“You mean you want me to go over to that fancy yacht and just sort of ‘blend in.’”
“Right, Stoke, just blend in,” Hawke said. “Disappear into the crowd. Lose yourself…”
After a beat, the two of them eyed each other and burst out laughing. The only place on earth Stokely Jones might be able to blend in would be the Olympic wrestlers’ locker room.
Stoke was well over six-foot-six and weighed nearly two-sixty, not an ounce of it fat. He’d started life in the projects and on the streets selling product and muscle. A wise old judge gave him the navy as an alternative to Riker’s Island. He did his SEAL training at Coronado and ended up as a river rat in the Mekong Delta in ’68. Coming home, the New York Jets signed him as a walk-on running back. He got hurt in his first game and spent an unhappy year on the injured reserve bench. Then he joined the New York City Police Department.
“Yeah. I like this part,” Stoke said. “Spy stuff. Hey, boss, I never got to tell you about Ambrose.”
“What about him?”
“Somebody trying to kill him.”
“Any idea who?”
“Nope. But he’s taking it personally.”
Hawke laughed. “I would, too.”
“I mean he’s on the case himself.”
“He’s got the right man for the job.”
Chapter Twelve
Hong Kong
THE VERY BEST PART OF HIS DAY WAS NIGHT. THE SMELLS OF the harbor coming through the small window to his left included salt brine, dead plankton, marine fuel, the flotsam and jetsam of centuries, rotting sea organisms, human waste, and much, much more. He closed his black eyes and inhaled, sucking these particulate fumes into the very cellars of his lungs. After a seeming eternity, the small black eyes embedded in the twin hollows above his razor-thin nose reopened.
He took a deep breath, creating a wet sucking noise through the narrow vertical slits that constituted his nose. He opened the wide horizontal gash of his mouth. And, through that hole like an open grave, he exhaled. What did they say? In with the good air, out with the bad.
His name was Hu Xu. He was nearly sixty years old and a death artist by trade. He called himself the “diener,” pronounced DEE-ner, the old German name for autopsy attendant. It can also mean “responsible manservant” or even “slave,” but he was neither of those. It was a private joke. As a young man, living with his parents in America, he had for some years been an autopsy assistant in Tempe, Arizona.
Traditonally, any man (or, rarely, woman) who works in this capacity is called by the German word. To be the diener means pushing the gurneys around and hosing down the table. It means unzipping the body bags. It means sawing open bodies and learning their secrets, the tales of the dead. Hu Xu loved those secrets. It was in his blood.
In Tempe, when the sheriff and his men had discovered his secrets and were chasing him, they called him simply “the Chinaman.” A Chinaman on the run in Arizona has a hard time hiding. Here, in his homeland, he was invisible once more.
Standing now before a pedestal containing a tin basin full of hot soapy water, Hu Xu stared deeply into the steam-misted mirror and regarded the perfect beauty reflected there. Just the sight of his own wondrous face brought shudders of pleasure rippling up his short and slightly deformed spine.
Yesssss, he hissed through his small, evenly spaced, and very sharp teeth.
I am the beautiful diener.
Indeed, in his natural state, as now, he was a wonder to behold. His body, from the neck down, was decorated in a brilliant tableau of interwoven and intricate tattoos. On his chest, descending beneath the black Tao cross, a two-headed Chinese dragon etched in shades of yellow, crimson, and emerald green. The dragon on his belly spouted twin licks of orange fire that divided to encircle Hu Xu’s small and malformed penis. Despite, or perhaps because of, the warped shape of the organ, his sexual appetites were varied and enormous. His sense of touch was inhumanly acute. As were all the others, taste, hearing, vision.
He grinned, baring his teeth, and murmured his approval at the rewarding sight. Perfect white dentures hid his own stubby points. As to hair, there was a wispy black goatee at the chin and a fringe of stringy black locks at the base of his skull. Normally, he plaited the sparse tresses adorning his tonsure with seven sterling silver skulls that clinked softly whenever he moved his head.
Now, he shaved off the goatee and stretched a latex skullcap over his hair and the tresses disappeared.
Tonight, the perfectly sculpted skulls were in a small silk pouch secreted upon his person. The tinny sound of tinkling skulls: the last sound countless victims heard before they stepped off. Hu Xu smiled, flipping at will through vivid memories of past glories engraved in his diener’s memory bank; no, stop, back up, there, that one.
He passed his hand over his bony skull, slick with perspiration, licking his thin dry lips. He must hurry. It wouldn’t do to be late for his appointment with General Moon, and he’d much to do before he could leave his barge.
A red leather bag sat on a small wooden table by his dresser. It contained the protean secrets of Hu’s unusual life. He reached inside.
Delicately extracting another rubber prosthesis and any number of jars and tubes of foundation cream, greasepaint, and powder, Hu Xu began to make himself disappear. He liked to sing while he worked, something he had learned as a child in Arizona from the Seven Dwarfs in the movie Snow White. A song popped into his head and he gave voice to it, beautifully, as it happened. One of his many skills was an uncanny gift for pitch-perfect vocal impersonations. And so the soulful voice of Eric Clapton began to waft through the floating house.
She puts on her makeup
And brushes her long black hair…
Twenty minutes later, the wizened assassin had ceased to exist. In his place was a diminutive woman from the upper echelons of Shanghai society. Her name was Madame Li, and she had all the papers to prove it. Elderly and stooped, wearing a black raw silk dress with pearl buttons, Hu Xu leaned forward and studied himself carefully in the mirror. His cheeks were lightly rouged, his eyelashes long and thick with beautifully applied mascara. An artful application of lipstick fleshed out his lips, and his wig of hennaed black hair swept back into a tight chignon held in place by a tortoiseshell pin.
Off to Paris, dearies!
An old Louis Vuitton bag hung from his shoulder. Inside, a forged passport and fifty thousand Euros in cash. The old ship’s chronometer in the next room tolled. Eight bells. It was time to go. General Moon was expecting him at half past the hour. But first, he must bid fond adieu to the desolate creature waiting so patiently in the dark and fetid spaces beneath his feet.
He pulled open the concealed hatch in the barge’s galley and paused to savor the lovely stink that erupted into his nostrils. Below, a sewer of fear awaited him. His studio. He stepped carefully (he was wearing modest heels) onto the wooden ladder and began his descent. Halfway down, he heard a muffled cry of hope from poor Marge. Grandmother’s coming, Margie! He had expected this confusion on her part and it delighted him no end. Did Marge really believe this elegant septuagenarian was coming to the rescue? The answer was yes!
The bilges of Hu Xu’s floating residence, an aging two-story barge indistinguishable from thousands like it in Hong Kong’s crowded Victoria Harbor, were the death artist’s sanctuary and workplace. In the bowels of his barge he would complete his masterpieces in solitude, working through the night, his subjects lit only by guttering candles as he molded and reshaped their forms and limbs with his scalpels, bread knives, pruning clippers, and, noisy old thing, a vibrating bone saw.