John Burdett - The Last Six Million Seconds

They were waiting for him on the ground floor and followed him into the lift. The police barriers were still in place, although someone had painted a red star over the “Royal” in “Royal Hong Kong Police Force.” Heavy sweetness penetrated the corridor as they approached the wide industrial door, from behind which something droned. When Chan pushed the door open, the odor worsened and the drone increased to a thunder of buzzing. He was gagging as he switched on the light.

He turned on a heel and with an open hand thrust Aston’s face back against the door. At the same time he pulled at Riley’s shirtsleeve. Aston had started a high-pitched scream.

“Better get the boy out of here, sir. I said better get the boy out of here, sir. ” When Riley’s eyes started to roll, Chan slapped him across the face. The chief superintendent shook himself like a dog; blood trickled from a nostril. In a sudden lunge Riley put a long arm around Aston.

“Come on, Dick, I never could take the really rough stuff either. Let’s get out of here.” He maneuvered Aston out of the warehouse and toward the lift lobby while the young inspector started into another scream.

Turning back, Chan exchanged a glance with Cuthbert.

Cuthbert’s eyes ran the length of the warehouse. “Told you.”

Saliver Kan’s head and torso emerged in a black halo of flies from the nearest mincer while mince from the lower part of his body oozed into a steel tray. He had bitten through most of his tongue, which hung from his mouth by a thread. Extreme pain had wrenched his jaw to one side and twisted it. Next to him Joker Liu sprouted at an angle from the second machine. To the right of Saliver Kan identical mincers held what remained of High-Rise Lam, Four-Finger Bosco and Fat Boy Wong-all members of the Sun Yee On Triad Society. Nor had the 14K been spared. Chan recognized foot soldiers and more senior officers as he walked slowly, hounded by flies, down a gallery of agony. With military precision the mincers had been placed in a perfect diagonal from one corner of the warehouse to the other.

Terminal suffering expressed itself differently on every face. Pausing before each image of death, he counted thirty-one members of the 14K and twelve members of the Sun Yee On, each with a mincer to himself. Metal trays had been placed under every outlet and were overflowing with rust-colored and black larvae that covered most of the floor. The ceiling was black and moving.

At the end of the row the only nontriad was silently laughing. With no nerves in his legs, Wheelchair Lee must have serenely bled until he expired. Lee would have known the price to be paid for taunting Genghis Khan. Perhaps he had even volunteered to be at the mincing of the 14K; death would have been a small price to pay for a ringside seat. It must have been eerie, even for hardened killers of the PLA, to watch a man laugh while a machine ate his legs. In a corner by a pillar Chan saw an empty wheelchair.

He rejoined Cuthbert, who ground his teeth. “Impressive,” he said eventually, covering his mouth and speaking through his hand, “if one considers the logistics.”

Outside, Riley walked Aston up and down and talked into his ear. “Chelsea won three nil that time, but it was many years ago. I was a kid and Jimmy Greaves was playing.”

“He’s a manager now,” Aston said. When he turned, Chan saw his struggle with horror.

“How many were there?”

“Forty-four,” Chan said.

Aston doubled over in a cough, then straightened up. “Forty-four. The number for death twice. Would be, wouldn’t it?”

“One might have wished for greater subtlety,” Cuthbert said.

Aston brushed at the front of his shirt and tried to function while his teeth chattered. “Shall I call a van, start taking video shots, sketch the positions, get some blokes to interview the occupants on other floors of the building?”

Chan’s face was free of his usual twitch. He turned to Cuthbert. “You’d better ask the political adviser that question. Shall we investigate this crime, Mr. Cuthbert?” Cuthbert hesitated. “Or would you like to tell us who did it so we can save time?”

Aston’s eyes widened. Cuthbert grunted. “It’s classified.” They watched him back away from them while they stared.

“Just a minute.” Riley crossed the lobby. His tall body hung over Cuthbert. “What d’you mean, ‘it’s classified’?” Cuthbert tried to slide away. Riley put out a hand. “I said, what d’you mean, ‘it’s classified’ ?”

Chan watched the two Englishmen struggle in a subdued standup wrestling movement. Riley held the other’s sleeve and would not let go. Finally Cuthbert pulled himself away, tearing his jacket. He strode to the lift and pressed the button. Turning to face them, he seemed to want to explain, apologize even, to the three policemen, who were glaring at him.

“I’m sorry,” he said when the lift came. “It really is classified.” He entered the lift and spoke as the doors closed. “You’re not to speak of this to any member of the press. That’s official.” His eyes pleaded with Chan’s. “It’s China.”

Jonathan Wong received a telephone call in his office in Central. When the caller was sure he was speaking to the dispatcher of the photographs, each of which consisted of a close-up of a mincer with human contents, Danny Chow’s voice tightened. “What do you want?”

“I represent a client who wants to do business, Mr. Chow,” Wong replied, reaching for a cigarette.

“Some client.”

“I think both sides have made their points. Respect has been generated. Now’s the time to deal, don’t you think?”

The voice from New York sighed. “You could put it that way. What does he want?”

Wong lit his cigarette. “The commodity you procured for my client sometime ago was unfortunately never delivered. He would like to order some more. Enough for operational purposes this time. And at a more realistic price.”

“Do we get to keep our couriers?”

“I think we can reach an understanding about that.”

Chow sighed again. “We can probably deal. Give me two days.”

“Certainly,” Jonathan said, and replaced the receiver.

They came for Chan at lunchtime. Two tall Chinese with thick Shanghainese accents walked into Mongkok Police Station and up the stairs to his office. Neither would give his name or state his business at reception; no one had the courage to stop them, however. Chan did not resist and was not surprised to see Cuthbert in the back of the black Mercedes waiting in the car park behind the police station. He and Cuthbert found nothing to say to each other. Chan remembered a small room, an old man and black-and-white photographs hanging from a string that depicted people being taken to their executions.

At the top of the Bank of China a feast was in progress. Chan sat next to Cuthbert at a huge circular table. Xian sat directly opposite Chan. The detective had never seen any of the other sixteen men who sat around picking and sucking loudly at the crabs that ended every now and then with a soft thuck in a pile of shells in the middle. Chan saw that they were all about the same age as Xian. Apart from the general himself, who was wearing a black mandarin robe, the guests were in off-the-peg two-piece suits, black, gray or navy blue. None wore a necktie.

After the crab a very old man served choi sam , abalone, steamed rice, crispy duck. The lunch finished with soup and then sliced oranges. Chan and Cuthbert ate nothing.

The old man came around again with balloon-shaped brandy glasses, which he filled from a bottle labeled “VSO Cognac.”

Xian raised his glass, said something loudly in Mandarin to which all the other old men assented.