Kavanaugh sat down on the porch railing. He heard the flapping rustle of wings overhead and he reflexively jumped, biting back a curse. The trilling cry of a night bird did not comfort him. He half expected to hear the clacking screech of the archeopteryx, flying out of the darkness to bite off his nose. It wouldn’t be the first time Huang Luan had attacked and inflicted scars on him.
During the struggle to cage the feathered monster, it had latched onto his thumb and damn near gnawed off the top joint. Recollecting the incident, he stared at the black peak rising above Big Tamtung, wishing he had the courage to take Huang Luan back there, but the archeopteryx had become accustomed to being pampered and dining on the occasional dead sailor.
Memories tumbled over each other in his mind, as they always did when he looked at the pinnacle of volcanic rock while his belly was full of bourbon. After resigning from the Air Force eleven years before, he had gone into partnership with Augustus Crowe and formed an exclusive travel agency that specialized in guiding people with stratospheric credit ratings to very exotic, very off-the-beaten path locales around the world. The more money a certain type of person had, the more they yearned for rare and unusual experiences.
Very often, those experiences involved the outright breaking of international and sovereign laws. Kavanaugh knew the world’s back alleys, the places most people wouldn’t think of visiting, even if they knew they existed.
Crowe could sail any kind of vessel, from a tugboat to a three-masted schooner. He had made his living piloting motor sailers through the Panama Canal to the Caribbean and back again. Several times he’d brought craft over from the Shanghai and Singapore boatyards.
In the
Krakatoa
, Crowe escorted seekers by sea and in a second-hand Cessna, Kavanaugh conveyed them by air. Sometimes they combined the modes of transportation. The Upper Amazon, the Himalayas, the Congo and even the interior of New Guinea—no place was beyond the reach of Horizons Unlimited, as long as it was not out of the reach of a client’s bank account.
One of Horizon’s repeat clients was Howard Flitcroft, a man who had amassed several fortunes through real estate development. Even while on vacation, the man was always tuned in to the opportunity for profit.
When the tsunami decimated coastlines along the Indian Ocean and South China Sea, Kavanaugh and Crowe turned their skills and vehicles to delivering aid on behalf of several international relief agencies, coordinated by Howard Flitcroft and his companies. During that period of chaos and suffering, Kavanaugh made the acquaintance of the beautiful Bai Suzhen, a former nightclub owner turned representative of the White Snake triad, one of the twenty-four affiliates of the United Bamboo Society.
As he had with Flitcroft, Kavanaugh found enough commonalities on which to build a friendship of sorts. Although Bai Suzhen could not have been more different from Flitcroft than if she had fallen from another planet, the two people shared a disquieting similarity in their ability to sniff out rare business opportunities.
Kavanaugh and Crowe fervently wished they possessed the same talent. After the tsunami, all they thought about was money and ideas of how to make more, but they were fast running out of both.
Then, when a storm squall drove Kavanaugh’s Cessna far from the shipping lanes, instead of thousands of empty miles of ocean waiting in the darkness, he'd found the rarest of business opportunities. Flying over a pair of islands all jungle green with occasional black outcroppings of volcanic stone, Kavanaugh and Crowe realized they had rediscovered what was the left of the Tamtungs, originally charted nearly three centuries before, but never explored.
He wasn’t overly surprised to find the islands. He knew that many clusters of tropical mud heaps existed between the Celebes and Sulu Seas. There were hundreds, maybe even thousands of them. No one really knew how many.
Kavanaugh piloted his plane over the deep-shadowed valleys of Big Tamtung, and although the scenery was beautiful, he wasn’t inclined to linger—not with a cargo compartment full of perishable and exceptionally valuable antibiotics.
Then, as the treetops streaked by beneath the shadows cast by the Cessna’s wings, he glimpsed another pair of wings. Huge and leathery, they were attached to a body that for an insane instant reminded Kavanaugh of a plucked turkey, but the creature didn’t look like a turkey in any other particular.
The long beak that snapped at his passing plane was spiked with a mouth full of sharp, conical teeth and he knew he looked at a pterosaur, flapping down an unmarked back alley of the global village. He also realized he looked at a fortune.
Upending the glass, Kavanaugh drained it of bourbon. Thunder rumbled faintly in the distance, but he didn’t see lightning reflected on the surface of the sea. On some nights he painfully felt the absence of the sounds of civilization—the rumble of trains, the blare of car horns, the distant drone of jet airliners.
The dead heat and silence touched him with the shuddery feeling that life itself had melted and poured into the gutters of Little Tamtung. Vague tendrils of mist coiled along the shoreline, writhing like souls trying to escape the dark purgatory of the sea.
He knew how they felt.
Four kilometers off the coast of Sarawak, Borneo
Bai Suzhen stood on the pitching mahogany deck of the launch as it approached the
Bao Kù Chan
. The treasure ship of the United Bamboo Society reminded her of a gigantic jeweled water bug, bobbing on the dark surface of the Sulawesi Sea. Colored lights and paper lanterns flared incandescently from the rigging of the big craft.
Although a junk like her own vessel, the
Bao Kù Chan
was twice as broad in the beam and length as the
Keying
. The ship had very high poops and overhanging stems, looking somewhat top-heavy because of the exceptionally tall pole masts and huge sails with batten lines running entirely across the fore and afterdecks. The three masts held huge sheets of ribbed sailcloth, folded up as neatly as paper fans.
The evening breeze sweeping over the flat surface of the ocean held a cool touch, but it was far from chill. The setting sun cast streaks of copper and gold over the hulls of the motorized sampans, launches and water taxis clustering around the four boarding ramps that extended down from the ship’s starboard side.
The sight of so many watercraft was a familiar one to Bai Suzhen. Although Chinese by birth, she had grown up around the open canals and klongs of Bangkok, which were always crowded with fishing boats, sampans and dugouts.
The pilot of her launch expertly ran the boat alongside a VIP ramp, so close that the hull scraped the aluminum edge. Then he reversed the engines, backing water into a smother of foaming spray.
Bai Suzhen stepped from the deck to the foot of the ramp, waving away the proffered hand of an attendant. Her two bodyguards, Dang Xo and Pai Chu followed her. They wore European-cut black business suits and narrow black neckties over spotless white shirts. Double-edged, flat-bladed jian swords rested in lacquered scabbards strapped across their backs. They wore their weapons openly, as was the custom of Ghee Hin soldiers.
Bai Suzhen went up the steps of the ramp swiftly, her stilt heels tapping out a snare drum rhythm on the metal risers. She was slim of build with the soft, matte tan skin of the northern Chinese. Her face was smooth and calm, with high cheekbones under contemplative almond eyes. A touch of lipstick outlined her wide mouth, damp now with a misting of salt spray. Her straight black hair was drawn up into a thick chignon on the crown of her head and made her appear taller than five foot six.
She wore a satin kimono jacket of scarlet and a black silk sheath skirt slit up to mid-thigh. The high military collar of the jacket did not detract from the elegant column of her throat. Bai Suzhen could feel the eyes of the ramp attendant upon her. Although the glimpse of her leg visible between edges of the skirt’s slit alone was tantalizing enough, she also knew the serpentine tattoo that writhed up from the ankle and slithered around her small kneecap riveted the man’s attention. The delicately detailed scales were edged in gold ink and the twisting body itself colored in tints of blue and green, with white highlights.
She knew the men she would meet with might be offended by her mode of dress, particularly by the golden imperial dragon of old Peking embroidered on her jacket, but she didn’t care. Nor did she fear their disapproval. Beneath her jacket she carried a CZ75 autopistol, snugged in a nylon shoulder rig.
As she reached the deck above, the smells of incense, burnt grease and human sweat became more pronounced. To her, the odor symbolized greed and therefore profit. It was a fitting scent for a treasure ship like the
Bao Kù Chan
.
The vessel combined the best elements of a floating bank with that of the classic den of iniquity, while maintaining the fine Asian tradition of organized criminality. Over a century before, pirates plying their trade in the South China Seas and Indian Oceans rarely headed for land after successful raids.
Instead, they deposited their plunder in an offshore bank owned by one of the Tongs. Soon, the concept of a floating vault was blended with that of a seagoing pleasure palace pandering to all tastes, however mundane or perverted. The United Bamboo Society had further streamlined the template and turned the
Bao Kù Chan
into the primary vault and money-laundering center for all triads with interests in east Malaysia.
Bai Suzhen hated the ship, knowing that too often young girls and boys were lured onto it with the promise of employment, only to end up addicted to drugs and forced into prostitution.
A huge pavilion built like a pagoda arose from amidships. Double rows of colored light bulbs illuminated the wide entrance, which blared forth with a cacophony of Cantopop music. Bai marched down the passageway, wincing at the volume and the incomprehensible, screeched-out lyrics. She still found it difficult to believe that the tawdry palace of pleasure was anchored only four kilometers from the port city of Sarawak. Although modernized, the
Bao Kù Chan
was still little improved from an opium den and gambling hell from the old Tong days.
Dong Xo and Pai Chu shouldered a path through a crowd of elegantly dressed Arabs and Japanese businessmen on holiday. A French woman with a sun-pinked face shouted angrily at the three people but closed her mouth when Bai Suzhen cast her a cold glare.
Flanked by her bodyguards, Bai climbed up a short flight of stairs to a balcony that ran around all four walls of the pavilion. She looked down into a casino decorated with Chinese lanterns and rotating mirror balls that reflected distorted birds-eye views of the blackjack, roulette, Pai-kow and Fan-tan tables. The beeps, burps and bells of electronic slot machines added to the clangor.
Barely audible over the noise rose the murmur of a dozen languages, as varied as the clothing styles worn by the men and women clientele—white dinner jackets, saris, Malay sarongs and bajus. She also glimpsed young men and women in Western-style garb and fashion—Chinese girls with breast implants, bleached blond hair, made up to resemble Paris Hilton and boys who affected the dress and swagger of American gangsta rap stars. She didn’t understand the intercultural mimicry, nor did she care to. She classified everyone who patronized the
Bao Ku Chan’s
as mental dwarves, hopelessly stunted by avarice and desperation.
Bai Suzhen moved around the balcony. On the walls were cages filled with parrots, cockatoos and birds of paradise. She felt far more pity for the captive birds than the people who gambled away their savings at one of the rigged games in the ship’s casino.
The balcony led to a carpeted hallway decorated with delicate Chinese porcelains behind glass cases. At the security checkpoints, the uniformed guards greeted her with deferential bows. The corridor ended at a door of teakwood. Seated on facing benches were the bodyguards of the other members of the conference. The soldiers of the Ghost Shadow and Blue Lotus triads were dressed identically to her own Ghee Hin, except they didn’t carry swords.
Bai Suzhen didn’t need to tell Dong Xo and Pai Chu to remain behind. Silently, they took seats on the benches, hands resting on their knees. She pushed opened the heavy slab of wood and entered a formal indoor garden, lit by glowing lanterns with sculpted shrubbery surrounding a central court. When she closed the door, the din from the casino became little more than a faint mutter.
In the center of the court rested a long, low table of black enamel. The surface was intricately carved and inlaid with ivory and jade figures depicting pagodas, tigers and elephants. Seated on cushions around the table she saw Zhou Zhi, mountain master of the Blue Lotus triad, and Jimmy Cao, vanguard boss of the Ghost Shadows.
“Chi dao.” The harsh, whispery voice sounded like it bounced around inside a cast iron throat and then passed a pair of rusty steel tonsils on its way out into the world. Bai Suzhen ignored Zhou Zhi’s observation that she had arrived late. She bowed toward the woman who sat at the head of the table. Lady Hu, the wáng hòu of the White Snake triad was very old, incredibly wrinkled, her bone-white hair tied back in a bun. She wore a layered silken robe of burgundy, embroidered with gold thread in dragon forms and tiny figures of Manchu nobility.
“I am actually two minutes early, grandmother,” Bai Suzhen said in Mandarin.
Lady Hu nodded, gesturing with one trembling hand that she should seat herself at the opposite end of the table.
Zhou Zhi snorted. The middle-aged Asian’s flabby pectorals and enormous belly strained at the buttons of a yellow silk shirt that barely contained his girth. His crew-cut dark hair was as stiff and grizzled as the bristles on an old hog’s back. Barely visible within the creases and folds of the man’s triple chins wealed the trace of a cicatrix scar, the memento of a long-ago throat cutting.
“No woman is ever late,” he said in a voice barely above a slurred whisper. Bai Suzhen knew that Zhou Zhi had suffered a minor stroke a few years before due to his obesity. He had never fully regained his faculty for speech, although his appetite remained unaffected.
“Late or early, let’s get down to business.” Jimmy Cao said impatiently, consulting his gold Rolex wristwatch. “I’ve got a date.”
A young man in his mid-twenties, Cao wore a tailored black business suit and snakeskin cowboy boots with thick soles and high heels to make him feel five feet six instead of five feet four. To Bai Suzhen, he looked ridiculous with his thick black hair slicked up and combed back in a high pompadour, which added another inch to his height. Long wispy sideburns barely covered a scattering of acne on his cheeks.
“And I have an appointment with a masseuse,” said Zhou Zhi.
“Oh, please,” Bai Suzhen murmured wearily.
“No, really,” he said defensively, slipping off the Italian loafer from his right foot. He probed the instep with careful fingers and grimaced. “I’ve got a condition.”
“Let’s do this thing,” said Jimmy Cao impatiently. “Condition, my ass.”
Lady Hu’s seamed face turned toward the young man. “Business such as this cannot be rushed.”
Jimmy Cao uttered a snicker of derision and placed the filtered tip of a cigarette between his lips.
“Please do not smoke,” said Lady Hu.
Cao ignored her, setting fire to the cigarette with a gold-plated lighter engraved with the ideograph of the Ghost Shadows.
Reverting to English, Bai Suzhen asked coldly, “You like the bling, don’t you?”
Cao didn’t answer. He drew in a mouthful of smoke, then exhaled slowly, defiantly in her direction.
Zhou Zhi said bluntly, “Our investments in Cryptozoica Enterprises haven’t made a penny’s worth of a return. The two year time limit has expired.”
Bai Suzhen turned her attention to the heavy-set man. “I am well aware.”
“Then maybe you’re aware that we’re calling the note due. One hundred and forty million dollars...with interest.”
“My triad doesn’t have that kind of available cash.”
“There are some assets. We want them liquidated and all of the interests sold off. We’ve already found you a buyer. Or he found us.”
“What’s his offer?”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Jimmy Cao.
“You expect me to sell off everything without knowing how much he’s willing to pay?” Bai Suzhen asked, arching her eyebrows.
“A small return is better than none,” Lady Hu said quietly. “Our holdings in this part of the world are already imperiled by political unrest and the vicissitudes of the weather.”
“United Bamboo ain’t a philanthropic organization, babe,” Jimmy Cao stated, lapsing into English again. “The motive is profit and profit is the motive. The white serpent of good fortune ought to know that.”
Zhou Zhi slid a slab of a hand into his jacket and brought out a tri-folded brochure. “The Blue Lotus invested in Cryptozoica Enterprises because you presented what seemed to be a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to own a large piece of a legitimate and self-perpetuating tourist and pharmaceutical venue. We were fools to expand our base in such a way.”
He slapped the full-color Cryptozoica brochure down on the table in front of Bai Suzhen. She did not so much as glance at it. She knew it by heart—she had actually designed the logo and had final approval over the copy. She had even chosen the color scheme.
Although she understood Zhou Zhi’s issues, she had little sympathy for them. Over the last five years, the White Snake triad had drawn the majority of its profits from legitimate businesses in Hong Kong, Shanghai, Singapore and Sydney. The Blue Lotus and Ghost Shadow triads still employed the old ruthless Tong tactics of murder-for-hire, extortion, houses of prostitution, gambling dens and drug trafficking.
“The nightclub makes no money,” Lady Hu stated almost sorrowfully. “Nor does the brothel. The housing development produces no rent revenue. Obviously there are no tourists. You hold the mortgage on a very expensive aircraft that does not make flights. We have been patient, but now it’s time to sell everything and get on with our normal business practices.”
Jimmy Cao blew another stream of smoke and said in English, “Cryptozoica, my ass…like we’re the goddamn Disney Corporation or some stupid shit like that. We invest in casinos and whorehouses, not tourist destinations.”
Although it wasn’t easy, Bai Suzhen managed to maintain her composure. “People still live on Little Tamtung. They have no other means of making a living or anywhere else to go. Most of them are refugees from countries devastated by the tsunami. They came to Tamtung to make new lives, working for Cryptozoica Enterprises.”