Chapter 11
Hawker stood in line at the rental kiosk as the morning sun filtered through the skyscrapers. The streets were already clogged with a mad rush of cars, trucks, and people. Bicycles and pedestrians cut between the vehicles, seemingly unconcerned with the thought of a collision. Double-decker buses swerved around other traffic, changing lanes as if guided by Formula One drivers in training. Horns were almost omnipresent and brakes squealed at every intersection.
Renting a moped to enter that madness seemed about as smart as charging into a stampede with an umbrella for protection. But based on the line of people at the desk, both Chinese and foreign, it must have been a preferred means of transportation.
The clerk looked down the line and waved Hawker up. “Come, come,” he said. “Your bike is ready.”
Hawker stepped around a line of jealous customers and followed the clerk through the shop. He hadn’t ordered a bike of any kind, and assumed the man had recognized him.
“This way, this way.”
Hawker followed him out through the back, where a line of forty mopeds waited. As he stepped through the doorway he spotted a group of four Chinese men with weapons on display. The clerk threw up his hands as if to say he knew nothing about it and hurried back into the shop.
This was not the start he had intended.
One of the men waved Hawker toward a workbench. He was forced to sit and was then searched.
Nothing unusual was found. He sat quietly. Perhaps he’d been wrong to think Kang’s people were all he had to worry about. Looking at these men he guessed they were either the secret police or members of the Ministry for State Security, the Chinese equivalent of the FBI. Still, he was surprised to be targeted so soon, since he’d yet to do anything wrong.
Hawker’s passport was pulled and thrown over his head to someone behind him. He heard the smack of it being caught and then the pages rustling and finally a voice. “What are you doing in Hong Kong, Mr…. Francis?”
“I’m here on business,” Hawker said. “I thought I’d do some sightseeing first.”
“You must have a taste for danger,” the voice said. “Businessmen don’t rent these contraptions; they hire cars.”
The passport was dropped on the workbench beside him and a boot stepped onto the frame. He heard the slide of a gun racking behind his head.
“So what kind of danger are you looking for?” the man asked.
Hawker didn’t answer, not because he wasn’t ready to, but because he’d suddenly noticed something about the man’s accent. The English words were heavily accented, but the pronunciation wasn’t Cantonese or Mandarin, or any other Asian form, for that matter.
The man standing behind him, the man pointing the gun at him, was Russian.