Stealing the Dragon

Chapter Thirty-one

Hong Kong, 10 years ago

“You’ve killed six men in as many months.”

“You asked me to.”

Xan walked the length of the office and turned, hands behind his back. It was almost summer in Hong Kong, and he could feel the humidity on his back and neck as he paced. He looked down the long wooden table at Sally, who sat impassively watching him.

“As a graduate of the school, you sometimes get to choose your next,” Xan paused, searching for a word, “field trip.” He breathed through his nose and nodded, satisfied with his choice.

“Many of the girls go on field trips,” replied Sally, putting even more emphasis on the euphemism, her voice just this side of mocking. “They follow men, they take photographs, they infiltrate other clans. All very important work, no?”

“True,” Xan nodded. “But you, little dragon, always volunteer for the most dangerous assignments.” He studied her again before adding, “You and Jun, of course. You have more kills between you than all the other girls combined.”

Sally shrugged but didn’t say anything.

“You’ve killed six men,” he said.

“You mentioned that already,” replied Sally. “Is there a prize when I reach ten?”

Xan stopped and studied Sally for some sign of emotion, but she betrayed nothing. No anger, remorse, or even grim satisfaction could be found on her face or in her voice. Xan shook his head. They might as well have been talking about the weather.

“It’s humid today,” he prompted.

“I noticed,” replied Sally, her voice pleasant.

“How do you feel about it?” asked Xan.

“The humidity?”

Xan exhaled loudly. “No.” Realizing that Sally might be playing with him. “The men you killed.”

“They were only men.” Sally shrugged and looked away, thinking this wasn’t something she wanted to discuss with Xan. The question wasn’t as simple as “how do you feel about it?” Sally didn’t want to tell Xan that she saw Kano’s face in the eyes of the men she killed, his expression frozen in that moment when arrogance had turned to fear. Or that part of her felt stronger for killing these men, and she was never afraid, and she never felt alone.

Sally didn’t want to tell Xan any of this because then she’d have to admit to herself that those feelings never lasted. Death had kept her company these past six months, but his companionship hadn’t made her feel any better.

It hadn’t made her feel any worse, either.

Xan had been studying her face. “Not all men are bad, little dragon,” he said quietly.

Sally looked up at him with a calm expression, her eyes making it clear she thought Xan was incredibly naive.

“I’ll have to get out more,” she said simply. “Meet a better class of gangster.”

Xan sighed, wondering why he felt compelled to ask this girl about anything. Was she not a perfect weapon? He had learned over the years to kill without hesitation and had taught Sally well. So why did this girl always fill him with a sense of…what?

The sense that you are looking in a mirror, he told himself, shutting his eyes as he walked toward the back of the room.

From behind his closed lids, a young woman smiled at Xan. Standing on a dock cradling a child in her arms, a baby girl. The woman’s face open and smiling, her eyes bright. The young mother waved at Xan, her dark hair swept sideways by the wind off the harbor. She moved down the dock toward Xan. She never saw the powerboat come up behind her.

The boat’s engines roared, muffling the sound of the automatic weapon. Bullets tore through the woman’s back, rocking her forward onto her knees, her arms still clutching the baby. As she stared at Xan with her mouth open, blood-red constellations appeared on her blouse, forming in slow motion on her chest, along her arms, and across the baby’s blanket.

Xan opened his eyes and blinked away the memory before turning back toward Sally. We cannot choose our fate. We can only choose which path we take when fate arrives. Sally had made her choice when she walked through the black door, and it was her path to follow. Xan knew that he, of all people, was in no position to question her now.

Sally seemed to read his mind. “Master Xan, why did you want to see me?”

“I didn’t,” he replied. “But the Master of the Mountain did.”

Sally sat straighter in her chair. She had never met the Dragon Head, even after her trip to Tokyo. In fact, she had never been told the result of that trip or what had become of the man in the pictures she’d taken. Sally got her instructions from Xan, who told her just enough to motivate her and provide the necessary background for her assignment. According to Xan, any more information could put her at risk. When Sally had asked, “At risk for what?” Xan had looked at her with an expression much like the one she had just given him, letting her know that she was still young and very naive. “Not all our enemies are outside these walls,” he said simply. Sally tried to ask questions, but Xan cut her off, saying, “Remember that, little dragon.”

Sally jumped as the phone rang, her thoughts snapping back to the prospect of meeting the head of the clan. Xan picked up the receiver and listened for a few seconds before nodding and hanging up.

“Time to go upstairs,” he said.

The room was large and square, maybe thirty feet on a side. Banners with family crests and carefully drawn characters hung on the walls-dragons, fish, flowers, and an occasional phoenix staring out from the yellowed fabric. In the far corner of the room was a folded wooden screen with a painted battle scene, one of thousands of images throughout the school of Chinese warriors fighting the Mongol hordes.

In the exact center of the room was a dark wooden desk set adjacent to a short cabinet of matching wood with two chairs set before them. As Sally entered the room behind Xan, she noticed the hardwood floor was entirely covered by rice paper, its beige surface torn in some places but otherwise undisturbed. A primitive security system recording the comings and goings in this room. Xan’s feet left small wrinkles and tears that belied his weight. Looking back at Sally for an instant, he nodded once in satisfaction at the unbroken paper in her wake. A team of forensic experts would never know she had stepped into this or any other room.

“Welcome, Master Xan.”

The man behind the desk gestured toward them without standing up. Sally noticed his eyes first, luminous black suns that surprised her with their warmth as they tracked her progress across the paper. His face was long and elegant, his hair slicked back from a high forehead. Only the wrinkles around his mouth and eyes betrayed his age, which Sally guessed to be around sixty. He smiled as she came to a stop before the desk.

“Sixty-eight,” he said, his voice deep and resonant.

Sally remained silent but her eyes widened.

“You were guessing my age,” the man said pleasantly. “Everyone does, you know.”

“You look younger, shan chu,” replied Sally, bowing her head slightly.

“Ah, but I feel older,” came the reply. “What do you make of that?”

“The weight of your office must be a heavy burden,” said Sally.

The man nodded. “One I am tired of carrying by myself,” he said, moving his gaze toward Xan, who stared back at him in silence, a neutral expression on his face.

Both men let the moment pass as the Dragon Head turned his attention back to Sally.

“My name is Zhang Hong,” he said simply. “Did you know that?”

Sally shook her head.

Hong sighed and shifted in his chair. “My loyal friend Xan does not always approve, but I get bored with the protocol of this office. So before you called me Master of the Mountain again, I wanted to let you know that I, too, am just a man.”

Sally could tell his phrasing was deliberate and assumed he’d been listening to her conversation with Xan. For some reason it neither surprised nor offended her. It seemed somehow…consistent with her surroundings. She looked back at Hong and nodded in acknowledgement, careful to look him in the eye when she spoke.

“We all have our shortcomings, shan chu.”

Xan coughed uncomfortably as Hong barked out a laugh, slapping his hand on the desk.

“She is indeed formidable, Xan,” he said, chuckling softly. “With that tongue alone she could start a war with another clan.”

Xan looked at Sally with vague disapproval before responding. “We can only soften the steel so much as we forge the weapon, shan chu.”

Hong nodded, still smiling, and gestured toward the two chairs.

“Sit down, Sally,” he said. “Master Xan has told me of your accomplishments.”

Accomplishments, thought Sally. Field trips. I live in a world of male euphemisms.

“Did you know I recommended you for the assignment in Tokyo?” asked Hong.

Sally’s eyes snapped into focus. “Thank you,” she said simply.

Hong waved his hand distractedly. “It was unfortunate the film was ruined,” he said, frowning. “That was an important lead. But you distinguished yourself in other ways, as you have over the past few months.”

Sally wanted to look over at Xan and ask what had happened to the pictures she’d taken. She had tested the camera in Tokyo with another roll of film before she went after Kano. But there would be time later to ask her teacher. For now she kept her attention on the man sitting behind the desk, the man-she suddenly realized-who controlled her fate.

Hong glanced idly at the cabinet next to the desk before continuing.

“You have defended the society’s honor bravely,” he said. “So I wanted to show you something.” Hong reached under his collar and pulled a gold chain from around his neck, on the end of which dangled a black key. Leaning over to the cabinet, he inserted the key and turned it two revolutions to the right before twisting it again to the left.

“This cabinet is really a safe, bolted to the floor,” said Hong, turning the key one more time. “This key allows me to turn a combination lock. If the wrong combination is dialed more than once, it automatically triggers an alarm.” Hong used his free hand to gesture toward the ceiling. “The alarm sounds in my personal quarters, and poison darts shoot from holes in the wooden beams overhead.” He paused as a loud click sounded somewhere inside the cabinet. “A single dart would kill a man instantly.”

“How many are there?” asked Sally.

“Two hundred.” Hong looked up at her, amusement in his eyes. “There is a cloud of death, ten feet in diameter, hovering directly over this desk. A comforting thought for someone in my position.”

Sally watched as Hong lifted the top of the cabinet toward her and Xan-the back obviously hinged-and reached inside with both hands. The object Hong placed upon the desk met Sally’s gaze with a dozen eyes of its own.

It was a three-legged bronze urn standing almost a foot high with a hinged lid and two ornately carved handles. But what commanded Sally’s attention were the eyes, deep-set and fierce, intricately carved into the faces of dragons adorning every square inch of bronze. The three legs of the urn emerged from dragons’ mouths, the legs themselves smaller dragons twisting their way toward the clawed feet of a larger dragon visible from above. The lid was a swirling cloud of dragons, some holding glowing suns in their talons, others swallowing their own tails. Everywhere Sally looked, another dragon looked back at her.

“You know something of our history,” said Hong, smiling across the desk, his own eyes betraying his excitement. “Surely you have studied the origins of the Triads in your classes.”

Sally nodded. “The five ancestors,” she replied by rote.

Hong nodded. “Exactly. It was the sixteenth century, although some say it was the fifteenth. The throne of China had been stolen by a Manchu warlord. He neglected the people and the land. He had forfeited the mandate of heaven.”

Sally remained silent. She knew the story but suspected it might have a new ending.

“But he was still the emperor,” continued Hong. “So one day, when a rebellion occurred, the emperor turned to the monks at the Shao Lin monastery, who were trained in the martial arts. The monks agreed to help the emperor if he would help the people of China. The emperor agreed, promising the monks of Shao Lin he would return to the path of righteousness.”

Hong set his hands on either side of the urn as he continued.

“One hundred monks defeated ten times their number in battle, defeating the rebellion and returning the emperor to power. Then the monks returned to their monastery, reminding the emperor before they left of the promise he had made. But the emperor did not keep his word. Instead, he declared the monks a threat to the kingdom because of their superior military skills. He ordered that their monastery be destroyed. So while the monks slept, agents of the emperor sealed the entrance and burned the monastery to the ground.”

Hong moved his hands to the front of the urn and slid his fingers under the edge of the lid. “Only five monks managed to escape. They were the original five ancestors, vowing to avenge their brethren and fight the corruption of government for generations to come.”

Sally shifted in her seat but said nothing. She had no illusions about the business of the Triads and doubted Hong did, either. Yet all their ritual and history characterized the members as rebels, not thieves. Men are always brave in the stories they tell each other.

“But the five ancestors did not escape so easily,” said Hong, his eyes fixed on the urn. “The emperor sent soldiers to capture or kill the monks. The soldiers chased them to the ocean, where the monks found themselves surrounded, outnumbered, and with no means of escape.”

Hong looked over the urn at Sally, his eyes bright.

“All was lost,” he said, pausing dramatically, “until a three-legged incense burner appeared on the beach before the five monks. Within the incense burner, the monks found something that gave them strength beyond their numbers. Something that made them invincible in any contest.” As Sally and Xan looked on, Hong slowly lifted the lid.

“That something,” said Hong, “was this.” As his hands cleared the lid, Sally gasped.

At first she thought it was a human heart, with the same asymmetrical curves and roughly the same size, mottled green and blood red in patches. But in the next instant she saw it as a dragon, the scales so precisely carved and the eyes so clear she could have sworn it just emerged from an egg. As Hong moved it between his hands, the dragon seemed to glow faintly, as if it were breathing.

“This is the heart of the dragon,” said Hong proudly. “Passed on from the original five ancestors. It has kept our house strong for generations. It is, quite simply, our most valuable possession.”

Sally stared at the object for several seconds before speaking.

“What is it made of?”

Hong smiled. “Everyone asks that,” he said. “Bloodstone and jade, with some other elements mixed in-the blood of our ancestors, to be sure. Do you want to hold it?”

Sally hesitated for a moment before reaching across the desk, then stood as she took the object in both hands. It was heavier than she expected but even more compact, no bigger than her own fist. The dragon stared back at her with blazing red eyes, the trick of light making the stone seem to glow from within. And it was warm-there was no denying it-but whether from Hong’s touch or the rock itself, she couldn’t say.

Xan cleared his throat behind her, and Sally realized she’d been holding the object for a while. Tearing her eyes away from it, she carefully handed it back to Hong.

“It’s lovely,” she said respectfully. “But why show it to me?”

Hong nodded as he set the heart back inside the incense burner, closing the lid with both hands. “Why indeed?” he asked. “Because you are one of us, a direct descendant of our five ancestors, the monks of Shao Lin. You are stronger, smarter, and more formidable than our opponents. And you, too, have the heart of a dragon.”

Sally bowed her head respectfully but said nothing.

“And one day,” continued Hong, “someone else will be sitting in this chair. So I wanted you to understand your connection to the clan. To the Triads. To your own place in history, and the history we will make together.”

Sally nodded again, forcing a smile. She was moved and intrigued by Hong’s words but also trained to mistrust flattery in all forms. She heard a slight scraping on the rice paper and sensed Xan shifting his weight. Xan didn’t like where this was going.

“I am an old man,” said Hong, lifting the incense burner and returning it to the cabinet. “And one day will leave this middle kingdom for the next journey. But they say a man lives on through his sons, and I have two.”

Xan’s feet shifted again on the rice paper. This time Sally heard a slight tear.

“I want you to meet them,” said Hong. “So that you will recognize them, when they call upon you as I have.”

Hong moved his right hand under the desk as if pushing a button, and Sally heard movement at the far corner of the room. From behind the wooden screen two men approached, both in their thirties, the paper under their feet tearing with every step.

The man in front had the blackest eyes Sally had ever seen, pools of ink that seemed to draw light from the air around him and cast the rest of his face in shadow. He was clean-shaven, his hair slicked back from his forehead, his body trim in an expensive suit. He walked directly up to the desk, obscuring Sally’s view of his brother. His cold gaze moved past Sally and landed on Xan, where it held for a long minute before turning back toward his father.

“This is Hui, my eldest,” said Hong proudly. “He is our White Paper Fan.”

Sally nodded in greeting, thinking Hui didn’t look much like an accountant.

“And this,” said Hong, gesturing behind Hui, “is Wen. He is the Grass Sandal.”

Public relations, thought Sally. Bribing reporters, threatening editors, then smiling for the cameras. A man with two faces-I wonder what he looks like?

As Hong finished his introduction, the younger brother stepped to the side, moving past Hui into Sally’s line of sight. She breathed in sharply as he looked back at her, his expression one of polite disinterest. He had longish hair and slightly hunched shoulders, and Sally had seen him before.

In Tokyo, standing on a bridge, talking fast and moving his hands as he berated the man next to him, a yakuza. She was sent to Tokyo to find a traitor, and she had found him. And now he stood before her, untouched. Sally realized that the film she took in Tokyo hadn’t been ruined, after all.

It had been buried, along with the truth.