Stealing the Dragon

“Not enough?”

“I was thinking at least five,” said Cape.

Yan started to raise the cell phone. “Let’s say I believe you don’t care about the girl,” he said slowly. “That’s still a lot of money-what makes you think I have it?”

“I figure I’ll need to disappear,” said Cape. “Especially if you push that button. You know, change my name, get a new identity…the whole Joan Rivers treatment. Maybe even get my nose fixed.”

Yan was watching him very closely now.

“What did it cost when you did it?”

Yan’s jaw dropped.

“Want me to guess your real name?” asked Cape. “I already know it’s not Rumplestiltskin.”

“Who are you?”

“That’s not the question,” said Cape. “Who are you?”

Yan’s voice was defiant. “I’m Harold Yan, the next mayor of San Francisco.”

“Liar,” said Cape.

“President of the Chinese Merchants Benevolent Association.”

“Criminal.”

“Respected member of the City Council.”

“Murderer.”

“Mayor of Chinatown.”

“Moron.”

Yan took a step forward but stopped, his eyes burning holes in Cape. He started to say something but Cape cut him off.

“You were the worthless son of a Triad leader,” he said. “You betrayed your father, then faked your own death to come here.”

Yan’s shoulders slumped as he listened, but his eyes remained hard. His nostrils flared when Cape spoke again.

“Your name is Wen,” said Cape. “Zhang Wen.”

Chapter Fifty-nine

“Zhang Wen.”

Sally had bellowed with rage when she first heard the name.

When Cape said it during their run through the tunnels, Xan had to restrain Sally from running ahead. After a furious exchange in Cantonese, Xan released her. But judging by the expression on his face and the vein pulsing on his forehead, it took all Xan’s self-control not to sprint down the tunnels himself. Cape didn’t ask what had been said, but when Sally told him how she knew Wen, he said, “We don’t have to stick with the plan.”

“It’s a good plan,” she replied. “We need you to buy us time.”

But now there was no time left. A million questions roared through her brain, but all she could do was count down the minutes. Sally watched Cape talking to Wen, the men only ten feet apart but fifteen feet below her.

She hung upside down like a spider, legs curled around a black nylon rope. She wanted to go lower but knew she’d risk being spotted by the goon in the corner, whose eyes were still riveted on Cape.

She heard Cape say the name again, daring Wen to respond. As he talked, Cape nonchalantly brushed his right hand across his hip, as if wiping sweat from his palm. Sally had seen Cape do that before. He was getting ready to draw his gun.

Taking a deep breath through her nose, Sally relaxed her grip on the rope.

***

The man who was no longer Harold Yan smiled involuntarily at the sound of his real name.

Ten minutes ago this gwai loh had walked into his plans, somehow in possession of the heart, catching him red-handed with a girl and a bomb. He knew right away he would have to kill the detective; he just wanted to get the heart first. But when their conversation took an unexpected turn and Wen heard his name spoken aloud for the first time in ten years, instead of being afraid, he felt relieved.

No more lying and obfuscation. Just life and death-two old friends Wen had known since he was a boy. He’d never been stronger than his brother but was always more clever, which is why he came out ahead even when others were arrested or killed. Like that yakuza swine Kano, so many years ago. Today was no different. After this was over, he could put the mask on again and become Harold Yan, charming politician. But for this moment he could be himself, Zhang Wen. Ruthless, powerful, and smarter than everyone else.

As he looked at Cape across the factory floor, he ran his left hand across his face. “They told me the plastic surgery would be painless,” he said. “They lied. I couldn’t smile for almost two years. My jaw ached. My scalp itched constantly.”

“Head lice?” asked Cape.

Wen ignored him. Nothing the gwai loh could say was going to ruin this chance to stop acting for a few minutes-to be free to say whatever he wanted-because no one in this room would live to talk about it. The girl would be dead in less than ten minutes, one way or another, then he’d play hardball with this buffoon detective. See how cocky he was after a few minutes with his bodyguard Shaiming. And even if he didn’t get the heart today, Wen knew he would eventually. Kill enough people and you’ll find someone willing to make a deal.

The detective was talking again.

“Why the ship?” he asked. “Why smuggle those people from China-why take the risk before the election?”

Wen shook his head, marveling at how someone so stupid could know so much about him. “Do you have any idea what political campaigns cost?” he said. “That ship brought in more cash from those families than a hundred fundraisers.”

“What about the speech in your office? How this affected-”

Wen cut him off. “All citizens of San Francisco? You think the socialites in Pacific Heights spent more than two minutes at cocktail hour talking about that ship?”

“I was thinking more of the folks here in Chinatown.”

Wen laughed, a sharp sound even to his own ears. “Not all Chinese are equal, detective. There are people with power, and there’s everyone else-that’s true in China and it’s true here. Those families were a means to an end. They just happened to be Chinese.”

“So it was just for the money.”

“And the heart,” said Wen. “Don’t forget why you’re here.”

“You actually believe the heart would help you win the election?”

“You wouldn’t understand,” replied Wen. “If you hold the heart, you cannot be defeated in any contest.”

“If you say so.”

“Where is it, detective?” asked Wen. “You’re running out of time.”

“How do I know you’re not going to double-cross me, like you did Michael Long?”

Wen smiled at the memory. Long was desperate to save his company, said yes to everything Wen had suggested. He even offered the use of his warehouse. “This is a different situation.”

“Yeah, maybe. But I saw the guy in the warehouse, with his throat cut-I assume that was your handiwork.”

Wen glanced over at Shaiming with a look of pride, then said something in Cantonese.

Cape didn’t like the expression on Yan’s face-or Wen’s face-and was having a hard time deciding what to call this asshole from one moment to the next.

Wen had gone from looking surprised to worried when Cape first walked into the warehouse, but now the guy looked almost euphoric, like every question Cape asked was a trip down memory lane.

He was pretty sure Wen, Yan-the man in front of him-was nuts.