Stealing the Dragon (8 page)

Chapter Fourteen

Hong Kong, 18 years ago

Sally was drowning.

She had been underwater for well over a minute, kicking hard as she swam through the tunnel connecting the first two pools. The sky was overcast, which made the water murky, and Sally could not find the bend in the tunnel that led to the second pool. Koi fish swam past as she strained her eyes against the gloom, her small hands clawing the rough surface of the tunnel wall as she searched for the opening.

When she blinked, she saw spots and knew she was going to black out.

Instead of panic, the realization brought a sudden calm. Her mind drifted past the koi to thoughts of her parents, dead now three years. She opened her eyes wide and let the slight current take her, feeling utterly detached from her body, her mind lucid and clear despite the pounding in her ears and the burning in her lungs. She drifted silently, holding fast to the silent wish that she would see her parents again very soon.

The water pushed her backward toward the left side of the tunnel wall. The bend in the tunnel had always been on the right, but Sally was beyond caring. As she turned slowly in the current, she realized the koi were moving in the same direction, and as she watched, they disappeared one by one. A large gold and black fish with bulbous eyes darted past, its tail fins brushing her cheek before it swam toward a shadow on the wall and vanished.

Sally blinked as she drifted closer and realized the shadow might be an opening, a subtle curve in the tunnel wall. She was jolted out of her morbid reverie, her senses suddenly alive with blood rushing through her ears, the stale taste of water in her mouth, and adrenaline coursing through her arms and legs. She kicked frantically toward the spot where the koi had disappeared, half expecting to slam headfirst into the wall.

Light exploded through the water and Sally broke the surface with a loud cry. Sucking in air, she swallowed some water and started coughing violently, sinking back under the water as adrenaline fled her exhausted arms and legs.

An iron hand snatched her by the wrist and yanked her out of the water in one strong pull, dropping her unceremoniously onto the embankment. Coughing and spitting, Sally looked up to see Xan staring down at her, a grim smile on his ruined face.

“Well done, little dragon,” he said. “You learned to see without trusting your eyes.”

Sally could barely talk, her lungs wracked with pain. “The tunnel…?” she began, faltering. Turning her head, she saw a small group of girls standing some ways off, watching. Jun was with them, as was her sister Lin, anxious looks on their faces.

Xan bent closer to Sally and smiled, the electric scar jumping with delight. “The tunnel moved, eh?” he said. “You have been here almost three years—I thought it was time you learned some of our secrets, so I gave you a little test.”

Sally sat up with some difficulty, the color returning to her face. “But if I had failed?”

Xan’s smile broadened, his black eyes as hard and bright as obsidian.

“Then you would have died, little dragon,” he said matter-of-factly. “Now get dressed—it is time for your next lesson.”

Chapter Fifteen

San Francisco, present day

Mitch Yeung looked like a guy you could trust.

Most of the refugees had been taken to a temporary housing facility on Treasure Island, a small patch of land bisected by the Bay Bridge on its way from San Francisco to Oakland. The island was man-made, part of a WPA project from the thirties to build the first airport for the San Francisco area. Back in the days of water-landing planes like the Pan Am Clipper, an island in the middle of the bay was the perfect location, so the navy built one by dredging mud from the bay and the Sacramento Delta. Memories of the California gold rush from decades before were still fresh enough to start rumors that silt dredged from the bay contained untold riches, so the name Treasure Island was an inside joke among the men who built it.

Part of the island housed an old naval base, shut down after Pentagon budget cuts several years back. The low white buildings remained largely unused while city officials on both sides of the bay argued about what to do with the land. But this week no one was arguing, thankful to have a temporary home for two hundred refugees who had none.

Mitch had asked Cape to meet him inside the main building, a long white rectangle set back from the road by a short lawn of brown grass. Cape heard the undercurrent of human voices as he approached, but once he stepped inside, the din was overwhelming. At least a hundred people inside a single long room with exposed rafters, the floor lined with cots, chairs, and the occasional desk. A corner had been draped off, doctors and nurses milling about on this side of the curtain. Cape assumed they’d taken those needing immediate medical attention to one of the many hospitals around the city, but the white lab coats were on hand in case anything new cropped up on the island.

Men and women wearing a variety of uniforms and suits were scattered around the area, most holding clipboards, a few carrying tape recorders, most of them Asian. The men, women, and children from the ship sat on their cots, on the floor, and stood around in small groups. Cape noticed that the refugees talking with various officials looked very serious, even worried, but those chatting amongst themselves looked happy and relaxed. It was as if they knew their journey was almost over, the promised land just beyond that door, if only the men and women with the clipboards would promise not to send them back.

Before Cape could get his bearings, a tall Chinese man with broad shoulders walked toward him, wearing khaki slacks and a navy blazer with no tie. As he approached, Cape took note of his short black hair, salted gray near the temples, and dark eyes sitting high on an open, friendly face. His wide mouth curved into a smile as he extended his hand.

“Cape Weathers?” The man’s grip was firm, his hand dry and callused.

“Mitch,” said Cape, shaking his hand. “How’d you know who I was?”

Mitch broadened his smile. “Beau said you dressed like you were still in college.” His gaze moved from Cape’s running shoes, past his jeans, and over a black T-shirt covered by an old white dress shirt, unbuttoned and untucked. “Or a reporter,” he added.

Cape shrugged. “Saves on dry cleaning.”

“He also told me your nose was broken,” added Mitch. “Several times.”

Cape touched the bridge of his nose lightly, where it took a slight left turn before resuming its course. “Not for at least a year.”

Mitch nodded, then looked over his shoulder before gesturing toward the door. “Let’s go for a walk.” He took off his jacket and draped it over a chair, rolling up his shirtsleeves. As he turned the cuff of his left sleeve, Cape noticed a dark tattoo at the edge of his wrist, but Mitch had stepped outside before Cape could catch the design.

The view across the water toward San Francisco was distracting, the morning sun having burned through the fog. A few sailboats followed in the wake of a tanker moving slowly under the bridge, close enough to reach with a brisk swim. They walked for a couple of minutes before talking, both men squinting from the glare off the bay. They stopped beside a stone bench but neither sat down.

Mitch said, “You mind my asking, what’s your interest in the ship?”

“I don’t mind you asking,” replied Cape.

“But you’re not gonna tell me,” said Mitch, nodding as if he already knew the answer. “Beau said you were a
very
private detective.”

Cape shrugged.

“But he said he doesn’t hold that against you,” added Mitch, “and that neither should I.”

“Guess we’re off to a great start.”

“Your client involved in this?”

Cape thought of Sally, realizing he didn’t have a client. “That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

Mitch nodded, looking out toward the water. After a moment, he seemed to make a decision, gesturing toward the bench. He took a seat on one side.

“You’ll tell me what you find out?”

Cape thought about it before responding. “If I think, it will help the case and not hurt my…
client
…yeah. I’ll tell you, or Beau.”

“But not the feds?”

Cape shrugged. “I’ll tell anyone I think can help, you want the truth.”

Mitch nodded. “What do you want to know?”

Cape looked over his shoulder toward the main building. “Where did those people come from?”

“Fuzhou,” said Mitch, his intonation shifting as he said the name. “It’s on the northeast coast of Fujian province in China. A lot of human smuggling starts in Fuzhou.”

“Why?”

“That’s where the major smuggling rings are based,” replied Mitch. “Quite a few used to be in Changle City, but there was a brief government crackdown, so they moved.”

“Just like that?”

“You have to understand, smuggling humans is big, big business,” said Mitch. “One of the feds I’m dealing with told me it’s now a billion dollars annually, with some smugglers making as much as thirty mil a year.”

Cape let out a low whistle. “That’s a lot of
yuan
.”

“That’s right,” nodded Mitch, “especially since it’s almost eight yuan to the dollar these days—so bribing local officials doesn’t break the bank. Neither does moving your base of operations. Plus, there’s prestige involved.”

“Prestige?” Cape wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly.

“If someone makes the journey, then their family back in China gains in stature,” explained Mitch. “And if they can send money back to their family, even better. So these smugglers aren’t necessarily regarded as criminals, at least not by the people they’re smuggling.”

Cape wanted to ask Mitch more about that—about China—but he forced himself to stay on track.

“How’s it work?” he asked.

“Say you make your way to Fuzhou,” said Mitch. “Or you’re from Fuzhou to begin with. You save up sixty bucks for a bus to Guangzhou, where you’re put on a freighter bound for Hong Kong or the U.S. directly. You’re smuggled into the country, then you’re put in a safe house until you can find work or get papers or contact family, depending on the situation.”

“How much?”

“The folks back there,” said Mitch, jerking his chin toward the barracks, “were on the hook for thirty grand.”

Cape almost gasped. “Each?”

“You bet,” said Mitch, adding, “I told you it was big business.”

“How can they possibly come up with that kind of money?”

“One of two ways,” replied Mitch. “Family that’s already here, who borrow against everything they have to bring other family members over, one at a time. That’s option one.”

“And option two?” Cape feared he already knew the answer.

“You become someone’s property.”

“Property,” said Cape, the word as cold and dispassionate as the concept itself.

Mitch chewed his lower lip before giving Cape a cynical smile. “You didn’t think China was the only place with sweatshops, did you?”

“So they work as slaves,” said Cape, “getting room and board, until their debt is paid off?”

Mitch nodded. “Keeps the prices down in Chinatown,” he said sarcastically. “Good for tourism.”

“Why do they do it?” asked Cape. “I thought things were getting better in China.”

“Better is relative,” replied Mitch. “But you’re right, it’s easier to emigrate legally from some cities today, depending on how much
guanxi
you have.”

“What?”

“Connections,” said Mitch. “You know an official you can bribe, or you’re related to an inspector, then maybe you can get papers. But with no
guanxi
, the only way to get here is inside the baggage compartment.”

“Do they really know what they’re getting into?”

“No, they don’t,” said Mitch. “And in most cases, the journey isn’t that bad. Refugees are flown by plane to South America, then sail up the coast. And they’re generally treated well, considering. But ships like this, with people crammed in the hold like animals…it still happens.”

Cape stared at the bay, trying to imagine being that desperate, wanting to escape something that badly.

Mitch seemed to read his mind. “You know what they call the United States in China?”

Cape shook his head.

“
Meiguo
,” replied Mitch. “That’s Mandarin for ‘beautiful country.’ America might have lost sight of the American Dream, but these people are praying for it every night of their lives. You have no idea what life is like over there, even on a good day.”

Cape detected an undercurrent in Mitch’s voice, some subtext to the narrative.

“This is personal for you,” he said simply. “Isn’t it?”

Mitch turned from the water, his right hand raised to block the sun. “Yeah,” he said, meeting Cape’s eyes. “My parents came over on a ship like this one. Lucky for me, they got asylum.”

A long minute passed as Cape held Mitch’s gaze. “What will happen to these people?”

Mitch shrugged. “Depends on who they are, in large part. Things are a little funny with China right now, as you probably noticed in the papers. We’re asking for help with North Korea, trying to play nice. So these people might get asylum, but they also might get sent home.”

Cape cringed at the thought, thinking of the derelict ship, trying to wrap his head around making a voyage like that twice. “But they’ll keep trying, won’t they?”

“Oh, yeah,” said Mitch. “Once you get it in your head you’re leaving, most people find a way. And there’s enough people waiting to help them, or prey upon them, depending on your perspective.”

“You going to find out who’s behind this?”

“Not me,” said Mitch, “though I’d like to. That’s for the feds to figure out. The INS and FBI, mostly. Me, I’m just a narcotics cop who speaks Chinese.”

Cape suspected Mitch was much more than that, but he kept the thought to himself. “What if I wanted to find them?”

Mitch smiled, his mouth a little crooked. “You have to go hunting for the snake.”

“Snake?”

“The person behind this is called a ‘snakehead,’” Mitch replied. “There’s a
little snakehead
and a
big snakehead
.”

“What’s the difference?” asked Cape.

“The little snakehead is probably in China. He or she—women are involved sometimes—arrange for the transportation and handle logistics on that end.”

“And the big snakehead?”

“That’s the one you want,” replied Mitch. “He or she is probably here, in the States. The big snakehead is the main investor—the one that fronted the money and the one that gets the big payoff. Without them, none of this would be possible.”

“You think the feds will find them?”

“Not a chance,” said Mitch, his cynicism audible. “They’ll probably find some of the handlers—the middlemen who took the money, set up the safe houses, that sort of thing. But the real power behind it…those guys are almost never caught. Too many layers between them and the actual crimes.”

“What kind of person am I looking for?”

Mitch shrugged. “Could be anybody. An anonymous businessman, a well-connected financier, or some guy you never heard of—working in the shadows. They may not even be Chinese.”

Cape’s surprise must have registered, because Mitch continued.

“The old days of Chinese-only crime are over,” he said. “Now the tongs and their gangs are in bed with the Russians, the Italian Mafia, even the Chinese government. If they can make money, they’ll call you brother—at least until they cut out your liver.”

Cape caught the edge in Mitch’s voice and gestured toward the tattoo on his arm.

“Were you in a gang?”

Mitch smiled, rubbing the back of his hand as he spoke. “Beau said you were smarter than you looked.”

“I’m even smarter than
he
looks,” replied Cape.

“A long time ago,” said Mitch. “The Flying Dragons in L.A. took me in, along with my younger brother. I got out before it was too late.”

Cape wanted to ask about the brother, but Mitch’s expression made it clear the subject wasn’t open for discussion.

“OK, smart guy,” said Mitch, “what else do you want to know? I should get back inside.”