Authors: James Patterson
HO WAS SITTING on his living-room couch, dressed in cream chinos and a polo shirt. As he rose to shake my hand, I could see that he’d shaved badly, a line of bristles missed close to his chin.
“What’s happened?” I asked heavily.
“Dai has disappeared. I called his cell and home number half a dozen times. Went to his apartment. No response. I let myself in. There were signs of a struggle. A gun had been fired into the wardrobe.”
“Any blood?”
Meng shook his head, gazed at the plush cream living-room carpet.
“And you haven’t contacted …?”
Ho looked up. “No, Mr. Gisto, I haven’t called the police.”
I sighed. “There’s more, isn’t there?”
“A ransom note. Same as before. Either I do as they say or my son dies.”
The man looked drained, his skin almost translucent in the light from ceiling halogens.
“An ultimatum?”
“Midnight tonight. I say ‘yes’ or Dai …”
I nodded.
“And there was this. He leaned over to a side table, picked up a small cardboard box, removed the lid and handed it to me. I peered inside and saw an ear nestled in a bed of bloodied cotton wool.
“This changes everything,” I declared. “Forget about us trying to catch the two goons who kidnapped and killed Chang. We have to get the police involved and go much higher up the gang hierarchy.”
Ho closed his eyes for a second.
“This has gone too far for Private to deal with alone,” I insisted. “And actually, by not going to the police you’re in danger of breaking the law yourself.”
Meng sniffed at that but slowly nodded. “I know.”
PAM HEWES HAD just checked on the kids. They were both sound asleep. She went back downstairs and found a half-empty bottle of white wine in the refrigerator, plucked a glass from the cupboard over the sink and was walking through to the living-room when she heard a sound from outside the front door.
She froze and listened. Nothing but the regular domestic sounds, the washing machine in the laundry going through the end of its cycle, the distant hum of traffic on Military Road, fifty yards away. Then it came again, a scratching, shuffling sound from just the other side of the front door. She tiptoed across the hall and put her eye to the spy-hole.
There was nothing unusual there, the garden path, the gate to the street. A face reared into view making Pam scream and stumble back in shock. The glass and bottle slipped from her hand and shattered on the wooden floor sending wine and shards of glass across the hall.
“Pam? It’s me,” came a fractured voice.
It took her several seconds to recognize it. She yanked on the bolt and pulled the front door inwards.
Geoff stumbled into his house, unshaven and disheveled.
“My God, Geoff!” she exclaimed. “What the hell happened?”
GEOFF PULLED HIMSELF upright, winced, but lifted a hand. “I’m okay.”
“You don’t look okay, darling. You’re cut.” She went to touch Geoff’s face.
“It’s alright, Pam … really.”
“What can I get you?”
“Look, I need to make a call.”
“What?”
“It’s super urgent. Then I’ll have a shower and eat something.” He pecked her on the cheek, turned toward his study and shut the door behind him.
Pam couldn’t resist listening at the door. She heard Geoff walk round his desk, tap at the phone, then start to talk.
“Brian.”
Pam could just make out the words. Her husband was speaking deliberately softly.
“Listen, buddy, I’ll tell you about it when I see you,” he said. “What’s happened at my Mosman place?… Yeah, Chester Street … Yeah … yeah. Damn, I knew it!”
Quiet for a moment.
“So, Loretto’s guys just turned up and ripped out the cameras? When? Bastard! Right, Brian … listen. I want you to go back to Chester Street tonight … Yes, tonight … I’ll pay you extra … yeah … come on!… Don’t worry about that … I want those cameras reinstalled.”
Quiet again.
“It’s got nothing to do with you, Brian. Don’t worry about Loretto … he won’t touch you … Yeah … I’ll take the responsibility … Of course I will … Good. Right, you got it then? Tonight … Right away. I’ll show that fucker …”
THERE WAS A bad atmosphere in the briefing room at Police HQ.
Five of us in the room, Mark Talbot, Brett Thorogood, a senior detective called Matt Yender who was in command of the police assault force, Ho and me. The Deputy Commissioner was commanding proceedings from the head of a large table.
“Mr. Ho,” Thorogood said, looking directly at the man. “You know these people better than any of us. Do you have any idea of the identity of the men behind these crimes?”
Ho sat still as a statue. In one sense he seemed to have diminished but in another way, he’d grown. He now possessed some sort of Zen-like calm that to my eyes covered a seething anger and horrible pain.
“As you are aware, the lead operatives in Sydney are the Lin brothers, Sung and Jing,” Ho said stiffly. “They are 426s.”
“Which means?”
“The Triads have clear distinctions between ranks and positions in the gang. They are each given numbers based upon the
I Ching
numerological system. The leader of the Triad is 489. His name would be ‘The Mountain’ or ‘The Dragon’. I believe the
gang in Sydney is a fragment of the Noonan, perhaps the most powerful of the Triads. The Dragon, the 489, is a man named Fong Sum. I met him once in Hong Kong. He’s there now.”
“So he’d be like a Don in the Mafia?” Talbot asked.
Ho nodded slowly. “There are many differences, but very broadly speaking, yes, he would. He controls a global network. The Sydney gangs are just a small part of it.”
“And the Lin brothers … how many people work for them?” Yender asked.
“That I do not know for certain.”
“Ballpark?”
“I would estimate perhaps forty to fifty foot soldiers in the city,” he responded.
“Foot soldiers are the rank and file, right?” Thorogood queried.
Ho nodded again. “They are known as 49s. I would suggest the men who abducted Chang and later Dai would have been their best 49s, men who are working their way up the pecking order. This would have been a big job for them.”
“As this whole heroin project is for the Lin brothers too,” I remarked.
“Indeed.”
“Okay,” the Deputy Commissioner said. “So do we have a consensus as to what to do next?”
I watched Ho, waiting for him to respond.
“I have come to the conclusion that the only chance we have of saving my son is to convince the gang that I will do what they want.”
“And that will provide us with a platform for a sting operation,” I added.
Mark looked at me with contempt. “Us?”
“We are happy to provide any assistance you wish,” I said directly to Thorogood, giving my cousin nothing. “But we’re not going to be part of this unless we’re armed – like the rest of you. My assistant, Mary Clarke and I are licensed to carry firearms.”
“I appreciate your contribution,” the Deputy Commissioner responded, looking directly at me. “I think we can work together on this.”
HO MADE FIRST contact from his home phone about 11 pm.
The cops were at the house with tracking equipment. Talbot, Yender and Thorogood were there to babysit. I had Mary and Darlene with me this time.
Ho tried to keep the call going, but the foot soldier at the other end wasn’t dumb. The call ended before the police expert could locate the caller to less than a square mile. Ho gave the anonymous Triad member a cell number. The guy clicked off before saying when he would respond. We just had to wait.
“We brought along some technology that might help,” I said. Mark gave me his usual contemptuous look, but Yender and Thorogood were all ears.
Darlene paced across the room carrying a couple of small boxes, put them on a low table and opened the lid of the top one. Then she plucked out a cell and removed the back cover. “Put your SIM in here,” she said to Ho Meng. “When they call you we can get a better trace on them than with the conventional gear.” And she flicked a glance at the police operator with his suitcase-sized tracking unit resting on the couch close to the home phone.
Darlene then picked up the second box, prised open the lid.
We could all see inside. A white pad with a black dot the size of an aspirin on top. “A micro transmitter,” she said. “We can place this anywhere on your body and it’ll pick up conversations and relay them to a receiver. You’ll be close by in a van, right?” Darlene asked the cops.
“I’ll be with the assault unit,” Yender replied. “Inspector Talbot will be in the van.”
I glanced at him. He ignored me.
“Okay.” Ho nodded. “So what happens now?”
Thorogood looked up. “We’re ready when they are. Just need the word.”
JULIE O’CONNOR HAD fallen asleep in front of
Australian Idol
and was dreaming about her father again. In her dream, none of the bad things had happened. He was still alive. She’d finished school, gone to college, become a Police Forensics officer.
She was woken by the crowd on TV roaring and shrieking as the winner was announced. And it all came rushing back – the reality of her life. She closed her eyes again and there was her mother screaming at her. When she hadn’t reacted, Sheila had begun to torture her. She had kept her locked in her bedroom for days, forced her to shit in a bowl left stinking in the corner, gave her only beetroot to eat.
Later, the torment got worse. Sheila would tie her to a chair in the kitchen, gag her and burn her arms with cigarettes.
On her eleventh birthday, the first since her father’s death, she received nothing. Then, just before bedtime, Sheila tied her to the chair again and told her that if she made a sound she would have her feet put in the fire in the lounge. Her mother had then pulled out an incisor with a pair of pliers.
This treatment continued for four years. She could never say a word for fear of worse torture. She hid the scars and the
marks, made excuses for every lost tooth, every bruise. Then, one day something snapped inside her.
On the evening of her fifteenth birthday, Julie knew she would be in for a traditional ‘gift’. As Sheila busied herself getting ready to go out, Julie slipped a kitchen knife into the back pocket of her jeans.
Her mother appeared in the doorway to the kitchen. She was wearing far too much make-up. There were two lengths of cord in her left hand.
“In the chair.”
When she didn’t move, her mother began to smile. Took a step toward her. “At last …”
Julie pulled the knife from her pocket and swung it round, stopping two inches from her mother’s face.
The woman screeched, the smile vanishing instantly.
“You! In the chair,” Julie hissed. And when her mother didn’t react, she’d moved the knife an inch closer.
She tied Sheila with the cords meant for herself, gagged her with a tea towel and then brought the knife to the center of her forehead.
Sheila was shaking, her eyes filled with terror and hatred.
Julie had moved the knife a fraction of an inch, scoring her mother’s flesh. The woman screamed under the cloth but it came out as nothing more than a muffled hum. Julie heard a rush of liquid and saw her mother’s urine flow over the front of the chair and onto the floor.
“You didn’t once make me do that, you useless bitch!” the girl announced proudly. She pulled the knife away and pocketed it again, turned and walked out.
THE CALL FROM Lin Sung came ninety minutes later, close to twelve-thirty. Listening to Ho manage the call, I could see how he’d been such a successful cop in Hong Kong and then made a lot of money with his businesses in Australia.
Darlene had an iPad on her lap and with a new App sent over from Sci’s lab in LA she could pinpoint the caller in under ten seconds. It was impressive, but actually not much help. Lin was calling from a payphone outside Luna Park in North Sydney.
“We would like to meet you,” Lin said, his voice coming softly through a small speaker away from where Ho stood. The words went straight to a digital recorder.
“You will have my son?”
“Not this first time.”
“Then there will be no meeting.”
Silence from the other end. I held my breath.
“You are hardly in a position to negotiate, Mr. Ho.”
Ho paused for a moment. “I entirely disagree.”
Lin gave a small laugh. “Ah! A little game of bluff.”
“I’m not bluffing.” Ho’s voice was stony.
Another, longer pause.
“Very well. We’ll bring the boy. But we will only consider an exchange if all our conditions are met. Do you understand?”
Ho said nothing.
“I’ll assume that is a ‘yes’, Mr. Ho. And if you invite a third party to our meeting, your son will be killed before your eyes.”
When Ho still did not speak, Lin said. “Blackball Reserve, forty-five minutes,” and hung up.
WE WERE ON the freeway ten minutes short of Blackball Reserve near Manly when the agreed rendezvous was changed. I was in my car, Mary in the police surveillance vehicle with Mark, and next to him, a plainclothes officer driving. A hundred yards ahead of them was Ho’s Bentley which he was driving alone. The news came from Mary calling my cell. “New destination,” she intoned wearily. “A warehouse near the airport.”
We all turned off at the next junction and headed south. I couldn’t see the Bentley, but kept a steady distance back from the cops. My car was fitted with a police tracker set to a broad range of frequencies. I could hear their comms and knew Central Control had quickly redirected the assault team in a chopper to the new location. They’d be much faster than us and in position before we got there.
We reached the place in thirty minutes, pulling up fifty yards short of the warehouse. I parked behind the surveillance vehicle and ran over silently, watching Ho’s car vanish into the shadows. Mary opened the sliding door and I climbed in. Mark and an operative were at the controls. We could hear every sound Ho made through the tiny transmitter.
“Assault Officer 1,” the operative in the van said. “This is Control, come in.” AO1, I knew, was Matt Yender.
“Control. We’re in position. AO4, 5, 6 and 7 are in a small room across from the main warehouse building. I’m with AO2 and 3 the opposite side. I have visual contact with Mr. Ho’s vehicle.”
A screen on the wall of the control-room of the van lit up with a night vision video feed from AO1’s helmet. It showed a fuzzy image of Ho’s Bentley entering the derelict warehouse, lights ablaze. It stopped, Ho dimmed the lights and the image improved dramatically.
As we watched, a black Mercedes with tinted windows, registration LS1 entered through the north end of the dilapidated building. It crunched over the pitted floor strewn with pieces of metal and crushed concrete, stopping twenty feet short of the Bentley.
Ho stepped out of his car, took a couple of paces toward the Merc. The car’s engine was still running, rear doors opened each side. Two men slipped out. They were slender, black-haired figures. The slightly taller one of the pair was Lin Sung. He was dressed in his usual vintage narrow-lapelled jacket and skinny tie. His brother, Jing, was in a blue tracksuit, white trainers. They walked slowly toward Ho as the driver clambered from the front of the Merc to stand by the hood.
“It’s a pleasure,” Lin Sung began, and put out a hand which Ho studiously ignored.
“Where is my son?”
Lin Sung chuckled and flicked a glance at his brother. “There is great value in patience, my friend.”
“I’m not your friend.” Ho looked from one brother to the
other. “I’m here to make a deal with you as we provisionally agreed.”
“Yes, and …”
“I want my son released,
then
I will cooperate.”
Sung sighed, cackled.
“You find it funny?” Ho asked coldly.
“You don’t?” the younger brother butted in. His voice was oddly effeminate, completely at odds with his macho stance.
“Ho’s hanging tough,” I whispered to Mary who was standing beside me in the police van.
“Hope he doesn’t overdo it.”
I turned back to the screen and saw Lin Sung take a step closer to Ho. “We have the boy,” he said slowly, “but we need assurances. Surely you understand that? If we return him to you, what is to say you will cooperate?”
“You have my word.”
It was the younger brother, Lin Jing’s turn to produce a half-assed laugh. “Ah! Your word!” he said, nodding his head. In an instant his mirth had vanished and he pulled a gun, a Type 64, from his waistband. His brother, Lin Sung, saw it and glared at him, but he didn’t flinch.
Ho looked from one man to the other.
“This isn’t going well,” Mary hissed in my ear.
Yender’s voice came through the comms. “Hold positions. No one move ’til I say.”
Sung deliberately moved closer to his brother and slightly in front of him. “We are all reasonable men,” he said and tilted his head slightly as he appraised Ho Meng. “I understand you want your boy back, but you have to put yourself into our position, Mr. Ho.” Then he turned and snapped his fingers at the
man standing by the hood of the Merc. He walked to the back door and opened it.
“You may see your son.”
The driver leaned in and helped Ho Dai climb out. The young man’s hands were tied behind his back and he looked petrified. He had a bloody wound where his left ear had been. He caught sight of his father and went to speak. “Say nothing!” Lin Jing barked, then whirled round to Ho again, his gun raised.
“There. Your brat’s safe. Now we talk.”
“What is it you want from me?”
“At last …!” the younger gangster exclaimed, but his brother cut over him.
“Your business provides a perfect cover for one of our … trade plans.”
“Drugs … You want me to get heroin in.”
Sung smiled, nodded.
“And in return?” Ho flicked a look at his son who was still standing by the car, the driver gripping his right arm.
“When you have proven your worth, he will be released.”
Ho gave Sung a venomous look. “No deal,” he said and started to turn.
“You mother-fuc …” the younger brother bellowed and began to squeeze the trigger of his Type 64.
“GO!” yelled Yender through the comms.