Fire And Ice Page 20

  "Do you advise we stay?"

  "I advise you find that ship tomorrow."

  "HEY, Doc! Doc! BRING THE IUD. SURPRISE TIME."

  Ronnie looked up from her book. "Surprise?" She hopped off the bed. "Come on, Mummy."

  Several paces behind, Sarah heard her daughter gasp. "Ohmigod! Oh, it's beautiful, Mr.

  Jack."

  Sarah paused in the doorway and stared in disbelief. In the corner opposite Mr. Jack's chair, a Christmas tree stood tall as the ceiling with blinking lights and sparkling glass ornaments. Its fresh evergreen scent permeated the cabin. Ronnie crept to it, her face bright with wonder.

  "What's the matter, kid? Never seen a Christmas tree?" He was still drinking, against Sarah's orders. His face was flushed.

  "Only in pictures. Mummy and Daddy make a baby one, but this is so green. Mummy, smell!"

  "We decorate a little palm tree," Sarah explained, touched by the old man's gift despite the whiskey smile that made him look like a hellish Santa Claus. "How did you find this?

  "

  "Told you, Doc, Shanghai's my town."

  The captain came in, red-eyed and weary from three days of maneuvering the ship in coastal waters.

  "What's up, Cap?"

  "Wusong Kou, Mr. Jack. Almost in the river. We'll anchor up till high water, scoot in on the flood."

  The Huangpu, thought Sarah. Or did he mean the Yangtze?

  "How long?"

  "Dockside, three hours."

  Shanghai. A giant city, where they could run and hide. "Hey, what do you think of the tree, kid?"

  "It's beautiful."

  "What do you want for Christmas?" Mr. Jack asked, then cut off her answer with a shout.

  "We're going to have a bang-up Christmas. Just you wait."

  Sarah was appalled. "Christmas is ten days off, Mr. Jack? Surely you won't hold us ten more days."

  "Surely I will, Doc. But it'll be a Christmas to remember. I promise."

  "Is daddy still in Hong Kong?" asked Ronnie. "Far as I know," the old man answered.

  The photograph had virtually erased the child's fears. She acted now as if she and her mother were on holiday. Although Sarah wondered how much it was an act, designed to make her feel better. Ronnie had always been closely attuned to her and Michael's emotions, the result of a life lived in confined quarters, and she was a generous child, quick to give. Too generous by half, Sarah feared. A bitter smile tugged her lips: ordinary motherly concerns seemed bizarre when her and Ronnie's—even Michael's—lives were hostage to a harsh old man who was as lunatic as he was powerful.

  Ah Lee arrived with dinner, a huge bowl of steamed Shanghai crabs. Sarah helped Mr.

  Jack out of his chair. He was stronger, but the pain in his chest and shoulder made movement difficult. When she had settled him at the table, where Ah Lee was cracking shells and showing Ronnie how to pick out the meat, he demanded his drink.

  Moss came in when they were turning to dessert, Ronnie's favorite coffee ice cream. As he glowered at the scene, Sarah thought how they must look like some comic television family: mother, daughter, and grandfather, eating while Daddy worked late. Or master and slaves.

  "What is it, Moss?"

  "Company. Patrol boat brought 'em aboard." "Ladies? How about you pull a vanishing act? We

  picked up some Disney laser discs. Catch a movie."

  It was an order, and they retreated to the sleeping cabin,

  Sarah wondering whether Mr. Jack had banished them so they wouldn't be seen, or whether they were not to see his guests.

  Ah Lee crept in with tea, cookies, and the movies and scurried off. Ronnie loaded Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs into the disc player, with the volume low. Sarah put on her stethoscope and pressed the diaphragm to the door.

  Ronnie whispered, "What are they saying?"

  "They're speaking Chinese."

  "Even Mr. Jack?"

  "Shhh!"

  "Let me listen, Mummy."

  Sarah surrendered the stethoscope.

  "They keep saying, 'Old friend,"' Ronnie whispered. Then, suddenly, "Wait, he's speaking English— Here, you listen." She pulled off the earpieces, handing the stethoscope to Sarah, and settled down on the bed with Snow White.

  Sarah pressed the diaphragm to the door again and heard Mr. Jack joking, "Hell, even communists can make a killing when they know ahead of time the Nikkei Exchange—"

  He finished in Chinese. Whatever it meant was greeted with laughter.

  Sarah listened in vain for more English. She could hear glasses clinking and low-toned conversation, friendly laughter, and then the arrival of Ah Lee with food and more drink.

  Cigarette smoke wafted under the door. Were it not for the absence of female voices, she might have been eavesdropping outside a pub.

  The movie ended. Ronnie fell asleep. Sarah covered her with another blanket and was thinking of getting ready for bed, herself, when she felt the ship stop.

  She moved the porthole curtain and looked out. Powerful floodlights illuminated a pier and the framework of a massive crane. Beyond the glare she sensed more than saw a wall. She had the eerie feeling that the ship was indoors, inside an enormous shed.

  When she went back to the door, the talk had ceased. She knocked softly, so as not to wake Ronnie.

  "Come in, Doc."

  Mr. Jack was alone, slumped wearily in his chair. His eyes were glazed with exhaustion, his tongue twisted with drink. "Bedtime, Doc?"

  "You've been up much too long. You've overdone it." She fanned the air with her hand. "

  May I assume you haven't smoked?"

  "Not me, Doc. Just my old pals. Smoke like chimneys. Always did. Crazy bastards would ambush a Jap tank column just to steal their cigarettes." He looked at her blearily, but suddenly he was alert. "Wha'd you hear, Doc?"

  She fingered her stethoscope before she realized she had forgotten to take it off. She moved quickly to him, opened his robe, and placed the cold disk on his chest. His heart sounded strong, and his lungs, much less congested.

  "Cut the comedy. I asked wha'd you hear?"

  "Do you blame me?"

  "Doc, you're playin' with fire."

  "I said, 'Do you blame me?' You're holding my child and me prisoner. My poor husband is God knows where."

  "You just earned yourself a session with Moss."

  He pressed one of the many buttons that signaled Moss's beeper, and returned her startled gaze with a cold stare. "I warned you, Doc. No mercy."

  It seemed important not to show him fear. But she could feel her mouth twitching. "May I ask you something?"

  "I'm through being your patsy. You pushed once too often."

  "How does a man like you acquire someone like Moss?"

  Mr. Jack chuckled. "You're a pistol, Doc. God, if I'd met a woman with your balls forty years ago . . . You know what's a second-story man?"

  "No."

  "Cat burglar. Climbs in the second story-window. Except in a city like New York, where Moss grew up, it's the twentieth story. Some 'uncle' or mother's boyfriend or whatever put the kid to work scaling the sides of buildings. He was great at it. Coulda been a tightrope walker in the circus if he'd gotten the right breaks. He got caught and sent to a juvenile home."

  "How old was he?"

  "Ten, eleven. Skinny little bastard, apparently."

  Sarah's thoughts fled to Ronnie sliding down the forestay.

  "When they let him out he was sixteen. He'd grown up fast, lifting weights, surviving.

  Found gainful employment pimping—like I told you. Graduated from disciplining whores to chief enforcer for a drug cartel. The big time, till he got caught again. Murder, etc. Twenty years in Attica—prison, upstate New York. Hard time. I found him there. I was underwriting a rehabilitation program. You know—big business gives the criminal a second chance."

  "That sounds like a wonderful contribution, Mr. Jack."

  "Great way to recruit staff . . . Saw right away Moss was a cut above—a sociopath wit
h the self-discipline to excel. Sprung him. Hired tutors, taught him reading, math, electronics. Shipped him out to California to learn computers, over here for weapons training. Brilliant kid, if a little bent."

  "He seems grateful."

  Mr. Jack shrugged. "He'd be a damned fool if he wasn't— There you are, Moss. Come on in. Miz Doc here's steppin' pretty far outta line."

  "Oh, yeah?"

  "Hurt her. No marks."

  She could not believe it was happening until he was leaning over her and her mind was darting to where he would hit her first.

  "Hold it, Moss. . . . Hey, Doc?"

  "What, Mr. Jack?"

  She could barely control her voice.

  "Try and keep it quiet. You don't want the kid waking up and watching it, you know?"

  She stared back in disbelief. He said, "Do you understand?"

  "Yes."

  "All ready?"

  Even then she could not fully believe that he would sit by while Moss deliberately hurt her. But now the black man's hands were moving, teasing the air near her face. An ugly smile twisted his lips.

  His hands moved faster than she could see. A stinging blow to her ear set it ringing. Her own hands flew to the

  pain, exposing her belly and her breasts. A flurry of blows doubled her over and drove her to the floor, gasping and retching for air.

  Now pain swept like fire, and she fought with all her might to swallow a shriek that tried to climb from her throat like a frenzied animal. A moan she couldn't smother brought a warning from Mr. Jack.

  "Let's not wake Ronnie, shall we? You're not going to be in any shape to sing lullabies."

  A stab like a white-hot knife seemed to pierce her left kidney and she thought, with sudden raw fear, that Moss would accidentally kill her. The pain leaped from her kidney to her chest and into her brain and she felt herself spiral into blackness.

  Moss emptied the melted ice water from the bucket on her face.

  Sarah woke up spitting, holding her body, and moaning. "Quiet."

  She bit her lips.

  "Okay?"

  She nodded. He hadn't killed her. It only felt that way. "More," said Mr. Jack.

  She prayed for unconsciousness, again. But Moss was more careful, and diabolically subtler, and there came a time when Mr. Jack had him pause to gag her—"In the interest,

  " as he put it, "of Ronnie's beauty sleep." He used a bar towel and secured it with his belt.

  She became aware she was on the bathroom floor, a dark red haze of pain before her eyes, head spinning, body shaking uncontrollably. Nauseated, she dragged herself to the toilet and threw up, then sank to cold tile, biting her lips so Ronnie wouldn't hear her.

  Every breath hurt.

  She concentrated for a long time to gather strength to stand. Straightening up, at last, she caught sight of her face in the mirror. She looked feral. And terrified. Amazingly there was not a mark on her. Though her face was slightly swollen. She would tell Ronnie she had puffed up from too much Chinese food.

  Ronnie! She dragged herself to the door, opened it a

  crack, and peered out. Ronnie was curled up on the bed, under a quilt, fast asleep. How had they carried her in without waking her?

  Sarah locked the door and sank again to the cold tile. The child was a sound sleeper, but why had Mr. Jack shielded her from the vicious attack? Was it to leave her a shred of hope? Hope that if she devoted herself to Mr. Jack's health, Ronnie would be spared?

  She lay aching, pondering that, and concluded that there was no hope. The beating was proof that Mr. Jack would kill them both when he was done doing whatever he was doing with the Chinese generals and could go home to a western hospital. More than ever, they had to escape.

  They were so close to land. The pier was sixty feet below, less than twenty feet from the side of the ship. Moss was the chief obstacle. She knew in the deepest part of her soul that even after the beating she couldn't pervert medicine to kill him. But could she disable him?

  Hands trembling with fright, she opened her medical bag. Ketamine was used in anesthesia to obtain muscle paralysis. Its onset of action was slow, but it might do the trick. But to attempt to inject a powerful attacker with an ordinary hypo would depend too much on luck. She had to be able to hit him fast and hard, just once.

  She had one-shot epinephrine auto-injectors for emergency treatment of severe allergic reactions. The bee sting victim merely punched the needle into the thigh and the dose was injected automatically. She studied the plastic barrel under the light, reckoning whether she could remove the epinephrine and replace it with the ketamine. She broke several insulin needles trying to bore into it, before she realized that she wasn't thinking clearly: the dose it injected would be too small; it would take five or six ccs to stop a man the size of Moss.

  She couldn't stand any longer. The bed seemed miles away. She curled up in a ball on the cold floor again. Her teeth were chattering. Her chest burned with pain and rage. Worse was the fear she'd lose her nerve.

  Frozen to the bone by another long, fruitless day on the river, Stone took a hot shower and staggered into bed.

  Katherine had hidden all day above a false ceiling, watching the hotel lobby. She hadn't seen any "hitters." But Ronald had not made contact, and she was anxious to leave Shanghai.

  "One more day," he promised her. "Just one more." She offered to share her wine. "Help you sleep," she

  said, extending a bathroom glass half full. Stone sipped it,

  propped up against a pillow, and started to drift off. "You ever cheat on your wife?"

  "Nope."

  "Never?"

  "No need to."

  "Okay, but what if somebody turned you on even more than her. A lot more than her."

  "Such a turn-on would be banned under the terms of the nuclear nonproliferation pact."

  Katherine returned his grin. "You'd let a treaty stand between you and the greatest sex of your life?" "It's my sacrifice for humanity."

  Suddenly sober, she said, "God, you're lucky." "I know. That's why I want her back."

  Katherine folded her hands and smiled over them at Stone. "No, you'd want her back anyway—you're one of those guys who takes care of people."

  "And my daughter."

  "I'm never going to have children."

  "Don't say that. You're young and—"

  "Back off!"

  She glared away, angrily, then screamed, "Look out!" and threw herself desperately at her bag.

  The Brit was standing in the living room door. His pistol was silenced. Stone could hear the bullets thud like punches into Katherine's chest.

  KATHERINE TUMBLED OVER THE BED. THE BRIT STEPPED INTO

  the room, pistol raised. "Merry chase," he said. "You're a hyperactive bloke."

  Stone roared back, "Where is my wife?"

  "Haven't the foggiest, mate." He leveled his weapon and Stone felt his world spiral into the black orb of its barrel. "Just finishing my job."

  Suddenly twin thunderclaps boomed in Stone's ear. Katherine was firing from beside him. He saw blood pouring from her mouth, and she clearly couldn't control the recoil.

  Her first shot smashed the Brit's arm, spinning him back through the living room door.

  Her second missed and she collapsed on the blood-soaked bedspread.

  "Run!" she whispered, pushing her gun toward Stone. "Take it!"

  "What about you?"

  "You can't help me. Run! For your wife and kid." Her blood was pouring freely. She gagged on it, coughed. "Make sure I got that jerk. Pop him or he'll come after you for the rest of your life. Fucking psycho."

  Stone picked up the gun.

  "Safety's off. Just pull the trigger."

  He bounded into the living room.

  The Brit was on the carpet, crawling painfully toward his gun, which had landed near the hall door.

  "Don't move," said Stone.

  The Brit turned, saw Stone standing in the door with Katherine's gun. "You haven't got the ball
s, mate."

  Stone looked back at Katherine. She had fallen lifeless, eyes wide and staring. The Brit was crawling faster. Three times the man had tried to kill him, "just finishing" his job. To shoot him now in the back would be nothing short of an execution, but Katherine was right: the professional killer had made it a twisted point of honor and would keep coming after him as long as he lived.

  He stepped close, pressed the gun to the back of the man's head. "Either I'll kill you or cripple you for a year. Your call."

  The Brit turned his head. When he saw Stone's face his own expression changed from contempt to respect. Or fear. Stone didn't know which and didn't care. "Your call," he repeated.

  "Look, mate, why not just take my weapon? I'll be in the hospital with this arm."

  "Not long enough," said Stone. From far below in the street he heard sirens. He moved the gun muzzle to the back of the man's left thigh and immediately pulled the trigger, shattering the femur. The Brit's body bucked, arced; he screamed. Then he fainted, flattening on the floor as if he had melted. Stone pulled the trigger again, breaking his other leg.

  He grabbed his backpack, his clothes and his coat, checked the hall. A middle-aged Japanese peered from his doorway. Stone ran to the stairwell, where he put on his pants, shoes, socks, and wool sweater. He heard sirens. He ran down the stairs.

  Uniformed militia were pouring into the lobby, shouting at the desk clerks, who were shouting back. Stone backed into the fire stairs again and ran down to a basement, and, following the scent of garbage, exited by a loading bay.

  Sirens filled the neon-lit night. He boldly crossed the street and pushed through the door of the first business he came to, a jazz club, lit by candles and a disco ball. Elderly American tourists were listening to an even older combo. A waitress zeroed in on Stone.

  He ordered Scotch and tossed it back. His hands were shaking so hard the woman stared.

  He gestured for another.

  The set ended. He let them bring more drinks, and food that he couldn't eat. He sat through the final set and at one o'clock they began to shut it down. If he stayed any longer he'd draw attention to himself.

  He ventured into the street, taking cover behind a party trooping toward their hotel shuttle. Cops everywhere. He veered off in the direction of the old city, trying to stay on streets that were fairly busy.