Fire And Ice (17 page)

"Tell your friend Ronald I want to talk."

"No, Michael. You're playing with fire."

Across the lobby, he saw the woman who had questioned him in the elevator talking to a policeman. "I'm already in the fire, Lydia. Tell him. Or give me some number I can call."

"They will consume you."

"I have nowhere else to turn. They're my last shot." "No," said Lydia. "I can't be part—"

"Forget it," said Stone, hanging up. "Your friend just found me." The Triad man was sitting in an armchair, ignoring the chaos and watching Stone with a calculating expression on his lean face. Jackals, Lydia had called them. They wanted the stolen ship. They wanted to steal it from the thieves and sell the cargo. Terrific. He'd ride along and somehow rescue Sarah and Ronnie before the shooting started. As Stone headed toward him, the Englishwoman pointed him out to the policeman. Ronald noticed and got up quickly and strode to the parking garage elevator. Stone ran after him as a pair of Cantonese who had been sitting near him jumped up, blocking the cop's path. Ronald veered through a fire door, beckoning Stone down stairs that led to the garage.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

"Hey, sailorman. Chiu Chau still looking for you." "They just shot my friend."

"Missed you."

"What are you doing here?"

"Boys follow. My boss wants to meet you. " "What about?"

"Explain in car."

A Toyota was already waiting with a driver and a man in front. Both men wore baggy shirts with room for side arms. Stone and Ronald climbed in, and they pulled away without a word.

The car headed toward Causeway Bay.

"How you make Chiu Chau mad?" asked Ronald. "Told you before, I don't know. What does your boss want?"

"Maybe they mad about ship? Maybe you step in their way— Hey, sailorman. 'Who buy it?"

"What?"

"The ship with your family. Who buy the gas?" "Power plant. Generating station." Ronald pulled a flip phone from his jacket, spoke a few words in Cantonese, and listened intently, his eyes on Stone. "Cops," he said, when he snapped it shut, "looking for sniper. Tall Brit. Yellow hair." He smiled at Stone. "Sounds like guy who stole cop car at airport yesterday. . . . You hear about that?"

Stone looked out the window. Everywhere he went, strangers knew more than he did. At Causeway Bay, the car wove through the tangle of tunnel and expressway ramps and pulled up to a high-rise hotel less than three hundred yards from the yacht club. Ronald escorted Stone through the lavish lobby into an elevator.

"What does your boss want?"

"Don't piss him off."

"What's his name?"

"You call him Mr. Chang." He led Stone into a suite with glass walls overlooking the typhoon shelter.

Seated on a couch was a heavyset, middle-aged Cantonese whose conservative attire—a Hong Kong businessman's sober blue suit—and quiet jewelry—a gold signet ring and thin wedding band—contrasted sharply with Ronald's gangster costume. Ronald presented Stone. Light flashed from his wire-rimmed eyeglasses as Mr. Chang nodded, but he neither rose from the couch nor offered to shake Stone's hand. A covered teacup sat on the coffee table. Across the room

was a conference table on which was spread a chart, with glass ashtrays holding down the curling edges.

"Want tea, Doc?" asked Ronald.

"No."

Chang spoke, a deep rumble. "You look for ship?" "I'm looking for my wife and daughter, who are on the ship. . . ."

"Where's the ship?"

"I think they're in Shanghai." Stone tried to penetrate Chang's glinting eyeglasses as he answered. "I want to get to Shanghai without anyone knowing. And I want documented backup for my cover story."

"What cover story?"

"I'm going to say that I'm scouting locations for foreign investors to build a Westernstyle yacht marina." Chang looked interested. Or at least his stare grew more intense. After a cautious look at his boss, Ronald grinned. "Neat."

"I want a guide. A translator who knows the waterfront."

"Like I said before, you need a lot, Doc."

"And a boat for the river . . . Also, I'll need some money."

"Last night you say you no want money." "Walking-around money. Bribe money. I'm prepared to give anything I can in exchange."

Chang was expressionless, but Ronald cracked another smile. "You no fun, Doc. What kind of bargain?"

"You know damn well I don't have time to bargain," Stone shot back. "You know what I need. And you know I'm on the run. I'm a doctor. I'm willing to do whatever you want that I know how to do."

Chang spoke again. "China's got plenty a doctors."

"Then what the hell did you bring me up here for?"

Ronald walked to the windows. "Come here, Doc." Quietly, he murmured, "Guy talk like that to Mr. Chang fly out window."

Twenty-seven stories below, Causeway Bay's typhoon shelter looked orderly, a far cry from the tangle of mooring and anchor lines, hulls gunnel to gunnel, vessels so tightly jammed together that much of the sprawling boat basin could be crossed on foot by stepping deck to deck. "You see down?"

"Yeah?"

Ronald pointed a manicured finger at the west end. "You see down there?"

"What? The yacht club?"

"Hong Kong Yacht Club."

"Okay. I see it."

"Your club. Honorary."

"So?"

"Okay." He pointed at the opposite end of the shelter, some half a mile east. "End of row. You see yacht."

"With the helicopter pad?" A circle near the stern was marked with an H.

"Motor yacht."

"What about it?" Stone had seen it arrive last night while waiting for the taxi. It was the biggest in the shelter, more than a hundred feet long and bristling with antennas. White domes covered satellite communication dishes.

"Tin Hau."

"The sea goddess." It was a very common boat name in Hong Kong.

"Big yacht. Go anywhere."

Maybe Mr. Chang planned to use the yacht to smuggle human organs down the Pearl River from Guangzhou. Trouble was, the Triad leader had an inflated opinion of Stone's medical prowess.

"Ronald, I told you last night. Emergencies. I don't know the first thing about transplants."

"No problem, Doc. Like Mr. Chang say, we got plenty a doctors."

"Then what do you need me for?"

Instead of answering Stone, Ronald looked to Mr. Chang. Chang shook his head. Ronald could not conceal his disappointment. He started to protest. Chang shook his head again, grunted a word of Cantonese, and stood up. Two bodyguards, dressed as conservatively as he, appeared from another room and escorted him out of the suite. Ronald waited until he heard the door close. "Mr. Chang likes you." Stone was surprised. He had thought the byplay between the two men had indicated Chang was against them. "Does he like me enough to help me?" he asked.

"Mr. Chang has very good friend in Shanghai. Businessman. Used to be high PRC

official. Ran state cotton factory. Day before he retire from government, he sell factory to 'private enterprise' stock company owned by wife. Next day, he own state factory. Very important man, Mr. Chang's friend. Very rich. He want fine thing in life. Mr. Chang think old friend like that yacht."

Stone stared. "What?"

"No Triad ever steal yacht from typhoon shelter. Tanka boatboys hate us. Like watchdogs. They see me coming, they bark. But they don't bark at gweilo honorary member of Hong Kong Yacht Club."

"You're nuts."

"You gonna make me famous gangster, Doc. Rich and famous. Hit the big time. And Mr. Chang be my very good friend."

"I'm not a thief," said Stone, but he was only buying time. Stealing a boat beat stealing body organs; the only thing was, it looked impossible.

"You got no choice, sailorman. I hear they shooting people at the Hilton."

"How am I going to get it out of there, assuming I can -even get aboard?"

"I check you out. Everybody say you big deal sailorman. You say that yacht too big?"

"I can handle her. But what about the boatboys? She'll have a couple sleeping aboard."

"You take care of boatboys,"

"I will not kill people."

"No killing. Tie 'em up. We let 'em go later."

"I'll bet. . . . What about the cops? Even if I get out

of the shelter, what if a harbor patrol boards me?"

"Fog tomorrow night. They can't see you."

"They have radar."

"We have ECM."

"You're joking."

Ronald's face hardened. "Mr. Chang don't joke." "Electronic countermeasures?"

"He got latest PLA jammers. We jam water cops' radar. All you got to do is get away from the harbor patrol and meet up with the PRC patrol and you home free."

"How far?"

"Thirteen miles."

Ronald took him to the table. The chart was an old Defense Mapping's 93733, a preTurnover small-scale rendering of Hong Kong and its immediate waters. Ronald traced a route east from the shelter, south around Hong Kong Island into the Tathong Channel, and east again between Joss House Bay and Tung Lung Island. From Tung Lung, it was a long run straight east through mostly open sea toward a dotted line that represented the former boundary between "Hong Kong (United Kingdom)" on the near side, and " Guangdong Sheng, China" on the far.

"PLA friends wait there," said Ronald. "Cross that line, you home free." It looked more like sixteen miles. Stone said, "What do you mean, home free? What about the harbor patrol? The water cops are PRC now, too, aren't they?"

"Maybe some Hong Kong water cops belong to Chiu Chau. Maybe some PLA navy patrol friends with Mr. Chang," Ronald answered. Then added with exaggerated patience, "You know L.A., sailorman?"

Stone hesitated.

Ronald laughed at him. "Your boat registered L.A., you remember? L.A., you got Bloods and Crips. Crips steal truck on Bloods turf, Bloods pissed. Same thing Hong Kong and mainland. Any more questions, sailorman?"

"Yeah, Ronald. You're asking me to trust that when I hand that boat over to you at sea, you'll keep your side of the bargain."

"Why not? You old friend of Ms. Chin. Besides, maybe you help us in Shanghai . . . "

"Doing what?" Stone asked warily.

"This your main chance, sailorman."

He was getting in deeper and deeper. The question was, was he getting any closer to Sarah and Ronnie? In answer, he felt a weird little smile tug his mouth: it was one way to get the fish back in the water.

"Hey, where you going?"

Stone was out the door. "Let me take a look at her." "I'll drive you. Chiu Chau everywhere."

"Wake up, Sweetie," Sarah whispered. The ship was still drifting, rolling gently on the swell.,

Ronnie awakened cranky. "What?"

"Shhh. We're going to run for it."

She blinked. "Really? When?"

"Now. Here's your foul-weather jacket— Leave your pack."

"It's got all my stuff in it."

"We can't take our bags. If they catch us, we'll say we're going for a walk. I'm sorry. I'm leaving my stuff too. Here." She gave Ronnie the GPS. "Hide it in your pocket. "I've got a water bottle and the radio."

"They'll see us."

"No, the fog's turned a real souper. See?"

Ronnie peered dubiously out the port. "I'm scared." "Me, too."

"What about Mr. Jack?" Ronnie whispered, with a fearful look at the old man in his bed.

"I gave him a sleeping tablet. Let's go."

"Where's Moss?"

"On the bridge."

"Are you sure?"

"Come on."

She took her daughter's hand. Ronnie cast a longing look at the now familiar cabin, the swinging airplanes, and her Snoopy backpack. Then Sarah led the way boldly into the empty lounge and out the door and down the main stairs.

"Someone's coming up the stairs."

"We're just taking a walk, remember?" Sarah put her arm over Ronnie's shoulder and smiled at the Chinese deckhand who was trooping up to the crew mess in his boiler suit. He ducked his head. Down they spiraled, below the main deck, down into the hull. It was eerily quiet with the main engine stopped, and even when Sarah opened a door on the accommodations deck the only mechanical noises they heard were a distant murmur from the auxiliary generator that powered the lights and the rhythm of the compressors cooling the cargo. It felt too easy. Or maybe they were just lucky.

"Look!"

The Zodiak, a twelve-foot semirigid inflatable outboard skiff, was propped on its side to save space beside the accommodations hatch. Its little outboard was still attached, tubed to a single six-gallon fuel tank.

Unlike the emergency raft, the inflatable had no canopy, no shelter at all. But they had their foul-weather jackets, though they were rather lightweight for winter this far north. Sarah went to the hatch, turned the heavy dogs that latched it. "Help me." Ronnie had dropped to one knee and fiddled with her sneaker. "Help me, Mum." Exasperated, Sarah knelt beside her. "What is the matter with you?"

"Don't look up."

"Why?"

"There's a video camera pointing at the hatch." "Oh my God, what have I done?"

"It's not your fault, Mummy," Ronnie whispered. "It's way hidden— Pretend you're helping me."

Sarah tried to think. "Then we'll get up and walk away.

"No, we can't. It saw me see it."

"Bloody—"

"Let's dance!"

"What?"

She jumped up before Sarah could stop her and waved at the camera, which was halfconcealed in a steel pillar. "Hi, Mr. Jack. Are you watching? Hi, Moss.

"Come on, Mummy. It's Mr. Jack. Hi, Mr. Jack. Hi, Moss. Come on, Mummy." She dragged Sarah to her feet and hooked her arm around her waist and kicked. "One, two, three, kick. One, two, three, kick. We learned the cancan at the officers club in Kwajalein," she called, as if neither knew he was drugged in his bed. "Sorry, Mr. Jack. Mummy won't do it, she's very British, you know. Bye-bye!" She steered her mother out the door and up the stairs. "One, two, three, kick!"

Three decks up, they ran into Ah Lee carrying a tray

with whiskey, glasses, and ice. His battered face fell when he saw them. "No allow. No allow."

"It's okay, Ah Lee. It's just us. Walk."

"No allow."

"Walk."