The Sword of Fire

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Hawke looked through the one-way mirror and watched the man they had caught back in the Aurora. He was now in an interrogation room deep inside Europol HQ, and had been identified as a low-level scumbag named Marco Maroni. Not so tough now, he was sitting handcuffed to the chair and sweat was beading on his forehead.

Beside the former commando, his old friend Vincent Reno was looking at the ‘No Smoking’ sign above the door with a cigarette on his lips and a frown on his face.

“For me, the world ended when they banned indoor smoking,” he said glumly.

Before Hawke could respond, Lea and Danny Devlin joined them with steaming coffees in their hands. Lexi and Ryan were a few steps behind them, carrying more coffees.

“Cairo and Kim?” Hawke said.

“Arguing in the canteen,” said Lexi.

“Could get interesting,” Ryan said, handing Hawke a coffee. “Want to come down and watch?”

“Not a lot,” he said.

Lea gestured toward Maroni. “Got anything out of the bastard?”

“Some, but not much,” Hawke said. “Jansen’s good but I think Marco needs a little more encouragement to speak than a Europol official is prepared to give.”

They all knew what he meant. As a former SBS man, Joe Hawke had undergone extreme interrogation training and he knew what worked and what didn’t. Piet Jansen, the lead interviewing officer was doing a good job if they had all week, but they needed answers faster than that.

Jansen came out of the room and gave a regretful sigh. “He’s not talking.”

“When do we get to talk to him?” Reaper said.

Jansen looked disapprovingly as the cigarette wobbled up and down on the former French legionnaire’s lower lip and then cast an unimpressed glance at the tattoo of a burning grenade on his arm. “I just spoke with my superior officer and he says one of you can come in and attend the interview.”

Reaper rubbed his hands together and grinned. “Then let’s go.”

He moved toward the door and Jansen raised his hand. Placing it on the Frenchman’s chest he stopped him in his tracks with another heavy sigh. “Not you.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Mr Hawke will join me in the interview room. The rest of you will wait here and let us get on with our job.”

Hawke followed Jansen into the room. There were two wooden chairs against the wall, but only an uncomfortable plastic bucket seat at the desk. He sat in it and fixed his eyes on Maroni. After the fifteen minutes it took for the Dutch official to apprise the prisoner of his various rights, Hawke sighed and said, “Who hired Zito to take the manuscript?”

Maroni looked confused. “What manuscript?”

Hawke smiled. “You want to play games, is that it?”

“He is under no obligation to speak,” Jansen said calmly.

There was a knock at the door and a small man in a gray suit shuffled into the room. He had a serious frown on his face.

Jansen stood and shook his hand. “Mr De Jong, I presume?” He turned to Hawke. “Mr Maroni’s appointed lawyer.”

“I am Roland De Jong, yes, and I want to know why this interview has started without me?”

Hawke gave a silent, inward sigh and checked his watch. “This is going to go on all night.”

Jansen and De Jong spoke at length about Maroni and the Dutch lawyer informed the Europol man in great detail about all the consequences he would face for breaking so many rules.

Another knock at the door and a young woman entered. She looked alarmed. “Mr Jansen — your boss is on the telephone. She says it’s urgent.”

A look of confusion spread over Jansen’s face as he looked from Hawke to De Jong. “Please, gentlemen — excuse me.”

As soon as Jansen was out of the room, Hawke leaned forward and grabbed Maroni around the throat. “Who’s pulling Zito’s greasy little strings?”

De Jong gasped in horror and pushed back from the desk so hard he nearly fell out of his chair.

Maroni’s tired, bloodshot eyes widened like saucers with the shock of the attack. “You can’t do this to me!” he squealed. “I’ll sue you for this!”

“How dare you?” De Jong said, dusting himself down. “This a criminal matter now!”

“No need to fill your pants,” Hawke said.

Lea and Ryan walked into the interrogation room.

“I take it you’re Jansen’s boss now?” Hawke asked, smiling at Lea.

“I am indeed.”

Hawke looked at Ryan. “And what was your part in this, mate?”

“Teaching Lea how to say Get to my office right now in Dutch.”

Hawke gave an appreciative nod. “Good work. By the way, meet Mr De Jong.”

He turned back to Maroni, whose throat he was still gripping. “Now, I want to know who hired Zito, and I want to know now.”

“Let me out of here!” De Jong barked. “I must call the police at once!”

Without warning, Ryan fired a sharp jab at the lawyer and planted one right on his jaw. The strike knocked him clean out and he slumped down on the shiny tile floor like a drunk at the end of a long night. His head lolled lifelessly on his shoulder and some drool rolled over his bloodied lip.

“Bugger me!” Hawke said.

Lea was aghast. “What the actual fuck was that, Ry?”

Ryan shrugged his shoulders and loaded a cigarette onto his lower lip. It was a Gauloises he had cadged off Reaper earlier. “He was getting on my nerves. Anyway, he was getting in the way of getting intel out of this twat.” He nudged his chin at Maroni and fired up the cigarette.

Hawke didn’t know whether to be impressed or concerned. “Well, good work, Ryan, I suppose,” he said, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “Take yesterday off.”

“Funny.”

Hawke returned his attention to the Italian. “We all get the situation here, Maroni. Zito’s the engine driver and you’re the greasy rag. I want to know who’s the fat controller. Name — now.”

Maroni’s nervous eyes wandered from Hawke, to De Jong’s sleeping body and then up to Ryan Bale. The young man took his jacket off and rolled his shirt sleeves up, revealing the Russian tattoo. “Why is it so fucking hot in here?”

“Well?” Hawke said, increasing his grip on the man’s throat.

“Kruger. The man who hired Mr Zito is called Kruger.”

Tiger cruised the black government Audi A6 along the Liangmaqiao Road until he reached the next exit and then pulled off into Chaoyang Park. The other Zodiacs were quietly contemplating the job ahead, as was he.

Hold out baits to entice the enemy, feign disorder and crush him.

Tiger had studied the great war philosopher Sun Tzu in college and rarely struggled to find a quotation appropriate to any of his missions.

He turned the car through a series of streets, each one a little narrower than the last until they finally reached their destination. Switching off the engine, he checked his gun and knives and then ordered everyone out of the car. He had kept a close eye on Monkey on the drive from the airport and so far so good. None of the usual signs of his many personality disorders had leaked through the young man’s concentration, but he knew they were just beneath the surface; they all did.

Tiger led the way into the enormous apartment block and the four suited men waited patiently beside another man for an elevator to arrive. The other man was holding a back of groceries in each hand. Neon green Chinese celery leaves poked ambitiously from the top of the plastic bag along with some bok choi and a multipack of instant noodles.

He smiled and nodded at the men but they gave no response.

The elevator arrived and a metallic ping filled the lobby. The doors swished open and the Zodiacs stepped inside. Tiger held the door open for the man but he took a step back and let the doors close without him on board.

They rode the elevator in silence for several quiet moments. Each man used the time to process his own thoughts. Tiger didn’t know what his associates were thinking, but he was considering his family across the other side of the city. His wife, his daughter — both safe in their little home.

Unlike the Zhangs.

The elevator pinged and the doors opened. Moments later the four men were standing outside the Zhangs’ apartment. Tiger looked at Rat and nodded.

Rat pushed the doorbell.

Moments later, Tiger watched a sweet old lady open the door. She reminded him of his own grandmother from Chengdu.

Tiger smiled warmly. “Mrs Zhang?”

The elderly woman nodded. “Yes.”

The response was fast and silent. Within a second of her confirming her identity, Tiger pulled his gun from his holster and pushed the muzzle into her forehead. In the same movement he entered the apartment and pushed her back along the hall with his finger to his lips to indicate she should remain silent. She didn’t argue with the command; they never did.

The moment unfolded in seconds. In the living area now, and an elderly man brought himself to his feet as they moved closer to him. He looked confused and started to speak, but Monkey darted toward him and powered a mighty left hook into his face.

The old man crumpled like waste paper and fell back unconcsious into the cheap sofa that ran along the rear wall. The woman screamed but a well-timed slap from Tiger silenced her fast.

“Who are you?” she said.

“Just do as you’re told.”

Rat was already tying her unconcsious husband up with a roll of duct tape and gagging him. Pig picked up her landline telephone and put it down in front of her.

Tiger said, “Stop looking at the phone and take a look at the clock on your wall.”

The old woman obeyed.

“What time does it give?” Tiger said.

“Four minutes to eight.”

“Correct. You will telephone your daughter now, and you will tell her that her father is gravely ill and that she must return at once. If you do not do this, or try any tricks, neither you nor your husband will live to see eight o’clock. Understand?” He pushed the gun’s barrel into her forehead again, hard enough to leave a little red mark.

“I…”

He saw her torment. He had seen it before on the faces of other mothers and fathers. She was torn between the immediate problem of saving her own life, and that of her beloved husband, or using her own daughter as bait. You could see the cogs whirring behind her eyes as she thought the matter over in her head.

Tiger was happy to give her the half minute she would need to make the choice they always made, and then after a terrified look at her gagged and bound husband she came back to him right on time with the standard reply.

“All right… I’ll do what you want but please don’t hurt us.”

“Make the call.”

They always made this decision. It was human nature. Kick the can down the road. If she called her daughter that would give her extra time to live right now; time to think — space to breathe and come up with some kind of strategy. He knew she was going to make this decision before he had even posed it to her — he had read it in her eyes. He studied his victims with an assiduity most people were unable to match, and his hard work and commitment to the job always yielded the results he was seeking.

She picked up the phone and started to push the buttons.

Tiger pulled the slider and pushed a round into the chamber. It was unncecssary but people almost expected it. They had seen it in the movies and knew it meant business — the final step before the lead started flying and things got ugly. “And make it convincing,” he whispered. “Very convincing, or…” he glanced over at Monkey who was using his fingers to shovel her husband’s noodles into his face.

The woman nodded. She understood. “Xiaoli? This is your mother. I have very bad news…”

After she had finished the call he took the receiver from her and placed it gently in the cradle. “You did good today, Mrs Zhang.”

“Why do you want my daughter?” she asked. “Who are you?”

“We are the long shadow of your greatest fears.”