Year of the Dragon (48 page)

At the end of the alley the steel entrance door had been nailed shut with a single plank. He yanked the plank off, and the door sagged out so violently it almost knocked him down. He went inside, following his flashlight. Its beam led him forward like a dog on a leash. At the top of the stairs he shined the light all around, remembering the place only vaguely, for it occupied a spot of no significance in his life. His beam picked out light bulbs dangling from long wires, which posited the existence of switches, and he began to probe for them. Instead he found a fuse box half hidden behind a trestle table piled with empty crates. After studying it a moment he threw the lever and a single dim bulb came on out in the middle of the loft. He dragged the table under it and arranged the crates to serve as chairs. He set his attaché case upon the table and, after sitting down, practiced flipping open the single catch with an almost imperceptible flick of his forefinger. The case had a spring inside; once the catch was released its lid sprang up. Koy briefly studied its contents: the tools of his trade. His trade required that he dominate other men. To do this, he had learned long ago, it was best to appeal to one or both of mankind’s two most primitive emotions: greed and fear. He closed the case. His tools were out of sight and he was ready to meet Powers. His hands were motionless on the table. He was a tall Chinese wearing dark glasses and a tan silk suit. He took the glasses off and laid them beside the briefcase. As unmoving as stone, he waited.

OUTSIDE, Kelly’s car came to a stop at the curb. From the doorway across the street, Luang ran toward them, yanked open the back door and jumped in.

“He came on foot about twenty minutes ago, Captain. He’s in there now.”

According to Luang, who peered across at the condemned warehouse, there was no one with him, and no backup car circling either.

Powers turned to Kelly. “You’ll be monitoring my transmissions. You’ll know what’s happening.”

He took out his service revolver and flipped the cylinder open, counting bullets.

“I’d like to know why we’re here, Captain,” said Kelly. But Powers did not answer. “Do you expect him to make damaging admissions? Or what?”

Or offer me a bribe, maybe, Powers thought. He had by now thought up several alternative endings more pleasing to him than his own death. Six bullets - he counted their flat brass heads. It was like counting blond children: yes, they were all there. Or take a shot at me, he thought, so I can kill him. But the case, one way or another, still ended tonight. Is that why I’m going up there, he thought, to murder Koy? Do I hate him that much? Closing the cylinder, he rammed the gun back where it came from.

A hundred years ago confrontations between sheriff and outlaw took place in the middle of Main Street in broad daylight. They drew simultaneously. The game was the same today as it had always been, except that the rules had been changed to favor the outlaw, who was now allowed to fire first. The sheriff was obliged to wait for him to do it.

But Koy was as trained in the use of firearms as he was, and if he fired first would not miss.

Powers lifted his briefcase off the floor. From the glovebox he withdrew a flashlight.

Kelly said, “We should have apprehended him at his residence or place of business.”

The stilted police phrasing warmed Powers even now. He was one with Kelly, with all cops. Cops partook of a community nourishment that made them different from other men.

“We should have backup,” said Kelly. “We should all go in there together.”

“I don’t like this very much, Captain,” said Luang.

Powers, already on edge, snapped, “Nobody asked you what you like.” Immediately he wanted to apologize, but did not do so. Instead he stared at the building, at the dark alley beside it. “Turn the tape recorder on,” he ordered Kelly.

The machine lay on the seat between them. Kelly placed earphones on his head. The spools started turning. They held forty-five minutes of tape, more than enough. The confrontation, one way or another, would be over well before that. Powers recited his name, rank and tax number, and the microphone fixed to his chest sent this information into the machine. He added the date and hour, the address. He identified Police Officer Luang and Detective Kelly as witnesses, and concluded: “I am going into the building now to arrest the suspect, Mr. Koy, according to the warrant I have with me.”

But it was not the strong warrant he had once hoped for. It did not satisfy Powers and would not impress Duncan or the PC either - unless he could force it to perform a job it had never been designed for, and this he meant to do if he could. He had set the scene properly. He believed he had a good chance. The risk, though enormous, was worth taking.

The tape recorder was still running, the visible link between this minute and whatever was about to happen. Powers, having got out of the car, leaned back in the window. “If I call,” he said to Kelly, “come in. If you hear shots fired, come in. Otherwise stay here and wait for me. Is that clear?”

He walked into the alley. He too was surprised by the neatly piled doors. He wondered who had stacked them up, and why. He wondered if he would ever walk back past them, and he wondered what his true motives were. But his thoughts were so dark and disorderly that he could not read them, or perhaps he was afraid to. He detected in himself only righteousness, hatred and lust. The lust was for justice, but it was lust nonetheless, as if justice were a woman he intended to rape. You are not God, he told himself. Nor are righteousness and goodness the same. Righteousness was another of life’s seductive perversions, and perhaps the most truly wicked, because it posed as something it was not. Almost any crime could be committed in its name.

Having come to the entrance door, he shined his flashlight in on the broken stairs and began to climb them. No one followed him in, not God, if there was a God, nor even another cop. He was like a swimmer heading out too far. If the unforeseen occurred it would all be over before help could reach his side.

He came out into the loft proper. The dim hanging light bulb was still another surprise. He snapped his flashlight off, thrust it down into the leg pocket of his trousers, and strode toward the trestle table. Koy watched him approach, but only his eyes moved. The rest of him was motionless. It was almost symbolic. The American rushed towards his destiny. The Chinese waited for it.

“Good evening, Captain. Won’t you have a seat?”

Placing his briefcase opposite Koy’s, Powers sat down and the two men scrutinized each other. Powers was searching for some sign of weakness, a clue as to how to proceed. But Koy’s face showed nothing.

Out of nervousness Powers began glancing around. “Know this place, do you?” he asked. “Been here before, have you? I guess you never expected to see me here tonight? I guess you never expected to see me anywhere.”

Koy said, “Get on with it, please. What do you want with me here?”

Powers said, “I thought you ought to return to the scene of the crime. As children we all learned that the murderer was supposed to return to the scene of his crime. Not entirely true in real life, I found. So I decided to make it come true this time.”

“You are beating air with air, Captain.”

Somewhere over the middle of the table their wills were locked in an intense and furious embrace. They were struggling like wrestlers, and Powers realized it.

Opening his briefcase, he withdrew a pile of papers, after which he set the briefcase aside. “I have some things I’d like you to look at,” he said. He squared the corners with his cupped hands. “Those two thugs you sent after me in Hong Kong.”

“I, Captain?”

Powers put his half-glasses on and read from the top sheet. “Their names were Chin Hung Po and Lum Su Ma. Both police constables. They’re in custody. Here are copies of the indictments.” He waved them. “The prisoners have been doing a little talking. They will probably do more as the trial date nears. We expect they will name their employer, and then a warrant for his extradition will be prepared. Do you know who their employer might be, Mr. Koy?”

The expression on Koy’s face did not change. “The gentlemen you name are unknown to me. The name on any warrant of extradition, if such a warrant ever comes to exist, would be unknown to me also.”

Powers offered him the indictments. “Take a look at these in any case.”

“No,” said Koy.

Powers thrust them back into his briefcase. The pile on the table would continue to diminish. When he reached the bottom he would have no more cards to play.

He picked up the next papers in the pile. “I have other things here. These are warrants for a couple of youth-gang thugs who work for you, Nikki Han and Go Low. Some of my men yanked them out of a car this afternoon and then guns were found in the car. The gun charge against them is solid. The warrants speak also of murder. Mr. Han will go for life unless he speaks. Do you think he’ll speak, Mr. Koy?”

Koy said nothing.

Powers said, “Mr. Low is more likely, I suppose. He’s only eighteen. At that age a ten-to-fifteen-year sentence seems a long time. I expect he’ll speak, don’t you?”

“Let him speak. Let them both speak. Neither has anything to say.”

“You were present here on the night the Hsu brothers were executed, Koy.” Powers was finding it increasingly difficult to control his emotion. “You left a few minutes before the execution itself. We have found witnesses who can identify your car. We have the statement of one of the participants in the execution.” Yes, Powers thought, Quong, who is dead.

Powers glared at him, but Koy’s face remained expressionless.

Powers snatched up more documents. “Here I have warrants for the arrests of Mr. Marco and Mr. Casagrande, your partners in the narcotics importing scheme you put together a few weeks ago. Mr. Marco may or may not make admissions eventually. Mr. Casagrande, as you are no doubt aware, is a weaker type of individual. As a matter of fact, he is given to blabbing. We know, for example, the date, and the address on Mulberry Street where your meeting with these individuals took place. Mr. Casagrande has told us he was not present for the major part of the transaction.”

It was the second time today that Powers would try to braid this fact into a usable lie. It hadn’t worked the first time, and he saw no reason to suppose it would work now. Nonetheless he continued: “However, I am informed that whatever testimony he now decides to give will be sufficient to send you to Attica or Green Haven, or one of those places for a considerable amount of time.”

Koy’s wrist watch flashed in the dim light. He studied its face, while Powers studied its quality. It was gold and as thin as a subway token. “Captain Powers, it is now past dinner time, I’m hungry, and this exercise in experimental theater which you appear to have so carefully orchestrated has begun to bore me. Good night.” And he pushed back from the table.

“Sit down,” Powers shouted. “I’m not finished yet.” He watched Koy sit back down. “In your position I would be most anxious to know what the police had on me, or thought they had on me.” For the first time an expression of uncertainty seemed to flit across Koy’s eyes. “You see my point?” said Powers.

But Koy recovered quickly. “What is your point, Captain? Having served many years as a policeman, I have sat often enough in your chair to understand your strategy, your tactics, and even your mind, which I find transparent. Am I supposed to break down in tears and admit to these preposterous allegations? While you record them? Are you wired, Captain? Is that the point?”

Powers could visualize the spools turning downstairs in the car. He could imagine Kelly and Luang listening tensely, ready to spring, their guns in their laps.

“You are silent, Captain.”

He could feel the adhesive tape constricting his middle, and the microphone button that pressed into the middle of his sternum, at the same level as the religious medals he used to wear around his neck as a boy. Like them, the microphone was a talisman. It was also the modern equivalent of an iron breastplate. It was the best protection a cop could wear. He was safe as long as he wore it, because it connected him not only to those two cops in the car, but also to the legions of cops behind them. He stood behind a shield of twenty-five thousand cops, and could imagine himself invulnerable. But for as long as he wore it Koy was safe too, for he would make no move. Unbuttoning his shirt, Powers reached in, found the microphone, and ripped it out. He laid it down on the table between them: a dead tadpole. There would be no metamorphosis. It would not transform itself into anything.

The loft was vast. Powers could not see the end of it. Beyond the dim aura of light was outer darkness. “I am seeking to understand evil,” he said. “Those two young men were kneeling,” he pointed “just over there. You sent bullets into the napes of their necks. Did you - did you sleep well afterwards?”

Koy impatiently said, “You have not learned much about the Chinese, have you? The Chinese is moved by self-interest, not brutality. He is calculating, not cruel. The answer to your question is that one must sometimes sacrifice a finger to save an arm.”

“That fifteen-year-old boy, Quong. You turned his head to mush. Can you justify that?”

“As a Chinese proverb has it,” murmured Koy, “it is sometimes necessary to kill the chicken to show the monkey.”

“Have you no concept of evil?” cried Powers.

Koy shook his head sadly. “Heaven does not speak, Captain. It has no fixed will. There is no god in the sky who hands out fantastic rewards or lamentable punishments. The Chinese do not fear future damnation, Captain. Only discord on earth.”

It made Powers furious. “Do you have some Chinese proverb to justify trying to kill me?”

Koy shrugged, “You angered the tiger by thwarting it, as the Chinese say. You put meat in the path of the tiger.”

Powers waved another paper. “This is a copy of a message that the Drug Enforcement Agency sent out to its bureaus in Boston, Vancouver and San Francisco, requesting them to put your three colleagues, the other three sergeants, under twenty-four-hour surveillance. Let’s see them get something going under that kind of attention.” He thrust the message into his briefcase and grabbed up the next document in the pile. “And this is the result of another surveillance. We were on you in Hong Kong the moment you stepped off the plane there. One morning you took your wife shopping - her name is Orchid, isn’t it? You left her and rode up to the seventh floor where you entered a certain office and purchased a forged green card in Orchid’s name. Five minutes after you left that office we took the forger into custody. Here’s the warrant on that.” Powers thrust it out.