Afraid to move quickly, he turned only his eyes to the right. He had an idea what had been pressed to his head. He saw that he was right: it was a gun.
Looking up, Freddie found himself looking into the face of a youthful Chinese man with a cigarette clenched between his teeth. Behind him were two others.
“Please get out of the car,” the man with the gun said. “Slowly and quietly. No one will be hurt.”
Freddie swallowed with difficulty. He knew that these men were triad foot soldiers. Knowing how easily this type of man killed, Freddie was terrified. At first he couldn’t move, but a nudge with the barrel of the gun helped. Slowly, he climbed from the car.
“Please walk back to the other car,” the man with the gun told him. Freddie walked. When he reached the other car, the man told him to get inside. Freddie did as he was told. The man with the gun got in beside him. Ahead, Freddie saw the other two get into his sedan.
Arriving at Kai Tac Airport always filled Willy with happiness. Although he felt himself to be Australian to the core, having been born in Sydney, his father and mother had come from Hong Kong. Willy had always had a great affinity for the colony. Besides, he still had family there.
The first thing he did was rent a car. Although parking in Hong Kong was a nightmare, he wasn’t concerned. The car was to serve as a base of operations and could be abandoned at any time. To rent it he used false documents. He had brought several sets.
His first destination was a restaurant in the Mong Kok section of Kowloon, one of the most densely populated areas of the world. The restaurant was located on Canton Street, which was narrow and grossly congested. But with an appropriate amount of squeeze to the local policeman, he left the car between two canvas-covered stalls filled with pots, pans, and dishes.
The restaurant was nearly deserted at that time of the morning. Willy went directly into the kitchen, where sweating cooks were preparing the food for lunch. The floor was covered with an inch layer of grease and packed debris.
Beyond the kitchen were several rooms that served as offices. In the first an elderly woman dressed in a black high-collared silk dress was sitting at a desk. Before her was an abacus. The wooden balls clicked as she went over some figures.
Willy bowed with respect, then told the woman who he was. She didn’t speak. She opened one of the desk drawers and extracted a package of brown paper tied with string. She handed it to Willy, who bowed again.
Back in his car, Willy pulled off the cord and peeled back the paper. The gun was a Heckler and Koch 9-millimeter. It was brand new. He hefted the weapon. It fit nicely in his hand.
Pulling out the magazine, Willy made sure it was loaded. He saw that there was a handful of additional shells in the brown paper. These Willy put into his trouser pocket, although he knew he wouldn’t be needing them. In fact, he’d feel just as confident with just two bullets. The magazine held eight.
Sliding the gun into his inside breast pocket, Willy glanced at himself in the rearview mirror. The gun was bulky. He buttoned the jacket. He was wearing his best suit, knowing that he’d have to go into the Peninsula Hotel. He checked the mirror again. With the button done, it looked much better.
After starting the car, Willy drove to Nathan Road and headed south. As he approached the Peninsula Hotel, he began to feel a tingle of anticipation. Of all the various things he did for Female Care Australia, this was the kind of action he liked the best. Originally he’d been hired only because he spoke fluent Cantonese. But gradually he’d been given other responsibilities, and he’d proven himself over the years. In the “security” department, he was second only to Ned Kelly.
Pulling up directly in front of the hotel, Willy parked in an empty slot despite a sign forbidding it. He got out of the car and approached the doorman. He palmed two hundred dollars in Hong Kong currency and gave it to the man. “I trust my car will be all right where it is?” he asked in Cantonese.
The doorman bowed, slipping the money into his pocket.
Willy entered the hotel with a sense of pride. He was living testament to the Hong Kong ethic of diligent individual effort yielding success. As a child growing up dirt poor in Sydney, he had never imagined that one day he would be walking into a world class hotel and would feel comfortable doing so.
At a bank of house phones, Willy asked the operator to put him through to Marissa Blumenthal. He waited, hoping that she was indeed a guest. Without much ado, he was put through to her room. At first he planned on hanging up immediately, but he hated to forgo the thrill of speaking with his mark. But no one picked up.
Willy dialed the operator again, this time asking for Tristan Williams. There was no answer in his room either. Willy guessed they were out together. That was a good sign. He needed them together. His plan was simple. He would walk up and shoot each of them once in the head. Preferably, he would make his move in a crowded area. Then he would simply drop the gun, leave, and melt into the crowd. He’d done it plenty of times before. In Hong Kong, it was easy. In Australia, it was a lot more difficult.
Leaving the phones, Willy went to the newsstand and bought himself a copy of the Hong Kong Standard. With newspaper in hand, he walked into the main part of the lobby and took a seat where he could keep an eye on both the front door and the front desk. What he planned to do was wait for his quarry to come to him.
“Medicine in Hong Kong is an interesting mix,” Dr. Myron Pao said. “I was trained in London, so obviously I favor Western-style medicine. But I don’t ignore the traditional medicine either. Herbalists and acupuncturists have their places.”
Marissa and Tristan had found an internist who was on the staff of the hospital and who was happy to show them around. Accustomed to private hospitals in Boston, Marissa was amazed by the conditions in the Queen Elizabeth Hospital but impressed by the productivity. The number of patients seen in the clinics and treated on the wards was astonishing. Dr. Pao explained that Chinese families handled much of the inpatients’ personal care themselves.
“What about tuberculosis?” Marissa asked. “Is that much of a problem here in Hong Kong?”
“Everything is relative,” Dr. Pao said. “We see an average of about eight thousand new cases of TB each year. But that’s with a population of about five and a half million. Considering the crowded living conditions, I don’t think that is alarming. I’m sure that one of the reasons we don’t see more is because we vaccinate children with BCG. Contrary to your experience in North America, we find BCG quite effective.”
“Has there been much of an increase in the incidence of TB over recent years?” Marissa asked.
“There was when boat people from Vietnam, Cambodia, and Laos first arrived,” Dr. Pao said. “But currently that is being contained in the Lantau Island compounds.”
“What about TB salpingitis?” Marissa asked.
“I haven’t seen anything like that,” Dr. Pao said.
“None?” Marissa asked. She wanted to be sure.
“Not that I know of,” Dr. Pao said.
“What about in the People’s Republic of China?” Marissa asked. “Do you know what their experience is with TB?”
“They have a bit more than here,” Dr. Pao said. “Respiratory problems in general have a high incidence in the PRC. But they also use BCG extensively with equal success.”
“So there’s no big problem?” Marissa asked. “No recent upswing, anything like that?”
“Not that I know of,” Dr. Pao said. “And I’d have heard. We have a significant amount of communication with the PRC on medical matters, particularly with Guangzhou.”
Marissa was at a loss.
“Do you know anything about the Wing Sin Triad?” Tristan asked.
“That’s a dangerous question in Hong Kong,” Dr. Pao said. “I know they exist, but that’s about all.”
“Would you know how to contact them?” Tristan asked.
“Definitely not,” Dr. Pao said.
“One other question,” Marissa said. She w
as beginning to feel they were taking too much of the doctor’s time. “Can you think of any reason for mainland Chinese to go to Australia to learn in-vitro fertilization techniques or, on the other hand, if they could at all contribute to in-vitro?”
Dr. Pao thought for a moment, then shook his head. “I certainly can’t,” he said. “The problem the Chinese medical authorities face is how to prevent conception, not promote it.”
“That was my feeling as well,” Marissa said. “Thanks for your time.”
Together, Marissa and Tristan walked out of the bustling hospital.
Marissa shook her head dejectedly. “That was a waste of everybody’s time, especially Dr. Pao’s. Did you see the list of patients he’s scheduled to see today?”
Tristan held one of the main entrance doors open for her to pass. “Sometimes negative results are as important as positive ones,” he said, taking her arm. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. Coming here was a good idea.”
“What are we going to do now?” Marissa asked as they walked toward their limo. From the hospital grounds they could hear the dull roar of the city as it throbbed in the background.
“We’ll ask Freddie,” Tristan said. He looked at her dark brown eyes and smiled. “Then we’ll know if that thriller you read in the past had the real lowdown.”
When they arrived at the car, their driver jumped out of the driver’s seat and opened the rear door. Marissa had one foot inside the car when Tristan pulled her back. He had realized the driver wasn’t Freddie anymore. At almost the same time Marissa spotted a second Chinese stranger sitting in the backseat.
“Where is our other driver?” Tristan asked. The man holding the door was younger, lighter, and wearing a dark blue business suit, not a chauffeur’s uniform.
“Please, but the other driver had another engagement,” he said.
“Isn’t that a bit irregular?” Tristan asked.
“Not at all,” the man said. “It happens frequently when customers request particular drivers.”
“There’s a man in the car,” Marissa said.
Tristan bent over to look.
“Please get in the car,” the man holding the door said.
“Tristan!” Marissa exclaimed with a gasp. “He has a gun.”
Tristan straightened up. Glancing down, he saw a snub-nosed revolver in the man’s hand. The man held it close to his side, pointing it at Tristan’s belly.
“What is this, mate, some sort of joke?” Tristan asked, slightly shifting his feet.
“Please get in . . .” the man repeated. But he was cut short by Tristan’s blow first to the side of his neck, then to his wrist. With the second blow, the man’s gun clanked against the pavement. A spinning kick to the man’s chest hurled him against the car, slamming the door in the process.
Tristan grabbed Marissa’s hand and yanked her through low bushes that bordered a small patch of grass. On the other side of the grass was the street with its usual complement of traffic and pedestrians. Hazarding a look back, Tristan saw that another man had joined the two that had been in their limo, and now all three were coming after them.
Tristan had hoped that as soon as they got to a city street, they could merely melt into the crowd. But unfortunately this wasn’t the case. They hadn’t gotten enough of a head start. The men could still see them. All they could do was keep running.
They ran west into the Yaw Ma Tei section of Kowloon, desperately looking for one of the policemen they’d seen on motorbikes when they had been driving earlier. They would have settled for a traffic cop, but none were to be found.
The crowds of Chinese pedestrians parted as they ran. They seemed curious but not willing to become involved.
Tristan and Marissa came to a wide thoroughfare totally jammed with double-decker buses and stalled traffic. Even the bicycles had been forced to a standstill, making crossing the road difficult. Reaching the other side, they could see that the width of the road was all that separated them from their pursuers.
Once they were in the heart of the Yaw Ma Tei district, the congestion got worse still. Without meaning to, Marissa and Tristan turned into a market street with hundreds of canopied stalls loaded with herbs, clothes, fish, kitchenware, fruits, sweets, and other foods. In their haste, they collided with shoppers and even some of the vendors.
Despite her fear, Marissa began to falter. The hormones and her added weight made running a strain. Unintentionally she began to pull against Tristan’s hand.
“Come on!” he urged when he realized she was falling behind.
“I can’t!” she cried through gasps.
Tristan knew she wouldn’t be able to keep up with him much longer. What they needed was a place to hide. Tristan veered between several stalls, frantically searching. There seemed no place to go. The space between the line of stalls and apartment blocks was filled with discarded produce rotting in the sun. Cats foraged in the gutter for whatever they could find. There were no open doorways. Everything was shut tight. Even the windows on the ground floor were tightly shuttered. Then Tristan noticed a small side street about half a block away.
“Come on,” he urged. “Just a little further.”
Reaching the street, they turned into it. It was so narrow only one car could drive down it at a time. They passed an open-air shop with a row of skinned ducks hanging by their necks. Next door to that was a shop that sold edible insects and then another that sold snakes.
Separated from the general din of the market street with its clamor of car horns, jackhammers, and spirited bargaining, the side street was comparatively quiet. The main sounds came from hidden radios and from the click of Mah-Jongg tiles. Elderly Chinese were busy playing the game on wooden tables. As Marissa and Tristan dashed by, the elders gave them a cursory glance before going back to their gambling.
“Who are these people chasing us?” Marissa managed between labored breaths. “What’s going on? Why are they after us?”
“I have no clue,” Tristan said, equally as winded. “But I’m quickly learning to dislike Hong Kong. Swimming in croc-infested rivers in the Northern Territories is healthier, I’m convinced. I’ve always had a dislike for guns.” Nervously, Tristan glanced over his shoulder. He was relieved to see no one was following them down the narrow street.
“I’ve got to sit down for a moment,” Marissa said. With all her infertility treatments and little or no exercise, she wasn’t in shape for this kind of exertion. Just ahead there was a tea shop with gleaming pots hanging above a beaded doorway. She pointed. “How about something to drink?”
After another look behind them, Tristan reluctantly agreed.
The tea shop occupied a windowless room that looked more like a storeroom than a public space. The tables were worn, unfinished wood. A handful of customers were seated at several. In the usual Chinese tradition, they spoke at a level just below a shout. Combining the loud conversation with the de rigueur Chinese music blaring from a tiny Panasonic, the atmosphere was hardly restful. Even so, Marissa was pleased to sit down. Her legs ached and she had a pain in her side.
The proprietor eyed them suspiciously. He walked over to them and addressed them in guttural Chinese.
“Sorry, mate,” Tristan said. “Don’t speak Chinese. How about a cuppa tea. Any kind. You choose.”
The man looked at Tristan without comprehension. Tristan mimed tea drinking, then pointed to the other customers. Apparently understanding, the man disappeared through a back doorway covered with strings of beads matching those that hung in the entrance from the street.
“Convenient there were no police around,” Marissa said sarcastically, her chest still heaving. “We’ve been in Hong Kong for less than twenty-four hours and we’ve had to run for our lives twice. Neither time have we seen a single policeman.”
“I warned you that this trip wouldn’t be a proper holiday,” Tristan said.
“Should we go to the police now?” Marissa asked.
“I don’t know what we’d tell t
hem,” Tristan said. “Besides, they certainly wouldn’t be apt to help us find the Wing Sin.”
“Maybe we’re in over our heads,” Marissa said.
“That’s obvious.” Tristan turned around and looked for the proprietor. “Where in blazes is our tea?”
Marissa wasn’t concerned. She didn’t care about the tea particularly.
Tristan stood up. “Hong Kong is a place of extremes,” he said. “Orders come instantly or take forever.” He walked toward the curtain the proprietor had disappeared through. Parting the beads he looked within. Then he returned to the table and sat down.
“There’s a bevy of scraggly old guys in there smoking pipes,” he said. “I think we’ve stumbled onto one of the old-fashioned opium dens the authorities tolerate for the sake of a handful of aged addicts. Opium is one of the grimiest and most despicable legacies of British colonial history, yet it provided the basis for the founding of Hong Kong.”
“Should we go?” Marissa asked. At the moment she wasn’t interested in history.
“Whenever you’re ready.”
“How are we going to get out of here?” Marissa asked.
“We’ll skirt around through these back streets,” Tristan said.
“When we get to that large thoroughfare we ran across, we’ll snag a taxi.”
“Let’s do it,” Marissa said. “The sooner I get back to the hotel the better I’ll feel.”
Tristan pulled the table back for Marissa to stand. Getting to her feet, she stretched each of her aching legs, then walked stiff-legged to the door and ducked through the beads. When Tristan did the same he bumped into her. Marissa was frozen. Directly in front of the tea house was a black limousine.
The three men in dark blue suits who had been chasing them earlier were casually lounging around the car in various states of repose. Spotting Tristan and Marissa, the man near the front of the car straightened up. Marissa recognized him as the one who’d posed as Freddie. His snub-nosed revolver wasn’t in evidence. Instead, he had a more serious-looking machine pistol dangling at his side.
Tristan grabbed Marissa’s wrist and turned back into the restaurant only to see its heavy wooden door slam shut in his face. He was about to try to force it open when he heard the locks on the other side slide into place.