Dragon Key Read online

  Han put his hand on Bolan’s arm. “Cooper-jun, I am sorry,” he said. “But I must first go to Shanghai.”

  “Shanghai? That’s twice as far. And your family’s heading to Shandong.”

  Han shook his head. “Mr. Tressman told me he had their departure ensured. I must go to Shanghai.”

  “You planning on seeing the fight?” Grimaldi asked.

  Han looked puzzled, then smiled. “Ah, Zhang Won Yu, the Olympian.”

  Grimaldi nodded. “Good amateur record. Something like three hundred and fifty fights, right?”

  Han smiled. “I am sorry. I know of him, but I do not follow boxing.”

  He turned to Bolan. “I have an item of supreme importance that I must pick up in Shanghai before I leave China.”

  Bolan remembered the conversation back at Han’s house. “The dragon key?”

  Han’s eyes widened, then he nodded. “You know much, Cooper-jun. And if you know about the dragon key, you know its importance and why we must visit Shanghai.”

  Although it was more than seven hundred kilometers farther than Shandong Province, Shanghai afforded some other advantages. With the big boxing match only two days away, there would be a lot of Westerners in the city. He and Grimaldi wouldn’t stand out as much, and they could use their cover story as sports journalists if they were stopped. The best place to hide was in plain sight. Plus, if they could get to the American Consulate in Shanghai, it could smooth the way for them to make a quick exit out of China.

  “Herbie, besides flying, what’s the fastest way to get to Shanghai from here?”

  Herbie drew on his cigarette, then tossed the butt out the window. “Bullet train. Get you there in four hour forty-eight minute.”

  Han tugged at his sleeve. “We will need tickets in advance. And you must have a Chinese ID card to purchase them.”

  “Hopefully, we’ve got that covered,” Bolan said, as he took out a stack of yuan and turned to Yang. “Call Tai Pang and tell him we’ll need five bullet train tickets. We’ll meet him at Beijing South Railway Station in thirty minutes.”

  “Tickets to Shanghai?” she asked.

  “No, tell him we’re going to Hong Kong.”

  Han started to say something, but Bolan raised his finger to his lips and shook his head.

  * * *

  BEIJING SOUTH RAILWAY Station was an immense, domed structure of glass and metal between the second and third ring roads. Bolan told Herbie to take one trip around it so they could get their bearings. He slipped off his BDU shirt and set it, the Beretta and the shoulder rig on top of his bag. After slipping into a nondescript blue shirt, he grabbed Grimaldi’s fancy suitcase and tossed it on the seat next to him.

  “Hey,” Grimaldi said, “that’s a Louis Vuitton original.”

  “Exactly,” Bolan replied, patting the bottom. The designer bag had a hollow section lined with a mesh of lead filaments that were designed to obscure x-ray examinations. “While Yang and I check things out and get the tickets, you disassemble our weapons and stow them in this finely crafted piece of French luggage.”

  “Ah, I have it on good authority that the French use only the finest Italian leather,” Grimaldi said.

  “Oh, forget the finely crafted part, then,” Bolan said with a grin. “Herbie, let us off over there.”

  “Okay, boss. No problem.” He steered the van to the curb and stopped near the edge of the south entrance.

  Bolan took out his Espada knife, handed it to Grimaldi, and told Yang to give him her gun, as well.

  “See if you can fit this one in there, too,” he said. “If not, leave it in the van.”

  “Why?” Yang asked.

  “We’ll be under tight scrutiny from here,” Bolan said. “Unless you have a special place to hide it, we can’t take the chance it’ll be found.”

  She nodded and handed the gun over.

  Grimaldi looked at the small Walther and shrugged. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “I can put part of it in my arm,” Han said. He tapped the prosthesis. “I have plenty of extra room in here. Lots of big muscles.”

  Bolan grinned. He was starting to like this man.

  He opened the door and slid out, followed by Yang, and they strolled along the huge sidewalk leading to the entrance. Four huge red Chinese characters were affixed to the crest of the metal dome, and Beijing South Railway Station was spelled out in English on a secondary tier below.

  “Where’s this guy supposed to meet us?”

  “There’s a large waiting area on the second level,” she said. “He said to go to the fifth set of chairs and wait there. He’ll contact us when he’s sure it’s safe.”

  Bolan didn’t like it but knew he had little choice. It was the perfect place for a setup. He hoped Tressman had chosen his asset well. “Any idea what this guy looks like?”

  She shook her head. “He goes by the code name of Tai Pang, which means overweight, if that helps.”

  “Does he speak English?”

  She shrugged again. “Sorry, I forgot to ask. We only spoke in Mandarin.”

  This gets better and better, Bolan thought as they made their way to the upward escalators. He scanned the surrounding area as they ascended. Meeting an unknown entity was always tricky, but on the plus side, the station was so immense and densely populated that they stood out less. There were also a substantial number of Westerners milling about, but most were in groups. Huge television screens affixed to the wall on his right displayed arrival and departure times with colorful characters and numerals. Glancing upward, he saw multiple tinted globes suspended at various levels from the ceiling. Pan-tilt-and-zoom cameras. Somebody was watching.

  The second level had a series of ticket booths flanked by endless rows of red couches. He counted off the five sections from the escalators and went to that row. There was one seat left and as awkward as he felt taking it and leaving Yang standing, he sat down.

  “Sorry for not being a gentleman,” he said, “but I figured I’d be less noticeable this way.”

  “That’s okay.” She smiled. “I like tall men.”

  Bolan opened a newspaper he’d picked up and held it in front of him. Hopefully, it would provide some cover from the ubiquitous camera lenses. He caught sight of one of the opaque bulbs on the ceiling and adjusted the paper accordingly.

  Yeah, he thought. This affords about as much protection as a baseball cap in a thunderstorm.

  Yang’s cell phone chimed with an incoming text. She looked at it and said, “It’s him. He’s using pinyin.”

  “Pin what?”

  “English letters to spell out the Mandarin phonetically.”

  Bolan nodded. He’d heard the Chinese were becoming a nation of poor spellers due to their fascination for texting.

  Another thing old Mao would despise, he thought.

  “He says he’ll need passports and Chinese ID cards to get all the tickets,” she said.

  Bolan had anticipated such a development. It would necessitate abandoning the van, bringing the rest of the group inside and bunching themselves together. He thought about telling this Tai Pang guy to shove off, but the clock was still ticking and he didn’t know how much longer it would be before the Chinese started a widespread search for Han and his American helpers.

  “All right,” Bolan said, “but tell him I want to meet first. On the lower level.”

  She thumbed in the message and waited for a reply.

  “He says okay.”

  “Ask how we’ll know him,” Bolan said.

  She thumbed another text, waited again, then said, “He’ll approach us and ask for a light for his cigarette.”

  Bolan nodded, folded the newspaper and got up. As he headed for the escalator he noticed a man staring at him. As Bolan’s eyes met his, th
e man looked away. Was this Tai Pang? Bolan continued to the escalator with Yang. The man followed, getting on the down escalator behind a group of Chinese. Bolan turned to talk to Yang, pointing at the far end of the massive foyer at a decorative statute, and whispered, “I think we picked up a tail.”

  She smiled and nodded, gazing at the statue.

  As they descended, Bolan saw the man talking on a cell phone. He was wearing a dark jacket, and Bolan noticed a slight bulge on the right side, along the guy’s belt. He was armed. The man’s dark eyes settled on Bolan and stayed there. There was no subterfuge or evasiveness this time. Either this guy was Tai Pang or he was an undercover cop. Bolan decided it was the latter as he saw three more good-size men standing at the base of the escalator. The bulges under their jackets indicated they were cops as well, unless Tai Pang had brought along his own protection squad.

  Bolan turned and whispered, “Looks like we’ve got a reception party waiting for us.”

  Yang’s mouth pulled into a thin line. “What’ll we do?”

  “Maybe they’re just after me. You keep walking while I draw their attention. Try to get back to our van and get out of here.”

  “But—”

  “No buts.”

  “Okay,” she said.

  The three men at the bottom flanked both sides of the escalator. As the people immediately in front of them stepped off, one of the men flashed some sort of wallet with a badge and ID card. He said something in Mandarin.

  Bolan cocked his head back and smiled as he stepped off to the side to let Yang slip through. “I’m sorry, I don’t speak Chinese.”

  “But I’m sure your little friend does,” the man behind them said. He barked an order and the three bigger guys held out their arms, preventing Yang from moving toward the exits.

  “We are the police,” the first guy said. “Walk this way.”

  Bolan debated his options. He might be able to take out all four of them quick enough to give Yang and him a chance to make a run for it, but as he glanced toward the doors he saw a uniformed police officer standing by the exit with a submachine gun slung casually over his shoulder.

  “Over there,” the man said, pointing toward a solid door in the rear wall.

  “What’s this about?” Bolan asked. “I just asked this girl to help me get a ticket. I don’t know her.”

  “Is that so? You came in together. You were talking together. And I did not see you make any attempt to purchase a ticket.”

  Bolan frowned. This was going from bad to worse in a hurry.

  One of the other cops produced a key and shoved it into the slot above the doorknob. He twisted it and opened the door.

  “Go in there,” the man said. “To the office.”

  Bolan started down a deserted corridor, heading to the door at the other end. A set of large windows was on the wall to his left, revealing a small room with a chair and a table. If he waited until they were all in the corridor, he’d have a good chance at a counterstrike that was outside the public view.

  The lead cop must have assumed that, too, because as Bolan glanced back he saw a pistol in the officer’s hand.

  “A gun?” Bolan said. “Is that really necessary?”

  The man smiled. “It is until I determine it is not.” The smile faded. “Now go into that room and tell me what your business is here.” He pointed the weapon at Bolan. “You will get on your knees. Both of you.”

  Yang glanced at him, a look of distress on her face.

  The man shoved her. Bolan turned, but the officer pointed the gun straight at him, staying just out of Bolan’s reach. He had no way to retaliate without putting Yang in harm’s way. One of the other big men opened the door, stepped inside and motioned them in. They walked into the room.

  “Get on your knees!” the man shouted.

  Bolan was starting to kneel, assessing his chances for a desperate leap to grab the gun, when he heard shouting in the hallway outside. Yang’s brow furrowed as she glanced at him.

  More shouting came from the hallway, intertwined with what sounded like a happy drunk. Another man had appeared, a smile stretched across his face. He was dressed in a blue jacket and was much shorter than the two huge cops. The drunken man mumbled something and two of the cops shouted at him. The drunk laughed and staggered toward them, singing an off-key song. He held up his hand, displaying a glass bottle with a Chinese label. Bolan recognized it as cheap wine.

  One of the big cops reached for the drunk, who ducked nimbly out of the way, wagging his finger and smiling. The big cop snarled and reached out with both hands. In a flash, the drunk delivered a snapping kick to the cop’s throat. His hands immediately went to his neck and the drunk’s foot whipped up, scythe-like, and caught the second cop on the temple. He crumpled.

  The drunk was at the doorjamb now, the bottle flying from his hand. It soared across the room and struck the cop with the gun in the face. Bolan reached up and snatched the gun from the man’s grasp.

  The drunk thrust a vertical kick to the neck of the cop lying in the hallway and stepped forward, delivering another quick, chopping blow to the throat of the fourth police officer. That man fell to the floor.

  The cop who’d been struck by the bottle staggered to his feet, glanced around and began pulling a radio from a pouch on his belt. The drunk delivered a hooking heel kick to the cop’s face that knocked him against the wall. In the next instant, the drunk was back on the balls of his feet, a silver blade gleaming in his right hand.

  A balisong, Bolan thought.

  The blade flashed with a forward thrust and the cop’s throat was suddenly torn open, his eyes wide with terror as he fell.

  Bolan raised the captured pistol and pointed it at the drunk, who stopped and stared at him with dark, foreboding eyes.

  “Don’t move,” Bolan said in Mandarin.

  “I do not think you wish to do that,” the drunk said in almost perfectly accented English. “Not if you wish to leave Beijing, as per our agreement.”

  Bolan kept the gun pointed at the stranger.

  “Or,” the stranger said, “would you rather I ask you for a light?” He made a quick movement, bouncing the blade against the back of his hand and then flipping it so it retracted back into the handle. He paused and slipped the knife into his pocket.

  Bolan canted his head, but said nothing.

  The man’s mouth edged into a slight smile. “I am Tai Pang. Now, if you wish to continue with our planned departure, you must assist me in placing these bodies where they will not be found.”

  Bolan lowered the pistol and looked the guy up and down. “You’re Tai Pang?”

  The man nodded.

  “Funny,” Bolan said, “you don’t look overweight.”

  Chapter Nine

  As he waited in the long hallway, replete with vases of flowers and finely crafted bronze statuettes, General Wong continued to feel the vague rumblings in his bowels. Being called before the Standing Committee for the second time in two days was not pleasant. This time he would have even more questions to answer, especially in view of the recent blunders by the squad of soldiers he’d dispatched to pick up Tressman.

  He could blame the foreigners for that debacle, but Wong had selected the soldiers. The escape of Han would no doubt be brought up, as well. Two incidents, back-to-back, in which his soldiers had ended up looking like amateurs. At least partial blame for this second incident could be shared with the police.

  In theory, as a respected, decorated PLA officer, he should be beyond reproach. Wong had proved himself in Tiananmen Square. He’d been one of the first officers to order his men to fire on the troublemakers. Certainly that should count for something with the Standing Committee, even if the incident itself had been downplayed in recent years. But who knew what those old, senile whoresons really though
t? He sighed.

  If only he had that damn dragon key. He could be making arrangements to get out of China for good. Chen assured him that the dragon key would be recovered, but so far the quest had proved as elusive as trying to trap a cloud of smoke.

  The door opened and a uniformed soldier stepped out, snapped to attention and announced that the Committee was ready to see him.

  Wong straightened his uniform before he walked into the room. As he made his way up the long aisle toward the benches, he noticed the figure of another man standing erect and proper in his navy uniform. As Wong got closer he saw who it was: Colonel Yeoung of the National Police.

  The bastard was called in first, Wong thought, so they could grill him before they talked to me.

  The rumbling in his bowels took an upsurge. He needed a cigarette to calm himself, but dared not smoke in the presence of the Committee. Such an act would be seen as a measure of disrespect. He tightened his sphincter muscle and held himself ramrod straight.

  He stopped at the lectern and stood at attention, announcing himself with pride and precision. “General Wong Su Tong of the People’s Liberation Army reporting as ordered.”

  The old men looked down at him from their elevated positions without saying a word. Finally, Minister Cao, the one in the center who oversaw matters of internal security, spoke.

  “General, we ordered you to bring the American spy here, did we not?”

  “Yes, Minister.” Wong felt like he was being jabbed with a stick.

  “Then why is he not here?” The old prick smiled. He was obviously enjoying this.

  “I sent a contingent of men to assume custody of the American and transport him here, Minister.” Wong paused. His mouth felt dry. “Unfortunately, the squad was ambushed. My men were killed, and the American was taken from them.”

  “So we have heard,” Cao said. The old fool removed a cigarette from his gold case, tapped it lightly on the metallic surface and lit it with an ornamental lighter. “We will now hear your explanation of this failure.”

  They show me no respect, Wong thought. He gathered himself, wondering what Yeoung had told them. He decided to stick to his original plan.