Black Horn (26 page)

Do
Huang glanced at Creasy and saw the look on his face and held up a hand. He
said to the foreman, "He's a friend from far away. He'll stay with me for
only a minute and then wait for me, while I finish my day's work."

The
foreman looked at Creasy and said, "I want you off this site in fifteen
minutes and you had better not come back."

Creasy
said, "I assure you, I will never return."

"It
better be that way," the Mexican muttered.

Do
Huang turned back to Creasy and said, "That one is a prime asshole. Who
else is in on the job?"

Creasy
went through the list of names and Do Huang said, "Sounds all right to me.
How did you find me?"

"Tom
Sawyer tracked you down."

"When
is the job?"

"Now."

Do
Huang thought for a moment, then said, "Maybe you'll give me a lift to
what they call the guest house, where I stay, and I'll pack my bag and come
with you." He pointed at the breeze-blocks at his feet and said,
"Now, wait for me in the jeep. I'll be finished with this job in ten
minutes."

So
Huang settled the last breeze-block in its place and scraped off the mortar,
and then walked across to the wicker chair where the foreman sat under a
sunshade, inspecting his domain. The Mexican was large, but flabby, and when Do
Huang lifted a foot and placed it on the armrest of his chair and pushed it
back, the Mexican let out a roar of rage. He struggled to his feet and charged
like a bull.

Do
Huang hardly seemed to hit him, but every time one of his hands or feet flicked
out, they obviously hit a nerve and the Mexican crashed down. The sub-foreman
came running to help, but Do Huang simply swivelled on the ball of his left
foot and his left hand stabbed out with straightened fingers and the man
doubled up and then pulled away. The whole thing lasted about two
minutes. Creasy watched as Do Huang looked down at the semi-conscious Mexican
and said, in a voice loud enough for the whole workforce to hear, "Think
twice, before you next abuse one of the human beings who does a good day's work
for you."

Do
Huang got in the jeep.

"Where
did you say we're going?"

"I
didn't. But I'm trying to locate Eric Laparte. I have a rough idea where he
lives."

"Don't
say you want him on the team?"

"Why
not?"

The
Vietnamese shrugged.

"When
I last saw him, months ago, he was drinking himself to death."

Creasy
said, "We'll see just how dead he is by now. Do you know where he
is?"

"A
few years back he bought an old planter's house, north of here. He was living
with a woman and the last I heard she had left him. Couldn't take his
boozing."

"Do
you know where that house is?"

"Sure."

Do
Huang spotted the small road on the right. Creasy turned into it. They bumped
along for about five hundred metres and then the house came into view. It was a
typical, dilapidated planter's house with a tin roof and a wide veranda all
around it. As they parked the jeep, a dog came round the corner, barking. It
was black with a white stomach and paws and a sheen on its coat. It was
well-fed, perhaps a little too well-fed. She was a cross-breed, probably a
stray, and aggressively suspicious.

A voice
came from a long dirty white hammock on the veranda: "Slinky, tais
toi!"

The dog
sank on to its haunches, growling softly. Eric Laparte swung his long legs out
of the hammock, stretched out of his sleep and focussed his eyes on Creasy and
Do.

"Mon
Dieu," he said. "I thought you were dead."

Creasy
moved forward and Do followed. The man was over two metres tall and dressed
only in faded khaki shorts. They could see the ribs in his thin body. He had a
grey beard and lank, grey hair hanging almost to his shoulders. Above the
beard, his face was as gaunt as a skull and his dark eyes were sunk deep into
his head. He greeted them with the customary kiss and said, "I can't offer
you a drink. I don't have any in the house."

Creasy
glanced at Do and said, "That's strange. I heard you were a lush."

"I
was," the Frenchman admitted, "but I quit three weeks ago." He
pointed at the wall surrounding the overgrown garden. "I threw half a
bottle of tequila over that wall."

"Why?"

"Because
I realised I wasn't just killing myself, I was also killing another
creature."

"Who?"

Laparte
pointed at the black dog.

"Slinky.
I'd been on a two-day tequila binge and passed out, more or less in a coma. I
must have been gone for two or three days. I woke up with Slinky licking my
face and whimpering... it wasn't food she wanted... she just wanted me to come
back to life."

"And
you haven't drunk since?"

The
Frenchman shook his head.

"No.
I was on the road to death. I've given that up."

"Can
you still fire a gun?"

"You
bet."

"How
about a demonstration?" Creasy said.

Laparte
turned on his heel and walked into the house. The dog remained, watching Creasy
and Do with studied suspicion. Two minutes later, the Frenchman emerged,
carrying a pistol in one hand and a magazine in the other. He switched off the
safety and loaded the magazine. Holding the pistol in his right hand, he looked
at Creasy and asked, "What's the target?"

Creasy
pointed to an oleander tree fifteen metres away. "The flowers of that
tree."

All of
a sudden there was a blur of movement and the garden echoed to the sounds of
gunshots. One after the other they watched the flowers shatter and fall from
the tree. Creasy dropped his gaze to his watch. Six seconds had passed. He
turned to look at Do, who was still staring at the fallen flowers, then he
walked forward and punched the Frenchman on his shoulder saying, "You may
have been a lush, Eric, but not any more. I want you for a job -- a big
one."

Two
hours later, they were standing outside a plush dogs' home and Eric Laparte was
arguing with Creasy. Slinky was at his feet.

"I
just don't like the people," Laparte said. "They are not
sympathique."

Creasy
rolled his eyes in exasperation.

"For
Chrissakes, Eric. She'll be pampered here. The fucking kennels are even
air-conditioned! I'll give them money to feed the bitch fillet steak every day
-- with a bearnaise sauce, if you want."

The
Frenchman shook his head.

"They
are not sympathique. I can tell that Slinky does not like them."

Creasy
became angry. He leaned closer to the Frenchman and said, "All those
tequilas over all those months have bent your brain. The job pays half a
million Swiss and will probably last less than a month -- and you're worrying
about a fucking dog?"

Finally,
Eric Laparte gave in and, after some negotiation, he handed the dog over to the
woman who had emerged from the garden, saying, "If I come back and find
she's not in shape, I'll have your ass."

Neither
Creasy nor Do Huang was surprised at the Frenchman's attitude. Most of the hard
men they had known had a sentimental streak, especially when it came to animals
or children.

For
half an hour, the Dane sat in front of the small screen of his IBM laptop
computer, tapping through the files. The Owl stood behind him, watching over
his shoulder.

Finally,
Jens turned in his chair and said, "That disk contains the entire police
files on the 14K Triads since 1948. It's totally comprehensive. It even has
computer images of the walled villa in Sai Kung which Tommy Mo uses."

"But
why?" The Owl asked. "After piling shit all over us, why would
Inspector Lau give you that disk?"

Jens
stood up and stretched. He looked out the window across the harbour. Apart from
his family, he had three passions: his computer, ferryboats, and a desire to
track down the best brewed beer in the world. He said, "To understand
Inspector Lau, you would have to be a policeman or an ex-policeman. Then you
would understand the frustrations of policemen in all civilised countries, when
they know who a criminal is and what crimes he has committed, but can do
nothing about it. Inspector Lau's boss was murdered by the 14K, but he cannot
prove it. Tommy Mo has a complete screen around him. He never gets his hands
dirty. That villa and the other properties are all owned by front companies.
The Triads operate here almost with impunity. All the police ever catch are the
small fry. They never get near the fat cats at the top. That's why Inspector
Lau gave us that disk... It's invaluable for the operation."

The Owl
shrugged a little sceptically.

"Do
you think he informed his boss?"

"Yes.
Not just about the disk, but also everything else. And, if my guess is correct,
the Commissioner told him something like 'do what you have to ... but I know
nothing about it'."

"Do
you really think so?"

The
Dane nodded. "Yes. In fact, I can see the whole pattern. They know all
about us. They have worked out that Creasy will be arriving soon with the rest
of the team and that he'll have arranged the necessary weapons. It would have
been very easy for Inspector Lau to have arrested the two of us and deported us
by now. The same thing applies to Creasy and the others when they arrive. The
fact that he didn't touch us indicates that they're turning a blind eye. I
think that Inspector Lau and his Commissioner would be as happy to see Tommy Mo
dead as we would. Especially if we take out some of his hierarchy along with
him." He gestured at the computer. "That disk contains the names of
that hierarchy and every important 14K member. It details their methods and
their mentalities. I'm going to reduce it to a twenty-page report for Creasy
and the others."

The
phone rang. It was Frank Miller. He had arrived with Tom Sawyer half an hour
earlier. They were staying at the nearby Hyatt Hotel. They arranged to meet for
a drink in the bar of that hotel at seven o'clock in the evening.

"How
do you like Hong Kong?" the Australian asked.

"I
love it," the Dane enthused. "The local San Miguel beer is not at all
bad, and from my hotel window I can see a dozen ferries."

They
were twelve. They were all men, and they were all Chinese. They sat at a round
table, and as they ate dish after dish, their eyes watched each other like
starving hawks. They had just started the tenth dish, lemon chicken with bamboo
shoots, when one of the men gave the very slightest of groans. The others
immediately all pointed their fingers at him and burst out laughing. A moment
later, the tablecloth beside the man was lifted up and a young girl crawled
out.

It was
a game Tommy Mo liked to play with his henchmen. The girl would be under the
table before the men sat down and then, one by one, she would perform fellatio
on them. The idea was that no one should show any sign on his face of what was
happening. The first one to do so would normally have to pay the bill, but in
this case they were dining at Tommy Mo's sumptuous villa in Sai Kung, and so
the man was spared the expense. Before the meal, which had been more of a
feast, they had conducted a Triad Lodge meeting with all its ceremony and
paraphernalia. The building itself was in the grounds of the villa. It was
square-shaped with four gates. Each gate was guarded by mythical generals known
as the 'four great faithful ones'. Their emblems were on the wall beside
the gates.

The
ceremony had been held to initiate a new member into the Triad Lodge. It was an
important coup because he was a very wealthy Hong Kong businessman who had
several companies listed on the Hong Kong Stock Exchange. He also had
considerable influence in Beijing. He would in no way be involved in the more
violent aspects of the 14K, but would be a hidden asset. His benefits would
derive from the 14K's widespread intelligence network and its ability to
apply violence against a competitor when necessary.

The
initiation had gone well. He had been coached for many weeks about the form of
handshakes, the ceremonial robes worn by the office bearers and the
significance of the red wooden cask filled with rice. He was word perfect in
the thirty-six oaths taken with the ritual drinking of a mixture of blood and
wine. The blood had come from the middle finger of his left hand and from that
moment, if any 14K member asked him where he lived, he would reply, "in
the third house on the left."

Next to
the cask of rice was the red club for punishing those members who erred from
the rules and the sword of Loyalty and Righteousness. Next to that, a symbolic
abacus on which the Triads calculated the money owed to them by the Manchus in
the form of reparations when they helped in their overthrow. Finally, there was
a rosary and a white bloodstained shroud, in memory of the massacred monks of
Shao Lin monastery in Fukien province where, legend had it, the Triads were
founded.

The
Initiate was the one at the table who had groaned. The other eleven were all
high officials of the 14K. They all wore traditional robes, and the mood was
generally relaxed. Tommy Mo himself was a little tense, however. The past week
had brought some setbacks. Three soldiers of the 14K in London had been killed
in a restaurant by members of another Triad group. So far, he did not know
which one, and that irritated him. The 14K had also lost money in an investment
in a real estate company whose chairman had absconded to Canada with several
million dollars. The Vancouver branch of the Triad were looking for him, so far
without success. Then there was the black rhino horn powder. News had come from
Zimbabwe of Rolph Becker's violent death. Tommy Mo would have to find somebody
else in that country or in Zambia to continue the logistics of the rhino
poachers.

Fifteen
miles away, in a strongly guarded warehouse in Kowloon, Tommy Mo had five and a
half tons of black rhino horn powder worth, at current market prices, sixty
thousand US dollars per kilo. He had been building up that stock for the past
ten years, buying up any powder which came on the market. Just like
international dealers who try to corner the markets in silver or gold or any
other precious metals, Tommy Mo prided himself on the fact that he had cornered
a commodity which had more value per gram than any of the precious metals. He
knew that there were less than four hundred black rhinos still alive in the
wild, and once they were eliminated the value of his stock would multiply at
least tenfold, if not more.