Gabriel Hunt - Hunt Among the Killers of Men

“That is what makes history,” said Gabriel. “It’s what makes my job interesting.”

“Would you mind if I asked you what happened to your head?”

The scarlet crease from the bullet wound still defaced his temple in a spot impossible to hide or entirely cover with makeup, though he’d applied some in his hotel room. Perhaps the bullet had been fired at him by this very man, Ivory, with whom he was now conversing so pleasantly. The talk was lulling, almost coaxing or coddling, the kind of innocuous byplay that of course was just another form of warfare according to Sun Tzu.

“The Hunt Foundation jet has very small doors,” Gabriel said ruefully. “Hatches. No headroom. It looks worse than it is.”

“And your intelligence regarding Kangxi Shih-k’ai? What makes that special? Please forgive my natural curiosity.”

“I assume you mean apart from the historical record?”

“Yes. Mr. Cheung is an expert on that particular warlord.” The implications were clear, including Don’t waste our time and If this is a bluff, we’ll know.

“My father’s journals,” said Gabriel, not exactly lying. “He recorded certain information. Longitudes and latitudes. Parallel evidence. I believe he was on the verge of a breakthrough at the time of his death.”

“That is a pity. A great loss.”

“Maybe I can salvage some little piece of that loss,” said Gabriel. “Maybe help find the Favored Son’s tomb at last, with Mr. Cheung’s help. It could benefit us both and become a great boon. For my father, not for me.”

“Ah, now that I understand,” said Ivory. “For you, it is personal, a matter of legacy and duty. An emotional involvement beyond statistics and records and treasure.”

“Well, treasure wouldn’t hurt…”

Ivory permitted himself a small laugh. “Exactly. Come with me. It is time for us to go present you to Red Eagle.”

Red Eagle was a florid, pashalike woman who tipped the scale at about 350 pounds. Her surroundings were garishly Japanese but she spoke with an inflection favoring an affect for the American South.

Her chambers opened onto a wide balcony about five stories up inside one of the subway-crush of tall buildings that broke up this area of the Night Market into a series of large atriums. A few other bidding balconies could be seen across the vast open space above the tents and stalls of the vendors below. From such a balcony, a select section of the Night Market could be locked down with no indication whatsoever to the outside world. Below, the Beggar’s Arch and other tunneled accessways into this area would soon be sealed off by Cheung’s security force.

Which was why Qingzhao had chosen to come in via the sewer.

Red Eagle took a dainty hit from a hookah and offered the pipe to a Mr. Yawuro, an Armani-suited African gangster with a complement of Masai bodyguards. Red Eagle’s own guards and functionaries, Gabriel noticed, all seemed to be turbaned Sikhs. Cheung’s men were all clad in black-on-black. There were three other bonebreakers in Secret Service wash-and-wear accompanying a boisterous Texan (complete with Stetson) named Carrington. The real problem of any meeting was finding a place to park all the bodyguards, and make sure their pecking order was not ruffled.

“Please try the quail eggs, Mr. Yawuro,” said Red Eagle. “They’re very special.”

Carrington made a face and scanned the room for more whiskey.

Having satisfied Ivory’s pat down, Gabriel was presented.

Carrington squinted at him. “I know you,” he said. “You’re that explorer guy. You was at the North Pole awhile back.”

“South Pole,” said Gabriel, who knew Douglas Carrington III was an oil man. Inherited wealth. Global pollution. Third World usury.

“Why, hell, son—you’re famous ,” the Texan said broadly, getting the notice of everyone in the room. Gabriel watched a pit-viper expression cross the man’s tanned face. “And you’re rich, too. But you ain’t this rich.” He spun on Red Eagle. There were questions of privacy and decorum to be dealt with here.

“I may not have as much as you,” said Gabriel, “but I figured I could pick up something small.” The Texan eyed him unhappily, as though detecting the undercurrent of sarcasm Gabriel was trying so hard to hide.

“He is here for me , Mr. Carrington,” said Kuan-Ku Tak Cheung, interceding. “Be wise and do not insult my special guest, for he is a man who has at least earned his reputation.”

Carrington actually blushed, then gruffly apologized and retreated.

Gabriel almost felt like blushing, too, when in response to Cheung’s endorsement Red Eagle began fussing over him. She giggled like an adolescent and kissed his cheek, leaving a smear of crimson lipstick. He found himself staring at her. There was, he thought, the distinct possibility that she was actually a he. Gabriel’s eye sought the seams of the illusion. Anything was possible here in this polyglot microcosm.

“I am honored to make your acquaintance face-to-face,” said Cheung.

Gabriel could not help wondering what that phrasing meant: Was Cheung toying with him? Had he made Gabriel from the security footage from the casino?

“I have read your book,” said Cheung with an eager smile.

“Which one?” said Gabriel.

“ Hunt Up and Down in the World ,” said Cheung. “Your most incisive chronicle of excavation and underground exploration. Some of it is quite exhilarating. Exciting and improbable, almost like pulp fiction. It speeds the blood.”

“I actually didn’t write that book,” Gabriel said, “in the strictest sense. It’s more of an ‘as-told-to.’ Dahlia Cerras did the hard part, the donkey-work. But of course her name is smaller on the title page than mine.”

“And nowhere at all on the cover,” Cheung said, clucking gently. “Poetic license, then?”

“I try not to embroider too much.”

He thought back on the book’s compendium of snake pits, booby traps, torch-bearing locals, gunfights and wild escapes. Yes, it probably would seem ridiculous…to anyone who had not been there.

“No literary aspirations?” said Cheung, apparently genuinely intrigued, leaving Ivory to keep an eye on the rest of the room.

“My brother Michael is more the author type,” said Gabriel. “In that respect he takes after my parents. I’m afraid I’m the roustabout.”

Gabriel also watched Ivory, watching Cheung. This man knew his exits, backstops, contingencies and cover plans. But there was something off about his manner. Ivory was a man of secrets, more than simple hired muscle. He seemed to command the bodyguards and thus be ranked higher. Not quite a partner of Cheung’s, but not quite an employee, either.

“Our lots tonight include adult men and women,” Red Eagle told her guests, clapping briskly to draw everyone’s attention. “Psychics, androgynes, jesters, amputees. Ah, Ms. Carlsen.”

A tall Scandanavian woman with an elaborate Maori neck tattoo had just joined them. She drew tiny birdlike sips from a cut crystal flute of champagne.

In his peripheral vision Gabriel saw Ivory running check-ins with his sentries. Very pointedly, none of the security men in the room were drinking.

There was no way, Gabriel knew, that Qi could take Cheung from ground level. She had to be lurking in one of the buildings across the way, with a good angle on the proscenium of Red Eagle’s balcony.

Her chosen tool was a “slightly used” bolt-action British L115A, a sniper rifle codesigned by an Olympic gold medalist shooter and chosen by the SAS to use against the Afghans in 2001. It could destroy the engine block of a truck at 1,200 meters. Body armor did not matter to this weapon.