Sean Slater - The survivor

‘Did you know why?’

‘I never knew there was gonna be any bodies inside, that’s for sure. I thought it was for insurance stuff.’

Striker thought about it, went over the timing and connections. If Chinese Tony had done his job right, the bodies would have ended up in the bottom of the Fraser River. Same place as where they’d fished out Que Wong.

‘What else can you tell me?’ he said.

‘That’s all I know.’

‘Should we revisit Cell 9?’

‘That’s all I know, man! Honest. There’s nothing else, they don’t tell me nothing. All I ever get is cash up front from one of their drop-off guys and then I never hear from them till they need me again.’

Striker studied the man, saw his fear, believed him.

He escorted Chinese Tony to an empty cell in Cell Block 2, then went outside and retrieved his gun from the locker.

It was time to pay a visit to the Fortune Happy restaurant.

The Golden Dragon Lounge was packed with the noon rush, so Red Mask circled around the large tinted-glass windows to the back lane, where the busboys were throwing out the trash. One of them, a young boy named Gock, recognised him.

Red Mask stopped him with a soft word. ‘Boy. You know my face?’

‘Yes, sir, I do.’

‘This is good. I must speak with Sheung Fa. Ask him to hold tea with me.’

The boy nodded and ran inside. Five minutes later, he returned and motioned for Red Mask to follow. He led him through the kitchen area, down a long hallway, then up another series of stairs until they reached a large wooden door.

‘He waits for you inside.’

When the boy turned to leave, he fled more than walked. Red Mask watched him go until he had descended the stairs and was no longer in view. Then he turned and entered Sheung Fa’s office.

Inside, the air was overly warm. Sheung Fa sat behind a desk made from a whitish wood Red Mask had not seen in twenty years. Out of respect, he bowed — as low as his body would allow in his injured state — and he held it until Sheung Fa told him otherwise in his gentle but commanding tone.

‘Stand freely.’

Sheung Fa’s face had changed since he had last seen him. The differences were almost imperceptible, but there was enough to show that no man escaped time. Not even Sheung Fa. His dark eyes stuck out against the silver of his recently-cut hair, and his goatee and moustache were freshly trimmed to match. Everything about Sheung Fa’s appearance was proper, professional, and exemplified great care.

‘Come forward,’ he said.

Sheung Fa spoke in English, for their dialects were too far apart. He gestured for Red Mask to sit in the chair opposite him, and Red Mask did as ordered. Sheung Fa then picked up the teapot and poured black tea. He did so slowly, as if the pouring of the tea was more a ceremony than a simple task.

Red Mask watched the steam rise from white china mugs. He waited for Sheung Fa to pick up his own cup, then followed suit. The tea was hot and tasted wonderful, if a little bitter. It was the first thing to pass his lips in twenty-four hours.

‘Thank you, Dai Lo. For tea and time.’

Sheung Fa put down his cup. ‘You are man of middle age now, so far from the youth I remember of years gone by. How is your father?’

Red Mask looked down. ‘Father is good. But time thins him.’

‘Time, or the past?’

‘I think both.’ He looked up again. ‘You and I not speak for years, Dai Lo, but never do I forget all you do for me in past.’

Sheung Fa smiled, but there was sadness in his eyes. ‘You were but a boy then, a child. You would not have made it.’ For a moment, Sheung Fa turned his head and looked at the triangular pennant hanging in the corner of the room, the bright fiery red standing out against the black wood walls. When he spoke again, his voice was reserved, but strong. ‘I do not think of the past much these days. There has been enough pain. It is not good to allow it back.’

Then Sheung Fa’s pale face darkened. ‘I know of what transpires, and I am sorry for your loss. But your actions have caused great concern.’

‘I act only necessary.’

‘Do you? Was killing Pham a necessity? This has caused us much trouble and much work. We have taken action and disposed of the body. But the other three you left behind have been found, and they will surely be a problem.’

Red Mask met Sheung Fa’s stare. Explained. ‘Pham tried to end my life. To put fault at my feet. The plan, Dai Lo, was not mine, but Pham’s.’

‘And the responsibility?’

Red Mask looked down. ‘This is mine alone.’

Sheung Fa finished his tea, breathed out slowly. ‘Your honesty is refreshing.’

‘When Pham and the doctor attack, I react.’

Sheung Fa leaned forward and steepled his fingers. He thought in silence for a long moment before speaking. ‘The concern comes not from this office. It comes from higher up. Overseas.’

Red Mask felt his mouth go dry. ‘ Shan Chu?’

Sheung Fa nodded. ‘I will speak with him on your behalf. I will try to steer him towards right thoughts. But this is all I can promise.’

‘Thank you, Dai Lo.’

Sheung Fa stood. He was taller than Red Mask remembered, nearly six feet, and slender. He rounded the table. When Red Mask started to bow, Sheung Fa stopped him with a soft hand. He pulled Red Mask close and gave him a long hug. ‘It is good to see you again, little one. Now tell me: how many can identify you?’

Red Mask pulled away from the contact. ‘There are two.’

‘And that is all?’

‘Yes, Dai Lo.’

‘And one is left from your mission?’

‘Yes.’

Sheung Fa nodded. ‘It is as we thought. These three will be Shan Chu’s greatest concern.’ He handed Red Mask a thin manila envelope.

Red Mask opened it and pulled out five pages. Four were written information on Homicide Detective Jacob Striker; the last was a photocopied picture of the man.

‘Is this correct?’ Sheung Fa asked.

‘It is him.’

‘The better you know your enemy, the greater your chance of success.’

‘Success?’

‘It is a pivotal time, little one. Follow the path and there yet may be a meeting for you with Shan Chu.’

Red Mask smiled, for the message was clear.

There was still hope. A new life for him, in Macau.

All it would take to get there was three more kills.

The Man with the Bamboo Spine remained standing behind the closed door until Sheung Fa told him to enter the office. He opened the door and stepped inside. The air was warm and smelled of black tea. Behind the large teak desk, Sheung Fa sat with his hands folded on the blotter.

The Man with the Bamboo Spine approached the desk, stood there silently, waited. He felt the draught of the air conditioner on his back, heard the ruckus of the patrons in the lounge, and smelled the tea and the sage scent of burned incense.

And still, he waited.

It wasn’t until almost five minutes had passed — a total of ten since Red Mask had departed — that Sheung Fa finally spoke in his native tongue of Cantonese, a language the Man with the Bamboo Spine fully understood.

‘Be his shadow,’ Sheung Fa said.

‘Yes.’

‘Assist him.’

‘Assist?’

‘ Assist. But be discreet.’

‘Until?’

‘Until instructed otherwise.’

The Man with the Bamboo Spine nodded, signalling his understanding of the instructions, as confusing and unexpected as they were. He left Sheung Fa’s office, closed the door behind him and lumbered through the smoky darkness of Golden Dragon Lounge into the grey light of the outside world.

Assist. It was exactly what he would do.