White Tiger (31 page)

“By all means, sir.”

Lin settled himself into the chair opposite Manning and motioned for Manning to sit. Manning did so after a respectful pause, and slid back into his chair once the older Chinese man had gotten himself squared away.

“You come recommended to me,
Bái Hu
. Chen Gui speaks highly of you, and it appears that he and I are somewhat in your debt for your actions in Tokyo,” he said in Mandarin.

“I merely did what I was contracted to do.”

“Perhaps. But you saved my organization great face, and preserved our territory there. While I rarely bother with such things such as this myself, there is a great amount of money to be made by these types of endeavors.” Lin paused for a moment. “Tell me, is Chen Gui still an insufferable idiot?”

Manning smiled.

“I wouldn’t use such words to describe him, Mr. Lin.”

“Of course not. Talking about your employer in such a manner is the easiest way to be killed.”

Manning nodded.

“Alexsey thinks you might be a little soft for what we need.”

“I’m not surprised to hear that.”

Lin made a dismissive gesture.

“My understanding is that you have a preference for subtlety. I recognize this as a very valuable trait, even here in America. For all his utility, Alexsey is sometimes too direct in his actions. Do you know why you are here, Mr. Manning?”

“Ostensibly, for your personal protection. Beyond that, I don’t know anything else.”

“You’ve conducted personal protection missions in the past, this I know. But this is not why I have called you here. Tell me, what do you know of American police activities? Specifically those of the San Francisco Police Department?”

Manning thought about that for a long moment. “I’m afraid I don’t have specific knowledge of their command structure, but there is a wealth of information available on the internet.”

“Would you feel comfortable being my liaison with the San Francisco police? I need someone who knows their language, and knows it well. I have no former policemen in my employ, for reasons you might understand.” Lin did not elaborate, but Manning got the message. Lin didn’t want any suspicious eyes in his business, no matter how protected that business might be.

Manning nodded. “Perhaps you can explain your situation to me more fully, Mr. Lin? I’m still very unclear what it is you expect from me.”

Lin looked at him for a moment, then rose to his feet. He shoved his hands in his pockets and stepped toward the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking California Street. Manning turned in his chair, watching him.

“Are you familiar with the term
kÔzhMng
, Mr. Manning?”

“I am.”
KÔzhMng
meant literally “feelings of pain or embarrassment that are difficult to discuss.” Usually these were related to personal affairs that would describe ineptitude of an individual, such as a wealthy man unable to explain where all his money went when he actually had a notorious gambling habit.

“What I have to tell you is that what I face is likely my own doing,” Lin said, still facing the outside world. “But I cannot understand how or why it has come for me now.”

“You need to tell me only what is specific to your problem, Mr. Lin. If there are personal or family matters that won’t matter, then there’s no need to discuss them.”

“If only it were so simple.” Lin sighed, and for a moment his shoulders sagged. “You see, Mr. Manning, my silence has already cost me both of my sons. My eldest in Shanghai. My youngest here, in San Francisco.”

“Then what is it that you need to tell me, sir?”

“
Bu zhan, bu he
.”

Manning was puzzled.

“‘No war, no peace’? I’m not sure I see the significance of that, Mr. Lin.”

“A lifetime ago...” Lin’s voice was small, muted, as if he were speaking more to himself than Manning. “A lifetime ago, I was a different man. I was part of the Chinese Communist Party. A
willing
participant in that party. I was selected by Mao Zedong himself to lead the reformation of Shanghai. I had buried my past, you see. I was always one of the dragon heads of the great Shanghai tongs, with an empire sprawling from Shanghai to Hong Kong. But after the Communists came to power, I had to leave all of that behind me. I became one of the loyalists, and managed to survive all the cleansings that perverted fool Mao and his people were so incredibly fond of. For this, I was eventually rewarded for my efforts by being recognized by Mao and given the task of purging all distasteful elements from Shanghai. I set about my duties quite seriously. After all, I had everything a man
could
have in China in those days...power, prestige, position. I would do everything I could to hold on to them.

“I initiated a program called ‘No War, No Peace’. The underpinning philosophy of the movement was that no Chinese could reinvent himself into a peaceful, loyal part of Chinese communist society without going to war within himself. Millions were purged. Tens of thousands died, and tens of thousands more were relocated or went into the force labor camps. What I presided over was proper and correct, and everyone in the Party was satisfied. I fulfilled the Party objective and managed to survive another day. Then of course, when Mao died, all that changed. I was removed from power and relegated to a do-nothing post, but at that time, China was going through great changes. Deng opened China to the West, and with that came Western money, Western influences...and the tongs flourished. I had come full circle.”

Lin stopped talking after a moment. He then looked over his shoulder at Manning.

“Forgive me. I should get to the point. Both of my sons were murdered by some sadist who apparently survived the purges, but who remembers me quite well. This person, or persons, has set about taking their revenge upon me, first by killing my sons...and then, I could only presume, by killing me.”

“And how would you be able to piece this together?” Manning asked.

“Written in Chinese at both murder scenes was No War, No Peace. And it was written in the spilt blood of my sons.”

Manning nodded. He leaned back in his chair and looked up at Lin, who had not turned away.

“Firstly, my condolences on the passing of your sons. Secondly, you said your sons were killed here and in Shanghai?”

“Yes.”

“Have the police been involved in both murders?”

“Of course. In Shanghai, it’s considered a most urgent homicide to solve. It is now considered the same here, in San Francisco. This is why I will need to retain your services.”

“Please tell me more, sir. You want me to ‘liaise’ with the police?”

Lin turned and walked back to the table. He slowly pulled out a chair next to Manning and sat down. He looked at Manning for one long, speculative moment, and then removed his glasses. He tossed them onto the tabletop and rubbed his eyes tiredly. For the first time, Manning became aware of the physical signs of Lin’s stress. His hands trembled slightly, and his eyes were vaguely rheumy, distant.

“I want you to get as close to the police investigation as possible. I want you to review every shred of evidence they have. As soon as they are able to identify the murderer, I want you to know it as soon as they do. And then, I want you to kill the assassin before the police can act. In short, I want you to show the San Francisco police that you are an officious man doing the bidding of his client. And when that work is done, I want you to become the famous
Bái Hu
I’ve heard so much of.”

Manning nodded slowly. “You don’t want the assassin alive? You’re not interested in finding out if there are more people orchestrating this?”

“When the identity of my son’s murderer or murderers is known, your only mission is to kill them. Immediately, effectively, and mercilessly. After that, you may return to Japan and whatever tasks Chen Gui has waiting for you, and we shall never speak again. But know this: you will kill these people, no matter what the cost.”

“And you’re certain the murderer is still here, in the San Francisco area?”

Lin hesitated, glancing out the window once again.

“Last night, one of my most trusted employees left to fetch the medical examiner’s report of my second son. He took two men with him, both trusted and well-trained. They did not return.”

“I see.” Manning leaned back in his chair and drummed the tabletop absently for a moment. “Mr. Lin. Are you certain that Baluyevsky has the ability to protect you?”

“He has never failed me, and he is well paid for his vigilance.”

“Very well, then. In that case, I’ll need access to your personal schedule, as well as background on all your upcoming business-related and personal travel—I can’t expect the police to show me everything, so I’ll have to get more information to fill in the gaps. If you withhold anything from me, you’ll severely cripple my chances of doing my job.”

“Everything you ask for will be done,” Lin replied instantly. “Everything. And I would like you to start immediately. I’ve already gone through the trouble of having your weapons brought up from the lobby security guards. They’re waiting for you in the office I have arranged for you.”

Well. That didn’t take long,
Manning thought.

“Then I’ll get started,” he said. He rose to his feet and nodded to Lin. “I’ll do everything in my power to ensure your personal safety, Mr. Lin. And when it comes time, I’ll guarantee you your revenge.”

CHAPTER 14

The way Wallace paused in the rest room doorway to check whether any of the stalls were in use, and if anyone was outside in the hallway, warned Ryker that this wasn’t a social call. Wallace was a big man in every sense of the word. His fat gut fooled a lot of people, but beneath that flab lay thick muscle spread over a solid frame, which added up to substantial strength and power. Ryker had heard stories about Wallace slapping suspects around to get answers, and he believed them. Not that this made Wallace a bad cop in Ryker’s eyes.
Name me a cop who hasn’t leaned on some junkie punk who deserved all they got.
What made Wallace a bad cop was his inability to sense where lines existed—to perceive that some rules were etched in stone, never to be bent or broken. The irony of it was, Ryker had no choice but to bend a couple of rules himself in response to what was coming next.

Ryker shook his hands dry and watched Wallace’s reflection as the rest room door swung shut with a soft click. “Ryker, you goddamn pussy. Where the fuck do you get off, reassigning everyone’s caseload?” Straight to the point, no beating about the bush with Cueball.

“I guess you weren’t listening when Lieutenant Furino told you this comes direct from the captain,” Ryker said, taking out his comb and running it through his hair. He had an unsettling feeling that his hairline had retreated slightly since this time last year. He’d need to see an old photo of himself to be absolutely certain, but his suspicions were aroused. Another sign of impending old age, just what he needed. He vowed to suck the barrel of his own gun on his next birthday—unless somebody gave him a really nice present, in which case he wouldn’t.

“You and Spider can dress it up any way you like. You think I don’t know it’s down to you? You son of a bitch.”

Ryker put his comb away. He loosened his tie, slipped it off, tucked it into his jacket pocket. “Maybe I am, but your momma wore Army boots, and your daddy was a bunch of soldiers,” he said. It didn’t matter what reply he gave; Wallace’s stance, his tightly clenched fists and his reddened face had provided all the clues that were needed. This conversation could only end one way, as incredible and as infantile as it seemed. Wallace’s anger and aggression filled the room. All that was missing was steam coming out of his ears.

Wallace grabbed Ryker’s shoulder and pulled, turning him around to set him up for a haymaker. Ryker was pretty sure Wallace would hold back, since he didn’t want to be charged with murder, but that proved academic as Ryker caught Wallace’s wrist and slammed the heel of his hand into the startled cop’s elbow, straightening his arm with an audible
pop.
Ryker drove the toe of his shoe under Wallace’s right kneecap, gave him a little push under the armpit to totally wreck his balance, then dropped down and swept him off his feet with savage force, far more than was needed. Wallace’s legs pointed at the ceiling and his head and shoulders hit the tiled floor hard enough to shake the building.