Stealing the Dragon (9 page)

“Fair enough,” said Cape. “Two more questions?”

“Shoot.”

“If you were looking for a snakehead, where would you start?”

“I’d try to find the tail,” replied Mitch. “Find someone lower on the food chain, and take it from there.”

Cape nodded; no surprise there.

“And the second?” asked Mitch.

“The people who were on the ship—what have they said about what happened onboard?”

“You mean what killed the crew?” asked Mitch.

“Don’t you mean
who
killed the crew?”

“Not if you ask the people who were onboard,” replied Mitch. “I’ve talked to almost forty men, women, and children, and practically every one says the same thing, with maybe two exceptions.”

“Yeah?”

“They say there were
yaomo
onboard,” replied Mitch. “That’s what killed the crew.”

Cape raised his eyebrows but remained silent.

“Demons,” replied Mitch. “Evil demons. They told me a demon killed those men.”

Cape frowned. “Is that the Chinese equivalent of ‘officer, I swear I didn’t see anything’?”

“That’s part of it,” Mitch replied. “It’s bad enough they got caught trying to slip into the country—these people do
not
want to be witnesses in a murder investigation. But remember, a lot of these people come from rural China. They can be very superstitious.”

“You said there were two exceptions,” said Cape.

Mitch nodded. “An older woman and her daughter. I think the daughter might have been raped by the crew.”

“What did they say?”

“That the crew was killed by
tianbing
,” replied Mitch. “A ‘heavenly soldier.’”

Cape squinted into the sun but said nothing.

“The English equivalent would probably be ‘angel,’” added Mitch, shaking his head. Cape frowned, but Mitch didn’t seem to notice, adding, “So we’re looking for someone who is part demon, part heavenly spirit—sound like anyone you know?”

“No,” said Cape, lying through his teeth for the second time that day.

Chapter Sixteen

Hong Kong, 15 years ago

“You are not thirsty,” Sally muttered to herself.

Summer in Hong Kong was a cauldron, and the girls had been training outside all morning. The noon sun beat down like a hammer, bending the air into visible waves that flowed across the packed earth of the courtyard. Sally squinted and tried to concentrate on what Master Xan was saying, his form distorted by the shimmering air.

“You have all been here five years.” His voice boomed off the walls of the enclosure as he turned and faced the perfectly straight line. Twenty girls ranging in age from nine to fourteen watched as he moved down the line, pausing to make contact with every one of them. “And soon, you must choose a path.”

Sally stuck her tongue out, trying to catch some of the sweat dripping off her brow. As she concentrated on a promising bit of moisture at the end of her nose, her eyes crossed and she momentarily forgot about Xan. The drop smacked dead center on her tongue just as she realized everything had gone very quiet, as if the girls standing next to her had stopped breathing. Looking up she saw Master Xan had reached her spot in the line, only to find Sally crossing her eyes and sticking out her tongue.

Sally turned her head slowly to her right, looking to her best friend for guidance, but Jun’s eyes were twice their normal size, her eyebrows so high they practically floated above her head. Whether in shock or fear, she was useless.

Sally took a deep breath and locked eyes with Xan. With a somber expression firmly in place, she bowed her head slightly, keeping her gaze steady. Neither coy nor defiant, just respectful.

Barely eleven and Sally already understood the power in a woman’s eyes.

Xan’s scar seemed to jump even though his face didn’t move, a signal that usually meant he was angry or about to burst out laughing. Sally could never tell the difference. But today Xan merely held her gaze, his eyes boring into Sally as if he could read her mind. After a moment that seemed a lifetime, Xan nodded once and looked away, apparently satisfied with what he had seen. As Xan turned his back on the line of girls, Jun reached out and squeezed Sally’s hand tightly. Sally squeezed back and released the breath she’d been holding.

Xan pointed directly in front of him.

“At the end of this courtyard is an exit.” He gestured toward a small wooden door. “Six months from now, you may leave.”

Sally snorted under breath. And go where? All of the girls were orphans, this school the only family they’d had for five years. Most of them had never known the outside world, even as children, and certainly not the streets of Hong Kong. Sally couldn’t think of a single girl who had talked about leaving.

Xan motioned to the right and the girls turned as one, looking at a massive circular door set into the high stone wall of the inner courtyard. The door was ten feet in diameter, made of red lacquered wood elaborately carved, dragons and tigers intertwined with butterflies and cranes. The carvings became progressively more complex and dense as you neared the center of the circle, creating a sense of movement that bordered on vertigo, as if the door were some sort of vortex pulling you to the other side. At the exact center were two door handles, each one a half-circle painted black. Two Chinese characters had been carved deeply into the wood, one on each handle.

“This is the path of joy and sorrow,” said Xan, naming the characters. He paused before continuing. “Beyond this door awaits a life of pleasure and servitude.”

Sally leaned closer to Jun and whispered. “The path of hair and make-up.”

“Intimacy and deceit,” intoned Xan solemnly, his back to them.

Jun whispered back. “Kissing and telling.”

“Spying and screwing,” added Sally, both girls suppressing a giggle.

Xan turned to face the line again as both girls forced a frown and looked straight ahead.

Xan gestured to the red door again. “This is the path of consorts and concubines,” he said, his voice suddenly quiet. “Some of you may think the life of a concubine is exotic, and you might be right. But do not think of it as a romantic life.” He paused and looked meaningfully at each of the girls. “If you choose to go down that path, you will be chosen by someone.” He paused again for effect. “But you will not get to choose that someone in turn.”

The girls shifted uncomfortably, staring at the ground between their feet.

“And you might find yourself living with one person,” Xan continued, his voice even more quiet but no less clear, “yet working for another. A consort hears many things. Many secrets.”

Xan looked up at the sun and squinted, sweat beading on his forehead. The girls remained silent.

“If you choose the path of joy and sorrow,” he said, as much to himself as the girls in front of him, “one day you will be called. And you will have to answer.”

Sally turned to look up and down the line. Everyone already knew which girls would choose that path. Whenever a class was given time to themselves, certain girls would break off into pairs or small groups and run to their favorite part of the compound. For Sally and Jun it was always the obstacle course or the dojo. For some girls it was the theater and the room full of costumes. For others, the kitchen or music hall. After five years each girl had mapped out her future, whether she realized it or not.

And Sally knew the instructors saw everything. This speech was part of the tradition of the school. A ritual, nothing more.

Xan turned his back again and raised his left arm, gesturing toward the opposite side of the courtyard. Set into the wall was another circular door, this one painted black with red door handles forming the inner circle, once again marked with Chinese characters. Equally elaborate carvings covered its surface, the tigers and dragons intertwined with swords and symbols that looked like
shuriken
, or throwing stars. The same optical illusion of the carvings made the girls lean forward unconsciously as they studied the door. Sally felt herself pulled by the gravity of the images.

“This is the path of life and death,” Xan said, his voice regaining its previous timbre.

Sally felt herself tremble with excitement.

“Beyond this door is a life of power and control,” Xan continued.

Sally and Jun held their breath.

“Discipline and despair.

“Judgment and justice.”

Sally gasped at the last word.

Xan turned, locking eyes with her as he finished. “If you choose this path,” he began, seeming to speak directly to her, “you will come face to face with your darkest self.”

Sally met his gaze, her face expressionless.

“You will have control over how you do things,” he said deliberately, “but not over why you do them.”

Again he looked up and down the line, unblinking despite the sweat in his eyes. “Your life may be your own, but your conscience will belong to someone else.”

Sally’s nostrils flared as she breathed in deeply. She felt lightheaded and thought she might faint. Xan’s words seemed no more than whispers, as if Sally were hearing his thoughts instead of his voice.

“If you choose the path of life and death,” he said, “there is no turning back.”

Sally stared at the black surface of the door and felt herself being drawn inexorably to the other side, the undertow pulling at her as she welcomed its embrace. She had already turned her back on any other door a long time ago.

Xan’s final words seemed to reach her from far away as they echoed around the courtyard.

“In six months, you will have to choose.”

Chapter Seventeen

San Francisco, present day

Cape was pleased to find himself surrounded by pancakes.

Mama’s Restaurant had been a fixture in North Beach for almost thirty years. They served one of the best breakfasts in San Francisco until three p.m. daily, except for Mondays, when they were closed. Cape had noticed all the good breakfast joints were closed on Mondays and suspected some sort of collusion, a concentrated effort by the forces of evil to prevent him from starting the week off right. He made a mental note to conduct a thorough investigation, if only to ease his neurotic mind and justify a sampling tour of all the pancakes made in the Bay Area.

Mama’s was cafeteria style, with only a handful of tables squeezed into a space smaller than most studio apartments. Seating was allocated based on the number in your party or the size of your order. Based on the plates surrounding him now, Cape had obviously given the impression that four or five more people were coming. He had secured the much coveted corner table, behind which he waited patiently for Linda to arrive.

In front of him on the table, bracketed by plates of food, headlines from the local paper jumped up at him.
Mayor versus Mayor
covered the front page, with two facing photographs—one of the current mayor of San Francisco, who was colloquially referred to as “da Mayor,” and the other of Harold Yan, whom the paper called “the Mayor of Chinatown.” Yan was accusing the mayor of dragging his heels investigating the refugee ship, saying the people of the city deserved answers. Yan referenced a trip the mayor had taken to China the previous year as a member of a goodwill committee from West Coast cities to encourage trade with the Pacific Rim.

Yan never accused the mayor of corruption or undue influence from his “new Chinese friends,” but by suggesting the mayor turn to them for help, the insinuation was all too clear. And coming from a man who was himself Chinese, it was irrefutable, at least from a political standpoint.

Cape studied Yan’s face in the picture. He had black hair with occasional hints of gray slicked back from a high forehead, dark eyes, a strong nose, and an easy, confident smile. Even on newsprint there was something charismatic about the man, and reading the article, there was no question he knew how to work the press. By contrast, “da Mayor” looked tired and angry, like he’d been at this game too long. Cape knew the newspaper trade well enough to know these photos were selected to create just such a contrast, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that it wasn’t that far from reality.

The hanging bell chimed as the door swung open, and people in line made way for another hungry soul to enter the crowded space. Linda Katz wasn’t immediately visible over the shoulders of the other patrons, but her hair was.

Dark brown and omni-directional, Linda’s hair added a good four inches to her height and considerably more to her attitude. People standing nearby eyed it warily, not sure if angry hornets would emerge or if the hair itself would strike without provocation.

Linda eschewed blow dryers, curlers, or anything involving electricity that might tame her unruly tresses. Convinced that electromagnetic radiation was a real and present danger to her and every other life form, Linda was very particular about where she went. Linda would only spend three hours a day indoors, unless she was at home, so they’d usually meet in a park or along the water, careful to stay at least fifty yards from any telephone poles or cell towers. Fortunately, Mama’s was sufficiently earthy for Linda to make an appearance.

Since she used the phone only when necessary, it usually took two or three tries to track her down, but Cape had been lucky and caught one of her co-workers who knew where she was. Despite her quirks, Linda was a damn good reporter, one of the best when it came to background checks and research, as far as Cape was concerned. He’d met her when he was still working as an investigative reporter, too brash to get along with the editor, but too talented to get fired. Linda had taken him under her wing and taught him some manners; he’d forgotten most of them, but he always remembered the gesture.

As she approached the table, he watched her eye the overhead lights suspiciously, then smile at him before sitting down, the lines around her hazel eyes running deeper than he’d remembered. He’d never asked her age, but Cape guessed she was ten years his senior.

“Are more people coming?” she asked, perusing the table. Arranged around the points of the compass were three stacks of pancakes and, directly in front of Linda, a bowl of granola.

“They’re short stacks,” Cape insisted. “That’s what it says on the menu.”

“They’re not that short.”

“Breakfast is the most important meal of the day,” Cape added defensively.

“It’s two o’clock in the afternoon.”

“I haven’t eaten anything since breakfast,” said Cape, regretting it as soon as it was out. “Besides, I thought you’d like some pancakes with your granola.”

Linda’s hair lurched backward at the suggestion. “Sugar is a killer,” she said defiantly, pulling the bowl of granola closer.

Cape shrugged and transferred one stack of pancakes onto the other before ladling a generous amount of syrup onto the plate. “Here’s to a sweet demise.”

Linda sighed in dismay. “Is your client paying for this?”

Cape shook his head. “Don’t have a client.”

Linda put down her spoon as Cape told her about the ship and his conversation with Beau. Although the two women didn’t interact and couldn’t be more different, Linda and Sally were connected through Cape. While Cape might only feel good about himself when he was saving someone, both women were committed, in their own way, to keeping Cape from getting lost in the process. Linda had always considered Sally a kindred spirit, another woman looking after this errant knight that sat across the table, stuffing his face with pancakes. Neither relationship was romantic, and both were the stronger for it.

When Cape finished his story, the deep lines around Linda’s eyes looked like permanent scars. “You don’t think Sally was on the ship?”

Cape frowned before returning her anxious gaze. His eyes darkened, blue turning gray with doubt.

“I’m alive today because Sally has killed,” said Cape, knowing he could never lie to Linda. “Without hesitation.”

“But never without cause,” said Linda, unnerved at her own ability to rationalize so quickly.

Cape cut her off. “You don’t have to convince me,” he said. “I’d be a hypocrite to say I don’t approve, but I’d be a liar if I didn’t admit Sally has a different set of values from normal, law-abiding citizens. Hell, even from me, and I’m not very normal or very law abiding.”

“There’s nothing wrong with a woman defending herself,” said Linda half-heartedly. “Or others, for that matter.”

“I agree.” Cape held up his hands. “But let’s be honest—her school of self-defense believes in the pre-emptive strike. It’s more like a school of offense.”

Linda shook her head. “But if it
was
Sally, then she must have had a reason.”

“Absolutely.” Cape nodded. “She might be the most dangerous person I’ve ever met, but she’s not a sociopath. Like I told Beau, she’s one of the good guys. Sort of like Dirty Harry in a leotard.”

Linda frowned at the image. “But if she had a reason, wouldn’t she have told you?”

Cape had thought about that, too, and kept coming up with the same answer. “Not if it was personal.”

Linda didn’t say anything right away. They sat for a few minutes, alone in their own thoughts. Finally, Linda raised her eyes and caught Cape looking at her.

She said, “You’re going to find her.”

“Hopefully, before anyone else does.”

“Have you thought about talking with Freddie Wang?”

Freddie Wang was the local big man for the tongs, a genuine Chinese gangster who touted his connection to the Triads like some men bragged about the size of their dicks. He ran most of the gangs in Chinatown, acting as point man for the heroin smuggled in from Asia. He was also the bag man for the Triads’ distribution deals with the Mafia, but according to Sally, Freddie wasn’t the real power in Chinatown, just the face. Cape had crossed Freddie’s path before on another case, but he had Sally along as an interpreter. Even with her watching his back, the meeting had not gone well. If Freddie knew something about the refugee ship, Cape had no way to get him to talk.

Cape shrugged. “I might end up talking to Freddie, but I can’t start there. I need some kind of leverage.”

“Like what?”

“Like information,” replied Cape. “How’s the granola?”

Linda scowled. “Are you asking because of a genuine concern for my well-being, or was that a less-than-subtle attempt to remind me that you’re buying breakfast in return for a favor?”

Cape did his best to look wounded. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

“What do you need?”

“That’s the problem,” said Cape. “I don’t know where to start, so I want you to dig into anything you think might be relevant. The ship’s registry, for one. The containers onboard—what was in them, and what was supposed to be in them, according to the ship’s manifesto.”

Linda nodded as she pulled a small pad and pen from her purse. “What else?”

“The cop I talked to said these people came from Fuzhou,” said Cape. “That’s in the Fujian province of China.”

“So?”

“So what goes on there?” asked Cape. “If you live in that part of China, what do you do, and why would you leave?”

Linda looked up from her notebook. “This is gonna get pretty broad, as searches go,” she said. “You want me to get the Sloth involved?”

Cape smiled at the nickname. His friend Barry hadn’t used his given name for over a decade. Sloth was a genius trapped inside a body that could barely respond, only connecting with the world around him through computers. He could use them to talk, see things invisible to others, and go places forbidden to all but a select few. There wasn’t a network he couldn’t hack or security system he couldn’t breach without leaving a trace. And with Linda asking the questions, Sloth could tell you things about yourself even your own mother wouldn’t remember.

“Tell him I’ll come by,” said Cape. “As soon as I come up with more questions.”

Linda nodded, her hair waving back and forth. “Where will you go next?”

“I think there are answers in Chinatown,” said Cape, “but without Sally I’m half-blind.”

“Is that like being half-dumb?”

“
That
I’m used to.”

“So?”

“I need a guide,” said Cape. “Someone who knows Chinatown from the inside.”

Linda raised her eyebrows. “You have someone in mind?”

Cape finished the last bite of pancakes before answering, bringing his empty fork down onto the newspaper that lay between them. The silver tines landed neatly on the bridge of Harold Yan’s nose, his dark eyes staring up from the front page.

“Why not ask him?” said Cape.

Linda shook her head in disbelief, thinking of all the reasons why not, but instead saying, “You think he’ll talk to you?”

Cape looked hurt. “Wouldn’t you?”

“I’m not running for mayor,” Linda replied.

“Too bad,” said Cape as he glanced at the check and put some bills on the table. “I would have voted for you.”

Linda smiled. “Want me to check him out, too? Maybe I’ll find a way in.”

Cape shrugged. “I think I’m going to try the direct approach and call Yan’s office, but sure—go ahead. It’s always nice to know who you’re dealing with.”

Linda stood to leave. “Thanks for breakfast.”

Cape nodded absently, his thoughts already somewhere else.

He was wondering what the hell he was going to say to the Mayor of Chinatown.