Anyone.
Anyone after a week of sleep-wake-sleep followed by two or three days of no sleep.
Anyone.
Oh Christ almighty, Armstrong thought, you poor bloody bastard, you'll try to hold out and it won't do you a bit of good. None.
But then most of Armstrong's mind shouted back, but he's not your friend but an enemy agent, just a "client" and enemy who has betrayed you and everything and everyone for years. It was probably him who shopped Fong-fong and his lads who're now in some lousy stinking cell having the same but without doctors and monitoring and care. Still, can you be proud of this type of treatment-can any civilised person?
No. Is it necessary to stuff lousy chemicals into a helpless body?
No... yes, yes it is, yes it is sometimes, and killing's necessary sometimes, mad dogs, people—oh yes some people are evil and mad dogs are evil. Yes. You've got to use these modern psychic techniques, developed by Pavlov and other Soviets, developed by Communists under a KGB regime. Ah but do you have to follow them?
Christ I don't know but I do know the KGB're trying to destroy us all and bring us all down to their level an— Armstrong's eyes focused and he saw them all staring at him. "What?"
"Shall we maintain the two-hour cycle, sir?" the doctor repeated, disquieted.
"Yes. Yes, and at 6:30 we'll begin the first interview."
"Are you doing that yourself?"
"It's on the orders, for chrissake," Armstrong snarled. "Can't you bloody read?"
"Oh sorry," the doctor replied at once. They all knew of Armstrong's friendship for the client and of Crosse's ordering him to do the interrogation. "Would you like a sedative, old chap?" Dr. Dorn asked solicitously.
Armstrong cursed him obscenely and left, angry that he had allowed the doctor to needle him into losing his temper. He went to the top floor, to the officers' mess.
"Barman!"
"Coming up, sir!"
His usual tankard of beer came quickly but tonight the smooth dark liquid he loved, malt heavy and bitter, did not quench his thirst or cleanse his mouth. A thousand times he had worried what he would do if he was caught by them and put naked into such a cell, knowing most techniques and practises and being on guard. Better than poor bloody Brian, he thought grimly. Poor bugger knows so little. Yes, but does more knowledge help when you're the client?
His skin felt clammy with fear-sweat as he thought of what was ahead of Brian Kwok.
"Barman!"
"Yes sir, coming up!"
"Evening Robert, can I join you?" Chief Inspector Donald C. C. Smyth asked.
"Oh, hello. Yes... sit down," he told the younger man unenthusiastically.
Smyth sat on the bar stool beside him and eased his arm that was in a sling more comfortably. "How's it going?"
"Routine." Armstrong saw Smyth nod and he thought how apt his nickname was. The Snake. Smyth was good-looking, smooth, sinuous like a snake with the same deadly quality of danger there, and the same habit of licking his lips from time to time with the tip of his tongue.
"Christ! It's still impossible to believe it's Brian." Smyth was one of the few in the know about Brian. "Shocking."
"Yes."
"Robert, I've been ordered by the DCID"—Director of Criminal Investigation, Armstrong's ultimate boss—"to take over the Werewolf case from you while you're occupied. And any others you might want me to cover."
"Everything's in the files. Sergeant Major Tang-po's my Number Two... he's a good detective, very good in fact." Armstrong quaffed some beer and added cynically, "He's well connected."
Smyth smiled with his mouth. "Good, that's a help."
"Just don't organise my bloody district."
"Perish the thought, old chum. East Aberdeen takes all of my skill. Now, what about the Werewolves? Continue surveillance on Phillip Chen?"
"Yes. And his wife."
"Interesting that before Dianne married that old miser she was Mai-wei T'Chung, eh? Interesting too that one of her cousins was Hummingbird Sung."
Armstrong stared at him. "You've been doing your homework."
"All part of the service!" Smyth added grimly, "I'd like to get those Werewolves right smartly. We've already had three panic calls in East Aberdeen from people who have had phone calls from the Werewolves demanding h'eung yau, 'velly quicklee' or else a kidnapping. I hear it's the same all over the Colony. If three frightened citizens called us, you can bet three hundred haven't had the courage." Smyth sipped his whiskey and soda. "That's not good for business, not good at all. There's only so much fat on the cow. If we don't get the Werewolves quickly the buggers'll have their own mint—a few quick phone calls and money'll be in the mail, the poor bloody victims happy to pay off to escape their attention—and every other bloody villain here with a sense of larceny will have a field day too."
"I agree." Armstrong finished his beer. "You want another?"
"Let me. Barman!"
Armstrong watched his beer being drawn. "You think there's a connection between John Chen and Hummingbird Sung?" He remembered Sung, the wealthy shipping magnate with the oral reputation, kidnapped six years ago, and smiled wryly. "Christ, I haven't thought about him in years."
"Nor me. The cases don't parallel and we put his kidnappers into pokey for twenty years and they'll rot there but you never know. Perhaps there's a connection." Smyth shrugged. "Dianne Chen must have hated John Chen and I'm sure he hated her back, everyone knows that. Same with old Hummingbird." He laughed. "Hummingbird's other nickname, in the trade so to speak, is Nosy-nosy."
Armstrong grunted. He rubbed the tiredness out of his eyes. "Might be worth going to see John's wife, Barbara. I was going to do that tomorrow but... well, it might be worthwhile."
"I've already got an appointment. And I'm going out to Sha Tin first thing. Maybe those local buggers missed something in the rain."
"Good idea." Uneasily Armstrong watched the Snake sipping his whiskey. "What's on your mind?" he asked, knowing there was something.
Smyth looked up at him directly. "There're a lot of things I don't understand about this kidnapping. For instance, why was such a huge reward offered by the High Dragons for John's recapture, curiously, dead or alive?"
"Ask them."
"I have. At least, I asked someone who knows one of them." The Snake shrugged. "Nothing. Nothing at all." He hesitated. "We'll have to go back into John's past."
Armstrong felt a shaft of cold that he kept buried. "Good idea."
"Did you know Mary knew him? In the POW camp at Stanley?"
"Yes." Armstrong drank some beer without tasting it.
"She might give us a lead—if John was, say, connected with black market in the camp." His pale blue eyes held Armstrong's pale blue eyes. "Might be worth asking."
"I'll think about that. Yes, I'll think about that." The big man bore the Snake no malice. If he had been the Snake he would have asked too. The Werewolves were very bad news and the first wave of terror had already rushed through Chinese society. How many more people know about Mary and John Chen? he asked himself. Or about the 40,000 that's still burning a hole in my desk, still burning a hole in my soul. "It was a long time ago."
"Yes."
Armstrong lifted his beer. "You've got your 'friends' helping you?"
"Let's just say very substantial rewards and payments are being made—paid gratefully, I hasten to add, by our gambling fraternity." The sardonic smile left Smyth's face. And the banter. "We've got to get those sodding Werewolves very fast or they'll really upset our applecart."
9:15 PM
Four Finger Wu was on the tall poop of the motorised junk that was wallowing in the chop at the rendezvous well out to sea, all lights doused. "Listen, Werewolf turd," he hissed irritably at Smallpox Kin who lay quivering on the deck at his feet, mindless with pain, trussed with rope and heavy chain. "I want to know who else is in your fornicating gang and where you got the coin from, the half-coin." There was no answer. "Wake the fornicator up!"
Obligingly Goodweather Poon poured another bucket of seawater over the prostrate youth. When this had no effect, he leaned down with his knife. At once Smallpox Kin screamed and came out of his stupor. "What, what is it, Lord?" he shrieked. "No more... what is it, what do you want?"
Four Finger Wu repeated what he had said. The youth shrieked again as Goodweather Poon probed. "I've told you everything... everything..." Desperately, never believing that there could be so much pain in the universe, beyond caring, he babbled again who were the members of the gang, all their real names and addresses, even about the old amah in Aberdeen. "... my father gave me the coin... I don't know where... he gave it to me never saying wh... he got it I swearrrrrr——-" His voice trailed away. Once more he fainted.
Four Fingers spat disgustedly. "The youth of today have no fortitude!"
The night was dark and an ill-tempered wind gusted from time to time under a lowering overcast, the powerful and well-tuned engine purring nicely, making just enough way to lessen the junk's inevitable corkscrewing—the rolling pitch and toss. They were a few miles southwest of Hong Kong, just out of the sea-lanes, PRC waters and the vast mouth of the Pearl River just to port, open sea to starboard. All sails were furled.
He lit a cigarette and coughed. "All gods curse all fornicating triad turds!"
"Shall I wake him again?" Goodweather Poon asked.
"No. No, the fornicator's told the truth as much as he knows." Wu's calloused fingers reached up and nervously touched the half-coin that he wore now around his neck under his ragged sweat shirt, making sure it was still there. A knot of anxiety welled at the thought that the coin might be genuine, might be Phillip Chen's missing treasure. "You did very well, Goodweather Poon. Tonight you'll get a bonus." His eyes went to the southeast, seeking the signal. It was overdue but he was not yet worried. Automatically his nose sniffed the wind and his tongue tasted it, tangy and heavy with salt. His eyes ranged the sky and the sea and the horizon. "More rain soon," he muttered.
Poon lit another cigarette from his butt and ground the butt into the deck with his horny bare foot. "Will it ruin the races on Saturday?"
The old man shrugged. "If the gods will it. I think it will be piss heavy again tomorrow. Unless the wind veers. Unless the wind veers we could have the Devil Winds, the Supreme Winds, and those fornicators could scatter us to the Four Seas. Piss on the Supreme Winds!"
"I'll piss on them if there are no races. My nose tells me it's Banker Kwang's horse."
"Huh! That stinky, mealy-mouth nephew of mine certainly needs a change of joss! The fool's lost his bank!"
Poon hawked and spat for luck. "Thank all gods for Profitable Choy!"
Since Four Fingers and his captains and his people had all successfully extracted all their monies from the Ho-Pak, thanks to information from Paul Choy—and since he himself was still enjoying vast profits from his son's illicit manipulation of Struan stock, Wu had dubbed him Profitable Choy. Because of the profit, he had forgiven his son the transgression. But only in his heart. Being prudent, the old man had showed none of it outwardly except to his friend and confidant, Goodweather Poon.
"Bring him on deck."
"What about this Werewolf fornicator?" Poon's horny toe stabbed Kin. "Young Profitable didn't like him or this matter at all, heya?"
"Time he grew up, time he knew how to treat enemies, time he knew real values, not ill-omened, stink-wind, fatuous Golden Mountain values." The old man spat on the deck. "He's forgotten who he is and where his interests lie."
"You said yourself you don't send a rabbit against a dragon. Or a minnow against a shark. You've your investment to consider and don't forget Profitable Choy's returned everything he cost you over fifteen years twenty times over. In the money market he's a High Dragon and only twenty-six. Leave him where he's best, best for you and best for him. Heya?"
"Tonight he's best here."
The old seaman scratched his ear. "I don't know about that, Four Fingers. That the gods will decide. Me, I'd have left him ashore." Now Goodweather Poon was watching the southeast. His peripheral vision had caught something. "You see it?"
After a moment Four Fingers shook his head. "There's plenty of time, plenty of time."
"Yes." The old seaman glanced back at the body trussed with chains like a plucked chicken. His face split into a grin. "Eeeee, but when Profitable Choy turned white like a jellyfish at this fornicator's first scream and first blood, I had to break wind to release my laughter to save his face!"
"The young today have no fortitude," Wu repeated, then lit a new cigarette and nodded. "But you're right. After tonight Profitable's going to be left where he belongs to become even more profitable." He glanced down at Smallpox Kin. "Is he dead?"
"Not yet. What a dirty motherless whore to hit Number One Son Noble House Chen with a shovel and then lie about it to us, heya? And to cut off Chen's ear and blame his father and brothers and lie about that too! And then taking the ransom even though they couldn't deliver the goods! Terrible!"
"Disgusting!" The old man guffawed. "Even more terrible to get caught. But then you showed the fornicator the error of his rotten ways, Goodweather Poon."
They both laughed, happy together.
"Shall I cut off his other ear, Four Fingers?"
"Not yet. Soon, yes, very soon."
Again Poon scratched his head. "One thing I don't understand.
I don't understand why you told me to put their sign on Number One Son and leave him as they planned to leave him." He frowned at Four Fingers. "When this fornicator's dead that's all the Werewolves dead, heya? So what good is the sign?"
Four Fingers cackled. "All comes clear to he who waits. Patience," he said, very pleased with himself. The sign implied the Werewolves were very much alive. If only he and Poon knew that they were all dead, he could at any time resurrect them, or the threat of them. At his whim. Yes, he thought happily, kill one to terrify ten thousand! The "Werewolves" can easily become a continuous source of extra revenue at very little cost. A few phone calls, a judicious kidnapping or two, perhaps another ear. "Patience, Good-weather Poon. Soon you'll un—" He stopped. Both men had centred their eyes on the same spot in the darkness. A small, dimly lit freighter was just nosing into sight. In a moment two lights flashed at her masthead. At once Wu went to the conn and flashed an answering signal. The freighter flashed the confirm. "Good," Wu said happily, flashing his reconfirm. The deck crew had also seen the lights. One hurried below to fetch the rest of the seamen and the others went to their action stations. Wu's eyes fell on Smallpox Kin. "First him," he said malevolently. "Fetch my son here."
Weakly Paul Choy groped his way on deck. He gulped the fresh air gratefully, the stench from below decks overpowering. He climbed the gangway to the poop. When he saw the red mess on the deck and the partial person on the deck, his stomach revolted and once more he threw up over the side.
Four Finger Wu said, "Give Goodweather Poon a hand."
"What?"
"Are your ears filled with vomit?" the old man shouted. "Give him a hand."
Frightened, Paul Choy reeled over to the old seaman, the helmsman watching interestedly. "What do you... you want me to do?"
"Take his legs!"
Paul Choy tried to dominate his nausea. He closed his eyes. His nostrils were filled with the smell of vomit and blood. He reached down, took the legs and part of the heavy chain and staggered, half falling, to the side. Goodweather Poon was carrying most of the weight and he could easily have carried it all and Paul Choy too if need be. Effortlessly he balanced Smallpox Kin on the gunnel.
"Hold him there!" By prearrangement with Four Fingers, the old seaman backed away, leaving Paul Choy on his own, the unconscious, mutilated face and body slumped precariously against him.
"Put him overboard!" Wu ordered.
"But Father... please... he's... he's not de... not dead yet. Pl—"
"Put him over the side!"
Beside himself with fear and loathing, Paul Choy tried to pull the body back aboard but the wind squalled and heeled the junk and the last of the Werewolves toppled into the sea and sank without a trace. Helplessly Paul Choy stared at the waves slopping against the teak. He saw that there was blood on his shirt and on his hands. Another wave of nausea racked him, tormenting him.
"Here!" Gruffly Wu handed his son a flask. It contained whiskey, good whiskey. Paul Choy choked a little but his stomach held the whiskey. Wu turned back to the conn, waved the helmsman toward the freighter, the throttle opened to full ahead. Paul Choy almost fell but managed to grab the gunnel and stay on his feet, unprepared for the suddenness of the deep-throated roar and burst of speed. When he had his sea legs he looked at his father. Now the old man was near the tiller, Goodweather Poon nearby, and both were peering into the darkness. He could see the small ship and his stomach reeled, and he hated his father afresh, hated being on board and being involved in what obviously was smuggling—on top of the horror of the Werewolf.
Whatever that poor son of a bitch did, he thought, enraged, it doesn't merit taking the law into your own hands. He should've been handed over to the police to be hanged or imprisoned or whatever.
Wu felt the eyes on him and he glanced back. His face did not change. "Come here," he ordered, his thumbless hand stabbing the gunnel in front of him. "Stand here."
Numbly Paul Choy obeyed. He was much taller than his father and Goodweather Poon but he was a piece of chaff against either of them.
The junk sped through the darkness on an intercept course, the sea black and the night black with just a little moonlight sifting through the overcast. Soon they were just aft of the vessel and a little to starboard, closing fast. She was small, slow and quite old and she dipped uneasily in the gathering swell. "She's a coastal freighter," Goodweather Poon volunteered, "a Thai trawler we call them.
There's dozens of the fornicators in all Asian waters. They're the lice of the seas, Profitable Choy, crewed by scum, captained by scum, and they leak like lobster pots. Most ply the Bangkok, Singapore, Manila, Hong Kong route, and wherever else they've a cargo for. This one's out of Bangkok." He hawked and spat, revolting the young man again. "I wouldn't want to voyage on one of those stinking whores. Th—"
He stopped. There was another brief flashing signal. Wu answered it. Then all on deck saw the splash on her starboard side as something heavy went overboard. At once Four Fingers rang up "all engines stop." The sudden quiet was deafening. Bow lookouts peered into the darkness, the junk wallowing and swerving as she slowed.
Then one of the bow lookouts signalled with a flag. At once Wu gave a little engine and made the correction. Another silent signal and another change of direction and then a sharper, more excited movement of the flag.
Immediately Wu reversed engines. The props bit the sea heavily. Then he killed the thrust, the junk swerving closer to the line of bobbing buoys. The gnarled old man seemed to be part of the ship as Paul Choy watched him with his eyes fixed into the sea ahead. Nimbly Wu manoeuvred the ponderous junk into the course of the buoys. In a few moments a seaman with a long, hooked boarding pole leaned out from the main deck and hooked the line. The rough cork buoys were brought aboard deftly, other seamen helping, and the line attached securely to a stanchion. With practised skill the chief deckhand cut away the buoys and cast them overboard while more seamen made sure that the bales attached to the other end of the line below the surface were safe and secure. Paul Choy could see the bales clearly now. There were two of them, perhaps six foot by three foot by three foot, roped together heavily underwater, their sinking weight keeping the thick line taut. As soon as all was tight and safe, the cargo secure alongside though still five or six feet beneath the surface of the sea, the chief deckhand signalled. At once Four Fingers brought the junk to cruising speed and they sped away on a different tack.
The whole operation had been done in silence, effortlessly and in seconds. In moments the weak riding lights of the Thai trawler had vanished into the darkness and they were alone on the sea once more.
Wu and Goodweather Poon lit cigarettes. "Very good," Good-weather Poon said. Four Fingers did not reply, his ears listening to the pleasing note of the engines. No trouble there, he thought. His senses tested the wind. No trouble there. His eyes ranged the darkness. Nothing there either, he told himself. Then why are you uneasy? Is it Seventh Son?
He glanced at Paul Choy who was at the port side, his back toward him. No. No danger there either.
Paul Choy was watching the bales. They kicked up a small wake. His curiosity peaked and he was feeling a little better, the whiskey warming and the salt smelling good now, that and the excitement of the rendezvous and being away and safe. "Why don't you bring them aboard, Father? You could lose them."
Wu motioned Poon to answer.
"Better to leave the harvest of the sea to the sea, Profitable Choy, until it's quite safe to bring it ashore. Heya?"
"My name's Paul, not Profitable." The young man looked back at his father and shivered. "There was no need to murder that fornicator!"
"The captain didn't," Goodweather Poon said with a grin, answering for the old man. "You did, Profitable Choy. You did, you threw him overboard. I saw it clearly. I was within half a pace of you."
"Lies! I tried to pull him back! And anyway he ordered me to. He threatened me."
The old seaman shrugged. "Tell that to a fine, foreign devil judge, Profitable Choy, and that won't be fornicating profitable at all!"
"My name's not Pro—"
"The Captain of the Fleets has called you Profitable so by all the gods Profitable you are forever. Heya?" he added, grinning at Four Fingers.
The old man said nothing, just smiled and showed his few broken teeth and that made his grimace even more frightening. His bald head and weathered face nodded his agreement. Then he put his eyes on his son. Paul Choy shivered in spite of his resolve.
"Your secret's safe with me, my son. Never fear. No one aboard this boat saw anything. Did they, Goodweather Poon?"
"No, nothing. By all gods great and small! No one saw anything!"
Paul Choy stared back sullenly. "You can't wrap paper in fire!"
Goodweather Poon guffawed. "On this boat you can!"
"Yes," Wu said, his voice a rasp. "On this boat you can keep a secret forever." He lit another cigarette, hawked and spat. "Don't you want to know what's in those bales?"
"No."
"It's opium. Delivered on shore this night's work will bring a 200,000 profit, just to me, with plenty in bonuses for my crew."
"That profit's not worth the risk, not to me. I made you th—" Paul Choy stopped.
Four Finger Wu looked at him. He spat on the deck and passed the conn to Goodweather Poon and went to the great cushioned seats aft that ringed the poop. "Come here, Profitable Choy," he commanded.
Frightened, Paul Choy sat at the point indicated. Now they were more alone.
"Profit is profit," Wu said, very angry. "10,000 is your profit. That's enough to buy an air ticket to Honolulu and back to Hong Kong and have ten days of holiday together." He saw the momentary flash of joy wash across his son's face and he smiled inside.
"I'll never come back," Paul Choy said bravely. "Never."
"Oh yes you will. You will now. You've fished in fornicating dangerous waters."
"I'll never come back. I've a U. S. passport and a—"
"And a Jap whore, heya?"
Paul Choy stared at his father, aghast that his father knew, then rage possessed him and he sprang up and bunched his fists. "She's not a whore by all gods! She's great, she's a lady and her folks're th—"
"Quiet!" Wu bit back the expletive carefully. "Very well, she's not a whore, even though to me all women are whores. She's not a whore but an empress. But she's still a fornicating devil from the Eastern Sea, one of those who raped China."
"She's American, she's American like me," Paul Choy flared, his fists clenched tighter, ready to spring. The helmsman and Good-weather Poon readied to interfere without seeming to. A knife slid into Poon's fist. "I'm American, she's American nisei and her father was with the 442 in Italy an—"
"You're Haklo, you're one of the Seaborne Wu, the ship people, and you'll obey me! You will, Profitable Choy, oh yes you will obey! Heya?"
Paul Choy stood in front of him shaking with equal fury, trying to keep up his courage, for, in rage, the old man was formidable and he could feel Goodweather Poon and the other men behind his back. "Don't call her names! Don't!"
"You dare bunch your fists at me? Me who's given you life, given you everything? Every chance, even the chance of meeting this... this Eastern Sea Empress? Heya?"
Paul Choy felt himself spun around as though by a great wind. Goodweather Poon was peering up at him. 'This is the Captain of the Fleets. You will respect him!" The seaman's iron hand shoved him back to the seats. "The captain said sit. Sit!"
After a moment, Paul Choy said sullenly, "How did you know about her?"
Exasperated, the old man sputtered, "All gods bear witness to this country person I sired, this monkey with the brains and manners of a country person. Do you think I didn't have you watched? Guarded? Do I send a mole among snakes or a civilised whelp among foreign devils unprotected? You're the son of Wu Sang Fang, Head of the Seaborne Wu, and I protect my own against all enemies. You think we don't have enemies enough who would slit your Secret Sack and send me the contents just to spite me? Heya?"
"I don't know."
"Well know it very well now, my son!" Four Finger Wu was aware this was a clash to the death and he had to be wise as a father must be when his son finally calls him. He was not afraid. He had done this with many sons and only lost one. But he was grateful to the tai-pan who had given him the information about the girl and about her parentage. That's the key, he thought, the key to this impudent child from a Third Wife whose Golden Gulley was as sweet and as tender as fresh bonefish as long as she lived. Perhaps I'll let him bring the whore here. The poor fool needs a whore whatever he calls her. Lady? Ha! I've heard the Eastern Sea Devils have no pubics! Disgusting! Next month he can bring the strumpet here. If her parents let her come alone that proves she's a whore. If they don't, then that's the end of her. Meanwhile I'll find him a wife. Yes. Who? One of Tightfist's granddaughters? Or Lando Mata's or... Ah, wasn't that half-caste's youngest brat trained in the Golden Mountain too, at a school for girls, a famous school for girls? What's the difference to this fool, pure blood or not?
I have many sons, he thought, feeling nothing for him. I gave them life. Their duty is to me and when I'm dead, to the clan. Perhaps a good broad-hipped, hard-footed Haklo boat-girl'd be the right one for him, he thought grimly. Yes, but eeeee, there's no need to cut your Stalk to spite a weakness in your bladder, however rude and ill-mannered the fornicating dumblehead is! "In a month Black Beard will grant you a holiday," he said with finality. "I will see to it. With your 10,000 profit you can take a passage on a flying machine... No! Better to bring her here," he added as though it were a fresh thought. "You will bring her here. You should see Manila and Singapore and Bangkok and visit our captains there. Yes, bring her here in a month, your 10,000 will pay for the ticket and pay for everyth—"
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