Fong turned to Chen, “Captain Chen, Joan Shui. Joan Shui, Captain Chen.”
Chen didn’t know what to do, whether he should shake hands or what. Before he could make up his mind, Fong asked, “We still have him?” Chen showed him the PalmPilot with the street overlays. “Not all that useful with Xi Luan Tu underground in the warrens.”
“We’ll have to follow the best we can. I think it’s time to throw our friends off the track, don’t you, Captain Chen?”
Chen hesitated for a moment as if he were unsure of the meaning of Fong’s question. Fong saw it and a shiver of fear went up his spine. Chen smiled and took out his cell phone. He punched in 555 555 555 1, listened for a tone, got it, then punched the pound key twice. Then he flipped his cell phone shut and said, “Problem turned into opportunity, sir.”
Li Chou had heard the shots and screams from the market. The blip on his laptop began to move like someone running then stopped. He had his men in position and was about to give them directions when all of a sudden the street map overlay on his receiver began to move at tremendous speed. “Hold on,” he shouted into his cell phone. Finally the street map slowed then suddenly stopped. Li Chou looked at the thing. Shook it. The blip didn’t move. He hit the Enlarge button to get an exact address then dialled the snitch in central stores. He quickly told the man what had happened.
The man really didn’t know what to make of Li Chou’s information but asked, “The blip is stable now?”
“Yes.”
“And you can identify the cross streets?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that’s where the bug must be.”
Li Chou contacted his men on his cell phone and shouted orders to them, hit the siren, U-turned across eight lanes of traffic and sped toward the arrest that he knew would send Zhong Fong back to the wasteland west of the Wall.
While Li Chou’s siren pierced the din of Shanghai’s constant traffic jam, the young Beijing man stayed above-ground and on a makeshift map charted the unsteady progress of his troops in the warrens. Beside him, the older Beijing man kept his eyes on Fong, Chen and the peasant woman, who was with them now.
“Money and passports and ID papers,” Joan answered Fong’s question. “I brought him all those things. Maybe you should arrest me.”
“Maybe I will,” said Fong.
Joan looked at the blip on the PalmPilot. “How did you bug him?”
“It’s in the cell phone I brought him.”
“Do you know who he is, Zhong Fong?”
Fong nodded but said nothing. The blip had stopped moving. He looked at Chen who nodded. Then they moved quickly.
The older Beijing man sat up straight and tapped the younger Beijing man. He pointed at Fong and Chen and the peasant woman who were running across the alley not twenty yards ahead of them.
Li Chou whispered directions into his radio transmitter. His men responded with whispered affirmatives when they had reached their assigned positions around the Park Regent Hotel in the fashionable embassy district in the south end of the city. Four of the six had reported. He awaited the last two before he made his move.
The tunnels got steeper and steeper while Fong, Chen and Shui made their way deeper and deeper into the heart of the warrens. Chen guided them as best he could by the blip on the screen of the PalmPilot. Fong knew the ins and outs of most of Shanghai, but this underground world was foreign to him. As a child, he’d ventured into the warrens only a few times. Although he was never wealthy, Fong’s family had controlled night-soil collection throughout the Old City and he had some standing as a part of the family’s age-old business. The warrens were for those who had nothing. Not people like him. It was their domain, not his. The last time he’d gone down there he was twelve years old. He’d been robbed, beaten and only escaped worse through the unexpected kindness of one of the older ruffians.
They passed by filthy mattresses on the wet ground and other evidence of human habitation. The blip had not moved for over ten minutes. Xi Luan Tu must have gone to ground. On occasion, the shouts of the militiamen echoed to them from a distance, but even these thinned out in the last few minutes. Twice Fong had put his hand up for them to stop and crept back to see if they were being followed. He was convinced that he’d heard footsteps but could not find anyone on their tail.
They’d reached a turn in the tunnel. To their right the tunnel widened and headed toward the river. Directly in front of them was an almost sheer wall of rock. Chen put his fingers to his lips, looked at the blip then signalled that he was confused. Fong looked at the screen. It indicated straight ahead – somehow on the other side of the rock face, not down the tunnel. Fong was about to cuss all technology when he saw a wet sheen on the rock face. A sheen he recognized all too well. He reached up and touched the sticky slickness of fresh blood.
The two Beijing men stood in the darkness of the tunnel and took out their firearms. Modern, German, lethal.
Li Chou got the “In place!” from the last of his men. He took a breath. Referred one last time to the laptop. The blip had not moved. He counted to ten then yelled, “Now.”
Climbing the rock face proved easier than it looked. Well-concealed but numerous handholds and footholds had been cut into the rock at appropriate intervals. This was evidently a much-travelled route. At the very top of the rock face was a small opening. Fong led; Joan and Chen followed. The opening narrowed so that even someone as slender as Fong had to squeeze to get through. But once through, a large tunnel travelled for ten yards then opened into a substantial cave. Along the walls of the cave were dozens of large barrels. Chen consulted the PalmPilot then pointed to a large barrel stencilled in white paint with: TO BE DELIVERED TO HU FAT CHOI SPADINA ROAD TORONTO CANADA.
The raid on the Park Regent Hotel’s coffee shop went off like clockwork. Li Chou’s men scared the shit out of all eight customers, the two cooks and the young skimpily clad waitress. Li Chou then consulted his laptop and pointed beneath a table at the far side of the restaurant. When he threw back the white tablecloth, the man beneath yelped a complaint.
Chen pried the barrel’s upper ring loose and all the slats fell to the floor, revealing the calmly seated figure of Xi Luan Tu.
Li Chou lifted Shrug and Knock in one angry sweep from beneath the table, then shook him. The electronic button that fell from his coat hit the table then bounced to the floor and rolled into a corner. On Li Chou’s laptop the street map overlay moved ever so slightly to indicate the movement.
Li Chou’s face was hot, angry and naturally, fat.
Fong held out a hand to Xi Luan Tu. The man took it and rose to his full height. Fong locked eyes with him.
“Take your hands off him, Traitor Zhong!”
Fong turned. There in the mouth of the cave stood the younger Beijing man, his gun pointed right at Xi Luan Tu’s head.
Joan took a step in front of Xi Luan Tu.
“Bad move, peasant girl,” said the younger Beijing man, cocked his gun and pulled the trigger.