by Andy Maslen
“I plan to. Someone needs to sort out Zhao Xi’s affairs. He doesn’t have any family. Can I get back into the house?”
Lu nodded. “I’ll call ahead.”
At the house on the hill, the crime scene officers were still in the dojo, pottering about in their white Tyvek suits and pale-blue nylon booties, but nobody tried to stop Gabriel as he made his way to the office. Sitting at the chair behind the desk again, he picked up the envelope marked with Zhao Xi’s handwritten note on the outside and opened it. Inside was a single sheet of paper on which, in elegant handwriting, Zhao Xi had listed the name, telephone number, email address and street address of a firm of Hong Kong-based solicitors – Ophelia Tsang & Partners LLP – as well as a name and a mobile number. For a partner at the firm, Gabriel assumed.
He called the mobile number. It went straight to voicemail:
“Hello. This is Kenneth Lao. I’m sorry I can’t take your call right now. Please leave your name and number and a brief message, and I will call you back.”
“Hello, Mr Lao. My name is Gabriel Wolfe. I am calling to let you know of the death of one of your clients. His name was Zhao Xi. Please call me back as soon as you can.”
He left his own mobile number, then hung up.
Suddenly overwhelmed by fatigue, he sighed heavily and closed his eyes, letting his head hang back and his arms flop slackly by his sides.
He had no urge to cry anymore. Just a slow-burning rage banking up inside him, a surge of lava just below the crust of his sanity, waiting for the narrowest fissure to open, through which it could explode, immolating anyone in its path. He pushed himself back until he was balancing the chair on its two back legs, his own dangling like pendulums, the back of his head bumping gently against the wall behind him.
This was a frustration unlike anything he had ever experienced, in his military career or since. An identified enemy, but one operating not only outside the rules of war, but also the plain old criminal law. A shadow, unseen by any law enforcement agency except as the unknown perpetrator of hits from Macao to Mexico City. He’d met her, but seemingly only because she’d wanted him to. Now she was flying round the world killing the people dear to him, and he could do nothing about it. Or not precisely nothing. He rocked forward suddenly, eyes wide. How could he have forgotten? He had the client’s name: Erin Ayers.
Forget Sasha Beck for now. He could track down Ayers, and through her, get to Beck. Then he would kill the assassin and save Ayers for last.
While he waited for the lawyer to call back, he Googled “Erin Ayers.” He found plenty of women with the right name, from nurses to lawyers, horse trainers to scuba instructors, but they all seemed far too respectable to be hiring top-end assassins. His profile, such as it was, ran:
Extremely wealthy
Criminal connections
Psychopathic/obsessive personality?
Sees themselves as an avenger of a crime against authority.
Calls themselves “Fury” – knows the classics – private education/Oxbridge/comes from rich family?
Personal grudge against me (met me?)
None of the apparently ordinary women with social media profiles or websites for their home-based businesses fit that particular bill.
He tapped a number in his contacts. It belonged to Fang Jian’s personal hacker, a young guy who called himself Wūshī – the wizard. Wūshī had helped Gabriel track down a US defence contractor, a piece of research that had ended well for Gabriel, but less so for the defence contractor.
Wūshī answered on the first ring.
“My man! Speak to me!”
Gabriel couldn’t help smiling at the try-hard American accent the young man affected. Given Wūshī’s prowess behind a computer keyboard, Gabriel would have forgiven him for speaking like John Wayne.
“Hey, Wūshī. How are you?”
“I’m good man, I’m good. Still doing my thing for our mutual friend, you know?”
“Yeah, I know. I need a favour.”
“Sure, man, anything. Hope it’s something more challenging than calling up some half-assed secure corporate website like last time.”
“Try this. I’m looking for someone called Erin Ayers. And before you ask, yes, there are hundreds of women called that according to Google, but I have a strong suspicion the one I’m looking for isn’t on Facebook.”
“OK. You got my interest. Give me a little time and I’ll call you back.”
Just then, Gabriel’s phone vibrated in his hand. Call waiting. He said a quick goodbye to Wūshī and accepted the incoming call.
“This is Gabriel Wolfe.”
“Mr Wolfe, ah, this is Kenneth Lao, of Ophelia Tsang and Partners.”
“Thanks for calling back, Mr Lao. You heard my message?”
“Yes, I did. And I am terribly sorry for your loss.”
Gabriel frowned. “How do you know it was my loss? I could have been anyone reporting Zhao Xi’s death to you.”
“No, Mr Wolfe. You could not. I have known all about you since you were a boy. Can you come to my office? We need to talk face to face.”
Ghosts
KENNETH Lao’s office was on the nineteenth floor of a glass-and-steel office block on Chater Road, sandwiched between two huge retail outlets: Louis Vuitton and Giorgio Armani. The building was directly above a five-way junction heaving with cars, motorbikes, bicycles, taxis and Hong Kong’s blue-red-and-yellow double-decker buses. Having passed through the layers of uniformed building security, main reception, and Ophelia Tsang & Partners’ own receptionist, Gabriel was ushered in to the office of Kenneth Lao.
It was, he thought, elegant. The only word to describe it. The walls to the left and right of the large mahogany desk were finished with matching built-in bookcases, in which ranks of legal books stood shoulder to shoulder, as if defending the law through their own, leather-bound stolidity. Behind the desk a floor-to-ceiling window gave out onto the International Finance Centre, the harbour beyond that, and, across the water, the skyscrapers of Kowloon. But it was the man behind the desk, rising now to greet him, hand outstretched in welcome, who interested Gabriel.
As they shook hands, Gabriel appraised the lawyer. Mid-sixties, athletic build, smooth skin blemished with acne scars, and a sharpness about the eyes that the crinkles at their outer corners did nothing to disguise. His suit was well cut in the style Gabriel thought of as “high Hong Kong style” – narrow lapels, a sheen to the soft brown fabric and a narrow profile that accentuated the older man’s physique. In his leather jacket, T-shirt and jeans, Gabriel felt underdressed.
“Please, Gabriel, sit. Tea? Coffee? Something stronger? I have some very fine Japanese whisky. I confess, since receiving your call, I have had recourse to it more than once.”
Gabriel checked his watch; it was seven thirty. “A whisky would be good.”
“How do you take it?” Lao said, crossing the thick, dark-blue carpet to a red-and-gold lacquered cabinet that opened to reveal glass shelves full of bottles, cut-glass tumblers, and a chrome ice bucket and tongs.
“Straight please, Mr Lao.”
Lao turned, smiling. “Please, call me Kenneth. Here. Let us toast our dear friend.”
Gabriel took the tumbler in which an inch of dark amber liquid swirled smokily and clicked it against Lao’s.
The whisky’s aroma was heady, and once the volatile alcohol molecules had dissipated, he could savour the whisky’s perfume: he could smell the dried fruits and spice of a Christmas pudding, chocolate below that, and just a hint of cloves. He took a sip, rolling the spirit round his mouth before swallowing. No fiery hit, just an instant, all-pervading warmth that made him sigh with satisfaction, or was it relief to have found a friend in Hong Kong?
“Good?” Lao asked, placing his own tumbler on the blotter in front of him.
“Extremely. What is it?”
“That is Suntory Yamasaki Sherry Cask 2013. It was a gift from a grateful client.” Lao dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper.
“Thirty-two thousand Hong Kong dollars for a single bottle. The Japanese win all the international whisky competitions nowadays.”
“Have they stopped mixing it with Coke, too?”
Lao laughed. “Oh, there are still plenty of Philistines out there, I assure you, though most prefer hot or cold water, depending on the season.”
He paused and Gabriel sensed this was his cue to begin talking. Then his phone vibrated in his pocket.
“I’m sorry, do you mind if I check this? It could be important.”
“Please, go ahead.”
Gabriel pulled out his phone. It was a depressingly short text from Wūshī.
Erin Ayers = ghost. Not on dark web. Not anywhere. If she = real, she = super powerful. Be careful.
He replaced the phone in his pocket, his face impassive. Holding his tumbler lightly, and tilting it this way and that so that the whisky caught reflections from the downlighters in the ceiling, he asked his first question.
“Did Master Zhao talk about me to you?”
“Often. He and I were great friends as well as client and lawyer. We sparred at his dojo whenever I could get away from,” he swept his arm around the office, taking in the books with their gold-tooled spines, “all this. When you were growing up, he shared your achievements and,” a pause, a smile, a nod, “occasional setbacks. He was very proud of you, you know.”
Gabriel nodded, felt a lump solidifying in his throat, then tried to melt it with another slug of the whisky.
“I know. And now he is dead. Because of me.”
Lao steepled his fingers and rested his chin on their tips.
“How so?”
Gabriel explained, once again, the events that had brought him to Hong Kong, too late to save Zhao Xi.
“You must not blame yourself for Xi’s death,” Lao said, once Gabriel had concluded his narrative. “The person to blame is his killer, and her client. This Erin Ayers person. Do you have any idea who she is?”
“No. But I’m working on that. My employers also have intelligence resources, so I hope I’ll be able to find her soon.”
“And then?” Lao said, frowning.
“And then I will take care of things.”
Lao touched his fingertips to his lips. Then spoke.
“Good.”
“Good? I thought you’d tell me to go to the police.”
“I have been a lawyer for many years now. The law is a wonderful mistress. She has provided for me and for my family. And I do believe I have played my part in serving justice. But from what you tell me, this woman is beyond the reach of the legal system. So I say to you, do what you believe to be just. And if you need any help from me or my firm, you must only ask.”
Gabriel let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding in.
“Thank you, Kenneth. Can we talk about Master Zhao’s things now, please?” He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and withdrew the slim envelope from Zhao Xi’s desk drawer. “I found this, which led me to you. Do you have his instructions for a funeral?”
Lao nodded. “Do not worry. I have all Xi’s papers. I will take care of the funeral arrangements. There is something else you should know while you are here.”
“What?”
“As I think you know, Xi had no living relatives. His parents died some time ago, and he was an only child, unmarried to the end. We will need to complete probate on his will, but I can tell you informally that you are his sole beneficiary.”
Gabriel blinked. He hadn’t given the idea of a will a moment’s thought. It made sense, though. He’d been like a son to his master.
“What does that mean?”
“Well,” Lao said in a more formal tone, straightening in his chair and unsteepling his fingers, “his assets were substantial. And now they are yours. The house, of course. Some investments. And then there is his collection.”
Gabriel felt he was being played a little. He knew the lawyer was enjoying this part of the process, even in the midst of his own grief at losing a friend.
“Collection?”
Lao nodded, smiled again. “Xi collected jade. His collection is one of the best in Hong Kong, if not the mainland. You must have seen it during your time with him?”
“I can’t remember. To be honest, I was always more interested in the practical side of his life. The figurines on his desk. Were they part of it?”
“The monk, the fisherman and the dragon? Yes. Not the most valuable pieces, but probably worth around nine hundred thousand Hong Kong dollars each at today’s prices. The mainland Chinese are very keen.”
Gabriel’s eyes popped wide as thought of the little carved figures standing in plain view on Zhao Xi’s desk. “That’s—” was all he could manage to croak out.
“About three hundred thousand pounds at today’s exchange rate,” Lao said, with what appeared to Gabriel to be a lawyerly satisfaction.
“How, I mean, are there more than that? You said a collection.”
“Altogether, I believe Xi had amassed somewhere in the region of thirty pieces. You are a rich man, Gabriel.”
In his hotel room that night, Gabriel lay on his back on the wide double bed, trying to make sense of the day’s events. At a stroke, literally, since the police had called him to confirm that his old master had been killed by a single thrust from a katana, he had lost one of the few people he had ever truly loved and become the possessor of property, artworks and investments in Hong Kong worth upwards of four million pounds. Add the US bearer bonds now sitting in a vault in Zurich and he was a very rich man indeed. A very rich man around whom people were dying. Good people. Blameless people. People whose only besetting sin was to have been friends with Gabriel Wolfe. He was a plague. A virus. Come into contact with him, and death was a certainty. His best friend in England, gone. Two former comrades, gone. And now his mentor, the man who had saved him from himself and turned him into a man, gone. Gabriel felt hollow inside. No tears came, though. In their place, a darkness intensified behind his eyes, like an oncoming storm, bruised charcoal-and-purple thunderheads swelling and boiling, with sickly yellow forks of lightning spearing down and killing everything in their path. Erin Ayers and her paid hitter Sasha Beck were about to discover the true meaning of fury.
Double-booked
WHILE Gabriel tossed and turned in his hotel room, searching for sleep, Sasha Beck was leaving hers. She was due back in England, but had accepted, on the spur of the moment, another hit. Normally she didn’t double up on assignments, but the client was one of her oldest, and the target was a soft one: a businessman with some unsavoury connections was blocking her client from acquiring a formerly state-owned oil pipeline in Siberia. Plus, and this had been the clincher, the target was in Hong Kong too, booked to fly to Paris that night.
“And they say there are no such things as coincidences,” she said to herself with a smile as she zipped her soft, black leather bag closed and moved to the bathroom.
In her travels, Sasha had met – and learned from – a great many professional people. Not exclusively killers, either. Just people with skills she thought she might find useful one day. Or, simply, that intrigued her. On a trip to Los Angeles a few years earlier, she’d found herself in the San Fernando Valley, home to the city’s porn industry. In a bar after her day’s work, she’d got talking to an attractive, if dull-eyed, blonde who told her about her work in “the life” as she called it: basically, sex work, from movie-making to prostitution, nude-modelling to trading sex for favours, and occasionally drugs.
The blonde gave her name as Sherry, “you know, like how the French say, ‘sweetheart’?” Sasha bought her another martini or three and quizzed her about her work. The conversation turned to the tricks of the trade and a day later, Sasha found herself in Sherry’s apartment, learning to suppress her gag reflex by practising blow jobs on a banana. “You learn how to deep throat, baby, and you can get a better fee for the scene, know what I’m sayin’?” Sherry had said in a lazy, floaty voice Sas
ha ascribed to pills or the half-smoked joint held loosely between her first and second fingers.
Now, in the harsh, white light of her hotel bathroom, Sasha looked in the mirror and held up a slim, white, plastic cylinder from which a length of nylon thread dangled. The cylinder was the approximate size and shape of a tampon. On the marble sink-surround in front of her was a tiny bottle labelled methylone. The drug, which she’d bought from a pleasing young woman earlier that day in a club, was a little chemical backup for Sherry’s teaching. Sasha unscrewed the lid and took a sip. Instantly she felt the hit as the drug crossed the blood-brain barrier and streaked along her brain’s serotonin pathways. She retched once, dryly, then smiled as the sensation of nausea passed, and with it, her gag reflex, as the responsible vagus nerve became desensitised and shut down.
She smiled at herself in the mirror.
“Here goes nothing,” she said, then poured the remains of the methylone onto the plastic cylinder, placed it in her mouth and swallowed.
She felt a little discomfort as it went down, but that was all. And down it stayed. Sasha trimmed the nylon thread so that she could conceal the end in her cheek.
The target was a South African named Krit Pender. Finding him would be child’s play. First, security.
Finding no weapons, fireworks, matches, bottles of liquid, or blades of any kind in her luggage, or about her person, the attentive security officer waved Sasha through.
She immediately went to the information desk in the departure lounge and asked them to page Pender, explaining that she was his secretary. The smiling young woman at the counter was only too happy to oblige, especially as Sasha had spoken to her in flawless Mandarin, explaining that her phone had no signal inside the airport. The woman bent to the stand-microphone on her desk, flipped the button in its base and spoke.
“This is a message for Mr Krit Pender. Please come to the departure lounge information desk on level one. Mr Krit Pender, to the departure lounge information desk on level one.”
