The Jade Buddha

Intense Crime Thriller, Set in Hong Kong’s Tumultuous 1908s, Embroils Everyman in Gangster’s Wrath

Synopsis

 

It is Hong in the nineteen eighties. The British Crown Colony is on the verge of reverting to Chinese rule. Life is hectic but tentative; there are fears for the future.

The governments of Hong Kong and the United Kingdom are doing all they can to calm local nerves while at the same time pressing Beijing’s rulers to the north for assurances that the rule of law will be maintained.

Beneath the surface other forces are at work; criminal forces dating back centuries but still very much alive. There is a triad war, a war where the winner will amass great power.

Some triad gangs are opportunistic small time pimps and extortionists. Others are extremely well organised and control exceptionally high-value narcotics and other illicit business interests. And they are notoriously brutal to their enemies.

The agencies of law enforcement are involved not just in Hong Kong but across the globe. So too is Simon Garrett; unintentionally but intimately involved. Where not only his life is at stake but others who are dear to him. Their futures are being controlled by a shadowy gangster who will stop at nothing to get what he wants; a green jade Buddha of immense symbolic power.

The Shī fu.

 

 

CHAPTER ONE

 

The man didn’t see it, didn’t even hear it.

The first he knew of it was the sharp excruciating pain in his left knee as unforgiving metal punched through the thin skin and flesh and splintered the cap of bone.

Before he could cry out the initial shock that was registered by his brain was quickly followed by another burning red hot needle thrust into his ribs smashing the protective cage and then wrenched out. As it left his body he felt a small explosion and sensed a letting of gases and a collapse of things he instinctively knew would be fatal.

Immediately his left aside went numb. The pain vanished and he didn’t feel the pitted tar and gravel as it leapt up to strike his elbow, shoulder and right side. In a fraction of a second his head struck the road surface with such force that it cracked and gushed a bright red with a murky grey substance floating within. He was dead by the time the vehicle rumbled on over him his now elastic body bouncing up and down being torn and pummelled by the rusty protruding steel underbelly.

The high-backed truck swerved wildly its long-unserviced brake pads screaming in deafening decibels and mounted the concrete ridge in the middle of the road, ramming hard into the back of a stationary tram. There was a hiss as the radiator burst and hot steaming brown water spurted onto the parallel rails and the horn blasted like a siren as the driver was hurled forward out of his seat.

His head hit the windscreen knocking him senseless and he lay slumped over the steering wheel, a shoulder pressed against the horn, his leg snapped straight forcing the clutch pedal to the floor. The engine idled like a defective heart in an uncanny duet with the wheezing of the rapidly emptying radiator. Thirty meters behind the mangled form of the pedestrian sprawled in a growing pool of blood.

It had happened in an instant. In slow motion it would have been morbidly fascinating but in reality it had been a dull thud, a screech, a loud metallic bang and a blaring vehicle’s horn. In that fleeting moment a life had been taken, snatched and sent flying into eternity leaving behind years of pain and joy, sadness and happiness, a total life’s experience with no time to say farewell.

Simon Garrett wanted to cry out. His eyes were already burning and his senses were sparking fast. He had not seen the entire incident but enough to recoil in horror at the sight and the thought of the brutal death occurring only feet from where he stood. Whole phases of the shock and disgust formed on his lips but before he could spit them out a woman by his wide screamed and flung her arms wide almost knocking him over.

The sudden blow brought him back to the present and without thinking he jumped into the road and raced to the body lying on his back, the shirt soaked dark maroon, the arms pinned out of sight and the left leg at an impossible angle at the knee. Garrett could see splinters of bone protruding through the material of the trousers and he quickly averted his eyes and looked into the dead man’s face. Instantly he wished he hadn’t. It was pulp. Both eyes had been gouged from their sockets, the nose was a mushy piece of raw meat and both cheeks had been sliced open though it was painfully obvious from the jagged strips which hung to the road surface that the scalpel had been filthy bolt and hinge brackets that had bitten and clawed at the facial bones. The top part of his scalp had been scythed open.

Garrett’s stomach heaved and he choked as he turned away trying to focus on something, anything but the destroyed apparition before him.

The next thing he knew he was being roughly pushed aside. He saw a hand on his shoulder and felt another, or more, on his back and down his sides. A bare torso squatted down in front of him and then turned and again the hands were on him, pushing him backwards, knocking him to the ground. He fought to stand as a Chinese man between him and the body also rose from his haunches. He was dressed only in faded and ripped jeans and wore flip flops on his feet.

“What the…!” Garrett shouted surprised at the vehemence in his voice.

But the man only held up his hands, palms out, and took a half step back. Garrett was about to follow this outburst with another when a uniformed police constable stepped from behind into the gap. He called something in Cantonese which Garrett did not understand and clamped strong fingers around his upper arm.

Garrett tugged free and was about to protest again when another uniformed policeman appeared, this time a European. In a remarkably calm tone he said: “Alright. It’s OK. We saw what happened. We’ll look after things. Stand away. Get back over there.”

The Chinese man with the bare chest was only half visible behind the constable but Garrett could see his eyes were still burning into him, not in hatred as he first imagined but in unwavering concentration as if trying to imprint every feature of the gwai lo on his memory. He paid no attention whatever to the body on the road.

*

“What have you done with it?” asked the bespectacled man in the expensive dark grey suit.

Behind the thick lenses his eyes which in reality were small and too close together were magnified to a size too large for his short squat frame. For the ninth time he did not wait for an immediate reply but went on: “Where is it? Tell me and we can end this now.”

He stood easily at attention with his hands clasped behind his back. His appearance was that of a successful businessman; highly polished black dress shoes with tiny leather tassels at the ends of the laces, the suit with faint light blue pin stripes only visible close up, a crisp white shirt again with a delicate blue-grey thread running perpendicular, and a narrow silk grey tie with red and blue flecks which set off the outfit as modern good taste required. He wore no hat and his fine silver hair was parted precisely on one side just covering the peaks of his ears. He appeared immaculate the only mar being the globules of perspiration which glistened on his forehead and were teetering at the end of his eyebrows.

”Be sensible,” he said softly. “Help yourself. Put an end to this absurdity.”

Withdrawing a white silk handkerchief from his pocket he dabbed at the salty sweat and examined the dampness on the besmirched material. Folding it with care he returned it to his pocket and cast his eyes about him.

“You don’t want this here,” he said. “You are too good for this obscene performance. Be true to yourself and your position and tell me. Where is it?” The questioner subconsciously cast another glance at his surroundings and the curl of his thick lips showed his own discomfort at being part of them.

The floor was cracked concrete littered with garbage and stained with oil and grease which had built up over a long period of heavy duty work. The walls were scarred where fixtures had been wantonly wrenched free and where grime had been ignored. The ceiling or what remained of it hung in precarious suspension, gaping openings allowing partial insight into the deserted space below.  A single powerful metal beam spanned the breadth of the room no doubt from which once had hung chains and ropes and pulleys and all manner of equipment. Not long ago this ground floor space had been a struggling light and heavy metal shop, the life support for a dozen workers and their hungry families. A long time before that the government had stepped in and begun clearing the infamous Walled City as part of a massive redevelopment programme. The illegal businesses closed down or relocated and the area which had defied politics, local authorities and international law for nearly a century and a half became a high-rise ghost city. The ancient mandarin’s seat with its gritty ceremonial canons became a fragment of history.

However in the midst of the rusting machinery leftovers wrecking of another kind was taking place hidden from the public. A human being was slowly, methodically being taken apart.

The suited man dropped his gaze and as he plucked a small piece of broken plaster from his jacket front said quietly: “The other one.”

He turned to walk away and another man stepped forward. He was large with bulging eyes and he wore a sleeveless denim jerkin that was saturated with sweat. His hair was long to his shoulders and he had a small scar on his left cheek, a legacy of a knife thrust which pierced the flesh cleanly but miraculously severed his tongue at the same time. He knew knives well. Knew how to use them viciously or with expert precision. Today he was utilising his skills to the best of his ability.

Before him a man dangled from thick ropes strung over the ceiling beam. He was naked and his feet were barely an inch off the floor. Despite his prayers he was not yet near death from the injuries that had been inflicted on him over the preceding hours. No description could do justice to the pain he had suffered at the hands of the large man at the direction of his interrogator. His body was stretched to its limit, his head sunk onto his chest, his eyes closed. Or rather his one remaining eye was closed. The other had been expertly plucked from its housing just thirty minutes before and grotesquely stared out from his cheek where it adhered at the end of a streak of mucus-like substance. Both ears had been severed leaving only bloody holes. His nose too had been sliced off and his bottom lip removed. Blood covered his upper body. Had his feet where every toe had been cut off been allowed the touch the floor the man would have suffered even more pain as his Achilles tendons had been severed. It seemed the only complete part of his body were his hands which were locked in agonising embrace above his disfigured head.

As his torturer advanced towards him and raised the blade yet again the man slowly lifted his chin and whispered in barely understandable words though his bloodied teeth: “Please. No more. Kill me. Please.”

From what seemed a great distance he heard the soft even voice of his interrogator: “Tell me and I will do as you ask. You have my word.”

In broken gasps the man said: “I gave it to Tang. He has it.”

“Who is this Tang?” asked the interrogator from a position out of sight.

“Tang Yin-lo. The jeweller of Carnavon Road. He is my financer.”

“Ahhh,” sighed the interrogator. “So it is he who has funded you. Where can I find him now?”

“I don’t know.” The man’s gasps were almost inaudible. “We were to meet tomorrow to exchange. He is doing the business today.”

“Where and when were you to meet Tang?” the interrogator enquired. “This is my last question. Then all this will be over for you.”

The man breathed deeply. “In the street of birds. The Hop Yee Tea House. Nine thirty.”

Turning his head painfully in the direction of the man in the suit with the wispy white hair he pleaded: “Kill me now. I am dead anyway.”

His interrogator removed his spectacles and wiped them slowly with his silk handkerchief. Then he replaced them, flicked the lapels of his jacket removing some invisible dust and looked squarely at his brutish assistant.

“Do it carefully, with great care Kai. And slowly. Very slowly. I want this stench to think of me on his way to hell.”

As he turned and walked from the shell of the building into the dingy lane outside his helpless victim screamed in anguish at his misguided trust in his interrogator. But the man who was known as the Shī fu did not hear. Nor did he care about the abuse hurled after him. If his servant did his work well the dog could last many more hours.

*

As the white van with its glaring red lettering and characters straddled the tram tracks and three white uniformed attendants began placing the torn body of the accident victim on a stretcher another middle aged Chinese who looked remarkably similar in dress and features a man known as Dai Lo, or Big Brother, sat luxuriating in a plush alcove of a second floor nightclub five blocks to the east. He had been there since one o’clock that morning and had enjoyed the best the club had to offer. His appetite was prodigious as was his stamina though both fell short of the contents of the wallet that fitted snugly into the inside breast pocket of his jacket tossed casually over the back of the sofa.

Sole owner of one of Hong Kong’s largest import and export firms he had money to throw around. He dealt in quite simply anything considered likely to return a profit. He placed no restrictions on the potential range of business. His rule, the rule by which he operated and lived, was that if it could be exploited he would handle it. And if it could be sampled and enjoyed then he would do both. Now in his forty-fifth year he had been involved in many a venture and many an adventure. Generally they had worked out well. Without exception he considered the experiences to have been to his advantage even where the end rewards were not as fulfilling as he had hoped. Overall though the rewards had been great and he was in the enviable position of being able to do virtually anything he wished.

His business tentacles reached around the globe and offices bearing his bane or in some cases somewhat meaningless anagrams of the same, could be found in London, New York, Toronto, Bangkok, Tokyo, Dubai, Paris, Amsterdam and Sydney. Single brass plates outside non-descript rooms failed to reflect the size of trade transacted. Billions of dollars changed hands with alarming speed. A good deal of it ended up in the pocket of this man, Hung Wah-hang.

The territory’s central bank, the Hong Kong and Shanghai Banking Corporation, was happy to hold his account though they well knew the bulk of his fortune was deposited in a multitude of other vaults from Switzerland to Auckland. They were also content to honour any charge against his local credit card for which he had a rating almost unsurpassed in the territory. Some of that expenditure was in a few of the high quality nightclubs on both sides of the so famously once called fragrant harbour which he frequented as often as time allowed. The particular club he was now in was his favourite. The girls were the prettiest and the most accommodating of his demands and the management was the most pliant. It was just as well because what they did not realise was that it was one of his obscure acquisitions the year before.

At one o’clock that morning he had entered the seductive atmosphere of the establishment to partake of its rich offerings as freely as he could. He had cause for celebration and he could imaging no better place to do it. The liquor flowed easily beginning with his usual chilled champagne a supply of which was kept for him. Specially flown in from the hills of northern France he considered it the sweetest, the most enticing he had discovered on his many visits to Europe. From there he moved to iced white wine, then to red, a single glass of the weak-looking Tsing Tao beer from the mainland, and finally to his cherished cognac. However drinking was not what he had come to the club for this night. It was the delights in female form he sought in celebration. If his capacity for liquor was to be envied his capacity for sex was to be looked upon with concern.

Hung Wah-hang’s beautiful wife ten years his junior would never testify to it but she had the scars both physical and mental that if presented in a court of law would certainly bring the full weight of the bench down on his reputation. For like his business dealings Hung had an appetite on occasion for the unusual and on occasion even the bizarre. In this club today he had sated some of those tastes behind the heavy curtains of the alcove. Now he reclined savouring the recollections of those recent hours as the last of his companions performed her administrations to arouse his desire once more. But he was spent.

There was a rustling of the curtains and a man’s voice called quietly: “Dai Lo. Doi m’jue. It is time.”

Hung Wah-hang opened his eyes and stared blankly at the girl. Then he leaned forward, put his manicured hands under her armpits and lifted her off the carpet. He stood, straightened his clothing and smiled at her. “You failed where the others succeeded,” he said. “But your task was greater than theirs. Yet you tried your best. For that you deserve the same.” From his breast pocket he removed his wallet and slipped out five crisp one thousand dollar notes. “Next time you shall be the first my petal and I shall give you a time you shall remember.”

Outside the alcove he briskly signed a chit without noting the amount and motioned to a tall well-dressed young Chinese whose black suit concealed his strength and the revolver tucked in the leather shoulder holster.

“We go,” he said. “It is time for business.”

Waiting at the curb outside the club was Hung’s silver Mercedes Benz 500. The black suited driver sat behind the wheel glancing every few seconds at the entrance. His watch seemed to have slowed over the last hours the digital minutes taking an inordinately long time to change. It now read eleven ten. He would have to be skilful to negotiate the heavy Wanchai and Causeway Bay traffic and still reach the rendezvous within twenty minutes.

His calculations were interrupted by the appearance of his employer in the doorway of the building. He reached for the ignition key and turned it sharply clockwise. As the engine kicked into deep whining life he glanced across through the passenger window. Hung’s bodyguard had his left hand on the handle of the rear door his right hidden under his jacket. Hung himself was in the middle of the pavement three paces behind. What happened next was a frenzied blur.

As the bodyguard swung open the rear door he twisted awkwardly to his right and the upper portion of his body slammed into the side of the car. At the same time his head erupted in a halo of blood, hair and flesh. Momentarily pinned in a crucifix his chest dimpled twice above the heart and he jack-knifed forward his knees collapsing.

Hung had not moved. He stared open-mouthed. Suddenly he lunged for the open door. A step away in a crouched position he felt the bullet hit him and he was propelled sideways. As he tried to remain on his feet his left shoe caught the body of his protector lying crumpled near the vehicle beside the gutter and he fell hard to the concrete. He rolled onto his back in time to see the first blow coming. The chopper caught him a glancing blow on the right shoulder. It was not fatal but it sliced through almost severing the arm. The next strike was at the same point on his left shoulder. It was quickly followed by a sideways hack which crashed through the bone and the arm dropped and rolled under the rear of the limousine.

Hung screamed in pain and squinted through burning lids waiting for the final blow. But the death strike was not to be so soon. First his left leg was partially hacked through. Then his right. Only then did the killer swing the heavy blade in a slashing motion across his throat.

In the doorway of the club the girl in the pink cheongsam stared at the body sprawled across that of the young and also very dead bodyguard beside the still purring Mercedes Benz. The thought that was running through her head was that her biggest pay days were over.

*

Over the years London had undergone a metamorphosis. It was being rebuilt from the inside out. The dilapidation of the seventies as well as the next decade had been reversed by a property boom fuelled by a new political confidence that swept the suburbs and countryside like a wildfire. For a time it was out of control; it flickered and raged with self-generating momentum that turned the city into a red hot cauldron. House prices went through the roof. Everyone seemed to be upgrading their residences. Developers were quick to react and the face lifting began in earnest.

At first old houses were bought and the three or four flats within gutted, repainted and refitted and put back on the market with appropriately worthwhile price tags. If the new owners expected to wait months for their bonuses they were sorely mistaken. Buyers moved in within weeks, sometimes days, and snapped up the spick and span apartments. So the odd block of flats became a row of two or three. Then sections of streets. Then whole streets. Scaffolding and painted FOR SALE signs littered pavements and prices continued to soar. It all meant that London took on an outward appearance of great prosperity and attraction.

By the end of the decade things remained bright but less than a decade later the economic crisis that hit every country in the world and property prices tumbled. However even then not unexpectedly there were some streets that would never change either because they were so bad they would have to be bombed out before the renovators would move in or because the residents would not budge for their own individual reasons. These streets were easily identifiable. They were already prosperous or they were home to council owned property that a minority of private buyers sought. Clark Avenue in West London’s Hammersmith was one. One terrace flat was owned by an English lawyer and another next to it by a single Australian. They were on greeting terms as neighbours but no more. As far as the lawyer knew his neighbour was a businessman who spent a good deal of his time travelling in Europe and to the Far East. The nature of that business he did not know, nor did it concern him that he didn’t. The Australian was a quiet neighbour who had a pleasant smile but who by and large kept to himself and that was the best one could wish for in a street of terrace houses.

Once he had been in the Australian’s flat and had been somewhat surprised at the taste with which he surrounded himself. The three-level three-bedroom property was crammed with antiques many in pristine condition but some which looked so frail they would fall apart if the dust was removed. It was not what he had expected to find. But then the Australian was far from what he seemed. They only truths in his known professional identity was that he was indeed a businessman and he did travel frequently. All else he kept very much to himself which was why he was not pleased at having to receive the other three men in his flat now. But the magnitude of the news he had received not two hours earlier called for urgent if unwelcome action.

It was dusk when his guests arrived which gave him some ease though it was little and the problem he now faced was of such importance that small consolations were nothing to be thankful for. They were seated on two large sofas in the first floor reception room. Light classical music from the stereo in the corner belied the atmosphere. It also screened their conversation to anyone listening in from elsewhere.

“When did it happen?” asked a large florid man who perched uneasily on the edge of one of the sofas. His coat was spread wide revealing a balloon belly and his trousers stretched thin over his knees and thighs.

“The jeweller was hit at eleven. Hung shortly after.”

The Australian looked hard at the man who had asked the question

“Both hits?” said another of the men.

The Australian turned his attention to the questioner.

“We can’t be certain. Hung of course. The jeweller…it may have been an accident. The driver didn’t try to run. But there are other considerations.”

“Who made the hit on Hung?” It was the large man again.

The Australian’s eyes followed the voices like a remote heat sensor.

“Unknown. But it’s being worked on. There is no doubt it was a cable though. The message was clear.”

The florid man frowned his brow and thick tangled hedges met in the middle of his face and dipped low over his nose. Still the Australian said nothing. The genius of the Russian music classic rose to a temporary crescendo and then just as quickly faded into near silence.

“The property?” The question was put by a slightly built youthful looking man at the end of the old sofa. It was the question each wanted the answer to but had been loath to ask for fear they would hear what they didn’t want to.

This time the Australian did not shift his gaze. He kept perfectly still as if composing himself for something unpleasant to happen. Finally he said flatly: “The jeweller had it when he was hit.” Now he faced the younger man directly: “An hour later at the morgue he didn’t.”

The large man jumped to his feet with surprising agility. “S**t!” he shouted. “It’s over then. They’ve got it.”

“Sit down,” said the Australian. Then again: “Sit…down.”

When the large man did as ordered the Australian gave him a bland stare which not show precisely what it was meant to convey but the man on the end of it understood. He studiously began examining the pattern of the Persian carpet at his feet.

“As I said,” the man in control of the meeting went on, “the jeweller had it when he was knocked down and he did not have it when he arrived at the morgue. It is interesting to note that the two men in the truck which killed him remained at the scene and made no attempt to flee, or one was happy to co-operate anyway. The driver was knocked unconscious and never got near the jeweller. He is in the QE hospital with concussion but minor injuries.”

“The other?” asked the younger man.

“He has been questioned and all his belongings checked in accordance with police routine. He did not have it. Nor did he leave the side of our man at any time.”

“Then it must have been lost at the scene.” The large man looked around the group. “Maybe someone, a bystander, just picked it up. S**t, maybe there’s some little old Chinese lady in a hut on a hillside with it sitting in a shoe box in the corner.” Suddenly he sprang to his feet again. “Who else got near the jeweller?”

The only person in the room who had not yet spoken now did so. He was seated next to the Australian as was his usual place at meetings. “The police, the ambulance bearers, and a pedestrian who went to his aid. In vain as it turned out because the jeweller died within minutes of being struck from our reports. He would hardly have had time to even realise that someone was actually trying to help him.”

“Maybe the police have it after all then?” It was the big man and his words were phrased as a question rather than a statement of opinion.

The Australian’s glare pierced him through and his retort was equally cutting. “Don’t be a fool. The Inspector was one of ours. He was covering Tang. He searched him immediately and checked his belongings again later. It wasn’t on him.”

“Well if Tang had it when he left and it as gone when he was searched that leaves only….” The sentence trailed off unfinished.

The young man looked squarely at the Australian. “Do we know who the Samaritan is?”

The stereo in the corner had become silent and the Australian moved across the carpet to it. He replaced the disc with another before he spoke. “His name is Simon Garrett. He’s English. A computer analyst.” He paused and as drums beat their heartbeat rhythm behind him and the room filled with their sound he breathed into the cool air. “We’ll have to see if this Simon Garrett has been meddling in things he shouldn’t.”

*

Ian Stewart had spent five years in Hong Kong and he knew it as well as any fellow Scot who had spent twice as long there. He prided himself that he was familiar with its psyche as distinct from the purely superficial façade as any gwai lo who referred to it as home.

When he had arrived fresh from the cold and historic stability of his native Edinburgh he was instantly captivated by the city’s zest for success, the impatience of the people to get on with life, the clamour of the place. The excitement was such that before he had begun the journey from Kai Tak International air terminal to the centre of Victoria on the island and then a coach that would take him to the Police Training School on the south side of the island an hour’s drive away he had resolved without hesitation not to be a passive observer but to become a part of it, to understand it, and to not waste a moment of the opportunities that presented themselves.

The approach from the air had been as it inevitably was for all new arrivals something he had not been prepared for in spite of the brochures he had consumed by lamplight in the weeks leading to his farewell to his parents. His heart leapt with the thump of the aircraft’s wheels on the Kai Tak airport runway. By the time he actually set foot in the Far East his decision was made. Hong Kong was really where he wanted to be and he determined he would use it, and put back into it, as best he could.

During the next five years he did precisely that. After his six months of basic training at the school in the old fishing village of Aberdeen, no longer bearing any resemblance to the quiet and rusticity of the past, he had made many new friends, could conduct a rudimentary conversation in Cantonese and was ready to take to the streets to help maintain law and order.

Everything seemed within his reach. Nothing was impossible in this place where five and a half million people rubbed shoulders so closely that one person’s experience was never his alone, and where a person could mature and grow at a pace unparalleled anywhere else on the face of the earth. Even if that was an exaggeration he believed it.

His postings followed one another reasonably quickly. First to a divisional station in Wanchai  where along with some of those he had undergone his training he joined Chinese constables and sergeants on routine beat patrol, then to Kowloon traffic headquarters across the harbour where he found himself cruising the streets of Tsim Sha Tsui and Yaumati and other districts whose names were until then only printed on maps and where he wrote up voluminous reports on road carnage, and on to the Central Investigation Department in the container port suburb of Kwai Chung handling robberies, woundings, prostitution, gambling, murder.

Finally twelve months ago he was transferred to the force’s highly successful and resourceful Narcotics Bureau and as a newly promoted Senior Inspector put in charge of a small team of rank and file, all Chinese. It was as if someone high up was sitting on his shoulder and acting as his guardian angel guiding his future along a path he prayed he would be lucky enough to tread. It was almost too good to be true. As was his life away from his work.

In his fourth year he had met and married a New Zealand teacher, he had mastered the second level of Cantonese, his bank balance was reasonably healthy despite the furnishings he had already amassed, and to cap it all he was now the father of a plump pink-cheeked baby boy who could not wait to crawl into his lap whenever he made it home in the early evening. Life had indeed moved ahead at a pace he could never have expected back home and he fully appreciated that it had been more than merely good to him.

The results of the previous night’s operations had followed the same pattern. The entire bureau had been mobilised to simultaneously raid one hundred premises the culmination of months of tiring, back-breaking stakeouts and intelligence gathering. It had been one of the largest hauls in the territory’s sordid history of narcotics dealing. One of the largest syndicates had been smashed with forty people arrested and vital information gathered on international trafficking patterns and personalities. Agencies in Europe, America and Australia would be kept busy in follow-up action for weeks and months to come.

Now in the early morning Stewart was sitting in the conference room of the Narcotics Bureau. Also present were the Chief Staff Officer of the Organised and Serious Crimes Squad, the Senior Staff Officer of the Criminal Intelligence Bureau, the Staff Officer in charge of investigations and operations of the Bureau itself, his immediate superior, the Chief Staff Officer of the whole bureau and heads of all the teams involved in the night’s work. It was a formidable array of brass. But then it had been a formidable success.

The debriefing had already lasted an hour and a half during which details of the operation had been recounted, report details revised, charges discussed and analysed, the follow-up action planned. Stewart was one of the small cogs in the whole wheel and he was excited. The bust was big and he had been an integral part of it, certainly no hindrance to a promotion to Chief Inspector he began to hope was not too far off, though in reality that was unlikely right now. Nevertheless he was not loath to speaking up so at one point in the debriefing his hand shot up.

“Sir, with all the good that has come from this there are some aspects which require clarification,” he proclaimed and then followed quickly with. “Sir.”

“Such as?” asked the bureau’s CSO.

“Well, this will certainly hit the Chiu Chows but we still haven’t laid a finger on the Mr Big of the organisation.”

“Obviously,” said the NB chief. “What are you suggesting Stewart?”

“Ahh, well, we’ve managed to identify a lot of people involved and we’ve picked up a few of the main people but still we haven’t been able to get to the top. We’re not even certain who might be at the top.”

“I know that,” the CSO was basking in his success and was not in any mood to tolerate anything which might dim the spotlight that was trained on him and his unit. “Again, what are you suggesting?”

“Well I don’t know exactly,” began Stewart defensively, “but shouldn’t we be concentrating harder on interrogation of those we have in custody. I mean, we have accomplished a good deal but it’s a bit like chopping a tree down. Unless we dig out the roots it’s just going to sprout up again.”

The NB chief pushed himself forward in his chair at the central table. “Horticulture now Stewart? Obviously we’ll be doing that. I don’t follow your line. Are you recommending something specific? Or what exactly are you saying based on your long experience?”

“Maybe nothing drastic. But the chemist my team apprehended did mention a few things. And I just wondered…”

“What things?”

“Well, the West Coast connection for one. And Soho as well.”

“Mr Stewart, in all major operations we hear about Soho and …..”

“I know that sir, but he also made reference to a man called the Shī fu and ….”

“Stewart please.” The chief was becoming slight annoyed. He had been in the job for nearly two years with many years’ experience in other branches of the force where he had been commended. What he didn’t need now was a junior officer telling him how to go about his job. “We’ve been hearing of this Shī fu for a year now. More. We know he exists. And as you know we’ve spent considerable manpower and time on it, but so far unfortunately we haven’t come up with anything concrete. So unless you have something new I suggest we concentrate on what we do have. That is, if you agree Mr Stewart.”

Stewart had gone so far he could not back down. He had to press on. “Of course sir,” he said. “It’s just that this chemist mentioned something that hasn’t come up before. I don’t think. I thought we might follow through on it.”

“Just what was that Stewart?”

“Something about a jade Buddha and bad luck for the Chiu Chows.” Stewart held his superior’s gaze. “He said he knew something would go wrong as soon as it was taken. My sergeant will confirm this. He seemed quite agitated over it. As though it might lead to something else.”

“If that was so, if he was so scared it could point somewhere especially for us, why did he mention it?”

“I don’t know sir. But he did and I thought we might check it out. I mean who knows where it might lead in connection with this operation.”

“Alright,” said the CSO with an audible sigh. “You and your team can follow it through. After you have done your reports on this. I want to get this operation out of the way first. I don’t want anything to interfere. You write your team’s side of this up first and then if you still feel there’s something in this jade Buddha thing track it down. But after. Understand?”

“Yes sir,” said Stewart. He had no more information than he had mentioned and knew he had pressed his luck as far as he could in the room, though somehow he felt in his gut that the chemist’s remarks were significant. He just did not know why or how but he would endeavour to find out.

*

When Simon Garrett arrived back at his office on the twenty-first floor of one of the twin grey skyscrapers on the reclaimed Wanchai waterfront he was in no mood for work. The image of the accident victim still lingered vividly in his mind. No matter how hard he tried to erase it there were moments when the spilled blood became more livid and the ashen flesh and smashed bones took on an even more gruesome pallor.

Practically the whole day had now slipped by. Not slipped, dragged. It was three thirty in the afternoon. For the last five hours he had done little but relive the shock of the accident over and over again. The word slaughter kept coming to mind. It was anything but a clean death. It had been noisy, bloody, shocking. Death was not new to him. He had seen bodies before but then they had passed from being human being, living and breathing, to being nothing more than inanimate objects. Corpses. This one involved him.

At the scene he had described the incident to the European police inspector and then stood by as the body was taken away in the ambulance. Then he was made to retell his story to a Chinese chief inspector who arrived in an Emergency Unit Land Rover who asked him to accompany him back to Wanchai police station where he was to make a formal report. It took almost two hours of sitting in a bare waiting room and then in a cluttered office dictating details to a constable who hammered his words heavily onto an aged typewriter before he finally scrawled his signature on each page and was released into the outside heat again.

He stood on the pavement confused with the odd sensation of not knowing where he was, what he was doing or whether he was the same person as before. It was a feeling he was unable to shake.

Garrett hung his jacket behind the office door, slumped into his chair and stared out his window at the crowded waterway and the Kowloon mainland below. Green and white Star ferries sliced their way back and forth carving their path between sampans, junks and tugs. All seemed grey. The day was grey. The water was grey. His outlook on life itself had turned grey. His telephone jangled and before his secretary could intercept the call he snatched it out of his holder.

“Yes,” he almost shouted.

“Simon?” said a male voice into his ear. “Is that you Simon? It’s me Andrew. Hello?”

“Oh hi Andy,” he answered.

“Are you alright? You sound like you’re half drunk. Had a long lunch? Where’s your girl Friday? Reduced to answering your own phone nowadays are we?”

“What? Oh yes. Well, sometimes. What’s up? What can I do for you?”

“Christ don’t sound so enthusiastic. I was going to suggest a jar after work but you sound so bloody boring I think I might as well hang up. What the hell’s wrong?”

Garrett switched the phone to his left ear.  “A beer sounds great Andy. I’ve had a s**t of a day and right now I think the antidote is about a dozen pints of Carl-se-berg.”

“What’s the problem?” asked his friend. “Got a virus in the system?”

“If only,” he sighed. “I’ll tell you about it later. Where do you want to meet? Somewhere with a bit of life for a change eh? I want somewhere I can enjoy the booze, admire the ladies and probably get pissed out of my mind.”

“Oh oh. OK I’ll phone home and tell the bride not to wait up. The Jockey at five thirty.”

The instrument went dead and Garrett returned his attention to the silent activities in the harbour. Already the outline of the body was beginning to form again.

*

The Jockey was one of a number of pseudo English pubs that sprang up after the end of the Vietnam War changed drinking habits and moved resident clientele away from the girlie bars to more sedate upmarket atmospheres where the talk was more of finance and politics and the like. At least until much later in the night when bars in the older red light district again took charge. But these places still existed in minimum numbers as a good deal of what was once known as the Suzie Wong district of Wanchai had changed over the years and became home to modern bistros, bars and clubs where suited men and women gathered in lively chatter, drinking straight from light green bottles of beer. The Jockey was indicative of how the territory matured and adapted over the years in its social habits.

Born in the entrepôt  image and raised successfully on the single philosophy of importing raw goods, changing them into something different and then reselling them Hong Kong grew from childhood to adolescence over its first century. Its cheap labour force and desire for wealth carried it through its formative years despite a worldwide reputation for goods of shoddy quality. It took a war to push it further ahead in international markets. But unlike nations which rebuilt from ruin Hong Kong benefitted from protectionist measures imposed by others. The Korean War was a godsend in disguise though at the time it was perceived as anything but. Export quotas led to an immediate search for other sources of profit. Traders had shrugged off the millers of Lancashire in north-west England but could not be so cavalier with the global onslaught. So they industrialised and as always adapted.

For nearly thirty years success followed success and all the time the move was towards quality rather than quantity. By the eighties the Vietnam War had pushed Hong Kong into the forefront of tourism and granted new life to a striving workforce. Others wanted things Hong Kong. Hong Kong worked to provide them. The money kept rolling in.

However this most unpopular and divisive and bloody war of the twentieth century also helped launch other Asian nations. Sleeping dragons awakened and Hong Kong was forced to not just recognise but also accept the future threat and acted to protect itself. Cheap plastic toys and unlabelled clothing made way for fabrics of the finest cut and the microchip. Hong Kong in less than a generation had achieved what the great powers of the world had laboured over for hundreds of years. So it was that the late eighties and early nineties found the society of less than six million one of the most prosperous on earth and a world leader in finance, garment exports, shipping and a host of other areas. The once seamy streets of Victoria on the Island and the Kowloon waterfront had been cleared to make way for gleaming steel and glass towers of pride. Hong Kong had not only arrived on the international scene it was determined to stay there no matter what it took.

The political upheavals surrounding the inevitable handing over by Britain of its most cherished colony to China in 1997 was ever present but it did not slow the drive for progress and wealth. To the contrary, the community switched into higher gear resulting in a pace of life that left the less strong even weaker in competitive staying power. The human generator grew red hot. It was a race not merely to survive. It was a race to win. The territory had encountered economic setbacks like practically every other country, most of them much larger, it was now once again a world economic power with all the consequent attributes: Staggering property prices, a high general cost of living, regeneration and greening of inner city areas, gigantic high-rise housing developments that obliterated what was once tree covered hillsides.

Simon Garrett was an inconsequential participant in the rat race. He accepted this in the full knowledge that he could get out at any time he wished but what he would not accept was that because he was a foreigner, a gwai lo, he did not belong.

His twenty years in Hong Kong gave him the right and god help anyone who tried to deny him that right. His involvement in the horrific accident of that morning had only reinforced that view. Whether he was Chinese or a foreigner meant nothing when he came down to it. He was there. He saw it. He was in the middle of it. He had a responsibility thrust upon him and that onus transferred to him the right he believed in.

“Jesus, you wouldn’t believe what that truck did the guy,” he told his friend. “It just smashed him up. What I saw was not a man any longer. It was pulp.”

“It happens every day in this town Si,” his friend replied. They were standing outside under an awning and he lit a small cigar and held in the smoke while taking a long draught from his bottle of beer. “Somewhere, now, some poor sod is being killed by a maniac behind the wheel of a bus or a car or another of those f*****g trucks or a train. And none of them are pleasant.”

Garrett did not argue. “I know that. The difference with this one is that I was there. I was this close from his face.” He indicated the roadway a few feet away. “Or what was left of it.”

They went inside and continued to drink in silence for a time his friend glancing around the large room. A few of the barmaids were appealing in a buxom sort of way one in particular having caught his eye.

“What about the Chinese,” he asked distractedly. “He tried to rough you up a bit did he?”

Garrett followed his friend’s gaze. “Not exactly,” he said. “It was odd actually. I was bending over the guy on the road .. it made me sick to my stomach because as I said his eye was hanging out .. and then this other guy pushed me out of the way.”

“But he didn’t try to hit you or anything?”

”No. Just his hands all over me and a bit of a shove. I thought for a moment he was after my wallet.” He paused. “Oh s**t.”

“What?”

“My wallet. It’s in my coat. I left it at the office. I’ve got no money on me.”

His friend looked stern. “The things you’ll do to get out of buying a drink. Don’t worry I’ll stand you tonight. You can fix me up tomorrow or whenever.”

“Alright,” said Garrett. “Lend me five hundred. We’ll have one more here and then move on. This is a bit quiet.”

“Jesus I was just about to propose marriage or something to that one over there.”

“Forget it. Her husband is probably solid muscle from hairline to heel and would love turning you to mush.”

“You’re right. OK one more and then we’ll move up the hill.”

Up the hill this night meant a short taxi ride to establishments in the Mid-levels or on other occasions a gentler ride up the long escalator from the Central district. In the evening until the early hours of the morning it came alive with bars and clubs and restaurants with names like Barolo, Varga Lounge, Angel’s Share, Barco Bar, Dharma Den, Drop, Joyce Is Not Here (though it was said she often did hang out there), Ling, Marouche, and a host of others.

By three o’clock they had joined two other friends in a place called Medusa. Medusa was tucked-away in one of the side streets and was billed as a cosy neighbourhood lounge that evoked “a sense of sophistication, from the softly lit baroque interiors to the Caravaggio signage and classical portraits”. True to its word Garrett and his friends had decided it was an excellent haunt to secret themselves for a quiet end for the evening.

At five one of the group said in common parlance which mangled Cantonese with English: “Yat for the do. Then I’m off.”

“You’re right,” said Garrett and then after one more bottle of beer. “I’m done.”

Outside he hailed a cruising taxi and thirty minutes later it drew up outside his building on the Peak. He paid the driver and lurched somewhat unsteadily up the path to the entrance. The key turned easily in the lock of the second floor flat and the door sprang open out of his hand. It took him a moment to regain his balance and turn to close it. But before he could two Chinese men appeared from further along the landing and one shoved him into the room while the other shut the door behind them.

“Who the hell are you?” demanded Garrett. His head was fuzzy with alcohol and his eyes were heavy but he quickly focused clearly on the two men. They were dressed in denim trousers, open neck shirts and denim jackets. Subconsciously he imagined that they would have had perfect street cred if they were back in the Seventies. The one who had shoved him looked around the room. The other stood with his back to the door a revolver gripped tightly in his right hand the short black barrel pointed at Garrett’s chest.

“What do you want/?” he asked. “If it’s money you’ve picked the wrong place.”

“Be quiet Mr Garrett,” said the nearest Chinese. “Don’t shout or call for help or my friend will kill you.” He glanced around the room again and said: “I mean it. Sit over there and answer a few questions.”

Garrett backed over to a sofa in the corner of the room. “How do you know who I am? What do you want?”

The man asking the questions followed him as far as the centre of the room while the other inched to the side so he could keep Garrett in his sights. As Garrett looked up at them the one who had spoken said evenly: “You have something of ours and we want it back. Give it to me and we’ll leave. Nobody will get hurt, just hand it over and we’ll go.”

“What?” asked Garrett. His heart was beating fast and he was now completely sober. “What have I got that belongs to you?”

“Give it to me Mr Garrett.” The Chinese’ voice remained calm and he didn’t move.

”I don’t know what you’re talking about. What could I possibly have that belongs to you?”

The man slowly approached. When he was standing directly in from of him he brought his knee sharply into Garrett’s face. Garrett felt his jaw crunch as he instinctively twisted sideways. His head jerked back and he rolled across the sofa. He tasted blood but he sat up again his hand pressed to his face.

“Where is it Mr Garrett?” asked the Chinese.

“Jesus Christ,” he blurted. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t even know who you are.”

The Chinese raised his knee again. Garrett dodged to the side but the man’s fist slammed into his left cheek.

This time Garrett stayed down, his face in the cool cotton of the sofa. Then slowly he sat upright once more. “Look,” he gulped through the pain to his face and the throbbing in his temples, “stop hitting me. You say I’ve got something you want. Tell me what it is and if I do have it I’ll get it for you. Just tell me what it is.”

”I’m going to ask one more time Mr Garrett,” the Chinese said. Ridiculously Garrett could not help but be surprised at how well his attacker spoke English. His jaw ached like hell, his face and lips hurt and his head felt as if it had swollen to twice its size. He feared for his life but at the same time he noted the man had not the slightest trace of an accent. English sounded like his mother tongue. “Where is it?”

Garrett was about to say something but he wasn’t even sure what when there were voices from outside and the sound of a key in the front door. The next instant the door opened and in the frame stood a tall blond woman. Behind her two young men stood smiling. Their smiles vanished and the woman froze at the scene.

Garrett lunged forward and shouldered the Chinese in front of him. “Look out,” he yelled.

His attack had been surprisingly hard but the man deflected its full force. He wheeled and raced from the flat with his accomplice not that far behind.

The woman and the two men outside dashed into the room. None gave chase as the two Chinese disappeared down the staircase.

 “Si, what happened?” The woman was leaning down over him on the carpet her hand on his forehead. “What’s been going on here? What happened to you? Who were those men?”

“Where are they? What happened to them?” Garrett sat up straight.

“Good heavens look at your face.” The woman gently touched his split lips which made him wince. “They’ve gone. They ran out. Are you hurt badly?”

“Of course I’m bloody hurt,” he barked. “Those b******s attacked me.”

”Why?” asked one of the men who were neighbours a few flats away.

“I don’t f*****g know. They burst in here and said I’d stolen something of theirs.”

“What? Did they say what?”

“I don’t bloody well know and they didn’t bloody well say.” Garrett rose and fell back onto the sofa. “Look. Thanks you guys. You probably saved my life just now. I think they were crazy enough to kill me.”

“I’ll go and phone the police,” said his neighbour.

“No,” said Garrett. “I’ll do it. Let me clean up a bit and I’ll phone them myself. I’ll be OK.”

“You will not,” interrupted the woman. “You sit there and let me clean your face. David can telephone the police as he said. They’ll then go out and see if those animals are still around. I want no argument from you. You’re in no fit state to do anything.”

Garrett thought of protesting but didn’t. He rested his head back and closed his eyes and wondered what on earth the two attackers thought he had in his possession that was worth killing him for.

CHAPTER TWO

 

On the airline manifest the Chinese was listed as a Kwok Lok. Just the two names, not three which was more usual.

A resident of Bangkok he was on a brief visit to the United Kingdom where he would stay for four days and then fly across the channel rather than taking the more convenient Eurostar because he did not like being underground and under water for such a period of time to the Netherlands for another few days before returning home again via London. Originally he had intended spending more than double that time abroad but his plans had been drastically interrupted. He had had to cut some cities from his itinerary and shorten those he decided he needed to keep to.

As he told the lady in the seat next to him on the BA Boeing 747-400 it was his first trip to Europe for many years and despite his handicap he had no intention of forgoing it entirely. After all he had paid the deposit months ago and if he had cancelled he would not have had it returned. So he would make the most of an unfortunate lot. She was sympathetic and allowed him the aisle seat and fussed over him somewhat a little more than he liked. But he did not complain. Indeed it suited him. As the aircraft taxied to a stop Kwok struggled with his outstretched left leg stiff in a cast of plaster from ankle to thigh.

“You just sit there love,” said the women a firm hand on his arm. “Wait for all these people to do their thing and then we’ll do ours. I’ll give you a hand don’t you worry.”

“There’s no need really,” Kwok said. “I don’t want to delay you.”

“Oh foo,” she snuffled. “What does it matter if it takes five more minutes? My family aren’t going to leave me here. They’ve been waiting an extra hour and a half as it is while we sat on ground in that dreadful Indian terminal. They’ll wait a bit longer don’t you fret.”

Kwok gave the grey haired English woman a smile but managed a grimace every time a boot caught his cast or a piece of hand luggage thumped his seat. Finally the aisle was clear and he stood unsteadily putting all his weight on his right leg. The woman hauled her own satchel from the overhead locker along with Kwok’s single shoulder bag. One of the cabin crew brought his crutches and the trio made their way to the door and into the tunnel to the huge terminal.

“You’re lucky we have these moving sidewalk things,” commented the woman. “Your leg must be sore from the cramped flight.”

”Yes,” he said.

Later they were forced to separate as the woman approached the immigration counter with her passport and Kwok joined the longer queue for those unfortunate to not hold European Union passports. When she had been processed the woman turned and waved to Kwok clearly indicating she would wait for him.

He in turned waved her off but she shook her head and flopped down on one of the bright orange plastic seats. Half an hour later he joined her. “You really don’t have to do this,” he said. “I can manage by myself.”

“You just be quiet,” she admonished. “Your people gave me a wonderful holiday in Thailand and Hong Kong. It’s the least I can do to try to repay the courtesy of our people.”

Kwok nodded in silence. ‘Your people’ he thought. Even those who tried to be polite divided the world into them and us. It was no wonder many of the people of Hong Kong felt let down by the British. As long as we stay in our place we’re fine. Just don’t try to date my daughter.

Diu nei he thought to himself and smiled up at the woman. If only she knew the pleasure I could give your daughter. And thousands like her.

Down in the baggage collection zone they collected their suitcases and loading them on the one trolley the woman headed for the green exit.

“You haven’t got any excess whiskey or guns in there have you?” she grinned broadly.

“Nothing like that,” Kwok grinned back. “I have no intention of spending my holiday in the Tower of London waiting to have my head chopped off.”

They laughed together as she pushed and he hobbled past the customs counters into the arrival hall where he witnessed a warm reunion between the woman and her family, apparently her son and daughter-in-law. Then they helped him to the taxi rank where he waited in line while they waved and walked off to the car park.

“A nice man,” the woman said to her son. “They really are nice the Chinese but there are so many of them. I can’t imagine what they would do if they all came to live here. He speaks excellent English but it’s really best if they stay over there.”

Kwok did not hear the remark but he was in England. Everything had gone well. The sooner he could complete his business and get back home the better.

*

The Pulitzer is a typical Amsterdam hotel which faces north on the same straat as the girl Ann Frank spent so many dark nights hiding from the Germans. The canal outside the front door is dirty and the trees lining the walled sidewalk are permanently bare and brownish. But the atmosphere is one of welcome with romance in the air and so the hotel does a roaring trade.

The rooms are comfortable with warm rugs covering the floor oil paintings adorning the walls and heavy black carved four-poster beds which are a lover’s dream. Dutch television can be watched from the bed if the occupants wish though not surprisingly the sets generally remain blank. Guests make good use of the wide beds and look forward after a night of lovemaking to a filling breakfast served in the ground floor coffee shop where generous tables of cereal, fruit, juice and breads provide ample fuel for the day’s adventures around Dam Square and out to the cheese factories and dykes.

At one of the tables two men were engaged in serious conversation. One was English the other Oriental. The Englishman was in Amsterdam on business staying at the Pulitzer the Oriental was a resident of the city. Their business was drugs. The Englishman arranged for heroin to be brought into Holland and the Oriental handled the transhipment and transport to other ports in Europe. Currency was in diamonds which was the Oriental’s legitimate front.

“He arrived two hours ago,” said the Englishman. “Is everything set here?”

The Oriental ignored the question. “Was there any trouble?” he asked instead.

“No, it went smoothly,” replied his colleague. “By now he’s nearing the White House in Bayswater.”

“Good,” said the other. “There must be no trouble with this delivery. The last one was a serious impediment. Another one could hurt our relationship considerably.”

“Don’t worry,” the Englishman assured him. “There will be no trouble. The merchandise is safe.”

“I hope so. The supply is down and the prices are high.”

“That’s good for you then.”

“Perhaps but the risk is higher nowadays. The intelligence of the authorities is good. My clients are edgy. They do not want another mistake. You must bear in mind you are not the only supplier.”

A short silence settled between them.

“Is that a threat?” asked the Englishman.

“No threat,” the Oriental answered. “A statement of fact. Make sure all goes well this time.”

“It will.” The Englishman braved a smile and repeated his earlier question. “Have you arranged everything this end?”

“Of course. There will be no hitch. If the delivery is good you will get the stones. As you know we have never let you down.”

“Of course.” The Englishman glanced casually around the room. Other guests were enjoying their late breakfast all laughs and tender looks. “He will arrive on Saturday. He will be in your shop at ten sharp. He will pick up the payment and he will leave Tuesday. We are equally anxious for things to go well.”

The Oriental smiled. “Try the dark red cheese. It is rich with a hint of spices. Good for the blood. My brother-in-law owns the factory.”

The Englishman smiled back. “I should have known,” he said. “Is there anything you don’t do?”

“Fail,” the Oriental looked hard across the table. “I never fail. And those I deal with pay a heavy price if they fail.”

Neither man smiled again during the remainder of their first meal of the day.

*

“We have confusion,” stated the man known as the Shī fu. “And I do not like confusion. It complicates an already complicated business.”

Seated in the private box on the uppermost level of the Happy Valley race course stands the four men had a perfect view of the track below.

Situated right in the heart of the island Happy Valley race course cuts an impressive green space amidst the urban high-rises. The races there are very much a cultural, sporting and social phenomenon in the city with a large part of the success and appeal being the venue itself which dates back to 1845. This means that most of the city grew up around it and with the tall buildings and high grandstands overlooking a tight track there is a real gladiatorial atmosphere which only heightens the excitement. The racing season in Hong Kong is from September till June and whereas weekend racing is largely the province of the newer and more renowned Sha Tin course in the New Territories on week nights Happy Valley comes alive to the sounds, sights and unforgettable experience of the local races.

Though it was a typical Wednesday night the four men paid little attention to the horses. As well as the Shī fu at the white linen topped table were two other Chinese. At his back was his bodyguard Kai. The box was owned by the man on his left a leading solicitor who raced no fewer than six horses under his own colours and those of two friends prepared to act for him contrary to the strict Hong Kong Jockey Club rules. The other man was a prominent political figure who had amassed great wealth through property investments in the seventies. And narcotics. Both were also on the payroll of the Shī fu with numbered accounts in two banks in Switzerland.

“We have the known and the unknown,” continued the Shī fu. “And both are unfavourable to our interests.” Neither of the others spoke and the Shī fu sipped his glass of hot jasmine tea. “The scum who stole my property has paid for his greed and betrayal with his life after pleading with me relieve him. However it had since left his hands. After much persuasion he revealed he had passed it to his financier the jeweller named Tang Yin-lo. He in turn was to make a trade with others. It can only have been with that son of a dog Hung.”

The Shī fu raised his eyes questioningly to the faces of the other men. They sat passive, attentive, silent. “But there was interference,” the Shī fu went on. “This jeweller was killed in a traffic accident before he could complete the exchange. And Hung Wah-hang as you know was murdered. Both deaths occurred near one another at about the same time.” He took another sip from his glass. “Those responsible we do not know. It is not certain if the jeweller’s death was anything other than what it appeared. An accident. What is known is that my property has vanished. I do not believe Hung or someone known to him received it. So I pose this question. If Hung did not receive it and the jeweller no longer had it after his death, where is it?”

The horse owner spoke in quick sharp but whispered syllables. “Shī fu, the only ones foolish enough to try to do this are the gwai los. It is there we should look.”

“My intelligence tells me that too,” said the Shī fu. “But they also tell me the gwai los are searching also. It is either a bluff or they really do not have it. I believe they are without it.”

“Then who?” asked the horse owner.

“Liu?” asked the Shī fu and turned to the man on his right. “What do you say?”

The man hesitated and then spoke. “I can think of only one other. The young ones. The Green Circle. They have been growing in audacity over the last two years since they returned from Australia. Their power was broken there and they have been rebuilding their strength here. We should look at them.”

“Agreed,” said the Shī fu. “You are right. They can be the only other possibility.”

Without turning he spoke quietly to the man behind him. “See to it Kai. Arrange for me to speak with the leader of the Green Circle. As before you understand.”

As he finished speaking a roar rose from the seats and stand below and he turned to peer at the clutch of horses nearing the finishing post directly in front of the box. As the noise subsided he turned to the horse owner, removed his spectacles and wiped them with a white silk handkerchief. “Let us hope we are as successful in our search as you are in arranging winners,” said the Shī fu.

*

Senior Inspector Ian Stewart was on the balcony of his flat when the telephone rang. It was answered by his wife who called with the news that it was his sergeant and that he sounded urgent.

“Please don’t go today,” she said. “It’s the first full day you’ve had off in two weeks.”

“I’ll see what he wants,” agreed Stewart. “It’ll have to be important. I want to finish with the box today.”

The box was in fact resembling more and more a miniature China Motor Bus double decker which was a tribute to his skill and imagination. That morning he had started out with two cardboard boxes, hacking and shaping, sticking and stapling. Now a jar of glue later and with strips of discarded board spread about him he had almost finished. Windows had been neatly cut out and a large opening for the entrance actually had two swinging doors. Not authentic but his young son would not be concerned with that minor error in detail. The large packing boxes had been ideal. He just had to put the finishing touches and paint the whole thing. But the telephone call raised a doubt. He could not remember when his sergeant last made a social call.

“Ah Chiu,” he said a little curtly. “Dim ah?”

Two minutes later he replaced the phone to hits cradle and stood staring it.

“Well?” said his wife coming back into the room. “What is it?”

“I’ve got to go,” he said simply.

“Oh no. Can’t you get out of it? Just this once?”

“You know I can’t.”

“What about Edward’s bus?” She persisted. “Isn’t that more important?” As soon as it was out she knew it was a foolish thing to say but her eyes still pleaded.

“Not really love,” said Stewart. “You know I have to go. It’s the airport and that’s my team. But it’s planning and not an on the ground operation so I’ll be back not too late.”

“Go on then,” she said resignedly. “Hurry up. The sooner you go the earlier you’ll be back. I want to spend some time with my husband.”

“That’s more like it,” he said. “It’s nice to know I’m wanted around here too.”

She pushed his advance away. “And Edward wants his bus also.”

Stewart’s grin got broader. “The bus might have to wait. When I come home we’ll spend some time together. I mean really together.”

“Go on,” she said. “We’ll see. You go and do what you have to do. Catch all the drug peddlers. Then you can concentrate on other stuff.”

An hour later Stewart walked into the compound of the Police Headquarters in Wanchai. When the building had been opened more than thirty years before it had dominated the area. Yet at twenty-one storeys it had not been the tallest even then.  Nor had it been the most stunning architecturally. Other bigger, grander structures had towered over it their reflecting glass facades throwing the sun’s heat down onto the people on the streets below. But the nature of the work conducted behind its barbed wire and splintered glass topped concrete walls had given it a presence. The comings and goings of marked sedans and Land Rovers and the uniformed officers on guard duty at the gates added to its bearing.

Much had changed since that time. The entire police complex had been redesigned. It now covered twice the area, had twice as many buildings, and proclaimed an aura of unchallenged authority, power and strength even if the proliferation of waterfront high-rises and redevelopment nearby continued to dwarf it.

Stewart nodded to the constable on guard duty at the top of the steps at the eastern entrance. “Wei,” he said in greeting. The constable nodded slightly in return and turned away. At the entrance to the main building the exchange was repeated and on the eleventh floor he alighted from the lift and strode along the tiled corridor to his office where his sergeant and the rest of his team waited.

“OK Ah Chiu,” he said straight away. “Tell me what this is all about.”

Relying on fifteen years of experience the sergeant explained the situation. Interpol had received information from Bangkok that a shipment was being readied for movement from hill plantations inside Burma. Target destination was somewhere in Europe. Most likely the Netherlands. But it would tranship in Hong Kong. Coming through would be number three heroin having already been refined by the tribesmen themselves. In all the information was that upwards of fifty kilograms was to be smuggled in and out.

“Diu,” swore Stewart. “That’s a shed load. And a lot of money at risk. They’ll be really careful. What else?”

The rest would be outlined by the Narcotics Bureau chief, reported the sergeant. “There’s a briefing at ... now sir.”

“I’ve got a feeling Edward’s going to miss his bus,” said Stewart.

“Sir?”

“Forget it Ah Chiu. It’s nothing important. Just something on the home front. Remember where that is? Home? It’s that place where we go to meet with strangers who masquerade as wives and children.”

“Sorry sir,” said sergeant Chiu.

“Forget it,” replied Stewart. “It’s not your fault. I just wish sometimes I’d chosen to be an astronaut instead of a dumb copper. Less time away from home.”

He straightened and walked out of the office to the conference room on the opposite side of the building.

*

“This is a significant case,” stressed the NB chief for the umpteenth time. He had already recounted the details as given by sergeant Chiu and for an hour had outlined operational plans to all the teams. The bottom line had been clear and drilled home repeatedly. The shipment was to be identified and watched. It was not to be intercepted.

At the raised eyebrows that met this instruction the NB chief explained: “This is to be a UK seizure. They will get the kudos. Some of the credit will come to us but it is to be their seizure. We are to monitor and feed information. I repeat: We are not to apprehend. Understood?”

“Why’s that sir,” asked another of the team leaders.

“Because that’s the way it has to be,” the chief replied tersely. “There are a few twists to this one and our counterparts in London and Amsterdam want to straighten them out. So do I. for instance the heroin is being tasted first. Before it leaves Burma. But not there. A sample has been sent to the buyer already.”

“That doesn’t make sense sir. I mean why isn’t it tasted at source? Why risk a run?”

“Bangkok believes it’s a new route. Our operation three months ago had better than expected results. We really upset the apple cart. The customer wants to make sure the run is safe. Or so we believe.” The chief looked around the room. “That sample has already cleared Bangkok and Hong Kong and has reached London. It should go on to the Continent very soon. The expected destination is Amsterdam.”

“We knew about it?” Stewart said.

“That’s right.”

“How did it go out?”

“We think, we believe, in a pair of crutches.”

“Crutches?” queried Stewart.

“Crutches. The courier was faking a broken leg. The heroin was in the lined crutches. We think.”

“That’s hardly original,” offered the team leader who had spoken earlier.

The NB chief frowned. “That’s another of our concerns. It’s definitely not original. So we ask ourselves why. That’s one reason why we’re adopting a wait and see stand at the moment.”

“What other reason sir?” Stewart asked. “You said there were a few things not right about this case.”

”Yes Stewart I did.” The NB chief hesitated. Then he went on: “We believe this is a new supplier for the European connection. They are refining at source for speed. The quality is only number three, not four. But we guess the reason is to hit the market there with quantity while the price is high. We also think that if this shipment gets through we will be next, that the dealers will try to take over the local market and possibly the West Coast from here.” Again he paused. “You will have picked up on the number of times I have said think. That’s all we have at this juncture. There are no certainties. Not yet.”

“What about the Chiu Chows?” another officer asked. “They’re not going to allow that surely. Assuming it’s not them.”

The chief nodded. “There is word the Chiu Chows, led by this Shī fu character,” he intentionally did not look at Stewart, “they are in something of a turmoil at this point in time. The organisation has some internal problems. The new syndicate may be trying to take advantage of that. Using a UK-based organisation with contacts in place here as well.”

Stewart inwardly smarted at the reference to the Shī fu, a reference that not ago had earned him what he considered a public put down.

“We didn’t get anything on that in our last operation sir,” said Stewart. “Wouldn’t it have surfaced then if it was true?”

The NB chief smiled. “Actually we did,” he said. “Or you did Stewart. Your chemist. Remember?”

“Yes. But all he said was something about Buddha being displeased. But that would hardly translate to …”

“Not Buddha,” interrupted the chief. “A Buddha.”

“I don’t follow you sir.”

“The Chiu Chows have control of narcotics in Hong Kong,” stated the chief. “We know that. We know, or strongly believe, that this Shī fu character heads the Chiu Chows. What his power base is, apart from sheer ruthlessness and an established network of operatives, is not known. Until now.”

For effect it seemed the NB chief stopped and looked around at the faces before him. Finally he went on: “They are superstitious the Chiu Chows. More so than usual it seems.” Again there was a pause. “Gentlemen, let me go back into history. I think the lesson will be useful.”

The chief of the Narcotics Bureau’s lecture had its beginning in the eighteenth century and its origins in the heart of China. To the world outside the massive nation was a dormant volcano. But at its centre was a plug of molten lava under which a quarter of the earth’s people experienced some of the most traumatic events in mankind’s existence.

The overthrow of the regal Ming dynasty by the Mongols was the latest in a string of calamities across the centuries. The establishment of the Ching dynasty was not merely regretted by many but regarded as approaching Armageddon. To allow it to firmly take root, to continue for generation after generation, was to countenance the unthinkable. It had to be torn down, killed, and exterminated once and for all thus returning the Mings to the throne of the Middle Kingdom so they could rule for eternity.

An opposition was formed of stalwarts, fighters all, armed with weapons and fervour they believed would crush the Mongol hoards. They were determined if not cohesive and mounted assault after assault. Each time they were repulsed. They reformed, adding more adherents to the cause and introduced secret codes for security and binding oaths designed to ensure there were no traitors and that their followers were swept up into the battle prepared to sacrifice all for the restoration of the rightful lords of China. They called themselves triads.

Their motives were entirely political and they waged their bloody war until the bitter end. That end was not as soon as they had hoped. It took nearly one hundred and fifty years. The Chings were overthrown but the Mings were not reinstated. Instead the Middle Kingdom became a republic in 1911. The triads had been successful, but only partially.

Stewart knew most of the history of the triads and he also knew that the political dimension of the secret movement had long degenerated into purely underworld activities. Crime had been their reason d’être for decades with Hong Kong as their fertile breeding ground. Triads still existed, largely in name only, the terminology used primarily to instil awe in new members and fear in their victims. He was well aware too that drugs were a major source of their influence and finance for the Chiu Chows particularly but for a number of other gangs as well.

“Throughout their sordid history,” intoned the NB chief, “the triads have surrounded themselves with mysticism, terror and power. Rituals are no longer a part of that history. Except for the Chiu Chows. They have always been the most fanatical, the most callous, the most terrifying of the so-called secret societies. Their maimings and killings are the most bloodthirsty.”

Stewart agreed with that. He had been into the Force’s black museum on more than one occasion and seen the photographed proof. One of the most gruesome concerned a criminal who had embarked on what must have been the most dangerous of careers. He set out as a hijacker of local drug caches. Unfortunately one of his early targets was a Chiu Chow consignment of morphine from the Golden Triangle of Thailand, Burma and Laos. He had been caught and killed though not before he was horribly tortured with knives, flaming torches and pliers. His end finally came on a hillside in the New Territories where four inch nails were driven into his skull. Since then no Chiu Chow narcotics had been raided.

“….has never been proved, though there have been rumours, tales, over the years.” The NB chief was looking directly as Stewart. “It now appears there may be some truth, some foundation, to these stories. The Chiu Chows, or the leading triad of the time, have indeed had a symbol of power acknowledged and accepted by all others. Until now there has never been the slightest hint of what that symbol could have been.”

At this point he stopped and a quiet fell over the room. All eyes were transfixed on his face, Inspector Ian Stewart’s as focused as any.

“Your Buddha Stewart,” said the chief eventually. “It seems likely that your so-called jade Buddha might be that symbol. It also appears that that jade Buddha has gone missing. Stolen. And that the Chiu Chows and all the others are most agitated. There is a hunt on. On the one hand by the Shī fu and his gang to recover it and on the other by other criminal syndicates to get their hands on it. Whoever has it has tremendous power. Whoever has it is the Mister Big.”

“So who does have it?” someone asked.

“If we knew that we’d go and get it. You see if we get hold of it we go a long way to breaking the syndicates. Once and for all. The power is ours.” Noisily the chief slapped shut a pink secret file on the table before him. “We don’t know where it is. We suspect that the Chiu Chows don’t have it any longer and that we can expect a war to erupt out there as the factions try to find it. And we must watch that war, stop it if we can, and get that symbol. If it exists. That gentlemen is why we watch and we wait.”

There was a general shuffling of feet and scraping of chairs as the team of detectives eased stiffening joints and mentally analysed the information they had been given. Some of it was factual. Some was suspicion. Part of it was shrouded in ancient mysticism. Just how much credence they could place on this jade Buddha and indeed whether it actually was a Buddha or only a symbolic name for something else nobody really knew.

“I know what you’re thinking and I have to admit I share your doubts,” said the chief. “But if there is any truth in this we have to find it. I want every team to read Stewart’s report. Stewart, you will add anything else you can think of and you and your team will again talk to the chemist. All of you will go back to the start and dig. CIB and Special Branch are working on this also. As is Interpol in Thailand and the UK. I want this pulled apart and studied as closely as anything you’ve done. If there is this jade Buddha, and if we can use it to break the syndicates, I want it.”

*

Simon Garrett was hung over and sore. The junk trip to one of the outlying islands had been enjoyable but he was suffering enormously as he arrived at his office to start the week’s work. His head pounded still from the mixture of wine and beer he had consumed the day before and his shirt rasped painfully across his sunburned shoulders and upper back. It was a Monday not unlike many others only worse. The usual tardiness in getting into a rhythm after a day and a half being away from reams of computer printouts and new programme codes was replaced by an absolute reluctance to even begin. Mentally he was elsewhere as he tried to concentrate on his present physical condition. This was not helped by a colleague’s wide grin and the admonition that self-inflicted punishment deserved no sympathy. Sympathy was precisely what he needed.

When the telephone on his untouched desk jangled an hour later his nerves resonated madly and the pounding behind his left eye quickened starting a twitching that he imagined made him look like a madman. When it stopped he leaned his head on his hands and waited for the aftershock. It came when his secretary buzzed to inform him it was Miss Stephanie Paine.

“Steph,” he said exhausted when he put the phone to his ear.

Her voice on the other end was cheerful and thundered in his brain. “So how’s the hero this morning?”

“The hero is ill. He is sick to the pit of his stomach and he is aching and sore all over.” He was not exaggerating. “Steph, my finger nails hurt.”

“You haven’t mentioned your jaw or your nose so you must be feeling better,” she said.

“Very understanding,” he retorted. “I didn’t mention them because it’s all relative. They are only third degree pain. The rest is fourth degree.”

“Well, modern day heroes are expected to suffer somewhat. The likes of Zorro and the Lone Ranger are passé. Today’s hero has to earn sympathy.

“Great,” Garrett sighed. “So don’t make me out to be a hero then.”

“Too late,” she said. “Like it or not you are. And I didn’t hear you complaining yesterday as you were plied with alcohol by all those admirers.”

“Yesterday was yesterday. Today is different. Today is punishment.” Garrett closed his eyes. “What have I done to deserve this Steph? Why me?”

“Still nothing?”

Garrett squinted his eyes and concentrated on focusing his brain.

“Hell no. I have no idea why those hooligans came knocking on my door. But I’ll tell you this Steph; I think they’ll be back. I think they really do believe I have something of theirs.”

“What?”

“I haven’t got the faintest. If I knew I’d hang it on my front door with a welcome to it note. Whatever it is I don’t want it. What I want is sympathy. Tenderness. Understanding.”

“Alright, alright,” she laughed lightly. “Why don’t you sneak out for an early lunch and I’ll administer to your needs, but are you sure you are up to that even?”

“There’s only one part of my entire body that’s not sore.”

“Hmmmmm. Come on then. The least it can do is take your mind off the rest of you.”

Garrett smiled at the thought, winced, and hung up. He grabbed his jacket from behind the door, lied to his secretary that he was going to see a client and stiffly walked out of the office. In the heat outside he could not bear to feel the added weight if the jacket on his shoulders so he carried it dangling in front as if it carried some contagious disease.

“You look terrible,” Stephanie Paine said as soon as she opened the door of her Mid-levels flat.

“I feel worse than I look,” he told her. “Much, much worse.”

“My hero,” she smiled.

“Drop the hero bit Steph,” he answered tartly. “Enough’s enough.”

“As you wish,” she said. “But I do think we should analyse this whole business. I was thinking about what you said before.”

“What did I say?”

“That those animals might come back again. What if they do Si? What are you going to do?”

“What can I do? The police aren’t going to mount a guard. You heard what they said. Just a couple of thugs who picked me at random.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“You’re telling me? Of course it’s absurd. They knew my name and were professionals. They didn’t go through the phone book to get at me.”

“So why did they ….”

Garrett moaned as he tried to get comfortable in the easy chair. “Jesus Steph, how the hell should I know? I don’t know anything anymore. The more I think about it the more damned unreal the whole thing seems. I keep ending up asking why. How could I have something of theirs?” He shook his head. “Christ, first I get mixed up in that bloody road accident and then the same day I get roughed up in my own home. It’s supposed to come in threes, bad luck that is, so what’s next?”

Stephanie put a hand on his knee. “Si, do you think they could be linked? The accident and the assault I mean.”

“No,” he dismissed the idea. “How could they?”

“It seems very coincidental now that I hear you say it out loud like that. Did you take anything at the scene of the accident?”

“Of course not. What could I have taken for god’s sake?”

”I don’t know. I’m not saying you did intentionally. But could you have accidentally removed anything?”

“No. All that happened was I went over to the guy, looked at him and then the police came. I didn’t even see anything odd. I was too shocked even if there had been something lying around. Valuable like.”

He sat frowning at the memory of the body on the road. He had not thought of it for the last forty-eight hours since the intruders had replaced the vision with another kind of horror. Now once more the details were replayed in his mind. The noise, the sickening scene, the grim reality of how a person’s life could be extinguished in an instant. He turned to the woman by his side. “There was the other guy,” he said.

“What guy?” she asked.

“The one who pushed me around.” He remembered the incident clearly. “I think he might have been in the truck that killed that fellow. A passenger. You remember I told you how strange it was. He pushed me around and then just stood there staring at me when that uniformed constable appeared on the scene.”

She perched on the edge of the arm of the easy chair. “So? What are you thinking?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Do you think …could he have thought you blamed him? Or maybe he thought you took something. Something that could incriminate him in some way. Now he’s come to stop you doing anything or reporting something to the police that could get him into trouble.”

“But what?” he said. “Anyway he wasn’t one of them who came calling the other night.”

Stephanie stood up. “Have you checked your clothes? The pockets? What were you wearing then?”

“The same as now,” he said. “A different shirt but I always check the pocket before I put it in the wash.”

“And your coat?” she sounded excited. She glanced at the jacket hung on the back of the chair at the dining table. “Is that it?” she asked and walked across the room to it. She felt in the pockets as she moved back to where Garrett sat. There was his wallet in the inside breast pocket, a pen clipped next to it, and a packet of breath fresheners in the right side pocket.

“Did you have anything else?”

“No I think that’s all,” he said. He ran his hand over the material. At the bottom of the lining he stopped. There was something hard and lumpy on the left side.

“What is it?” Stephanie asked. “Is there something there?”

“I think so,” he replied, unsure. “In the lining I think, there must be a hole in one of the pockets and whatever it is must have fallen through. Probably my lighter or something.”

He lay the jacket across his knees and began nudging the object upwards. Then he put his hand in the right side pocket and manipulated in through a tear. Slowly he drew it out. It was indeed the size of a cigarette lighter but it was not the lighter. It was no more than six centimetres long and four and a bit centimetres thick and wrapped in black felt with a piece of red tape around it.

“What is it Si?” Stephanie asked in a hushed voice.

He shook his head. “It’s not mine.”

Carefully he pulled the tape away and began unfolding the felt.

“My god,” breathed Stephanie when he revealed the object. “It’s incredible. It’s beautiful. It must be worth a fortune.”

Resting in the palm of his hand was what looked like an emerald or green jade carving the size of the paper weight on his office desk. Even in the natural light in the room it dazzled them with its beauty. Clearly discernible it was a figure, squat, the slit mouth smiling, the eyes minutely hooded.

“Fabulous,” she said finally. “Si that’s probably priceless.”

He did not shift his gaze from the object. “I think we now know why those people were prepared to kill me. And will once they learn I still have it.”

 “You have to go to the police,” Stephanie urged him. “Surely they would be able to trace the owner. There can’t be many jewels like this. Probably one of a kind I would imagine.”

Garrett still held the jade Buddha in his hand staring into its centre as if mesmerised.

“Once those thugs know you don’t have it any longer they’ll leave you alone. You have to do it,” she said it with a finality, stating the obvious conclusion.

Garrett closed his fingers around the figure. It was cold but he could feel a warmth grow and heat his flesh. There was something about the Buddha that was more than beauty and riches. It seemed to exude something he could not fathom but whatever it was it was special.

“Si,” he heard her saying. “Si are you listening to me? You have to take it to the police.”

“Yes,” he answered. “I know.”

”Why don’t you go now,” she suggested. “Get it over with.”

He did not respond straight away. When he did he was firm in his decision. “No,” he said. “Not right away. I don’t want to carry it around with me. Even for a short while. I don’t know how to describe it but there’s something not right about it.”

“Call them then. Tell them to come here and collect it.”

“No, I’ll go there and talk to them. If I phone I’ll only get some woman constable on the switchboard. And I think there’s more to this than some piece of stolen jewellery.”

“Well I don’t understand what that means, but alright, go. But go now. Get it over and done with once and for all. Leave it with me. It’ll be quite safe here until you come back with the police.”

Garrett agreed and left the flat after telephoning a taxi. When he arrived at the Central police station off Hollywood Road he reported to a desk sergeant who listened intently and then excused himself and went down a corridor to another office. When he returned he was accompanied by a Senior Inspector who asked him to repeat his story. A number of times he asked Garrett to repeat his description of the object. Then he too asked him to wait in his office while he went out. Finally he returned and with him was a European Superintendent the crown on his shoulder signifying his rank.

“Mr Garrett we’ll have to ask you to wait a bit longer if you don’t mind,” he told him. “We have someone coming up from Police Headquarters to talk to you. They will accompany you to collect the item. I hope you don’t mind. I’m sorry for the time it is taking but I’m sure you understand by now that this is an important matter. You may have done us a very great favour. I can’t go into details I’m afraid but please I can assure you that giving us your time will be much appreciated.”

Garrett glanced at his watch. He was already overdue back at his office. “Can I make a phone call?” he asked “I’d better let them know where I am.”

“Of course,” the Superintendent said. “All going well you should be back there in an hour or so. Unless of course the officers need another statement from you. That would take a little longer.”

A bit longer, thought Garrett. Like another three hours. Like it did in Wanchai after the accident. But as then he did not see that he had any choice in the matter. The only consolation this time was that he would be doing it for himself clearing up his own problems.

“I think I’ll beg off for the whole afternoon,” he said. “Just in case.”

“That might be the best Mr Garrett. These things can unfortunately take a while sometimes.”

*

Kai had done well.

He had not just arranged for the Shī fu to meet with the head of the Green Circle syndicate. He had in fact brought the leader and his two senior trusted aides. It had taken some doing but with cunning he had pulled it off. The major criminal networks all knew who was in the underworld with the sole exception being the identity of the Shī fu who remained a mystery to all but his own two cohorts and Kai his slavish protector. And because of his efforts Kai expected to be rewarded.

He knew his mentor would thank him because what he had succeeded in doing was placing the very future of an opposing and potentially threatening organisation into his master’s hands. Thanks to Kai the Shī fu could simply and quickly eradicate one of his major irritations. Remove the head of the deadly reptile and the body was useless, a wriggling impotent thing.

He smiled a hollow smile as he surveyed the results of his handiwork. The old walled city could not be used again as the developers were working at its centre but there were any number of other options he could have chosen. The one he selected was remote yet centrally located.

At the very top of Victoria Peak on the island stood a derelict and disused meteorological station comprising a single elongated concrete hut surrounded by a high rusting wire fence. For years it had been off limits to the general public and was no longer patrolled by the police. No-one ever went there. There were so many other vantage points and secluded hideaways that even lovers failed to take advantage of it.

In a way it was ironic that Kai should have picked it. He did not know it but the last time it had been visited by anyone was more than ten years before when an overseas film crew had settled on it for a scene in a police drama. In that episode the main character, a Hawaiian detective, had been captured and tortured with mind tormenting drugs by his arch enemy within the crumbling and moss impregnated walls. Naturally the hero had escaped. This time though while Kai knew nothing of the fictional adventurer’s exploits he had little doubt as to the present occupants’ chances.

Unlike the last occasion when he had done the Shī fu’s bidding there was no roof or ceiling beam from which to hang those to be interrogated. Instead they were gagged and bound and lay trussed on the cracked floor their eyes bulging and in the airless confines of the building their bodies weeping with sweat. They had been there since before dawn and it was not until the sun was high that the Shī fu walked silently in gently polishing the lens of his round spectacles with his pure white silk handkerchief. He said nothing not even acknowledging their presence. When he fixed his glasses in place he looked at Kai and nodded. It was a small gesture but it brought a dark grin to the big man’s face. What followed was two hours of sheer terror for two of the triads.

One had been spared. On the instruction of the Shī fu his bodyguard and assassin bent and slit the man’s throat from ear to ear. As spasms ruptured his body and a gurgling, muffled choke issued from the gagged mouth the Shī fu watched the other two without blinking. When the body had kicked its last he asked: “Do you have it?”

They shook their heads in unison.

“Where is it?”

Again they shook their heads.

The Shī fu turned to Kai and ordered: “Help that one remember.” He indicated the man next to the still body. The man tried to wriggle away but it was impossible. He could hardly move. The torturer went to work. It lasted only minutes before the Shī fu had seen enough of the cutting and gouging. “Kill him,” he said simply and the blade opened the man’s throat spilling an enormous amount of blood.

The interrogator turned to the last triad, the leader of the Green Circle syndicate. “Where is it?” he repeated softly.

The triad shook his head slowly back and forth and shut his eyes tightly as tears ran from the corners.

“Begin,” said the Shī fu.

The pain was prolonged for over an hour. For the triad it seemed an eternity. The agony he imagined a dozen times to be unbearable. But each time the man with the knife ceased his inflictions allowing him to somehow suffer it without dying. Also each time it was renewed in another part of his body until he was helpless. He would tell all, anything to end it, to stop this monster from slowly, painfully, killing him over and over. Pain. Pain. More pain. He sobbed and screamed into the soggy material filling his mouth. When the gag was removed he answered every question put to him. It was an effort even to say the words but he forced them out for fear the torturer would go to work again.

The Green Circle gang had been responsible for the killing of the jeweller and of Hung. But Hung was not the only one of his syndicate murdered. In all nine had been slain covertly and their bodies dumped from a number of fishing junks well out to sea. The Hung syndicate had been decimated. It would take years to regroup under new leadership, if ever. The small gang from Australia had attempted a monumental coup in Hong Kong and had almost succeeded. Had they got hold of the jade Buddha as well they might have commanded even the Shī fu. But they had not. The Buddha had slipped through their fingers. For a moment though they had actually possessed it.

The passenger in the truck which ran down the jeweller had taken it from the body on the road. However when the police officer arrived so quickly on the scene he had had to get rid of it. He could not take the risk of being searched. The only way was to hide it. On the gwai lo said the triad leader. His man had slipped it into the pocket of the gwai lo who had gone to the assistance of the jeweller. It had been easy to discover his identity and his address. It had also been easy to get to him. Yet once more they had been thwarted.

And where was the Buddha now, probed the Shī fu. The triad wavered. The gwai lo had been followed and watched. It must still be with him. Or with the woman.

“What woman?” demanded the Shī fu.

“His mistress,” gasped the triad.

Armed with the further details of the woman’s name and address the Shī fu took a telephone from his coat pocket and punched a seven digit number. In a low but urgent voice he spoke for thirty seconds.

“We will wait for a time to see how long you live,” he said. He looked at the gold wristwatch and noted it was nearing two thirty. He would not get an answer until three at the earliest. He would wait though no matter how long it took. It was a brief moment only when at the end of it he would once more have possession of the jade Buddha.

*

At three minutes past three the bell to Stephanie Paine’s apartment rang. It startled her and she ran to the door and opened it. A Chinese man in a dark suit stood in the hall.

“Miss Paine?” he asked.

“Yes. Who are you?”

“Miss Paine, I am Inspector Lai. Mr Garrett told me to come.” The man smiled. “Don’t worry Miss Paine. He is alright but we also need to speak with you. A statement, nothing more.”

“Alright, I’ll get my bag.” She turned and went back into the sitting room leaving the door open.

“And bring the object with you please Miss Paine,” requested the man from behind her. “Give it to me. I’ll look after it.”

Stephanie was about to react then stopped. She faced the man. “Sorry? What did you say?”

“The object,” he answered. “The object Mr Garrett took. Give it to me please.”

She hesitated. Then she said firmly: “Can I see your identification please.” Reaching for her telephone she added: “What station did you say you were from?”

The Chinese quickly shut the door and pulled a short barrelled revolver from his coat. “No,” he said sharply. “Put it down. Give me the object. Now.”

Stephanie dropped the telephone. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“The object. Get it,” commanded the Chinese and pointed the gun at her as he took a step closer.

Not knowing what to do she stood where she was and returned his glare, saying nothing.

The man took another step closer. “Then you will come with me,” he said and she knew above anything else that what lay ahead of her would be a test of endurance, a confrontation she had no alternative but to meet head on if she was to survive.

*

“Take her to the temple,” instructed the Shī fu into his instrument.

He was angry. He swept the spectacles from his ears and feverishly began polishing them. Without putting them back on he peered at the bloody triad on the floor five paces from him.

“You are finished,” he hissed. “Your organisation will be wiped out. But you will not see it. You are of no further use to me.”

He turned to his man Kai. “He is your prize. Do what you want with him. And then get rid of him.” And he walked quickly from the building.

The Buddha was still not his but he knew where it was. The woman and the gwai lo would be easy to break. With it in his hands and with the opposition smashed he would again rule the streets. He would have total power.

*

“I don’t know,” Garrett answered the Chief Superintendent from police headquarters. “She should be here.”

Garrett and the police officer were in Stephanie Pain’s apartment expecting to be greeted by her. And also expecting to be able to pass the Buddha over to the police, putting an end to the matter.

“And where is the Buddha?” asked the policeman. “You left it here?”

“That’s right. Steph had it.”

“So where is it?”

Garrett shrugged. He was as puzzled as anyone. Stephanie was to wait in her apartment with the Buddha. But obviously she had not. So where was she?

CHAPTER THREE

 

The meeting in the diamond merchant’s shop in Amsterdam had gone smoothly.

As arranged the courier left London’s Gatwick airport mid-morning on the Saturday and was unpacking his suitcase in one of the Pulitzer’s single rooms two hours later. At two o’clock he left and with the aid of crutches negotiated the narrow street which led straight into the Dam Square.

Crowds milled around in the sunshine and a group of young foreign tourists laughed and pranced on the cobble stones drawing many unappreciative looks from well-dressed locals. No-one took any notice of the Chinese man as he made his way to the diamond shop. Inside he spent fifteen minutes watching a master jeweller cut and polish stones and then spoke to one of the staff. Five minutes later he was ushered into a back room on the first floor. No pleasantries were exchanged between the Chinese from Bangkok and the Chinese who had been born in Holland. They had nothing in common other than the business to be done and which had been scripted in fine detail that required no discussion.

The courier rested his crutches to one side and sat in the middle of the room resting the leg in a cast on another chair. The proprietor without delay cut off the plaster and walked from the room with it. Half an hour passed before he returned. In his hand was a similar already set cast. From a cabinet against one wall he took a pan of water and liquid plaster and a roll of wide white tape. With a little difficulty he strapped the new cast on the courier’s leg. When he had finished he spoke for the first time. “In an hour it will be dry enough.”

When the Bangkok man walked into the Dam Square just after four thirty in the afternoon the crowds were thinning. He noticed the youthful denim-clad tourists were still parading around the central monument. He smiled and hobbled towards a bus station across the street where he planned to buy a ticket for a day’s excursion to one of the dykes the nest day. After that he would locate a good restaurant for a meal. He would stay well clear of the red light district though where he knew he could enjoy anything from a dozen different varieties of sex and any of ten kinds of drugs. Again he smiled to himself. What he had carried ten thousand miles encased around his leg was enough heroin to supply the pushers and dope addicts for two weeks. And that was only a sample. The genuine plaster he now wore was impregnated with enough diamonds to literally buy every window box w***e in the city.

That journey had begun two days ago. Of course he knew he was being followed but it bothered him little. He kept strictly to his tourist itinerary and had loaded himself with a host of purchases including a diamond pendant which he bought from the same jeweller’s shop only a few hours before.

He had another day and a half to spend in the Dutch capital before he flew back to London and handed over the diamonds. That would mark the completion of his assignment. He knew that by then a cash payment would have been received in Bangkok and that his share, just a fraction of it but well worth the risk he had taken, would be waiting for him on his return.

*

The Mayfair Hotel in the exclusive London business district from which it takes its name offers its clientele first class private amenities. However the Australian and his companion had elected not to use any of them. Instead they sat quietly at a table in the red velvet lined lounge bar off the main lobby. There were six other groups of people in the room and there was nothing to indicate the two were anything other than a pair of businessmen who had dropped in for a drink after work. They chatted amiably at times seriously and picked at the bowl of mixed nuts as they sipped from their wine glasses.

“Everything went according to schedule,” said the younger of the two.

“Good,” the Australian nodded.

“The delivery was made and the exchange carried out without any trouble.”

“Good. Is everything alright for Wednesday?”

“Yes. He’ll go to the clinic in Bayswater in the morning where the doctor will recover the merchandise.” The man paused. “Why risk it here though? After all he would be expected to wait until he got home.”

“Don’t worry John. The National Health Service attracts many people from abroad who want to save money. Why not a Chinese on holiday from Thailand?”

They sat in silence, the Australian continuing to caress his glass the younger man turning to study the groups of drinkers on either side.

“Are you free this evening?” asked the Australian.

“I’m supposed to be having dinner with Monique and some of her friends at some Italian place in the Angel,” replied his companion. “Around eight.”

“Can you be late?”

The younger man looked down at his glass.

“It been nearly a week,” said the Australian. “Call your wife and tell her you’ll join her later.”

His companion lifted his eyes. He knew he would agree. He had waited for the question. Even before the Australian brushed his fingers across the knuckles of his hand his gut was churning.

“I’ll call her,” he said.

*

Once he and the police officer had left Stephanie Paine’s apartment Simon Garrett returned to his own. On entering he went from room to room gingerly peering in through the doorways first and then more boldly checking their interiors. By the time he reached the kitchen he was not only satisfied Stephanie was not there but that nothing appeared to have been disturbed. “F**k,” he cursed under his breath. “Where the hell is she?”

Later he sat distractedly watching the television news having showered and changed into a pair of light casual trousers and a short sleeved shirt. The air-conditioner was on droning away in the corner of the room. The world flickered before him reflected in his eyes; bombings in the Middle East, floods and landslides in Bangladesh which had once again wiped out entire villages, new revelations of impropriety within the church in the United Kingdom. A depressing parade of death and disaster which numbed the brain. And in Hong Kong the news was if not equally bad certainly nothing to cheer about either. Political tension was high and the state of the economy was on the decline.

Garrett shook his head. Television was supposed to be a medium for entertainment and education. Somewhere that side of it had been lost. The universal drive was to as graphically as possible bring sadness and sorrow, threat and fear, into the living room. To intrude and to shock. Even so-called light entertainment programmes had to incorporate some moral message if they were to please the critics. The escapism of the past had been overtaken by some obviously misguided belief that the world did not want diversion from reality for a brief while even but insisted on being directly involved in problems. Who decided this? What made the powers that be think that after a torrid day a man wanted to sit down and have an armchair view of somebody else’s misfortune? The idea was crazy. It only increased people’s stress levels.

“Dear Jesus,” complained Garrett aloud as a woman on the small screen sobbed before a group of gaping voyeurs hugging the body of a child to her breast, the latest victim of repression in some distant place, the latest sad story in a litany of sad stories he had had to endure in just a single fifteen minute span of time.

He pressed the OFF button on the remote control and headed for the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, took out a can of beer, snapped off the ring top. The liquid hissed and spurted onto his shirt. He wiped it off and put the cold metal to his lips letting the beer fill his mouth and then trickle down his throat. Despite the hum of the wall unit in the adjacent room it was not powerful enough to push the coolness beyond the doorway. He stared through the closed window at the darkness outside. It would be humming out there too he knew, the hum of life, of life being experienced as nowhere else on earth.

The sudden burst from the telephone startled him from his thoughts yanking them back indoors, severing the line that had momentarily linked him to that other world, the world he could clearly imagine without being part of. He walked into the sitting room and lifted the receiver. “Hello, Simon Garrett.”

“Si.” It was Stephanie. Her voice was clipped, restrained. Although she used only the one word it was enough to convey a host of meanings.

Garret braced himself. “Steph where are you? Are you alright?”

“Si, they want the Buddha.” There were muffled noises in the background before she spoke again. “Si, you have to give it to them.”

“Are you alright Steph? Have they done anything to you?”

“I’m alright. But you have to give it to them or….”

Again there were unintelligible sounds, hushed voices, as she was cut off.

“Steph?” he called. “Steph?”

A man’s voice cut in. “You will give me the Buddha Mr Garrett or your lady friend will suffer. She has not been harmed. Yet. But if you do not do as I say I will see to it that she suffers great pain. You do not want that to happen.”

“Who the hell are you?” demanded Garrett. “Let me speak to her again. I want to talk to her.”

“You have spoken to Miss Paine,” answered the man. “She is safe. For now. Now you must do as I say.”

Garrett wanted to scream at the voice, to tell it to go screw itself, that he demanded his woman be returned to him, untouched, unharmed. Instead he said: “What do you want?”

“I want you to bring me the Buddha Mr Garrett. That is all. Once I have it your friend will be released. I will have no further need of her. Or you.”

There was a pause. Garrett waited, a prayer forming itself unbidden within, a plea for sanity to prevail.

The voice continued: “In Chater Road in Statue Square there is a public telephone facing the harbour. The one on the extreme west. Be there in half an hour. You will be told what to do. Remember it is a very public telephone Mr Garrett. I will be watching to see that you are alone. Do not be foolish.”

“But I don’t…..” There was a click followed by a continuous whine as the line was disconnected.

*

“We should put a tap on his phone,” said the officer from Special Branch. “He’s the only one who can lead us to the Buddha.”

The Narcotics Bureau chief nodded. “I agree, but without the CP, the Secretary for Security and the PMG going along with it we can’t do that. And they don’t agree this is a case they can agree to. At least the S for S doesn’t and it never got to the PMG.”

“Bloody fool. Doesn’t he know what this could do?”

“You want an honest answer? No.”

The SB officer shook his head. “Bloody amateurs,” he swore. “How can we operate effectively when we have to answer to glorified bloody clerical officers? Why can’t they let the professionals just get on with the job?”

“Hoover did just that and ended up the most powerful man in America. Lower Albert Road doesn’t want anything like that here.”

“So what do we do? Flail around in a vacuum and hope for the best? A great bloody way to operate I must say.”

“We’re not exactly in a vacuum,” answered the NB chief. “We do have Garrett and the woman.”

“Not entirely; she’s gone missing.”

“We still have Garrett then.”

“Why don’t we use him then?”

“We are. That’s why I asked for this talk. I want you to take on one of my men. To have him work with your team.”

“We don’t need him,” stated the SB officer. “We know all you know. What input could he have?”

The NB chief pushed himself out of his chair. “This is basically a drugs case. It started with drugs and it will end with drugs. Even it is goes overseas those connections will be drugs. My man has that experience. He can add that extra dimension to your work. We will continue on our front of course but he will be the on the ground link. He won’t lead. He’ll help. He’ll be backing. Experienced backup. I think it would be helpful to you as well as us.”

“Who is he?” the SB officer asked.

“His name’s Stewart. Ian Stewart. He’s only an SI but he put us on to this Buddha thing in the first place. A typical bushy tailed SI but quick. He’s a mixer and intelligent to boot. Probably get accelerated promotion out of this I should think. So if it’s alright with you I’ll send him across.”

“Alright,” said the officer from Special Branch. “Tell him to come and see me. I’ll explain what he can do. And can’t.”

*

 At the same time the two senior policemen parted Simon Garrett closed the door to his flat and ran down the staircase to the street below. If he was lucky he would reach the central district with some time to spare. He faced a major problem, over and above the fact he was going defenceless to meet a person who he was convinced was prepared to kill to get what he wanted, but he would have to deal with that then. For now his immediate concern was finding transport.

He bounded down the short steep hill to the Peak Tower and the taxi ranks alongside the bus station and minibus depot. It was seven thirty and crowds were milling about, locals and visitors mixing as they headed for the quaint Peak Café, a relic of times past, or jostled in the crowded peak tram terminal which housed a plush restaurant on the top floor and souvenir shops on the ground and first levels. Children seemed to be everywhere, yelling and wailing, being dragged along unceremoniously by their parents. A bus was stationery next to two minibuses which were almost full but not moving. But there were no taxis. As usual when he needed one there were none around. As he turned back towards the tower a large American, camera around his neck, a 49ers cap perched atop his balding head, and a woman who looked like an advertisement for bad taste by his side, grabbed him by the arm.

“Hey,” the man drawled. “Where can I find something real Chinese up here?”

“What?” frowned Garrett.

“Real, genuine Chinese,” repeated the American. “We came up here to see something Chinese. The guide at the hotel told us there were pagodas and all that. Where are they?”

“Pagodas?” Garrett raised his eyebrows. “Up here?” Quickly he made a decision. “Certainly. Go down there along that path around the mountain. About four hundred meters along you’ll come to an open area where there are a dozen or so.” Then he added for good measure: “There are lanterns and miniature lakes and all the staff are dressed in cheongsams and everything.” He looked at his wristwatch. “You should just make it if you hurry. They close at eight.”

“Much obliged,” said the American. “Come on Mable. I told you we’d find something real Chinese in this place.”

Garrett sidestepped them and ran into the terminal. By the time the couple was around the bend he would be on his way down the mountain in the funicular tram well out of their reach when they realised they had been directed on a wild goose chase. All they would find was the path that wound its way around the mountain peak. He hoped they would be satisfied with the magnificent view of the harbour and Kowloon peninsula. Real Chinese, he mused. They were in Hong Kong. What did they expect to see everywhere? Coolies with baskets of rubbish on the end of poles everywhere?

The queue of excited commuters was not long but the ten minute wait seemed interminable. The absence of any other fast form of transport down the mountain had forced Garrett to use the century old tram. Any other time he would have looked forward to the slow ride to the bottom. The opportunity to gaze out on the twinkling myriad lights from the dangerously tilting vehicle was a must for every visitor to Hong Kong. He often used it himself to get to work though seldom in the evenings and he could not help marvelling at the scene spread out before him. Four times during the long descent the tram’s cable came to a jolting halt to let passengers on and off and to move to the side track to allow its sole stablemate to climb past. Each time Garrett checked his wristwatch and cursed the delay. The fairy land below did little to appease him.

Finally the vehicle cruised into its depot and Garrett alighted to the din of a milling crowd of camera toting sightseers. Once out he crossed the road to the sidewalk outside the Central Government Offices and St John’s Cathedral. At the bottom of the hill was the Hilton Hotel and the magnificent Bank of China. Ahead he had only to pass the Hilton Hotel and the Hong Kong and Shanghai Bank to the Legislative Council Building and Statue Square. He should just make it in time.

The square was more than usually busy and Garrett suddenly realised the Council was still in session debating the second draft to the Basic Law, the proposed constitution which would govern the Special Administrative Region of China after 1997.  No wonder the kidnappers had chosen to send him there. They could easily watch him without fear of drawing attention to themselves. Of course there were uniformed police on duty outside the building but they would pose no problems. As he threaded his way to the appointed public call box he scanned the crowds in the hope of seeing Stephanie even though his gut told him she would not be there. Still his heart drummed the prayer she would be and that she would run into his arms. Curious faces returned his look, all of them anonymous.

When he reached Chater Road near the pedestrian crossing leading to the Star Ferry he singled out the phone box. It was occupied by two Filipino maids. He could hear their noisy Tagalog chatter as he approached and see their animated grins which sent his hopes plunging. It was seven fifty eight. Had they already tried to call him? Had he missed it? He could not recall exactly what time it was according to his instruction. Was it seven thirty or seven fifteen?

What if he was late? Would Steph pay the threatened penalty for his tardiness? What if the kidnappers were dialling the number right now? Would the engaged signal send the wrong message? They might think he had alerted the police. He had to do something. He had to clear the line and command it himself.

Unhesitating he strode up the box behind the two women. Reaching over the shoulder of the one at the rear he jammed his fingers on the clear plastic nodule beside the circular dial severing the contact. Instantly the women turned on him.

“Sorry,” he said officiously. “Police. This is police business. I must use the phone. I’m sorry. You can have it back soon.” The women scowled. “Don’t worry, I’ll pay for your call.” He stood back to allow their retreat, smiled lightly as he entered. “Thank you.” With his back to them so they could not see he rested a hand on the plastic nodule and pretended to dial a number with the other. Changing hands he put the receiver to his ear, turned and smiled again at the Filipinas. Reluctantly they moved away from the box. After a moment he again turned his back and mouthed silent conversation. Anxiously he glanced at the time. It was seconds away from the hour, perilously close to when he felt all hope would vanish. The inside of the cubicle which had taken on claustrophobic proportions came alive with the sound of the telephone ringing. His hand was stung off the nodule.

“Hello,” he nearly shouted. “Garrett speaking.”

“Don’t talk,” ordered a voice on the other end. It was not the same man who had told him to be there. “Just listen and do exactly as you are told. Have you got the property?”

“No,” answered Garrett. “Let me speak to Stephanie, Miss Paine. I must know if…”

“Wait,” broke in the voice. Seconds passed. When the voice returned it sounded low, careful, restrained.

“Go to the Causeway Bay typhoon shelter. Where the sampans berth to take customers out to the yachts is a girl who is wearing a red T shirt with the words ‘I Love HK’ on the front and a heart on the back.” Garrett listened in silence. “Tell her you want to eat clams and onions. You have half an hour. Do not be late.”

“Look,” began Garrett. “I have to talk to…”

“You are wasting time. The Causeway Bay typhoon shelter. If you are not with the girl on time it will be too late for your friend.” Click. The phone went dead.

Garrett listened to the hum and then replaced the receiver. He turned and lunged onto the sidewalk almost knocking over one of the Filipinas. Without stopping he took a ten dollar note from his pocket and thrust it at her. “Here,” he said. “Keep the change.”

The typhoon shelter was only five minutes east by car. Finding a taxi could at this time in the Central district well take anything up to half an hour. That was all he had to complete the journey.

“S**t,” he said aloud and bolted across the road towards the Furama Hotel.

*

Ian Stewart had waited in the corridor outside the office of the Deputy Director of Special Branch. One minute he had been in his office sifting through files and reports on drugs cases with international implications and the next he had been reassigned to the highly covert intelligence section.

His brief by the head of the Narcotics Bureau had been brief to the point of brevity. Do what he was instructed within the limits applied, provide all possible assistance, and above all keep the Bureau through the chief personally informed at all stages. Under no circumstances was he to forget this was basically a narcotics case and not a political matter. Handle it correctly and he might not be forgotten at the next selection board. No promises of course. Fair enough thought Stewart.

However he also knew he would be watched by the Branch and that the Director commanded considerable support when he reported his views to the Commissioner. He would carry out his new instructions and he would report back as ordered. And he would be careful. The apprehending of the triad boss and the recovery of the jade Buddha were paramount. Nevertheless he had a responsibility to himself and his family not to be rash with his career. Fair enough he told himself again. Let’s see how it goes down.

“So that’s your role in this operation,” concluded the Deputy Director. “You will give support. Your experience in NB will be most useful no doubt but this will be run on the Branch model. And that means we have no model. So again, you work under our command. Is that understood?”

“Yes sir,” Stewart replied.

“Any questions?” asked the Deputy Director.

“Sir. Have you put anyone on Simon Garrett?”

“Since half an hour ago.”

“Where is he now sir?”

“We think he’s still at home. As I say we moved on this thirty minutes ago only so we were up against it from the start. We have one hand tied behind our backs.”

“Sir?”

“We can’t put a line into his phone or bug his place. We have to play it by the book and that means we are somewhat hampered. But that shouldn’t concern you. We know Garrett went inside just after six and no-one’s seen him come out. Until we learn otherwise therefore we assume he’s still in there. Anything else?”

“No sir.” Stewart knew the deputy Director would prefer he left anything else to his new leader.

“Good,” said the senior Special Branch officer. “You know what you have to do. Any problems bring them to me”

*

He did not see the girl at first.

The once hugely popular floating smorgasbord in the typhoon shelter had deteriorated rapidly over the years but that did not mean it went out of business. Only that the custom changed from mainly local residents to tourists who were not likely to pay a return visit and whose repeated patronage was not of undue concern. The continuous flow of one-off diners was more than enough.

As the lanes of road traffic roared past touts from twenty sampans waited at the entrance to the lay-by for those searching out the brittle flotilla bouncing up and down at the foot of dirty steps which would carry them out into the murky waters amid the millions of dollars’ worth of yachts and launches. There they would rock unsteadily as larger craft came along side and pretty girls and their mothers clambered aboard with trays and buckets of fruit, vegetables and live seafood from which to choose. It was all very romantic for young lovers, a taste of the real Orient. Or so it pretended to be. It was also a grand opportunity to come down with any of half a dozen varieties of food poisoning.

Garrett searched among the touts and unsuspecting customers for the girl he was told would be wearing the red T shirt with the emblazoned love for Hong Kong. She was nowhere to be seen and he immediately began to question whether he had been instructed to go to the Causeway Bay shelter or the one across the harbour in Yaumati. Such was the state of his mind.

Then he saw her. She was coming up a flight of steps from where a sampan bumped against the stone retaining wall. To his right was the famous noon day gun and an air-conditioned coach disgorging a group of gaudy Americans their accents raised above the noise of the passing traffic at his back. He headed towards her. But when he was only a few paces from her she veered quickly away.

“Wait,” he called. “I want…”

“No more,” she shot back over her shoulder dismissing him.

For a fraction of a second their eyes met. “Listen,” he shouted as the distance between them lengthened. “I was told you….”

“I say no. All full. No more room. You try another one.”

The red T shirt started to fade into the crowd of newcomers from the coach. The girl was speaking, perhaps offering the services of her small craft to larger paying customers.

Garrett moved closer. “Clams and onions,” he called. “I want clams and onions.”

The girl immediately turned away from the American group and stared straight at him. “What you want?”

“Clams and onions. I was told you had them.”

“What else you want?”

“Nothing. Just clams and onions.”

The girl did not move. Garrett thought how odd they must look. Standing ten meters from each other, he shouting about claims and onions like a fish monger, she challenging him with her glare. Then without a word the girl wheeled and walked purposefully towards the steps where Garrett had first seen her. He followed quickly. By the time he reached the top of the steps she was at the bottom waiting one foot on the stones and the other on the side of a sampan with a covered hood. She said nothing but stared up at him. Garrett descended and she told him: “Get in.”

He stepped aboard almost losing his balance and saw there was an old haggard looking woman inside. He turned to ask the girl where they were going but she had disappeared. As he sat uncomfortably on an oil stained wooden bench the old woman at the stern began to sway from side to side using a long oar for both power and steering to manoeuvre away from the wall and into the shelter in short jerking zig zags.

Garrett scanned the scene through an opening in the canvas covering. Rich hulls passed him by and a sputtering motorised sampan sent a swell that he feared might capsize his fragile craft. Instead of heading towards the centre of the shelter the woman guided him among the moored vessels expertly avoiding their gleaming sides even in the dark until finally stopping alongside a huge grey launch the top of which Garrett could not see. He could though see the white plastic and rope ladder that dropped to a wide platform inches above the surface of the water.

He turned to the woman. “Here?” he asked. “Do I get out here?”

She did not answer but waved her hand as if trying to flick him over the side.

He stood, stepped to the side, and heaved himself over the side of the frail wooden sampan. He could see no-one above him and only more large expensive craft on all sides. He felt terribly exposed. Vulnerable. He began the climb up.

The exertion though slight brought dampness to his armpits and the middle of his back. His nostrils rebelled at the unpleasantness of the decaying litter floating below and his eyes strained to identify any human form above. The closer he got to the top of the ladder the more worried he became. All was quiet. No-one was waiting to greet him. The choice of the word was totally inappropriate. A welcoming was certainly not what he expected.

He pulled himself on to the desk and looked about. The area was empty and silent. Behind him he noted the bobbing lights strung across buoyed sampans, dark shapes against the dark water. The hillsides were ablaze with high-rise illuminations and the noise from the commercial heart of Causeway Bay was a persistent buzzing in his ears.

From where he stood there was only one way he could move. A narrow aisle led towards the stern of the launch past the rising streamlined cabin with its space craft windows and topped with a bristle of antennae, a disc on the front rotating slowly, its central shaft seemingly fixed on an immovable point in the night sky. Everything had become suddenly sharp and distinct. His footsteps were muted by the rubberised surface as he made his way towards a point half way along the deck behind which a light shone. The door opened easily at his touch and he stepped into a brightly lit anti-room. Against a panelled door to his left was a huge Chinese man who pointed down a staircase.

Garrett followed the direction and found himself about mid-ships in a large ornate drawing room, oak panelled, brass trimmed, sumptuously furnished with a crystal chandelier dropping from the ceiling.

In the centre of the room Stephanie Paine sat tied to a high-backed grandfather chair. Beside her stood another Chinese man, silver haired, bespectacled, expensively suited, unsmiling. Garrett moved towards Stephanie but was stopped abruptly by a hand gripping his shoulder. The sentry from upstairs had followed him soundlessly into the room and now restrained him firmly from behind. Stephanie’s eyes pleaded but the gag in her mouth prevented speech.

“Do you have what I asked for?” asked the well-dressed Chinese without further ado.

“No,” answered Garrett, unexpected force in the word. “I told one of your apes I did not have it with me when I spoke to him on the phone.”

“Kai did not speak to you,” said the man. “He can speak to no-one. Where is it?”

“Let her go and I’ll give it to you.”

“Don’t be tiresome Mr Garrett. Be sensible and leave with your life. Both your lives. You are on the edge as it is.”

“And f**k you too,” said Garrett. “Not until she’s out of here.”

The eyes of the Chinese flickered past Garrett and instantly a hammer blow at the base of his neck buckled his knees and knocked him to the floor. As he struggled to get up the man spoke in a measured tone. “You can shout if you like. You will not be heard.”

A second blow in the same position as the first felled him again. His eyes watered and a dull shudder rippled down his spine settling in his bowels. The crackling in his ears was insufficient to block out the man’s next words. “For the final time, where is the Buddha?”

“You’ll have to kill me,” Garrett heard himself say. He waited for the coming pain hunching his shoulders and drawing his legs protectively up into his belly.

“You are not going to die,” the man said. “Not yet. Maybe not at all. There are as you say more ways than one of skinning a cat.”

Garrett looked up and saw the man’s huge bodyguard had moved to the other side of the chair where Stephanie was bound.

“Don’t you f*****g touch her you b*****d, or I’ll kill you.”

The man removed his spectacles and took a silk handkerchief from the breast picket of his jacket. “I’ll give you one more chance. Tell me where it is.”

A sound behind him made Garrett turn. A second Chinese, a small wiry youth with hair to his shoulders stood just inside the door, a heavy chopper balanced in his hands. Garrett remained silent.

The suited man stepped to the side and his bodyguard moved in front of the chair. Stephanie’s arms were tied, her hands bound together behind the tall back. Other twine had been used to bind her legs to those of the chair.

“Watch,” said the man softly. “I want you to observe what your stupidity means to this woman.”

Garrett looked at the chopper wielding thug behind him and mentally weighed his chances. They were decidedly against him. A muffled scream brought his attention back to the centre of the room.

Stephanie was struggling wildly but in vain as the brute before her slowly and with care undid the buttons of her blouse and peeled the material off her shoulders baring her breasts.

“Stop,” he shouted. “I’ll tell you. You can have it. Just leave her alone.”

The Chinese in the suit said nothing but kept his eyes on Stephanie.

“I have it at home. Let her go and I’ll go and get it for you. But you have to let her go.”

The man nodded once and the large man drew a long thin bladed knife from a sheath strung on the belt of his trousers. As he placed it near the n****e of Stephanie’s left breast Garrett cried out: “I tell you it’s at home. Stop him. I’ll give it to you.”

The blade hesitated a moment and then in a single swift movement the torturer skewered it through the flesh and levered it outwards, tearing the pink n****e loose.  There was a gurgled scream as Stephanie’s body lurched forward and then backwards against the padded back of the chair. A deep sob uttered from Garrett’s twisted mouth as he saw the cruel damage caused and the blood ooze from the wound. In horror he raised his eyes and tears fell as he absorbed the pain on his lover’s face.

“My god,” he wept. “Oh my god.”

“I think you are lying,” he heard the Chinese say distinctly. “You went with the police not to your apartment but to this woman’s. The Buddha is not where you say it is.” He looked once more at the man with the knife.

“Oh Christ no,” sobbed Garrett. “For god’s sake stop.”

The knife was poised above the other n****e. Stephanie was now slumped in the chair all power and will drained from her body with the freely flowing blood from her breast staining the waist of her dress. A deep rhythmic grunting caved her stomach. Again the monster stabbed and plucked. Stephanie gave a single jerk and fell unconscious, her head lolling sideways.

“What..do..you..want?” pleaded Garrett. His voice was broken. His brain pounded and his whole body from his finger tips to his toes quaked with helpless, hopeless fear and anguish. What had been done to Stephanie was unpardonable. The outrage to her person. Her femininity, her very being was an intolerable invasion, the act of a pagan mentality. There was not a thing he could have done to prevent it he tried to tell himself. But the lie cut deep and he knew instinctively that he had been responsible. It was as if he had himself taken the instrument in his hands and plunged it into his lover’s breasts.

“The Buddha,” the man was saying. “Give me the Buddha and this unpleasantness will cease.”

Garrett could not prevent a snicker spilling from his lips. “Unpleasantness. You call this…this depravity unpleasantness? My god you are insane. Who do you think you are for f**k’s sake? What are you?”

The youth with the copper kicked him in the side. As he rolled into the floor the youth shouted: “This is Shī fu and you will show respect gwai lo or I will cut off your balls and stuff them down your throat.” A second kick caught him a glancing blow on the elbow.

Garrett rolled with the attack and sprang to his feet. As he did so he kicked as hard as he could at the youth’s groin. He felt the toe of his shoe connect and the youth dropped like a heavy sack to the floor, the chopper tumbling from his hand. Garrett snatched it up and wheeled to face the other two men. The hulking brute lunged and Garrett swung the unfamiliar weapon in an ark. His wrist juddered as it connected with the man’s shoulder. His attacker roared and clasped a hand to the spurting wound. At the same time Garrett saw out of the corner of his eyes the man referred to as Shī fu glide swiftly towards the stairs. He turned to meet him before he could escape and was about to swing the chopper when a punishing thump seemed to tear his ribs apart and he staggered and fell against the panelled wall. The pain gripped his innards as he saw the Chinese thrusting with the stiletto. Without thinking Garrett arced the chopper through the air. The big man screamed and watched unbelieving as his hand and slender knife spilled onto the floor.

Garrett did not wait. He raced up the stairs to the anti-room above. It was empty. He tore through the doorway and along the aisle to the bow of the launch. Faint laughter drifted up from the sampans below and to his right the roar of the traffic three hundred meters away reached his ears. But the man called the Shī fu had vanished.

A noise from behind him alerted his senses and he spun about to see the giant Chinese advancing towards him. He was hugging his handless arm against his bloody shirt and in the other dangled a meter long bale hook. His mouth was lopsided and he was whining like a child. Garrett backed away.

His reactions so far had been instinctive a self-defensive response to the threat on his life and in retaliation for the brutality inflicted on the woman he loved. The blasphemy that he had not only been forced to watch but which he himself had brought about. Now he was staring fear straight in the face. His foe was a wounded animal in every sense of the word with the single intention of killing him.

Garrett felt the weight of the steel weapon in his own hand. He moved cautiously away from the protective deck barrier, ever closer the advancing killer, but giving himself additional room to manoeuvre. A vision of Stephanie intruded fleetingly but he dismissed it and eyed the lumbering Chinese. When he was three paces away the Chinese suddenly raked the hook up not downwards as Garrett had expected. He threw himself backwards and the point ripped through the material of his trousers at the thigh. At the same time he swung the chopper madly missing his target by half an arm’s length.

He regained his balanced and circled away. The brute held the hook by his side his other arm still pressed against his chest which was soaked with blood. He seemed immune to the pain the injury must be causing. Garrett swung the chopper at the man’s head again missing and the Chinese replied with another upward sweep of the hook. This time Garrett was expecting it and avoided the attack by sidestepping to his left. As he did he sliced his weapon horizontally and struck the Chinese on the hip. The man slouched almost casually but advanced again. Garrett saw a dark stain appear on the man’s trousers and he swept the chopper one more time in the same manoeuvre. A second time it hit home and the Chinese heaved the hook wildly as he sagged to his injured side.

Garrett leapt forward and pivoted his own hip swiping the chopper across the man’s shoulder blades. There was a crunching sound and the Chinese dropped to one knee on the deck. Garrett did not pause. He raised the awkward weapon over his head and brought it down on the torturer’s skull. The sound was a sickeningly dull and the Chinese dived forward on to his face. Garrett watched as the body rolled onto its back and a pool of blood spread in a gruesome halo around the dead man’s head. Garrett straightened and breathed in the humid air.

Only seconds lapsed before he headed back towards the room below deck. The Shī fu might still be somewhere on board and he wanted him, he desperately wanted to put his hands around the man’s throat and choke him to death. But his immediate thought was for Stephanie. He must get to her. Help her. Heal her. Beg her forgiveness.

At the bottom of the steps in the drawing room he halted. The chair was facing away from him. Somehow she must have been able to swivel it around. “Steph,” he whispered. “It’s me, Si. You’re alright. I’ll look after you. I love….”

The word caught in his throat. He had reached her side and bent to look into her face. The eyes that stared back him were empty. Wide, pale, lifeless eyes above a red slit that had severed her vocal cord and emptied her life’s blood onto her mutilated breasts.

He collapsed to the floor and buried his face in her warm lap. “No, no. no. no,” he wailed. “Please. No. Oh god. No, please.” Sobs wracked his body and he failed to hear the high pitched roar of an outboard motor powering a rubber dinghy away from the stern of the launch.

The Shī fu looked back as he steered the craft into the darkness. The Buddha had again eluded him. He would make sure when he next met Simon Garrett he would make him place it into his hand. Then he would personally slowly and painfully take him apart piece by bloody piece.

 

Author's Note

The first three chapters. I would appreciate your views, good or bad of course.