioned?” Yeung said.