For now, all they could do was wait. The 600 series stretch Mercedes would stop directly outside the doors as it always did – and Quayle wanted to move then, rather than wait until they came out laden with parcels and possibly separated.
“The car comes,” Steve called through the small window to the back.
“We’re on,” Quayle said to Kirov. “Ready?”
The Russian nodded and together they jumped down from the truck, moving straight round to the front and onto the sidewalk as Steve’s brother eased the truck out onto the road in front of the traffic. They could already see the Mercedes, royal blue with tinted windows. Just four cars down, it had stopped short of Sogo’s doors.
Kirov stepped off the pavement and tapped arrogantly on the passenger window. Knowing that the person couldn’t see the impatient gesture he was making, the bodyguard in the front seat slid the electric window down to tell him in no uncertain terms not to tap on his car, muttering in Cantonese about stupid pink-skinned tourists.
As the window lowered, the driver – eagerly awaiting his chance of revenge on Fung Wa – slid his hand across the electric controls and unlocked all the doors. In that same instant, Kirov bent to look through the window at the thin faced Chinese in the front seat, then jabbed out with a punch that would have floored a professional, even without the CS spray.
At that precise moment, Quayle came through the back right-hand door with a burst of power, the other bodyguard twisting to see what was happening in front. His hand reached for his weapon, but he was too late; Quayle delivered a sharp two-fingered jab at a point below his ear, and he collapsed across one of his charges, a stunning Eurasian woman in her late thirties. Bodies were bundled onto floors and, in three seconds, Quayle and Kirov were in the vehicle, guiding it forward as the truck across the street finally got on its way.
Sitting where the guard had sat on the small fold-down seat against the front wall of the passenger compartment, Quayle put his foot on the bodyguard’s head and looked at the three people sitting stunned across the wide back seat. On the right was a young girl in her early teens, very like the Eurasian. The daughter, Quayle thought. The third was a woman in her forties, pretty but dressed plainly with her hair up in a bun and wide frightened eyes. Unknown. It had happened so fast that none of them had really understood what had taken place.
It was time that he told them.
“You are the wife of Fung Wa?” he asked the woman the bodyguard had fallen against.
She nodded her head fiercely. “I am and you will not get away with this.”
“I can and I will. I do apologise, but your husband has something of mine. We will swap within the next few hours. Until then, just co-operate and no harm will come to any of you.”
“Why are you doing this?” the girl asked.
“Ask your dad when you are a bit bigger,” Quayle answered with a reassuring smile.
The mother put her hand across the girl’s lap and glared at Quayle.
“And who are you?” he asked the third.
“She speaks no English,” Mrs Wa replied. “She is my maid.”
“I don’t think so.” He turned and tapped on the glass. “Who is she?” he demanded of the driver.
“Wife big man from Canton. Communist,” he said.
“So…” He turned back to face them. “A little shopping for a few capitalist luxuries. Very nice too. Tell her not to worry. She’ll be OK. What is her name?”
“Noi Seng,” Mrs Wa replied, glaring at the back of the driver’s head. “Her husband is meeting my husband for lunch today. Top level discussions!”
I’ll bet, Quayle thought. Like who’s going to give it to Fay first. He tapped on the glass again. “Let me out here,” he said – and, as the car pulled over, he fished in the bodyguard’s pocket, took the gun out and handed it through to Kirov.
“Just do as you’re told and you’ll be home for dinner. But first: give me your purse.”
She glared at him like he was a common thief but noticed, for the first time, the resolute determination in his tired eyes. There was nothing else to do. Believing him when he said that they would come to no harm, she felt the first thrust of real fear – not for herself, but for her husband. Producing her purse, she thrust it out to him with one long elegantly bejewelled hand, her eyes now betraying her thoughts. “Please…” she began.
“There is nothing you can do,” he replied. “It’s up to him.”
He had two hours until Fay was due to arrive at the man’s office. He could either give the boat an hour to clear the harbour and go straight in and get it over with, or wait and catch Fung Wa literally with his pants down. The initiative would be his. Choosing the latter, he made his way down the street past the hotel he was still checked into, towards the new towers that graced the waterfront. The private elevator could only be entered in the basement.
Security would be a problem if he tried to penetrate in daylight, so the only viable course of action was to take the direct option.
