BLOOD DRAGON Page 18

  “I’m sorry I’m bringing back old …” Philippe’s voice trailed.

  “That’s okay, Philippe. It’s not your fault.” Cora drank a little tea to mask her trembling voice. “If it weren’t for Ollie, I’d come with you.” She was not certain it was time for her to go back, but Philippe knew nothing about the complexities of the place, and the underlying tensions between Hong Kong and mainland China.

  “I haven’t even asked.” Philippe shook his head in disapproval of his absentmindedness. “How is Ollie?”

  “Nothing’s changed.” Cora’s shoulders slumped a little. “I speak to him … I read his favourite poetry. It’s a quirky little book, a volume of mathematical poetry celebrating the connection between maths and the arts. Just like the two of us.”

  She took the book out of her rucksack to show to Philippe. “I found it on the bookshelf in Johnny and Charlie’s flat … isn’t it strange sometimes how friends understand you beyond your wildest dreams?”

  Philippe spent a moment not knowing what to say. He simply changed the subject.

  “Nancy doesn’t know I’m going by the way.”

  “Perhaps you should speak to her again before you go.”

  “So that she can get me to change my mind.” Philippe shook his head. “She’s very convincing when she wants to be and I don’t want to cop out.”

  “It’s not copping out if there is real danger out there.” Cora turned her attention fully on him, his soft profile, the gentle droop of his often-dreamy eyes. “If something bad were to happen to you, it would not help Amy.”

  “But sitting here in London is not going to help her either.”

  There was little to add to that. Her parents had fought against it and she spoke about it often … for years corruption had been creeping into the Hong Kong establishment, the police and even the judiciary. If Amy’s disappearance needed to be forgotten or treated as suicide, it would be. It would take someone with resources, an understanding of Hong Kong government politics, and ruthlessness, to find out what had happened. Cora did not think Philippe was that person.

  * * *

  “The place is like Fort Knox.” Jack found a table in the Barbican Centre coffee shop. “I managed to squeeze in after someone entered the premises.”

  “I’ve opened up a map of the area.” Harris had called up a 3D map of the Viro-Tech building. “How far did you get?”

  “I reached the gardens.” Jack was looking out through the long window of the café. The pond area and its benches, tables and chairs were deserted. “There is another organisation in the building called the Rainforest Foundation. I claimed I was a new volunteer but didn’t get very far with that argument.”

  “You mean they didn’t trust your story?”

  “No, they didn’t believe my style … clean shaven … leather bomber jacket.”

  Harris said nothing for a moment. “What is that thing on the walls?”

  “Plants. Different kinds of small evergreen plants that have been planted vertically up the wall … a new experiment apparently.”

  “Very clever. A good screen. No one can get through this wall and it looks climate friendly.”

  “And the rest of the back of the building has the same security as the front … reinforced steel, specialist glass … high spec devices.”

  “That makes me really curious.” Harris’s voice crackled on the phone. “I’ll get my guys to find out more about Viro-Tech.”

  Jack took a sip from the bottle of water he had just bought. “You may call me paranoid but … a woman entered the building before me. She looked Asian, perhaps Chinese or mixed parentage; she had a meeting with Wilson.”

  “What’s the chance of that happening? Did you get a name?”

  “I did. Nancy Wu, perhaps …”

  Harris’s silence made Jack wonder whether he was still on the line.

  “You still there?”

  “Yup … just sending my first email to the donut.” Harris’s fingers could be heard running over the keyboard.

  “You mean GCHQ?”

  “That’s right … I work at the cross and I get my information from the donut. It’s all very British.”

  Jack hung up on the call that had not given him as much information as he had hoped. He finished his water and rolled the empty bottle a few times between his hands. The Station Chief had told him to report. He would find out who Ms Wu was.

  * * *

  Someone else was trying to call. Nancy ignored the persistent buzz. Yvonne Butler was already on the phone with the details of a contact who could help, or rather who was willing to look into the origins of the document that named Nancy’s father. The photos were now also part of the arrangement.

  “I don’t mind admitting it, Yvonne. I’m really impressed.”

  “Let’s see first what the results are. Nothing intrigues a spook more than a piece of information that is contentious.”

  “I suppose there will be a catch to this.” Nancy’s voice shook a little.

  “With MI6 there always is, I’m afraid. The deal is that if this is something important and the information is useful, my contact wants to be able to use it.”

  Nancy fell silent for a moment.

  “You don’t need to answer now. Think about it.”

  “Thank you, Yvonne, but I’ve waited 30 years for an answer … whether I choose to admit it or not, I need to take some risks to unearth the truth. We have a deal.” Nancy lay her hands over the document. “The documents will be on their way shortly, but the photos are rather old.”

  “Don’t worry. You’ll be amazed what these people can do with the information they receive.”

  Nancy thanked Yvonne and dropped the mobile onto the sofa. She winced as she tried to get up. More bruises were appearing on her body, but the excitement of finding a contact that could deliver certainty made her forget the pain. There would be no dithering hesitation from her any longer, no matter how perilous the process turned out to be.

  Her mobile rang again. She had forgotten someone had been trying to contact her. Pole’s name flashed onto the screen.

  She cursed herself for not checking who had been calling. He hadn’t left a voice message but sent a text. Inspector Pole was mightily annoyed, and she couldn’t blame him.

  * * *

  He ran across Victoria Embankment, making his way through static traffic and stepped onto the Millennium Pier. Pole’s mac was hardly adequate for the plummeting temperature, but it would have to do. The River Thames humidity crept onto the pier and Pole shivered as he reached the inside of the waiting room. People were huddled there, waiting for the river taxis, others were buying memorabilia from the little shop close to the river boat terminal. Pole chose a seat at the far end of the room, activated his MI6 burner phone, and called the only number stored there.

  Harris answered almost immediately.

  “The old burner phone has been traced.”

  “Relax, Inspector … it won’t give you away. My team has been cleaning up that data. We always do this as a matter of course but we’ve done a lot more than usual to make sure the calls won’t be traced.”

  “I’ll only relax when Ferguson is off my back.” Pole shot back. “If anyone is going to find out what happened, it’s him.”

  “Ferguson has a reputation, I’m aware. But so far he has found nothing, and he never will.”

  “Don’t be so goddamn smug, Harris.” Pole’s voice rose. He looked around, no one had noticed. “I’m also calling about China.”

  “Glad you are, because I too have news. But perhaps not what you might expect. It seems that Ms Wu is as incredibly efficient as ever at finding where the bad guys are.” Harris was moving around, and Pole suspected he was finding a quieter place to continue the conversation.

  “I’m waiting.”

  “She visited Ol
lie Wilson’s place of work this afternoon AND was spotted by one of my CIA colleagues …” Harris sounded amused.

  “Shit …” Pole slumped back into the plastic seat.

  “A good summary of the situation. Needless to say, I have not told them who Ms Wu is but it’s only a matter of time …”

  “Hang on.” Pole interrupted. “How did he get her name in the first place?”

  “Valid question …” Harris chuckled. “She announced herself at the door of Viro-Tech Therapeutics as he was surveying the place … bit of bad luck.”

  “Which also means that those people, as you say, the bad guys, have her name too.”

  “Spot on … I can’t imagine she wasn’t aware of that though. From what I have seen in the short period of time I have known her, Miss Wu is not the sort to flinch when it comes to risk taking.”

  Pole groaned. “She doesn’t need any encouragement, a motorbike tried to run her over this afternoon … and I don’t think it was to steal her bag either.”

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, Pole, but that’s possibly a good thing … she’s getting close to information that rankles with whoever is involved in Ollie Wilson’s case and, as you and I know, sooner or later they’ll make a mistake.”

  “What are you now, Harris … a detective at the Met?” But Harris was right. “I’d rather that did not put her in hospital alongside Wilson.”

  “But Wilson did not know how to go about protecting himself … or how to go about an investigation.”

  “So why has your CIA colleague, as you put it, come to London?”

  “He’s on holiday … he has a an awful lot of days to use up.”

  “Harris, I’m your source at the Met and your CIA bod is getting information from me, so why don’t you tell me what you know and cut the crap.” Pole looked at his watch. He needed to get back.

  “Point taken.” Harris grew serious. “This is what I know.”

  Harris gave Pole the details he had gathered from Jack. Pole took in the information and made a few observations.

  “The problem for both of us is to decide whether this is a matter personal to Wilson or a corporate matter.”

  “Or perhaps a bit of both … Biotech is a high-profile industry. No country is immune, if I can put that way, to the impact it may have.”

  “I’ll keep an open mind.”

  “And Pole … what about China?”

  Pole sighed heavily. “Are you telling me the agency has finally found something about Mr Wu?”

  “It’s not my department that has gathered it … but …”

  “Come on … what have you got?”

  “Mr Wu survived the Tiananmen Square protest.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  His mobile was still going to voicemail.

  “Come on … speak to me.” Nancy was pacing up and down her lounge, following the large windows that overlooked well maintained gardens. The streetlights had just come on and the orange glow gave the surrounding buildings a peaceful look.

  Her text apology had been genuine, but she also needed to follow her instinct about the case. Her intuition was telling her that all the things she spoke to Ollie Wilson about when he had asked about China had spurred on the young man. She didn’t know to what, but she was intent on finding out.

  Pole had also been vague about the source of the information he had delivered to her. It had suited her at the time, but it had been careless of her. She should have been more insistent on finding out how Pole had managed to find the information he had brought to her. She now realised these details were giving her contentious information about her father and she doubted they would have been collected by the Hong Kong police 30 years earlier.

  Nothing ever came free and Pole would no doubt have to reciprocate. He had convinced her the information he had obtained came from overdue favours he was now calling upon, but she no longer believed him.

  She returned to her sofa and started spreading the documents she had gathered about her father yet again. She arranged the documents in chronological order as she always liked to.

  Memories of a life spanning 45 years were reduced to a neat pile only a couple of inches thick. It made her throat tighten to think it was all that was left of an artist’s life that seemed so full and vivid whenever she remembered her father. She never bothered to track down any of the pieces he had worked on, or which had been sold. Her mother had once talked about it in the early days when she was still hoping he might return.

  “Every artist worthy of the name should have a catalogue raisonné,” she would often say. She had started the process of writing an exhaustive list of what she recalled her husband had left in China. Then there were the pieces he sold when working in Paris, bought by a small group of collectors that enjoyed avant-garde artists such as him.

  But once he had sold a piece, her father had no interest in keeping a record … I just wanted to let go. It was an ideological stance. An artist was selfless, giving, art belonged to the world..

  When her mother had finally cleared the artist’s studio at their house, Nancy had saved some of his archives. They had first stored some of it in boxes kept with friends or distant relatives.

  After her mother died, Nancy ruthlessly discarded almost all that was a memory of a father that never returned, in an act of defiance. The memory of the day still brought much pain and anger.

  Today, of course, she wished she had been less ruthless in discarding old papers. These documents might have shed some light on the journey her father took 30 years earlier.

  The ring of her mobile made her jump. Pole’s name flashed on the screen. Her heart swelled. She could not have found a better man to help her on her journey.

  “Jonathan … I must apologise …”

  “Later, Nancy … Ollie is back in ICU. Someone switched off his oxygen and injected morphine into his drip. I don’t know whether he will pull through.”

  A slap in the face could not have hurt her more.

  “Are you still there?”

  “Yes … so sorry … I’ll pick up Cora and meet you at the hospital.”

  Pole’s curtness rankled. Though she understood there was no time for a chat.

  She decided against calling Cora directly. Instead she placed a call to DS Branning. He answered immediately.

  “She is baking a cake with Charlie. Johnny is pestering them about how he would do it.”

  Cora’s arty gang were doing their best to look after their friend. Thankfully, Branning was giving them enough space to huddle around Cora.

  Good man.

  “I’m on my way . There has been an incident at the hospital. Ollie is back in ICU. I’d rather she learned it from me.”

  “Understood, I’ll go back up and wait.”

  Nancy heard Branning crushing his cigarette under his foot and going on his way.

  When Nancy entered the large lounge, the conversation stopped. Johnny and Charlie stopped bickering. Beth turned off the TV that no one was watching and Cora half stood up only to sit down again in slow motion, but eyes riveted on Nancy.

  Cora closed her eyes. “Is Ollie …” Her voice faltered.

  “No, but he is back in ICU.”

  Everybody’s eyes turned to Cora, concern, anguish and kindness.

  She nodded. “I’ll get my coat.”

  “You don’t have a coat,” Johnny piped up. Charlie and Beth shushed him. “I’m just saying.”

  “I’ll lend you mine.” Beth stood up and returned from her bedroom with a long comfortable puffer coat.

  Johnny had gathered up her rucksack. Beth helped her with the coat.

  She nodded to Nancy. Nancy put an arm around her shoulders. There was little she could say that would sound either reassuring or genuine.

  DS Branning was already downstairs. He had brought his unmarked pol
ice car to the front of the building and left the doors open for them to get in.

  * * *

  The police vehicle stopped in front of the hospital entrance. The building was now completely lit up. The large, inverted V that supported the heavy overhanging construction cast a shadow over the pavement.

  Nancy got out of the car first. When Cora stepped out, she turned around to make sure Nancy was following her. Her face was a mixture of dread and worry. She tried to be brave but knew she did not want to face ICU on her own, not again.

  “I’ll catch up with you.” Branning pulled the window down and leant forward to speak to them.

  Nancy nodded and turned to Cora. She stood transfixed at the bottom of the entrance stairs. Without a word she suddenly started moving. She pushed the revolving doors, making her way through the crowd without waiting. Cora’s agile body was moving fast. Nancy did not want to shout for her to wait, but almost missed the lift when the doors shut.

  “So sorry Nancy.” Cora shook her head. “It’s unbearable.”

  The same diffused light and cubicles welcomed them when they arrived on the ICU floor. The same receptionist told Cora she wouldn’t be able to see Ollie yet. This time Cora ignored her. She started walking towards the cubicles, checking each of them to see where he was.

  Nancy caught up with her and grabbed her arm. “This is not going to help.”

  “I need to know.”

  “He’s alive … otherwise they would have told you.”

  A female police officer stood up and walked over to them. “I too have been asked to wait.”

  “What happened?”

  “One of the nurses came to do one of their regular checks. They’re very good about that. The next thing I know is a doctor and another nurse rush into the room and move him to ICU.”

  The short woman was holding her hat between two fidgeting hands. She kept opening and closing her fingers as she spoke.

  “But he was doing so well.” Cora’s voice broke. He had spoken to her.

  “I’m very sorry, Ma’am. I don’t know anything else.”

  The lift door pinged open. Pole stopped for an instant to get his bearings and made his way towards the small group.