Dragon Head - A Beatrix Rose Thriller: Hong Kong Stories Volume 1 (Beatrix Rose's Hong Kong Stories Book 3) (2 page)

Nothing else for it.

She needed to talk to him.

He set off again, climbing the 260 stairs to the top of the monument.

She hurried down to the middle tier, waiting out of sight and letting him continue up the stairs. She waited, saw that no one was following, and then ascended again herself.

He reached the final tier. He was out of breath, his ragged breath audible even when she was twenty feet away. She came up behind him, placed her open palm in the small of his back, and with a quiet, “Walk,” impelled him onwards.

“Beatrix…” he started.

“Walk, Chau.”

“I am sorry!”

“
Walk.
”

She knew that he had always been attracted to her, and that the attraction was underscored by a healthy fear once he had realised her capabilities and her willingness to implement them. She had never tried to reassure him on that front. It was useful that he was frightened of her. It was particularly useful now. She had no time for his bad puns and innuendos. This was all business.

She led him to a quieter space at the rear of the Buddha. The day was clear and there was a vast view out across the island to the South China Sea beyond. She nudged him over to the rail that guarded the drop from the dais to the jungle below.

“What happened?” she hissed at him.

“I am sorry,” he repeated pitifully.

“Tell me.”

“I was gone for five minutes. There was no minibar. Girl said she was thirsty. You told me not to call anyone, so I go down to get drink from reception.”

“I told you not to leave her.”

“It was five minutes, that is all.”

She bit her tongue to forestall the denunciation. “And then?”

“I came back. There were three men outside room.”

“And?”

“
And?
”

“What did you do, Chau?”

“There was nothing I
could
do,” he said plaintively.

“You had your gun?”

“Yes.”

“I remember you shooting three men before.”

“That was different,” he protested.

It
was
different, she allowed. She had disabled two of those men already. But then she remembered afresh what had happened on the night they had met. She had saved him from being disfigured by Donnie Qi’s goons and he, in return, had saved her after she had been lazy and one of them had stabbed her in the side. He could have abandoned her then, before or after, and he had not. He was a fool, but he did not deserve her ire.

“I am sorry,” he said again. “I am very, very sorry.”

She took a breath, trying not to think about the knot of tension and frustration that sat in her gut like a fist of ice.

“Beatrix? Please, talk to me.”

“It doesn’t matter,” she said at last. “I shouldn’t have left you. Either of you. I didn’t think they would be able to find you.”

“Someone at hotel,” he offered. “A white woman and a Chinese girl. It would be unusual. The little horses are everywhere. Ying asks and someone tells him.”

She wanted to snap at him, to tell him that she knew that it was her fault for being so stupid, and that she knew that she was stupid to assume that they would be able to move through the city unobserved. The little horses were the most junior triads. They were the kids on the street, the drunks and the drugged, anyone who might offer a little information in anticipation of the reward that might come his or her way. She had been stupid for leaving Grace under Chau’s protection, but there was no profit in dwelling on what she had done and what she should have done. She couldn’t change any of it now. She had to move forward. The circumstances were laid out clearly enough. Ying had made his move, and now it was her turn to make hers.

“I need your help.”

“Anything,” he said, although the nervousness in his voice was difficult to miss.

“The man on the video.”

“Zhào Gao?”

“I need you to find out where he is.”

He frowned. “How could I do that?”

“I don’t know,” she said, with a flash of irritation. “You said you had a contact in the police?”

“Yes. But—”

“I’ve started you off. Gao is in Hong Kong this week. He’s closing a deal. Make some calls. Find out where he’s staying.”

He looked dubious. “I will try.”

“This is important, Chau. We have to move quickly. Ying gave me twenty-four hours.”

“For what?”

“To bring you to him.”

His mouth gaped open. “But, you—”

She sighed impatiently. “I’m not going to do that, Chau.”

“What
are
you going to do?”

“Mr. Gao needs to see the video.”

“What good will that do?”

“Ying is just a
Dai Lo
?”

“Yes.”

“Just a local boss?”

“Yes.”

“I need to see
his
boss. Maybe Gao can set that up for me.”

JACKIE CHAU DELIVERED. He called two hours later to say that Zhào Gao was staying at the Shangri-La. The police kept an eye on important businessmen like him, and a small bribe had been enough for Chau’s contact to provide the tip. Beatrix called the Intercontinental and, using a
nom de guerre
, reserved a room. It was expensive, but she didn’t care. It was close to the Shangri-La and convenience was going to be more important than parsimoniousness. Then she made her preparations.

First, she told Chau that she was going to need two fake passports with visas that allowed onward passage into China. She knew that he had contacts that he could use. It was simple administrative fraud, the wheels greased with a small bribe. She told him to take the cost plus ten per cent out of the significant amount that he still owed her. She told him that she would need the passports quickly, within twelve hours. He clucked his tongue, suggesting that would add to the price. Beatrix told him to take whatever he needed from her money. She didn’t care. She just wanted it done.

She visited the mall and purchased a simple stylish black dress, a pair of high-heeled shoes and a Louis Vuitton bag that was big enough to hold her sneakers, a change of clothes and her Glock. She bought a razor-sharp kitchen knife. Then she bought a black natural hair wig and a pair of clear glasses. Finally, she bought a prepaid cell phone with a data allowance.

She checked into her room at the Intercontinental, stripped to her underwear and went through into the bathroom. She put on the short bob wig and arranged it until she was happy with how it looked. Then, she took the cell phone and downloaded the video of Zhào Gao from her Dropbox account. She reviewed the footage again, fixing his appearance in her mind. Satisfied, she put the phone into the Louis Vuitton bag. She dropped her Glock and the knife into the bag, too.

When she was done, she put on the black dress and the clear spectacles. She regarded herself in the full-length mirror that was fixed to the back of the wardrobe door.

She looked good.

More importantly, she looked different.

She collected her bag, locked the door and had the bellboy hail her a cab for the Shangri-La.

BEATRIX TOLD the driver to stop a block away from the hotel. She collected her things, paid him, and bought a packet of cigarettes and a lighter from the kiosk opposite. She wasn’t much of a smoker, but she knew that she might need an excuse to stand outside during surveillance, and a cigarette was as good an excuse as any to be outdoors.

The Shangri-La was a fine hotel. It was situated on prime Kowloon real estate and rooms started at $600 a night. There was a line of exclusive taxis outside, waiting to be ushered forward by the bellhops. Limousines jockeyed for space, ferrying their occupants to the front door where the men and women were immediately fawned over by efficiently obsequious staff. She walked to the door with a confident stride, nodding at the doorman who opened the door for her, and made her way into the lobby.

The room was huge. Stunningly impressive. Three storeys tall with four massive crystal chandeliers cascading from the distant ceiling. An old banyan tree had been nurtured in the wide space before the reception desk. Voices were quiet and reverent. Staff circulated with brisk orderliness. A grand piano was positioned at the far end of the room with an arrangement of architecturally impressive blooms in a crystal vase. Sofas and Chinese rosewood chairs were arrayed around small tables, guests tipping waiters as they delivered trays of tea and coffee. A double-wide staircase swept up to the next floor.

She made her way farther inside, assessing the security. The doormen looked vigilant, but the room was big enough that she could put distance between herself and them. Discreet omnidirectional security cameras were fixed to the ceiling, and she could see that the coverage would make it impossible to find a blind spot. Never mind.

She located the elevator lobby and found an empty sofa that had the right combination of discretion and position. It was close enough that it offered an unobstructed view of the elevators, yet not so close to the desk or the doors that she would attract too much unwanted attention.

There was a copy of the South China
Morning Post
on the table in front of the sofa. She picked it up and pretended to read. She looked over the top of the page, examining the comings and goings.

A waiter in a neat black uniform stood smartly to the side of the sofa. “Can I get you anything, madam?”

She looked at his name badge—Raoul—and smiled at him. “I’d love a cup of tea, please.”

“Of course, madam. What would you prefer?”

“Earl Grey.”

The man smiled, said that he would be right back, and set off.

Beatrix kept her attention on the elevators and examined the faces of the men who were emerging from them. She had fixed Gao’s appearance in her mind and was confident that she would recognise him.

The clientele here all smelled of money. The men were dressed in expensive suits, many of the older ones accessorising with girlfriends who were improbably young. The women clicked and clacked across the marble floor on immoderate heels, dressed lavishly well. It looked like the perfect kind of place for someone like Gao to stay, but there was no sign of him.

Beatrix hoped that Chau’s intelligence was accurate. Every minute she spent waiting for the man was a minute less for Grace.

Raoul returned with a silver platter and a mug of tea. He poured it for her and left it on the table. He handed her the chit, she paid it and added a five-dollar tip. He acknowledged her generosity with a shallow nod and left her alone again.

She didn’t touch the tea for the first ten minutes and, when she finally sipped it, it was starting to cool. That didn’t matter. It was only a prop. She wasn’t thirsty, and if she drank too much, she would need the bathroom. That wasn’t possible when she was the only operative conducting the surveillance.

The tea was stone cold when she sipped it again.

And then she saw the man she was waiting for.

Zhào Gao was in a group of five. Him, two young girls, two guards.

He was reasonably tall for a Chinese, with a slender build. He was in his late sixties, but he looked younger. The skin on his face was taut; it had obviously been surgically improved. As one of the girls put her hand on his elbow and said something to him, his smile did not crinkle his brow.

They paused at the desk. Beatrix went by them, nodding her thanks as the doorman opened the door for her. She took the cigarettes from her bag.

A stretch Hummer was bullying its way to the front of the queue of taxis. She scoped it quickly: a black paint job that glittered in the light, big truck tyres and twenty-inch custom chrome rims, blacked-out windows to all aspects, hazard lights blinking on and off.

A Land Rover Discovery followed.

Chau’s gaudy Mercedes CLA was parked half a block away. She saw the flash of red paint against the side of the road.

Beatrix lit the cigarette and put it to her lips as the door of the hotel was opened for the group, the doorman giving a full bow. She stayed twenty feet away. A driver emerged from the Hummer and opened the door. Gao and the two women got inside. The Discovery pulled up behind the limousine and the two guards got inside.

Beatrix took out her cell phone and called Chau.

“Yes?”

“Gao’s on the move. You see the Hummer?”

“Yes.”

“Follow it. I’ll be behind.”

She put the phone away and strolled to the two cars before they could pull away. The Discovery was new, and immaculately clean inside and out. The three men were big and she heard them speak in German as she passed the open window. Private security, she thought. Would they be armed? Very likely. She would need to neutralise them regardless of whether they were or not. She reached the Hummer just as it was rolling away. The back windows were opaque, but one had been opened a little. She could hear raucous conversation from inside before the vehicle pulled into traffic and the laughter was absorbed into the constant hum of the city.

Chau followed. He was completely unsuitable to mount a successful surveillance pursuit, but, since he would have been even less suitable to run the surveillance inside the hotel, she had concluded that it was the lesser of two evils.

She dropped the cigarette into a drain, flagged down a cab, gave the driver a fifty, and told him to follow Chau’s car.

CHAU RELAYED the location of the Hummer. They were headed north. He told her that he had guessed their destination when they were half a mile away. When he reported that the Hummer had stopped outside the Lisboa, he did so with some satisfaction. He said that it was a triad gambling club, tolerated by the police because the management was exceptionally generous in the size of the kickbacks that they made so that they would look the other way.

“What about the Land Rover?”

“There is parking lot. It is there.”

“And the men?”

“There are street vendors. Men have stopped for food. Must be hungry.”

“Fine. Drive on, park up and then come back on foot. You know what to do.”

“Yes, Beatrix.”

She told the driver to stop, got out and walked the rest of the way.