The controller is holding what appears to be a stopwatch, big as an onion. He consults it and says quietly to his talkers, “Coming up to one minute.”
They murmur into their radios.
“One minute … mark,” the controller says in dullish tones.
The talkers repeat.
They all wait in silence.
“Forty-five seconds,” the controller says. His voice is sluggish. “Thirty seconds … twenty … ten … five, four, three, two, one. Go.”
The talkers begin shouting into their walkie-talkies. Everyone moves to the edge of the roof. They grip the wall coping, stare across the street.
Three men drop on lines from the top of United Bamboo headquarters. They rappel swiftly downward. They use leg kicks to keep themselves bouncing off the brick front of the building.
They come to a stop facing the third-floor windows. They smash the glass with their boots. They toss in grenades. The three explosions are almost simultaneous: one titanic boom!
“Lights,” the controller says in his listless voice.
Searchlights and floods make day of night. The street is frozen in a harsh, greenish glare.
“Go with Unit Two,” the controller says.
Cone figures no one is going to send him to Leavenworth for smoking a Camel now. He lights up, leans over the wall, peers down.
One of the Yubie guards has run out into the street, is staring upward. The other has his back against the iron grille door. He’s fumbling at his belt.
Wong’s squad comes spilling out of tenement doorways. They rush the guards. Grab them. Johnnie works at the iron grille. Motions everyone back, then ducks away. Sheet of flame brighter than the floodlights. Sparks. The grille hangs crazily from one hinge.
Same thing with the inner door. It’s blown completely inward. The attackers cram into the entranceway, Wong leading.
Now the three rappelers have disappeared. They’re inside, through the shattered windows. Gunfire. Single shots. Then short bursts from automatic weapons.
“Unit Three,” the controller says stolidly.
Cone wonders if a reserve has been put on standby. It has. A dozen men come charging down Doyers. These are New York City cops, wearing helmets and flak jackets. Following them is a platoon of uniformed police who set up a cordon around the United Bamboo building.
More gunfire. A lot of it.
“Medics,” the controller mentions. Then: “Let’s go.”
He leaves first, climbing carefully down the iron ladder. Followed by his two assistants. Then the photographers who have been working steadily since the action started.
Cone lights another cigarette and follows them. By the time he hits the street, the small-arms fire is dwindling; just single shots or brief chatters of submachine guns.
An ambulance comes slowly up the street, siren growling. Cone stands in the doorway, watches the stretchers and body bags unloaded. Then an armored bus pulls up.
By this time every building on Doyers Street is lighted. People are leaning out windows; some have gone to their roofs for a better view.
The shooting stops. Cone lights another cigarette and realizes he’s got two going at once. He finishes the butt with quick drags and starts on the other.
Two FBI men come out of the United Bamboo building. They’re gripping Edward Tung Lee by the arms. His knees are buckling, but he can walk. They help him into the ambulance. Then more cops come out, FBI and NYPD. They’re herding a long file of prisoners, some dressed, some in pajamas and robes, some wearing shorts. All have hands clasped atop their heads. They’re stuffed into the bus. It pulls away; another takes its place.
Johnnie Wong comes out, helping to carry a stretcher. The supine body is covered to the chin with a blanket. A medic walks alongside, holding a plastic bag high, the connecting tube disappearing under the blanket.
The ambulance pulls away. A second comes purring up. Wong stands dazedly, looking around. The Thompson dangles from one hand.
Cone crosses the street, goes up to him.
“Johnnie,” he says gently.
The FBI man turns slowly to stare, not recognizing him at first. Cone knows the symptoms: shock, flood of adrenaline, postaction shakes.
“You okay?” he asks Wong.
“What? Oh, yeah, I’m all right. One of my guys caught it.”
“Ah, Jesus,” Cone says. “Bad?”
“I think so. It looked bad. Chiang Ho. He’s been with the Bureau almost ten years. A sweet man. Oh, God, what am I going to tell his wife?”
“Maybe he’ll make it.”
“No,” Wong said, “he won’t.” Then, savagely: “But I got the fucker who chilled him. We grabbed Edward Lee out of there-did you see?”
“I saw. It was a beautiful job, Johnnie.”
“I guess. Yeah, it was. It went real good. We’re taking everyone in. You know, after Chiang went down, I wanted to dissipate all those guys. I never felt like that before in my life. Not a nice feeling.”
“I know. But what the hell, you’ll get an ‘I love you’ letter from the Director for all this.”
“Maybe,” Wong says. “Hey, I found your fucking list. It was right on top of the desk in the office.”
He reaches into his fatigue jacket, pulls out the White Lotus computer printout.
“Thanks,” Cone says. “I owe you a big one, payable on demand.”
“I’ll remember that, old buddy,” the FBI man says. “Keep in touch.”
By all rights, he should zonk out the moment he hits the loft and sleep until late Monday morning. But he is too wired. Granted he has been a sideliner, not an active player in that raid on United Bamboo headquarters. But the tension and suspense have clutched him. He can still hear the controller’s phlegmatic “Go” and then the eruption of gunfire.
It takes a stiff vodka to soothe the jits, and by that time he’s concentrating on the remainder of the puzzle-the reason he was dumped into this mishmash in the first place.
Why the run-up in the price of White Lotus stock? Obviously because the Giant Panda mob has been buying up shares through Yangtze International with the aim of taking over the company. That’s a perfectly legitimate ploy. So why did Henry Wu Yeh have Cone kidnapped and tell him to stall his investigation or be prepared to knock on the Pearly Gates? That doesn’t make sense.
And where do the blackmailing letter to Claire Lee and phone calls to Edward Lee fit into the jumble?
Groaning, he starts flipping through the White Lotus shareholder list. He pays particular attention to investors owning more than a thousand shares-the people Johnnie Wong said were associated with Giant Panda.
Revelation comes slowly, not in a sudden inspiration. No light bulb flicks on over his head as in a cartoon strip. The answer comes from dry numbers which, the Wall Street dick well knows, can relate a tale as gory as bloodstains, a wet knife, or brain-splattered hammer.
The first step is adding up the holdings of all those thousand-share investors and realizing that no way, no way can they represent 16 percent of the outstanding shares of White Lotus. Yet that is what the letter from Yangtze International claimed-that they owned 16 percent of the stock, with the pledge of proxies by “many other shareholders.”
So how did they come up with that magic number of 16 percent? Timothy knows how. Edward Tung Lee personally owns 16 percent of White Lotus. What a beautiful coincidence. And if you believe that, try the Tooth Fairy on for size.
What it means, Cone realizes, is that Edward Lee is conniving with Giant Panda to make a run on his father’s company. But for what reason? Cone thinks he has the answer to that one, too.
He turns to the first page of the glossy White Lotus annual report. There is the photograph of Edward Tung Lee, Chief Operating Officer. Even with his frozen smile he’s a handsome deviclass="underline" curved lips, cleft chin, high brow, blow-dried hair.
He could be a matinee idol. And Cone decides that’s exactly what he is.
“Cleo,” he calls, and the slumbering cat lifts its head.