Necropolis

INTO HONG KONG

The boat was tied up at Porto Exterior, the outer port of Macau. Han Shan-tung had said a brief goodbye in the hallway of his home and now Matt, Jamie and Richard were being driven across the city through half-empty streets. It was raining again and the pavements, black and glistening, had been deserted by the crowds, many of them sheltering in the casinos, throwing their money after dice and cards in the artificial glare of the chandeliers.

They were all tired. Jamie was half asleep, his head resting on the window, his long hair falling across his face. Richard was sitting next to him. Matt could tell that he was angry – with Shan-tung for arranging the ordeal of the sword ladder and with himself for allowing it. Matt was in the front, beside the driver. The speed of events had taken him by surprise. He had only just arrived in Macau and already he was leaving. He thought about what might lie ahead of him in Hong Kong and wondered if he was doing the right thing. It was obvious now that the whole place was a trap, set up by the Old Ones. And yet, he was walking straight into it.

But they wouldn’t be expecting him… not like this. That was what he told himself. And there was no other way. He couldn’t leave Scarlett on her own any longer. It had already been too long. It was his responsibility to find her and bring her out. He was a Gatekeeper. It was time to take control.

The ferry terminal was ahead but they didn’t drive into it. Instead, the driver took them down a narrow road that led to the water’s edge and stopped. They got out, bracing themselves against the cold night air.

For a moment, Matt and Richard found themselves standing next to each other. “Do you really think we should trust these people?” the journalist muttered, putting into words what he had been thinking all along. “They’re Triads. Do you know what that means? Drugs and guns. Gambling. Prostitution. They’ll chop up anyone who gets in their way – including you and me. Between them and the Old Ones, I wouldn’t have said there was a lot to choose.”

A few hours ago, Matt might have agreed. But he remembered how Han Shan-tung had looked at the statue of Scarlett, or Lin Mo as he preferred to call her. “I think they’re on our side,” he said.

“Maybe.” Richard reached out for Matt’s injured hand and turned it over. There was a dark stain seeping through the bandage. “But he still shouldn’t have done that to you.”

“I did it to myself,” Matt said. “I wasn’t concentrating.”

Jamie came over to them. “I think he wants us to go with him,” he said, glancing at the driver. He yawned. “I just hope this boat has got a decent bed.”

There wasn’t much to the port: a stretch of white concrete, a couple of gantries and arc lamps spreading a hard, electric glow that only made everything look more unwelcoming. Once again the rain had eased off but a thin drizzle hung in the air. The driver led them over to a boat, moored along the quayside. This was going to take them across.

It was an old, hard-working cargo boat with just two decks. The lower of them had a cargo hold that was open to the elements and looking into it, Matt saw that it was filled with wooden crates, each one marked with a name that had been stencilled in black letters: KUNG HING TAO The cabin was on the upper deck. It was shaped like a greenhouse and not much bigger, with windows all the way round. There were two radio masts jutting into the air, a radar dish and a funnel that was already belching black smoke. The boat was completely ringed with car tyres to stop it colliding with the quay and this, along with the flaking paint and patches of rust, made it look as if it had been rescued from a junkyard. Matt just hoped the sea would be calm.

“We’ve got company,” Richard said.

A man had appeared, climbing down from the cabin, his feet – in wellington boots – clanging against the metal rungs. As he stepped into the light, it became clear that he wasn’t Chinese. He was a European, a big man with a beard, dark eyes and curly, black hair. His whole face looked beaten about – cracked lips, broken nose, veins showing through the skin. Either the weather had done it, too many years at sea, or he had once been a boxer… and an unsuccessful one. He was wearing jeans, a thick knitted jersey and a donkey jacket, dark blue, with the rain sparkling on his shoulders. His hands were huge and covered in oil.

“Good evening, my friends,” the man said. “You are welcome to Moon Moth.” He had introduced his ship but not himself. He had a deep voice and a Spanish accent. The words came from somewhere in his chest. “Mr Shan-tung has asked me to look after you. Are you ready to come on board?”

“How long will the journey take us?” Richard asked. He sounded doubtful.

“Three hours… maybe longer. We don’t have the power of a jet-foil and the weather’s strange. All this rain! It may hold us up, so the sooner we get started, the better.” The man took out a pipe and tapped it against his teeth as if checking them for cavities. “I often make the journey at night, if that’s what’s worrying you,” he went on. “Nobody’s going to take any notice of us. So let’s get out of this weather and be on our way.”

He turned and climbed back onto the boat. Richard glanced at Matt. Matt shrugged. The captain hadn’t been exactly friendly, but why should they have expected otherwise? These people were criminals. They were only obeying orders. They had no interest in the Gatekeepers or anybody else, so it was pointless to expect first class comfort and smiles.

Richard had brought his backpack with them – it was their only luggage. He picked it up and they followed the man on board. They reached the ladder and Matt was grateful that this one had ordinary rungs instead of swords. As he began to climb, he noticed a Chinese man in filthy jeans and an oil-skin jacket, drawing a tarpaulin over the crates. For a moment their eyes met and Matt found himself being studied with undisguised hostility. The man spat, then went back to work. He seemed to be the only crew.

There wasn’t much room in the cabin which looked even older than the ship, with equipment that wouldn’t have been out of place in a Second World War film. The captain was sitting on a stool in front of a steering wheel, surrounded by switches and gauges with markings that had largely faded away. The rain had picked up. It was streaming down the windows and the world outside was almost invisible, broken up into beads of water that clung in place, reflecting everything but showing very little. The engines were throbbing sullenly below. The whole cabin was vibrating. It smelled of salt water, diesel fuel and stale tobacco.

There was a low sofa and a couple of chairs for the three passengers. All the furniture was sagging and stained. Richard, Matt and Jamie took their places. The captain sat at the wheel, flicking on a pair of ancient windscreen wipers which began to swing from left to right, clearing the way in front of them. The Chinese crewman cast off and the boat slipped away, unseen, into the night.

A single row of lights shone ahead. There was a road bridge, at least half a mile long, snaking across the entire length of the harbour. But once they had passed underneath it there was nothing. Moon Moth had its own spotlights mounted on the bow and the cabin roof, but they barely penetrated the driving rain and showed nothing more than a circle of black water a few metres ahead.

The captain switched on the screens and the cabin glowed green with a soft beeping sound that divided up the silence like commas in a sentence. For about ten minutes nobody said anything but then the crewman appeared, carrying a battered tray with four tin mugs of hot chocolate which he had brought up from a galley somewhere below.

“You haven’t told me your names,” the captain said. He lit his pipe and blew smoke into the air, making the cabin feel closer and snugger than ever. It was very warm inside, presumably from the heat of the engines below.

Richard introduced them. “I’m Richard. This is Matt and Jamie.” They were being smuggled into Hong Kong illegally, and anyway Han Shan-tung already knew who they were. There was no need for false names.

“And I am Hector Machado. But you can call me Captain. That is what everyone calls me – even when I am not on the ship.”

“Are you Spanish?” Richard asked.

“Portuguese. I was born in Lisbon. Have you been there?”

Richard shook his head.

“I’m told that it’s a beautiful city. I left there when I was three. My father came to Hong Kong to fight against the communists. This was his boat.” Machado sucked on his pipe which glowed red. He blew out smoke. “He was shot dead in the very seat where I am sitting now. And the boat is mine.”

“How many crew do you have?” Matt was thinking of the man he had seen. Why had he appeared so unfriendly?

“Just Billy. No need for anyone else.”

“What’s in the crates?”

Machado hesitated, as if afraid of giving too much away. Then he shrugged. “Fireworks. A lot of fireworks. Mr Shantung has a business selling them to mainland Hong Kong.”

“And what do you carry when you’re not delivering fireworks?” Richard asked. His voice was hostile. It clearly bothered him, being with these people.

“I’ve carried all sorts of things, Richard. Stuff that maybe it would be better you didn’t know about. I’ve smuggled people in, if that’s what you want to know. And maybe you should be grateful. I know the ins and outs. Moon Moth may not be much to look at but she’ll outrun the Hong Kong harbour patrols any time… not that they’ll bother themselves about us. Everyone knows me in these parts. And they leave me alone.”

“So how long have you worked for the Triads?”

“You think this is an interview? You want to write about me?” Machado gestured with the pipe. “I’d get some rest if I were you. It could be a long night.” He slipped the pipe between his teeth and said no more.

They cruised on into the darkness, guided by the strange, green light of the radar system. The night was so huge that it swallowed them completely. There was no moon or stars. It was impossible to tell if it was still raining as the windows were being lashed by sea spray. Machado sat where he was, smoking in silence. Richard, Matt and Jamie sat at the back of the cabin, out of his way. All three of them were tense and nervous. They hadn’t discussed what they might find in Hong Kong, but now that they were finally on the way, they could imagine what they might be up against. A whole city, millions of people… and the Old Ones infesting everything. They had to be mad to be going in there. But there seemed to be no other way to get Scar out.

Jamie finished his hot chocolate and dozed off. Richard opened his backpack and began to go through his things: he had brought maps, money, a change of clothes. The precious diary – written by Joseph of Cordoba – was also there, sealed in plastic to keep it protected. Matt noticed a glimmer of gold and realized that he was carrying the tumi – the Inca knife.

Richard glanced up. “You never know when it may come in handy,” he said. “Anyway, I didn’t like leaving it behind with that bunch of crooks.” He zipped the backpack shut, then lowered his voice. “What do you think?” he asked.

He was referring to Hector Machado, although he didn’t need to whisper as the captain would never had heard him above the noise of the engines.

“Shan-tung trusts him,” Matt said.

“He doesn’t seem to be exactly friendly.”

“He doesn’t have to be friendly. He just has to get us there.”

“Let’s hope he does.”

The two of them fell silent and soon they were both asleep. But then – it felt like seconds later – Matt found himself being woken by something. It was the boat’s engine which had changed tempo, slowing down. He opened his eyes. It was still dark, still raining. But there were lights ahead.

“You can wake up your friends,” Captain Machado said. “We’re here.”

Matt stood up and went over to the window.

And there it was. It was two o’clock in the morning but a city like Hong Kong never really slept. Matt could make out the skyscrapers by the lights that burned all around them, picking out their shapes in brilliant green, blue and pink neon. It was as if someone had drawn the city onto the darkness with a vast, fluorescent crayon. There were advertisements – PHILIPS, SAMSUNG, HITATCHI – burning themselves onto the night sky, the colours breaking up in the water, being thrown around by the choppy waves. There were signs in Chinese too, and they reminded him how very different this city would be from London or Miami. This was another world.

It was very misty. Maybe it was an illusion caused by all the neon, but the mist was a strange colour, an ugly, poisonous yellow. It was rolling across the harbour towards them, reaching out to surround them as if it were a living thing and knew who they were. As they continued forward, it pressed itself against the glass of the cabin and the sound of the engines became even more distant.

Richard had joined the captain at the steering wheel. “Why are we going so slowly?” he asked. It was a good question. They were barely moving at all.

“We don’t want to draw attention to ourselves,” Machado replied.

“I thought you said nobody cared about you anyway.”

“There’s still no reason to make too much noise.”

Another minute passed.

“I thought we were going to Kowloon,” Richard said.

“We are.”

“But isn’t Kowloon on the other side?”

Machado grinned in the half light. He had put the pipe away. “The current will carry us over,” he said and at that moment Matt knew that he wasn’t telling the truth and felt the familiar tingle of imminent danger. For what seemed like an age, nothing happened. They weren’t moving. Machado was standing there, almost daring them to challenge him – to do anything. But there was nothing they could do. They were trapped on board his boat, completely in his power.

And then a searchlight cut through the darkness, pinning Moon Moth in its glare. The entire cabin seemed to explode with dazzling light. A second beam swung across. Two boats. They were still some distance away but they were rapidly closing in. They must have been waiting there all the time.

At the same moment, Machado swung his hand, crashing it into the side of Richard’s head and then bringing it around on Matt. He was holding a gun. Richard fell. Machado’s lips curled in an unpleasant smile. “If you move, I will kill you,” he said.

He had betrayed them. He had known the boats were coming. He had led them straight to them.

“The Triads will kill you for this…” Richard muttered. He had pulled himself onto one knee and was cradling his head in his hand. Blood was trickling from a wound just above his eye.

“The Triads are finished,” Machado replied. “They’re nothing any more.”

“So who’s paying you?” Matt asked.

“There’s a big reward out for you, boy. Two million Hong Kong dollars. More than I’ve earned with Shan-tung and his friends in ten years. They want you very badly. And they warned me about you. If you even blink, I’ll shoot you.”

Matt looked out of the window. The boats were getting closer and they had been joined by three more, making five in all, moving in from every side. They were police launches – grey, solid steel with identifying numbers printed on the side. They were coming out of the night like miniature battleships, with bullet-proof windows and bows shaped like knives.

Richard pulled himself to his feet. Machado aimed the gun at him. “Nightrise doesn’t want you,” he said. “So I hope you don’t mind a burial at sea.” He was about to fire at point blank range. He licked his lips, enjoying himself. Richard stared at him helplessly.

“Put the gun down,” Jamie said.

Machado didn’t hesitate. He laid the gun on the floor although his face was filled with puzzlement. He had no idea why he’d done it. But Matt did. In his moment of triumph, the captain had forgotten Jamie. He’d thought he was still asleep… but he’d been wrong. Jamie had seen what was happening and had used his power. If he’d told Machado to stop breathing, the man would have stood there until he died. And, Matt reflected, maybe that was what he deserved.

“This is the Hong Kong police. Heave to…”

The voice echoed out of the water, amplified through a megaphone. There was a man standing on the bow of the nearest boat – except he looked far too tall to be human. He was black and was dressed in the uniform of a senior officer in the Hong Kong police. But it was obvious he was no policeman. He was like something out of a nightmare with his bald head and empty, staring eyes. It was freezing cold out on the water but he wasn’t shivering. He showed no feeling or emotion at all.

Richard lunged forward, grabbed hold of the steering wheel and slammed down the throttle. Matt felt the floor tilt beneath him as the cargo boat surged forward. Captain Machado had been standing there, dazed, as if unsure what to do, but now he seized hold of Richard and the two of them began to grapple for the steering wheel.

“Get rid of him, Jamie,” Matt said.

“Jump overboard,” Jamie commanded.

Machado let go of Richard and lurched out of the cabin, moving as if in a trance. There was shouting, a shot, then a splash as Machado was gunned down even as he hit the sea. The Hong Kong police had assumed he was trying to escape. Or maybe they knew who he was but had decided to kill him anyway. Machado floated face down in the water. He didn’t move.

Richard had control of the cargo boat. He spun it round, taking the police by surprise. Seconds later, he burst through them, weaving round one of their boats, heading for the Central side of Hong Kong.

“The gun!” Richard shouted.

Matt snatched it up and handed it to him. Then Jamie shouted and pointed. “Watch out!”

A face had appeared at the window, glaring at them with furious eyes. For a moment Matt thought one of the policemen had somehow boarded Moon Moth. Then he remembered the single crewman – Billy – who had sailed with them from Macau. He was holding a gun, bringing it round to aim at the cabin. Richard shot him through the window, a single bullet between the eyes. The boat lurched crazily. The wheel spun. The crewman disappeared.

Then the nearest police launch opened fire. The noise was deafening as the bullets smashed into the metal plates of the cargo boat, cutting a line along the bow and ricocheting back into the water. One of the windows shattered and Richard ducked as tiny fragments of glass showered down onto his shoulders and back. The cold night air rushed into the cabin, carrying with it the spray of water and the foul, decaying smell of the pollution. Moon Moth surged forward. Richard was fighting with the wheel, trying not to be shot. Matt looked back. The police launches were regrouping, preparing to come after them. The man at the front suddenly opened his mouth and howled, a sound that split the night, louder than all the boats put together. Matt knew at that moment that he wasn’t a man at all.

“We’re going to have to jump!” Richard shouted above the roar of the engines and the raging wind. “Jamie, can you swim?”

Jamie nodded.

“I’m going to take us in as close as I can.” He turned to Matt. “If we get separated, meet at…”

But Matt didn’t hear the rest of the sentence. There was another burst of gunfire, this time strafing the stern and the cargo hold where the fireworks were packed.

“Now!”

Richard abandoned the wheel and the boat began to zigzag. Matt needed to ask him what he had just said, but everything was happening too quickly. Richard snatched up his backpack and forced it over his shoulders. Jamie was right next to him. The five police boats were getting closer, only a few metres behind.

“Go!” Richard shouted.

Jamie hurried out to the deck and without stopping disappeared over the side of the boat. But Richard hadn’t followed. He had climbed down from the cabin and was balancing himself, clinging to a handrail as Moon Moth, its engines screaming on full power, swerved drunkenly through the sea. Blood and water streamed down his face and his eyes were wild. Matt had never seen him like this before. Gritting his teeth, he brought the gun up and fired into the crates of fireworks, again and again, emptying the chamber into the same spot.

Nothing happened until the final shot. Then there was a flare of magnesium, burning through the tarpaulin. Richard noticed that Matt was still there, that he hadn’t jumped overboard. “Jump!” he pleaded.

Matt jumped.

Even as his feet left the deck, the fireworks went off. There were thousands of pounds worth in the hold. A tonne of gunpowder. But there was nothing beautiful about the explosion. It was just a blinding, burning wheel of fire that seemed to take Richard and hurl him into the air. That was the last thing Matt saw before he hit the water. For a moment everything was panic. The sea was black and freezing. He was still wearing his clothes and trainers. He was being sucked down. He had to fight with all his strength just to get back to the surface.

He emerged, gasping for air, into a brilliant, blazing nightmare. It was as if the whole night was on fire. Moon Moth was alight. The fire was burning so intensely that the metal plates would surely melt away. With no one to steer it, the boat had turned a full circle and was ploughing into the police launches, which had been too slow to get out of the way. It was right in the middle of them and Matt could just make out figures in helmets and full riot gear staring at the destruction, knowing that they were too close, that they were part of it. One of their boats was already on fire. The tall man was still howling – but this time in agony. Every part of him was on fire. His suit and the skin beneath it were peeling away. At the very end, his head split open and something began to snake out of it – a second head, but not a human one. Then there was a great rush of white flame as more of the fireworks exploded and he was blown out of sight.

Individual fireworks were going off, one after another and Matt saw cascades of red, blue, white, green and yellow as blazing missiles were shot into the air, reflecting in the water below. About fifty rockets screamed out at once, some of them twisting into the sky, others slamming into the police boats. One of them spluttered across the water and plunged down in front of him, missing his head by inches. He saw a policeman on fire, jumping into the water to save himself. Another was less lucky. He seemed to be holding a spinning Catherine wheel, unable to let go of it even though it was burning into his chest. Fireworks were cracking and buzzing and whining all around him. He didn’t make it into the sea. He died where he stood.

Matt was treading water, forcing himself to breathe. He was so cold that his lungs had shut down. He knew that he couldn’t stay out here much longer. Two of the police boats were undamaged. Very soon they would be looking for him. But where was Richard? Where was Jamie? The surface of the water was like a black mirror, reflecting the light, but he couldn’t see them anywhere. He wanted to shout out for them but he didn’t dare. The policemen would have heard him.

There was only one thing he could do. The edge of the water was about a hundred metres away. He had to get to dry land and hope to find them there. He took one last look and then turned round and began to swim, slowed down by his clothes. The glow from the flames spread out over his shoulders, helping to light the way, and there were more bangs and fizzes as the last fireworks went off. He heard someone shouting an order in Chinese but doubted that they’d seen him. He was wearing dark clothes. His hair was dark. The currents were carrying him away.

He reached land without even realizing it. Suddenly there was a slimy concrete slope under his knees. He crawled onto it and pulled himself out. He was on a building site. That was what it looked like. It was hard to tell as he squatted in the darkness, shivering, filthy water dripping out of his hair.

“Richard? Jamie?”

He didn’t dare call too loudly. The whole city – anyone who was awake – must have seen the firework display. The Old Ones knew he was there. They would already be searching.

“Richard? Jamie?”

There was no reply.

He waited ten minutes before he made a decision and set off, moving while he still could. If he stayed still much longer, he would freeze.

It was three o’clock in the morning. He had entered the enemy city. He had no idea where he was going. He was dripping wet. He was unarmed.

And he was alone.