Point Blank (Sisterhood Book 26) (17 page)

The train was crowded, with mostly middle-aged men. To Jack’s relief, there were no children in their compartment car. He looked across the aisle and willed Harry to turn to look at him. He nodded slightly and let his gaze go to the six young women, who were now scattered at the far end of the car. Both men let their eyes do all the talking as they singled out Avery Snowden and the way he had positioned his people as close to the six young women as possible.

As the train lurched forward, the loudspeaker came to life. Harry translated the message, which was to sit back, enjoy the trip up the mountain, and food would be served shortly.

“Oh, great, more noodle soup,” Dennis muttered. “I hope they throw in a fortune cookie while they’re at it.”

“Dreamer,” Espinosa said out of the corner of his mouth. “I can tell you your fortune right now without a cookie.”

“I don’t want to know it, Espinosa. I can figure it out on my own,” Dennis snapped.

Jack hated squabbling, so he leaned back and stared out at the landscape. All he could see was hard rain. He knew the rain would be cold. Cold, hard rain in a foreign country. How much worse could it get, he wondered?

Much worse, he decided before he closed his eyes even though he knew he wouldn’t sleep. Over and over, he played every scenario—good, bad, and indifferent—as to how things would go once they got off the train.

Jack cracked one eyelid to see where Avery Snowden was. Middle of the compartment car, halfway between Charles and Fergus. He shivered when he remembered Yoko’s telling him that some of the most lethal kung fu experts in China were women. He had no reason to doubt her information. Were there six kung fu experts at the front of the car? Cooper seemed to think so. And whatever Cooper thought was good enough for him.

 

T
hey were under siege.

To a stranger it might not seem like things at the monastery were normal as monks dotted the landscape going to and fro, but there was a tension in the air that belied the serene tranquility the monastery had known for generations. The monks normally made their rounds in groups as they saw to the daily running of the monastery. For weeks now, they found themselves walking alone, fearful of the eyes and ears that seemed to be everywhere. Conversations, when there were conversations, consisted of discussions of the students, the weather, and the tasteless food that appeared on plates at mealtimes. No one ever raised his eyes to look at the strange men who dined with the Abbot in the dining hall. Nor did they look at them in the halls or on the grounds.

The monks did, however, whisper at night behind closed doors when the lights were out. They used primitive methods from the old days of communicating that only they understood. They used sign language, taps on the wall, sounds that imitated birdcalls. Even the students weren’t aware of what the wily old monks were doing.

Communication with the outside world was nil. Even Brother Dui, who helped the Abbot in the office, was unable to filter out much information for Brothers Shen and Hung. But he had an idea that he said would work. When the tradespeople came to pick up the eggs from the henhouse, a note could be slipped to the person picking up the eggs. Two notes, actually, Dui said, one so the egg man would understand what he was to do, the other note to be delivered the old way, by runner. Or, as Brother Hung whispered to Brother Shen, “We go back to the Dark Ages and make it work for us.” He went on to say that the high-tech gurus who had gained control of the monastery wouldn’t have a clue about the old ways of communication.

The word was passed from monk to monk, who smiled secretly and, to a man, thought that perhaps all would be made right in the end.

But as Brother Shen said, “We are still under siege. We are not free to be who we are.”

Those somber words offered no consolation to any of the monks.

 

 

Brother Dui was out of breath due to excitement at the information he’d suddenly come by. The excitement was because he didn’t know what to do with the information he had to share. Who should he go to first? What reason could he come up with that would appear legitimate to the eyes constantly watching him? He finally decided he didn’t want his heart to explode out of his chest, so he made the decision to tell the first monk he came in contact with. He hoped it would be Brother Hung or Brother Shen. And he would use the monks’ old sign-language method of communicating, which would alert whomever he talked to that they needed to meet somehow, somewhere to discuss a matter of extreme importance.

Brother Dui suddenly felt the weight of the responsibility that now rested on his shoulders. The matter was so important, and he didn’t like the feeling.

Because he didn’t know what to do, Dui walked aimlessly up one hall and down the other. From time to time he stopped by the schoolrooms and looked and listened to the students and their teachers. He missed Hop, Gan, and little Lily. He as well as the other monks all formed strong bonds with the students and built up memories that lasted a lifetime. He could still remember their fathers, Jun Yu and Wong Guotin, and their friend, Dishbang Deshi, and the mischievous pranks they would try to play on the teachers even though they were always caught in the act, much to their dismay. Since the three youngsters were unfailingly contrite until their next prank, the monks turned away to hide their smiles as they remembered their own school days. He sighed mightily as he wondered where Gan and Hop were. He knew through the monastery grapevine that Lily Wong was safe. How sad that Jun Yu had gone to meet his ancestors, leaving his wife and two children fatherless. Jun Yu, he knew, had been a good man. A good father and husband. He had been honest and honorable, just as Wong Guotin, now Harry Wong, still was, according to Brother Hung.

Brother Dui felt himself bristle with anxiety as an idea spun around in his head. First, he had to figure out where Brother Hung was at this hour of the day.

Brother Dui continued his trek down the various hallways until he came to the library, a favorite place of solitude for Brother Hung. He walked in and looked around. He could see no sign of the fellow monk he was seeking or any of the other senior monks. But he did see strangers, who stared at him with vile-looking expressions. Brother Dui looked away and left the library. He headed to the great room, where a beautiful fire was blazing in the monster fireplace. Brother Hung was sipping tea as he stared into the flames. Brother Dui called a greeting as he fixed himself a cup of tea. He turned around and tripped over his own feet. He went down so fast he was stunned. Brother Hung rushed to his aid as the two men at the door laughed out loud.

With Brother Hung’s back to the door, Brother Dui was able to slip the note he’d scribbled in the bathroom into his hand. Brother Hung deftly palmed the slip of paper, then helped Brother Dui over to a seat by the fire. He checked the monk’s ankle so he could whisper.

And the important information Brother Dui transferred was now ready for the pipeline. Wong Guotin, known to most of the world as Harry Wong, was on his way up the mountain along with a tour group and Lily Wong’s mystical dog Cooper, which they all knew about. All this was thanks to the intervention of the American and Chinese embassies by way of some Americans who owned casinos in Macau, something that was beyond his comprehension.

The very air, the electricity in the monastery, changed at that precise moment in time. No one could say exactly what happened or how it happened, but things changed. The monks’ steps were no longer sluggish, their heads were raised high, and there was talk and some laughter. The dining-room dialogue was a mixture of different languages that their captors didn’t understand. The monks were no longer afraid. The lines were drawn, and, as Brother Shen put it, “Now we’re on the winning side.” No one saw him cross his fingers, because his hands were hidden in the folds of his robe.

 

 

It was bitter cold. The tour group stood among the hordes of people intent on traveling to Song Mountain. Everyone was grumbling and complaining to one another as they shuffled their feet and clapped their hands together for warmth.

Ted, who was the tallest of them all, stood on his toes to see if he could figure out what the delay was. He shook his head to indicate that he couldn’t tell.

“This is bullshit!” Harry exploded. “I’ve had enough of this crap. Either we move, or we find another way to get to Song Mountain. I’m done with this.”

“Easy, Harry. This is China,” Jack said, as though that was all that was needed to explain their current situation. “The object here is not to call attention to ourselves, and that’s exactly what you’re doing. People are staring at you and the rest of us, so simmer down till we can figure out what to do.”

Harry looked around. There were too many people. Way too many people. He’d read somewhere on the plane ride over that on a good day, fifty people visiting the famous monastery on Song Mountain would be considered higher than normal. It looked to him like there were seven or eight hundred people clustered in the area where he was standing.

“No trams are leaving, and no trams are arriving. We’ve been here for over an hour,” Charles said. “I hate to say this, mates, but something is not right.”

Dishbang Deshi suddenly appeared next to Jack and Harry. “Listen to me. I wormed my way up a little and got into a conversation with several men who are as disgruntled as we are. They say there are men at the station, not police, who are refusing to allow the trams to leave. These people are fearful. No one is being told why they won’t allow the trams to move. They say that the men are bandits who have no authority to direct the tram traffic.”

“Then we should call the police,” Harry said.

“Do you really want to do that, Harry?” Dishbang Deshi asked. “I don’t think so. You’ve been gone too long from this country. Do you want me to give you chapter and verse about why that is not a good idea?”

“No, he doesn’t want you to do that, Dishbang Deshi. Is there another way to get up the mountain?”

Charles moved closer to Annie and started to whisper. She nodded as she pulled her mobile out of her pocket. She tapped furiously, the bottom line was simply, ASAP.

The crowd members started stomping their feet and shouting what sounded like Chinese obscenities.

“Of course there are other ways. But here’s the thing. These people are locals. We appear to be the only tourists. The locals must know that the other ways are just as blocked or as congested as this one; otherwise, they wouldn’t still be standing here. That’s why they suddenly started to protest.”

“So what do we do?” Jack asked.

Dishbang Deshi flapped his hands in the air. “I do not know. I’m a silk merchant. I’m not up on all this subterfuge and spook business. That’s your forte.”

Twenty minutes later, a deafening silence came over the crowd. Off in the distance, they could hear the wail of police sirens. It was a sound recognized the world over.

“Back away, back away, this is going to get ugly really quickly!” Dishbang Deshi shouted to the tour group. “Hurry, hurry!”

“What the hell!” Jack muttered. “What’s going on?”

Charles smiled. He shouted to be heard over the clamor. “I had Annie send Bert a text telling him to get in touch with the authorities in Countess de Silva’s name. She told him the casino deal was off unless the embassy intervened and allowed her friends from the Crescent China Tours group to visit Song Mountain. She asked him to enlist the aid of the other American casino owners, which he obviously did. Money, especially American dollars, talks over here. I imagine those sirens we’re hearing are the local police, who will make short order of the thugs who are preventing us and all these other people from going up the mountain. I will also take that one step further and say those miscreants are in the employ of Harry’s nemesis, Wing Ping. Ah, the people are scattering. Stand still so the police can see we belong to the tour group. Don’t say anything. Let Harry or Dishbang Deshi do the talking if talk is needed,” Charles warned.

Annie looked down at the mobile in her hands. She poked Myra to lean closer so she could read the message on the small screen that Bert had just sent
.

 

Myra reached for the mobile and handed it to Charles, who quickly read the text and handed it back. He held up five fingers. Annie wiggled her eyebrows and sent off a text that read,
Countess Anna de Silva bets five million on Harry Wong. If he wins, I’ll donate the money to the monastery. I like those odds. Spread that rumor as fast as you can. Get back to me. Gotta run, the tram is boarding.

The local police had formed a barricade and were inspecting papers and identities. Maggie and Ted moved to the front of the line and held out the group’s passports, which were scrutinized carefully before permission to board was granted. There was no sign of the illegal stoppage, and more than half the people who had been in line were now gone, obviously not wanting any kind of confrontation with the local police.

“It’s about time,” Harry seethed as he ushered Cooper ahead of him and into the tram car.

“We’re almost there, Harry. Don’t go blowing it now. Hey, check this out, big guy!” Jack said, as he handed over Annie’s mobile with Bert’s message. Harry grinned. He turned around to see where Annie was and gave her a thumbs-up for her support. She laughed out loud.

The mobile traveled backward so all the girls could read the message. When it was Kathryn’s turn, she read the message, her lips tightening as she passed it on, then stared straight ahead as her mind raced.

Nikki patted her arm, and said, “It doesn’t mean anything where you and Bert are concerned. This has nothing to do with you, and if you think it does, you need to stop flattering yourself, Kathryn. Get your emotions under control, or you’re going to be sitting on the sidelines.” Hothead that she was, Kathryn didn’t respond but continued to stare off into space.

Then it was Isabelle’s turn to pass her mobile from one member of the group to another with the latest text from Abner, which simply said that the sports world was going crazy, and Vegas in particular, as they were trying to buy the rights to the martial-arts exhibition. Vegas, he said, was already full of fans, experts, and media types. There was money to be made by the bushel. Unlike the situation in China, the smart American dollars were on Harry Wong.

When the mobile reached Harry’s hands, he read Abner’s message and smiled. He was still smiling when he slipped into a deep sleep, Cooper wedged into the seat next to him.