The Black Dragon (23 page)

31

HOW TO PUT YOUR CARDS ON THE TABLE

Pugga pugga pugga . . .

An engine is rocking Danny slowly awake.

This one is solid, steady, in no rush. It fills his ears, slowly drowning the sounds of his fathomless sleep.

His head feels heavy and it throbs in time with the engine.

But he's not quite ready to surface yet. His memory is spooling, looping . . .

. . . pulling him back to that last week in the Mysterium. There was already a tumble of emotions pulling at him then. Things he's tried to forget. A bad atmosphere around the encampment all that week. The cold weather blowing in and tightening muscles, hardening faces against the wind and snow. Mum and Dad arguing again, sharply, on the trailer steps, for all to hear.

Mum snapping, “It's going to catch up with you, Harry.”

And Dad, his voice ragged, “Lily. We all have our pasts to deal with! You should know that!”

And she slammed the door on him.

When he had nagged Dad again about having a look through the Escape Book, he had picked the wrong moment and been told so in no uncertain terms. Very unusual in itself—and it sent him to bed upset, confused, a sense of injustice nagging away. A feeling that the world was out of balance, and that they were poised above a great drop.

Later, he saw the two of them sitting at the big table, silhouetted against the brightly lit big top, holding hands quietly. Reconnecting, repairing. The bulbs over the entrance to the tent still pulsing out WONDER CHAMBER into the lengthening night.

That was good. But why would nobody tell him what the trouble was? It was as if he was incidental to the story developing around him—whatever that story was—and surely he was a part of it, even if no one would explain what was going on.

The next night Danny put his plan into action. In the dead hours, long after midnight, he dressed quickly, grabbed his pocket torch, sprang the Escape Book from its hidden recess in the cupboard, and stole out into the night.

On the far side of the encampment was the prop store. Always a favorite hideaway for Danny, sitting up amidst the stacked flight cases and trunks, making a comfortable den from the crashmats, surrounded by walking globes, silks and coiled ropes, cyr wheels, and the rest of the Mysterium's paraphernalia. Blanco's scruffy dog, Herzog, would often come and find him there and snuggle next to him, snoring rhythmically, reassuring him. The hum of the generators nearby masking any other sounds.

But that night it was hard to get comfortable in the cold. And no sign of Herzog to keep him company. He was trying to keep warm and focus on the pages of code near the back of the Escape Book—hoping to gain some kind of enlightenment but unable to make head or tail of the squiggles there—when Rosa came bowling in, switching on the light, startling him.

She raised her eyebrows in two peaked arches, just like she always did when introducing the next act of the Wonder Chamber show.

“
Ciao
, Danny. What are you doing here?”

“Just having a rest.”

“Does your papa know where you are?” She turned and hurriedly put whatever it was she was carrying to the back of the store, out of sight.

“Yes.”

“I bet.” She looked him in the eye. “Tell you what—I've got some
ribollita
stew on the stove. How about some to warm you up,
bello
? Then I'll take you back over to Harry and Lily.” An offer too good to refuse—he was addicted to Rosa's Italian home cooking. He followed her back to her trailer, watching the tattooed roses on her calves peeping over her boot-tops, incongruous against the snow.

He was halfway through the warming, satisfying soup, ladling up beans and carrot, when the alarm was raised.

Fire! Fire!

They both jumped from Rosa's trailer, feet crunching the frozen ground, racing toward the flames curling upward in ragged question marks, discharging into the sky. Herzog came bounding over, barking furiously. And some of the Klowns following him. And Blanco too. And then Zamora and more of the company—until all of them were gathered together, staring in horror.

The trailer burning fiercely. Fresh snow falling through the long February night, the flakes sizzling, evaporating.

And eventually fire hoses dousing the pillar of flame.

But too late.

He was too late . . .

Danny swims up to consciousness—to brightness—from out of the depths.

Figures blur in his eyes. The engine chugging away . . .

He blinks hard and takes a deep breath, realizing that he is alive, that the flurry of images that came with the blow to the head wasn't his life flashing before his eyes . . .

Where am I?
Not the Mysterium. That was all memory. Dimly, he's aware that what he's just recalled is the most sustained burst of memory about the night of the fire he's ever had. Things are loosening in his mind.

“Danny? Mister Danny?” Zamora is bending over him. His powerful short figure rising and falling, rising and falling.

A quick burst of Cantonese cuts across the engine, the slap of waves.

“Back off,” Zamora snaps. “I just want to see if he's OK. Make sure you haven't done any permanent damage, knucklehead.”

“I'm OK,” Danny says slowly. He sits up, looking around, letting his focus sharpen.

They're in a small fishing boat, under a dirty brown awning, the sea surrounding them on every side, brimful of light, dazzling.

The ever-present stench of fish comes from a tangle of nets near them. Zamora is sitting next to him, his wrists bound with yards of gaffer tape, his face expectant, eyes bright with emotion.

Danny looks up. Jug Ears sits there, leaning against the side of the boat, keeping Zamora covered with a pistol.

“Old Ugly there thumped you with that fist of his,” Zamora says. “Seems Miss Sing Sing didn't lay him out for long. Blast it, Mister Danny, I'm glad to see you open your eyes.”

“Where are we?”

“All at sea. No idea.”

“How long have we been going?”

“Hours and hours. And we were hours in that stinking shed before that. Couple of old friends with us.”

“Shut your mouth!” Jug Ears gets up, levelling the pistol at Zamora's head.

“You shut yours,” Zamora says. “If you were going to kill us you'd have done it by now.” He turns to Danny again. “Old Ugly Chops and his pals crept up on us, Danny. At the warehouse. I'm sorry. I was trying to keep watch.”

“That was Chow, wasn't it? The body in the shed, I mean.”

“Yes. Sorry to say it was. But they obviously want us alive—for some reason.”

That fires Danny's heart. A flicker of strength kindling again. So the Sai Wan Pier wasn't the moment of destiny after all. Just another step along the way. But it's coming now, for sure.
Man
, he thinks,
does my head hurt, though
. He goes to reach up to feel it and realizes that his hands are bound too. He glares at Jug Ears.

“Where's Sing Sing?”

The man ignores him, just rolls the lollipop along between his teeth.

“Where's my aunt? Where are we going?”

No answer but a shrug of the muscular shoulders.

Danny assesses the situation. There are other men sitting on the deck forward. Ponytail among them. All have pistols tucked in their belts. No idea where they are even if—somehow—they manage to free themselves and overpower their captors. Ponytail catches his eye for a moment, then looks away quickly. Was that a moment of connection of sorts?

“We're in hot mustard, don't you think?” Zamora says, following Danny's gaze.

“Very hot, Major.”
But we're not beaten yet
, he adds to himself.

The boat rides the waves, trying to lull Danny back into a concussed sleep. He fights it each time.
Need to keep clear about where we are, what the situation is
. . . He thinks of the Mysterium logo, the fragile butterflies fluttering around the bleached skull. Black eye sockets. He thinks of his own skull on the seabed—Laura's, Zamora's. Sing Sing's too maybe?
If we keep sharp maybe we can still get through this.

The sun climbs higher, casting strong shadow under the awning, and the engine keeps chugging away, moving them out across the South China Sea at what feels like the pace of an exhausted snail.

He feels thirsty and looks around to see if there's anything to drink.

Zamora is wriggling beside him. “Can't get enough play in this tape to break free.”

“Not sure that's a good strategy anyway, Major. Maybe they're just adding us to their kidnapping plans.”

“
Caramba
,” the major sighs. “I'm just not sure that's their game anymore.”

“But they're ransoming Laura.”

“Yes, but—”

Zamora sits back hard against the side of the fishing boat.

“But what?”

“Cards on the table, Mister Danny?”

“Tell me.”

“Well, it's just this blasted business of the explosion at your school. Laura was really upset about it. I mean, really upset. She phoned me that night. The thing is, she wasn't convinced it was a gas leak, Danny. She thinks it was a bomb. That it was aimed at
you
.”

At last the truth is coming out! At last he can place some of the pieces.

“Which is why they had my photo, why the forty-nine dots were there—”

“And why she was so keen to bring you here. Have me ride shotgun. But it hasn't really worked out, has it? Out of the frying pan and all that.”

“What about Ricard? The photo on his desk. This is all coming back to Mum and Dad, isn't it? Not just me. Something they did. Something in their past.”

“To be honest, I don't know for sure.”

“But you think so?”

“Maybe. Your papa had more than one string to his bow, you know. Think about all the time he spent away from the Mysterium . . .”

“What do you mean?”

“Just that there were deep waters there, Danny. Did you not feel that?”

“I don't know. It's hard to tell what's normal, isn't it? When you're small.” Especially somewhere like the Mysterium.

They're interrupted by the static of a walkie-talkie, a burst of Cantonese. The gang members are all looking out in the same direction across the wide, rolling field of the sea.

Danny scrabbles to his feet, unsteady on the boat's roll. Coming into view are two small islands—furry green caterpillars crawling on the surface of the water.

And anchored tight against one of them is an ugly block of a boat. A bulk carrier, low in the water, figures visible on the deck by the bridge. It's covered with a massive camouflage net, softening its lines, blurring it against the island and the water. But Danny recognizes it at once.

The hijacked cargo ship.

32

HOW TO HANDLE A REUNION IN DIFFICULT CIRCUMSTANCES

It takes another half hour to get alongside the vessel, but time now feels like it's running very quickly. Soon they are swallowed by the carrier's shadow.

Faces appear over the side and throw down mooring ropes. Then a long rope ladder unfurls, snaking against the boat's side, just long enough to reach. Chips of orange rust falling down on them and the water.

Ponytail urges Danny and Zamora to their feet. “You climb now.”

Zamora looks up at the swaying rope ladder, shakes his head. He holds up his hands. “Can't do it with these taped, now, can we?”

Ponytail confers with the others in quick whispers. He takes out a razor-sharp flick-blade.

“Don't move,” he says to Zamora. “Don't do stupid thing.”

There's a riffle of safety catches going off as the thugs surround Danny and Zamora, guns trained on them.

“No problem,” Zamora says. “I'm incapable of doing anything stupid.”

Ponytail slices the thick tape around both of their wrists, and the circulation goes thickly back into Danny's hands. Pins and needles firing. Agony. But good too. He flexes his fingers, rubs his hands together, massaging life into them.

“Now climb.”

There's no arguing with that firepower
, Danny thinks.
And I want to see what's going on first. If this is about me and Mum and Dad—and not just Laura and the hijacking of some rusting bulk carrier—I want to know as much as possible. Even if . . .

Well, don't think about it. Clear the mind. With a blank mind you can't add a judgment—a good or a bad—to the situation. So everything's a lot clearer.

“After you, Mister Danny. Just like climbing to the highwire rig, hey?”

“You'll be fine, Major.” Then he adds as quietly as possible. “And let's do what they say for now.”

“OK. But if I see a good chance, Danny, by heavens, I'll take it. And as many of them as I can with me!”

It's a good thirty feet from the fishing boat to the deck of the carrier. The rope ladder swings against the hulk of the ship and Zamora shouts, “Hold the bottom tight! What kind of roustabouts are you, anyway?”

If anything, the twenty or so men on the deck of the hijacked vessel look meaner than any they've yet seen. Unshaven, unwashed. There's a fanatical glow in their eyes. They're all carrying heavier weaponry than Ponytail and Jug Ears—and train most of it on Danny and Zamora.

In complete silence the gang members motion them across the hot deck of the boat. The dappled shadow of the camouflage netting plays across their faces. Nothing else moves.

Danny glances over the side—the smaller of the two islands lies less than two hundred feet away, thickly wooded, surrounded by jagged rocks. The larger island maybe half a mile away. Nothing else to be seen but water and sky. Jump and swim for it? Even if they reached the island, what then?

They're marched swiftly to a bulkhead door. There's a steady clicking sound coming from nearby. It takes Danny a moment to find its source—a small box dangling around the neck of a man behind him. A Geiger counter, presumably. Keeping track of the radioactive waste in the hold below?