Hong Kong (38 page)

As he sat answering nature's call, he picked up a magazine that Kent had arranged on a nearby stand. Flipped through the pages, looking to see if anything had been inserted. No.

A newspaper. He picked it up, shook it. Nothing fell out. He was about to put it back on the stand when he paused, looked again.
The Financial Times,
a week-old edition. Kent had it folded to the stock listings.

Idly Carmellini ran his eye down the listings. Column one, two...

Huh! There was a tiny spot of ink under the Vodafone listing, as if she rested the tip of her pen there for a moment.

He held the page up, scrutinized it carefully. Here was another spot, and another. Six in all.

Stocks. Investments. A portfolio. Well, even civil servants had portfolios these days. Hell, he had a little money in the market himself.

But he couldn't recall seeing anything about her portfolio in the apartment. Not a monthly statement, a letter from her broker, nothing.

Odd.

There should be something, shouldn't there?

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Major Ma Chao and his three coconspirators were standing in the back of the ready room when the commanding officer and his department heads came in. Someone called the people in the room to attention.

"We have orders," the CO announced. "Governor Sun has directed us to bomb the rebels in the Bank of the Orient square in the Central District, and headquarters in Beijing has confirmed. We will launch four airplanes with four two-hundred-and-fifty-kilogram bombs each. Fortunately, the weather is excellent. We will coordinate the attack with a shelling by two naval vessels, putting maximum pressure on the rebels."

In the silence that followed this announcement the television audio could be heard throughout the room. The pilots had watched Hu Chiang make his speech, had seen the York units and the happy, joyous crowd that filled the square. They had listened to Peter Po explain the significance of the revolution, why the overthrow of the Communists was of the gravest national importance.

Now this.

There was certainly much to think about, including the fact that no pilot in the squadron had ever dropped bombs from a J-ll. Although the plane was a license-built copy of one of the world's premier fighters, it had no all-weather attack capability; visual dive-bombing was the

only option. Unfortunately the Beijing brass thought the risks of dive-bombing training too high, so it had been forbidden.

Major Ma turned sideways so his right side was partially hidden and drew his sidearm, a semiautomatic. He held it low, beside his leg.

"Sir," Ma asked, "did you verify the governor's identity? Agents provocateurs may be giving false orders."

This comment was grossly insubordinate and the commanding officer treated it as such. "/ am completely satisfied that the governor issued these orders and that headquarters concurred," he said, daring anyone to contradict his statement. "The time has come to separate the patriots from the traitors," he added ominously. "I intend to follow orders, to bomb the rebels as directed by the government. Who will fly with me?"

The senior officers raised their hands, but not a single junior.

"You traitors are under arrest," the commanding officer snarled. "Now clear the room."

Ma Chao raised his pistol, pointed it at the CO. "It is you who are under arrest, Colonel. Drop your sidearm."

The CO was a true fighter pilot. He grinned broadly, then said, "We thought something like this might happen, Ma Chao, but we never suspected you. Some of these other little dicks, yes, but you surprise me. Too bad." He raised his voice. "Come in, Sergeant, come in," he called and gestured through the open door to people waiting in the hallway.

Three senior noncommissioned officers walked in. They were carrying assault rifles in the ready position.

The CO gestured toward the rear of the room. "Major Ma and those junior officers. Lock them up until we can interrogate them and find how far the rot has spread."

The NCOs pointed their rifles at Ma.

This was
it\
Now or never. Use your best judgment, Wu had said.

Ma steadied the front sight of his automatic and pulled the trigger. The bullet knocked the CO down.

"Anyone else?" Ma said, looking around.

The senior NCO grinned at Ma, then pointed his rifle at the department heads. "Your pistols, please. You are under arrest."

The lieutenant beside Ma couldn't contain himself. "I thought the sergeant was going to shoot you!"

Ma Chao thought the sergeant was on his side. He said he was last week, yet every week the earth turns seven times. Ma breathed a sigh of relief and walked toward the front of the room to see how badly the CO was hurt and to take charge.

When the trucks filled with troops left the PLA base, Lin Pe telephoned a number she had memorized. She recognized the voice that answered, a nice young girl who attended Hong Kong University. "Seven trucks have left the base."

Five minutes later Lin Pe called again. "Ten trucks filled with troops. They drove away through Shatin."

"Very good. Thank you for the report. We would like you to go back to Nathan Road and walk along it. Report any strong points that you see under construction."

Lin Pe said good-bye to the grocer, who had let her use his restroom, and walked through Shatin toward the bus stop. Her bag was heavy and she was tired, so she made slow progress.

Her son, Wu, had told her of the dangers of spying on the PLA. "They will shoot you if they catch you talking about them on the cell phone. They may arrest you because they are worried. They will be frightened, fearful men, and very dangerous."

"I understand," she replied.

"They may beat you to death trying to make you talk. They may kill you regardless of what you say."

"I understand," she had repeated.

"You do not have to do this," Wu told her.

"Someone has to."

"Ah .. ." he said, and dropped the subject.

Where in the world could Kerry Kent hide the information about her stock portfolio? Tommy Carmellini stood in the middle of Kent's kitchen thinking about that problem. He could have sworn he had searched everything there was to search, peered in every cubbyhole and cranny, pried loose every baseboard, looked in all the vents....

The pots and pans were piled carefully against one wall. He had even peeled up the paper she had used to line her shelves.

Her attache case wasn't here. Must be at the consulate.

The notebook ... a spiral notebook had lain on her bedroom table. He had flipped through it, but.. .

He found it again, sat down in the middle of the bathroom floor in the only open space and went through it carefully. Halfway through the notebook, there it was. A page of multiplication problems, seven in all, and a column where she added the seven answers together. She hid it in plain sight.

He compared the numbers in the problems to the stock listings in
The Financial Times.
Okay, this stock closed at 74'/2, and here was the problem, 74.5 X 5400. Answer, 402,300.

He checked every problem. The correlation with the six stocks highlighted with a tiny spot of ink was perfect. One stock he couldn't find; only six were marked.

The total... £1,632,430.

A pound was worth what, about a buck fifty?

Wheee! She wasn't filthy rich, but Kerry Kent was certainly a modestly well-off secret agent, which was, as any self-respecting gentleman would tell you, the very best kind.

Almost two and a half million dollars.

On a civil servant's salary.

Perhaps her grandparents were loaded and left her a bundle. Perhaps she had a rich first husband. Then again, perhaps she was the world's finest stock picker and had done more than all right with her lunch money.

Or perhaps, Tommy Carmellini thought as he pocketed the worksheet and financial page, just perhaps, Kerry Kent was crooked.

Elizabeth Yeager's apartment was a walk-up in a small village setting on the south side of the island. As the taxi driver settled in to wait, Jake Grafton made his way past the craft shops that catered to the tourist trade, only some of which were open today, to the stairs of Yeager's building. Ivy and creeping vines covered the walls.

There were four mailboxes. Yeager's was Apartment Three. He pushed the button.

"Yes." An American woman's voice, tired and angry.

"Elizabeth Yeager, I have a message for you."

"What?"

"For you personally."

"Come on up." She buzzed the lock open.

The former consular employee opened her door just a crack. Jake Grafton slammed the door with his shoulder, and it flew open, nearly bowling her over. There was another woman sitting by the couch,
a
dumpy, middle-aged woman with graying hair.

"Who are you? What do you want?"

Yeager's eyes were red from crying.

"You're Yeager?"

"Yes."

"Some questions for you." He looked at the other woman. "If you wouldn't mind."

Yeager nodded at the woman, who glared at Jake as she swept past.

"It's a crime to break into people's apartments," Yeager said as she perched on the edge of a chair. "Don't forget, my neighbor, Mrs. O'Reilly, can identify you."

"That was the woman who was just here?"

"That's right."

"Ms. Yeager, I wouldn't be talking about crimes if I were you. Stealing passports, forgery, treason, kidnapping... If you ever go back to the states you may wind up spending the rest of your life in a cell."

"You're Grafton, aren't you?"

Jake nodded.

"I've nothing to say, so get out."

"Or what?
You'll call
the police?"

She merely glared at him.

"Perhaps you'll call Sonny Wong and he'll send someone over to run me off. There's the phone—call anyone you like."

He sat in the chair facing her.

"Bastard."

"Where's my wife?"

"I don't know." Yeager hitched her bottom back in the chair and looked obstinately away.

Jake Grafton tried to hold his temper, which was getting more and more difficult. If Yeager only knew. "My wife has been kidnapped," he explained patiently. "Her life is at stake. I think you know a great deal about Sonny Wong, where he can be found, where he stays, where his

men operate from. I want to know all that. I'm not going to tell anyone what you tell me. I won't report it to the United States government. It'll be strictly between us, absolutely confidential."

She turned to face him again. "You're an officer in the United States navy. You can't touch me. /
know my rights!
I have nothing to say!"

He pulled the Colt .45 from under his sports jacket, pointed it at her head, and thumbed off the safety. As she blanched, he turned the muzzle a few inches and pulled the trigger. The report was like an explosion, overpowering in that enclosed space. The bullet smacked into the wall behind her.

He leaped for her, grabbed a handful of hair, put the muzzle against her nose.

"Your rights don't mean shit! Where is my wife, goddamn it?"

She swallowed hard. "I don't know." That came out a squeak.

"We're having a revolution in Hong Kong, Ms. Yeager. The police have crawled into holes and the army has its hands full. No one cares about you. I can break every bone in your miserable body. I can shoot you full of holes and leave you here to bleed to death and nobody on this green earth will give a good goddamn. Now I'm going to ask you one more time, and if you give the wrong answer, we're going to find out how many bullets it takes to kill you.
Where is my wife?"

Elizabeth Yeager's eyes got big as half-dollars and the color drained from her face. She tried to speak; the words came out a croak. Then she passed out cold. At first Jake thought she was faking it, but she went limp as linguine.

"Shit!" said Jake Grafton, more than a little disgusted with himself. Scaring a woman half to death.

"Shit," he said again, and released his hold on Yeager. She slid off the chair onto the floor like a bundle of old rags.

He kicked the coffee table. It skittered away.

He had his chance last night. He should have stuck that revolver up Wong's nose and told him he was going to blow his fucking head off if he didn't produce Callie in a quarter of an hour.

Yeah.

He slammed the door to the apartment on his way out.

He had the taxi take him back to the consulate so he could watch the revolution on television. Since Cole had submitted his resignation

and was technically no longer an employee of the United States government, Grafton probably shouldn't be in his office. In any event, no one had suggested he leave. He turned on the television and settled behind Cole's desk.

The thought that he should be doing something to find Callie gnawed at him. Just what that something was he didn't know.