Hong Kong

CHAPTER NINE

The color drained from Jake Grafton’s face as Tiger Cole said, “I’m listening.”

“You may remember our mutual friend, China Bob Chan? It seems that a tape recording was made in his library the evening he died.”

Wong paused. Cole said nothing. Kerry Kent looked at Tommy Carmellini, who kept his gaze fixed on the telephone.

“Still there, Mr. Cole?”

“Yes.”

“This lady has listened to the tape. I don’t have the tape, mind you, just the woman. She heard you shoot China Bob, Mr. Cole.”

“So?”

“You have diplomatic immunity in China, but the American State Department might take a dim view of murder. Conceivably, the American government could waive your immunity and turn you over to the Chinese for trial. A federal indictment in the United States is more probable. This woman could put you in prison for the rest of your life.”

“I’m still listening.”

“The other item I have is even more marketable. Amazingly, with the entire resources of the Chinese government devoted to the search for public enemy Wu Tai Kwong, I have managed to apprehend the criminal.”

“Why are you telling me all this?”

“I think the authorities would be very interested in both of my prizes, Mr. Cole. As you know, they have offered a very tempting reward for Wu. I propose to sell both these people to you or to the Chinese government. Think it over.”

“You son of a bitch! Who are you trying to bullshit? Sun will throw you in the same hole he’s got waiting for Wu. If Wu won’t talk, I will.”

Sonny chuckled. “You underestimate the gratitude that will overflow Sun’s hard little heart if I produce Wu Tai Kwong. Waving Wu’s head in Beijing will make Sun’s fortune — the bastard may wind up as our next premier.”

“You’re the biggest liar west of Little Rock.”

“Everybody has a price.”

“What’s yours?”

“Fifty million American dollars.”

“I think you’re trying to hijack the revolution.”

“Hijack it? I’m trying desperately to profit from it.”

“Without Wu, there won’t be a revolution.”

“Crap,” shot back Sonny Wong. “No one can stop it now. You’ll lead it yourself. Or I will.”

“I’d be a fool to pay.”

“You’d be a fool not to. Your choice.”

“Fifty million?”

“Yep. Transferred by you into a Swiss bank account. You have three days to make the transfer or I make a delivery to the People’s Liberation Army.”

Cole took a deep breath. “What account?”

“One of my colleagues will call you with the information, a Mr. Daniel. Should you decide to redeem one person and not the other, discuss that with Mr. Daniel.”

“I’ll want to talk with both parties right now to make sure they are alive and well cared for.”

“Discuss the details with Mr. Daniel.”

“If anything happens to them I—” Cole began but he was talking to a dead telephone.

He pushed the button to cut the connection.

They all sat staring at the telephone.

After a moment, Grafton said, “Callie said the tape is inconclusive. She said anyone listening to it couldn’t determine who fired the shot that killed Chan.” He picked up the tape from the desk, fingered the reels, then laid it down again.

“It’s money Wong’s after,” Cole muttered. “If he doesn’t get money, he’ll probably “kill her.”

“But he wants the tape,” Jake objected. “Wants to know what’s on it.”

“Yeah. He and China Bob did a lot of business together. God only knows what the two of them talked about. He wants the tape, too.”

“Wu Tai Kwong?”

“The political criminal.”

“Why would you care about him?” Tommy Carmellini asked.

“Who do you think is leading the revolution?”

“I guess I hadn’t put two and two together.”

“Wu isn’t his real name. As fate would have it, he’s Rip Buckingham’s brother-in-law. If we can overthrow the Communists and Wu lives long enough, he’s going to be the first elected president of the new Republic of China.”

“And Wong wants you to pay a ransom for him?”

“If I don’t pay for Wu, Sonny Wong will indeed turn Wu over to the People’s Liberation Army, which will pay Sonny the posted reward and execute Wu.”

“Fifty million dollars is a lot of kale,” Tommy Carmellini remarked, rubbing his chin.

“Callie and I have been pretty diligent savers and investors,” Jake said, “and we have about one-fifth of one percent of that amount.”

Cole waved a hand dismissively. “I’ll pay it,” he said.

“They may kill them anyway.”

“We’ll set up a trade. They produce Wu and Callie, I make the call authorizing a wire transfer of the money. When the money is in his bank, we leave.”

Jake Grafton shook his head slowly. “He’ll have to kill you and Wu after you make the call. Wong can’t afford to let Wu live to send an army to hunt him down. Hell, he’ll have to kill us all so nothing leaks out.”

Cole’s face wore a blank expression. His mind was obviously going at a mile a minute.

“How come this Wong knows so much about the revolution?”

“He’s involved, obviously.”

“Obviously. How is he involved? What’s his role in all this?”

“Not now,” Tiger Cole said, frowning. “I can’t tell you now.”

“Goddamn you!” Jake Grafton roared. “That asshole kidnapped my wife!”

“I’m sorry, Jake,” Tiger Cole said.

The admiral struggled to get himself under control. He played with the pistol, checked it, then pulled up his trouser leg. When he spoke again it was in a normal tone. “If you had nothing to do with Callie’s kidnapping, you have nothing to apologize for,” he said as he strapped the ankle holster to his right leg. “If you did, I’ll kill you, Cole. It’s that goddamn simple.”

“How did Sonny Wong capture Wu Tai Kwong?” Carmellini asked.

“Everyone in Hong Kong knows Wu is somewhere in the city,” the consul general replied. “The revolutionary movement has more leaks than the Titanic”

“So why hasn’t Wu been arrested before?”

“Because we’ve paid off the police.” Cole shrugged. “Everyone in the Chinese government is corrupt, all of them. This is the third world!”

“Can we get help from the police to get Callie back? Wu?”

“Beijing has posted a huge reward for Wu. The cops are corrupt, but you are fooling yourself if you think no one will call the PLA to turn him in. They will!”

“Okay,” said Jake Grafton. “Let’s talk about Callie. Only a few people knew she was going to listen to that tape. Carmellini, you’re one of them. Who’d you tell?”

“No one, Admiral.”

“Somebody figured it out.”

“Kerry Kent,” Tommy said bitterly.

“You ass,” she hissed and went for him with her fingernails.

Carmellini grabbed her wrists. He was far too strong for her. “Don’t play the injured lover with me,” he sneered with all the contempt of a man who had never been in love. “I’ve heard that song before. You’re the number-one suspect on my list.”

“I trust her,” Cole said, in a tone that ended the argument.

Carmellini pushed Kent away. If looks could kill, he would have received a fatal wound just then.

“The postmortem can wait,” Jake Grafton said. “We’ve got other fish to fry.” He picked up the tape from Cole’s desk and put it in his pocket.

The maid brought Rip the cell phone. He was sitting on his roof under a dripping umbrella. The air was now a fine sea mist; occasionally a whisper of breeze tossed a handful of droplets on his face, almost like a kiss.

The maid didn’t look at him, merely handed him the phone and left.

Rip pushed the button and answered.

“Rip, this is Sonny Wong.”

“Hey, Sonny.”

“Got some bad news for you, Rip. Hate having to deliver it like this, but the world is pressing in, if you know what I mean.”

“Like what?”

“Like I have your brother-in-law as an unwilling guest.”

“My brother-in-law?”

“Yeah. Wu. Remember him? Drives for the Double Happy Fortune Cookie Company? Is wanted by the government for political crimes? The million Hong Kong dollars reward? That brother-in-law.”

“Jesus, Sonny, I thought we were friends.”

“We are, Rip, but this is business. Hong Kong is about to blow up in our faces, no thanks to your brother-in-law, who has done everything within his power to light the fuse. It’s been a grand party, but it’s over. A guy has to look out for number one. You and I are not friends ten million American dollars’ worth. That’s what it will cost you to see Wu in one piece again.”

“I don’t have that kind of money, Sonny. You know that.”

“Ah, but your father does. Call him! Tell Richard Buckingham that if I don’t get the money, your brother-in-law Wu Tai Kwong will be turned over to General Tang Tso of the PLA, who will probably shoot him before he writes the reward check. Or strangle him. For some reason, those guys still like to strangle people. So old-fashioned and messy. Uncivilized too, but probably very satisfying on some level. Almost orgasmic.”

“You’re a perfect bastard, Sonny.”

“Not quite perfect but I’m working on it. If I were Richard Buckingham’s heir, like a certain person I know, I wouldn’t have to be. You know what I’m saying? It’s an accident of birth, really, that I was born in a sewer, poor as a flea on a starving rat, and I’ve been digging and scratching every minute since then to get out of it.”

“Let me talk to Wu.”

“You’re going to have to take my word on this, Rip. Wu is sleeping right now; I don’t want to wake him.”

“How do I know you’ve got him?”

“If you’re really worried about that point, I’ll have someone drop by with a finger. What the hell, he’s got ten. He’ll never miss a few.”

“Okay, okay.”

“You talk to Richard. I’ll call you back in a few hours, give you the particulars on a Swiss bank account that I’m trying to fatten up. You can plan on transferring the money there.”

With that Sonny hung up.

Rip went inside looking for Sue Lin. He found her in the kitchen. “Where’s the maid?”

“The new one?”

Rip nodded.

“After she gave you the phone, she went downstairs, got her umbrella, and left. Didn’t say a word to me. I happened to look out the window and saw her walking toward the tram.”

“Wu’s been kidnapped.”

“What?”

“Sonny Wong has him. He wants ten million American dollars or he’ll turn him over to the government and collect the reward.”

She sat and put her face in her hands. Rip put his arms around her shoulders and found she was shaking.

“Hey.” He knelt in front of her, opened her hands. Tears streamed along her cheeks. “Hey.”

“I’ve seen this Sonny Wong,” she whispered. “He is evil.”

“Sue Lin, I’ve known him for years. Yeah, he’s a crook, but he’s always been straight with me. He’s just wants money. Unfortunately we looked like an easy mark.”

“He’ll kill Wu.”

“We’ll pay the money. I’ll bet he’ll let him go.”

“With the city full of people who worship Wu?” she protested, shaking her head. “Sonny Wong will kill him and take the first plane out before anyone finds out the truth.”

The sound of a man groaning woke Callie Grafton. She opened her eyes and looked around. It took several seconds before she realized what she was looking at. She was in a small stateroom, perhaps on a ship, lying on a narrow bed, a lower bunk. Across the aisle, almost within reach, lay a man with his back to her. He was the one groaning.

Blood stained his shirt and the sheet on which he lay.

She extended her arm… and felt a sharp pain roar through her skull. Slowly she put her hands to her head and pressed. She had the mother of all headaches.

Her head throbbed with every heartbeat. Gradually the pain seemed to ease somewhat, and once again she extended her hand to the groaning man.

His back was warm.

Callie moved, painfully, until she could touch the man.

She swung her feet over the edge of the bunk and sat up, which almost split her head with pain. In a minute or so the pain lessened and she could see and function.

Ever so slowly, she stood, turned the man over, and examined him.

His left hand was bloody. She looked. His little finger was missing, leaving only an oozing, partially scabbed wound.

She tore at the sheet, finally got a strip off it, and wrapped the strip around the man’s hand as a crude bandage.

He had stopped groaning. When she finished she realized his eyes were open and he was looking at her with intelligent brown eyes. He was Chinese, in his mid-thirties perhaps.

“You’ve lost a finger,” she said in Chinese.

“They cut it off.”

She sat back down on her own bunk, put her aching head in her hands. It was coming back: the knock on the hotel room door, the voice — she thought it was the maid or bellman. When she opened the door, several men rushed in. They grabbed her mouth to keep her from screaming and threw her on the bed and one of them produced a hypodermic.

That was all she remembered. That and the fear.

Now she was sitting in a stateroom… she could feel the boat rocking in the waves. It must be a small ship to rock like this. There was a round porthole with the glass painted over; a bit of light leaked through the scratches in the paint. That light was all that illuminated the tiny room.

When she turned her head she could see that the man on the bunk had rolled over. Now he was looking at her.

“Does your hand hurt?”

“Not too much,” he said.

“Who are you?”

“You wouldn’t know me.”

“Do you have a name?”

“Wu.”

“I’m Callie.”

“Callie.” He said it experimentally.

“Where are we?”

“I think we have been kidnapped. They knocked me out, so I don’t know.”

“Me, too.”

She still had her watch, which was unexpected. Almost three o’clock. The men had burst into the hotel room about ten A.M.

She wondered if it were the same day.

She lay down and thought about her husband.

“Commander Tarkington?”

“That’s right.” Tommy Carmellini pressed the telephone to his ear to help himself concentrate. The voice that sounded in his ear from the other side of the Pacific was certainly clear enough.

“My name is Tommy Carmellini. We met last year in Cuba. Do you remember?”

“Yes.” Tarkington sounded sleepy. The telephone call had awakened him.

“Admiral Grafton asked me to call you. He needs your help.” Tarkington was Jake Grafton’s aide.

“I got a pencil. Shoot.” Now Toad was alert.

“His wife has been kidnapped,” Carmellini said.

“Callie Grafton? Gawd damn!” The Toad-man whistled through his teeth.

Carmellini glanced around the office. Kerry Kent and the three CIA dudes were all staring at him, listening to his every word.

“We believe the man behind it is a Hong Kong citizen named Sonny Wong,” Carmellini continued. “I don’t know his real name. He is associated with a Russian national named Yuri Daniel. The admiral asked me to call you. He wants the CIA to run those two through the computers and see what they can come up with. Wong may have some bank accounts in Switzerland or some other bank haven. Look for passports, visas, travel records, wire transfers, anything.”

“Okay.” Toad’s voice was crisp and businesslike.

“Have the National Security Agency set up a study of telecommunications traffic in the Hong Kong area. Obviously we are interested in the Graftons, Sonny Wong, Yuri Daniel, kidnapping, ransom, anything along those lines.”

“I’ll talk to them in a few hours. Tell the admiral I’ll go through the agency director’s office. Shouldn’t be a problem. Anything else?”

“That will do it for now.”

“Heard anything about Callie? Is she okay?”

“We don’t know.”

“Does this Wong dude want money or what?”

“Money.”

“Wow!” said Toad Tarkington. “That Wong must have really bad karma — I can smell it from here. Jake Grafton is the last man on the planet I’d want blood-crazy mad at me. You tell the admiral I’m on my way to the office as soon as I get my pants on.”

Jake Grafton sat at the conference table in Cole’s office and tried to clear his thoughts. There was stationery in the trays under the computer printer, so he helped himself to a couple of sheets. He took a U.S. government black ballpoint from his shirt pocket and clicked the point in and out while he collected his thoughts.

The National Security Adviser had sent Jake to Hong Kong to find out what was going on; the man was entitled to know.

Jake wrote quickly in a clear, legible longhand detailing what he had learned. The consul general was involved in a conspiracy to overthrow the Chinese government and had resigned. Cole had been in the building when China Bob Chan was killed, may have talked to him, and may have been somehow involved in his death. The enclosed tape was made in Chan’s library by the recorder planted by Harold Barnes and should be listened to by Chinese-language experts.

He wrote two pages total, then put the handwritten sheets and the audiotape in a large padded envelope, which he sealed. He wrote the National Security Adviser’s name on it and handed it to Cole.

“I want you to send this to Washington in the next diplomatic pouch. The Chan tape is in there.”

“Okay.”

“I’m relying on your honor, Cole.”

“I am well aware of that fact, Jacob Lee, and will try not to take offense at the fact you felt the need to point it out.”

“I’m all out of apologies,” Grafton replied coolly.

“I’ll put the envelope in the pouch,” Cole said. “The problem is the airlines — nothing is coming in or going out of Lantau since the air traffic control computers crapped out.”

“Did you have anything to do with that?”

“I certainly hope so.”

Jake scratched his head, trying to make up his mind. “I want the tape in the bag and on its way,” Jake said finally, “so I won’t be tempted to trade the damned thing to this Wong asshole for Callie.”

“Okay.”

“And the time has come for you to resign.” Jake took Cole’s letter of resignation from his pocket and tossed it on the desk. “Fax that thing to Washington.”

“Now?”,

“Right now.”

Cole took a deep breath. “Okay,” he said.

The intercom buzzed. “Mr. Cole. There’s a small package here for you. The sergeant at the gate brought it up. He says you should see it.”

“Is he still there?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Have him bring it in.”

The marine was square as a fire plug and togged out in a khaki shirt and blue trousers with a red stripe up each seam. He looked pale.

“Did you X-ray the package, Sergeant?” Cole asked.

“Yes, sir. There’s no bomb. Looked like a bone.”

“A bone?”

“Well, three little bones. Jesus, sir, it looks like a finger.”

Cole cut the brown wrapping paper away from the box with a letter opener, then cut the tape that held the top on.

Jake Grafton was looking over Cole’s shoulder when he opened the box. It was a finger, all right, freshly severed, if the still-soft blood was any indication.

“Thank you, Sergeant,” Cole said softly and sent the marine on his way.

Jake Grafton stood still as a statue, staring at the finger.

“It isn’t Callie’s,” he said.

“Probably Wu’s,” Cole muttered and used the intercom to ask the secretary to have Kerry Kent come up to the office.

While they were waiting Jake walked around the office looking at Cole’s memorabilia. He was thinking of Callie, wondering how he was going to get her back, when he realized he was looking at an old photo of himself and Tiger Cole. The thing was in black and white, framed, sitting on an out-of-the-way shelf behind the conference table. He and Cole were standing in front of a bomb-laden A-6 in their flight gear, obviously on a flight deck. Neither man was grinning.

Those were simpler days.

Kerry Kent knocked, then came charging into the office. She looked into the box, and clapped her hand over her mouth.

“Those bastards,” she said between clenched teeth. “Those fucking bastards.”

Victoria Peak and the tops of the buildings were wreathed in fog when Jake Grafton walked out the front entrance of the American consulate. The rain had stopped, leaving the air tangibly wet, thick, warm, and heavy.

He walked slowly, taking his time, watching for people who might be paying attention to him.

He had to will himself to walk slowly, to analyze and think logically about the situation and what he could do to affect it.

The tension in everyone he met was visible — all the pedestrians were on edge, regardless of age, sex, race, or how they were dressed. Without smiles or nods, the people walked briskly with their heads down, avoiding eye contact, avoiding each other, hurrying toward the great unknown.

He stood in line and bought a ticket on the tram, then waited a minute or two with the crowd for the tram to descend the mountain. He let other people board the car in front of him, arranging it so he was one of the very last aboard, and told the motorman where he wanted off.

The car got underway almost noiselessly as the cable pulled it up the tracks. The only sound Jake could hear was the faintest rumble from the wheels, or perhaps he was only feeling the vibration of the steel wheels on the steel rails. The grade was about thirty percent, he estimated. A series of stairs ran alongside the cable car’s track for those in the mood for a serious climb.

No one in the car spoke. All studiously avoided looking at each other as the car silently climbed the steep grade. The buildings slid past and the fog thickened.

The car stopped at a tiny platform about three-quarters of the way up the side of the mountain. Jake got off, then the car resumed its journey and disappeared into the fog.

He walked along the street, found the right house, rang the bell.

A man opened the door, a man in his late thirties, perhaps even forty.

“Rip Buckingham?”

“Come in, please.”

When the door closed behind him, Jake said, “I suppose Wong called you.”

“Yes. My wife is upstairs. Wu is her brother.”

They sat at a table in the kitchen, with a window beside them that gave a view of some nearby housetops amid the gloom.

“Cole said they took your wife.”

“Yes.”

“Sonny won’t be able to stay in Hong Kong after this.”

“If he gets fifty million from Cole, he won’t want to.”

“He also wants ten million from me. From my dad, actually, Richard Buckingham.”

“Buckingham News?”

“Yeah.”

Jake considered the situation in silence as he sized up Rip Buckingham and tried to figure out how much steel was in him. Finally he said, “Wong won’t be able to live comfortably anywhere if he releases Callie and Wu alive to testify against him. Switzerland isn’t an extradition haven.”

“After Wong gets his money, he’ll kill everybody who might cause him trouble,” Rip said heavily. “A man once told me that four hundred Chinese each paid Sonny fifty grand American to go to America. The ship sailed away and was never seen again.”

“Twenty million dollars,” Jake muttered after doing the math in his head.

“I don’t know if the story is true,” Rip continued, “but I know Sonny. He doesn’t take unnecessary chances.”

Tommy Carmellini had his equipment set up in the attic of the consulate. He had worked for three nights bugging and wiring selected offices, one of which was the CIA office. Another was the consul general’s. Grafton wanted to know what was going on — Carmellini intended to find out.

Just now he settled into the folding chair he had stolen from the immigration office and donned a headset, which was plugged into the amplifier. The tape recorder was recording all the microphone inputs simultaneously for later study. Without interfering with the recording, he flipped through the channels, listening to various bugs in turn, sampling the audio.

The CIA office was his main concern. He listened to them chat, matched up voices with the faces in his memory. They were still squeezing the juice from the kidnapping. Well, an admiral’s wife doesn’t get snatched every day.

Kent also knew that Sonny Wong claimed he had Wu. She wasn’t sharing that tidbit with the others, Carmellini noticed. In fact, she was sharing very little.

A remark of Bubba Lee’s set the tone. “Man, calling Washington and telling NSA to get on the case — that Grafton is somebody.”

“Yeah, but who?” That was Eisenberg.

“An admiral in the navy. Don’t they sometimes get posted to the intel community?”

“Sometimes.”

“Well, that sailor has some stroke, or thinks he has.”

“Thinks he has, yeah.”

“Do you buy it about Sonny Wong? Does a snatch sound like something he would do?”

“Never can tell, man. Things are getting twangy tight around this town. Riots, people shot in the streets, power off half the night…”

“Did you hear about the airport?” Was that Bubba Lee? “The computers out there rolled over and died. People trapped on the concourses, no water in the fountains or toilets, flights canceled. I heard someone went crazy and threw a chair though a plate-glass window.”

“Whole goddamn town is falling apart.”

“Hey, the whole goddamn country is falling apart, if you ask me.”

There was more of it, thirty minutes or so. At some point Carmellini realized that there were only two men talking. Eisenberg had been silent a long time, as had Kerry Kent. Maybe they were no longer in the room.

Didn’t Cole say Eisenberg knew the woman in the passport office?

Carmellini flipped to that microphone. A loud conversation in Chinese drowned out everything else in the room.

Disgusted, Tommy Carmellini turned the selector to listen to the mike in the consul general’s office.

Yep, there was Kent.

“—might kill him. I’ve been saying for months that he should have an armed bodyguard around the clock. Does anyone pay any attention to the fears of a woman? What does she know? What could she possibly contribute to this—”

“He didn’t want a bodyguard! You know that. Stop this goddamn whining.”

“Whining? They may kill him!”

“Indeed. He’s been a fugitive for a dozen years, with his life hanging by a thread. The revolution continues regardless. The world keeps turning, the tide is coming in… at last!”

“What are you doing to get him back alive?”

“I’m paying the damned ransom.”

“What else?”

“What else do you think I should do?”

“I don’t know!” she moaned. “I only know that I want him alive! I need him, China needs him—everything depends on him. Everything!”

“Tell me some more about Sonny Wong,” Jake Grafton said to Rip Buckingham, “everything you can remember.” They were still in Rip’s kitchen, seated in front of the window. The rain had stopped and the fog was lifting, revealing the skyscrapers of the Central District.

“Sonny’s the head of the last of the old-line Hong Kong criminal gangs, or tongs,” Rip told the American. “He’s sort of an anachronism, a fossil from the wilder days.”

“Kidnapping isn’t anything new,” Jake said sourly.

“No,” Rip admitted. “I thought Sonny was above poopy little capers like this, but apparently not.”

“I want to know everything, who his associates are, what he does for money, where he lives, what he eats, his habits — vices, women, kids, everything.”

“What’s on your mind?”

“I want my wife back.”

“That may be impossible.”

Jake Grafton gripped the edge of the table and squeezed as hard as he could. All these years, ups and downs and ins and outs, good times and hard times, the tiny triumphs and disasters and little victories that fill our days… to have her life end here, now, snuffed out by a criminal psychopath who wants money?

When his muscles began quivering from the exertion, Jake Grafton released the table. He rubbed his hands together, thought about Callie, about their adopted daughter, Amy. “Let’s hope not,” he said to Rip, so softly that the Australian almost missed the response.