CHAPTER 9
Hawker arrived at Chep Lap Kok Airport shortly after midnight. He stepped off a cargo flight from Nairobi dressed as a member of the crew and helped to supervise the unloading.
Then, instead of reboarding the aircraft or entering the brightly lit passenger terminal, he traveled with the freight to the huge warehouse at the edge of the ramp.
The whole thing had been prearranged, the night foreman and a customs officer dutifully taking their bribes and hiding him. A new set of clothing was handed over, along with travel papers and a stamped passport. Thirty minutes later Hawker was streetside with the rest of the second-shift crew, stepping onto a bus that would take him to Hong Kong’s central district.
At two o’clock in the morning, the city was ablaze with lights, skyscrapers outlined in white and yellow, others up-lit by colored floods, while the ever-present glow of the orange halogen bulbs reflected on the layer of clouds that hung over the city. Though not quite deserted, the streets were quiet, at least by Hong Kong standards.
Hawker wandered around the district for twenty minutes or so, getting his bearings, stopping for an English language newspaper and a bite to eat: Cantonese chicken and a cup of green tea.
In many ways Hong Kong was the same as Hawker remembered, the same neon face for the world to see, the same subconscious buzzing of energy, even at night. It even smelled the same; food cooking and salt air mixed with the exhaust of idling traffic.
To many that would have seemed impossible a decade and a half earlier, as the British prepared to hand the territory back to the Chinese and the threat of communist rule loomed. Many had expected a muting of Hong Kong’s vibrancy, with the imposition of communist taxation, regulation, and bureaucracy. A duller, grayer place was the likely outcome. Certainly money had been fleeing the island for years before the switch.
But it hadn’t happened that way. Aside from growing bigger and brighter, Hong Kong remained the same densely packed bundle of energy it had always been. The place was New York or London on speed, a more youthful and less restrained Tokyo. Its spirit, rather than being dulled, had infected the mainland, right up to the highest levels of the Communist Party, with mini versions of the great city sprouting in Shenzhen, Tianjin, and Chongqing. As it turned out, China hadn’t taken over Hong Kong after all; Hong Kong had taken over China.
As if further proof were needed, Hawker’s last foray into China had been with the state as an adversary. That monolithic source of power no longer existed in the same way. In all likelihood, Kang could be as much an enemy of his own country as he was currently an enemy of Hawker and the NRI. And that fact was important, because though any action against Kang would be dealt with harshly in the aftermath, especially if linked to the United States, the machinery of the state had better things to worry about in the meantime. If he was right, the only real security he would have to deal with would be Kang’s.
Hawker made his way to the Peninsula Hotel and checked in under the assumed name on the passport: Mr. Thomas Francis.
“Are there any messages for me?” he asked.
“There is one message,” the clerk replied in English. She handed Hawker an envelope.
Hawker opened it. A single sheet of hotel stationery. No name, only three words. It read: Enjoy the view. He put it in his pocket and went to his room.
Sitting down, he flipped open a laptop computer that Moore had given him and signed on to the Internet. Using an encryption program, he secured the connection and checked for any messages. There were none. Next he tapped the account that Moore had set up.
Once the security protocol went through, Hawker saw the balance for the first time: $1.4 million. A life’s savings, pledged to save a life. But then Danielle wouldn’t have been in danger had Moore not convinced her to work for him once again.
Hawker stared at the screen. The truth was, he would have come for Danielle without any payment at all. But the money in front of him wasn’t without meaning. It was enough to change Hawker’s life, enough that he could escape the world he’d lived in for the past twelve years. And the thought had a magnetic attraction that he could not fully deny.
He transferred half the money to an account of his own. The rest would wait; that was the deal. Then he logged out of the site, closed the browser, and shut the laptop.
Glancing at the note he’d been given at the front desk, he stood and walked to the picture window of his seventeenth-floor room. Moving his face up against the glass, he exhaled, creating a slight fog on the window-pane.
A small arrow appeared in the condensation, drawn with fingers and the subtle oils that resided on them. From Hawker’s point of view, it led directly to a moped rental kiosk on the opposite side of the street far below.
He reached out with his hand and wiped the window clean. He would meet his contact there in the morning.
CHAPTER 10
Danielle stood in the darkness, the filth in the air surrounding her. Hearing more movement, she stepped back in a defensive posture, waiting for something or someone to attack her.
“Show yourself,” she demanded.
A voice called out to her. “You disturbed our rest. So why don’t you show yourself.”
An oil lantern was lit, lending a fraction of light to the room. As her eyes adjusted Danielle saw a figure moving forward: an older Asian man, with a scraggly beard and mustache. Four or five bodies lay on the floor around him, covered with filthy blankets. She guessed they were sleeping. Beyond them were more stone walls and the remnants of cast-iron bars rusted and flaking.
“What is this place?”
“This is the brig,” the older man said. “You cross Kang, there is no court of law. Just this place or worse.”
“Stop talking, old man,” a stronger voice demanded.
Danielle looked and saw another prisoner, younger and larger. He studied her in return and she felt certain that his intentions were anything but pure.
“Who are you?” she asked bluntly. “And why the hell should he do anything you say?”
The younger man seemed insulted by the directness of her questions, but that was the point, to establish dominance or at least a position of strength.
He stood up, throwing off his blanket. He was at least a foot taller than she was, and probably seventy pounds heavier. In comparison to the others, he looked well fed. She guessed that he stole their food. That made him the head rat in the cage.
“You call me Mister Zhou,” he demanded. “You’re going to be here with us a long time. Better you learn right now, how things are.”
He stepped toward her and Danielle prepared for the fight.
“Stop,” the old man said. “No fight, not now.” He pointed toward the far wall. Through thin slits that might have once been gunports, the blackness beyond had turned a shade of blue. The day would be breaking soon.
“They feed us now,” he said. “No food, if we fight.”
Danielle stole a quick glance at the old man. He was skin and bones. She turned back to Zhou, and with her eyes locked on his, she stepped backward toward one of the stone bunks.
Zhou sat back down, waking another man and pointing Danielle out to him.
A few minutes later, as thin slivers of light crept across the stone wall, the rest of the prisoners began to wake. It seemed she had six cell mates: the old man, Zhou and his friend, an Indian woman who did not speak or make eye contact with anyone, and two others, who appeared to be Caucasian: a male child who looked about ten to twelve years of age and a man in his early sixties. He was short but stocky with broad shoulders.