‘Uh-huh,’ Hatcher said. They shook hands. Varney strode to the balcony door, checked the view, and turned around with his arms behind his back.
‘I’m with the Commonwealth Triad Squad,’ he said. When neither Sloan nor Hatcher responded, he went on. ‘Things’ve changed a lot in the last six, seven years. I thought I might offer a hand should you need it. I happened to recognize your names when they appeared on our computer yesterday.’
‘Computer?’ Hatcher asked.
‘We run a computer check against the airport list. Routine, y’know, try to keep tabs on who’s coming and going. I was going to give you a call and then Colonel Sloan showed up, so I decided to touch in with you both.’
Hatcher said. ‘That’s real thoughtful, Sergeant. But our business here has nothing to do with the triads.’
‘Yes, sir, but considering your past experience with the Silk Dragons and the White Palms, we just thought we might extend the courtesy of the force, so to speak.’
‘I don’t think I’ll be needing it,’ Hatcher said, staring at Sloan again. ‘The colonel’s leaving today and I plan to be out of here tomorrow or the next day.’
‘Yes, sir, that’s jolly good,’ Varney said. He paused for a moment as if to pick the right words, stretching his neck and ruffling his shoulders. The sergeant had more ticks than a south Georgia hound. ‘It’s just that — I think I should advise you, sir — while you are here, you could be in considerable danger. We’d like you to know we’ll extend the full courtesy of the department to you. Perhaps’ — he paused another moment, pursing his lips before going on — ‘you might like an escort.’
‘I know the town just fine,’ Hatcher’s whispery voice crackled.
‘Yes, yes, of course, but —‘
Hatcher cut him off. ‘Look, Sergeant, I never had any dealings with the White Palms, and as far as I know, the Silk Dragons are history.’
Sloan jumped in. ‘That’s the point, Hatch, the Silk Dragons may be history, but the White Palms kind of.
uh . . .‘ Sloan stalled for a moment.
‘Permit me,’ Varney said. ‘After White Powder Mama
was assassinated, the White Palms — uh, shall we say — absorbed many of the Silk Dragon members. Rather like a merger, if you will.’
‘Is that a fact,’ Hatcher said, still only vaguely interested. He knew most of the history and had been battling the Silk Dragons when this Varney guy was still diddy-bopping his way around the middle school cricket pitches.
‘You know about Tollie Fong?’ Varney asked airily.
‘Tollie Fong?’ Hatcher said, raising his eyebrows, playing dumb.
‘His father was Lee Fong.’
For an instant, Hatcher’s mind flashed to the Singapore airport. Dusk. 1975. Twelve years ago. Yeah, he knew Lee Fong, all right.
‘We thought you should know Tollie Fong is the new san wong of the White Palms,’ Varney said with a bit of a flourish, leaning back and almost smirking. ‘And,’ he added with obvious satisfaction, ‘Joe Lung is his Number One here in Hong Kong. They still remember. . .
So, thought Hatcher, tuning him out, it’s come full circle
Sweeping down from the hills on their long-haired horses, the Mongolians came. Their flowing black hair in ratty pigtails, their faces bearded and hungry, their eyes afire with opium. Cutting down or burning everything in their path: horses, cows, pigs, children, all but the women
— the women were their prize of prizes. Looting and killing, the barbarians butchered the gentle Chinese in the flatlands by the sea, below the seven peaks where the seven dragons dwelt.
And the dragons, who in life had been the first seven emperors of China, angrily watching from their mountain aeries, summoned forth the leaders of the Chinese, describing to them how to fight b2ck, telling them the tactics to use, giving them the juice.
So the taipans banded together into three-family cells, forming triangles with their farms, erecting walls between them, and hitting back from each side when the Mongols struck, and the dragons were proved right. The Chinese, in what would eventually be Hong Kong, cut the savages to shreds and sent what few were left back to Mongolia to carry the message. The barbarians never returned.
Thus, in the twelfth century, the triads were born, growing stronger for the next eight hundred years; each triad taking on its own rituals, its own passwords and secret handshakes, its own poems legends and history, swearing allegiance to the clan, a blood oath known as the hong mon, growing in power until they were the ruling classes of Hong Kong and the Chinese business world. Businessmen, mostly, honored and respected.
The evil ones followed quickly, the maverick triads who grabbed the power. Calling themselves the Chiu Chao.
Growing in power also: the Silk Dragons, the White Palms, the 14K, the Thin Blade Gang, the House of Seven Hands and others, running it all, everything that was illicit and corrupt — gambling, prostitution, loan sharking, white slavery, drugs, smuggling, the black market—and running it with clear, relentless vision, so focused on cruelty and murder that they defied challenge. The Mafiosi of the Orient.
The triads were eight hundred years old. The Chiu Chao was seven hundred ninety years old. It took only ten years for the corruption to start.
The evil triads divided up the underworld, each taking its own segment, and the most lucrative of them all was the drug empire of the Silk Dragons, always looking to expand, seeing ahead with diabolical vision. In the late sixties a fat new market lay waiting in Vietnam, and they brought pure No. 3 China White heroin from the Golden Triangle of Thailand cross-country to Hong Kong and smuggled it into Saigon or shipped it down the Mekong River directly into Vietnam, where they sold it to American GI’s for two dollars a pop to get them hooked.
White Powder Mama became the GI’s soul mate, their savior, with his precious packages of dreams, their escape from misery. He created by insidious design a new market for China White in the United States, where Mexican or Turkish brown heroin had been. king: using hooked American soldiers as the base, the Silk Dragons stretched across the sea to America. White Powder Mama was in reality Ma Bing Sum, the san wong, the ‘godfather,’ of the Silk Dragons. White Powder Mania and his Red Pole ‘executioner,’ Lee Fong, who was also his brother, were the most feared men in Hong Kong, so powerful they conscripted five members of the Hong Kong narcotics squad, who called themselves the Dragon’s Breath, to control the river passages, what they called the ‘long, white run.’
Spring, 1973. Enter Christian Hatcher.
They were in the back room of the officers’ club in Cam Ranh Bay, which had become the busiest port in the world, the honey pot from which flowed all the men and arms to the undeclared war in Vietnam. Compared with the rest of the country, Cam Ranh was Country Club City, except when the sappers came in the middle of the night and tore things up. For Hatcher, in those days, five minutes away from Indian country- was like a six-month vacation.
‘Got a job for you,’ Sloan said.
‘Uh-huh,’ Hatcher said. He hail heard the line many times before.
‘We’ve got us a big problem over here,’ Sloan said.
‘No kidding,’ Hatcher answered with a laugh.
‘I mean besides the war,’ Sloan s aid. ‘You know about the Silk Dragons?’
Hatcher nodded. ‘You mean White Powder Mama?’
Sloan nodded. ‘Ma Bing Sum and his bunch of dope traders.’
‘They’ve been around forever,’ replied Hatcher with a shrug. ‘They’re a Hong Kong police problem.’
‘Not anymore. They’re walking on our notes, pal,’ Sloan went on. ‘We have a serious narcotics problem in Nam and most of it is coming downriver from the Triangle. This White Powder Mama has become a major pain in the ass. He’s got five do-mommies running the rivers from Thailand. Ex-Hong Kong cops, they call themselves the Dragon’s Breath. Strictly bad-ass, the bunch of them. The Buffalo wants to kick ass, teach ‘em a lesson.’
‘So?’
‘So, you
know the river. Put together two or three squads, get yourself a couple of armored riverboats, I can get you anybody you need — CRIPS, Seals, Berets, name it. Any bad-ass in the service is yours. I want you to take ‘em all out. I want this Dragon’s Breath to be history, and fast.’
‘Okay,’ Hatcher said casually, ‘but I’ve got an alternative plan to suggest.’
‘Shoot.’
‘If we do it your way, my cover’s blown.’
‘Okay, how do you see it?’
‘I’ll take three good cutthroats, Molly McGuire, Chet Rodriguez’ — he thought for a minute — ‘and Bear Newton. The rest’ll be Orientals. Make it look like we’re just hijacking their shit. I’ll run the show but keep a low pro. Hell, we’ll wear masks, scare the scrotums off the do-mommies. Any other way we do it, I’m made and we wash ten years.’
‘Where are you gonna get Orientals that are good enough to do that kind of work?’ Sloan asked skeptically.
‘That’s my problem.’
‘I need twenty-four men, the best cutthroats money can buy,’ Hatcher told China Cohen. ‘Able to take orders, no arguments. And quiet — they say a word about any of this, they lose their tongues.’
‘What’s the trick?’ China asked.
‘You don’t want to know.’
Duck hunting, roaming the backwaters at night with their twenty mike-mike cannons and thermite bombs, their Uzis and K-Bar knives, hitting the hooches where the druggers slept at night, waging open warfare on the rivers against the Dragon’s Breath bringing heroin down the Mekong River. In three months Hatcher’s small group ambushed two dozen heroin shipments. In three months four of the five members of the Dragon’s Breath felt the cold steel and hot sting of knives in their throats, died quickly and quietly, while their boats and deadly cargoes were stolen from under them, taken far upstream and burned. Only one member of the Dragon’s Breath escaped Hatcher’s renegades.
Two years later: Singapore airport. White Powder Mama’s Number Two, the Red Pole executioner, Lee Fong, had been unsuccessfully looking for Hatcher for almost two years. Finally he had him in sight, had been tailing him for days, waiting for the right moment to kill him in the classic manner, a stiletto placed carefully at the base of the neck, cutting the nervous system and jugular at the same time — an act to save face and prove to White Powder Mama that he was still worthy to be the Silk Dragon’s Number Two.
Hatcher had been on to him from the start, knew that Fong had to prove himself. A contact killing was called for, so it was easy for Hatcher to lure hint on.
Hatcher went to the observation deck. It was getting dark and the platform was empty. He watched a jet take off, heard the door open behind him and swish shut, heard the footsteps moving closer. He stooped down, as if to tie his shoe. The footsteps quickened. They were directly behind him.
Hatcher twisted and stood in one swift move, burying a seven-inch stiletto under the rib cage and jamming it up into Fong’s heart, staring straight into Fong’s face, so close he felt the rush of the Silk Dragon executioner’s dying breath on his face, and trapping Fong’s hand in a steel grip until he felt the life drop out of the assassin’s body.
‘Joi-gin, Fong,’ he said as he dropped him.
Two weeks later, White Powder Mama was dead on the streets of Wanchai, machine-gunned coming out of a nightclub. The reign of the Silk Dragons was ended. The White Palms took over and, to show their compassion, absorbed many of the Silk Dragons’ members.
One of them was Tollie Fong, Lee Fong’s son. Now, twelve years later, he was the Red Pole of the White Palm Triad, and was about to become its leader. As the White Palm assassin, Tollie Fong was perhaps the most dangerous man in the world. As san wong his power was awesome. And his Number One in Hong Kong was Joe Lung, the last remaining member of the Dragon’s Breath, the only one to escape Hatcher’s guerrillas.
Both had sworn to kill Hatcher on sight.
They operated out of Macao.
And all Hatcher’s clicks told him that if this Varney knew he was in Hong Kong, the White Palms probably did too.
hijacking their goods,’ Varney was saying. ‘Beg your pardon?’ said Hatcher.
‘I said, apparently they still hold it against you, hijacking their goods, I mean.’
The secret had been well kept. As far as Varney or Hong Kong or even Interpol knew, Hatcher had been a bad-ass who was now cooperating with the government. Hatcher knew Varney wasn’t there just to offer the ‘courtesy of the Crown.’ He was there to size up Hatcher, decide whether he was one of the good guys or still potentially a bad guy. That was okay, too.
Sergeant Varney was smart enough to realize that Hatcher did not welcome his help or his interest. This was a dangerous man.
‘I suggest you be extremely careful while you’re in the colony,’ Varney said, walking to the door. ‘You are still high on Tollie Fong’s death list. If either he or Joe Lung finds out you are in Hong Kong, they will stop at nothing to kill you. Needless to say, as a police officer I would prefer to prevent that.’
‘I appreciate your interest,’ Hatcher said. ‘As I told you, we’ll both be out of here in a day or two. I’ll try to keep a low profile.’
Varney handed Hatcher his card. ‘If you should need help, just call. My night number is on the back. I assure you, we will respond as quickly as possible.’
The sergeant marched stiffly to the door and left with a short bow.
Hatcher was suspicious and annoyed by the intrusion.
‘I got things to do here, Harry,’ Hatcher said. ‘I definitely don’t need this Limey ramrod crawling up my back.’
‘Just don’t go snooping around Macao, okay?’ Sloan said.
‘Don’t worry about me—’
‘Keep away from Tollie Fong and the triads.’
‘I don’t want to run into Fong and his buddies.’
‘You’ll end up floating in the bay. I’d hate like hell to have to explain that.’
‘That’s really sentimental of you.’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘I know exactly what you mean. And I’m not going to end up floating anywhere.’
‘Start messing with the White Palms, you’re as good as dead.’
‘That’s not the way it happened last time.’
‘Don’t get cocky either,’ said Sloan softly. ‘Tollie Fong is the man in the White Palm Triad now and Joe Lung is his number one boy in Hong Kong. And they both have sworn to dust you. You’re not in Bangkok by Saturday, I’ll have the dogs out after you.’
‘I’ll meet you at the Imperial,’ Hatcher whispered. ‘The D’Jit Pochana for breakfast Saturday morning, usual time.’
‘Sure.’
‘One other thing. Get that whiz kid you got in the States, Flitcraft, to check his computer. See if there’s anything on a Vietnam POW camp that was a floater. It moved around. I’m guessing it was a temporary holding camp near the Laotian border. It might have been called the Ghost Camp or something like that.’
‘I’ll see what he can turn up. I’ll have him call you direct.’
‘I’ve got his number. I’ll call him.’
‘All right,’ Sloan said after a moment’s thought. ‘Just be careful.’
‘I’ve never stopped being careful,’ Hatcher answered.
Hatcher turned, went back into his room and closed the door behind him. He didn’t bother to shake hands.
He stepped out on his balcony and looked across the bay at Victoria Peak and Cohen’s mountaintop fortress. A lot of things had changed in the last hour. Now he knew he had to see Cohen.
Every man must pay for his sins, 126 had once said.
The question in Hatcher’s mind was, Who was the sinner, who had been sinned against, and who was going to have to pay?
OPTIONS
Hatcher’s clicks were working overtime. Sloan would have the police version of what happened and background on Wol Pot by the time Hatcher got to Bangkok, so there was no need worrying about that now. If th
ey had lost Wol Pot, Hatcher had to take his other options. But they were risky and they were long shots. The question he asked himself was, Should he trash the project and go back to Georgia? Suddenly the Cody job had taken a bad turn. The complexities were growing. One man had been murdered and now the Hong Kong Triad Squad appeared to be involved. Varney’s ‘social’ call had immediately fired more danger signals in Hatcher’s head. This was no longer a simple trace job. It had turned lethal.
He formed his plan quickly, based on logic. If the Vietnam ghost camp described by Schwartz did exist, there were people upriver in Chin Chin land who would know about it. That meant he would need Cohen’s help. Hatcher decided to make contact with his old friend, then wait and see if Flitcraft turned up anything interesting.
He stared up at the top of Victoria Peak, at the house he knew was Cohen’s, wondering whether the years had changed him. Was he still as powerfu1 as he had once been? Hatcher wondered. And what of Daphne?
Could he still trust any of his old friends?
He dialed a number he still remembered after all the years. A high-pitched voice answered in Chinese: ‘Jo sahn.’
‘Cheap bastard,’ Hatcher growled. ‘Still too cheap to spring for a secretary after all these years. And that phony Chin soprano of yours doesn’t fool ne.’
There was a long pause, then an awed voice almost whispered, ‘Christian?’
‘Ah. You haven’t forgotten,’ Hatcher whispered in return.
‘Christian!’ Cohen shouted. ‘Christ, I heard you were dead.’
‘That’s what you get for listening to rumours.’
‘My God, I can’t believe this. Are you here?’
‘Over at the old standby.’
‘What’re you whispering for, you in trouble?’ Cohen asked in a very confidential tone.
‘It’s a long story and, no, I’m not in trouble — at least not yet.’
‘Get your ass over here now! God, wait till I tell Tiana. I can’t believe this, man, I can’t fucking believe it! Hatcher, back from the dead!’
China Cohen’s excitement seemed genuine, and Hatcher felt better after he hung up. In his heart, he believed that Cohen was still a loyal friend. But this was Hong Kong. Allegiances changed a quickly as the wind.