The Black Dragon (17 page)

Danny turns to Zamora and mouths the words “Charlie Chow.” Zamora raises his eyebrows.

Chow steps back from the door and hits the touchscreen on his phone. He cocks his head sharply, listening. Inside the apartment, the phone behind them on the desk starts ringing again.

The voicemail clicks in again. “Jules Ricard. Please leave a message—”

Chow snaps his phone shut irritably and shoves it in his pocket.
He didn't dial the full number
, Danny thinks. Must have had the number stored. Or he's replying to Ricard. So they know each other for sure.

The man stares at the door again, as if defying it—and then stumps away down the stairs. He's got a jiffy bag in his hand, and he shoves it into a jacket pocket as he goes.

Danny makes up his mind. “Come on, Major. We're going to follow him.”

“You sure about that?”

“We'll see where he goes. Then come back to meet Ricard.”

“You heard what he said. About triads, Danny. I'm responsible for you—”

“Shared responsibility, remember? We'll keep to public areas. It's broad daylight, after all.”

Zamora jams his hat back on his head. “Well, I'd rather be doing something than sitting here twiddling my blinking thumbs.”

Danny takes a piece of paper from the desk and scribbles on it:
Back very soon. Danny
.

They merge into the thick crowd in Tsim Sha. Chow is just about visible ahead—his burly form parting the crowds as if he owns the very pavements. A big shark among small fish, top of the food chain.

Zamora grabs a free copy of the
Hong Kong Standard
from a stall as they go.

“Camouflage. Come on, we'll lose him in a moment.”

Chow marches along, looking neither left nor right. Not once does he glance over his shoulder. Danny keeps watching him. He'd look around, wouldn't he, at least now and then, if he thought he was in any danger himself? And he's going toward something, not away from something. Pulled, not pushed. More hunter than hunted? It's hard to say.

Zamora, seeing Danny's focus on Chow, takes up the guard, scanning the pavement for trouble, watching each scooter or parked car with care.

Chow crosses against a pedestrian light, oblivious to the oncoming traffic, and Danny and Zamora have to scramble to get across the road themselves, keeping their quarry in sight, dodging taxis and delivery vans.

“Let's close it up a bit, Major. He's not looked round once.”

The big man turns into a side street, then makes a fade left, moving fast, his jacket flapping, before suddenly ducking right into a camera shop.

“He's on to us,” Zamora says.

“No. I think he's going through the motions. Just in case.”

They enter the bright interior of the shop, disorientated a moment in the sharp lights, mirrored displays. Chow is jogging heavily toward a door at the rear.

Danny and Zamora whisk across the polished floor and follow him out the same way, through the corner of a congested mall and out again, just in time to see Chow march onto an escalator and disappear into the underground rapid transit station. The sign overhead says TSUEN WAN LINE, HONG KONG ISLAND.

“I wonder if we're heading toward the bad guys,” Zamora puffs. “Or even your aunt?”

“Only one way to find out,” Danny says. “Keep following. To wherever he's going.”

The station concourse is crowded. Chow has slowed, presumably sure he has done enough to fox anyone who might be tailing him.
Who does he think might be following him?
Danny wonders.
Not us, surely
. More likely it's other triads. Or the cops. He watches as Chow wafts a card over the reader at a barrier and strides through.

“Tickets!” Zamora says, fumbling in his pocket for change and squinting hard at the machine, trying to work out the system.

“No time, Major.”

Danny swipes a couple of discarded tickets from the floor. Brushes the dust off them against his jeans. “Come on.”

He strides up to a bored-looking guard on one of the gates. No time to waste.
Look into my eyes, right into them. That's it. Weird to see two colors, isn't it? Distracting.

“We just bought these and they won't work on the barrier.”

The man looks down at them, but Danny moves them in a quick tight circle. “They're good!” he says, nailing the tone with a chopping motion from his hand on the barrier.

The guard blinks, nods. Then opens his gate and waves them through.

Zamora chuckles to himself as they hoof it down the descending escalator, but there's no time to dwell on the success. Chow's out of sight on the packed escalator . . .

They hustle past the commuters, pushing past bulging shopping bags . . .

And at the bottom there's no sign of him. They can hear the hiss of an approaching train, the hot breath of wind surging through the station. There's not much time.

“Which platform? North or south?” Zamora shouts over the noise, glancing at the line information on the wall.

“The Island,” Danny says. “South.”

“How do you know?”

“Just a guess.”

The train comes thumping out of the dark maw of the tunnel alongside the crowded south platform. Danny jumps up onto a bench and, amidst the jostle, catches a glimpse of Chow boarding a carriage at the far end of the train.

“Got him, Major!”

He jumps down and pushes through the crowds, with Zamora following close behind. They're just a carriage away from the end of the train when the alarm sounds and they duck through the sliding doors in the nick of time.

The train pulls speed from the rails, diving under the harbor, back toward Hong Kong Island.

Catching his breath, Danny stares out at the dark tunnel walls. It seems that Mum or Dad or both of them must have known Ricard personally. But if so, how? And if Chow has come calling on Ricard, does that mean the triad-turned-businessman can be trusted? It's like one of those Venn diagrams in math. There's a circle for “trustworthy” and one for “dangerous.” He can be fairly sure that Ricard belongs in the first one and believes—hopes—that Sing Sing sits there too. And Tan would be there if he was alive. Ponytail and the Black Dragon are in the second one, obviously. But how big is the overlap? Who is in that shady area in the middle?

He shakes his head. An announcer rattles off a burst of Cantonese. Then English: “Next station: Admiralty.”

Danny peers into the front carriage. Chow is standing near the doors.

“Is he getting off?” Zamora says as the train slows. “I can't see.”

No. Chow's body is heavily set. Shoulders down. Energy passive. “Not going anywhere yet.”

The doors swish open, passengers pushing to get off, others to get on. Chow has his eyes on the floor. Then suddenly his head swings their way. Danny's been waiting for that: he just has time to flip up the newspaper and cover his face. And then the train is pulling away again.

“Last stop coming up,” Zamora says. “Central. Sure you don't want to head back to Ricard?”

“I'm sure. If he does spot us then we can just have it out with him on the street. Not much can happen to us if we're surrounded by other people.”

The pre-recorded announcer is calling out the stop.

“All change. All change!”

22

HOW TO HIDE IN EXOTIC UNDERWEAR

The crowds in Central are even heavier, and they take the chance of closing right up behind Chow as the escalator carries them back to the surface, the muggy air wrapping itself tight around them again.

“Let's be very careful about this. God knows who might be hanging around here,” Zamora says.

A police car is parked outside the exit to the station. Chow's feet hesitate for a second, and then he ducks close along the buildings, shielding himself from the patrolmen with the other pedestrians. So he's wary of the police. What does that mean? If he's dodging the good ones, then that makes him suspect. If he's trying to hide from the crooked ones, then he could be in with the “trustworthy.”

Whatever happens, they mustn't lose him now.
Need to make sure we're not seen by the police
, Danny thinks.

There's a raucous teenage school group coming toward them down the street and, as the boys jostle past the subway exit, Danny tugs Zamora by the sleeve, maneuvering them in among the noise and good humor. One of the boys swipes the major's bowler and tries it on, laughing. Safely shielded in the group, they allow themselves to be swept past the squad car and around the next corner.

Chow is still in sight as they detach from the push-pull of the teenagers. Zamora snatches back his hat, and they hurry to close in on Chow as he turns inland. Above them now the Peak rears up above the skyscrapers, its lush summit towering over the harbor.

Chow jinks right on one corner and then left on the next. And then suddenly his feet change their rhythm, hesitating, skipping a beat. As if he's about to turn around.

“In here,” Danny hisses, simultaneously pulling Zamora through a shop doorway—just as Chow spins around on his heels.

The assistant in the exclusive lingerie shop eyes them quizzically as Danny and Zamora hover in the doorway, peering between the frilly bras on a rack.

“Can I help you, gentlemen? Perhaps something for a lady in your life?”

“Er, no thanks,” Danny says, surveying the racks of underwear with some alarm. “Come on, Major.”

“Reminds me of the Aerialisques' trailer!” Zamora says nostalgically, hesitating for a moment —and then he hurries after Danny. “Wait up . . .”

When they catch sight of Chow again he's moving toward a curved building that sits squat on the next corner. His pace is slowing, as he gathers his solidity around him. A ray of sunlight splashes on the sign, picking out the words: HONG KONG PEAK TRAM.The railway itself runs at an improbably steep angle away up the hillside, cutting between the buildings, dodging under a flyover and twisting out of sight. High above, the Peak soars against the wind-torn clouds.

But Danny's attention is snared by a small figure sitting on the station steps. It's Sing Sing.

His first thought is of how pleased he is to see her, and he almost calls out her name. But then he hesitates.
We want to see what Chow's up to, after all. And maybe we don't want him to see us
.

And something more. Sing Sing has set her shoulders tight in a defensive posture. She's not feeling at ease. He watches her carefully now as Chow approaches. Her head is buried in some kind of manga, trying to look like she's not waiting for someone. But her left foot is tapping away at the stone steps, all her anxiety focused into that one part of the body.

“Let's watch what happens,” Danny says, slipping into the shadow of a doorway.

Sing Sing looks up at Chow, who does no more than nod in greeting before reaching inside his jacket. He takes the envelope and gives it to her, talking quickly. Sing Sing nods twice, then thrusts the jiffy bag away in her backpack, the big sunglasses still cloaking her eyes.

The firm line of her mouth gives nothing away as she watches Charlie Chow turn, step out into the road and hail a taxi. She waits impassively until Chow is safely in his cab, then tosses her manga away into a bin and turns to stride into the Peak Tram Terminus.

Danny's eyes follow her until she's out of sight, then move to see Chow's cab negotiating its way into the traffic. There are three options: follow Chow, follow Sing Sing, or split up and follow them both.

“What do you think?” Zamora says, clearly computing the same choice.

“Follow the envelope. That's more important than who's carrying it, I reckon.”

“Could be misdirection. Like when magicians want people to look one place so they don't look another—”

Danny shakes his head. “That envelope's heading to someone. We need to find out who. We'll keep on Sing Sing's tail.”

Zamora's watching Danny's face closely. He smiles: “Hey, Mister Danny. You're not developing a bit of a fancy for old Sing Sing, are you now?”