The Scratch on the Ming Vase (9 page)

Chapter Twenty

Nicki looked out across the blue Pacific. The flight above the island of Oahu, and the glorious birds-eye view it provided of Pearl Harbor and Diamond Head volcano, was always an exhilarating moment—especially as the plane descended over the pineapple fields and headed out onto the offshore runway, built on a coral reef.

This time was different. Nicki couldn't concentrate on anything, knowing what was about to unfold.

“I've got to go, Mother,” said Nicki, “we're about to land. I just wanted to say I'm sorry for being such a jerk about the private jet. I'd be nowhere without it.” She paused. “Or you.”

She clicked off her phone.

The moment she landed, she thanked the pilot and took off to find a cab.

“Get me downtown as fast as you can,” she told the driver. “Not the Nimitz Highway, I don't want the scenic route.” She looked at her watch: it was still on Toronto time. “Take the H-1.”

“You got it.”

“What time is it?” she asked him.

“Nine twenty.”

“Good,” said Nicki, adjusting her watch back six hours. “The morning rush is past. We can do it in half an hour.”

“Sounds like you've been to Honolulu before,” said the driver, pulling the cab out of the terminal. He looked at her in his rearview mirror. “Don't I know you?”

“I don't think so. Listen, I've got to get to Beretania Street—to police headquarters.”

“Okay. Fasten your seatbelt!”

The driver got her there in thirty-five minutes.

“Thanks,” said Nicki, rushing to pay him.

“Would have done it in less than thirty if that moving van hadn't slowed me down,” he replied, but Nicki was already in the front door of the building.

The Police Headquarters was a large four-story concrete structure with a front window like a tollbooth.

The receptionist put down her book.

“Yes?” she asked.

“I need to speak with an officer,” said Nicki. “I'd like to talk to Lieutenant—”

“Wait here,” she said, pointing to an uncomfortable bench and handing Nicki a plastic badge.

Five minutes passed before someone came. Nicki read his nametag anxiously, but it wasn't the cop she wanted.

“I'm sorry,” said Nicki. “I was hoping to speak with a friend of mine.”

“A friend?”

“Not a friend exactly, but we have a mutual acquaintance. Is Lieutenant Kimo…uh—”

“You mean Captain Kimo Moi.” The officer headed back into the hallway. “I'll get him for you.”

Thank goodness he's here.

While she waited, she pumped the receptionist for information. “So is it true that a replica of a Ming vase was stolen from the police museum down the hall?” she asked, hoping her suspicions were right.

“Yes,” replied the woman. “Happened a few weeks ago. We still don't know who took it. Or why.” She put down her pen. “It's not all that valuable.”

“What's not valuable?” The brusque voice behind Nicki belonged to Kimo Moi, a tall man with an agitated face and huge sweat rings under his arms.

“The Ming vase replica,” said Nicki.

“What did you want to see me about?”

“I need to talk to someone,” she replied. “About the theft of the real one.”

“Real what?”

“The real Ming vase.”

He did a double take and then pulled her aside.

“Come in here,” he said. He closed the door of the interrogation room behind them. His eyes flashed. “What are you talking about?”

“Well, you see, I've been visiting some friends in Canada, and—”

“And?”

“And I discovered the identity of the person who took both the replica from the museum and the real vase, too. It was transferred to Toronto, to be given back to its rightful owner, but—”

“What are you talking about?”

“I was going to report this to the Toronto police, but I figured there was little they could do, now that the man who did this is here in Honolulu.”

Silence.

Gotcha!
thought Nicki. Then she continued.

“I'm going to find Mr. Newman now—that's his name, Mr. Trent Newman—but I didn't think it would be wise to confront him alone.”

“No, it wouldn't,” said Kimo Moi. “I'll take you there myself.”

I thought you might.

“Do you know where he's staying?”

No, but you do
, said Nicki to herself.

“I figured you could put out an APB and find him fairly quickly. Of course, I could always go to the FBI. They'll help—”

“No. I'll check my files. Maybe this man is on record.”

Moi went away for a minute, pretended to check his computer, then returned with an address.

“He's likely in Manoa.”

The captain told the receptionist to divert any calls to his assistant. Nicki followed him to the cruiser. His wheels screeched as he tore out of the lot.

He drove at high speed through the streets of Honolulu, running every red light he met. His hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles turned white.

The temperature rose quickly as the sun moved higher into the sky. Nicki went to open the window, but it was locked.

“Hot in here,” she said.

He offered no reply and, with one angry flick, clicked on the air conditioning.

They sped past bus stops, markets, and homes with blooming lilies and mai-say-lan trees on their front lawns. Everything looked so normal, so peaceful.

Kimo Moi didn't say a word. He barreled eastward through the downtown core until he came to that part of Oahu where the urban core meets the greener outskirts and high-rise buildings begin to mix with old Japanese temples and monkeypod trees. Up and down the winding slopes of the Manoa Valley he careened, occasionally turning his head just enough to look at Nicki out of the corner of his eye.

She kept focused on what she had to do: she kept her muscles relaxed, her mind calm, and went over everything she'd learned in her years of training.

Action, not reaction.

If attacked, place yourself in a position of advantage while allowing your opponent to enter a position of disadvantage
.

Moi made his way to a residential area. Spread across an overgrown green hillside was the old Chinese cemetery, where graves dated back to some of the earliest immigrants to cross the Pacific Ocean. It caught Nicki's eye, and she was momentarily deep in thought, until the police captain pulled his cruiser into a driveway and parked. Bougainvillea vines climbed up the high wooden fence that surrounded the house.

“He might be in here,” he muttered.

Nicki followed him to the porch.

Every window shade was drawn.

He knocked once, then thrust open the door and threw her inside.

“What's going on?” came a voice from the next room. “I thought you were—”

Newman stopped dead when he saw Nicki standing there.

Moi closed the door and locked it.

“What the…?” Newman's eyes flew open, and his jaw dropped to the floor. “What's
she
doing here?”

“You know this girl?”

“She's a housekeeper. In Toronto. But—”

“Where is he?” Nicki demanded. “Where's the professor?” She ran into the kitchen, then the living room.

“Stop her!” hollered Newman.

She pulled open a door that led downstairs into a cellar.

“Don't go down there,” screamed Moi.

She could hear the faint muffled sound of a man's voice. “I'm coming,” she said, and started down.

Moi drew his gun. “Make one more move and I'll kill you.”

Chapter Twenty-One

Nicki turned around slowly and came back up the stairs. Then she spoke to Newman directly.

“You'll be charged with the attempted murder of David Kahana, you know.” She moved carefully, taking very small steps. She kept a conversation going with Newman, but never took her eyes off Moi. “Not to mention espionage.”

“Who do you think you are?” said Newman. Then he looked at Moi. “I hired this kid a few days ago.”

“I wish you hadn't.” Moi kept the gun pointed at Nicki.

She spotted a large box with several layers of mailing tape wrapped around it.

“The vase. It's in there, isn't it?”

When they didn't reply, she continued. “I know you're a double agent, Mr. Newman—a mole for the People's Republic of China. You knew when Master Kahana would be alone at the school. You knew he was there to meet Professor Aisin-Gioro. You stabbed him, took the vase, and then put a phony in the safe in room 813 to cover your tracks.

“That replica,” continued Nicki, “came from the Honolulu Police Department museum—it was a stand-in for the real one in the vault. Captain Moi here must have sent it to you.

She took a long, deep breath.

“I know that you are both working for Chinese Intelligence—it's the only way you could have known about the Ming being transferred. What I don't know is whether you confiscated the vase on orders from the Chinese government, or planned on disappearing with a fortune for yourselves. Either way, you had to make sure the professor never made it to Toronto. I guess you told him there'd been a change of plans and that he was to meet David Kahana here in Honolulu.”

The two men exchanged glances.

“Do you have a silencer?” Newman asked the captain.

“Not here. We'll have to take her someplace,” said Moi, and while he concentrated on answering Newman, Nicki pounced in a split second.

She delivered a mantis claw strike to Moi's face. When he raised his arm to stop her next blow, the gun dropped from his hand.

Newman reached for it. As he bent over, she directed every bit of force from her body to her hands and gave him a full throttle chop to the back of his neck.

Moi came toward her. Using the fireman's throw, so the weight of his own body would be used against him, Nicki hurled him against the wall. A brass floor lamp fell on his head.

Newman came at her from behind.

She struck him with a back kick—a vicious move, used in the martial arts only for situations of extreme danger. Then, in full fighting stance, her legs positioned for balance and strength, she utilized a phenomenal twisting punch. With lightning speed, she delivered four kicks, one after the other, rendering Newman defenseless.

She grabbed the gun and ran downstairs to free Professor Aisin-Gioro.

He was on the floor in the middle of the room, bound and gagged. He was pale and barely conscious.

“I'm here to help,” she said, quickly removing the cloth from his mouth and working hard to untie the heavy ropes around his ankles and wrists.

Upstairs, Newman and Moi were back on their feet. Moaning in pain, they stumbled to the top of the cellar stairs.

Nicki drew the gun.

“Back up or I'll shoot.”

She tried to get Dr. Aisin-Gioro to his feet, but his limbs were too weak.

“Get your other gun,” Newman hollered to Moi.

Nicki heard a cabinet bang shut, then steps across the floor. With an assault rifle under his arm, Moi returned to the top of the stairs. He loaded it, aimed it squarely at Nicki, and put his finger on the trigger.

Then came the voice she had been waiting for.

“Come out with your hands up. Don't make any sudden moves or we will shoot to kill.”

The S.W.A.T. team surrounded the house.

Finally.

Glass smashed into a million tiny pieces when an officer kicked in the back door.

Newman and Moi tried to escape through the kitchen window, but it was too late.

“This is the FBI,” came the voice from a police megaphone. “Surrender now. We're coming in.” There was a brief pause, followed by a loud crash.

“Drop to the ground.”

Nicki waited a few minutes and then hollered for help. “I have a man down here in need of immediate medical attention.” Paramedics rushed into the cellar with a stretcher. They carefully lifted him onto it.

“I'll make sure one of the officers gets your vase, sir, and keeps it safe for you,” said Nicki, leaning over the professor so he could hear her.

He nodded his head and lifted his hand slightly as the medics carried him out to a waiting ambulance. Nicki followed them outside. Dozens of specially trained officers, wearing full combat gear and carrying machine guns, had formed an impenetrable circle around Moi's house.

“Is he going to be okay?” Nicki asked the ambulance attendant.

“He's dehydrated and very weak, but I think he'll make it,” he said.

Nicki walked over to the FBI investigator, special agent Kwai. “Has someone got the vase?” Nicki asked her.

“Here it comes now,” she said. Another agent had already removed the tape and opened the box.

Nicki carefully lifted it out.

“Oh,” she sighed, “it's gorgeous.” She turned it from side to side slowly.

“What are you looking for?” asked Kwai.

“I want to see the scratch.”

“The what?” asked Kwai.

“The imperfection.”

Kwai didn't know what she was talking about.

“There it is!” said Nicki. “There's the scratch on the Ming vase.” She pointed to a small score through the petal of a flower, a peony, made hundreds of years before.

“We'll take it to the field office for safe keeping.” The officer held out her hands for the vase and then looked at Nicki. “Which is where I need you to go. We've got some people at the bureau who would like to meet you, Miss Haddon.”

“Miss
Haddon
?” said Newman. “What! Are you kidding me?” Two agents had him in handcuffs.

“Get him out of here,” said the investigator.

Newman glared threateningly at Nicki as they led him to a waiting van.

“I wouldn't worry about him,” said Kwai. “With the charges he faces here and in Canada, he'll never make it out of jail. Not in this lifetime.

“I must admit,” continued Kwai, “I had my doubts when you called from the plane. But you were right—this was the best way to get Moi to show his hand.” She raised an eyebrow. “When you told me you were working with Kahana, you didn't mention you were a teenager. You didn't mention MI6 either.”

“The British Secret Service?” asked Nicki.

“Somebody there had your back. That's for sure.”

Nicki watched as a group of people strolled through the Chinese cemetery across the street. “I'll just be a minute,” she said.

Nicki headed down the slope. Headstones of all shapes and sizes were scattered haphazardly across the hillside. She made her way to the older section, where Hawaii's early settlers had been buried; years of backbreaking work cutting sugar cane and sandalwood had sent many of them to an early grave.

Her mind turned to her parents.

She wondered if they were still alive.

She wondered if they ever thought of her.

She wondered if she'd ever get to meet them.