Fire And Ice Page 14

  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 pre-Turnover 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 half-concealed 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."

  "Go back."

  "Walk."

  "I tell Moss."

  "Please. No."

  Ah Lee hurried up the stairs. Sarah ran to th
e steel hatch that led to the afterdeck. The fog was so thick she couldn't see the bulwark. The raft canister was a nebulous white glow.

  "Hurry."

  It was lashed down beside a hinged gate in the bulwark. But the gate was frozen with rust. The only way they could launch the raft was lift it over the bulwark, which rose as high as her forehead. She knelt by the canister, feeling for the ropes that lashed it down.

  "Get up, Mum. Someone's coming."

  Sarah sprang to her feet and was just backing away from the raft when Moss loomed out of the fog. "What the fuck are you two doing out here?"

  Sarah drew herself up to her full height. "Would you kindly moderate your language around my daughter?"

  Moss grabbed her arm, grinding it through the thin windbreaker. "Inside."

  Moss shoved Sarah into Mr. Jack's sleeping cabin so hard she crashed into the bed. He pushed Ronnie in after her. The old man awakened, groggy. But when he saw the expression on Moss's face, he snapped alert and austere, as if overcoming the sleeping tablet by an act of sheer will. Or was it fear? He looked afraid.

  "Wha'd they do? They get off a signal?"

  "Caught 'em prowling around the main deck."

  Visibly relieved, Mr. Jack struggled to sit up. He shook Sarah off when she went to help him. "What the hell were you doing on the main deck?"

  "We went for a walk," said Sarah. Her arm burned where Moss had dragged her, but she refused to give him

  the satisfaction of letting him see her rub it. Ronnie's eyes were big as saucers and she was breathing hard. "They was checkin' out a life raft."

  "Were not," said Ronnie. "We were taking a walk."

  Moss said, "It was right after the video picked them up at the accommodations door.

  Mess boy spotted them heading up, again."

  "He scared us," said Ronnie. "And you're scaring me now." Her face crumbled. "Mr.

  Jack, why—"

  "Can it, kid. I seen better acting on a pig." It was the sort of joke line that usually got the old man a laugh from the child. But not when he looked harsher and crueler than Moss.

  "Mess boy reported they tried to talk him into helping them launch the inflatable."

  "That's a lie! He didn't say that."

  "That's what he told me, Mr. Jack."

  "That's 'cause you beat him up!" Ronnie shouted. "Shut up."

  "He'd say anything so you wouldn't hurt him again." "Both of you, shut up."

  A steam whistle shrilled across the water.

  Sarah whirled to the porthole.

  A long, dark hull materialized out of the murk, steaming straight at the Dallas Belle.

  Then another. And a third. Tugboats, sea-battered and filthy, pluming thick smoke into the fog. Sailors in black crowded their towing decks. Red flags flew with the yellow stars of the People's Republic of China.

  She was still praying they meant rescue, when the captain hurried into the cabin.

  "Tugs alongside, Mr. Jack."

  The old man propped himself up higher on his good elbow, eyes burning.

  "Cloud cover holding?"

  "As promised. But the fog's lifting. We ain't got much time."

  "Hook 'em up. Let's blow this joint— Ronnie, go get some ice cream."

  "I don't want any."

  "Shut up! Moss, take her down to the galley."

  Ronnie looked stricken. He had never yelled at her before. But all Sarah could do was nod, helplessly. "Go ahead, dear. I'll talk to Mr. Jack."

  Moss jerked a thumb at the door. Ronnie dodged him and ran ahead. Mr. Jack turned a cold eye on Sarah.

  "You dumb cunt," he yelled. "Risk your life and your kid's."

  "We went for a walk," Sarah said doggedly. "Ah Lee was frightened. He didn't understand. Or, more likely, Moss lied."

  "Doc, you're cruisin' for a bruisin'."

  "I don't know what you mean. We merely went for a walk."

  "Can the lies. You tried to escape."

  Sarah started to protest, again, lost heart, and shook her head, bitterly. "We didn't. But wouldn't you?"

  "My head feels like mud. You slip me a mickey?" "A mickey?" Sarah asked, though she knew what he meant.

  "A pill. Did you drug me?"

  "Yes. I gave you a sleeping tablet. You're too active. You refuse to rest."

  "No more pills without telling me."

  "If you insist," ,she agreed.

  The old man sighed. "Doc, you're really pissing me off."

  "Mr. Jack, I'm only—"

  He cut her off with an angry gesture. "I'm going to give you this one chance. You try one more stunt like that—you disobey me in any way, shape, or form—one step out of line, and you'll be punished."

  "Punished? How dare you! I saved your life, for God's sake. How dare you threaten me!"

  He leveled a mutilated finger in her face.

  "When Moss has you crawling on the deck, begging for mercy, don't say I didn't warn you. . . . And don't look for mercy from me, because I'm going to be right there, making sure he does you like you'll never forget."

  "Considering your state of health, Mr. Jack, it would not be in your best interest to have your physician laid up in sick bay."

  "I'm not stupid, Doc. Moss ran whores when he was sixteen years old. He can make a woman hurt like she wants to die. And still put her on the street that same night. . . . You want a little demo when he comes back?"

  She dropped her eyes before he could see her rage or her fear.

  "Answer me! You want a demo?"

  The carpet blurred through her tears. "No."

  The telephone rang. Mr. Jack fumbled it off the night table. "What? . . . I'll meet him in the lounge. Send up plenty of strong coffee. I gotta clear my head for this guy."

  He swung his feet off the bed and let her help him stand and put on his robe. "Don't forget. Last chance." "Where's Ronnie?"

  "On her way up."

  He shuffled out the door.

  Five minutes crawled like days. Ronnie came back, unharmed and still shaken but blessedly distracted by something she had seen.

  "Mum, it was the funniest thing. Some Chinese guy came to see Mr. Jack, but he fell overboard."

  "Off the ship?"

  "No. From the tug, when he tried to board. At the accommodations hatch? He was wearing a suit and the sailors caught him but his pants were soaked right up to his waist.

  And his shoes were squishing. You should have seen him pouring water out of his briefcase!"

  Ronnie started laughing, and then it all caught up with her and she began to cry. Sarah squeezed her and held her tight until she had calmed down. "I think it's nap time, darling.

  " By the time she got her into bed, Ronnie was yawning, and her eyes wore the film of sleep.

  "Did anyone say who he was?"

  "Who?"

  "The Chinese guy."

  A big yawn turned into a grin. "His name was Ah Wet!"

  "Very funny, young lady." Sarah laughed. "All right, now, close your eyes."

  Sarah sat with Ronnie until her breathing leveled into

  sleep. Then she put on her stethoscope and listened through the door.

  She couldn't hear every word—they must have been on the far side of the room. "Ah Wet" was soft-spoken, while Mr. Jack's voice was slurred from the tablet—but the subject was finance, a highly technical discussion of an ongoing scheme to purchase stock options at markets around the world. She understood little, except that the sums were enormous and the long-term project seemed to be nearing completion.

  Ronnie slipped behind her. Sarah jumped. She hadn't heard her get out of bed. "Mum, be careful. Moss said he'd beat you up if we tried anything."

  Sarah drew her close. She had to comfort her child, but she also had to save her life. "

  Don't worry, dear. Mr. Jack would never allow that. He likes you too much."

  When Michael Stone went to borrow a dinghy, the lunchtime shooting at the Hilton was the talk of the yacht club bar. The word was Kerry McGlynn had a smashed
shoulder.

  Stone called Matilda Hospital, which confirmed that the tugman was in serious condition.

  Children watched Stone curiously from a makeshift raft as he launched the dinghy into the typhoon shelter water and negotiated the maze of narrow channels. Old women darted past in motor sampans, ferrying goods and people to the junks and yachts. Several times while dodging sampans he bumped into anchor lines and caught his oars on jutting hulls. The water was filthy, a dead gray color, and stank even in the coolness of December, home to thousands who were born, lived, and died on their boats.

  And yet the floating city was a village, rural in character, and he could see that a Triad interloper would instantly be recognized. He drew curious stares as he pulled his oars, then blank faces when they catalogued him: a gweilo, a white ghost person from the West, seeking exercise in what normal people considered work. Eccentric, harmless, and vaguely absurd, though perhaps a source of income.

  A sampan hailed him, selling fish balls. He bought a basket of the spicy food and drifted while he ate. The instant he had finished, another sampan materialized to sell him hot tea. And when he finished the tea, yet another boat putted alongside, piloted by a smiling, middle-aged woman who swept an inviting hand toward the mattress under the canvas top and called, "Fuck-fuck?"

  Stone shook his head silently, trusting neither his survival Cantonese nor Tanka to make a refusal clear or polite, and rowed on, working his way eastward through the moorings, past the junks into the slightly less chaotic area where the sailing yachts clustered.

  He was struck by the extraordinary number of superb sea boats—big, modern, high-tech cruisers and racers that could sail circles around his old Swan. Most reflected the spit and polish of the professional live-aboard crew, and everywhere he looked, boatboys in black pajamas were cleaning, fitting, and overhauling. There were easily a hundred boats ready to sail to the Philippines on an hour's notice. He rested on his oars, pretending to admire a big Baltic sloop so he could take his first good look at Tin Hau moored at the end of the next row. The Baltic's boatboy came up immediately from the cabin and eyed Stone quizzically.

  "Help, sir?"