12

I’ve been in Hong Kong a number of times, both before and after the momentous handover in 1997. Before the Brits left the colony, there was widespread speculation that the capitalistic society that Hong Kong had enjoyed for over a century would disappear. Communist China would ruin what was up to then known as “the Pearl in the Crown.” So far it hasn’t happened. I can’t see that much has changed except perhaps there are fewer Brits walking around. The Chinese promised to keep Hong Kong in its current state of economic enterprise for the next fifty years. Who’s to say what happens after that? Are they simply going to say, “Okay, folks, no more free enterprise, that’s it, you’re done, now it’s share and share alike”? I don’t buy it. Hong Kong is a well-oiled machine and I believe it’s going to continue functioning the way it always has well into the twenty-second century.

My trip to the Far East was uneventful. The Osprey flew to Hawaii first and made a stop. I had a two-hour layover at Pearl Harbor and then we continued on to Manila. By the time we arrived in the Philippines it was too late to catch the commercial flight to Hong Kong, so I spent the night in the barracks. It wasn’t bad. Since I can usually sleep on demand I didn’t have any problems with jet lag. Jet lag never has bothered me much. Only after I return home does it seem to catch up with me. I guess you could say I’m the master of my internal clock.

After I land the next morning in Hong Kong, I consider renting a car but decide against it. As in London or New York, cars in Hong Kong are more of a hindrance than an advantage. I’ll get around much faster taking public transportation and walking. If and when I need to get to some remote spot, I’ll take a taxi. I can always rent a car later if I need one.

Frances Coen’s instructions say I have to seek out Mason Hendricks, a former intelligence officer stationed in the Far East. Hendricks, an American, is ex-CIA and, like Harry Dagger in Moscow, is retired but still has his nose to the ground. I’ve never met him although I’ve had plenty of opportunities to do so. Back when I was in the CIA he was certainly around, but our paths never crossed. He’s reputed to be a good man, very smart and resourceful. Coen tells me that my equipment was drop shipped from Manila to Hendricks. I’m not sure what the logistics are and how he goes about retrieving the stuff; I leave that to my so-called Field Runner.

Hendricks lives in the Mid-Levels, halfway up Victoria Peak. The Peak is the place to live in Hong Kong, especially when the British were here. The higher up you go, the more expensive the real estate. The Mid-Levels is the equivalent of upper-middle-class to lower-upper-class neighborhoods, if that makes any sense. It’s still damned expensive.

I take a taxi to his home, a detached dwelling next to a block of apartments off of Conduit Road. When he answers the door, I’m surprised by how young he looks. Hendricks is supposed to be sixty-one but he appears to be forty-five.

“Sam Fisher,” he says. He holds out his hand. “Mason Hendricks.”

I shake it, evaluating his firm grip. This is a man of strength. “Glad to meet you after all these years.”

“Likewise. Please come in.”

The inside of his home is tastefully decorated in a mixture of Western and Eastern styles. The British influence is definitely present but the Asian flavoring tends to dominate. For example, there’s a very large Buddha in the room, something you notice when you first walk in. The smell of burning incense fills the place. Next to it is a shelf containing a collection of ships in bottles — and they’re all British warships from the classic eighteenth-century period.

“Forgive the incense,” Hendricks says. “I’m afraid I’ve grown to like it after forty-some-odd years in Hong Kong.”

“Doesn’t bother me,” I say.

Hendricks is dressed in a simple beige tunic and loose-fitting matching trousers. He’d be at home in any beach house.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he says. “I look younger than I’m supposed to be.”

“As a matter of fact,” I reply, “you don’t look fifty. But you’re sixty-something, right?”

“Sixty-two next month. It’s the clean living that does it. And of course, a stress-free lifestyle. I admit to having a little plastic surgery, I dye my hair, and I never eat fatty foods. My health improved immeasurably after I retired from the CIA. I also finally found time for a love life. I’ve had so many Chinese girlfriends in the last ten years that it puts my college years to shame. That will certainly keep you young! And that’s another reason why I take care of myself. Anyway, everything I do these days for our precious government is simply for the fun of it or because it interests me. I’m happy to help out the NSA. I hope I can give you some useful information. How about a drink?”

I shrug. “Sure.”

“I’m having scotch. What will you have?”

“Just fruit juice if you have it.”

He goes straight to the bar on the opposite side of the room from the Buddha and fixes a couple of glasses. I take the moment to browse his bookshelf, which is full of historical military reference books and suspense novels. When he brings my glass of juice — apricot — he clicks it and says, “Cheers.”

“Thank you. Cheers.”

Hendricks leads the way through a sliding glass door to a terrace that overlooks the skyline. “I wish I were higher up. I bought this place twenty-five years ago for a song. I could probably make a fortune if I sold it. Or if it accidentally burned down, the insurance would make me a rich man.” He laughs. “Then maybe I could buy a place farther up the Peak. The view’s much better. That’s where all the hoity-toity live.”

“I think it’s a very nice place, Mr. Hendricks.”

“Oh, please, call me Mason.”

“All right.”

We sit on deck chairs and enjoy a slight breeze. In serious contrast to the weather in Maryland, it’s quite warm on the island. I don’t think I’ve ever been to Hong Kong when it wasn’t.

“Did my equipment arrive safely?” I ask.

“It did indeed. I have it in one of the bedrooms. But please, let’s relax and talk out here a while. Where are you staying?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’d offer you my spare bedroom but I tend to have female company at night. I hope you understand.”

I smile at him. “Whatever rocks your boat. I’ll find a place. I’m not picky. I may stay in Kowloon. There are inexpensive hotels I know there.”

“Suit yourself.”

We sit for a moment in silence. Finally I bring up the mission at hand. “Mason, what can you tell me about this Professor Jeinsen?” Hendricks relates what I already know — that Jeinsen was shot in the head, wrapped in burlap, tied to the Promenade in Kowloon, and left to float in the water until he was found. An Interpol bulletin on the missing physicist was what did the trick in helping the police to identify him. Once the corpse was ID’d, the U.S. government was notified.

“The interesting thing here is that Professor Jeinsen wasn’t murdered,” Hendricks says. “He was executed.”

“By whom?”

“I’d say it was a Triad killing.”

I nod with understanding. The Triads are the Chinese equivalent of our Mafia, the Japanese Yakuza, the Russian Mafiya, and other organized crime outfits. They’ve been around for centuries, originally formed to help oust the Ch’ing dynasty and reinstate the Ming. It was during the twentieth century that they became criminally oriented. As secret societies, they pride themselves on being patriotic and nationalist. Violently opposed to the Communists, the Triads primarily settled in British Hong Kong and Portuguese Macau. Eventually they spread around the globe to other Chinese communities. I know for a fact that Triads operate in the Chinatowns of big American cities. They traffic in drugs, weapons, prostitution, and slavery, as well as operate protection rackets and gambling parlors. The Triads are fiercely anti-Western and their rites and meetings are sacred, usually never witnessed by non-Asians.

“I believe we’re also dealing with a very specific Triad,” Hendricks continues. “Most Triads use knives, hatchets, machetes — blades — to do their killing. Jeinsen was shot in the back of the head, gangland style. Like the Mafia does it. There’s one Triad known to use that particular method of execution in Hong Kong. They’re called the Lucky Dragons.”

“I don’t know them.”

“They’re not the biggest Triad by any means. The Dragons are awfully small when you compare them to, say, the 14K or Bamboo Union. But they’ve been around as long as I can remember. They’re based in Hong Kong but I know they have extensive branches reaching into mainland China.”

“But Triads are notoriously anti-Communist,” I say.

“They are. And so are the Lucky Dragons. But I’m fairly confident they have some pull with certain government officials. Ever since the handover, it was expected that the Chinese government would crack down hard on Triads because of their widespread ideology against Communism. It hasn’t happened. The Triads are just as powerful now as they were under British rule. Sure, it’s still illegal to be a member of a Triad and all that, and the police make arrests all the time. It’s just one of those things, like the Yakuza in Japan. They’ll always be with us.”

“What’s the leadership like?”

“A fellow named Jon Ming is the leader. The Cho Kun, the Dragon Head. He’s, I don’t know, forty-eight or so. About your age I think. He became Cho Kun about fifteen years ago after a bloody coup within their organization. Ming is a wealthy gangster that lives on a plantation-style estate in northern Kowloon, just below the border of the New Territories. Actually, he acts more like a Yakuza than a Triad. He flaunts his wealth and power in public the way the Japanese gangsters do. That’s not the norm for Chinese Triads. Here you can be arrested for just acting like a Triad, yet he seems to steer clear of legal trouble. That’s why I think he’s got some politicians in his pocket.”

“Where can I find this Jon Ming?”

“He runs a fancy nightclub in Kowloon. The Purple Queen. It’s one of those hostess clubs, the kind that cost you a fortune to sit and talk with a beautiful girl. Sometimes you can get her to go home with you, which will cost you even more.” Hendricks rattles the ice in his glass. “I guess you can say that’s how I came to know some of my girlfriends. I do frequent the hostess clubs a lot. The Purple Queen, too. I can’t take you there, though. You’ll have to go alone. They know me. I wouldn’t want you seen with me.”

“I agree.”

“Ming also owns a couple of restaurants and has his hand in some of the industries around here. He controls some of the container port so he has unbelievable access to shipping stuff in and out of the country. I left you a photo of the guy in the room with your equipment so you’ll recognize him when you see him.”

“So what’s Jeinsen’s connection to the Lucky Dragons?” I ask.

Hendricks looks at me and wiggles his eyebrows. “That’s what you’re here to find out, isn’t it?”

“Any ideas?”

“None. If you ask me, the guy must have betrayed his second country. After all, he betrayed the first one by defecting to the U.S.”

I sigh and say, “That’s just what we’re hoping he didn’t do. Do you think Ming keeps anything at the nightclub I might be interested in?”

“I don’t know,” Hendricks says. “It’s doubtful. I imagine all Triad-related business is conducted at one of their Lodges, and I’m afraid I can’t help you with that. Your best bet is to get a good look at Ming and follow him. Maybe he’ll lead you to the goods.”

“What I’d really like to do is establish a connection between this Triad and the Shop. You think there might be one?”

Hendricks nods. “They get their arms from somewhere. I’ve heard rumblings that the Shop is operating again in the Far East. I’ll make some inquiries this evening and see what I can find out.”

We go back inside the house and Hendricks takes me to the bedroom where my equipment lies on the bed. It’s the usual stuff — my uniform, headset and goggles, the Five-seveN and several twenty-round magazines of 5.7×28mm ss190 ammunition, and my pride and joy, the SC-20K modular assault weapon system. This rifle uses thirty rounds of 5.56×45mm ss109 ammunition in semi and full automatic modes. There’s a flash/sound suppressor combined with a multipurpose launcher that shoots airfoil projectiles, sticky cameras, shockers, and smoke grenades. Other tools of the trade include an optic cable for looking into tight holes, a camera jammer, a couple of wall mines, frag grenades, flares, and a medical kit.

“I’m impressed, Mason,” I say. “You managed to get all of it in one shipment.”

“I’ve had a lot of experience, Sam.”

“So where is this Triad’s headquarters? Their ‘Lodge,’ as you say?”

Hendricks picks up the SC-20K and tests its weight. “Nice weapon.” He looks through the sights and says,

“The Lucky Dragons don’t have a central Lodge. I imagine they have several scattered throughout the territory. Your best bet is the Purple Queen nightclub. I can assure you there will be some Lucky Dragons in the place. You might even see Jon Ming. He’s known to stop in every other night or so.”

“All right.”

“Remember you’re a gweilo here. I don’t have to tell you that these guys are pretty dangerous, do I?” A gweilo is a derogatory term meaning “foreign devil.”

“I’m quite familiar with Triads,” I say. “They’ll kill any Westerner they suspect of spying on them. They’ll also die to protect their traditions.”

Hendricks lowers the SC-20K, looks at me eye to eye, and says, “And don’t you forget it.”

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