Avenger (9 page)

“OK then, I guess we’ve discussed this particular course of action through to its natural conclusion.” The man’s accent was pure Boston, Ivy League, most likely Harvard. “Can I take it that you’re both happy to leave the next phase of the negotiations to me?”

The superb luncheon was finally coming to a close. As the conversation began to wrap up, the last of the dessert plates and wine glasses disappeared and invisible staff began to serve coffee.

“I think so,” the second man replied. His accent was Swiss. “If we allow her to progress her current arrangements with the Chinese then it would certainly save us a great deal of trouble. And if you can encourage her to meet your people in Los Angeles that would be timely, to say the least. What do you think, my dear?”

“I think that to date we’ve allowed things to progress at an appropriate pace,” the woman answered. Her accent was very British, Oxbridge educated. “We know that she has a strong grasp of the business, she can handle difficult partners, cross-border transactions and movements, and is clearly not averse to maintaining strict control measures on her people and operations. We know she’s good. We’re confident in the numbers and we’ve substantiated most, if not all, of the background. So, yes, I agree. I think it’s time we moved things along, and if you have a team in LA then they should meet her there. It’s time to tie things up, and the sooner the better.”

“What about your friend, the general?” the American asked. “Is he showing any interest in this? It would be helpful to know.”

“Unfortunately, I can’t comment with any certainty. Normally he’s reasonably open to sharing information. Of late, not quite so.”

To a casual observer, the elegantly attired trio sitting by a window with a view over the Champs-Élysées looked just like any other high-end gathering discussing business over lunch. The first man, the American who had offered to lead the merger negotiations with their potential new business partner, was about fifty-five with closely cropped blond hair. He was dressed impeccably in a pale gray suit with a fine check, a white shirt with narrow purple stripes and a dark green tie ornamented with subtle splashes of purple, to complement the shirt. To his right, the other man, the other side of sixty and completely bald, was more conservatively dressed than his colleague, in a navy blue three-piece suit and pale blue shirt worn with a burgundy tie. Both of them shone with health and vitality, assiduously trim with no sign of the midlife paunch or sagging jowls too often associated with highly successful men in the grip of middle age, for whom indulgence was a daily privilege. Both clearly enjoyed the success that had come to them and went to great lengths to prolong their ability to savor it.

The woman was extraordinary. She was striking to look at, with fair skin, full lips, soft brown eyes and thick, shoulder-length, raven hair, which she occasionally tucked behind her left ear, conveying an air of playful seductiveness. Her full figure was cloaked in a fitted black leather jacket, black blouse and skirt, with knee-high black leather boots. Her minimalist approach to jewelry enhanced her contemporary elegance. She was fifty-two, but looked forty.

These three were part of a larger group of twelve, consisting of a chair and eleven members. The dozen referred to themselves collectively as The Board and presided over a multinational, multi-billion-dollar enterprise. But unlike other boards, run in accordance with charters and laws and governed by stock exchanges and government watchdogs, this board was silent, operating below the radar, the power behind the publicly listed corporation. Ultimately answering only to itself, it pulled strings, influenced and manipulated situations, individuals, governments. Its very existence and the identities of its membership were more closely guarded than the most sensitive of any country’s top secrets. Retirement was mandatory at sixty-five and the retiring member invited a new member to join. New members were appointed after an extensive vetting and selection process lasting, in most cases, years, and a final, unanimous vote. Membership was international and kept strictly to the very top-shelf corporate and government executives of CEO and director-general level. The board operated in the shadows of global commerce and yet, with the official corporation as its instrument, was a major influence on most markets. No names were ever used when in each other’s company. This was the rule by which they lived and they never broke it, no matter how seemingly innocuous the occasion or circumstance. Many years before, board members had decided upon a suitable motif by which it would identify itself, one that would reflect its beyond-the-law modus operandi. So it was that the stylized, blood-red profile and headdress of a Native American chief became the official emblem of the enterprise, The Renegade Group of Companies.

The board members quietly concluding their meeting at Restaurant Le Diane were the three responsible for strategic assessments and recommendations.

“Very well, it’s settled then,” said the American. “I’ll have my people meet with her first and will report back to you both once I’ve reviewed their findings. Then, if we intend to proceed, I’ll extend my stay in LA to meet with her personally.”

“Miss Haddad is here, sir,” said Mrs Jolley from the door. “Shall I send her in?”

“Yes, please.” General Davenport’s tone was grave.

Mrs Jolley, his loyal and trusted personal assistant of many years, withdrew quietly with a nod to the general’s Special Projects Officer.

Returning the nod, Mila Haddad entered the general’s office. A graduate of the American University of Beirut and the University of Toronto, with degrees in Arabic Languages and Criminology, Haddad had been, in Davenport’s words, “rescued” from her role as a research assistant to a judge of the International Criminal Court in The Hague in order to keep the general on his toes. As far as Davenport was concerned, she was absolutely essential to Intrepid’s ongoing success and, vitally, its evolution.

“Good morning, sir,” she said.

“Good morning, my dear,” replied Davenport, stepping out from behind his desk. His mood was decidedly somber despite the warmth of the greeting. “Would you mind joining me over here, please? I’m sick of the bloody desk already.”

Davenport was dressed in his trademark charcoal, today a wide-pinstripe three-piece suit, which hung perfectly upon his tall frame. With his thinning hair brushed straight back and immaculately trimmed gray beard, he had a ducal appearance. The general invited her to join him at the circular mahogany coffee table surrounded by leather-covered chairs where he preferred to hold his more personal discussions. “Tea?”

“Please.” She sat down.

The oak-paneled walls of the office were adorned with awards, photographs and mementos from Davenport’s career. Well-worn berets from his days with the Special Air Service, Parachute Regiment and United Nations hung on a coat stand in a corner by the door. A framed image of the Falkland Islands and a photograph taken with Queen Elizabeth, at his investiture as a Commander of the Order of the British Empire, were among the highlights. This was his inner sanctum, the War Room as he called it. It was the epicenter of all Intrepid operations.

As Davenport’s Special Projects Officer – and quasi-Chief of Staff until a permanent chief was appointed – it was Haddad’s job to brief him on the most recent developments in Hong Kong, even though on a personal level she was still struggling to accept what had happened overnight. It seemed unbelievable. Davenport poured her green tea and eased the cup and saucer across the fine old mahogany table before topping up his own coffee.

“Very well, let’s get started.”

“Of course, sir.” Pushing a curl of hair away from her eyes, Haddad placed an iPad on her lap, to refer to as she spoke. Gathering her thoughts, she began.

“At approximately zero three hundred hours this morning our time, ten hundred hours in Hong Kong, three of our agents – Morgan, Sutherland and Reigns – were involved in an armed engagement during an operation in the Mong Kok district of Kowloon. During the exchange Commander Sutherland sustained multiple gunshot wounds, specifically to the neck, chest, abdomen and leg. All three agents successfully disengaged. However, given the extent of Commander Sutherland’s injuries, they were left with no choice but to go directly to the emergency trauma wing of Queen Elizabeth Hospital in Kowloon. Major Morgan administered immediate treatment en route to the hospital. Agent-nominee Reigns drove.

“Accompanying them in the vehicle was a fourth person—” Haddad consulted the iPad, “—Inspector Victor Lam of the Hong Kong Police Force. Inspector Lam was Agent Reigns’ contact and has been assisting throughout her infiltration mission. I understand he was run down by a motor vehicle and abducted immediately following a scheduled rendezvous with Reigns, and then subjected to repeated physical abuse. Agent Reigns was in the process of recovering him when Agents Sutherland and Morgan arrived to assist. According to Major Morgan, who spoke briefly with Inspector Lam, Agent Reigns acquitted herself admirably and was responsible for neutralizing two men and subduing a third, resulting in the successful recovery of Lam.”

“Very well,” said Davenport, adding gravely, “What’s the situation at the hospital?”

“An assistant commissioner by the name of Kwong – commander of the HKPD Kowloon West district – has made the necessary arrangements with hospital administrators. Meanwhile, following protocol, so as not to be compromised, Major Morgan and Ms Reigns were forced to leave Commander Sutherland in the care of Inspector Lam and the HKPD at the hospital.”

“Drop and run. Bloody hell. Even though we’re prepared for it, it doesn’t make it any easier. Morgan would not have enjoyed that at all,” said the general. He fell silent for a few moments. Haddad watched him; he seemed conflicted. “Any more news on Commander Sutherland?”

“Nothing, I’m afraid,” she said. “He’s still in surgery. There were significant complications associated with the chest wound. A bullet hit a rib and tumbled, causing major damage to his left lung. It was completely collapsed by the time they arrived at the hospital. I attempted to get an update before I came in but the hospital isn’t prepared to comment until they’ve heard directly from the surgeons.”

General Davenport listened intently to everything she was saying, taking in each detail. “What about Interpol and the US Embassy, are they on board yet?”

“Yes, sir,” she replied. “Interpol Beijing sent a liaison officer, who is at the hospital now, and a senior official from the US State Department is onsite and has arranged for a US Marine to be stationed inside the room with Commander Sutherland once he is out of surgery. There’s currently a Marine outside the operating theatre. That coverage will remain in place when he’s moved to Intensive Care. We’ve also arranged for one of our administrative recovery teams to deploy to Kowloon. They’re on their way now to take care of Commander Sutherland. If he makes it, they’ll arrange for him to be transported back to the United States as soon as he’s well enough and he’ll convalesce there. If not, then they’ll recover his body and return it to his family. They’ll also wrap things up with Interpol and the Hong Kong Police and will deal with things like the hotel, the vehicle and so on.”

“What about Morgan and Reigns?” Davenport asked. Concern for all his agents, particularly Sutherland, was etched upon his face. “Where are they?”

“Retrieving their gear from the hotel, the Shangri La Kowloon, then they’ll head to the airport. Fortunately, the Gulfstream that brought Major Morgan in from Tanzania last night is still on station in Hong Kong. It’s refueled and good to go. They’ll be back in London by midnight.”

“Very well. Make sure they’re accommodated for the night and we’ll convene in COBRA tomorrow at ten am.”

“It’s all arranged, sir. Ms Reigns has her apartment behind the Royal Festival Hall over on the South Bank and Major Morgan stays at the Rembrandt in Knightsbridge when he’s in the city. So, we’ve taken care of it already.”

“Thank you. Excellent work. Please keep me appraised as the day progresses. I want to know the moment there is any change in Commander Sutherland’s condition.”

“Of course, sir.”

Jung-Woo “Andy” Chow took great pride in his work. He had been at QE in the Repair and Maintenance division for almost fifteen years. He began his time at the hospital as a cleaner and general duties assistant but over the years he’d moved into th
e repair side of things. Today he’d spent most of his shift repairing a broken smoke-extractor fan in the hospital’s furnace area; one of the least pleasant areas of the entire hospital, given what had to be incinerated down there. He didn’t enjoy the task and as he finished showering and dressing in his own clothes ready to go home, he felt that the smell would cling to him for days.

It was 11.30pm as he walked out of the maintenance staff’s entrance at the back of the hospital. The crisp freshness of the night air made him catch his breath then instantly fill his lungs, inhaling clear oxygen and blowing away the staleness of the day. Andy enjoyed the routine relief he felt on leaving the hospital at the end of every shift. For him it was a job, not a vocation. He didn’t have a vocation other than looking after his family and, for a man who had begun life on the wrong side of the tracks, the job at QE had been his salvation. He had thanked God every day for the past decade and a half that it had come his way.

Andy walked along the outer edge of the vehicle ramp and across the car park toward the bus stop on Wylie Road. It was well lit around the hospital but inevitably got a lot darker the further away he walked. That didn’t bother him. The grounds were familiar, as were the people around after the late shift. When he reached the stop he stood patiently waiting. The bus would be along soon.

It was then that he noticed a car parked about fifty feet down the road. The lights were off but he saw the blaze of a cigarette from within. At the moment he noticed the car and the cigarette, he heard the engine start and watched the vehicle approach him, moving slowly and very close to the curb. He was unsure what to make of it but remained calm, watching as it came closer and closer. Eventually the car eased to a stop directly in front of him. It was a dark, late-model sedan. He couldn’t be sure exactly what kind. He didn’t take any interest in cars these days.

The driver’s door opened and a man dressed in a dark suit stepped out. The man was big, much bigger than Andy. His strong build and demeanor were intimidating. He didn’t look at or acknowledge Andy in any way. Instead, he walked around the front of the car, past Andy, and opened the rear passenger door, indicating that he was expected to get in. Stunned by the situation, Andy didn’t move. Never in the many years he had worked in the hospital had anything so extraordinary happened to him. He kept looking from the driver to the back of the car, uncertainty clouding his face.

There was another blaze of light followed by a puff of smoke from the far side of the rear seat. A deep, no-nonsense voice commanded in Cantonese, “Get in. I don’t have all night.”

At this point the driver stepped forward and ushered Andy into the vehicle. The door slammed shut before he had managed to shuffle properly on to the seat. The driver returned to the front and the car took off, slowly at first, heading north along Wylie then gained speed on the approach to Princess Margaret Road.

“There must be some mistake,” Andy began, looking at the dark, solidly built figure on the seat beside him. “You must have me confused with somebody else.”

“It appears to be you who is making the mistake, Jung-Woo Chow. Do you not remember me? Has it been that long?”

“I’m sorry,” he replied, shaking. “I’m just a maintenance worker at the hospital. I’m afraid I don’t know you.”

“Handy Andy,” the voice said jovially. “Handy Andy. Is your memory coming back to you now? Surely you haven’t forgotten the man who gave you your name.”

Andy’s blood ran cold at the sound of that voice. The demons of his past were reaching out to him.

“Mr Wu,” he whispered. “Where are you taking me?”

“Home, Andy. Where else?” came the calm, almost paternal reply. “I’m taking you home. But don’t worry. All we need to do is talk, then I will drop you at your door and disappear once again.”

“What do you want to talk about? I don’t understand. I haven’t been involved in anything since—”

“Since I got you that job at the hospital. You remember that, yes?”

“Of course.”

“And do you remember why it was necessary for me to get you that job?”

After a long silence, Andy reluctantly answered, “Yes.”

“Yes. See, it’s good, you already have your memory back. It will make our talk much easier if you remember.”

Andy remained silent.

“Now, Handy Andy, these past fifteen years – they would have been so different if you had spent them all rotting in Shek Pik Prison. Don’t you agree?”

“Yes.”

“But, of course, you weren’t rotting in Shek Pik, were you? No. Instead you married a beautiful girl. You had children. You got a job that paid well. Everybody left you alone and, all this time, nobody knew you were a cop killer. Nobody except me.”

Andy looked out of the window, ashamed of his past.

“You would never have survived maximum security, Andy. With your pretty face, you would have been the favorite of the inmates and the wardens. You probably would have lasted two, maybe three years. Everybody’s bitch.” Wu laughed to himself. “Funny, don’t you think, how all that evidence just disappeared?”

Andy felt the blood drain from his face. His hands were sweating against his polyester trousers. He couldn’t bring himself even to speak.

“It would be a pity if your wife and children disappeared, too, just like all that evidence, now, wouldn’t it?”

Andy turned sharply to face the dark silhouette of a perfectly round bald head and powerful shoulders. He knew there was no point in retaliating with some pointless threat about the consequences of harming his family. They were just words after all; words that he could not possibly match with actions. The threat to his family placed Andy instantly under the power of this man.

“Yes, there’s that spark of violence I remember so well from your younger days. That’s good, very good. Let’s keep that vengeful fire burning,” said Wu Ming. “I treated you as my brother then and for all the years since. I left you alone and made sure others left you alone, too. But all that time you have been in my debt, and now you have your chance to clear the slate.”

Andy’s eyes blazed with hatred and frustration but he held his tongue.

“What do you want me to do?”

“Your job allows you access to anywhere in that hospital, correct?”

“Yes,” he answered.

“Excellent. You will do this one thing for me. When it’s done, you’ll never hear from me again. The slate will be clean. If you don’t, then you’ll wish you had gone to prison all those years ago.”