The Death and Life of Nicholas Linnear (2 page)

The second man heard the murmur and turned toward his comrade, but by that time Nicholas was upon him, leaping onto him as a panther would, with his entire body, the weight combined with Nicholas’s momentum taking the man down so hard that the back of his skull was split open by the edge of the thick steel door.

As Nicholas rose, the fourth man came running toward him. He held a pistol affixed with a silencer. The eyes of a shooter will narrow infinitesimally just as he is about to squeeze the trigger, as the autonomous nervous system seeks to protect itself from the percussion it knows is coming.

Nicholas had been staring into the fourth man’s eyes, and was therefore already rolling on the deck, his body curled into a ball as the bullet sped past two feet above him. Then he was up, slashing out with a simple but devastating flick of his left wrist. The Damascus blade scored a line of blood and viscera diagonally across the man’s abdomen. He dropped his pistol, using both hands in an effort to keep his guts from falling out.

Knocking him on the back of the head as he strode past, Nicholas went down the corridor. Behind him, the would-be gunman was kneeling like a penitent, his forehead pressed against the cold, bare deck.

There was one man left. If he was the one closest to the LNG tanks he must be the leader; he would have given himself the most important and difficult job.

The door directly in front of Nicholas was half closed. He bent down so as not to be seen through the thick glass portal at head’s height. Turning sideways, he slithered through the gap without the door moving even a fraction.

He could see nothing moving, sensed no one in his field of vision. But was someone behind the door, lying in wait for him? Bracing his shoulder to the door, he slammed it open, so that it banged back against the corridor bulkhead. No one was there.

He took a step farther into the next section of the corridor. He headed for the second door, beyond which rose the aftmost LNG container and the area of most danger. The fifth man, who had been hiding between two horizontal pipes and the ceiling, dropped down onto him, clinging to his back. He was tall, thin, wiry, and incredibly strong. He snaked his left forearm around Nicholas’s neck, drew it tight, while the heel of his right hand dug into the part of Nicholas’s neck below and just behind the jawbone.

Nicholas knew the hold well—it was taught by a number of clandestine agencies, most prominently the Mossad, as the most efficient method of killing a man: snapping his neck. It had the added advantage that once the hold was fully in place it could not be broken. The man’s grip on him was almost at that point.

He could feel the energy coiling in the man, coming up from his lower abdomen; he could smell the fish sauce on his breath. Once again, he found himself in the place between life and death where will and determination, not physical strength, would reveal the path to victory. He felt the wave coming, bringing with it the dreadful, deafening silence. He stopped struggling, stepped into the inevitability of the wave.

The instant he did so, he became aware of the Quilin tattooed on the left side of the man’s neck. Though small, the mystical beast—one of the four sacred animals revered by the Chinese—was rendered in incredible detail, colored in black, blue, and red. Then Nicholas forgot all about the Quilin. His awareness registered the fact that his attacker’s breathing wasn’t deep and clear; rather it was being affected by his fast-approaching moment of triumph. He was panting a bit, with each breath leaving behind a small piece of himself. Nicholas used this, played on it, stretching his neck back, in tiny increments, giving the impression that he was losing the fight. An instant later, he slammed the back of his head against the man’s nose. Blood gushed, the man grunted in a combination of surprise and shock. His hold loosened enough for Nicholas to turn sideways. His intention was to slip the Damascus blade between the third and fourth ribs. Quilin’s lithe body somehow reeled away, and the tip brushed along the skin above his ribs instead of it finding the heart. The maneuver provided an instantaneous gap in Nicholas’s defense, but that was all Quilin needed. He raked his nails down the left side of Nicholas’s face, drawing blood. He went for Nicholas’s blade, but finding he could not wrest it away, he settled for slamming Nicholas against the bulkhead.

The inside of Nicholas’s head exploded into shards of black and white. He recovered in a moment, but the brief lapse in consciousness was enough to allow Quilin to vanish into the shadows.

Now, back on dry land, Nicholas watched as Shanghainese detectives poured out of two unmarked cars and began swarming all over his ship. Lieutenant Liu, a longtime friend, came up to him.

“You need first aid for your cheek.”

Nicholas waved away his words. “It’s nothing.”

Liu shrugged. “This is bad shit, Nick. Very bad.”

“I gave my statement,” Nicholas said. “You can check on the grave.” He pointed. “It’s over there.”

“I know what you’re thinking, Nick, but it’s an ongoing investigation. What with the pack of C4 you led us to, your ship won’t be able to leave port for a while.”

“That will kill my LNG business. I have deadlines.”

“Don’t we all. Sorry.
Force majeure
.”

Nicholas stood looking at Liu: his long, sad, Shanghainese face—the flat nose, planar cheekbones. “Liu,” he said with quiet force, “we both know that I’m going to make my deadline, no matter the length of this investigation.”

Liu studied Nicholas for a moment, then gave off a sly smile. “I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t make the attempt.”

“Face must be preserved.”

“At all costs.” Liu nodded. “You need anything, you know how to reach me.”

“Always.”

Nicholas watched him walk away. He looked down at his mobile, once again checked the short text message that had led him out onto the balcony and into the ambush. It had come from Joji, or so it had seemed at the time. But his head had been muzzy with Champagne. He punched in a local number, read off the time of the text and the number to the man who answered. He disconnected without uttering a word.

Nicholas returned to the hotel, quickly washed up, and began the delicate process of covering the parallel wounds on his cheek, changing his appearance with a prosthetic nose and theatrical makeup. His mobile buzzed.

“The trace was more involved than expected,” the laconic voice at the other end of the line said.

“Still, you managed it in record time.”

“Advanced years are good for something.” A low chuckle came down the line, then abruptly cut off. “The number isn’t listed. In fact, it doesn’t exist—officially.”

“But you found out who it belongs to.”

“Of course.”

There was a pause, which made Nicholas slightly uneasy.

“Encrypted line.”

Uh-oh, Nicholas thought. “Government?”

“That would have been less … involved.”

“Do you have a name?”

“I do, but you’re not going to like it.”

“Like it or not,” he said, “I’m going to have to deal with it.”

“Baron Po,” the voice said, and disconnected as if to absolve itself of the crime of delivering a name that could cause such disastrous consequences.

For several minutes Nicholas stared at his half-finished face in the mirror. It was a symbol of his status as an Outsider, from being the mixed-race son of a British colonel and an Asian mother of uncertain origin growing up in Tokyo, to his marriage to Justine Tomkin, which had royally pissed off her bigoted father, until he saw for himself Nicholas’s extraordinary business acumen.

Completing his transformation, Nicholas returned to the ballroom, where he found the party had moved into high gear. The band had been replaced by a DJ; the space in front of him jam-packed with bouncing dancers, their hair swinging, arms held high. The scents of perfume, sweat, and liquor punctuated the air like fists thrust through the nighttime fug. It seemed no one had left in his absence. If anything, there were more partygoers than before.

He made a slow circuit of the room, picking up a flute of Champagne for appearances’ sake; he was no longer in the mood for drinking—or even celebrating. Baron Po was out to sabotage his new life, and he was determined to find out why before Po had a chance to take another swing at him. The fact that he was not exactly on enemy territory—that he had many friends here in Shanghai, as well as elsewhere on the Mainland—had already proved useful. Not the least of those friends was Anna Song, head of the so-called Shanghai Clique, whose members also served on China’s Central Committee. How large a role Anna Song had played in his astronomical success was open for debate, but what was incontestable was their long history together.

Speaking of Commissioner Song, he finally spotted her across the room. She was talking with three Chinese men in uniform. All were drinking Champagne; the men were smiling along with Anna. She was tall and willowy, with porcelain skin, wide-apart eyes, and a heavy, sensual mouth; she seemed to be pouting even when she smiled. Nicholas had never seen her laugh; he wondered whether she was capable. She wore a midnight blue Mandarin-style gown that looked as if it had been lacquered onto her sleek body. Like most Chinese, she stood very still, moving very little, never gesturing, never turning her head or revealing an expression that could give the watcher a clue as to her inner thoughts.

He kept moving in and out of clots of people like the sun scudding behind clouds, all the while keeping his eyes on Anna. Another man glided up, this one dressed in a stylish but flashy suit of Shantung silk. Anna did not turn her head, but Nicholas saw a certain stiffness come into her spine. She did not introduce the newcomer to the military cadre; she didn’t have time. The newcomer brushed her right elbow with his fingertips, so briefly and lightly that anyone other than Nicholas would surely have missed it. She immediately placed her half-full flute on a tray held by a passing waiter, then with a curt bow took her leave of the uniformed men. Nicholas crossed the room diagonally as Anna and Shantung Suit exited the room via the terrace from which he had been abducted earlier.

It was strange to see her moving swiftly and stiffly, as if with a military cadence, the stranger oddly close by her side. Chinese did not normally invade each other’s personal space in that manner.

He followed them at a distance, watching as they descended a stone staircase hemmed in by thick, sculpted balustrades.

Picking his way through the deep shadows, he kept her in sight as she moved down a gravel path that bisected lines of rose bushes, at the end of which a long, low limousine was waiting, engine purring like a drowsing tiger.

There was just enough time to see another man, in an almost identical silk suit, pop out of the shotgun seat. Nicholas was running as soon as he saw the flash of a handgun, and was at his own car as the two suits guided Anna Song into the backseat. Shantung Suit climbed in beside her, while the other man returned to his shotgun position. The doors slammed shut and the limo glided forward.

“Wake up, Ko,” Nicholas said.

His driver’s head snapped up, his eyes fixed on the rearview mirror. “What’s up, boss? In need of an early morning snack?”

“Just follow that limo in front of you,” Nicholas said.

Ko fired the ignition, put the car in gear, and headed out. They were on the highway, heading for the bridge into the old section of Shanghai when Ko said, “Boss, I have to tell you I don’t like this.”

“Liking it isn’t required of you,” Nicholas said distractedly. He was focused on the vehicle ahead, wondering who would be stupid enough to abduct Anna Song.

“Well, but there’s a reason.” Ko pointed. “See the license plate?”

Ko could be quite a jokester; right now Nicholas was in no mood for him. “What about it?”

“See the sigil in the space after the last number?”

Nicholas directed his gaze lower. “What is that?”

“A stylized poppy,” Ko said. “This limousine we’re following belongs to Baron Po.”

“The warlord who controls almost all of the Golden Triangle.”

Ko nodded. “The same.”

They were in the Yan’an East Road Tunnel. Behind them was the crescent glitter of the modern-day Bund. Ahead of them were the twisting lanes and shadowy
hongs
and
godowns
of Pudong. They were crossing over from one world to another.

“Rumor has it Baron Po is half-Hmong.”

The Hmong were one of the mountain tribes indigenous to the Golden Triangle that spanned Vietnam, Thailand, and Burma, Nicholas thought. They were a fierce people; the U.S. Army had recruited many of them to fight against the North Vietnamese during the Vietnam War.

“Bad people, dangerous people, enlisted in the poppy trade. They’ve caused some shitstorms in their day,” Ko muttered. “Baron Po is the worst of all. Very smart, very powerful.”

And what, Nicholas wondered, does he want with Anna Song? Holding her for ransom is tantamount to suicide. There must be another reason.

He was still gnawing on this question when the limo emerged from the tunnel, glided into Pudong. Beyond Binjiang Park, beyond the Super Brand Mall, the wide ultra-modern thoroughfares petered out, the roads became warrens as the old
hutongs
asserted themselves.

“This is going to get interesting,” Ko said. “The streets dead ahead are so narrow neither of these cars will be of any use.”

Just then, they passed a bicycle rack. It was empty, but it gave Nicholas an idea. He kept his eye out for a bike, and when he found one, he told Ko to pull into the curb.

“Wait here for me. If I don’t call you in an hour, drive back to the hotel and wait there.”

Ko turned around in his seat. “What are you going to do?”

But Nicholas was already out the door, crossing the pavement to where the bike was chained to a pole. Thirty seconds later, he was pedaling away in pursuit of the limo, which was now moving as slowly as a shark along a reef.

The restaurant was one of those places that stayed open late for special customers. Through the flyblown window, semi-fogged with steam from the huge rice cookers, Nicholas saw the place was empty—not a single customer. Only a lone waiter, loitering and smoking, no doubt thinking about the end of his long shift.