Five-Ring Circus (35 page)

“Where is she now?”

“Somewhere on the site. She's in the building somewhere, running around yelling for her other mate, Tong. She's got a gun—”

“Shit!” Malone signalled to Clements, who had come out of the interviewing room. “Have you called anyone else?”

“No, I called you—you're the one who knows what this is all about.”

“Don't call anyone—not yet. Not unless she starts shooting. We'll be down there in ten minutes, no more. Tell everyone to stay away from her—get your men out of the building—”

“Oh Christ—”

“What's the matter?”

Fadiman sounded as if he was already packing for the trip to the Outback. “Madame Tzu has
just
driven in. She's got—wait a minute—she's got Mr. Aldwych and Mr. Chung and a Chinese guy with her—”

“Don't let them get near Li Ping!”

“How the hell am I—”

But Malone had hung up, was pulling on his jacket, shoving his hat on his head. He hurried out of his office into the main room, pulled up as Guo Yi and Caradoc Evans came to the doorway of the interviewing room.

“We're leaving, Inspector—”

“No, you're not, Doc. You can go, but we're holding your client.” He signalled to Andy Graham. “Take care of Mr. Guo, Andy.”

Guo frowned. “What's happened?”

Evans patted his arm. “Stay calm, Mr. Guo. What are the charges, Scobie?”

“I'll let you know within the hour. We're bringing in his girlfriend, Miss Li.” He looked at the young Chinese. “You'd better have another talk with Mr. Evans. I'm afraid Miss Li is going to pour shit all over you for not being there when she wants you.”

Guo lifted his chin, not in defiance but like a man trying to keep it above water. He turned back into the interviewing room. Evans said quietly, “How bad is it?”

“Bad,” said Malone. “Talk some sense into him or he's on his way back to China.”

“And if he stays?”

“Point out to him we don't have the death penalty here. I believe there were five thousand executions in China last year.”

He let himself and Clements out of the security door. So far Clements had said nothing, but as they waited for the lift he said, “Where is she?”

Going down in the lift Malone told him what little he knew. “Gail and Sheryl will be down there now—I don't want them taking her on on their own.”

“Hadn't we better get the SPG guys in?”

“
No,” said Malone emphatically. “This is my case—
our
case—and we're sticking with it. If it develops into a siege situation, then we'll call them in. But for now—”

“If things go wrong and we finish up in the shit, how do we explain it to Greg Random?”

“We don't. I'll get fired.”

They were hurrying out to the unmarked car. “And what happens to me?”

“You'll have been obeying orders from your superior officer and you won't have known about Greg's order to lay off.”

Clements got in behind the wheel, put the blue lamp on the roof. “Let's hope Miss Li comes in quietly.”

“She will,” said Malone, and hoped he sounded convincing.

With the light flashing and the siren wailing, with Clements twice pulling out to drive on the wrong side of the road, the drive from Strawberry Hills took six minutes. As they approached the Olympic Tower site Malone said, “Righto, cut out the light and the siren. Let's arrive without fuss.”

Clements glanced at him. “There's gunna be fuss whichever way we arrive. What are you gunna tell Greg Random?”

“I'll think of something.” But not now. Now, at last, he had his hands on the throat of the case.

They pulled on to the site, with Malone gesturing to the gateman to close the wide gates behind them. A cement truck was about to pull in, but the gateman waved it away. The truck stayed where it was, blocking the gateway, providing some sort of screen from the traffic passing behind it.

Malone and Clements got out of the police car and Gail Lee and Sheryl Dallen came towards them with Fadiman, the site manager. In the background, in the shadow of the tall building, over a hundred workers in their hard hats stood in a group, like a small field of tall toadstools. Outside the door of the site office stood the three partners and General Wang-Te, as unmoving as statuary. Beyond the gates, peering in beside the cement truck, a few passers-by had paused and looked in inquisitively: another strike? These bloody constructions workers were always demanding something . . . The clerks and the pensioners looked in sourly at the kings in their white crowns.

“
Where's Miss Li?” Malone demanded.

Gail pointed up towards the towering building. “Somewhere up there. With a gun, Mr. Fadiman says.”

Then Roley Bremner detached himself from his co-workers and came towards them. “She's up on the fourth floor, Scobie. Who let her loose? She's running around like a cut cat, yelling for Tong.”

“Where's he?”

“Christ knows. If he's got any sense, he's going nowhere near her. Get her outa there, mate, so's we can get back to work.”

“Did she threaten you with the gun?” Clements asked Fadiman.

The site manager shook his head. “No. I didn't know she had one till one of the guys rang down on his mobile, said there was a dame on the fourth floor waving a gun and yelling for Tong Haifeng.”

Malone looked across at the crop of hard hats. “Is everyone down?”

“Everyone except the guys right at the top, on the framework. She's not going to go up there.”

“What about Mr. Tong?”

“He's up there somewhere—dodging her, I'd say.”

Malone looked upwards. “What's the lay-out up there?”

“All the outer walls and inner walls are in place up to the twenty-third floor. No windows or doors. Above that it's all framework and floors laid as far as the fortieth floor. Above that just steel-and-concrete framework. Don't go up there, not unless you've got a head for heights.”

Malone continued to look upwards, then he lowered his gaze, eased the crick in his neck and looked at Clements. The latter said, “Looks like we'll need the SPG.”

“SPG?” said Fadiman.

“The State Protection Group.”

“The guys with shotguns and flak jackets and Christ knows what. Holy shit!”

Malone stood stiffly, emotion flooding through him, crumbling the dykes he had built against
disappointment.
There had been disappointments in the past; he had seen murderers walk away free, their crimes hung round their necks like medals. But this was major; he had wanted to tie this one up himself. The threat to his family and himself had made it a personal vendetta: something no policeman should ever consider. But what the rules said and what the heart said too often ran on separate tracks. But he knew now that the rules were going to win.

“Get the SPG here, Gail.”

He left Clements and the women and Fadiman and walked across to the small group outside the site office. The crowd of workers had begun to disperse, clotting together in smaller groups as they looked for places to sit, to smoke, to drink tea or coffee and wonder again at the jinxes on this site.

“We're bringing in the State Protection Group,” Malone said.

“Men with guns?” said Madame Tzu.

“We all carry guns, Madame Tzu. But this situation needs specialists.”

“Don't cock it up like last time,” said Aldwych, and Malone looked at him pained. He waved a hand. “I'm not being sarcastic, Scobie. This time they said the girl's got a gun of her own.”

“You think she's going to use it?” said Les Chung.

“She's already used it,” said Malone.

Madame Tzu had been looking up at the building, but now she turned her head quickly and looked at Malone. “Used it? You mean she shot someone?”

“We think so.”

“Who?”

“You'll hear that when we make the charges. First, we've got to bring her down from up there.” He nodded upwards. “Her and Tong Haifeng.”

Then Wang-Te spoke. “I do not think I should be here. This has nothing to do with my government.”

“I think it has, General,” said Malone. “Your government wants her taken back to China. That's why she's gone berserk. I'm guessing, but we think she wanted her boyfriend Guo to help her get
away
—I dunno where she thought they'd go. We've got Guo in custody, so I guess she's now looking for Tong to help her out. We want him, too.”

“What's he done?” said Aldwych.

“I'll let you know when we charge him, Jack.”

“I think I can guess. Jesus, I shouldn't of retired—I had less corpses when I was in the game.” Then he looked at Chung. “We owe someone an apology.”

“Never apologize,” said Chung with a thin smile, “never regret.”

“My sentiments exactly,” said Aldwych, smile even thinner.

Madame Tzu said nothing, but her look was expressive; she knew who was entitled to the apology. Well, well, thought Malone, maybe I owe her an apology too. But he knew none would be offered.

Clements came across towards them. “They'll be here in ten minutes. We just stand around and wait.” His tone was bitter, even though it was he who had suggested the SPG should be brought in. “It's an anti-climax, right?”

“It always is, isn't it?” said Sheryl; she and Gail had come across behind Clements. “Whenever they're brought in.”

“Don't knock ‘em,” said Malone but automatically. He had the same sentiments.

Then there was a shot. All activity on the building had ceased; there had been comparative silence. In the usual clamour a gunshot would have gone unnoticed, mistaken for no more than that of a ram-gun. But there was no mistaking this sound. Then, as if for emphasis, there was a second shot.

“Two?” said Clements, head turned upwards. “She's done Tong Haifeng?”

“Or one in him and the other in herself.” Malone took off his jacket, handed it to Gail Lee, took out his gun. “I'm going up.”

Clements was taking off his own jacket, said to Gail, “Send the SPG guys up soon's they come. But tell ‘em to look out for us—we don't want them to potshot us.”

The helmeted workers had all risen to their feet, were congealing again into larger groups. The
tension
in the yard spread; Madame Tzu put her hand to her throat. Chung and Aldwych looked at each other and the latter shook his head. The jinx was back.

Gail Lee said, “You want me to come with you, boss? To interpret, just in case she's still alive . . .?”

“No, Gail, stay here.” He was breaking the rule, endangering his own and Clements' lives; he wasn't going to compound the rebellion. “Where do you reckon those shots came from, Mr. Fadiman?”

“Hard to tell. Maybe the fourth or fifth floors. Go up on the work-lift, not up the stairs.”

Malone and Clements crossed to the lift, got in, slammed the gate and Clements pressed the start button. As they rose he said, “We're doing the right thing, but how are you gunna explain it to Greg Random?”

“Let's get this solved first. Then I'll think of an explanation.”

“Thanks. I'll remember that when—” But Clements didn't finish, just looked out and down at the upturned faces, pale daisies in the mud of the yard, and the traffic crawling past in the street outside, their drivers oblivious of what was happening here on the Olympic Tower site. He was a fatalistic man, not afraid of dying, but all at once he reached towards the button, to stop the lift and then reverse it.

But the lift stopped of its own accord, at the fourth level. Malone flung up the gate and stepped out on to a narrow gangwalk. Clements hesitated, then followed him. They edged through a glassless window opening, moving quickly so they wouldn't be silhouetted against the light and flattening themselves against the inner walls. Their shoes crunched on grit and rubble on the concrete floor; they were in a wide corridor that stretched ahead of them into the gloom; there was a blank wall at the far end. They were on the eastern side of the building, but the sun had long gone from the window opening. Doorless rooms were open on either side of them as they moved cautiously down the corridor; another year and it would cost three or four hundred dollars a night to walk into the rooms. Graffiti were scrawled on the walls.
Join Allied Trades
said one message; the answer was on the opposite wall:
Fuck Off!
Small heaps of debris littered the floor; a white hard hat looked like an albino tortoise. Soft-drink bottles were scattered round like landmines waiting for unwary feet to tread on them; a stale sandwich was curled like a
seashell.
There was a cold smell, of something still to come alive.

They had arrived at two doorways opposite each other; beyond them were stairwells, dark as pits. Malone edged round the opening, gun at the ready, shouted into the stairwell: “Miss Li! Police! Inspector Malone!”

His voice boomed in the narrow shaft, died away as a whisper far above and below him. Then he heard footsteps coming up out of the darkness; he stepped through the doorway and on to the landing, pointed his gun downwards.

Then Madame Tzu, one hand on the wall as she felt her way, emerged slowly out of the darkness, as if coming up out of an invisible pool of water. A dozen steps below Malone she paused, breathing heavily; she was not accustomed to this sort of exercise. Leaning against the wall she looked to her right; there was no railing there, a misjudged step and she would have plunged four floors, perhaps even right through to the basement. She shook her head, then looked up at Malone, her face still as expressionless as a plate.

“I—I came to help—”

“Who let you in?” He was angry at this unwanted intrusion, this further complication.

“I slipped in—they couldn't stop me—” She climbed the remaining stairs, stood on the landing with Malone and Clements. She was still struggling for breath: “I—I can help—Ping will listen to me—”