Thai Horse

She stepped back and ushered him into the main room of the house, a room decorated with plush Western furniture, Oriental antiques and Turkish carpets, its French doors opening onto a sprawling balcony. Beyond it and far below was the bay, and across it, Kowloon. The room smelled of fresh flowers. Nothing about it seemed to have changed since he had last been in the house.

A moment later Tiana entered the room, dressed in floor-length silk, her hair decorated with orchids. She didn’t look a day older than the last time Hatcher saw her.

‘Hello, Christian,’ she said in her bell-like voice.

‘Look at you,’ Hatcher said. ‘You still look sixteen years old. Don’t you believe in time?’

‘I will soon be three and oh,’ she said.

‘Don’t tell anybody, they’ll never guess,’ he said and handed her the bottle of wine. ‘Save this for you and Cohen.’

‘Mm goi,’ she said, holding the bottle close to her breast. ‘We will think of you when we drin1 it.’

‘And I will sense the moment,’ he answered.

She stood quietly appraising him and finally nodded. ‘It is a good day for us, Christian,’ she said somewhat plaintively. ‘Robert used to talk about you all the time. Then we heard you were dead, and after that he never mentioned your name again. Then today! Such excitement. All those years his heart hurt because he thought you were gone. I am glad you are back, for him and for me.’

‘And for me,’ he said.

‘You have not changed much, she said. ‘Still very dashing. I am sorry about. . . this.’ She gently touched his wounded neck with her fingertips.

‘Hell, it just makes me sound dangerous,’ he whispered with a laugh.

‘You are dangerous,’ Tiana said quite seriously, staring straight into his eyes. Then she smiled again. ‘Welcome back.’ She took his face between delicate hands and kissed him ever so lightly on the lips.

‘That’ll bring you luck for the next twenty years,’ a voice said behind him, and he turned to see China Cohen standing in the doorway.

Time had put gray in his hair and beard, added some wrinkles to his face, softened the hard lines around his eyes, but otherwise there was little change. He was wearing his customary cheongsam, brocaded with gemstones, and a Thai amulet around his neck. He hurried across the room and wrapped his arms around the taller man.

‘Damn, what a gift,’ China said softly. ‘I should’ve known the shmuck isn’t born could take you down.’

‘Close,’ Hatcher whispered.

His two friends stood close by, looking him over, nodding approval, although their eyes kept straying to the mark on his neck. Hatcher touched it self-consciously and shrugged. ‘An accident,’ he said, reaching out and taking the brass amulet in his palm.

‘Lovely,’ he said. ‘Thai, isn’t it?’

Cohen nodded. ‘It’s the amulet of the ten deities, supposed to protect your front and back,’ China said and then chuckled. ‘One of my men took it off a dead Thai swagman. Sure didn’t work for him.’

‘You’re going to run out of wind long before you run out of luck,’ Hatcher said.

‘I have things to do,’ Tiana said and kissed Hatcher on the cheek. ‘Cohen keeps me very busy minding the servants.’ She giggled and faded quietly from the room.

‘I hate to think what it cost you t bribe Fat Lady Lau for her,’ Hatcher said.

‘Not a thing. She was a gift to a very good customer,’ Cohen said, grabbing Hatcher by the shoulder. ‘C’mon.’ He led Hatcher to the guest room, which was adjacent to the main room of the house. Hatcher had spent many nights in this room, a sprawling square decorated in yellow and black with a floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the harbor below. The headboard of the bed and the furniture we1e starkly simple and painted black lacquer. The sheets were yellow satin. On either side of the bed were hundred gallon saltwater tanks, alive with multicolored tropical fish, while behind the bed the entire wall was covered with a Japanese silk-screen painting of a delicate tree with fernlike leaves and tiny red blossoms. The wall facing it was mirrored. Artifacts and statues were scattered here and there.

On one of the nightstands was a two-foot-tall ivory horse, its nostrils flared, its eyes subtly hooded, standing majestically on its back legs as though leaping to heaven. A strand of black pearls was draped casually over the back of the horse.

The bathroom, which was visible through an open door to the right, was black marble with a Jacuzzi bathtub big enough to accommodate a small army, and there were fresh flowers everywhere.

‘How long you staying?’

‘1 leave Saturday,’ Hatcher said.

Cohen appeared concerned, but said nothing and simply nodded. ‘C’mon,’ he said, ‘we’ll go outside and relax’

They went out on the balcony, sat in wicker chairs and put their feet up on the railing and leaned back, basking in the sun.

‘Just like the old days,’ Hatcher said.

‘Better,’ Cohen said. ‘We’re old enough to enjoy it now.

Sung Lo, his servant and bodyguard, appeared and mixed drinks from a bar in the corner. The balcony jutted out into space on long stilts; thirty feet below it, the sharply slanted mountain was covered with ferns and bamboo grass. A large banyan tree hid the house below from their view. It was deathly quiet except for the tinkling wind chimes.

‘I got one surprise for you,’ Cohen said. ‘Tiana and I are married.’

Hatcher was delighted. ‘That’s great news!’ he said enthusiastically.

‘Smartest move I ever made,’ said Cohen. ‘How about you? Ever find anybody that could take Daphne’s place?’

The name momentarily triggered Hatcher’s ch’uang tzu-chi, a brief flash of the elegant, uniquely beautiful Daphne Chien, who wore men’s Suits, owned a company that manufactured jeans, and was the daughter of a Malaysian beauty and a half-French, half-Chinese banker, a volatile combination.

‘Hell, I try not to think about her,’ Hatcher said, a white lie, for he was not ready to deal with that subject for the moment. Instead they talked about Los Boxes and past times, and they talked about the old Tsu Fi.

‘He died three years ago,’ Cohen said. ‘His ticker finally gave out. It was a helluva thing, Christian. He called me to the hospital, told me I put spice in his last few years. Only time I ever saw the old boy with tears in his eyes.’

‘How about that half-mill he owed you for the Rhodes trick?’ Hatcher asked with a smile.

‘That was the best part of it, Christian, the old boy was a class act to the end. There was this beat-up old strongbox in the corner of the office, didn’t even look like an antique. When I went to the hospital the night before he passed on, he gave me the keys to his office and then he gave me the key to that chest, said it was full of personal things, and when he died I could go through it and throw away what I didn’t want. So I did. Lo and behold, there was half a million dollars in gold coins in it’ — he held up a finger — ‘and a piece of silicon the size of your fingernail.’

‘Silicon?’

‘A computer chip. So I took it to a friend and mounted it on a computer board, and when I activated the program, it was like a diary. Phone numbers, names, background on most of the rich taipans on the island and a lot of Orientals

— all the secrets of Tsu Fi were there. Christian, next to that little piece of sand the half a million looked like a bucket of sand. I didn’t think the old Tsu Fi recognized the existence of computers.’

‘Which reminds me, how’re things upriver?’ Hatcher asked.

‘Changed,’ Cohen said. ‘I don’t go upriver anymore.’

‘Oh? Why?’

‘Most of the old gang is gone.’

‘Hiekaya?’

‘Dead. And Ty San. Joe Cockroach. Jimmy Chow. All of them

‘What happened?’

‘They started scrambling. killing each other off., The only one who got out whole was Sam-Sam. Now he’s got this gunslinger working for him, an Iranian name of Batal. I hear he was with the SAVAK before the Shah split. A real mean one, Batal. There’s another killer up there who ran out of Haiti with Baby Doc Used to be with the Tontons. Calls himself Billy Death_’

‘What the hell are Iranians aid Tontons doing up there?’ Hatcher asked.

‘Dollars, I guess. They’re Sam-Sam’s newest guns,’ said China. ‘Sam-Sam lives mostly off tribute, knocks off the Chinese coming down from Shanghai or from out in the provinces, steals their goods, cuts their feet and hangs them off the mast as a warning to others.’

‘Were you worried maybe they’d dust you?’ Hatcher whispered.

‘Not really. They need me,’ said Cohen. ‘I still finance a lot of the action up there. Besides, I have a lot of friends, loyal friends. This isn’t Chicago, the triads tend to get along with each other — even the Chiu Chaos stay pretty much in their own backyard. One of the things I learned from the old Tsu Fi: Never eat the whole pie, always give a piece to the other guy.’ Cohen paused pensively for a moment, and added, ‘Now, you, on the other hand, you left footprints all over the place.

‘It was part of the job.’

‘Whatever it was, you made a lot of enemies, Christian. And I don’t flatter myself that this is a social visit, much as love you.’

It was not a criticism. Hatcher knew what Cohen meant. In the past there was always something one of them needed from the other.

Their conversation was cut short by the appearance of Sing, Cohen’s enormous Chinese bodyguard, who suddenly appeared quietly in the living room behind them. He cleared his throat to summon Cohen. Cohen went in the other room, talked in low tones for a minute or two, and came back. Sung Lo remained in the room. Cohen’s mood seemed darker.

‘A problem?’ Hatcher asked.

‘I’m not sure,’ Cohen said seriously. ‘Are you in trouble, Christian?’

‘Why?’

‘Just curious.’

‘I may need a favor,’ Hatcher said finally.

‘Must be something going on for you to come back to Hong Kong,’ Cohen said. ‘You know Tollie Fong is the new san wong of the White Palms?’

Hatcher nodded.

‘They all think you’re dead. The minute Fong knows you’re here, he’ll try to kill you. If he misses, Joe Lung’ll have the whole damn White Palm Triad on your ass. They’ll follow you to the North Pole if they have to. We’re talking about family honor, blood oaths, saving face, the whole ticket. It would be better if you were left dead.’

‘I know the score.’

‘Well, you act like you forgot,’ Cohen said. ‘This is their turf, Christian. As long as you’re in this house, you’re safe, but I wouldn’t give a Confederate dollar for your chances out in the colony. I love you pal, and I hate to see you leave, but you can’t stay in Hong Kong. Somebody’s already got a tail on you, old pal.

‘Yeah. I think it’s the Hong Kong police. A sergeant named Varney with the Triad Squad paid me a visit this morning. He claims my name popped up in their computer when I went through customs.’

‘You don’t believe him?’

‘I believe the computer part of it, that could happen. But this Varney seems a little too interested in me. They followed me from the hotel.’

‘Humph,’ Cohen said pensively. ‘This Varney just showed up at your room?’

‘Yes.’

‘I don’t trust anybody, particularly where you’re concerned,’ said Cohen. ‘I’d forget whatever brought you here. Go home, Hatch.’

‘I can’t do that.’

‘Why? What’s so special about this trick?’

Hatcher told Cohen the whole Murph Cody story, ending with the death of Windy Porter and the disappearance of Wol Pot.

‘Right now, I don’t have a lead except this ghost camp in Laos. If it existed, somebody upriver knows about it. Maybe I can get a name, some lead before I go to Bangkok.’

‘Bangkok! Shit, it’s worse in Bangkok,’ China said, his voice going up an octave. ‘Fong spends half his time wasting dissidents up in the Golden Triangle and the other half getting laid at the Royal Orchid Hotel. Why don’t you just go over to Macao and hatch an egg in his front yard.’

‘There’s five million people in Bangkok. I can keep away from Fong and his bunch.’

‘Hell, a damn cop already knows you’re here. You think you can just slip in and out of Bangkok without stirring up something? And you have no other leads?’

‘A picture of Cody and his hoochgirl. Does the phrase “Thai Horse” mean anything to you?’

Cohen looked at him and smiled for the first time since Sing discovered the house was being watched.

‘Thai Horse? Why?’

‘It popped up somewhere.’

‘Come here,’ Cohen said, leading Hatcher back into the bedroom. He pointed to the ivory statue of the horse by the bed.

‘That is a Thai Horse,’ he said.

‘The statue?’ Hatcher said with surprise.

‘That’s right. It’s a real treasure. Authentic Thai Horse, about third century B.C. Been kicking around for a long time.’

‘What is a Thai Horse?’ Hatcher asked. My God, could the reference to the Thai Horse at the Wall have meant a statue, a simple gift? he wondered.

‘The mythical ghost horse,’ Cohen said. ‘Supposedly stolen from the King of Siam, According to legend, it carried Thai heroes to heaven after the great wars. Legend has it that a Chinese brigand stole the horse and brought it here to the first emperor of China in exchange for a pardon. They renamed it the Celestial Horse, the Tian Ma. It was the Tian Ma that delivered the first seven emperors of China to the mountaintops around the colony when they died, then the gods turned them into dragons. When the rule of the Han Dynasty ended, the horse disappeared and was never seen again’

Hatcher whispered, ‘Where’d you get it?’

‘From an artifacts museum in Peking,’ he said with a wink. ‘Don’t ask me how much I paid to get this little darling lifted.’

Hatcher stroked the smooth sides 0± the handsome ivory horse. Could there be any significance to the reference other than as a statue? he wondered. Finally he said, ‘Well, that doesn’t add anything to what I know, which is damn little.’

‘Have you got anything else on the fire?’ Cohen asked.

‘I’ve got a man doing some checking for me in Washington,’ Hatcher said. He looked at his watch. ‘I can call him now. If he comes up with anything, I’m going to play out the hand.’

‘Or—’

‘I’ll trash the job and go home.’

‘Then I hope the son of a bitch doesn’t even turn up your name,’ Cohen said. ‘I’d sure as hell rather have you gone than dead.’

FLITCRAFT

Sergeant Flitcraft was waiting in the reception room of computer operations in the Pentagon when Sergeant Betz arrived at work. Betz was a tall, paunchy man in his late forties, a short-sticker with a cushy job and less than two years to go before retirement, The broken blood vessels in his nose attested to his penchant for scotch, particularly Dewar’s. He and Flitcraft went back a long way. Bragg. Korea. Nam. Betz scowled at Flitcraft, the smiling, tough black sergeant, who had somehow managed to stay in the service although he walked with a limp, supported by a cane. Flitcraft, too, was close to retirement. Betz knew Flitcraft wasn’t there on a social visit.

‘Got some confidential entries for you this morning, Sergeant,’ Flitcraft said, standing as Betz entered.

‘Yeah, right,’ Betz said. ‘C’mn down.’ He turned to the receptionist. ‘Give Sergeant Flitcraft a class-three permit,’ he said.

She reached in a drawer and pulled out a blue name tag, filed its number on a registry and handed it to Flitcraft. She knew him and assumed he was there to give Betz classified information for the general computer. The blue pass permitted him to go only as far as the general offices, a bank of small windowless boxes, through a door to the left of reception. The door to the right opened into the general computer system and was guarded by a marine.

Flitcraft followed Betz into his office, a small cheerless cubicle with just enough space for a desk, a file cabinet, a computer terminal and one other chair.

‘You got some entries for me there, Sergeant?’ Betz asked, easing open a desk drawer.

He knew Flitcraft, knew he worked for a special unit known only as Shadow Section, and that he was trustworthy. Since Flitcraft did not have a C-1 classification, he did not have access to secret computer files. Flitcraft took a quart of Dewar’s White Label from his briefcase and slipped it in the drawer, which Betz eased shut with his knee. Because the office was under constant surveillance by a roving video camera, they played this game of charades.

‘We’ve got some low-grade classified reports here for general entry,’ said Flitcraft, sliding a sheaf of immaterial reports across the desk to Betz. Betz looked at them, casually lifted the cover sheet and read on a slip of paper on page two: ‘Classified POW files.’ Betz looked at Flitcraft as if to say, ‘Who cares?’

Flitcraft raised his eyebrows and shrugged as if to answer, ‘Who knows? You know how the brass are.’ Silent looks exchanged between noncoms ‘who had been in the system a long time and knew that a lot of information was classified simply to prevent the news media from gaining access to it through the Freedom of Information Act.

Betz slid open the tray on his desk and checked a list of code names and numbers. He wrote several down on a slip of paper and attached the slip to the top of the file. He set it aside in plain view of Flitcraft ‘while he filled out a receipt, which he signed.

Flitcraft memorized the list immediately:

52-767-52116

Sidewinder

9696

Cherry

Monte

Cristo

Zenda

Betz handed the phony receipt to Flitcraft, who put it in his briefcase.

‘See ya,’ Flitcraft said. They shook hands and he left the office.

So far, so good. Flitcraft went straight to the men’s rest room on the same floor, entered a stall, and wrote the list down before he forgot it. Then he left the Pentagon and hailed a cab.

The office of Shadow Section was in a private office building near the White House. To the casual observer, it was a small personal communications company in the private sector. Very few people knew that it was a branch of military intelligence.

Inside the office, which was identified only by the name Interplex on the door, was a bank of computers and interconnected communication systems that gave the three men, who dressed in civilian clothes, access to satellite and computer information all over the ‘world.

Flitcraft ran the operation with the help of two other noncoms. All three had served Sloan in the past, and all three had suffered wounds that should have resulted in medical discharges from the service. But Colonel Harry Sloan protected his men, and they, in turn, were thoroughly devoted to him. They would have given up their tongues rather than discuss the work they did.

Flitcraft got a cup of coffee and sat down in front of one of the computers.

Flitcraft was accustomed to the complex entry and silent codes needed to gain access to the government’s general computer and then into specific classified files. These were a series of numbers and names that had to be entered upon prompting from the terminal. The system also had a double-entry silent code series that had to be entered without prompting. If these were not entered, the main computer immediately triggered a hack tracer. Within seconds the base computer registered the phone number and identity of the interrogating computer and then denied further access to the system -

It was a clever double-entry system designed to prevent hacking into these confidential files. In addition, each specific file category had its own set of bypass codes that were changed weekly, adding still another deterrent to hacking.

Flitcraft entered the modem program, permitting him access to other computers over regular phone lines. He typed in the general number for computer records and then a prompt requested his access number. He checked the list Betz had given him. Tue access number was 52-767-52116. A second prompt appeared immediately, requesting the code name for general files. Flitcraft entered ‘Sidewinder,’ the code name for entry into all classified files.

Now came the touchy part, for the computer did not ask for the ID number of the bypass code; it simply prompted a response to the question ‘Specific File Number.’ Without knowledge of the anti-hacking system, a hacker would have entered the code name requested and immediately sent an alarm to the tracer.

Flitcraft entered the ID number Betz had provided, 9696, followed by the code word ‘Cherry’ and bypassed the hack tracer. The computer repeated the question ‘Specific File Code,’ to which he entered ‘Monte,’ which was followed by a second prompt. He entered ‘Cristo.’

Bang, he was in the general POW file. On the next prompt he typed in ‘Zenda,’ and the menu of all subdirectories appeared, followed by two questions: ‘Subdirect or subject,’ permitting him either to enter directly into a specific file or to search for one under general subject matter.

The sergeant smiled. Now the detective work began.

For the next three hours, Flitcraft typed in questions, seeking the answers Sloan had requested at 3 A.M. that morning. He checked under North Vietnam, POW camps, temporary camps, unverifie1 reports, individual air sightings, reports from POW debriefings. Flitcraft was an expert at digging out obscure information.

When he was finished, Flitcraft had a list of temporary holding camps, none of which seemed to fit the description Sloan had provided, and several cross-referenced POWs. He had narrowed the list several times through cross- referencing.

But four returning prisoners had reported they had been held in what appeared to be the same temporary camp at different times between 1969 and 1972. The camp’s commandant was identified as ‘Thysung,’ ‘Taisung’ and ‘T’sung,’ all close enough to be the same man.

The locations, which Flitcraft pinpointed on a map, were all close to the Laotian border and generally within fifty miles of one another, although the exact location was hardly accurate. None of the four POWs had stayed in the camp for more than a few weeks. There was also a report from a B-52 crew that had sighted what it believed to be a POW camp in the same area. And another report of a recon flight over the location two weeks later that reported the camp no longer existed.

Significantly, however, all four of the POWs had reported that there were half a dozen men who were prisoners in the camp when they arrived, and were still there when they left. One stated he ‘had heard there was a VIP being held in the camp,’ and another had reported a rumor that at least one of the permanent prisoners was ‘collaborating with Charlie.’

Flitcraft ran a check on the four POWs. One was deceased, one was in a mental institution, the other two had been discharged. He traced them down and got current addresses and phone numbers.

For various reasons, none of the information was considered credible or significant by the Army. That was understandable, since the reports were isolated and not verifiable, and since the locations seemed to be those of temporary holding camps. But the four locations and the B-52 sighting were all on the Laotian side of the mountain range called the Chaine Annimitique, and all mentioned the village of Muang, which was six hundred miles north of Saigon.

Flitcraft also checked out Murphy Cody. As far as the computer was concerned, Cody was dead.

Flitcraft answered on the first ring.

‘This is Hatcher, N3146021,’ he said. ‘Do you need a voice print?’

‘You’re clear, sir,’ Flitcraft answered.

‘Did you turn up anything?’

Flitcraft rather proudly told Hatcher that his information indicated that the ghost camp did exist on the Laotian side of the Chaine Annimitique near the village of Muang. Four debriefed prisoners had stayed in it for various periods between 1971 and 1973, the longest for five weeks. And the four had reported the name of the commandant or warden, variously, as ‘Thysung,’ ‘Taisung’ and ‘T’sung,’ all close enough to imply that it was the same man. The locations, too, indicated it was the moving camp Schwartz had called Huie-kui.

Flitcraft had also phoned an ex-Hanoi POW who had known a man who was in the camp at one time. ‘He had the impression there were several prisoners being held there on some kind of permanent basis,’ Flitcraft said.

‘Any mention of Murphy Cody?’ asked Hatcher. ‘No, sir,’ said Flitcraft. ‘The name never came up.’ ‘Did any of the reports mention that a VIP was being held in the camp?’

‘Yes, sir. But the closest to anything specific was that there were several prisoners who were segregated from the rest of the group. Like maybe they were permanent party, something like that.’

‘Any reason why?’

‘I could only reach this one subject,’ said Flitcraft. ‘He said they might have been collaborators, but he was guessing. Besides, what would the percentage in that be? One prison camp is as bad as the next.’

Flitcraft had a point, although the possibility of collaboration certainly was not out of the question.

‘I wonder why the MIA commission never followed through on these reports?’ Hatcher wondered out loud.

‘I pieced this together from a bunch of scattered reports,’ said Flitcraft. ‘There were a lot of these transient camps, and nothing to pin them down. After the war, they just vanished.’

Maybe not, thought Hatcher.

‘Thanks,’ he told Flitcraft. ‘You tumble on anything else, feed it to the colonel in Bangkok. I may be hard to reach for a couple of days.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Nice job, Sergeant.’

‘Thank you, sir. Good luck.’

Hatcher cradled the phone. It wasn’t much, he thought. But it was enough to make the upriver trip a necessity.

Someone up there would have dealt with the Huie-kui or at least have heard about it. And now he had a name — or three names.

He told Cohen the news.

‘Someone upriver had dealings with this camp,’ said Hatcher, ‘and I’m going to find them.’

‘Well, I never heard of it,’ Cohen said.

‘Hell, China, the Ts’e K’am Men Ti knew your sympathies were with America. They did business with the Chinese, the Vietcong, the GIs in Saigon, the Khmer Rouge, but they wouldn’t talk about it with a mei gwok yahn.’

‘You’re also on Sam-Sam’s list, too. Something about a gun deal that went sour.’

Hatcher took a sip of his drink and didn’t answer.

‘Well, you just answered that question,’ said Cohen.

‘He was dealing with the Khmer Rouge. The whole mission was to bust up that little party..’

‘He’s sworn to cutout your tongue and have it for lunch.’

‘The old Hatcher gwai will pull me through.’

‘Sure,’ said China, ‘I’ll tell you something — when the old Hatcher luck runs out, they’ll feel the earthquake in New York City.’

‘It’ll work,’ Hatcher said, ‘Trust me.’

‘Humph,’ Cohen mumbled again. Hatcher was heading for deep trouble and he was going it alone, stubborn as usual. He hadn’t changed a bit. Sing ended his consternation by appearing suddenly at the doorway.

‘The car belongs to the Island Catering Service,’ Sing said.

Cohen turned to Hatcher. ‘That company belongs to the White Palms. There it is. Fong’s bunch is on to you.’

‘Then I better get out of here,’ Hatcher said.

‘Like hell,’ said Cohen. ‘You’re safe here. Fong wouldn’t dare attack my home.’

And then after a moment’s thought, he added, ‘We’ll beef up security and everything’ll be fine. Don’t worry about it. Excuse me a minute.’

Hatcher got up and looked over the side of the balcony. It was thirty feet to the ground, which sloped sharply downward and was covered with vines and ferns. The top of the banyan tree, which was thirty or forty yards from the foot of the balcony, was ten feet below the balcony level. There were four heavy posts supporting the balcony Heavy spotlights were mounted on the corners of the balcony. The high wall continued down both sides of Cohen’s property until foliage blocked his view.

‘The back looks fairly secure,’ Hatcher whispered. The phone interrupted any further discussion of security.

Sing answered the call and looked up with surprise. He held his hand over the mouthpiece. ‘It is for the Occhi di Sassi,’ he said. ‘A Sergeant Varney.’

Cohen’s face clouded up. ‘Son of a bitch, what now?’ He looked at Hatcher, ‘You want to take it?’ he asked.

‘Let’s find out what he’s up to,’ whispered Hatcher.

Sing handed him the phone.

‘Hatcher,’ he whispered.

‘Sergeant Varney from the Hong Kong police,’ he heard the clipped tones reply. ‘You remember me, sir?’

‘Of course.’

‘You did a nice job slipping my men this morning,’ Varney said pleasantly. ‘But I think I should warn you. Joe Lung went to your hotel room. Now he’s on the island and has several men with him.’

‘How did you find me?’ Hatcher demanded.

‘Guessed, sir,’ answered Varney. ‘I decided to take a chance that you were visiting your friend the Tsu Fi. Point is, we have a safe house near the airport. We’d like to take you out of there.’

‘I’ll be fine,’ Hatcher answered.

‘We thought perhaps you would prefer to avoid a confrontation at your friend’s home. This man, Lung, is serious, Mr Hatcher.’

‘I’m sure he is,’ Hatcher replied. ‘What do you have in mind?’

‘We’ll slip in there in an hour and bring you out. I’ll have a backup unit with me. We have Lung under observation. I think everything will move smoothly.’

‘Call when you get to the gate,’ Hatcher said and hung up.

‘How about the man on the hill?’ Cohen asked Sing.

‘Still there.’

‘Does he suspect we’re on to him?’

‘I think not,’ said Sing.

‘How many men do you have?’ asked Hatcher.

‘Three in the front, one in the back, the three of us inside,’ Cohen answered.

‘If Varney’s in on it, they’ll set up the hit here, China. Lung and his men will probably come in behind Varney. They figure they’ll catch us by surprise.’

Hatcher had never seen Cohen this angry before. ‘They wouldn’t dare attack this house,’ Cohen said coldly, but his tone was less than convincing. Then he added, ‘If they do, there’s going to be hell to pay.’

WHITE PALMS

In a warehouse below the mountain, Joe Lung sat back from a window, watching the house on the peak through powerful infrared binoculars. It was getting dark, but he had a clear view of the balcony in. the back of Cohen’s home. Suddenly he saw Hatcher appear at the railing of the balcony for a moment, then disappear from view.

‘There he is,’ he hissed with a combination of satisfaction and hatred.

There were six other men in the room besides Lung, all dressed in black sateen pants and black shirts. All but one of them stood quietly against the wall of the small office with their hands folded in front of them. The one who stood aside, whose name was Wan I-low, had helped case the house, and was obviously uncomfortable. Lung looked across the room at him.

‘You have a problem with this, Wan?’ Lung asked.

‘It is a fortress,’ Wan answered. It is thirty feet from the ground to the balcony in the back—’

‘I can see that,’ Lung snapped impatiently.

‘The front wall is eight feet high with electricity across the top. There are scanners in many places in the gardens. And the steel gates are—’

‘I will worry about getting us inside,’ Lung said, ‘You have anything else to cry about?’

Stung by the insult, Wan hesitated a moment. He was a tall man in his early twenties, with long, slender fingers and light skin, an athlete in excellent condition, and he was far from being a coward. ‘He is Tollie Fong’s mark,’ he said softly, staring at Lung.

Lung’s lips curled back in anger. ‘Hatcher is my mark. I have been waiting eight years for today. He killed four of our brothers in the triad, my brothers. He stole our merchandise. Do not tell me Hatcher is only the san wong’s mark.’

‘He killed Tollie Fong’s father,’ Wan replied. ‘I think we should wait for him to return before —‘

‘You do not have the insides for this, is that it?’ Lung said viciously. ‘You see this?’ He jerked up his black shirt. A long jagged scar stitched across his belly from side to side. ‘The bastard gwai-lo spilled my guts, but I have enough left to take him. I have a right to this kill, Wan. I am the san wong’s Number One here. When Tollie is gone, I say what we will do and what we will not do. You understand that?’

Wan did not reply. Embarrassed, he looked at the floor.

‘I tell you we are going to hit the house and kill them

Wan looked up, startled. ‘You mean to kill the Tsu Fi.’

‘Fuck the Tsu Fi!’ Lung said, his voice rising. ‘He is mei gwok, a gwai-lo just like Hatcher, He protects our blood enemy. I say get rid of this American Jew.’

The other men showed no emotion at all. They stood silently, inscrutably, while Lung and Wan How argued the wisdom of attacking Cohen’s home.

‘I disagree,’ said Wan. ‘We have no fight with the Tsu Fi. If we kill him, we will make many enemies.’

‘Enemies make us stronger,’ said Lung. ‘You are getting weak, man. Too much easy life. The hydrofoil back to Macao leaves every thirty minutes.’ He waved him away.

‘I have taken the oath,’ said Wan How. ‘If it is your decision to do this, I will do my part.’

Lung glared at him for several seconds, then nodded slowly. ‘Good,’ he said.

Lung turned back to the window and stared back up at the house. ‘Khan has been watching the house all day. The women are gone. There are five men besides Cohen and Hatcher. Three on the grounds in front, the gwai-lo and Sing inside. One man patrolling the back.’

There was a knock on the door.

‘Keye?’ he said to one of the other men.

‘Hai,’ the man answered and opened the door. Sergeant Varney entered the small office. Lung turned to him with a smile that was almost a sneer.

‘Well?’ he asked the British cop.

‘I made the call.’

‘And?’

‘I’m not sure Hatcher will come out with me,’ Varney said. ‘He is a very cautious man.’

‘Then we cannot take the risk. We will follow you inside the gates. It is the only way through the front. Four men in the front — I will take Keye and three others and go up the balcony at the rear.’

‘I can’t be in on the killing,’ Varney said hurriedly.

‘Of course not,’ Lung said with a shrug, still smiling.

‘And I’m going to have to put on a bit of a show. The man with me isn’t part of this. I have to make it look good,’ Varney went on.

‘I hope you do not shoot too well,’ Lung said slowly, his eyes mere slits.

‘I don’t want my man hurt.’

‘Then keep him out of our way,’ Lung said sharply, his voice hissing like a snake’s, his eyes glittering. ‘If he gets out of control, he is a dead man, you understand that, English?’

‘Look, I’ll be useless to you in the future if you force me to tip my hand,’ Varney pleaded.

‘Just stay clear when it starts!’ Lung repeated sharply, and Varney knew the discussion was Dyer.

He cleared his voice and said, ‘Right.’

‘We will be ready when you get there. Just do exactly as we discussed.’

Varney nodded, and after hesitating a moment, he left.

‘You trust the Englishman?’ Wan asked.

‘He has been on our payroll for more than a year. He cannot afford to refuse us about this. Besides, he is the one who spotted Hatcher in the beginning.’ He turned back to his binoculars and, without looking t his soldiers, added, ‘He will be a big risk after this. He has outlived his usefulness to us anyway.’

He turned back to the tall Chinese. ‘The Englishman is yours, Wan.’ He pointed to two of the henchmen who stood silently against the wall. ‘You will take these two and pick up Khan at the Gardens, follow the Englishman through the gates and hit the front of the house. Kill Varney and his partner and everyone on the grounds. My team will take out everyone inside the house. Just remember, Hatcher is a dangerous man — but he is mine. If you must take him on, wound him only, so I may finish the job.’

ASSAULT

Cohen had sent Tiana to Fat Lady’s for the night. He sat on the bed and watched Hatcher open the Halliburton case, snap open the video camera arid remove the plastic trigger housing. He unscrewed the le ns from the telephoto lens and took out the gun sight. He removed the short barrel from the other lens and the two magazines from the batteries.

‘That’s beautiful,’ Cohen said. ‘What is it?’ ‘Austrian Aug,’ said Hatcher as he assembled the weapon. ‘I need some ammo.’

‘No problem,’ Cohen said. He gave the order to Sing, and the big Chinese slipped out of the room and returned a minute or two later with four boxes. ‘Enough?’ Cohen asked,

Hatcher smiled, ‘Two hundred rounds oughta do it,’ he whispered.

Cohen gathered his small band in the living room, a sturdy enough-looking bunch dressed in black pants and turtlenecks and each wearing a black cotton mask so they would be well concealed in the dark. All were armed with Mac 10 submachine guns. He spoke to them in Chinese.

‘They will probably hit us front and back,’ he told them. ‘Hatcher, Sing and I will stay in the house. We’ll keep the lights out in the house. We’ll draw and make them come to us. Louie, you take the roof. George, Joey Chen and Lee — in the garden. Sammy, you’ll be on the ground in the back. Anything to add, Christian?’

Hatcher shook his head.

Hatcher had one final thought, but it was one he hesitated to discuss with these men. Joe Lung was the last of the five members of Dragon’s Breath, the men who had run dope for White Powder Mama from Thailand to Saigon, and there was a good chance he knew about the Huie-kui camp. He needed to keep Lung alive, at least long enough to try to question him. But that seemed too much to ask of Cohen’s small brigade, all of whom were putting their lives on the line for the Tsu Fi — and for him.

Finally he said, ‘If there’s a chance to keep Lung alive, I’d like to question him.’ Cohen locked at him with raised eyebrows. ‘But not at the risk of anyone’s life,’ Hatcher quickly added.

It had started to rain, a light drizzle with a portent of a heavier downpour to come. This was good news for Lung. It would cover sounds of the movement of the gangsters, all of whom wore black shirts and pants.

His driver parked the car on a curved street below Cohen’s house. Joe Lung and the other two assassins got out and moved quickly and silently up through the foliage to the foot of the wall that surrounded Cohen’s property. The ground here leveled off after sloping sharply away from the house for several hundred yards.

Lung guessed there would be at least one man on the ground at the rear of the house, possibly more, so he made his assault plan accordingly. He tossed a grappling hook up twice before it caught on the wall, then went up the line to the top of the wall and attached a twenty-foot-long insulated jumper to the electric wire on top of the fence, letting it dangle down. Lying flat on the wall, he slid one end of the jumper down the wire until it was taut. Then he crawled back. With the insulated Jumper firmly attached, he cut the electric wire. He punched the button on his flashlight twice, then dropped over to the inside of the fence, landing in a crouch in knee-deep vines and straw grass.

Above him, through the trees, he could see the spotlights on Cohen’s balcony several hundred yards away, throwing arcs of light on the foliage below. He stayed in the crouch, his ears alert for sounds in the darkness. The other two men dropped quietly beside him.

The drizzle turned into a steady rain.

They spread out quickly until the three mobsters formed a line from the east to the west wall of Cohen’s estate. They still had not spotted the guard on the back slope. They moved forward as silently as possible through the tangled vines and grass toward the house, keeping low, looking for a silhouette against the spotlights, each with an earphone in one ear attached to a battery-driven beeper.

It was Lung who spotted Cohen’s guard, Sammy, squatting in the cleared area at the foot of the balcony, his eyes searching the area beyond the arc of spotlights. Lung pressed his beeper button twice. The other two assassins heard the beeps and froze. It was up to Lung to take out the guard when their man signaled that the assault on the front of the house had begun. Lung was lying in the high grass perhaps thirty yards from the crouching Sammy) a black shadow with a mask over his face.

Lung raised his rifle, a Mannlicher loaded with a tranquilizing dart that would immediately knock the man unconscious. Better than a bullet, which might only wound the guard and give him a chance to sound an alarm.

He sighted in on Sammy through the infrared scope, then raised it up to the balcony. The lights in the house were out. He lowered the rifle back down, aiming at Sammy’s throat, and waited for the signal from the street.

On the roof of the house, Cohen’s man watched through binoculars as a car picked up the man near the Botanical Gardens. He whispered into his walkie-talkie, ‘They have picked up the man on the hill. There appear to be three others in the car.’

In the darkened house, Hatcher swore vehemently. ‘That’s it. That son of a bitch, Varney, turned me up to Joe Lung. He’s in on it.’

Varney and his assistant, a young Oriental corporal named Henry Dow, reached the top of the mountain. Corporal Dow knew few details about the job. They were taking a man into protective custody, that was all he needed to know. The beefy young corporal had been a cop for four years and never asked questions.

Varney approached the gates of Cohen’s estate slowly through the rain. He saw the triad mobster’s car turn in behind him, its lights out. The corporal, distracted by the rain, was peering intently through the windshield and did not notice the car. As they neared the gate Varney flicked his lights, then picked up the radio phone, got the police operator and asked for a patch through to Cohen’s phone number.

‘Their play will be to follow Varney’s car through the gates while they’re open,’ Hatcher whispered.

Cohen relayed the message to the other men. He had a Smith & Wesson .357 and an old Army Colt .45 stuck in a web belt he had strapped on for the occasion. Hatcher laughed at him. ‘China,’ he said, ‘you look ridiculous.’

Cohen smiled grimly. ‘Don’t underestimate me, Occhi di Sassi,’ he said. ‘I know how to handle these things.’

‘That’s a relief to know,’ growled Hatcher. He opened the glass door to the balcony. ‘I’ll check the back.’

He eased out the back door in a crouch and crept to the railing of the balcony. Rain was coming down steadily now and the visibility was poor. Below him, he saw the guard, Sammy, crouched near one of the support posts, his Mac 10 protected by a poncho. Hatcher went back inside to get out of the rain.

Down below, crouching in the wet grass, Lung checked his watch. Varney would be making his move anytime now. Once the action started in front of the house there would be enough distraction for his men to go up the support posts, over the balcony and hit the house from the rear.

‘Here they come,’ Cohen’s man on the roof said into his walkie-talkie.

In the car behind Varney, one of the assassins saw Varney’s lights flick. ‘Go!’ he said into his walkie-talkie.

Behind the house, Lung heard the order and squeezed off the tranquilizer, watching through the night scope as the dart smacked Sammy in the throat. He saw the Cohen guard fall back against the support post. His eyes rolled up and he dropped against the post in a sitting position. His shoulders drooped and his weapon fell to the ground.

Lung pressed the beeper twice, and the two mobsters in the rear charged rapidly through the grass and rain to the balcony support posts. Lung drew a stiletto from his sleeve, then, grabbing Sammy’s hair, pulled back his head and slit his throat.

‘This is Sergeant Varney,’ the British sergeant said into his phone when he heard Cohen answer his call. ‘Open the gates, will you?’ He slowed to a stop.

‘Here we go,’ said Cohen, pressing the gate switch.

As the two big iron grille gates swung slowly open, Varney slammed down the gas pedal. His car lurched forward and roared into Cohen’s driveway. His headlights caught one of Cohen’s men before the Cohen gunman leaped into the protection of the rose garden.

Behind him, the assassins’ car, its tires screaming, roared through the closing gates behind Varney. Varney’s car skidded to a stop near the front of the house, jumped a small curb and crashed into the garden. He and Corporal Dow tumbled out opposite doors of the car. Behind them, Lung’s killers rolled out of their car into the flower gardens, and as Dow stood up, the driverless car slammed into Varney’s machine. It hit the rear fender, glanced off and screeched down the side of the police car. The sturdy policeman shrieked as he was crushed to death between the two cars. Varney, dazed, tumbled from his car only to be cut down immediately by the assassins.

Inside, Sing and Cohen ducked behind a sofa as the door was shattered by a dozen bullets. Glass and lamps exploded in the room. Hatcher, watching from the door of the bedroom, whispered, ‘Everybody okay?’

‘So far, so good,’ was Cohen’s quick reply.

They could hear the rattle of the Uzis used by Lung’s men quickly answered by the deeper roar of the Mac 10’s. The night was ripped by gunfire and an occasional scream. Flashes of gunfire reflected through the windows like distant lightning. Cohen and Sing concentrated on the front door, in case Lung’s men broke through.

In the rear of the house, Lung and his two men quickly attached leather straps with spik.es on the inside to their ankles. They slung belts — like those used by telephone linemen — around the posts, jammed the spikes into them and started up.

Inside, Hatcher saw the first of Lung’s killers reach the top of the balcony, leap over the railing and charge toward the bedroom. Hatcher dived behind the bed. In the dark and the rain, the killer saw only movement in the room and fired a blast from his Uzi. The bullets ripped into the mirrored wall, and Hatcher’s reflection erupted in shattering glass. Hatcher dropped both lands on the bed and fired a short burst from his Aug. Half a dozen shots stitched the gunman from chin to belly. The shocked gangster was thrown backward as the bullets tore into him. He flipped over the balcony railing and dropped from view.

From the other room Hatcher heard another burst of Uzi gunfire. He ran in a crouch to the doorway of the living room in time to see a second triad gangster zigzag into the darkened room, firing from the hip. Bookcases, vases, flowers and paintings exploded a moment before Cohen stood up from behind the sofa and fired his .357 once. It hit the gunman in the chest, spinning him around, his gun still chattering. Blossoms of down feathers erupted from the sofa. Cohen felt a tug at his side, a sharp pain like a bee-sting. He looked down. My God, he thought, I’m shot!

The assassin felt the hot bullet burn deep into his chest and rupture his heart while his lungs flooded with blood. His body jackknifed and he fell forward on his face, like a man praying before Buddha.

As Hatcher rolled back into the bedroom he saw Lung vault the balcony. The mobster w-as silhouetted in the doorway, his face drenched with rain, his eyes glazed with hatred. An instant later he saw Hatcher but not before Hatcher fired a burst at him. Lung jumped to one side but a round clipped his ear, which vanished in a spray of blood and flesh. Hatcher leaped across the bed and dived through the doorway, swinging the Aug as he did.

He punched Lung across the jaw, shattering it, and knocked him back against the railing. But the Oriental was tougher than Hatcher thought. He lashed out with his knife and nicked Hatcher’s sleeve. Hatcher grabbed Lung’s wrist, shoved it up, twisting it away from him, and the knife dropped from his hands. Lung flipped backward he grabbed Hatcher, and they both landed on top of the railing. Hatcher hooked his elbow over the wooden crossbar and caught himself. He still had Lung by the wrist, but the falling gangster snapped loose and dropped, twisting as he fell, trying to get his feet under him. He landed sideways, the heavy fall slamming the air out of him and smashing two ribs, Lung bounced down the slope to the edge of the grass.

He rolled painfully over on his face, his broken ribs searing with pain, the side of his face ripped by Hatcher’s gunshots. He pulled his knees up under him and staggered in a crouch, down the hill toward darkness.

Behind him, Hatcher wrapped his legs around the post and slid to the ground. He snatched up Lung’s knife, which was lying in the mud, and charged down the slope.

Lung leaped into the tall grass, but his broken ribs were more painful than he could bear. He fell with a cry and began crawling the last few feet toward the dark. He was almost out of the spotlight’s arc when he felt Hatcher’s iron grasp on the back of his collar, felt himself hauled to his feet, heard Hatcher’s rasping voice in his ear, ‘You son of a bitch, Hatcher hissed, ‘you should have died a long time ago.’ He placed the point of Lung’s own stiletto against the back of the gangster’s neck, pressed on it hard enough to break the skin. ‘You’ve got some questions to answer,’ he rasped.

Lung, humiliated and defeated, got his legs under him and lunged upward, ramming the knife deep into his own throat. His cry was like an animal’s. Hatcher pulled his hand back, but the knife was buried so deep the soggy hilt slipped out of his hand. He heard Lung’s gargling scream, the unmistakable death rattle, felt him shudder and fall limp.

Hatcher stood over him, still grasping his collar. Lung’s head lolled forward. Hatcher dropped the killer face down in the mud. at his feet.

‘Welcome to hell,’ his shattered voice said as he stood over the dead killer’s body with rain pouring down his face.

HARD BALL

By daylight Cohen’s mansion had become a scene of frenzied activity. Six officers had finished photographing, interrogating and trying to piece together what had happened the night before. Photographers had taken pictures of bodies and cars and the remains of both had been hauled away. Now gardeners were at work repairing the damage in the front of the house.

An official car pulled in the driveway. Colonel Jeffrey Holloway got out and slowly turned on one heel, a 360-degree turn, surveying the battered grounds of Cohen’s home.

Holloway was not a pleasant person. The man who headed the Central District of the Hong Kong police was six feet tall, his white hair cropped almost Nazi-short, his face a thin, stern triangle dominated by almost blind-gray eyes. Even in the heat of the morning sun, his starched khaki uniform was unwrinkled.

He strode toward Cohen’s front door like a palace guard, so straight he almost leaned backward. He slapped one thigh with a riding crop, his symbol of rank.

Holloway sniffed about the house appraising the damage, then walked down to the open doorway to the guest room. Cohen, whose side had been nicked by a bullet, lay on the bed. Ping, the acupuncturist, leaned over him, placing needles here and there to kill the pain in the wounds, which a medical doctor had already repaired.

When Ping had finished his work, Holloway entered the bedroom. He ordered the man repairing the shattered wall mirrors to leave. Hatcher leaned against the wall and said nothing.

‘A gangland fight, two police officers dead, eight others dead. One hell of a mess, I’d say,’ he snorted.

‘You’re a little confused, aren’t you, Colonel?’ Cohen answered, still not looking at him. ‘My home was attacked by triad mobsters. How dare you come in here and imply that I instigated this mess.’

‘You’ve been asking for trouble for years,’ he snapped back.

Cohen lay quietly with the long needles protruding from his neck, stomach and knees. He lay there forming his strategy, deciding how best to handle the situation diplomatically, The old Tsu Fi had once advised Cohen, ‘Never force a man into a corner. He has no choice but to fight. Always leave a door open for him.’

Cohen sighed and folded his hands across his chest. ‘You’re walking a very thin wire’ he said to Holloway.

‘Is that a fact?’ the priggish officer said, raising his eyebrows..

‘Your man Varney was on the take,’ Cohen said flatly.

‘Ridiculous!’ Holloway snapped, his voice beginning to boil. ‘One of the finest officers on the squad.’

Cohen laughed at him. ‘First, ‘Varney tipped off Lung that Hatcher was in Hong Kong. Then he led the killers through my gates. And finally Lung’s own men killed him to shut him up.’

‘Absolute trash,’ the colonel bellowed.

‘Colonel, Varney visited Hatcher yesterday morning at the Peninsula. Within two hours, Lung broke into the room to kill Hatcher. He missed because Hatcher was out here. Then Varney called Hatcher here and told him the Triad Squad wanted to take him into protective custody. Are you aware of all that?’

Holloway silently glared at Cohen through narrowing eyes.

Cohen went on: ‘When he arrived at my gates he patched through a call to this number from his police car. Then he led Lung’s men in here. I’m sure all this can be verified by your own records. But I’ll bet Varney didn’t report Hatcher’s arrival in Hong Kong, because he reported it to Lung, not to the police. Or that he planned to provide protection for Hatcher, because he had no such intention. Check your radio operators. You’ll find he made a call from his car to my unlisted number seconds before they attacked us.’

Holloway’s anger began to slowly change to doubt. ‘Very convenient conjecture,’ he said uncertainly.

‘Not on your life,’ said Cohen ‘Hatcher thought the cops were tailing him, but they were actually Lung’s White Palm mobsters, who were tipped off by Varney. Or worse, men on your own squad who were on the take, too.’

‘You’re making irresponsible accusations,’ Holloway said menacingly.

‘The killers were waiting out there for us to open the gates for Varney,’ Cohen said with a sigh. ‘He led them in here.’

‘Circumstantial. It will be interesting to see what happens when you take that story to court,’ said Holloway.

‘Nobody’s going to court,’ Cohen said flatly.

‘Oh?’

‘Colonel, don’t give me that stiff-upper-lip shit. Are you interested in the truth?’

‘Truth? Hah!’ Holloway snorted.

‘Listen to me,’ Cohen snapped. ‘Hatcher threw off his tails on Cat Street. But when he got here, Lung’s people were observing the house. That’s how Varney located Hatcher — Lung told him.’

‘And how would we handle that story?’ Holloway asked cautiously.

‘Simple. Report that Varney showed up in response to a help call,’ said Cohen. ‘He and his man died heroically trying to defend innocent citizens from being attacked by thieves. You give Varney a hero’s funeral and I forget the whole matter. Or — you can create the big stink. And we can back up our complaint with your own records. Which way do you like it?’

‘How dare you threaten me!’ Holloway snapped indignantly.

‘Threat, hell,’ replied Cohen. ‘It’s a solution to a very nasty situation.’

‘I’ll see you in hell first,’ Holloway said sternly.

‘Colonel, you’re bluffing,’ Cohen said with a bored air. ‘You have the perfect out, take it while you can.’

Holloway sucked his upper lip between his teeth. He didn’t say anything for several seconds.

‘Call your man in,’ Cohen said quietly. ‘I’ll give him the proper version of what happened.’

The mirrors had been replaced in the guest room and Ping had removed the needles and left when Tiana returned home and rushed to Cohen’s side. He put on a good act, wincing with pain, speaking in a trembling voice.

‘Ngo jungyi nei,’ she whispered, putting her arms gently around his neck and caressing his face.

‘I love you too, darlin’,’ he said, winking across her shoulder at Hatcher, who sat on the edge of the bed.

‘Why are you not in the hospital?’ she asked.

‘Too tough,’ he said and then started to laugh.

She sat up sharply. ‘You are making a joke at me!’ she said angrily.

‘No, just kidding around.’

‘This is not for kidding around!’ she said sternly.

‘Tell her, Christian. Was I tough? Did I show some stuff here last night or didn’t I.’

‘He is your friend, he would say anything for you,’ she said, staring impudently at Hatcher.

‘The Occhi di Sassi does not lie,’ said Cohen. ‘Didn’t think I had it in me, did you, Christian?’ he asked proudly.

‘I thought the way you handled the colonel was more impressive.’

‘Routine!’ cried Cohen with a wave of his hand. He pulled up his shirt, displaying his bandaged side. ‘And look at that. The Purple Heart, my dear. I’ve been wounded in action. Another inch, and Buddha would have been sitting on the bed instead of you two.

‘I must see to the rest of the house,’ Tiana said, excusing herself. After she left the room, Cohen scowled at Hatcher. ‘What’s the problem?’ he asked.

‘Five of your people died here last night,’ Hatcher said. ‘Just to protect me. I didn’t come on this job to get people killed. History’s beginning to repeat itself. I should never have come here.’

Cohen leaned toward his friend and laid his hand on Hatcher’s. ‘Listen to me, Christian,’ he said seriously. ‘You made a few enemies in your time. You can’t evade them. But before you get a bleeding heart, let me tell you, every man here last night had reason to hate the Chiu Chao triads. They all had old scores to settle. Every one of them was here voluntarily and grateful for the chance. And their families will be well taken care of for life. It really had nothing to do with you.’

‘Sure. Now you’ll be on Fong’s list, too,’ Hatcher said.

‘No,’ Cohen answered. To attack a man’s home is an act of cowardice. Even the triads will be dishonored. Lung hit me without Fong’s approval, I’m sure of it. And now Fong owes me an apology. Lung dishonored him — and botched the job in the bargain. Forg.et it, the old Tsu Fi can take care of himself. You’re the only one who still has to worry about Tollie Fong. Are you still determined to go up to Chin Chin land?’

‘More than ever. For the first time I’ve got something positive. A name, China, I’ve got a name. Wol Pot. It’s a starting place. Without Wol Pot, I didn’t have anything.’

‘Supposing Cody doesn’t want to be found. Supposing you turn over a rock and something nasty crawls out.’

‘I’ll deal with that if it happens.’

‘Okay, then there’s only one person you can trust who can take you up there.’

‘Who?’ Hatcher asked.

‘Daphne Chien,’ Cohen answered.

ch’u-tiao

The house was surrounded by flowers and sat on a quiet street in one of the finer residential sections of Macao, forty miles from Hong Kong by hydroplane. Despite its look of tranquility, Macao had dark secrets hidden along its cobblestone streets and behind its terraced red and ocher Mediterranean villas. There was still about it a sense of mystery and decadence; it was still a center for the smuggling of illegal Chinese aliens, carried in the dead of night by snakeboat into Hong Kong; a center for gold smuggling; a protectorate for Chinese triad gangsters who freely practiced white slavery, arranged major dope- smuggling deals between Thailand’s Golden Triangle and Amsterdam and other Western ports, and ordered the execution of their enemies from behind the façades of peaceful rococo villas. The banyan trees lining the Praia Grande concealed corruption of every kind.

Wang, the retired san wong of the White Palms, who was in his eighties and had been for more than fifty years the leader of the outlaw triad, was feeding his tropical fish.

He had handpicked Tollie Fong as his Red Pole when Fong was still in his early twenties and had never doubted the wisdom of his choice. But he had warned Fong that Joe Lung was a dangerous Number One, a reckless and irascible killer, who, as the old man had put it, ‘thinks with his gonads’ Now Wang had to deal with the aftermath of Lung’s attack on Cohen.

Fong arrived at the house at precisely ten o’clock, having flown in from Bangkok on the early morning flight. The house was a stunning tangerine-colored Mediterranean villa on Avenue Conselheiro, which wound around Guia Hill, and had perhaps the finest view of Macao on the tiny peninsula. It was rumored to have been the hideout of Sun Yat-sen while he plotted the overthrow of the Manchu Dynasty, an apocryphal yarn, but possible. Above it, on the pinnacle of the hill, stood what was left of St Paul’s Church, a magnificent ruin destroyed by a typhoon in 1835, while from the rear sun porch of the house, the old man could see far below the oldest lighthouse on the China coast and, beyond it, the South China Sea.

Fong stood at the front door, checking out his reflection in the glass door before ringing the bell. He was an athletic, light-skinned man, a bodybuilder, tall for a Chinese, with gold-flecked black eyes and modishly trim med black hair that flowed back over his ears, outlining a thin, hawkish face. He preferred Western dress and was wearing a dark blue cotton suit and a scarlet silk tie. Fong was a handsome man whose good looks were marred only by an unnerving inscrutability, for he seemed to be a man without any expression, his face a mask with a mouth that moved. He was ushered through the louse by a bodyguard the size of a sumo wrestler.

The old man was in his favorite room at the rear of the house, feeding the saltwater fish in three one-hundred- gallon aquariums. The fish were his proudest possession. He knew each by name and by habit and was chatting with them as he sprinkled brine shrimp into one of the tanks when Fong was ushered into the atrium, Fong stood near the old man and bowed respectfully. Wang nodded his head.

‘Welcome back, Tollie,’ the old man said without looking up. ‘How was your trip to Bangkok?’

‘Shorter than I planned,’ Fong answered. ‘I had to leave before I finished my business, but I can go back tomorrow.’

‘What happened at the house of Tsu Fi?’ the former san wong asked.

‘Lung went crazy,’ Fong said.

‘That is all you have to say about it?’

‘What else is there to say?’ said Fong. ‘I never talked to Lung. He found out Hatcher was in Hong Kong from a police informant named Varney. and he attacked the house. Now they are all dead, including the cop. We’ll never really know what happened.

‘I warned you that one day Lung would compromise you,’ said the retired san wong.

Fong nodded. He was embarrassed that the old san wong was forced to deal with an awkward situation that was basically Fong’s fault.

‘He was fulfilling a ch’u-tiao of many years against the American,’ Fong said somewhat defensively.

Ch’u-tiao was a blood oath, an oath of honor, and one that by tradition could only be resolved in death.

‘So it is ended. And would you have approved of this action?’ the old man asked, still playing with his fish.

‘Of course not,’ said Fong.

‘We do not want war with Tsu Fi,’ the old man said.

Fong decided to face the subject head-on. ‘Maybe it’s time to get rid of this mei gwok Jew,’ he said slowly.

The old man looked up, his eyes mere slits. He stared at Fong for several seconds and the younger man became uneasy, realizing he had said the wrong thing. ‘Let me show you something,’ he said. He reached in one of the other tanks, opened his palm, and a large yellow tang swam leisurely around his hand.

‘Come, Shang, come to your father,’ the old man whispered.

The fish finally swam into his hand, pecking at it, looking for food. Wang grabbed the fish arid quickly dropped it in one of the other tanks. Almost immediately it was attacked by three of the fish in the new tank, two of them less than half its size. The tang floundered, darted out of the way only to be hit behind the gills by a small black-and-white domino. The tang flipped to its side, wiggling its tail frantically, but it was already moribund. The two men watched while half a dozen fish pecked the tang to death.

‘Next to human beings, fish are the most territorial creatures on earth,’ the old man said. ‘If you inject a stranger into their home, they will kill it. Even the small fish attack it. So the big fish is overwhelmed. Then they break his ballast and he is helpless.’ He looked up at Fong. ‘Do you understand what I am saying?’

Fong nodded.

‘Good. You were the finest Red Pole in the Chiu Chaos,’ Wang said, ‘but to declare war on the house of Tsu Fi and attack him in his own environment was suicidal, as Lung discovered.’

‘I would not make the same mistakes,’ Fong said.

The old man stared at him for several more moments and nodded again. ‘We do a lot of business in Hong Kong,’ he said. ‘Cohen is respected and feared among all the Sun Lee On. He is powerful in the business community. Doing business in Hong Kong means doing business with him.

You must swallow your pride. Joe Lung compromised you. The rules of the Society require that you make an apology and a gesture to satisfy the insult

‘That’s why I flew back from Bangkok this morning.’

‘Hai. Then call him now. Arrange a meeting for later today. Get this over with. It is an annoyance I do not care to put up with any longer than necessary.’

‘I will do it now,’ said Fong.

‘Mm goi,’ said the old man, ‘I am also aware that you, too, have a ch’u-tiao against the American. If necessary, you must be prepared to put it aside.’

Fong looked surprised.

‘I cannot do that!’ the new san wong said, but his predecessor and mentor cut him off before he could go on. ‘You can and will, if it is necessary,’ he said with finality and turned back to his fish,

Fong knew the discussion was over. He bowed to his master.

‘Jo sahn,’ he said,

‘Jo sahn,’ the old man answered.

DAFFY

The smell of cordite still hung in the air of the house as they waited for Daphne to arrive. According to Cohen, Daphne was the only person they could trust who still traveled upriver into that dangerous land and dealt with the brigands, mainly in materials, Thai silk and madras cotton, which she smuggled into the colony duty-free. She had two things going for her: nothing intimidated her, which earned her the respect of the pirates, and she dealt in gold. Even the Ts’e K’am Men Ti did not bite that strong a hand.

But Hatcher also suspected Cohen’ s motives. Could he possibly be playing Cupid? Hatcher’s first encounter with Daphne had been the result of a rather perverse Cohen joke. The Tsu Fi had been certain that Hatcher would be attracted to her and Just as certain that she would ignore the brash Yankee gwai-lo.

Cohen, too, was thinking of that night. In a funny way, Daphne Chien brought the friendship between Cohen and Hatcher full circle, for it was Hatcher’s first meeting with her that had strengthened what had been until then a tentative friendship between the two men, a time for sparring and contemplation and even testing. From the beginning, Cohen had seen in his new friend a man of curious and sometimes frightening balance — a man of intense loyalties and an outrageous sense of humor balanced by a dark, deviously clever, dangerous and unpredictable streak. He had seen the dark side of Hatcher’s persona, the human trigger that could kill with the suddenness and impartiality of a sprung mouse-trap. And then there was Hatcher’s charmingly eccentric side. He slept on the floor, preferred to read in Chinese rather than English, sometimes would go two or three days without eating, and had a bizarre memory, which excluded obvious details and retained only what Hatcher considered important. He knew, for instance, that Sam-Sam Sam was left-handed but could not describe a single one of the tattoos that covered the pirate’s body.

Hatcher survived by keeping these two disparate sides of his personality in careful balance, never letting one overpower the other, like a coin perched on its edge.

To Cohen, all of these traits made Hatcher a fascinating, often endearing, and potentially trustworthy friend, but it was at Hatcher’s first meeting with Daphne that Cohen had seen a gentle, almost boyish side of Hatcher’s personality, although the balance was still there. On the one hand, he was surprisingly naïve; on the other, outrageously audacious.

They had just arrived at the Governor’s Ball, the annual mob scene at the Chinese Palace, to which Cohen, as a joke, had conned Hatcher into going, knowing the mysterious riverman hated crowds, cocktail parties, dances and snobs — all the reasons why everyone else went. Hatcher spotted Daphne the moment they arrived at the party. She was standing on the other side of the main ballroom, a stunning, unattainable statue, observing the shoulder-to-shoulder cocktail crowd with an air of icy indifference. Cohen sensed Hatcher’s immediate infatuation.

‘Forget it,’ said China. ‘Your eyes are the wrong shape.’

‘Who is she?’

‘Daphne Chien. Her mother’s Malaysian, her father’s half Chinese, ha if French.’

‘Amazing collaboration,’ Hatcher said half aloud, staring through the crowd at her.

‘Every gwai-lo in the colony has tried,’ Cohen whispered. ‘She won’t have anything to do with Westerners.’

‘Neither would the Tsu Fi and that didn’t stop you,’ Hatcher answered. ‘You know her?’

‘Yeah, I know her,’ Cohen answered with an air of apprehension. Social confrontations, particularly in an event of this importance, made him uncomfortable, so he added, ‘And I’m telling you, she particularly hates Americans.’

‘How come?’

‘Her father was a very successful tailor here, built up a very nice business with a few quality stores in the States. Along comes a big American combine, decides his little company has big potential, makes him a lot of promises, then screws him to the wall, edges him out, and starts mass-producing blue jeans using his name and reputation. They got big, big, big, but the old man never saw a dime of it.’

‘What was the company?’

‘Blue Max, you’ve probably heard of them.’

‘Everybody’s heard of it.’

‘The old man was so humiliated he tried to kill himself. She saved his life. . .

Hatcher was already off and running. Cohen rushed after him.

‘Introduce me,’ said Hatcher as he threaded his way through the black-tie crowd toward her. Cohen followed, trying to talk as he made his way through the jabbering guests.

‘You haven’t heard the rest of it,’ Cohen said, shouting above the cocktail din.

‘So what’s the rest of it?’

‘She started a new business. Knockoffs.’

Hatcher stopped and looked back at him with a wide grin. ‘She counterfeits American blue jeans?’ he said.

Cohen nodded. ‘She counterfeits Blue Max American- brand blue jeans — at about half their price.’

‘Fantastic.’

Cohen nodded. ‘Ripped them off for enough to start her own label, became their biggest competitor, then merged with them. And ended up in control. And ended’ up firing the whole greedy bunch.’

‘Beautiful,’ said Hatcher.

‘It sure was, but it left her with a very bad taste in her mouth for mei gwok.’

‘So how come you know her?’

Cohen smiled, ‘I set up the merger deal that put her in the driver’s seat. I’m one Yankee she likes,’ he said.

Hatcher was more determined than ever to meet her. He started back across the room with Cohen at his side.

‘Give me some names,’ he said.

‘Names of who?’

‘The guys who ripped her off,’ Hatcher said impatiently as they approached her, ‘One or two names, c’mon, hurry.’

‘Uh . . . Howard Sylvester, . Allen Mitchell. uh...’

‘That’s good enough. Introduce me as Chris London.’

She got even more beautiful as they got closer, her tall, lithe body encased in a dark green silk sheath that etched each perfect line of her body and seemed to add luster to her almond, almost cocoa-colored, skin, and glitter to deeply hooded eyes that were as green as the dress. Her jet-black hair was tied in a long ponytail that curled over one broad shoulder and fell between her breasts. She wore no rings, her only jewelry being a pair of pear-shaped diamond earrings and a diamond necklace with an emerald and ruby pendant that lay in the hollow of a throat as delicate as a swan’s. She smiled brightly when she saw Cohen.

‘China!’ she cried, ‘at last, someone to talk to.

Cohen kissed her on the cheek, then turned to Hatcher. ‘Miss Chien, Daphne, I’d like to introduce a friend of mine, Chris, uh ‘ he faltered, forgetting the second name.,

‘London,’ Hatcher said quickly.

The smile vanished. She nodded curtly. ‘Monsieur,’ she said in a French accent and a low voice that made one strain to hear her and turned away. Hatcher pressed o,.

‘I’m a lawyer,’ Hatcher went on. ‘In fact, I represent some old associates of yours.’

She turned back toward him, her chin pulled down, staring coldly at him from under ebony eyebrows.

‘Oh?’

‘Yes, Howard Sylvester and Allen Mitchell.’

Nothing changed in her face, but Cohen almost swallowed his tongue. He could see his friendship with Daphne Chien vanishing with every word Hatcher spoke. Hatcher stepped close to her, took her elbow very gently and steered her toward the terrace.

‘You see, they’ve put together quite a dossier on your knock-off business, prior to the merger? They feel that they have a fairly strong case against the new Blue Max. . .

Their voices died out in the crowd as Cohen stood watching them. Her eyes were the eyes of a killer, and then suddenly they both stopped and faced each other. Hatcher leaned over to her and spoke very quickly. Her mouth dropped open, she seemed to lose her composure for just a second, then there was an exchange, back and forth, and when it was over, Hatcher bowed, kissed her hand and left. He strolled back to Cohen, smiling.

‘Lunch tomorrow,’ he said. ‘Just the two of us. Wait here, I’ll bring you a drink. Scotch, a dash of water, no ice, right?’ And he was gone again.

Daphne followed a few seconds later, glaring at him as she drew to within inches of him.

‘Why didn’t you tell me he was Hatcher?’ she said.

‘I have no excuse whatsoever,’ Cohen stammered.

She stared after Hatcher as he edged through the crowd.

‘Are you really having lunch with him?’ Cohen asked.

‘Yes,’ she said.

‘What did he say to you out there?’ Cohen asked.

She smiled vaguely, stared at him for a second and said, ‘Ask him.’ And then she too was gone.

‘What did you say to her?’ Cohen asked when he returned with the drinks.

Hatcher shook his head. ‘I’ll never tell,’ he said.

Now Cohen sensed a different Hatcher. The hair trigger seemed to be on safety. The hard, brash edge seemed softer, more contemplative. It was not that he felt Hatcher was getting soft, but rather that the two sides were slightly out of balance. And while Cohen liked that new side, it also worried him. If Hatcher was going upriver, he could not afford to lose that old edge. In the land of the Ts’e K’am Men Ti, instinct precluded provocation. ‘Shoot first’ was the law of survival.

The doorbell ended his ruminations.

The woman in the doorway was the color of café au lait and she stared down at Cohen through almond-shaped green eyes. She was tall and elegant, dressed in a pale pink shantung silk jacket over a ruby-red silk sheath, an outfit that was sexy, yet in good taste. As she entered the house she kicked off her shoes with long, cocoa-colored legs.

‘Hello, China,’ she purred softly and kissed him on the forehead. Then without hesitation, she asked, ‘where is he?’

‘Out on the balcony.’

‘Has he changed?’

‘He’s a little older, like all of us. Picked up a few more scars.’ But he didn’t go on. She was already on her way to the deck.

‘I never thought I would see you again,’ she said, standing in the doorway. ‘You look like the same old Hatcher.’

Daphne’s ch’uang tzu-chi was also stimulated by the sight of him, alive, after all the years. For the year after they met, Hatcher had lived with Daphne whenever he was in Hong Kong. He left without warning and returned the same way, never discussing his business. She had heard of him before they met — Hatcher, the daring Yankee river pirate, the lone wolf feared even by the mighty Sam-Sam Sam himself. It was only after he was gone that new rumors started. That he was a paid assassin. That he worked for the CIA. That he nurtured friendships and then double- crossed those closest to him. That he was a member of a secret section of the Army called Ying bing, shadow warriors.

Having known him for a year, they were rumors Daphne dismissed, for she had seen both sides of him—the cold side that went off in the night to do whatever deeds he had to do and the other side, the caring lover, t whom sex was fun, not a conquest, for whom it was open, and slow, sometimes agonizing play that ended in what he called ‘the purest feeling,’ the small death, the orgasm that was his one positive, total escape from reality, as momentary as it might be.

She knew also in her heart and from her experience with him that any or all of the stories could be true,

But it didn’t matter. He was alive and he was here and, like Cohen, she remembered the night she had met Hatcher, a night she would never forget.