Oops, Court thought. He’d just accidentally advanced the idea to Dai that he should kill Don Fitzroy.
Court masked his frustration and pretended to think over the idea a moment. Finally, he shook his head. “I want Fitzroy alive. He’s still my meal ticket. He gets the best contracts around the globe. Plus, I don’t know you yet. You start killing men you are in business with, then I will know you. I’ll know you can’t be trusted. I will walk out the door here to go kill Jiang, and I will keep on walking.
“See your agreement with Fitzroy through. Show yourself to be a businessman, and this businessman will fulfill his contract. I kill Fan for you, and Fitzroy goes back to London.”
Dai waved a hand in the air. “Fine. Frankly, I like Sir Donald’s operation, in theory. If this situation is resolved, we will send him home safe and sound. Maybe he will work for us again someday. Maybe you will, too.”
Fat chance on both counts, asshole. Court did not say it; in fact, he nodded in agreement. Glad he’d defused the situation, Court asked, “You know where I should start looking for your defector?”
Another photograph appeared from the desk, this one of three men. Two were white, tough-looking guys in their forties: one had short hair and a beard; the other was clean-shaven with a bald head. The third man was black, with a beard and mustache. He might have been a little younger than the others, but no less tough.
Dai said, “This is Fitzroy’s second team. All from Great Britain, all former Special Air Service commandos. They called him three days ago from a bar in Po Toi. It is a small island south of central Hong Kong. They claimed to have tracked a group of Wo Shing Wo there, although they could not be certain Fan was with them. There were no other relevant details.” He shrugged. “The team never made contact with Fitzroy again.”
“You sent your men to this island to look for them, I assume?”
“Of course. No trace. Unfortunately, there are Triads operating on Po Toi, and they are able to identify police and security officers quite easily. But a gweilo like you should be able to appear nonthreatening.”
“What is a gweilo?”
“It means ‘ghost man.’ A white person. You should be able to get close enough to the Triads to find out where they are hiding Fan Jiang, because they won’t suspect you of being involved in the interests of the People’s Republic of China.” He handed the photo and a notebook to Court. “In the notebook you will see a list of known Wo Shing Wo properties. Bars, restaurants, houses of ill propriety. Many gweilo businessmen frequent such places. It will help you find your way around or into the organization. You will also find all Fitzroy’s notes about his communications with his men, before they disappeared. I had him write everything down to help us in our hunt.”
Court took the notebook and slipped it into his cargo pants. “Okay. I can start with this. Can your boys give me a ride back to my hotel? Preferably not facedown on the floorboard?”
“You will need a weapon.”
Court said, “Not yet. If I get eyes on the target, I’ll have you provide me with something.”
The PLA colonel cocked his head. “So… you just go out in the field with nothing but a phone?”
“I just need cash. I’ll buy the equipment I require off the shelf, but like I told you, I’m broke.”
“How much?”
“Twenty-five thousand U.S. For expenses.”
Dai didn’t seem happy about this, but he looked to one of his men and gave a quick nod. The man disappeared to get the money.
Dai then nodded to the men behind Court, and Court stood before he felt the hands on his shoulders that he knew would be coming.
Dai said, “Major Xi will take you wherever you want to go to begin your work. You do not have time to dawdle on your mission, and frankly, neither does Sir Donald. Keep me posted on your developments.”
Court said, “If you want me to provide you with intelligence along the way, you have to assure me I’ll still get paid and Fitzroy won’t be harmed if your men get to Fan Jiang first.” This was simply a ruse to establish his cover, and to stress that Court’s assistance only came as long as Fitzroy was alive.
“You have my word. I am interested in the end result. That is all. Fan Jiang must not leave Hong Kong. The clock is ticking, Court Gentry.”
CHAPTER
NINE
The Chinese intelligence officers hooded Court as they had when they brought him to the safe house, but on his return trip down the hills and through the tunnel under Victoria Harbor he at least was allowed to sit upright. A young man pressed against either side of him, and as Court sat quietly during the drive, he occupied a portion of his time by coming up with ways to take them down, relieve them of their weapons, and then hold the men in the front seat at gunpoint. It would have been no real trick for Court to pull this off; these MSS operatives were highly trained but they were not ready for him to make a move at all.
But the fact was they were correct to assume Court would come along compliantly. He wouldn’t take these guys down; he wouldn’t hold the driver and front passenger at gunpoint.
For the time being, anyhow, Court Gentry was Colonel Dai’s bitch.
The men dropped him off once they were north of Tsim Sha Tsui; they just pulled over to the side of the road, yanked the hood from his head, and let him out of the SUV.
As the vehicle screeched off on the wet streets, Court saw that it was a BMW 2 Series Gran Tourer, a small minivan that looked like it had some power and cost a few bucks. Court watched it disappear, then turned and continued on to the north, back in the direction of his hotel.
Walking through Mongkok on a rainy late afternoon, Court realized he did have to agree with Colonel Dai on one thing. Hong Kong looked like capitalism had put its head between its knees over a big green beautiful island chain and vomited out its shinier, flashier, and baser elements. HK was New York on steroids. Vegas on acid. Virtually every square inch was a bright sign, an explosion of color and noise and scent, an assault on the senses thinly disguised as an offer to sell something, a product or service one absolutely could not afford to miss out on.
Or else it was a Dumpster, a garbage can, or a plastic bag full of the detritus of all this humanity squeezed together.
Court had been all over the world, and he’d seen all the other economic systems firsthand. They sucked more, to be sure, and he’d given the good years of his life fighting for the very system on display here, but he had to admit that this version of unadulterated capitalism was a mess to look at.
He believed in it, and he liked it better than any alternative; he sometimes just wished it would scrub itself up a little.
Court made his way through the orgy of noise, smell, and light, back to his guesthouse, where he passed through the lobby and endured the overt stares of the old man behind the counter. This was the same man who’d checked him in this morning, and he’d probably been here to watch the spectacle that had happened earlier in the day, when Court was frogmarched out by goons with a hood over his head.
The man behind the counter ended his condescending stare abruptly and turned away, surely curious about the business of the American but not wanting to make the American’s business his business.
Back in his little room, Court immediately saw that it had been ransacked by Chinese intelligence. They’d done a fair job of it, and Court was instantly relieved he had not taken the Montblanc pen with the truth drug powder in it. That would have immediately tied him to the incident in the Peninsula, and had it been found in his room, he’d now probably be lying dead along the side of the road back up in the Peak.