Necropolis (35 page)

He waited until he was sure there was no one around, then straightened up and hurried on his way, keeping close to the buildings so that he could throw himself into the shadows if anyone approached. He came to a junction. A car had swerved and crashed into a post. It was completely smashed up, its horn blaring. Matt could see the driver, half hanging out of the front door, pinned in place by his seat belt, his head and chest covered in blood. No one was coming to help.

A street sign. Matt looked up and read two words directly above him.

harcourt road

. The name meant something.

"Paul Adams has returned to Wisdom Court…It is here, on Harcourt Road."

He remembered Han Shan-tung, talking to him in the study, pointing it out on the map. Suddenly he knew what he had to do. Somehow he had stumbled onto the right road. If Paul Adams was at the flat, maybe he would let him in. At the very least, he would have somewhere to stay until the break of day.

"Help me…"

The man in the car wasn't dead. His eyes, very white, had flicked open. He seemed to be crying, but the tears were blood. There was nothing Matt could do for him. He turned away and began to run.

The road seemed to go on forever. Matt went past more shopping malls, a hospital, a huge conference center. He didn't see any more police cars, but he heard them in the distance, their sirens slicing through the air. At one point, a taxi rushed past, zigzagging crazily on the wrong side of the road. He turned a corner and came upon a tram, parked in front of an office building. It was an old-fashioned thing. Apart from the Chinese symbols, it was like something that might have driven through London during the Second World War. And it was full of people. They were just sitting there, slumped in their seats, unmoving. Matt didn't know if they were alive or dead, and he didn't hang around to find out. He guessed they were a mix of both.

Somehow he found his way to Wisdom Court. He had only glanced at the map when he was in Macao and he'd gotten no more than an overview of the city. But there it was, suddenly in front of him, the name on a block of stone and behind it a driveway leading up to a fountain, a wide entrance, and, on each side, a statue of a snarling lion. The building was very ordinary, shrouded in darkness, but there was one light burning on the twelfth floor — Matt counted the windows — and he thought he saw a curtain flicker as somebody moved behind.

The driveway hadn't been swept. It was strewn with dead leaves and scraps of paper. The fountain had been turned off. As he walked up to the door, Matt got the feeling that the whole place, apart from that one room on the twelfth floor, might be deserted. There were no cars parked outside. He put his face against the glass door and looked into the reception area. It was empty. The door was locked, but there was a panel of buttons next to it, more than a hundred of them, numbered but with no names.

Was this really a good idea? He stood there for a few seconds, cold and wet, and tried to work out his options. Han Shan-tung had suggested that Paul Adams might have been working with the Old Ones. He had been there when Scarlett was taken prisoner. But could he really have sentenced his own daughter to death? Surely not.

At the end of the day, it didn't make any difference if Matt trusted him or not. He was freezing. He had to get inside, off the street. He had nowhere else to go.

He began to ring the bells, one after another, beginning with 1200 and moving along, waiting briefly for each one to reply. There was silence until he reached 1213, then a crackle as a voice came over the intercom.

'Yes?"

"Mr. Adams?"

"Who is this?"

"I know it's very late, but I'm a friend of Scarlett's. I wonder if I could talk to you."

"Now?"

'Yes. Could you let me in?"

A pause. Then a buzz, and the door opened.

As Matt walked into the reception area, he became aware of a stench — raw sewage. A pipe had burst

— he could hear it dripping, and the floor was wet underfoot. There was just enough light to make out a staircase leading up, but once he began to climb, he had to feel his way in total darkness. He counted twelve floors, sliding his hand along the banister, pressing his shoulder against the wall as he turned each corner. It really was like being blind, and he felt smothered, afraid that at any moment something would jump out and grab hold of him. But at last he arrived at a swing door, pushed it open, and found himself at the beginning of a long corridor. Light spilled out from an open door about halfway down.

Scarlett's father was waiting for him, but Matt couldn't make him out because the light was behind him and he was in silhouette.

"Who are you?" Paul Adams called out.

"My name is Matt."

"You're a friend of Scarry's?"

"I want to help her."

'You can't help her. You're too late."

Matt walked down the corridor, afraid that Paul Adams would go back in and close the door before he could reach him. But Adams waited for him. Matt reached the door and saw a small, unhappy man with gray hair and glasses. Scarlett's father hadn't shaved for a couple of days, nor had he washed. He was wearing a blue shirt that might have been expensive when he had bought it but now hung off him awkwardly, as if he had been sleeping in it. And he had been drinking. Matt could smell the alcohol on his breath and saw it in the eyes behind the glasses. They were red with exhaustion and self-pity.

"Mr. Adams…" Matt began.

"I don't know you." Paul Adams looked at him blankly.

"I told you. My name is Matt."

''You're soaking wet."

"Can I come in?"

Matt didn't wait for an answer. He pushed his way past and entered the flat. The place was a mess. There were dirty plates stacked in the sink and on the kitchen counter. Everything smelled stale and airless with the sewage creeping up from below. It was as if someone had died there… or maybe it was the place itself that had died. Once it had been luxurious. Now it was sordid and sad.

Paul Adams closed the door. "Do you want something to eat?" he asked.

"I'd like some tea," Matt said. The man didn't move, so he went into the kitchen and began to make it himself. He looked in the fridge for some food. There were only leftovers, but he helped himself anyway. It was only now that he realized how hungry he was. A clock on the oven showed twenty past four. Six hours had passed since he had left Macao.

Paul Adams sat down. He had a glass of whiskey and he drank it in one swallow, then refilled it. 'You're English," he said.

"I was at your home in Dulwich," Matt said. He was rummaging through a cupboard for a tea bag. "I tried to find Scarlett there. But she'd gone."

"They've taken her."

"Do you know where she is?"

"No." He drank again. "I know who you are!" he exclaimed. He had only just worked it out. 'You're the boy they're all looking for. You're the reason why they wanted Scarlett."

Matt didn't say anything. The kettle boiled and he made himself the tea, adding two spoons of sugar.

"Matt Freeman. That's who it was. Matt Freeman!" Scarlett's father got up and went over to the kitchen, weaving his way across the carpet. Matt didn't know whether to be saddened or disgusted. He had never seen anyone so utterly lost. Paul Adams leaned heavily against the side of the counter, and suddenly there were tears in his eyes. "They lied to me," he said. "They told me she'd be all right if I helped them.

I was the one who caught her! She'd have gotten away if it hadn't been for me. But I only did it to protect her. They said they'd kill her if I didn't help them."

"Did they take her to The Nail?" Matt asked.

Paul Adams shook his head, "She's not there."

"Is she still in Hong Kong?"

"Somewhere. They won't tell me." He paused and looked out the window. The first streaks of morning were beginning to bleed through the night sky. "I thought they'd be grateful for what I did, but they said I'd never see her again. They were mocking me. I'd helped them, and it was all for nothing. They wanted me to know that." He took off his glasses and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. "I don't understand what they want, Matt. I don't understand anything anymore. This whole city…" His voice trailed away.

"Mr. Adams, I can help you," Matt said. "I can find her and get her out of here."

"How? You're just a kid."

"I need to have a shower and get changed." Matt was still dripping water onto the expensive carpet. "Do you have spare clothes?"

"I don't know…" He waved vaguely in the direction of the bedroom.

Matt drew on the last of his strength, forcing his mind into gear. He had to find Scarlett. That was the reason he was here. But that wasn't going to be possible, not if she had been taken to some secret location. Was she even still in Hong Kong? He guessed that she would have to be. The Old Ones were using her to get at him. Surely they would keep her there until he arrived.

How to find her? Matt's eyes were desperately heavy. All he wanted to do was go to bed. But somehow he knew that this was his last chance. He had to bring all the pieces together, here in this room. First there was Paul Adams, destroying himself, wracked with guilt and misery. Then there was the man called Lohan, somewhere in Hong Kong with his thousand foot soldiers. Richard and Jamie. Maybe they had found their way over to them. And the fireworks. What was the name he had seen, stenciled on the crates?

And suddenly he had it.

"Listen to me," he said. "I may be able to find Scarlett, but you're going to have to help me. Will you do that?"

"I'll do anything."

"Does your telephone work here? And do you have a phone book?"

Paul Adams had been expecting something more. How would a simple phone call save his daughter?

"It's over there." He gestured with the hand that was still holding the whiskey glass.

Matt went over to the telephone. It was a desperate plan. But he could think of no other way.

He picked it up and began to dial.

***

Matt was asleep on the sofa, dressed in jeans and a sweater that didn't really fit but were a lot better than the ones he had dumped in the bathroom. He had taken a hot shower, washing the smell of the harbor off his skin and out of his hair. And then he had fallen into a deep, dreamless sleep.

He hadn't heard the police arrive. They had driven down Harcourt Road and turned into Wisdom Court without sirens. He was woken by the sound of the door being smashed open and the shouts of a dozen men as they poured into the flat. Some of them were carrying guns. It was hard to say who was in charge. Suddenly, they were everywhere and Matt was surrounded.

He started to get up, but something hit him in the chest. It was a dart, fired from what looked like a toy gun, trailing wires behind it. But the next thing he knew, there was an explosion of pain and he was literally thrown off his feet as a bolt of electricity seared through him. He had been hit with a Taser, a weapon used by police forces all over the world. Despite its appearance, it had fired an electrical charge that had resulted in the total loss of his neuromuscular control. Matt had never felt pain like it. It seemed to shatter every bone in his body. He heard an animal whimper and realized it was him.

Matt collapsed to the ground, unable to move. The policemen weren't taking any chances. They had deliberately neutralized him before he could use his power against them.

A moment later, two of them fell on him. They twisted his arms behind his back and he felt cold steel against his wrists as a pair of handcuffs were locked into place. One of the policemen grabbed him by the hair and twisted him round so that he was in a kneeling position.

Another man appeared at the door.

"So this is Matthew Freeman," he said.

The chairman of the Nightrise Corporation had wanted to make sure that everything was safe before he came in. Now he strutted forward and stood over Matt, looking down at him with a smile on his face.

Although he had been hastily summoned out of bed, he was as impeccably dressed as always, in a new suit and polished shoes. "What a great pleasure to meet you," he added.

Matt ignored him. He twisted round so that he was facing Paul Adams. His eyes were filled with anger.

"What have you done?" he yelled.

"I called them while you were in the shower." Adams went over to the chairman. It was clear he was afraid of him. He stood there, wringing his hands together as if trying to wash them clean. "This is the boy, Mr. Chairman," he muttered. "He came to the flat in the middle of the night. I called you the moment I could."

"You've done very well," the chairman muttered. He was still gazing at Matt. "I never thought it would be this easy," he said.

Matt swore at him.

"I knew you were looking for him, Mr. Chairman," Paul Adams went on. "And now you have him. So you don't need Scarly. Tell me you'll let Scarly go."

The chairman turned his head slowly and examined Scarlett's father as if he were a doctor about to break bad news. "I will not let Scarly go," he said. "I will never let Scarly go."

"Then at least let me see her. I've given you the boy. Don't I deserve a reward?"

'You most certainly do," the chairman said.

He nodded at one of the policemen, who shot Paul Adams in the head. Matt saw the spray of blood as the back of his skull was blown off. He was dead instantly. His knees buckled underneath him, and he fell to one side.

"A quick death," the chairman remarked. He nodded at Matt. "Soon you'll be wishing you could have had one too."

He turned and walked out of the room. Two of the policemen reached forward and jerked Matt to his feet. Then they dragged him out, along the corridor and down to the city below.

TWENTY-EIGHT

Tai Fung

T

SIGNAL ONE

The dragon was moving toward Hong Kong, closing in with deadly precision, gaining strength as it crossed the water. Scarlett had summoned it, and it had heard. Even she couldn't turn it back now.

It had begun its life as nothing more than a front of warm air, rising into the sky. But then, very quickly, a swirl of cloud had formed, spinning faster and faster with a dark, unblinking eye at the center. By the time the weather satellites had transmitted the first pictures from the Strait of Luzon, it was already too late. The dragon was awake. Its appetite was as big as the ocean where it had been born, and it would destroy anything that stood in its path.