Necropolis (33 page)

Jamie came over to them. "I think he wants us to go with him," he said, glancing at the driver. He yawned. "I just hope this boat has got a decent bed."

There wasn't much to the port: a stretch of white concrete, a couple of gantries, and arc lamps spreading a hard, electric glow that only made everything look more unwelcoming. Once again the rain had eased off, but a thin drizzle hung in the air. The driver led them over to a boat, moored along the quayside.

This was going to take them across.

It was an old, hardworking cargo boat with just two decks. The lower of them had a cargo hold that was open to the elements. Looking into it, Matt saw that it was filled with wooden crates, each one marked with a name that had been stenciled in black letters: kung hing tao

. The cabin was on the upper deck. It was shaped like a greenhouse and not much bigger, with windows all the way round. There were two radio masts jutting into the air, a radar dish, and a funnel that was already belching black smoke. The boat was completely ringed with car tires to stop it from colliding with the dock; this, along with the flaking paint and patches of rust, made it look as if it had been rescued from a junkyard. Matt just hoped the sea would be calm.

"We've got company," Richard said.

A man had appeared, climbing down from the cabin, his feet — in Wellington boots — clanging against the metal rungs. As he stepped into the light, it became clear that he wasn't Chinese. He was a European, a big man with a beard, dark eyes, and curly, black hair. His whole face looked beaten about — cracked lips, broken nose, veins showing through the skin. Either the weather had done it, too many years at sea, or he had once been a boxer…and an unsuccessful one. He was wearing jeans, a thick knitted jersey, and a donkey jacket, dark blue, with the rain sparkling on his shoulders. His hands were huge and covered in oil.

"Good evening, my friends," the man said. "You are welcome to Moon Moth."

He had introduced his ship but not himself. He had a deep voice and a Spanish accent. The words came from somewhere in his chest. "Mr. Shantung has asked me to look after you. Are you ready to come on board?"

"How long will the journey take us?" Richard asked. He sounded doubtful.

"Three hours, maybe longer. We don't have the power of a Jetfoil, and the weather's strange. All this rain! It may hold us up, so the sooner we get started, the better." The man took out a pipe and tapped it against his teeth as if checking them for cavities. "I often make the journey at night, if that's what's worrying you," he went on. "Nobody's going to take any notice of us. So let's get out of this weather and be on our way."

He turned and climbed back onto the boat. Richard glanced at Matt. Matt shrugged. The captain hadn't been exactly friendly, but why should they have expected otherwise? These people were criminals. They were only obeying orders. They had no interest in the Gatekeepers or anybody else, so it was pointless to expect first-class comfort and smiles.

Richard had brought his backpack with them — it was their only luggage. He picked it up and they followed the man on board. They reached the ladder, and Matt was grateful that this one had ordinary rungs instead of swords.

As he began to climb, he noticed a Chinese man in filthy jeans and an oil-skin jacket drawing a tarpaulin over the crates. For a moment, their eyes met and Matt found himself being studied with undisguised hostility. The man spat, then went back to work. He seemed to be the only crew.

There wasn't much room in the cabin, which looked even older than the ship, with equipment that wouldn't have been out of place in a Second World War film. The captain was sitting on a stool in front of a steering wheel, surrounded by switches and gauges with markings that had largely faded away. The rain had picked up. It was streaming down the windows, and the world outside was almost invisible, broken up into beads of water that clung in place, reflecting everything but showing very little. The engines were throbbing sullenly below. The whole cabin was vibrating. It smelled of salt water, diesel fuel, and stale tobacco.

There was a low sofa and a couple of chairs for the three passengers. All the furniture was sagging and stained. Richard, Matt, and Jamie took their places. The captain sat at the wheel, flicking on a pair of ancient windshield wipers that began to swing from left to right, clearing the way in front of them. The Chinese crewman cast off, and the boat slipped away, unseen, into the night.

A single row of lights shone ahead. There was a road bridge, at least half a mile long, snaking across the entire length of the harbor. But once they had passed underneath it, there was nothing.

Moon Moth had its own spotlights mounted on the bow and the cabin roof, but they barely penetrated the driving rain and showed nothing more than a circle of black water a few feet ahead.

The captain switched on the screens, and the cabin glowed green with a soft beeping sound that divided up the silence like commas in a sentence. For about ten minutes nobody said anything, but then the crewman appeared, carrying a battered tray with four tin mugs of hot chocolate that he had brought up from a galley somewhere below.

'You haven't told me your names," the captain said. He lit his pipe and blew smoke into the air, making the cabin feel closer and snugger than ever. It was very warm inside, presumably from the heat of the engines below.

Richard introduced them. "I'm Richard. This is Matt and Jamie." They were being smuggled into Hong Kong illegally, and Han Shan-tung already knew who they were. There was no need for false names.

"And I am Hector Machado. But you can call me Captain. That is what everyone calls me — even when I am not on the ship."

"Are you Spanish?" Richard asked.

"Portuguese. I was born in Lisbon. Have you been there?"

Richard shook his head.

"I'm told that it's a beautiful city. I left there when I was three. My father came to Hong Kong to fight against the communists. This was his boat." Machado sucked on his pipe, which glowed red. He blew out smoke. "He was shot dead in the very seat where I am sitting now. And the boat is mine."

"How many crew do you have?" Matt was thinking of the man he had seen. Why had he appeared so unfriendly?

"Just Billy. No need for anyone else."

"What's in the crates?"

Machado hesitated, as if afraid of giving too much away. Then he shrugged. "Fireworks. A lot of fireworks. Mr. Shan-tung has a business selling them to mainland Hong Kong."

"And what do you carry when you're not delivering fireworks?" Richard asked. His voice was hostile. It clearly bothered him, being with these people.

"I've carried all sorts of things, Richard. Stuff that maybe it would be better you didn't know about. I've smuggled people in, if that's what you want to know. And maybe you should be grateful. I know the ins and outs.

Moon Moth may not be much to look at, but she'll outrun the Hong Kong harbor patrols anytime — not that they'll bother themselves about us. Everyone knows me in these parts. And they leave me alone."

"So how long have you worked for the Triads?"

'You think this is an interview? You want to write about me?" Machado gestured with the pipe. "I'd get some rest, if I were you. It could be a long night." He slipped the pipe between his teeth and said no more.

They cruised on into the darkness, guided by the strange, green light of the radar system. The night was so huge that it swallowed them completely. There was no moon or stars. It was impossible to tell if it was still raining as the windows were being lashed by sea spray. Machado sat where he was, smoking in silence. Richard, Matt, and

Jamie sat at the back of the cabin, out of his way. All three of them were tense and nervous. They hadn't discussed what they might find in Hong Kong, but now that they were finally on the way, they could imagine what they might be up against. A whole city, millions of people…and the Old Ones infesting everything. They had to be mad to be going in there. But there seemed to be no other way to get Scar out.

Jamie finished his hot chocolate and dozed off. Richard opened his backpack and began to go through his things. He had brought maps, money, a change of clothes. The precious diary was also there, sealed in plastic to keep it protected. Matt noticed a glimmer of gold and realized that he was carrying the tumi

— the Inca knife.

Richard glanced up. 'You never know when it may come in handy," he said. "Anyway, I didn't like leaving it behind with that bunch of crooks." He zipped the backpack shut, then lowered his voice.

"What do you think?" he asked.

He was referring to Hector Machado, although he didn't need to whisper, as the captain would never have heard him above the noise of the engines.

"Shan-tung trusts him," Matt said.

"He doesn't seem to be exactly friendly."

"He doesn't have to be friendly. He just has to get us there."

"Let's hope he does."

The two of them fell silent and soon they were both asleep. But then — it felt like seconds later — Matt found himself being woken by something. It was the boat's engine, which had changed tempo, slowing down. He opened his eyes. It was still dark, still raining. But there were lights ahead.

"You can wake up your friends," Captain Machado said. "We're here."

Matt stood up and went over to the window.

And there it was. It was two o'clock in the morning, but a city like Hong Kong never really slept. Matt could make out the skyscrapers by the lights that burned all around them, picking out their shapes in brilliant green, blue, and pink neon. It was as if someone had drawn the city onto the darkness with a vast, fluorescent crayon. There were advertisements — philips, Samsung, hitachi

— burning themselves onto the night sky, the colors breaking up in the water, being thrown around by the choppy waves. There were signs in Chinese too, and they reminded him how very different this city would be from London or Miami. This was another world.

It was very misty. Maybe it was an illusion caused by all the neon, but the mist was a strange color, an ugly, poisonous yellow. It was rolling across the harbor toward them, reaching out to surround them as if it were a living thing and knew who they were. As they continued forward, it pressed itself against the glass of the cabin, and the sound of the engines became even more distant.

Richard had joined the captain at the steering wheel. "Why are we going so slowly?" he asked. It was a good question. They were barely moving at all.

"We don't want to draw attention to ourselves," Machado replied.

"I thought you said nobody cared about you anyway."

"There's still no reason to make too much noise." Another minute passed.

"I thought we were going to Kowloon," Richard said.

"We are."

"But isn't Kowloon on the other side?"

Machado grinned in the half-light. He had put the pipe away. "The current will carry us over," he said, and at that moment Matt knew that he wasn't telling the truth and felt the familiar tingle of imminent danger. For what seemed like an age, nothing happened. They weren't moving. Machado was standing there, almost daring them to challenge him — to do anything. But there was nothing they could do. They were trapped on board his boat, completely in his power.

And then a searchlight cut through the darkness, pinning

Moon Moth in its glare. The entire cabin seemed to explode with dazzling light. A second beam swung across. Two boats. They were still some distance away, but they were rapidly closing in. They must have been waiting there all the time.

At the same moment, Machado swung his hand, crashing it into the side of Richard's head and then bringing it around on Matt. He was holding a gun. Richard fell. Machado's lips curled in an unpleasant smile. "If you move, I will kill you," he said.

He had betrayed them. He had known the boats were coming. He had led them straight to them.

"The Triads will kill you for this," Richard muttered. He had pulled himself onto one knee and was cradling his head in his hand. Blood was trickling from a wound just above his eye.

"The Triads are finished," Machado replied. "They're nothing anymore."

"So who's paying you?" Matt asked.

"There's a big reward out for you, boy. Two million Hong Kong dollars. More than I've earned with Shan-tung and his friends in ten years. They want you very badly. And they warned me about you. If you even blink, I'll shoot you."

Matt looked out of the window. The boats were getting closer, and they had been joined by three more, making five in all, moving in from every side. They were police launches — gray, solid steel with identifying numbers printed on the side. They were coming out of the night like miniature battleships, with bulletproof windows and bows shaped like knives.

Richard pulled himself to his feet. Machado aimed the gun at him. "Nightrise doesn't want you," he said.

"So I hope you don't mind a burial at sea." He was about to fire at point-blank range. He licked his lips, enjoying himself. Richard stared at him helplessly.

"Put the gun down," Jamie said.

Machado didn't hesitate. He laid the gun on the floor, although his face was filled with puzzlement. He had no idea why he'd done it. But Matt did. In his moment of triumph, the captain had forgotten Jamie.

He'd thought he was still asleep…but he'd been wrong. Jamie had seen what was happening and had used his power. If he'd told Machado to stop breathing, the man would have stood there until he died.

And, Matt reflected, maybe that was what he deserved.

"This is the Hong Kong police. Heave to…"

The voice echoed out of the water, amplified through a megaphone. There was a man standing on the bow of the nearest boat — except he looked far too tall to be human. He was black and was dressed in the uniform of a senior officer in the Hong Kong police. But it was obvious he was no policeman. He was like something out of a nightmare, with his bald head and empty, staring eyes. It was freezing cold out on the water, but he wasn't shivering. He showed no feeling or emotion at all.