The Black Dragon (18 page)

“No!” Danny blushes. “It's not that. But there's something about her. Can't quite figure it out yet.”

“You know what the philosopher said, Mister Danny. ‘Everything about woman is a riddle.' At least to us poor
hombres
.”

There's no rush now. Only one place Sing Sing can be heading: Victoria Peak by way of the crazy angle of the incline railway.

Danny and Zamora hang back and buy their tickets at the last moment as the red carriages of the tram rumble into the bottom station. Sing Sing's up near the head of the line and gets a prime seat at the top of the sloping carriages, facing resolutely away up the steep tracks. She doesn't see Danny and Zamora slip to the back and open their newspaper wide, enveloped in the chatter of the tourists, the ping of their digital cameras.

“We're getting good at this cloak and dagger stuff,” Zamora whispers as the packed tram lurches into motion. “But give me the circus any time.”

The carriages pass under the flyover, then corner hard, quickly gaining altitude, squeezing between towering buildings, flashing in and out of the sunshine. They pass within touching distance of balconies hung with washing, roof gardens littered with plastic chairs, and TV antennae. Zamora looks back over his shoulder. The track drops away dizzyingly and they're already higher than some of the skyscrapers, a panoramic view of the city, the harbor slowly unfurling below.

Zamora takes a breath. “Here we go again.”

But Danny's eyes have fallen on a story on page 3 of the paper. The headline barks: “Ship with radioactive cargo still missing. No risk to public, say authorities.” Underneath is a photograph of a heavy-jawed man staring straight at the camera. A caption says: “Contact lost with Captain Zhang Kaige and crew on Tuesday. Piracy suspected.”

He nudges the major, raising an eyebrow.

“I dunno, Mister Danny. Do you think Laura got involved with all of that somehow?”

“It would be just like her,” Danny says.

“Wouldn't it just!”

Danny turns the pages. And right on cue there's a picture of Laura accompanying a brief piece about the kidnapping. Danny skims it. Nothing he doesn't already know—but it concludes with a quote from Lo. “We are turning every stone in the search for Miss White. But at present we have no definite leads. And we urgently need to make contact again with a relative and friend. One Danny Woo from the United Kingdom and one Mr. Zamora—first name unknown.”

Danny looks at the tiny photo of Laura. They've obviously culled it from her website. He remembers taking it for her in the back garden, not long after she formally became his guardian. “Make me look serious and intrepid,” she had said. But no matter how many they took that day they couldn't get rid of that playful gleam in her eye. “Oh well,” Laura said in the end. “We are what we are, I suppose.”

I wonder
, Danny thinks. Wherever she is, whatever predicament she's in—he wonders if that gleam's still there in her eyes.
Wouldn't surprise me
. As long as she's alive. As long as they're not hacking through her little finger. Preparing the dim sum.

Despite the warmth in the packed carriages, he shudders.

23

HOW TO GET AN OVERVIEW

The tram rattles on up the wooded hillside.

The houses are spacing themselves out and are much grander, with expensive cars tucked beside them and the bright rectangles of swimming pools punctuating the lush, dark greenery. The Peak is topping out and a vast panorama unfolding.

Danny pulls his eyes from the view, back to Sing Sing. It'd be daft to lose her now. She's already on her feet, edging toward the door as they enter the upper terminus. Backpack held tight to her side.

Through the ticket barrier, the station, through the complex of restaurants and souvenir shops . . . Danny and Zamora keep their distance from the girl, but never allow her from sight. Her body is tense—she's trying to look calm, trying to swing her arms as if just out for a saunter on the Peak, but something's coming, Danny thinks again. Something snagging at her movements.

The wind's gusting, scudding clouds across the Peak as they emerge from the summit complex.

Sing Sing climbs up toward a viewing terrace perched above the massive drop to the city and water below, the height slowing Hong Kong's bounding pulse to a crawl.

But the view is the last thing on Danny's mind. Everything concentrated on Sing Sing's slim form. In fact, he's so intent on reading her movements—so fixed on deciphering the nuances of her body language—that it's Zamora who spots Ponytail first.

The major puts out a strong hand, blocking Danny on the steps.

“Oh boy! Our old
amigo
.”

And there's another man standing next to Ponytail. He's got a knobbly bald head, polished by the sun like an irregular billiard ball. Cauliflower ears that look as if they've been torn and imperfectly healed more than once. A lollipop clenched between his teeth and an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt in clashing purple and orange that flaps in the breeze.

“Bit of a looker that, one, no?” Zamora says dryly.

The two gangsters are lounging against a telescope, backs to the view. No attempt to blend in among the tourists, confident in their domain. Danny and Zamora duck behind an interpretation board and peer round it as Sing Sing steps up smartly to the men.

She's waving her hand in the direction of Kowloon, talking fast. Danny tries to lip read, but it's Cantonese. No chance of working out what she's saying. What's she doing talking to them? His spirits are sinking—maybe she's thick with the Dragon after all? Sliding from the good guys circle into the shady area? Or worse?

A snort of laughter from Ponytail. Jug Ears' mouth cracks in a lopsided grin, then he draws a finger across his throat, slowly. He does it a second time, just to make sure he's getting his message across.

Who's that for?
Danny thinks.
For Sing Sing? Laura? Us even? Could be Tan, I suppose.

Whatever it is, it makes sense to Sing Sing, who nods, setting her shoulders firmly as if facing up to them, trying to look braver than she feels. Then she reaches inside her backpack and hands over the envelope. Jug Ears pockets the thing in his baggy jeans and then claps Ponytail on the shoulder, almost knocking him off his feet. And then they're both moving, toward Danny and Zamora—straight toward them at full speed.

Only one chance if they don't want to be seen. They'll have to crouch and roll under the sign board at just the right moment. Danny holds up his hand, counting down on his fingers.

Three, two, one . . . roll!

They time it just right, flipping under the sign just as the gangsters stride past, pounding down the steps toward a parking lot. They've got what they came for, obviously—and now they're in a rush.

To get where? To Laura? Their boss maybe? So we should follow them.

Danny gets to his feet, brushing the grit from his T-shirt—and finds himself face to face with Sing Sing. She scrunches up her features in exasperation.

“Saw you two clowns on the tram,” she says matter-of-factly, a hint of a smile creeping back. “Hope you're a flipping better magician than you are a detective.”

“What was in the envelope?” Danny says, feeling deflated that she was on to them all along. Annoyed and confused too at the turn of events. He turns around, trying to see where Ponytail and Jug Ears have gone. There's no sign of them.

“Charlie's business dealings,” Sing Sing says. “I'm just the courier girl.”

“
Caramba!
” Zamora interrupts. “Let's keep on the trail of that blasted envelope.”

“Let it go,” the girl says firmly. “It won't lead you to your aunt, Danny. I know that much.”

“So what do you know?” Danny says, irritation punching out his words.

“That I could do with a drink. And you two need my help. Big time!”

24

HOW TO KICK SOMEONE VERY HARD

Sing Sing sips her iced coffee, then pushes the sunglasses up from her eyes. The bruise is still there, ripened by a day, plum-colored and swollen on the smooth skin. She looks Danny full in the face now. The challenging look is back, but there's definitely something softer there. Like she's reaching out.

“So. Why are you following me?”

“We wanted to see where your father went.”

“He's not my father—”

“We followed him to you. Then we followed you. We wanted to know what was in the envelope. Payment to the Black Dragon maybe?”

“Ha.” She laughs. “No money in there. Don't you think those triad boys would have counted it?”

“What then?” Zamora says.

“Like I say, I'm just a messenger.”

“And what about Mr. Chow? What's he?” Danny presses, watching her face for a reaction.

“He's a good man. In a difficult position. Police informer these days.”

“And what about you?” He leans back in his chair, trying to give her some space. No point pushing too hard. She'll just clam up.

“What about me?” She leans forward onto her elbows. Still cautious, but softening a touch more.

“What do you know about the Black Dragon?”

“Nothing much.”

That's short of the truth. Her eyes flick away briefly, one hand reaching to pull the sunglasses back down.

“Do you know where Laura is?” Zamora cuts in, tapping the metal table with a coin.

“No.”

That's true, though
, Danny thinks. Not a too-fast answer, but not too much hesitation either. “Can you show us how to get to Cheung Chau Island?”

Sing Sing smiles. “Sure. But you two are in
big
trouble. The Black Dragon wants a piece of you. Other triads too.”

“We'll handle that, miss,” says Zamora.

“No offense,” Sing Sing says. “But they'll make mincemeat out of a couple of tourists like you.”

“Tourists!” Zamora exclaims. “We're professional travelers, miss!”

Danny's got his cards in his hands, riffling, cutting, absentmindedly.

“You're pretty good,” Sing Sing says, slurping the last of her drink from between the ice cubes. “But you're carrying a bit too much tension in your shoulders.” She bumps the beaker down on the tabletop. Hard. “Come on. Those two will be long gone now. We'll take a bus. But let's walk a bit first. I need to stretch my legs. Haven't been to the gym for days.”

They cross the car park, leaving the tram terminus behind, and start down the curving road that drops from the shoulder of the Peak. The greenery enfolds them, mimosa and other shrubs pungent in the humid air. The
chirr
of insects packing around them.

“Your mother was Chinese, right?” Sing Sing says. The tension has slipped from her body now—as if given away with the envelope —and she's moving easily down the hill.

“Yes. From here. How do you know?”

“Your aunt said. But you've never been here before?”

“No. Mum went to Europe just after circus school. Just after the handover to China. She met Dad in Italy.”

“You don't look that Chinese to me.”

Again that blunt assessment of where he does or doesn't fit!

“Maybe your dad's genes trumped your mum's?” Sing Sing goes on, oblivious, swinging her arms freely. “You speak Cantonese?”

“Mum didn't use it much. She said she wanted to forget Hong Kong. And Cantonese wasn't her first language.”

“Can't run away from what you are.”

Always that catch in Mum's voice when he pressed for memories of her childhood and youth. “Oh, you know,” she would say. “Big cities can have big problems. Not much to tell. And it's all in the past.” And she would sigh and then sweep the conversation in a new direction with that fast, bright smile of hers.

Sing Sing puts a hand on his shoulder, perhaps spotting she has spoken too abrasively. “
Hou hoisam gindou neih
, Danny Woo.”

“What's that?”

“I'm pleased to meet you, Danny Woo.”

“I'm pleased to meet you too. I think.”

Sing Sing laughs.

“
I think
?! What does that mean?”

“That you keep things pretty close to your chest. There's lots you don't want to go near. I'm right, aren't I?”

Sing Sing shrugs. “Maybe. Life is always complicated. Even more so here sometimes . . . Perhaps your mum had to deal with that.”

The light is falling on the bruise and Danny nods at it. “You didn't tell me how you got that.”

“Didn't see the guy behind me. When your aunt was kidnapped. I should have done more. I'm sorry.”

They walk on in silence, the reality of Laura's plight hitting Danny again. It feels like someone gripping at his chest.

“We're going to find her,” he says, trying to say it confidently enough that he can feel it's a possibility, dispel the anxiety.

The road's emptier here, tourists left behind clustered on top of the Peak and the shadows deepening under the foliage. Every now and then a solitary car or small van sweeps past, but otherwise they have the place to themselves. Zamora is following a few paces behind, hands thrust in his jeans pockets. Still the warmth pressing at them and birds singing loudly from the bushes. Feels like it should be an idyllic moment—if it wasn't for the danger waiting for them below—the urgent need to find Laura.
Is it always like this?
Danny thinks.

“It's weird,” he says. “All this beauty here around us, and all the bad stuff happening at the same time . . .”

“Can't have one without the other,” Sing Sing says brightly. “No yin without yang.”

Dimly—lost in the chain of his thought—Danny is aware that a car is approaching from behind, slowing. He just about has time to register the pricking sensation on the back of his neck, before it glides to a stop right next to them. He spins around to see Ponytail and Jug Ears leaping from a black car, running toward them.