Hong Kong

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Major Ma Chao and his three co-conspirators were standing in the back of the ready room when the commanding officer and his department heads came in. Someone called the people in the room to attention.

“We have orders,” the CO announced. “Governor Sun has directed us to bomb the rebels in the Bank of the Orient square in the Central District, and headquarters in Beijing has confirmed. We will launch four airplanes with four two-hundred-and-fifty-kilogram bombs each. Fortunately, the weather is excellent. We will coordinate the attack with a shelling by two naval vessels, putting maximum pressure on the rebels.”

In the silence that followed this announcement the television audio could be heard throughout the room. The pilots had watched Hu Chiang make his speech, had seen the York units and the happy, joyous crowd that filled the square. They had listened to Peter Po explain the significance of the revolution, why the overthrow of the Communists was of the gravest national importance.

Now this.

There was certainly much to think about, including the fact that no pilot in the squadron had ever dropped bombs from a J-11. Although the plane was a license-built copy of one of the world’s premier fighters, it had no all-weather attack capability; visual dive-bombing was the only option. Unfortunately the Beijing brass thought the risks of dive-bombing training too high, so it had been forbidden.

Major Ma turned sideways so his right side was partially hidden and drew his sidearm, a semiautomatic. He held it low, beside his leg.

“Sir,” Ma asked, “did you verify the governor’s identity? Agents provocateurs may be giving false orders.”

This comment was grossly insubordinate and the commanding officer treated it as such. “I am completely satisfied that the governor issued these orders and that headquarters concurred,” he said, daring anyone to contradict his statement. “The time has come to separate the patriots from the traitors,” he added ominously. “I intend to follow orders, to bomb the rebels as directed by the government. Who will fly with me?”

The senior officers raised their hands, but not a single junior.

“You traitors are under arrest,” the commanding officer snarled. “Now clear the room.”

Ma Chao raised his pistol, pointed it at the CO. “It is you who are under arrest, Colonel. Drop your sidearm.”

The CO was a true fighter pilot. He grinned broadly, then said, “We thought something like this might happen, Ma Chao, but we never suspected you. Some of these other little dicks, yes, but you surprise me. Too bad.” He raised his voice. “Come in, Sergeant, come in,” he called and gestured through the open door to people waiting in the hallway.

Three senior noncommissioned officers walked in. They were carrying assault rifles in the ready position.

The CO gestured toward the rear of the room. “Major Ma and those junior officers. Lock them up until we can interrogate them and find how far the rot has spread.”

The NCOs pointed their rifles at Ma.

This was it! Now or never. Use your best judgment, Wu had said.

Ma steadied the front sight of his automatic and pulled the trigger. The bullet knocked the CO down.

“Anyone else?” Ma said, looking around.

The senior NCO grinned at Ma, then pointed his rifle at the department heads. “Your pistols, please. You are under arrest.”

The lieutenant beside Ma couldn’t contain himself. “I thought the sergeant was going to shoot you!”

Ma Chao thought the sergeant was on his side. He said he was last week, yet every week the earth turns seven times. Ma breathed a sigh of relief and walked toward the front of the room to see how badly the CO was hurt and to take charge.

When the trucks filled with troops left the PLA base, Lin Pe telephoned a number she had memorized. She recognized the voice that answered, a nice young girl who attended Hong Kong University. “Seven trucks have left the base.”

Five minutes later Lin Pe called again. “Ten trucks filled with troops. They drove away through Shatin.”

“Very good. Thank you for the report. We would like you to go back to Nathan Road and walk along it. Report any strong points that you see under construction.”

Lin Pe said good-bye to the grocer, who had let her use his restroom, and walked through Shatin toward the bus stop. Her bag was heavy and she was tired, so she made slow progress.

Her son, Wu, had told her of the dangers of spying on the PLA. “They will shoot you if they catch you talking about them on the cell phone. They may arrest you because they are worried. They will be frightened, fearful men, and very dangerous.”

“I understand,” she replied.

“They may beat you to death trying to make you talk. They may kill you regardless of what you say.”

“I understand,” she had repeated.

“You do not have to do this,” Wu told her.

“Someone has to.”

“Ah…” he said, and dropped the subject.

Where in the world could Kerry Kent hide the information about her stock portfolio? Tommy Carmellini stood in the middle of Kent’s kitchen thinking about that problem. He could have sworn he had searched everything there was to search, peered in every cubbyhole and cranny, pried loose every baseboard, looked in all the vents…

The pots and pans were piled carefully against one wall. He had even peeled up the paper she had used to line her shelves.

Her attaché case wasn’t here. Must be at the consulate.

The notebook… a spiral notebook had lain on her bedroom table. He had flipped through it, but…

He found it again, sat down in the middle of the bathroom floor in the only open space and went through it carefully. Halfway through the notebook, there it was. A page of multiplication problems, seven in all, and a column where she added the seven answers together. She hid it in plain sight.

He compared the numbers in the problems to the stock listings in The Financial Times. Okay, this stock closed at 74½, and here was the problem, 74.5 × 5400. Answer, 402,300.

He checked every problem. The correlation with the six stocks highlighted with a tiny spot of ink was perfect. One stock he couldn’t find; only six were marked.

The total… £1,632,430.

A pound was worth what, about a buck fifty?

Wheee! She wasn’t filthy rich, but Kerry Kent was certainly a modestly well-off secret agent, which was, as any self-respecting gentleman would tell you, the very best kind.

Almost two and a half million dollars.

On a civil servant’s salary.

Perhaps her grandparents were loaded and left her a bundle. Perhaps she had a rich first husband. Then again, perhaps she was the world’s finest stock picker and had done more than all right with her lunch money.

Or perhaps, Tommy Carmellini thought as he pocketed the worksheet and financial page, just perhaps, Kerry Kent was crooked.

Elizabeth Yeager’s apartment was a walk-up in a small village setting on the south side of the island. As the taxi driver settled in to wait, Jake Grafton made his way past the craft shops that catered to the tourist trade, only some of which were open today, to the stairs of Yeager’s building. Ivy and creeping vines covered the walls.

There were four mailboxes. Yeager’s was Apartment Three. He pushed the button.

“Yes.” An American woman’s voice, tired and angry.

“Elizabeth Yeager, I have a message for you.”

“What?”

“For you personally.”

“Come on up.” She buzzed the lock open.

The former consular employee opened her door just a crack. Jake Grafton slammed the door with his shoulder, and it flew open, nearly bowling her over. There was another woman sitting by the couch, a dumpy, middle-aged woman with graying hair.

“Who are you? What do you want?”

Yeager’s eyes were red from crying.

“You’re Yeager?”

“Yes.”

“Some questions for you.” He looked at the other woman. “If you wouldn’t mind.”

Yeager nodded at the woman, who glared at Jake as she swept past.

“It’s a crime to break into people’s apartments,” Yeager said as she perched on the edge of a chair. “Don’t forget, my neighbor, Mrs. O’Reilly, can identify you.”

“That was the woman who was just here?”

“That’s right.”

“Ms. Yeager, I wouldn’t be talking about crimes if I were you. Stealing passports, forgery, treason, kidnapping… If you ever go back to the states you may wind up spending the rest of your life in a cell.”

“You’re Grafton, aren’t you?”

Jake nodded.

“I’ve nothing to say, so get out.”

“Or what? You’ll call the police?”

She merely glared at him.

“Perhaps you’ll call Sonny Wong and he’ll send someone over to run me off. There’s the phone — call anyone you like.”

He sat in the chair facing her.

“Bastard.”

“Where’s my wife?”

“I don’t know.” Yeager hitched her bottom back in the chair and looked obstinately away.

Jake Grafton tried to hold his temper, which was getting more and more difficult. If Yeager only knew. “My wife has been kidnapped,” he explained patiently. “Her life is at stake. I think you know a great deal about Sonny Wong, where he can be found, where he stays, where his men operate from. I want to know all that. I’m not going to tell anyone what you tell me. I won’t report it to the United States government. It’ll be strictly between us, absolutely confidential.”

She turned to face him again. “You’re an officer in the United States navy. You can’t touch me. I know my rights! I have nothing to say!”

He pulled the Colt .45 from under his sports jacket, pointed it at her head, and thumbed off the safety. As she blanched, he turned the muzzle a few inches and pulled the trigger. The report was like an explosion, overpowering in that enclosed space. The bullet smacked into the wall behind her.

He leaped for her, grabbed a handful of hair, put the muzzle against her nose.

“Your rights don’t mean shit! Where is my wife, goddamn it?”

She swallowed hard. “I don’t know.” That came out a squeak.

“We’re having a revolution in Hong Kong, Ms. Yeager. The police have crawled into holes and the army has its hands full. No one cares about you. I can break every bone in your miserable body. I can shoot you full of holes and leave you here to bleed to death and nobody on this green earth will give a good goddamn. Now I’m going to ask you one more time, and if you give the wrong answer, we’re going to find out how many bullets it takes to kill you. Where is my wife?”

Elizabeth Yeager’s eyes got big as half-dollars and the color drained from her face. She tried to speak; the words came out a croak. Then she passed out cold. At first Jake thought she was faking it, but she went limp as linguine.

“Shit!” said Jake Grafton, more than a little disgusted with himself. Scaring a woman half to death.

“Shit,” he said again, and released his hold on Yeager. She slid off the chair onto the floor like a bundle of old rags.

He kicked the coffee table. It skittered away.

He had his chance last night. He should have stuck that revolver up Wong’s nose and told him he was going to blow his fucking head off if he didn’t produce Callie in a quarter of an hour.

Yeah.

He slammed the door to the apartment on his way out.

He had the taxi take him back to the consulate so he could watch the revolution on television. Since Cole had submitted his resignation and was technically no longer an employee of the United States government, Grafton probably shouldn’t be in his office. In any event, no one had suggested he leave. He turned on the television and settled behind Cole’s desk.

The thought that he should be doing something to find Callie gnawed at him. Just what that something was he didn’t know.

When the time came, Sonny would produce Wu and Callie to collect his money, but once he got it, he had to kill them all. Wu, Callie, Jake, Cole, everyone who had firsthand knowledge of the kidnapping. If he didn’t he was a dead man.

Sonny Wong would have enough shooters in the area to ensure no one escaped. You could bet your life on that.

Jake’s thoughts wandered. Callie had a brother in Chicago, married with two kids in college. Her mother was in an independent living facility near her brother, and her father was dead.

Her father had spent his career on the faculty at the University of Chicago. Professor McKenzie. What a piece of work he was! It wasn’t that the old man believed in Marxism, with its dubious theories of social change and mind-numbing economic twaddle — the feature he liked was the dictatorship of the elite. The professor was an intellectual snob. The great failing of the common man, in McKenzie’s opinion, was that he was common.

Jake wondered just what the prof would have thought of the collapse of communism all over the world.

He snapped off the television and sat down behind the consul general’s desk in the padded leather executive chair that usually held Tiger Cole’s skinny rump. There was a yellow legal pad on the desk, so he helped himself to a pen and began writing a report to the National Security staff on the situation in Hong Kong. Fortunately the consulate had radio communications with the State Department, so the staff could encrypt the report and put it on the air as soon as Jake finished it.

He was scrawling away when the secretary stuck his head in. “Ahh… Admiral.” He frowned, perhaps offended that Jake was using Cole’s office.

“Yes,” Jake replied, and kept going on the sentence he was writing.

“There’s a telephone call, sir. Mr. Carmellini.”

Jake picked up the instrument. “Grafton.”

“Carmellini, Admiral. I’m over here at Kerry Kent’s apartment checking her cupboard. It seems she has a sizable stock portfolio somewhere.”

Jake stopped writing. He had the telephone in a death grip. “Tell me about it.”

Carmellini did. He gave Jake the names of the companies he thought she owned shares in, the number of shares, and the values. He also gave Jake the information on the seventh stock, though he didn’t know the name of the company.

“Anything else?” Jake asked.

“That’s about it, unless you are interested in the brands of her clothes.”

“Should I be?”

“Well, they strike me as expensive duds, better than I am used to seeing on government employees, but she’s British and a hell of a lot richer than me…”

“Better come on back to the consulate.”

“Is the ferry still running? I know the subway is dead and the tunnel is closed.”

“Hire or steal a boat,” Jake said, and hung up.

He pushed the intercom button to summon the secretary. When he appeared, Jake told him, “I want to call the Pentagon on the satellite phone.”

“Those circuits are all in use by the staff, sir, for official business. They are giving the National Security Council and State real-time feeds on the situation here.”

“Terrific. I want to use a line.”

“Who are you, sir? Really? I mean, I know you are an admiral on active duty in the navy, but using the consul general’s office and—”

“I don’t have time for this,” Jake snapped. “Get me a line, and now. After you do that you call the Secretary of State’s office and complain to them.”

The secretary was offended. “I’ll have the call put through. You can use the phone on the desk. Wait until it rings.”

Okay: China Bob Chan was smuggling money and high-tech war equipment into Hong Kong. And he was a conduit for Communist money being given or donated to American politicians in the hopes of getting favorable export licenses. Sonny Wong was a professional criminal with ties to criminal gangs all over China. Cole was an American agent supplying money and highly classified weapons systems to the rebels.

And Kerry Kent? A British SIS agent, either covertly assigned or playing hooky. Cole’s weapons system operator, WSO, wizzo in U.S. Air Force terminology. Screwing the head rebel. With money in the bank…

Cole didn’t trust China Bob, so a CIA agent bugged his office and was killed before he could retrieve the tape. Then somebody shot China Bob Chan, and the whole tangled skein became a mare’s nest.

Callie listened to the tape and heard… nothing.

She heard hours of conversation, much of it one-sided because Chan was on the phone, and probably all of it relevant if one knew more about Chan’s business… but not otherwise. For Callie it was just noise.

Then she was kidnapped.

Money?

Wong threatened Cole. Callie could convict him with her testimony, he said.

How would he know? He didn’t hear the tape.

What if he were assuming the tape contained something it didn’t?

Ahhh…!

The phone rang.

Jake picked it up and found himself talking to the Pentagon war room duty officer. He identified himself and asked for Commander Tarkington.

Twenty seconds later Toad was on the line.

“Are you sleeping there?”

“Up in the office. I was down here loafing, hoping you’d call.”

“Got a job for you.”

“Yes, sir. Fire away.”

Jake gave Toad all the information he had on Kent’s stock portfolio. “This is a straw we are trying to build with,” he told Toad. “See what the NSA computer sleuths can come up with. The account probably won’t be under her name. I would think it’s probably with a London brokerage or the Hong Kong office of a London brokerage. This woman may have had access to stolen American passports from this consulate. If she has contacts in the Hong Kong underworld, she may have passports from anywhere, genuine or faked.” Jake gave Toad a physical description of Kent.

When Toad had finished writing down the description, he told his boss, “I’ve been talking to the CIA. They say SIS is well aware of Kent’s status with the rebels, though they refuse to admit anything. Officially the Brits say they never even heard of her.”

“Forget that. Find the money. Find where it came from. An inheritance, divorce settlement, whatever.”

“Heard anything from Callie?”

“No.”

“I asked for permission to come over there to help you, but the President nixed it. Said he doesn’t want any military personnel going in-country for any reason.”

“I figured he’d say that.”

“I’ve talked to the chairman.” The chairman of the Joint Chiefs, Toad meant. “We shouldn’t have a problem getting cooperation. When I find out anything, I’ll call you.”

“I’ll be sitting right here,” Jake Grafton said.

At that moment Callie Grafton was telling Wu Tai Kwong, “We need an escape plan.” She had inspected every inch of the small stateroom where they were being held, as well as the tiny bathroom. She had looked at the door hinges, the window, the air vent, the beds, and didn’t have a glimmer of an idea.

“Yes,” Wu agreed after a moment’s reflection, “a plan would be good.”

“Do you have any ideas?”

“No.” Wu raised his hands, then lowered them. The sheet strips around his arm were blood-soaked, but the bleeding seemed to have stopped.

She found the situation infuriating. She balled up her fists and shook them. “I don’t understand you. You say they will kill you, yet you don’t seem to be worried. You aren’t figuring out how to get out of here. You’re just sitting there.”

“What else is there to do?”

She made an exasperated noise. She had been married so long she judged all men by her husband. Jake Grafton wouldn’t be sitting calmly, waiting for the inevitable. Not Jake. He would be scheming and planning until he drew his very last breath.

She missed him terribly.

“Figure a way to get us out of here,” Callie told her fellow prisoner. “There must be a way. We’re on a ship, a small one I think, docked I believe, maybe anchored. When they come for me again — or you — we’ll both jump them. Fight, claw, do whatever we have to. Get out. Get free. Stay alive. Let’s find something we can use as a weapon. Anything.”

Wu waited a while before he spoke. He had that habit, she noticed, and she didn’t much care for it. He said, “You would like my mother, I think. She is much like you. She struggles with life, seeks to conquer it.”

“And you don’t?”

“We all do to some degree. My mother more than me. You are more like her, I think.”

“You are supposed to be a revolutionary. By definition, revolution is struggle.”

“Quite so. I struggle to change the world as man has made it. But life? When the rain comes, it does not matter whether you welcome it or hate it — the rain falls upon your head regardless.”

“Everyone dies, too,” Callie said acidly. “I don’t know about you, but I’m not ready. I have a lot of good years left in me. I’m not going to be robbed of life by some hoodlum, not if I can do anything to prevent it.”

“That’s the rub,” Wu said softly. “Preventing it.”

The Luda-class destroyer, Number 109, came steaming west through Victoria Strait between the island of Hong Kong and the Kowloon peninsula. She had been ordered by the commanding officer of the naval base to sortie immediately and shell the rebels in the Bank of the Orient square, pursuant to the orders of Governor Sun.

Lieutenant Tan was the officer of the deck when the order was received, and he protested. The commanding officer was not aboard, the ship was not ready for sea. His protests fell on deaf ears. “Sail with the men you have aboard and shell the rebels as ordered,” the base commander said.

Of course, the base commander was having his own troubles. A riot had broken out in the enlisted mess hall, probably instigated by the rebels. The officers who attempted to turn off the base television system had been met with sticks and garbage pail lids. The rioting sailors were making threats against the officers’ lives.

Actually two destroyers had sailed, but Number 105 had gone dead in the water with an engine room casualty before it cleared the base breakwater. Sabotage, Lieutenant Tan suspected, but he didn’t say so with the quartermaster and helmsmen within earshot. These two were surly, doing their duty with the minimum acceptable professional courtesy. No doubt they sympathized with their rioting mates and perhaps with the rebels in the bank square.

Number 109 steamed on alone.

Lieutenant Tan began thinking about the professional problem he faced. The gun to use for surface bombardment was the twin 130-millimeter dual-purpose mount on the bow. There was a similar mount on the stern, but it was out of service for some critical parts.

The bow gun would do very well. Unfortunately in this ship the Sun Visor fire control radar that was designed for this gun was never mounted, so the gun had to be aimed visually. The gun had an effective range of eight or nine miles; that was no problem. In fact, the ship was within maximum gun range now.

The problem, Lieutenant Tan told himself as he stared at the chart of Hong Kong on the navigator’s table, was going to be putting the shells into the square. He was going to have to lob them in with the gun elevated to a high angle. Maximum elevation angle was eighty-two degrees.

If he missed the square and started scattering 130-millimeter, 33.5-kilogram high-explosive shells around the downtown, there would be hell to pay later. Regardless of what they said now, the governor and base commander would want pieces of his hide then.

Of course the designated gunnery officer was not aboard. Lieutenant Tan was the only officer qualified to lay the gun, and he also had to con the ship.

He was so nervous his hands shook. He laid the chart on the table so it wouldn’t rattle and consulted the range and elevation charts for the gun. Shooting at a hidden urban target was going to be a challenge, perhaps an impossible one.

He put the binoculars to his eyes and studied the buildings in the Central District. The ship was about five miles from the downtown, he estimated. Needless to say, the buildings did not appear on his chart of the area’s waters. If he could remember which buildings were which…

He asked the helmsman for the speed.

“Eight knots, sir.”

He was studying the chart, measuring, when he heard the lookout.

“Bogey on the starboard bow.”

What?

“Jet airplane, sir, looks like he’s lining us up for a low pass.”

Lieutenant Tan looked.

A fighter, two of them. They were completing the turn to pass the length of the ship, bow to stern. Dropping down, one trailing the other, not going too quickly, maybe three hundred knots…

Suddenly he knew. “Air attack!” he screamed. “Open fire!”

Flashes on the wing root of the lead fighter… the water in front of the ship erupted. Quick as thought, the shells began pounding the ship, cutting, smashing.

The glass in the bridge windows shattered, the helmsman went down, shrapnel and metal flew everywhere.

The attack ended in a thunderous roar as the jet pulled out right over the ship, and the next fighter began shooting.

Screaming… someone was screaming amid the hammering of the cannon shells…

Fire! Smoke and flame.

When the shooting stopped, Lieutenant Tan tried to stand. The ship was turning to port, out of the channel. The helmsman was lying on the deck, his head gone. Tan spun the helm to center the rudder, bring the ship back under control.

“Arm the see-whiz,” he shouted, meaning the CIWS, the close-in weapons system that the Chinese navy had purchased from the Americans.

Behind him he heard the talker repeat the order. The talker was huddled on the floor, bleeding badly from a wound that Tan couldn’t see.

Tan looked aft. Something was burning, putting out smoke. He rang for full speed on the engine telegraph, a bell that was answered. The ship seemed to accelerate noticeably as the gas turbine engines responded.

The jets were on a downwind leg, high out to the right over Kowloon.

“Forward turret, fire at will at the enemy planes,” Tan ordered. “CIWS on automatic fire.”

This time as the planes dove, the ship was going faster, perhaps twelve knots. The forward turret opened fire unexpectedly. Of course the gun crew was shooting visually, using an artillery piece to shoot at a fly, but the noise and concussion helped steady Tan. He huddled down behind the helm station as the fighter’s cannon shells slammed into the base of the mast and bridge area.

The noise had become beyond human endurance — the twin 130-millimeter mount was hammering off a shell every two seconds. There was a pause as the first jet roared overhead, then the gun began again. Despite that racket Tan clearly heard the chain-saw roar of the 20-millimeter Gatling gun of the Phalanx close-in weapons system when it lit off, spitting out fifty tungsten bullets per second.

Then, suddenly, the guns fell silent. Only the roar of a jet engine changing pitch, then nothing. Tan rushed to the side of the bridge in time to see a man ejecting from a stricken fighter. Then the fighter rolled inverted and dove into the choppy water of the strait.

Pulling out, climbing away after his second strafing run, Major Ma Chao also saw his wingman eject and the plane go into the water.

The destroyer was on fire, smoking badly from the area behind the bridge.

The crew would probably forget about the mission to shell the square as they fought to save the ship.

That was enough.

Ma Chao’s commanding officer had a bullet hole in a lung, and one of the squadron’s planes had been shot down — status of the pilot unknown.

And so we begin.

“A good beginning.” Rip Buckingham used those words as the title for the story he wrote for the Buckingham newspapers. He told the story as completely as he could, leaving out the Sergeant York robots, concluding with the surrender of General Moon Hok in the bank square. When the story was finished he printed it out, then went to his den. He had an antique cabinet in one corner, one that he hinted to the maid contained liquor, which was why he kept it locked.

Inside the cabinet was a shortwave radio, an unlicensed ham set, the existence of which was unknown to the Chinese authorities.

Rip plugged the radio into a wall socket and connected the antenna lead. He used the wire that held up the awning on the roof patio for an antenna. Rip checked the time and ensured that the radio was tuned to the proper frequency.

He plugged in a hand microphone, then pushed the key and transmitted. “Hey, Joe? You there?”

“I’m here.”

“Got a story for you.”

“Wait until I get a pen and paper.”

The man who monitored the radio would take down the story in shorthand, transcribe it, and send it via E-mail to Rip’s father, Richard. Tomorrow it would be in the Buckingham newspapers worldwide.

“I’m ready.”

“Okay,” Rip said, and began reading aloud.

The televised celebration in the bank square was still going on hours after General Moon’s surrender. Jake Grafton wondered why the giant block party had gone on so long because he knew that Cole and the rebels must prepare for the next battle, the real Battle of Hong Kong. What he didn’t realize was that the rebels had lost control of the crowd. It was now a mob.

Beyond the range of the television cameras, the mob began seeping away down the side streets, flowing toward City Hall, which was on the waterfront.

The four policemen in front of City Hall stood their ground when the rioters first appeared by the dozens. By the time the crowd numbered several hundred, they were nervous. Not a single soldier was in sight.

As the crowd swelled into the thousands and began packing the streets, the four policemen walked away. They merely took off their hats and gloves and walked off into the crowd.

The jets diving on destroyer 109 and the thunder of the guns galvanized the crowd, which had a ringside seat. When the pilot of one of the jets ejected the crowd fell silent, but when the destroyer, smoking badly and in obvious distress, turned and limped away to the east, the crowd cheered wildly.

As fishing boats along the shore rushed to rescue the pilot in the water, the television helicopter circled low over City Hall, transmitting the scene to the station on Victoria Peak, which broadcast it. Television stations in at least a dozen southern Chinese cities were still retransmitting the broadcast. Pictures of the mob around City Hall and the wounded destroyer retreating after an aerial attack, accompanied by Peter Po’s professional voice-over, stunned audiences that had been allowed to hear nothing of the civil troubles in Hong Kong.

An hour and a half into the pirate show the mob stormed City Hall. No one led it, no one advocated it, it just happened.

Governor Sun was not there, of course, but three prominent Communists were. One was a Beijing appointee to the Court of Appeals, the other two were officials in the government of the Hong Kong Special Administrative Region. All three were dragged out of City Hall and beaten to death in the street as the camera filmed it from a hundred feet overhead.

Hu Chiang, Cole, Kerry Kent, and the rebel leaders were holding a council of war in the trailer in the alley when they were called to witness the storming of City Hall on television.

No one had much to say when they realized the crowd was beating the Communist officials to death.,

“I hope the world gets a good look,” Cole said to no one in particular.

“What do you mean?” Kent asked.

“That mob has just driven a stake through the argument that the Chinese are happier and better off under communism. We’ve heard the last of that crap.”

The defeat of Moon Hok meant that the PLA had to temporarily abandon all hope of reinforcing its forces on Hong Kong Island. PLA radio traffic revealed that they were well aware that the Cross-Harbor Tunnel was in rebel hands.

The New Territories garrison was frantically appealing to Beijing for help. The government had plenty of problems of its own, most of which had been created by Cole’s cyber-troops. Still, given enough time the Communists would move additional troops from mainland China to Hong Kong. Eventually overwhelming military power would be brought to bear on the rebellious population of the former British colony. Obviously the rebels could not allow time to become their enemy’s ally.

“We are in a life-or-death struggle,” Hu Chiang told the rebel leaders when they gathered again around the map of Hong Kong mounted on the wall of the trailer. “We must never lose sight of that fact even for a moment, or all is lost.

“As we speak the PLA is constructing fortified positions and strong points beyond our perimeter at the tunnel exit. Our watchers report that tanks are being arranged as a defense in depth.

“Despite this, we still expect the PLA to assault the tunnel entrance to see how strongly it is held. If the resistance is weak, we anticipate they will press until we crack. On the other hand, should resistance be stronger than anticipated, we believe they will drop back and wait for us to shatter ourselves on their strong points.”

Hu Chiang paused here, surveyed the faces of his audience. “The government in Beijing is pressing the local commanders for immediate action. The Communists see the revolt in Hong Kong as a political disaster that must be crushed before it spreads. Nor can we afford to wait. The government has an overwhelming military advantage and given enough time to marshal its forces, would crush us. We must convince the Communists that the real crisis is political, induce them to rush into action and fail to properly employ their military advantage.

“The fighter squadron at Lantau will keep the Chinese air force and navy off us for a few hours. While we enjoy air superiority, we will attack. Tonight, as planned.”

No one objected.

“Let us proceed,” Hu Chiang continued. ‘The York units will be moved through the tunnel and take up hidden positions outside our perimeter.” He indicated those on the map that hung behind him on the wall. “We have weapons for almost a thousand soldiers now, counting those captured today. We have a dozen heavy machine guns and several trucks full of tear gas canisters, if we need it.

“We are organizing our supporters into military units and using these units to reinforce our tunnel perimeter in Kow-loon. When we are ready to push our entire force through the tunnel, we will open our assault by attacking the strong points with the York units. Are there any questions?”

Cole broke the silence. “The PLA might attack before we are ready.”

“They could. If a fireball like Wu Tai Kwong were leading them, they would. Fortunately, the division commander is dead and the deputy commander is our prisoner. I listened to their radio traffic, and I did not sense a burning desire to fight. They are being ordered to fight. Beijing is making dire threats.”

“How would you characterize the morale of the common soldier?”

Hu Chiang paused a moment before he spoke. “We have interrogated some of the soldiers captured this afternoon. They are not Communists. They want the same things every Chinese person wants — a job, money to feed and raise a family, a better life. Make no mistake, many will fight fiercely, and others will refuse to fight or defect. We hope the Sergeant York units sapped some of their fighting ardor. They are confused. Too much has happened too quickly.”

Cole grinned, and so did the others. “Let’s keep them confused, shall we?”

For Jake Grafton the tension was nearly unbearable, the waiting hell. Soon the sun would go down behind Victoria Peak and all of the Central District would be in shadow.

He paced like a caged lion and paid partial attention to the television while he worried about Callie. Was she still alive? Would Sonny Wong release her tomorrow when Cole paid off? Was hunting her tonight the right thing to do?

When Tommy Carmellini knocked on the consul general’s office door, Jake waved at him to come in. He sat on the couch.

“Did you swim the strait or what?”

“I persuaded a ferry captain to bring a whole boatload of folks over, kids wanting to enlist, mostly.”

“Did you bribe him?”

“A little bit. I think he would have done it for nothing, but I wanted him to have some drinking money.”

“Have you been through her desk and files downstairs?”

“A cursory look, yes.”

“Go look again. I want to know everything there is to know about that woman.”

Fifteen minutes later the telephone rang, and Jake jumped for it. Almost two hours had passed since he spoke to his aide, Toad Tarkington, in America over the satellite circuits.

“Grafton.” He spit out the word.

“You were right, Admiral,” Toad said with triumph in his voice. “There is an account belonging to an American woman, same age and physical description as Kent, at the Hong Kong office of a London brokerage. Turns out the American woman has been dead for six months, but her passport has never been turned in.”

“How’d she die?”

“Traffic accident in Hong Kong.”

“Her name?”

“Patricia Corso Parma.” Toad spelled it, gave Jake the social security number, date of birth, and passport number. “She may be dead, but she opened the account four months ago and has been depositing money in hundred-thousand-American-dollar chunks.”

“The way I figure this,” Jake said, “Kerry Kent is somehow tied in with Sonny Wong. He’s the guy who kidnapped Callie and Wu Tai Kwong, the rebel leader. I’m going to sweat her, see if she knows where Wong might be holding Callie. If she doesn’t know, she might know somebody who does.”

“Okay, boss,” Toad said.

Jake looked up and realized that Tommy Carmellini was standing near the desk, looking out the window. He must have just reentered the room.

“If anything happens to me,” Jake said into the telephone, “I want you to make damned sure Wong and Kent don’t have fun spending any of this money. Have the CIA screw with their bank records. Okay?”

“You got it, boss,” the Toad-man replied. “But you be careful, will ya?”

“Yeah.”

“When you see Callie, tell her that she’s been in my thoughts, mine and Rita’s.”

“Yeah.”

“Take care,” was Toad’s good-bye.

When Jake replaced the telephone on its cradle, Carmellini tossed a passport on the desk in front of Jake. American, with the blue cover. He opened it. Patricia Corso Parma. Staring at him from the page, however, was an excellent picture of Kerry Kent.

“Where did you find this?”

“Taped inside the air return ducting in Kent’s cube, downstairs. I found a screwdriver in her desk and went looking for something to unscrew.”