Nine Dragons (23 page)

“Yes, I want it.”

“Then, we are doing what needs to be done to get it. And Sun Yee is risking his job and freedom doing it, I might add. Gun laws are very harsh here.”

“I understand. No more questions. Just thank you for helping me.”

In the silence that followed, Bosch could hear muffled but pulsing music coming from one of the shuttered clubs or maybe from all three of them. Through the windshield he saw Sun approach three men in suits who were standing outside a club directly across the intersection. Like with most of the establishments in Wan Chai, the sign out front was in Chinese and English. The place was called the Yellow Door. Sun spoke briefly with the men and then nonchalantly opened his suit jacket so they could see he was not armed. One of the men did a quick but competent pat-down and Sun was then allowed to enter through the signature yellow door.

They waited for nearly ten minutes. During that time Eleanor said almost nothing. Bosch knew she was fearful about their daughter’s situation and angry with his questions, but he needed to know more than he knew.

“Eleanor, don’t get upset with me, okay? Let me just say this. As far as we know, we have the element of surprise here. As far as the people who have Maddie know, I’m still in L.A., deciding whether to kick their guy loose or not. So if Sun Yee is going to the triad here to get me a gun, won’t he have to tell them where the gun is going and what it might be used for? Won’t the guy with the gun then turn around and give the triad guys across the harbor in Kowloon the heads-up? You know, like, look who’s in town and, oh, by the way, he’s coming your way.”

“No, Harry,” she said dismissively. “That’s not how it works.”

“Well, then how does it work?”

“I told you. Sun Yee is calling in a favor. That’s it. He doesn’t have to provide any information because the guy with the gun owes him the favor. That’s how it works. Okay?”

Bosch stared at the club entrance. No sign of Sun.

“Okay.”

Another five minutes went by silently in the car and then Bosch saw Sun step back through the yellow door. But instead of heading back to the car, he crossed the street and went into the noodle shop. Bosch tried to track him through the glass windows but the reflecting neon outside was too strong and Sun disappeared from sight.

“Now what, he’s getting food?” Bosch asked.

“I doubt it,” Eleanor said. “He was probably sent over there.”

Bosch nodded. Precautions. Another five minutes went by and when Sun emerged from the noodle shop he was carrying a Styrofoam to-go carton that was secured closed with two rubber bands. He carried it flat, as if trying not to dishevel the plate of noodles within. He returned to the car and got in. Without a word he handed the carton over the seat to Bosch.

Holding the carton low, Bosch took off the rubber bands and opened it as Sun pulled the Mercedes away from the curb. The carton contained a medium-size pistol made of blue steel. There was nothing else. No backup magazine or extra ammunition. Just the gun and whatever was in it.

Bosch dropped the carton to the floor of the car and held the pistol in his left hand. There was no brand name or marking on the bluing. Just serial and model numbers, but the five-point star stamped into the grip told Bosch the weapon was a Black Star pistol manufactured by the government of China. He had seen them on occasion in L.A. They were made by the tens of thousands for the Chinese military and a growing number ended up being stolen and smuggled across the ocean. Many of them obviously stayed in China and were smuggled into Hong Kong.

Bosch held the pistol down between his knees and ejected the magazine. It was double-stacked with fifteen 9 millimeter Parabellum rounds. He thumbed them out and put them into a cup holder in the armrest. He then ejected a sixteenth round from the chamber and put it in the cup holder with the others.

Bosch looked down the sight to focus his aim. He peered into the chamber, looking for any sign of rust, and then studied the firing pin and extractor. He checked the gun’s action and trigger several times. The weapon seemed to be functioning properly. He then studied each bullet as he reloaded the magazine, looking for corrosion or any other indication that the ammunition was old or suspect. He found nothing.

He firmly pushed the magazine back into place and jacked the first round into the chamber. He then ejected the magazine again, pushed the last bullet into the opening and once more put the gun back together. He had sixteen rounds and that was it.

“Happy?” Eleanor asked from the front seat.

Bosch looked up from the weapon and saw that they were on the down ramp to the Cross Harbour Tunnel. It would take them directly to Kowloon.

“Not quite. I don’t like carrying a gun I’ve never fired before. For all I know, the pin on this thing could have been filed and I’ll be drawing dead when I need it.”

“Well, there’s nothing we can do about that. You just have to trust Sun Yee.”

Sunday morning traffic was light in the two-lane tunnel. Bosch waited until they passed the low point in the middle and had started up the incline toward the Kowloon side. He’d heard several backfires from taxis along the way. He quickly wrapped his daughter’s blanket around the gun and his left hand. He then pulled the pillow over and turned to look out the rear window. There were no cars in sight behind them because the cars back there had not reached the midpoint of the tunnel.

“Whose car is this, anyway?” he asked.

“It belongs to the casino,” Eleanor said. “I borrowed it. Why?”

Bosch lowered the window. He held the pillow up and pressed the muzzle into the padding. He fired twice, the standard double pull he employed to check the mechanism of a gun. The bullets snapped off the tunnel’s tiled walls.

Even with the wadding around the gun, the two reports echoed loudly in the car. The car swerved slightly as Sun looked into the backseat. And Eleanor yelled.

“What the hell did you do?”

Bosch dropped the pillow to the floor and raised the window. The car smelled like burnt gunpowder but it was quiet again. He unwrapped the blanket and checked the weapon. It had fired easily and without a jam. He was down to fourteen bullets and was good to go.

“I had to make sure it worked,” he said. “You don’t carry a gun unless you’re sure.”

“
Are you crazy?
You could get us arrested before we get a chance to do anything!”

“If you keep your voice down and Sun Yee stays in his lane, I think we’ll be fine.”

Bosch leaned forward and tucked the weapon into his waistband at the small of his back. Its slide was warm against his skin. Up ahead he saw light at the end of the tunnel. They would be in Kowloon soon.

It was time.

27

T
he tunnel delivered them to Tsim Sha Tsui, the central waterside section of Kowloon, and within a few minutes Sun turned the Mercedes onto Nathan Road. It was a wide, four-lane boulevard lined with high-rise buildings as far as Bosch could see. It was a crowded mix of commercial and residential uses. The first two floors of every building were dedicated to retail and restaurant space, while the floors rising above were residential or office space. The clutter of video screens and signs in Chinese and English was an intense riot of color and motion. The buildings ranged from dowdy midcentury construction to the slick glass-and-steel structures of recent prosperity.

It was impossible for Bosch to see the top of the corridor from the car. He lowered his window and leaned out in an effort to find the Canon sign, the first marker from the photo generated from his daughter’s abduction video. He couldn’t find it and pulled back into the car. He raised the window.

“Sun Yee, stop the car.”

Sun looked at him in the rearview.

“Stop here?”

“Yes, here. I can’t see. I have to get out.”

Sun looked at Eleanor for approval and she nodded.

“We’ll get out. You find a place to park.”

Sun pulled to the curb and Bosch jumped out. He’d taken the photo print from his backpack and had it ready. Sun then pulled away, leaving Eleanor and Bosch on the sidewalk. It was now midmorning and the streets and sidewalks were crowded with people. Smoke was in the air and the smell of fire. The hungry ghosts were close. The streetscape was replete with neon, mirrored glass and giant plasma screens broadcasting silent images of jerking motion and staccato edits.

Bosch referred to the photo and then looked up and traced the skyline.

“Where’s the Canon sign?” he asked.

“Harry, you’re mixed up,” Eleanor said.

She put her hands on his shoulders and turned him completely around.

“Remember, everything is backwards.”

She pointed almost directly up, her finger drawing a line up the side of the building they were in front of. Bosch looked up. The Canon sign was directly overhead and at an angle that made it unreadable. He was looking at the bottom edge of the sign’s letters. It was rotating slowly.

“Okay, got it,” he said. “We start from there.”

He looked back down and referred to the photo.

“I think we have to go at least another block further in from the harbor.”

“Let’s wait for Sun Yee.”

“Call him and tell him where we’re going.”

Bosch started off. Eleanor had no choice but to follow.

“All right, all right.”

She pulled her phone and started to make the call. As he walked, Bosch kept his eyes high on the buildings, looking for air-conditioning units. A block here was several buildings long. Looking up as he walked, he had a few near misses with other pedestrians. There seemed to be no collective uniformity of walking to your right. People moved every which way and Bosch had to pay attention to avoid collisions. At one point the people moving in front of him suddenly stepped left and right and Bosch almost stumbled over an old woman lying on the pavement, her hands clasped in beseeching prayer above a coin basket. Bosch was able to avoid her and reached into his pocket at the same time.

Eleanor quickly put her hand on his arm.

“No. They say any money you give them is taken by the triads at the end of the day.”

Bosch didn’t question it. He stayed focused on what was ahead of him. They walked another two blocks and then Bosch saw and heard another piece of the puzzle drop into place. Across the street was an entrance to the Mass Transit Railway. A glass enclosure leading to the escalators down to the underground subway.

“Wait,” Bosch said, stopping. “We’re close.”

“What is it?” Eleanor asked.

“The MTR. You could hear it on the video.”

As if on cue the growing whoosh of escaping air rose as a train came into the underground station. It sounded like a wave. Bosch looked down at the photo in his hand and then up at the buildings surrounding him.

“Let’s cross.”

“Can we just wait a minute for Sun Yee? I can’t tell him where to meet us if we keep moving.”

“Once we’re across.”

They hurried across the street on a flashing pedestrian signal. Bosch noticed several ragtag women begging for coins near the MTR entrance. More people were coming up out of the station than were going down. Kowloon was getting more and more crowded. The air was thick with humidity and Bosch could feel his shirt sticking to his back.

Bosch turned around and looked up. They were in an area of older construction. It was almost like having walked through first class to economy on a plane. The buildings on this block and heading further in were shorter—in the twenty-story range—and in poorer condition than those in the blocks closer to the harbor. Harry noticed many open windows and many individual air-conditioning boxes hanging from windows. He could feel the reservoir of adrenaline inside open up.

“Okay, this is it. She’s in one of these buildings.”

He started moving down the block to get away from the crowding and loud conversations surrounding the MTR entrance. He kept his eyes on the upper levels of the buildings surrounding him. He was in a concrete canyon and somewhere up there in one of the crevices was his missing daughter.

“Harry, stop! I just told Sun Yee to meet us at the MTR entrance.”

“You wait for him. I’ll be just down here.”

“No, I’m coming with you.”

Halfway down the block, Bosch stopped and referred to the photo again. But there was no final clue that helped him. He knew he was close but he had reached a point where he needed help or it would be a guessing game. He was surrounded by thousands of rooms and windows. It was beginning to dawn on him that the final part of his search was impossible. He had traveled more than seven thousand miles to find his daughter and he was about as helpless as the ragtag women begging coins from the pavement.

“Let me see the photo,” Eleanor said.

Bosch handed it to her.

“There’s nothing else,” he said. “All these buildings look the same.”

“Let me just look.”

She took her time and Bosch watched her regress two decades to the time she was an FBI agent. Her eyes narrowed and she analyzed the photo as an agent, not as the mother of a missing girl.

“Okay,” she said. “There’s got to be something here.”

“I thought it would be the air conditioners but they’re on every building around here.”

Eleanor nodded but kept her eyes on the photo. Just then Sun came up, his face flushed from the exertion of trying to track a moving target. Eleanor said nothing to him but slightly moved her arm to share the photo with him. They had reached a point in their relationship where words weren’t necessary.

Bosch turned and looked down the corridor of Nathan Road. Whether it was a conscious move or not, he didn’t want to see what he no longer had. From behind he heard Eleanor say, “Wait a minute. There’s a pattern here.”

Bosch turned back.

“What do you mean?”

“We can do this, Harry. There’s a pattern that will lead us right to that room.”

Bosch felt a ghost run down his spine. He moved in close to Eleanor so he could see the photo.

“Show it to me,” he said, urgency fueling each word.

Eleanor pointed to the photo and ran her fingernail along a line of air conditioners reflected in the window.