The stink of Hong Kong harbor drifted first into the confusion of moldering vegetables and incense and fish on ice, then the dai pai dong, where seemingly thousands of Hong Kongers shared dishes of drunken chicken and egg custard. Dryden threaded the taxi between glowing skyscrapers, trying to block out the blurred holler of people crowding too close carrying birdcages, birds that flapped and panicked at Dryden’s window, the bicycles, the umbrellas, the children. He kept half an eye on the rearview mirror—no pursuit. Yet. Bumping the taxi onto a curb, he switched off the engine. Then prized apart the lockbox that had been shunting about the well. It popped open. Dryden stuffed the change and notes into his pocket. Flipped down the mirror. He spat on his sleeve and did what he could about the blood on his face. His white shirt was now crimson. Dryden pulled it off. His T-shirt had fared a little better. It would have to do for now. He wrapped the shirt around the Triad machine gun and tucked it under his arm, climbing out of the Toyota.
Dryden joined a flood of people coursing across the broad road. The gold lettering of chungking mansions was hard to pick out among the neon, a modest entrance to the complex where Chao’s son was being held, masking the two-story mall that served as the foundation for fifteen more floors spread over five separate buildings. Most of the people crossing with him were ethnic Cantonese by the look of them, but as Dryden slipped toward the doors he was met by a quick flick of interest from a group of Middle Eastern men wearing ivory thobes. They lost interest just as quickly, moving aside.
Chungking Mansions was a hub for traders, migrants, asylum-seekers, travelers, small-time entrepreneurs, restaurants, bedsits. Its reputation for crime had been somewhat mollified by the growing presence of CCTV cameras inside, all feeding to a monitor room where guards watched for anomalous behavior. The security existed in a space between the law of Hong Kong and the law of Chungking Mansions. If the police asked for footage, they weren’t going to say no; but they also weren’t going to hassle peaceful migrants in this complex known by some as a ghetto, as a gold mine, as the Little United Nations. The whole world was here trying to thrive. Dryden watched the watchers, skipping up the stairs. The ceiling was mirrored, and a glance revealed an upside-down harried version of himself.
He loosened his arms and shoulders. Clocked businesses left and right—Hui’s Brothers Foreign Remittance Company Limited, Quick Quick Laundry, Indian gods and goddesses, the Côte d’Ivoire flag hanging over a shop marketing renewable energy products to African wholesalers. Outside, minorities were nearly invisible. In Chungking Mansions, Dryden blended in, or would have were it not for his current state. He pushed aside hanging prayer mats to reach a menswear shop selling not classic knockoffs but, as the sign gamely said, expansions of the classics. Dryden bought a brown Sandown trilby and a herringbone overcoat. He pointed at the changing room and the old man waved him on. Dryden balled up his bloodied shirt and stuffed it beneath the bench. Slinging the machine gun strap over his shoulder, he tucked the weapon under his arm and shrugged into the coat. He put the hat on and rejoined the concourse, keeping his face to the floor.
Next: a phone. Chungking Mansions was the true City of Dreams. The shop opposite, bedecked with the Ugandan flag, delivered him fourteen-day phones returned by European customers within two weeks of purchase. Dryden chose an ancient Nokia with no Internet connection. The trader began to protest, pointing to new iPhones, before looking sharply beyond Dryden’s shoulder. Dryden followed his gaze, and then turned back just as quickly. Nine Triad men in sharp suits and mean moods congested the passageway.
Dryden urged money into the man’s palm. He was about to pull away when the trader’s dry fingers tangled with his. He looked up into the soft jowls, the white eyebrows, the gentle eyes. The man said something—Dryden recognized the shape of the word “help.”
He nodded.
A smile of silver fillings. The man gave a gentle tug and Dryden slipped behind the counter, then through the back curtain, receiving the parting pat on his shoulder with a two-fingered salute. Dryden made for the door opposite, pausing to check a map of the complex. The Orchid Tree Guest House was on the thirteenth floor. He took the stairs two at a time, dialing as he ran.
Aisha’s phone chimed in the plexiglass depository box to which they all surrendered their devices upon entry to Regent’s Park. Bob Simmons was watching the big fight in his office, but was pulled away from the pandemonium by the brief glow. He would have logged it in the back of his mind as something to tell Aisha about later had the call not cut off after three rings, and then started again. He remembered that from his days in the army. Simmons unlocked the box. Unknown number. He got to his feet, and answered.
There was no one there, only heavy breathing and a bouncing echo. Then a voice cut through the noise: “004.”
Simmons straightened. “Copy, 004, hold on.” Simmons picked up his own secure line and called up to Moneypenny. Her secretary, Phoebe, said she was down in Q Branch—she would transfer the call. Moneypenny answered.
“Ma’am, 004 is calling on Dr. Asante’s mobile. If I bring it down in the lift I’m afraid he’ll cut off.”
Moneypenny said, “Put him on speaker next to the receiver, Bob.” Simmons arranged them both on his desk and switched off the fight. Moneypenny’s voice expanded into his office. “004, this is Moneypenny.”
Dryden said again, “004 reporting. Say—I can’t—”
Dr. Suleiman’s voice took over. “We know about your hearing. We know you might not fully understand us. That’s OK. Tell us what you need.”
There was nothing, just the sound of breathing.
Then: “Orchid Tree Guest House. Chao’s son. Q compromised.”
“Copy,” said Moneypenny. “We’re going to text you the information. Keep the line open if you can. Stay with us, 004.”
The six men paid by Luke Luck to kidnap Chao’s son from his piano lesson that afternoon had been arguing for the past hour about what to do with the boy crying in the bathtub. They had called the number Luke gave them and there was no answer. One said it would be better just to leave the boy here, someone else would find him, he couldn’t identify them after all. Just wash their hands of the situation. The others said they should kill him anyway—leave no danger that they could be traced by the police or the Triad. They were desperate men—they had to be to take on an assignment like this. It had seemed like easy money. No way Chao would let his son die. But the squeaky boxer had botched the job. Would they see any money now? The leader was losing his nerve. He screamed at the others to shut up and pulled the pistol from his coat. He’d been doing this repeatedly, and at first the others thought nothing of it. But then he wrenched open the door to the bathroom and told the boy he was sorry—he didn’t have a choice.
Dryden was still running when the Nokia buzzed. The texts came like staccato gunfire.
We’ve been hacked. Trying to identify. Watch your six.
He didn’t need to be told that.
The texts continued, telling him that satellite imaging showed six men enter the complex before the fight. One of them carrying a minor. The Chungking Mansions security footage was film, not digital, no outside access. But the phones that had been in the Triad pursuit vehicles had now split into two groups. The Triad obviously believed he had Paradise and were intent on finding him. One set had ridden the elevator to the top and were sweeping their way down floor by floor. The other was sweeping the corridors on the way up. They’d soon meet in the middle, where a room picked up by CCTV camera on the skyscraper opposite showed six adult males. No longer any sign of the child.
Dryden’s heart skipped a beat. He checked the machine gun. It was the FN Minimi, a squad automatic weapon with an open bolt, designed for carrying by platoon or squad support soldiers. The rear sight was adjustable for wind and elevation, and this one had an adjuster for night vision. The magazine was half-spent. Or half-full. He smiled to himself, coming to a stop at the door to floor thirteen by a fuse box.
Another text. You are at the northwest corner. Triad approaching from southeast counterclockwise. Turn right, then left. Door immediate left. Go now.
Dryden slipped the phone into his jacket pocket, and then crowbarred the fuse box with the end of the gun. He threw each switch. Knocking off his hat, he flicked the gun sights to night vision and stepped into the corridor with the weapon raised. He trod the faded red carpet softly, counting seconds, head down.
When he reached the door, the night vision made the orchid tree painted there glow. Dryden took one cooling breath and kicked the door in.
Night vision showed him six Asian military-aged males, all armed. He took out two, clocking the seconds, and then dived as his phone buzzed. A volley of shots from the hallway outside, the Triad opening fire. Feathers and plaster and wood exploded all around him. Dryden scrambled beneath the bed. The kidnappers were blasting the Triad, the Triad blasting the kidnappers. The bathroom door was open. There was a boy crouching on the tiles, hands over his head. A man had a gun to his head. He was saying something, though he hadn’t seen Dryden—he was shouting into the room. Dryden got himself into a firing position beneath the bed. He recognized the word “hostage.”
Not for much longer.
Dryden whistled softly.
The boy glanced up, saw him, froze.
Dryden moved his head to the right.
The boy cringed to the right as Dryden fired.
It was a clean headshot. The kidnapper’s gun did not go off.
The room was still. Dryden squeezed out from under the bed. There were bodies everywhere. No survivors, Triad or kidnappers. The acrid aroma of gunpowder and blood got inside his nostrils, a queasy familiarity because it was so comfortable. Dryden stepped over the body of the leader and reached out a hand to the boy.
The boy grabbed hold of him. Dryden smiled, lifting him into his arms. He pressed himself against the wall of the room, taking a split-second look into the main hallway. People were running for the stairs and the lift. No sign of the Triad.
He raised the phone to his ear. “Hearing intermittent. Going for Paradise on the Ark. Luke’s on side. Send back up.”
The Nokia buzzed. Dryden read the text: Paradise hacked Q. Proceed with extreme prejudice.
Dryden briefly wondered if Moneypenny or Aisha or whoever was at the keys had meant to text extreme caution. Then he took a last look at the smoking room. Probably not.
He hung up and stepped into the hall, bouncing the boy in his arms. Eight years old at the most, face streamed with snot. Dryden gave him a wide smile. There was a tap on his shoulder. Dryden turned around. Lucky Luke clapped him on the arm, peering into the room over a cheap pair of sunglasses that mostly hid his bruised eyes.
He signed: “Trust you to start World War Three.”
Dryden took a small step back. Signed: “Just cleaning up after you. Where’s Paradise?”
Luke signed: “We need your help. It’s Rattenfänger.”
Dryden nodded. He was about to say he’d just get the boy to safety when he saw Paradise’s security team approaching in the lens of Luke’s glasses—two of the contingent attached to the yacht.
The boy fell from Dryden’s arms as electricity coursed through him from a fifty-three-million-volt stun gun.