“And you think he’ll tell?”
“We will make him tell us.” Han Shan-tung muttered the words casually but there was something about the way he spoke that made the skin crawl.
He seemed to have finished. Matt was exhausted. He was looking forward to getting to bed. But then Han Shan-tung went over to the desk and took a mobile phone out of one of the drawers. He handed it to Richard. “You can use this to contact me at any time of the day or night,” he explained. “The speed dial is already set. Just press one and it will connect you directly.”
“So when are we leaving?” Jamie asked.
Shan-tung turned and looked at him. There was no expression on his face. “The boat is already waiting for you,” he said. “You must enter Hong Kong under cover of darkness. You leave tonight.”
INTO HONG KONG
The boat was tied up at Porto Exterior, the outer port of Macau. Han Shan-tung had said a brief goodbye in the hallway of his home and now Matt, Jamie and Richard were being driven across the city through half-empty streets. It was raining again and the pavements, black and glistening, had been deserted by the crowds, many of them sheltering in the casinos, throwing their money after dice and cards in the artificial glare of the chandeliers.
They were all tired. Jamie was half asleep, his head resting on the window, his long hair falling across his face. Richard was sitting next to him. Matt could tell that he was angry – with Shan-tung for arranging the ordeal of the sword ladder and with himself for allowing it. Matt was in the front, beside the driver. The speed of events had taken him by surprise. He had only just arrived in Macau and already he was leaving. He thought about what might lie ahead of him in Hong Kong and wondered if he was doing the right thing. It was obvious now that the whole place was a trap, set up by the Old Ones. And yet, he was walking straight into it.
But they wouldn’t be expecting him… not like this. That was what he told himself. And there was no other way. He couldn’t leave Scarlett on her own any longer. It had already been too long. It was his responsibility to find her and bring her out. He was a Gatekeeper. It was time to take control.
The ferry terminal was ahead but they didn’t drive into it. Instead, the driver took them down a narrow road that led to the water’s edge and stopped. They got out, bracing themselves against the cold night air.
For a moment, Matt and Richard found themselves standing next to each other. “Do you really think we should trust these people?” the journalist muttered, putting into words what he had been thinking all along. “They’re Triads. Do you know what that means? Drugs and guns. Gambling. Prostitution. They’ll chop up anyone who gets in their way – including you and me. Between them and the Old Ones, I wouldn’t have said there was a lot to choose.”
A few hours ago, Matt might have agreed. But he remembered how Han Shan-tung had looked at the statue of Scarlett, or Lin Mo as he preferred to call her. “I think they’re on our side,” he said.
“Maybe.” Richard reached out for Matt’s injured hand and turned it over. There was a dark stain seeping through the bandage. “But he still shouldn’t have done that to you.”
“I did it to myself,” Matt said. “I wasn’t concentrating.”
Jamie came over to them. “I think he wants us to go with him,” he said, glancing at the driver. He yawned. “I just hope this boat has got a decent bed.”
There wasn’t much to the port: a stretch of white concrete, a couple of gantries and arc lamps spreading a hard, electric glow that only made everything look more unwelcoming. Once again the rain had eased off but a thin drizzle hung in the air. The driver led them over to a boat, moored along the quayside. This was going to take them across.
It was an old, hard-working cargo boat with just two decks. The lower of them had a cargo hold that was open to the elements and looking into it, Matt saw that it was filled with wooden crates, each one marked with a name that had been stencilled in black letters: KUNG HING TAO The cabin was on the upper deck. It was shaped like a greenhouse and not much bigger, with windows all the way round. There were two radio masts jutting into the air, a radar dish and a funnel that was already belching black smoke. The boat was completely ringed with car tyres to stop it colliding with the quay and this, along with the flaking paint and patches of rust, made it look as if it had been rescued from a junkyard. Matt just hoped the sea would be calm.
“We’ve got company,” Richard said.
A man had appeared, climbing down from the cabin, his feet – in wellington boots – clanging against the metal rungs. As he stepped into the light, it became clear that he wasn’t Chinese. He was a European, a big man with a beard, dark eyes and curly, black hair. His whole face looked beaten about – cracked lips, broken nose, veins showing through the skin. Either the weather had done it, too many years at sea, or he had once been a boxer… and an unsuccessful one. He was wearing jeans, a thick knitted jersey and a donkey jacket, dark blue, with the rain sparkling on his shoulders. His hands were huge and covered in oil.
“Good evening, my friends,” the man said. “You are welcome to Moon Moth.” He had introduced his ship but not himself. He had a deep voice and a Spanish accent. The words came from somewhere in his chest. “Mr Shan-tung has asked me to look after you. Are you ready to come on board?”
“How long will the journey take us?” Richard asked. He sounded doubtful.
“Three hours… maybe longer. We don’t have the power of a jet-foil and the weather’s strange. All this rain! It may hold us up, so the sooner we get started, the better.” The man took out a pipe and tapped it against his teeth as if checking them for cavities. “I often make the journey at night, if that’s what’s worrying you,” he went on. “Nobody’s going to take any notice of us. So let’s get out of this weather and be on our way.”
He turned and climbed back onto the boat. Richard glanced at Matt. Matt shrugged. The captain hadn’t been exactly friendly, but why should they have expected otherwise? These people were criminals. They were only obeying orders. They had no interest in the Gatekeepers or anybody else, so it was pointless to expect first class comfort and smiles.
Richard had brought his backpack with them – it was their only luggage. He picked it up and they followed the man on board. They reached the ladder and Matt was grateful that this one had ordinary rungs instead of swords. As he began to climb, he noticed a Chinese man in filthy jeans and an oil-skin jacket, drawing a tarpaulin over the crates. For a moment their eyes met and Matt found himself being studied with undisguised hostility. The man spat, then went back to work. He seemed to be the only crew.
There wasn’t much room in the cabin which looked even older than the ship, with equipment that wouldn’t have been out of place in a Second World War film. The captain was sitting on a stool in front of a steering wheel, surrounded by switches and gauges with markings that had largely faded away. The rain had picked up. It was streaming down the windows and the world outside was almost invisible, broken up into beads of water that clung in place, reflecting everything but showing very little. The engines were throbbing sullenly below. The whole cabin was vibrating. It smelled of salt water, diesel fuel and stale tobacco.
There was a low sofa and a couple of chairs for the three passengers. All the furniture was sagging and stained. Richard, Matt and Jamie took their places. The captain sat at the wheel, flicking on a pair of ancient windscreen wipers which began to swing from left to right, clearing the way in front of them. The Chinese crewman cast off and the boat slipped away, unseen, into the night.