Operation Caribe

12

THE OCEAN SONG sailed into Shanghai Harbor just after sunset the next day.

It glided past the newer parts of the city’s sprawling downtown, heading for an older section of the bustling port. Ships of all shapes and sizes passed on each side of the repainted freighter. From junks to huge container ships, no one gave it a second look.

Until, that is, a military patrol boat intercepted them about halfway to their goal. It was heavily armed and carried one of Shanghai’s many harbormasters. A curt radio call ordered the freighter’s crew to get their papers in order, including a summary of their cargo. They were about to be boarded.

The Ocean Song slowed to a halt and the harbormaster and an officer of the Chinese Navy came aboard. The Senegals greeted them, displaying false transit papers forged by the SAS and brought aboard by Stevenson and Mace. The papers claimed the ship was registered in Kuala Lumpur under a Honduran flag. The sugar, they said, came from Santos, Brazil.

The harbormaster studied the paperwork—but it was only a cursory inspection. Wrapped up inside was a bundle of cash: five thousand dollars in new U.S. twenty-dollar bills. The visitors were soon gone, and the Ocean Song was once again on its way.

Passing the last of new Shanghai, its towering buildings looking more futuristic than anything else in this part of Asia, the freighter floated further up the Yangtze, finally reaching Old Harbor. This area resembled Shanghai of the 1930s: dark, dank, shadowy, crowded—and very dangerous. A few similar-sized ships were at anchor here; others were tied up to the creaky, decaying docks nearby. A low mist hung over everything, and foghorns bayed a mournful tune.

Beyond the docks was the ancient walled city of Old Shanghai. The thick harbor mist had spilled over to its extremely narrow streets and innumerable back alleys. Lines of electrified Chinese lanterns hung everywhere, strung from dull, gas-fired streetlights. But only the glow from the numerous neon bar signs was able to cut through the fog, and then just barely.

It was now 7 P.M. on Friday and the streets were crowded as usual. The many saloons along the docks were already in full throat. Occasionally the sound of a drunken laugh or a pleasant squeal rose above the dull roar, issuing from either the bars or the brothels many housed upstairs.

The Ocean Song quietly tied up at an isolated spot along the old pier.

Phase One was now complete.

* * *

“REMEMBER, YOU MUST not talk,” Batman said to Nolan. “You cannot say a word. You’re supposed to be someone who’s had his vocal cords severed. You’ve got to stay in character or this whole thing will be screwed.”

They were all sitting in the ship’s galley: the five members of Team Whiskey, the two SAS doctors and the Senegals. As the operation’s commander, Batman was conducting one last briefing before launching the strange mission. He was hammering home the details like a football coach before the big game.

“I know you can understand a little Chinese,” he told Nolan. “But, if you let one word slip, English or otherwise, they’ll hear your American accent and that will be a death sentence. Any kind of talking will also screw up that radio in your tooth. It might be worth about a million dollars, but we won’t be able to hear anything else if you’re talking while it’s transmitting, because your voice will overwhelm its tiny microphone. And if we can’t hear anything else, we won’t know what’s happening. Understand? So, no talking—no matter what.”

Nolan nodded, but numbly. He could barely talk as it was. His mouth, his eyes, his throat—he ached from the neck up. But he knew what Batman was saying was of paramount importance.

The idea behind his bargain-basement facial surgery was to transform him into an Asian tough guy, someone who, by his repulsive looks alone, would deter people from messing with him—and by extension, with Twitch. The faux suturing around his neck, mimicking a grisly wound, was done simply to obviate the need for him to talk, as Far Eastern languages weren’t exactly his strong suit. The ironic thing was that Twitch, though very Asian-looking due to his Hawaiian ancestry, rarely said more than two words to anyone, friend or foe. Yet he’d be doing all the talking for the mission.

Batman started up again, now addressing both Twitch and Nolan.

“OK, just to review, here’s what we know thanks to Bebe and the SAS. At midnight on the first day of every month, Sunny Hi attends an event that everyone calls the Ba Xi, or ‘the Game.’ He never misses this thing, as it’s a real bonding session with his original pirate gang. But it’s also the only time he accepts new recruits into his organization. Anyone wanting to join up has to pay some kind of tribute to him, just to be considered worthy. And because it also happens to be his son’s birthday, he’ll be in a more responsive mood, and possibly lower his guard a bit.”

“Now, we think the Ba Xi is a high-stakes poker game, or whatever passes for poker over here, but we’re not entirely sure. But as midnight is now just four hours away and that starts the first day of May, we’re sure it’s being held somewhere tonight.”

He checked the last page of his notes.

“It’s important that you link up with your contact as soon as possible. From what the SAS intelligence guys were able to tell us, he will know more about the Ba Xi and how you can get close to it, and therefore get close to the target. Obviously, the nearer you can get to Sunny Hi, the better the chances of success. But it’s not going to be easy. He’s always heavily guarded. We’ll need a whole lot of luck on our side.”

Batman looked at his watch.

“As of this moment, the clock is ticking,” he said. “It’s now 8 P.M. on the dot, and we figure that bribe to the harbor patrol has a life of about a half-day. So this thing has got to be done before sunup tomorrow so we can get the hell out of here. And that means you’ve got exactly ten hours to get in and get out. So, set your watches—and get back here by 0600 hours at the very latest. If you don’t, we’ll all be toast.”

A grim murmur of agreement went around the galley.

Lastly, they went down their equipment checklist: Twitch was wearing his trusty transponder wristwatch; it would emit a radio pulse every few seconds, telling the team where he and Nolan were at any given moment. The Senegals reported that the tiny radio in Nolan’s tooth was coming in loud and clear. Both Nolan and Twitch had a diagram of Old Shanghai’s confusing street grid drawn in ink on their shirtsleeves, this because even Google Earth had a hard time getting a clear image of the area’s urban confusion. Twitch was also carrying five thousand dollars in cash, for bribes and to buy into the Ba Xi if it was a poker game. Most important, though, the pinhead containing the ricin super poison was jammed up under the nail of Nolan’s right index finger.

Batman concluded the briefing with one last comment to Nolan.

“And, whatever you do,” he said, “don’t bite your nails.”

* * *

NOLAN AND TWITCH got off the ship by riding atop a large crate being lowered to the dock by the Senegals. Hooked up to the forward cargo winch, the crate was marked: USE ONLY IN EMERGENCY.

Once down, Twitch checked his transponder watch. It was now 2010 hours. They had less than four hours to somehow crash the Ba Xi.

They were both wearing heavy crew jackets and black stocking hats, as the fog was cold and wet. They had no weapons other than the pinhead of poison; even the knife that Twitch usually kept inside his prosthetic leg had been left behind. They’d have to depend on their wits, their street smarts and their intuition.

They had one last glance up at Batman, Gunner and Crash standing on the rail.

Then they pulled their jacket collars tight and walked into the mist.

* * *

THE DARK STREETS of Old Shanghai were even narrower than they imagined. They were jam-packed with people, motorbikes, handcarts, discarded produce crates, fish barrels and the occasional car or truck. Trash was piled high everywhere. Telephone poles, thick with wires that resembled drooping black spaghetti, lined every street. The electrified Chinese lanterns and the blinking neon signs added a weird glow, but did little to dispel the misty gloom. And everything, including the people, seemed to be covered with a thin, oily sheen.

The constricted streets were also home to hundreds of overcrowded jiubas, small Chinese versions of a Wild West saloon. Each jiuba was filled with drunken locals, rowdy sailors and Shanghai hookers, all watched over by massive, heavily armed bouncers. Bad eighties music seemed to be blaring from each one. The combined sound was deafening.

* * *

NOLAN AND TWITCH followed the street maps inked on their shirtsleeves. After fifteen minutes of walking through a sea of people, they came upon a particularly dark alley. At the end of it was a jiuba called the Sea Witch.

This was where they were supposed to meet their contact.

The place was much smaller than any of the saloons closer to the docks. Instead of a giant bouncer watching the door, a middle-aged female dwarf stood out front, smiling broadly and giving anyone who wandered by a piece of candy from her straw basket.

The tiny woman let out a yelp, though, when she spotted Nolan approaching.

“My poor disfigured travelers,” she said in barely recognizable English. “For you, special candy.”

Instead of taking two pieces from her basket, she handed Twitch two pieces of candy from her pocket.

“Special,” she repeated, patting him affectionately on his rump. “Special candy for you and your friend.”

They went down the steps to the subterranean bar. The only illumination came from a few candles scattered about the place. A macaw, looking down on them from a perch above the rear door, screeched when they walked in.

Only one other customer was in the bar. He was sitting at a table in the far corner, leaning over a glass of beer.

He was Asian and seemed to have an overly large head. He was totally bald and sported an extremely long Fu Manchu mustache. He was either doped up or drunk, and his eyes were barely open. He was dressed as they were, like a seaman, and was smoking a cigarette right down to the nub.

This was their contact.

They walked over to the table. He looked up at them and visibly shuddered at the sight of Nolan’s distorted features.

“Do I owe you two money?” he asked. It was the code phrase.

“You have already paid us,” Twitch replied, using the counter-phrase.

The man indicated they should sit down.

“I speak a little English,” he said to Twitch. “And I hear you do, too. So we can talk. But, what about your friend here? What’s his story?”

“He is my cousin,” Twitch replied. “Doesn’t speak at all. He lost his voice in a dispute with a knife in Rangoon. But he never had much to say anyway.”

“And his eye?” the contact asked, grimacing at the sight of the empty socket.

“Another dispute—long ago, in Calcutta,” Twitch said. “He can barely see at all, but I consider him a good-luck charm—and good protection. Can’t be too careful these days.”

The contact nodded and tapped Nolan twice on his forearm.

“Don’t worry, my friend,” he said. “For people like you and me, there’s not much to see in this world anyway.”

The surly bartender delivered a pitcher of beer and two more glasses to the table. Twitch poured himself a glass and downed it in one gulp. Then he said to the contact: “Tell us about the Ba Xi.”

The contact sipped his own beer. “Ah, the Game.”

“It exists?”

“It does.”

“And Sunny Hi still plays?”

The contact slapped Twitch hard across the face. Twitch barely flinched, but his cheeks glowed beet red.

“Never speak his name in my presence,” the contact told him in an angry whisper. “Or to anyone else in this city. It’s a good way to get yourself killed. He is simply known as Shang Si—The Boss. Understand?”

Twitch replied through gritted teeth: “My mistake.”

The contact lit another cigarette. Twitch drank a second glass of beer. Nolan, sitting stone-cold mute through all this, had not touched his own drink. He felt the dangerous mission would be best done with clear heads. Twitch obviously thought otherwise.

The contact went on. “So, yes—the Ba Xi exists. And your timing is good, and here’s why: The Boss’s son’s birthday is nigh, and he is accepting presents in his name. You arranged for a tribute, I hope?”

Twitch nodded. “A cargo hold full of sugar,” he replied. “Twelve thousand tons of it.”

The contact let out a long, low whistle.

“An impressive gift,” he said. “Do you have a dollar figure on that?”

“Almost eight million,” Twitch told him.

The contact smiled. “Very impressive. That will get you noticed, especially if you say it’s a present for his son. But who did this sugar belong to originally?”

“Who knows?” Twitch said. “We found it, floating around at sea.”

They clinked beer glasses. Then Twitch reached inside his pocket and came out with ten hundred-dollar bills. He discreetly passed them to the contact.

“What do we have to know from here?” he asked the man.

The contact pocketed the money. “You must go to a jiuba called the Red Lantern, twenty blocks north of here. Pay your way in. Talk to the people who always sit in the last booth. You can’t miss them—they’re identical twins. And don’t be intimidated by their firearms, even though they will be in full view. Say shengri liwu—birthday gift. Then tell them what you told me. If they like you, they will pass you on to the next station.”

“And what if they don’t like us?” Twitch asked.

The contact smiled darkly. “Then say your last prayers—because you’ll be chopped up and fed to the fishes by morning. In fact, that might happen to you anyway. There are people in this town who will kill you just for sport. Or maybe because they don’t like the color of your coat, or the look of your hat. Or maybe they’re hung over or need a fix. Or maybe they just haven’t killed anyone in the past hour or so and they’re bored. But they might also be looking for a spare kidney or an eye or two. Stealing body parts has become a very big business here. Humans hunting humans is what it is. Your liver is worth more than a kilo of cocaine. Your kidney is worth its weight in gold. The old city is an extremely treacherous place to be these days, so you must be careful at all times. You might never know when your last breath has arrived.”

The contact finished his beer, a sign the meeting was over. But Twitch had one last question.

“The Ba Xi,” he said. “What is it? Poker? Blackjack? Craps? Is it a ‘game’ at all?”

The contact smiled again. “The ‘Ba Xi’ is a game—but it’s not poker or blackjack or craps.”

Twitch was surprised. “What is it then?”

The contact began to reply, but suddenly they heard a dull thud. The contact pitched forward, landing face first on the table. A large kitchen knife was sticking out of his back.

Nolan acted instantly. He swept the candle off the table, plunging half the jiuba into darkness. At the same time, the bartender pulled a gun from under the bar and started firing. One round hit a candle hanging from the ceiling—its ricochet killing the macaw in the process. Now it was completely dark inside the bar and raining feathers to boot. Two more rounds went through the curtain behind the table from where the knife had come. But was the bartender shooting at the contact’s murderer—or at Nolan and Twitch?

They didn’t stick around to find out. Nolan yanked Twitch off his chair and together they ran for the door. But on reaching the top of the stairs, Twitch collided head-on with the woman dwarf. She went straight up in the air, only to hit Nolan face first on the way down. Nolan literally saw stars as he fell halfway back down the jiuba’s stairway.

He pushed her away and crawled back up the steps, just as they heard more gun blasts going off inside the bar. Twitch finally got Nolan back to his feet and they ran out of the dark alley.

Reaching the main street again, they stopped to catch their breath amid the bustling crowds. Bent over, hands on his knees, Nolan was spitting out streams of blood—and something else.

The woman’s tiny skull had caught him square in the teeth, shattering his number seven incisor and destroying the tiny radio imbedded within. Nolan studied the minuscule remains in the palm of his hand.

“Hey, didn’t they say that thing was expensive?” Twitch said, still out of breath. “Will we have to pay for it?”

As this was happening, a young girl appeared out of the crowd. She walked up to them, smiled broadly and put a flower in each of their lapels.

Then she said in broken English: “Welcome to Shanghai.”