The survivor

Seventy-Seven

Striker wanted all the information the Inspector had on Tran Sang Soone. According to the chart, there was a separate folder on the man, but it was not filed in its proper place. Ibarra left the room to check the backup files, and Striker and Felicia continued scanning through the pictures for the one man they wanted most.

Red Mask.

Striker had seen his face in two of their three gun battles, and it was a face he would never forget. Like Tran Sang Soone, Red Mask was thin and wiry in build, and of average height. But it was the eyes that gave him away — sitting deep behind heavily boned cheeks, their stare deep and hollow and empty. In his sixteen years of policing Striker had never met a stare like that, and the thought reminded him of Magui Yagata’s words back at Worldwide Translation Services, when she spoke of the Khmer Rouge.

‘A survivor.’

The more Striker thought about it, the more he believed her words. He let the thought take him away for a bit, then snapped back to the task at hand when Felicia looked up from the folder she was perusing and

said, ‘Found some info on Tran Sang Soone. Date of birth: January 15, 1964.’

Striker moved closer. ‘Sixty-four? Are you sure?’

‘That’s what the file says. Info comes from Immigration. Says here the place of birth is Phnom Phen, Cambodia.’

‘Then who knows what his real age is. Cambodia doesn’t exactly keep good records.’ The thought of Cambodia was disturbing to Striker. ‘That date and location correspond perfectly with Pol Pot and the Khmer Rouge. What else is in there?’

She read on. ‘He’s got an extensive criminal history. Christ, there’s everything in here! Charges for Assault, Trafficking, Running a Common Bawdy House, Running a Gambling Den, Uttering Threats — the list just goes on and on.’

‘Any of the charges go through?’

‘Nope. All stayed, every single one of them. Must have one helluva lawyer. He’s listed as a Person of Interest in a dozen murders from Vancouver to Toronto. Even one back in Hong Kong. But he’s never done time for any of them. Never done time for anything.’

‘He’s doing time now,’ Striker said. ‘And hopefully the furnace is cranked. He got a list of associates in there?’

She shook her head. ‘Not in this folder. But there are lists of other Shadow Dragons.’

Striker logged onto CABS — the Criminal Automated Booking System — and brought up the query box.

‘Let’s go through them,’ he said. ‘One by one.’

Felicia read the first name out, Striker typed it in the box and hit send. Seconds later, the photo popped up. It wasn’t Red Mask, and Striker deleted it. Then they started all over again.

Twenty minutes and twenty-nine associates later, Striker brought up the last image, found it didn’t match, and cleared the search bar.

‘Next one,’ he said.

‘That’s it, we’re done.’

‘Done?’ Striker made a frustrated sound, then thought things over. ‘Okay, what other gangs was White Mask — Tran Sang Soone — connected to? We’ll start with the most likely, then fan out from there.’

‘The Golden Lotus,’ Ibarra said, stepping back into the room.

Striker wrote the name down in his notebook. ‘I’ve heard of the Lotus before, but never the Golden Lotus.’

‘That’s because they’re from Toronto.’

‘Toronto?’

‘Yeah, I got bad news for you,’ Ibarra said. ‘My team followed these guys around for the better part of a year — the gang brings in a lot of off-shore help. China. Singapore. Macau. There were so many faces we could hardly keep up, even with twenty-four-hour surveillance on them. Much as I hate to burst your bubble, this guy might be from overseas — a FOB-K.’

Felicia looked at Striker, then at Ibarra. ‘FOB-K?’

‘Fresh off the boat killer.’

Striker said nothing. It was a thought he didn’t want to entertain. Having an overseas gunman would mean more time, more agencies — Interpol, FBI, the Feds — and the list went on. In the end, an overseas gunman would mean less chance of identification, and it would keep them stuck in this constant cat and mouse chase, where the only way to catch Red Mask was to wait for his next attack.

And who knew how many more deaths that would mean.

Ibarra held up a thin folder. It was beige and dusty, and the corners were turned over from being compressed. ‘This is all I got on Tran Sang Soone.’

Felicia took the folder from Ibarra and opened it on the desk. As she went through it, Striker continued scanning through the surveillance photos of 14K Triad members and suspected associates. He reached the end and was about to put them away when something made him pause. In one of the surveillance photos, Tran Sang Soone was seated at a banquet table. He was laughing heartily while talking to another gang member. Behind him, the waitress was bringing more platters out from the kitchen.

‘Where was this taken?’

Ibarra leaned forward. ‘That photo was taken over a year ago, at the Chongmin Banquet Hall. Used to be a big splashy place. Closed down now though. Got caught running a gambling den and a common bawdy house out of the back.’

Striker looked at the photo, stared at it for a long time, and spotted a tall man in a white apron in the doorway. He pulled the photo closer. The background was grainy, hard to make out, but something clicked in Striker’s mind.

‘Who is this guy?’ he asked, and pointed to the man in the apron.

Ibarra looked over his shoulder. ‘The cook.’

‘You run him?’

Ibarra nodded. ‘We ran everyone who so much as farted in their direction. Believe me, anyone who’s got any known criminal involvement is listed under the associates.’

‘So who is he?’ Striker pressed.

Ibarra took another look at the photo. ‘Don’t know the name. I remember him though. Real oddball. Just stood there staring off into space half the time. Most the guys thought he was on the nod, or something. We checked him out though, and he was completely negative. Nothing criminal in his past, nothing even remotely suspect. Shit, I don’t think he even had a speeding ticket.’

‘That means nothing,’ Striker commented. ‘Seung-Hui Choi had no criminal history either, but that didn’t stop him from killing thirty-two people at Virginia Tech. What’s the cook’s name?’

Ibarra couldn’t remember, so he took the image number from Striker and started flipping through the pages of the Project Pacific folder.

While waiting, Striker searched through the rest of the restaurant photos, scanning each one with deliberation. It was on the eleventh photograph that he found the cook again, in a strange pose. He was out in a laneway with his shirt removed. His body was tattoo-free with beige skin; his build was lean and wiry. Striker studied the man’s physique, then his face. And then he knew.

It was the eyes. That cold, vacuous stare.

Felicia, reading over the Tran Sang Soone folder, made an excited sound and looked up. ‘Jesus Christ, he’s got a brother!’

And before Striker could react to this, Ibarra found the name connected to the image of the cook. Striker snatched the paper from his hands and read it over. He turned to face Felicia.

‘Call Dispatch,’ he ordered. ‘Call the papers. Call every TV station you know.’

Felicia stood up from her chair. ‘Red Mask?’ she asked.

Striker nodded. ‘His name is Shen Sun Soone.’