Feng pondered the departing figure of Charlie Whitaker. He had got nothing from him, but then he didn’t expect anything. Charlie Whitaker did not give up his secrets easily. Still, he had needed to look him in the eye, and he knew he was right.

  He had never been under any illusion about his own qualities as a policeman, nothing close to the legendary skills of the ex-policeman walking away down the street. But he had a deft skill in negotiating the political ladder, of being in the right place at the right time, which had led him to his benefactor. They had come to an agreement, which granted at times did seem like a deal with the devil, but it also promised untold rewards.

  However, he was not entirely without talent. He had one innate skill in which he shone, and that had served him well throughout his stellar career. He knew how to read someone. People were an open book to him. And he knew one thing for certain.

  Charlie Whitaker was lying through his teeth.

  10

  Mid-Levels, Hong Kong Island.

  Charlie took the ferry across to Kowloon and stood at the rail, letting the wind batter against his face. He had made a quick visit to his apartment in the Mid-Levels and retrieved an item he had kept hidden in his office. He patted the envelope in his inside pocket. He had hoped it would remain locked away, but events had changed all that. He gazed into the dark water of the harbor. He knew what he had to do.

  Chief Superintendent Feng’s file maintenance was bullshit. Charlie hadn’t brought up the fact that he knew who had requested the file. But the real question was — Why, after all this time?

  The ferry bumped against the pier, and Charlie stepped ashore. He crossed over Nathan Road and turned left. It was already a heaving mass of human traffic. They seemed mesmerized by the bright neon lights and the string of shops that lined the route, selling an eclectic mix of electronic wizardry and worthless Chinese junk. He took a right turn, and the traffic eased as he made his way through a series of back streets into the depths of Tsim Sha Tsui.

  The establishment was tucked away down a narrow alley. A solitary lamp above the door cast a pale pool of light out onto the street. A single window, comprised of small squares of smoke stained glass, glowed with a dim yellow hue, indicating life inside.

  Charlie pushed open the door. A bell tinkled above his head, announcing his arrival. The shop was tiny, with barely enough room to house the junk crammed onto the shelves lining the walls and hanging from the ceiling.

  A small man, clearly of Chinese origin, appeared behind the wooden counter. He had the physique of a skinned rabbit and was easily Charlie’s age. He was dressed like a coolie, in a plain smock and baggy trousers, with a faded blue skullcap on his head. But Charlie knew the clothes and the junk shop were all for effect. A sham, much like the man.

  Lok Ho Chin was the biggest forger of documents in Hong Kong. Anything from a detailed shipping manifest, complete with authentic customs stamps and signatures, to passports and ID cards for any country of your choice. The latter was his most popular requested service. And with a steady stream of customers looking to leave, Chin was already a wealthy man.

  Charlie knew he had a comfortable apartment overlooking the harbor and a much younger wife to keep him warm at night. But as Chin had once told him over a bottle of Napoleon cognac, that Chin had provided. He was creating works of art, and he would do it until he drew his final breath.

  Charlie had not been there in a while. He had arrested Chin more than thirty years ago for forging documents, but he had realized the value of having a man on the inside and let him go. Over the years, his forger friend had served him well, with a steady flow of information. But now, his requirements were somewhat different.

  Chin smiled, revealing a perfect set of nicotine stained teeth, apart from a single tooth missing right at the front. “Chief Inspector, so nice to see you. I do hope this is a social call. Let me get you some tea.”

  Charlie grinned but shook his head. “Chin, I wish it was.” He took out the envelope and placed it on the counter. “I need an express job.”

  Chin did excellent work, and for a little extra, well maybe not so little, he did an express service. Chin had made the documents for him some time ago. He had called it their insurance policy. Now all they needed were the correct stamps and dates.

  Chin picked up the envelope and retrieved its content. His old face wrinkled into a smile. “Excellent work, though I say so myself.”

  They agreed a price and a time. Charlie had dinner while he waited. He usually relished the Char Sui, Cantonese barbecued pork, from the little place overlooking the harbor. But today, he had just chased it around the plate and drank too much whiskey while contemplating what seemed to be his only option.

  He had built a life in this part of the world, a rich and happy life. And in that life, his children were the most important things. He would do anything to keep them safe, whatever it took.

  Maybe it was nothing. Maybe it was about something else entirely. But his gut told him, this was it. And he had relied on that instinct for too many years to ignore it now. Deep down, he always knew this day could come. And when it did, they would have to run.

  11

  Pandau Island, Philippines.

  It was some time after he found the church that Fagan discovered the temple. It was not on the track of his regular run, but that particular morning he had decided to follow a barely passable trail that ran up to the summit that overlooked the harbor.

  It was hardly a mountain, but it was a considerable hill. He cut through the scrub bushes that tugged at his legs as he pumped hard through his calves and thighs, focusing only on finding the next step on the path, one foot after the other.

  He emerged into a clearing, gasping for breath, his thigh muscles screaming and his heart racing. But he felt good. He was getting back to his peak fitness. He had allowed himself a smile — for his age.

  The temple was on the far side, tucked up against the trees. There was nothing grand about it, but it seemed well cared for. It was carved in stone and the forest had been cut back around it, giving it a magnificent view over the Sulu Sea, and the islands in the distance.

  Unlike his encounter with the church, he didn’t run past, but let his curiosity take over and headed towards it. The wooden door creaked as he opened it and stepped inside. The sharp aroma of burning joss sticks filled his senses, triggering a stream of half-forgotten memories — Incense, churches, Seminary, an old monk in a ruined temple in the mountains of Bosnia.

  He wondered if he was still up there.

  A man stood looking at him, illuminated in a bright beam of sunshine, cast in through a series of narrow slits in the wall. He looked Chinese, but his skin was much darker. He was dressed as a Buddhist monk, in a traditional saffron robe with leather sandals on his feet. He greeted Fagan with a classic mudra, hands placed together, as if in prayer.

  ‘Namaste,’ he said.

  Fagan put his hands together in the same fashion. ‘Namaste.’

  The monk had smiled. ‘I was hoping you might come and visit. I have seen you about on the island.’

  ‘This is the first time I’ve extended my run out this far.’ Fagan was still panting slightly.

  ‘Father Antonio told me about you. He said you have been helping with repairs from the typhoon and that you had fixed his church organ.’

  ‘You know Father Antonio?’

  The monk nodded. ‘He often comes up here to meditate.’ His face broke into an infectious smile. ‘Does that surprise you?’

  Fagan had a sudden vision of an Irish priest back in the Seminary who had first taught him to meditate. ‘No, not at all.’

  ‘Do you have time for a few moments rest? I have tea. I like to have guests, especially travelers.’

  Fagan had looked around, but he knew he didn’t have a choice. The pull was too strong. He had followed the monk further into the temple. Lamps and decorative items hung from the roof, and paintings and sculptures of the Lord Buddha lined the walls. Fagan recognized a small lacquered wooden cabinet, lit up with candles illuminating hand carved figures sat against the far wall. It was a Butsudan, a Buddhist altar.

  Fagan had studied the Buddhist culture in seminary and always felt it offered a lot. There was a simplicity to it that held a certain attraction.

  Maybe it was that you didn’t have to believe in God.

  ‘Take a seat,’ the monk said as he poured tea from an ornately etched brass teapot.

  There were no chairs, so Fagan had chosen a large stuffed cushion and sat down cross-legged. The monk handed him a hand painted porcelain bowl.

  “Very nice,” Fagan had said, holding up the bowl.

  The monk had given a gentle shrug. “I make and paint them myself, in my spare time.”

  Fagan bowed his head and took a sip. The tea was tasty and refreshing.

  The monk sat across from him with a serene smile on his face. ‘Permit me to introduce myself. My name is Bakti, it means obedient boy. I think that is what my parents wanted from me. We were very poor. I think that was all they could hope for. I fear I may have disappointed them.’

  ‘I’m Joe, I don’t know what that means, but I guess I was a disappointment too.’

  The monk’s head was shaven, and his face was smooth, but it was his eyes that gave away his age. When he smiled long crow’s feet creased his face, and above them, more creases ran across his forehead.

  Fagan sipped his tea while the monk continued to study him.

  ‘Forgive my intrusion, but I see a troubled man. A man with much darkness inside him.’

  ‘You wouldn’t happen to have been speaking to Father Antonio?’

  The monk’s smile broke into a grin. ‘Father Antonio is a good friend of mine. We often meditate together. He is a very perceptive man, very enlightened, but he would never betray a confidence. No, your face tells all, for anyone who cares to look.’

  ‘And is that what you see — darkness?’

  The monk sipped his tea. ‘I see pain.’

  ‘I’ll tell you what I told Father Antonio. We all have our troubles, and we have to find a way to deal with them.’

  ‘And are you?’ Bakti paused. ‘Dealing with them?’

  ‘As best I can. Look, thank you for the tea, but I must be heading back.’

  ‘Please, do not hurry away. We are just getting to know each other. A man who meets a traveler on the road, who is obviously in some distress, must do what he can to help him.’

  Fagan wanted to resist, but that old Catholic weakness he had carried since his mother had drummed it into him as a child, tugged at his conscience. ‘I think I’m beyond help.’

  Bakti said nothing, but continued looking at him, as if he understood, as if he knew it all. There was an aura about him, something intangible, a beyondness. He had seen it before, but rarely. His late friend, William, or Pope Salus as the world had known him, had it. It was like something Fagan recognized from his dreams, something he had reached out for in his darkness, yet had been unable to reach. And now he felt unable to resist.

  ‘Sometimes I think the darkness is waiting to reach up and pull me down.’ He had spoken the words before he knew it.

  ‘You are not the only one with darkness inside.’ Bakti’s voice was soft and soothing. ‘I grew up on the streets of Jakarta, staying alive day to day by stealing what I could. Bringing back a few rupiahs each evening to my family. When I was barely into puberty, I sold my body to rich businessmen who had traveled all the way from China and Japan, and some from even further.’

  Fagan pulled himself out of the spell. ‘That’s a lot of disclosure for one cup of tea.’

  ‘It is not something I hide, it is who I am. I have moved on from there and now follow the path of the Lord Buddha.’

  ‘And have you been forgiven?’

  ‘There is nothing to forgive.’

  Fagan had to smile. ‘Are you looking for my full confession now?’

  ‘Not at all. It is not for you to confess. It is about acceptance, about letting go. Have you ever meditated?’

  ‘A rather enlightened Catholic Priest from Ireland once taught me how to meditate through pain. It has come in useful from time to time.’

  ‘Interesting, but maybe we should begin with something a little more uplifting. Are you willing to try?’

  Fagan resisted the urge to look at his watch. He looked across at the monk and found himself nodding. He was doing it again.

  ‘Are you a religious man?’

  Fagan had to smile at that. ‘I had faith once. I’m still not sure if that wasn’t an illusion.’

  ‘Don’t feel bad about it. It can all be a struggle. It’s comforting to know that we are all searching for the same destination. The paths may be different but we are all on the same journey.’

  ‘You sound like a late friend of mine.’

  ‘Was he a religious man?’

  Fagan had a brief glimpse of William’s smiling face. ‘You might say so.’

  ‘I have an idea where we might start. Five hundred years before the birth of Jesus Christ, a Chinese philosopher named Lao-tzu dictated eighty-one verses, which are regarded by many as the ultimate commentary on the nature of our existence. The classic text of these verses is called the Tao Te Ching or the Great Way. It offers advice and guidance that is balanced, moral, spiritual, and always concerned with working for the good. I thought we could work our way through them and see what they can bring to us. What they can bring to you. By the way, it was Lao-tzu who wrote — The journey of a thousand miles starts with the first step. In 500 BC a thousand miles was a long way.’

  Bakti had asked him to close his eyes, then begun to recite from the Tao Te Ching in a low gentle voice.

  An hour later, Fagan had opened his eyes. It seemed like only moments.

  Bakti was still sitting cross-legged across from him. ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Good, I was surprised how quickly I slipped back into it? I didn’t even hear you speaking anymore.’

  ‘You heard me. The hardest thing the novice has to learn is not to force it, not to try, but only to observe. With all your previous practice, you just had to remember and let go.’

  His trips to the temple had become a regular stop off point on his morning run. He would start out an hour earlier so he could stop and meditate. For the first time in a long time, his head was in a good place and staying there.

  “How are you feeling?” Bakti asked.

  Fagan sat cross-legged, sipping his tea. “I’m feeling good.”

  “That’s wonderful.” Bakti studied him over the top of his teacup. “When I was a novice, I studied in a monastery in the hills outside Jakarta. We had an old rinpoche, who would talk to us about philosophy. We were young, to us he was talking in riddles. He seemed to make no sense at all. Often it was some years later before we fully understood what he had been saying.

  “There was one particular story he told which seemed to resonate with me very early on. He said we are not unlike the caterpillar who rarely ventures beyond the plant they are living on, sometimes not even beyond the leaf they are feeding on every day. Then one day it finds a place that is shaded and safe and starts to spin its cocoon, and its transformation into a chrysalis begins. Some stay in the cocoon for a long time, some never ever come out and eventually die in there. But those that do are transformed into a butterfly or a moth and fly off into the bright wonderful world. Their life span is limited, for some, it is less than twenty-four hours. But, you have to ask yourself — after all that effort, all that transformation, does the butterfly think it was worth it?”

  Bakti took a long drink of his tea. Fagan was looking at him as if there was more.

  Bakti smiled. “You have a choice. You are the chrysalis, hiding away in your cocoon, where it’s dark and sticky, and safe. But maybe that safety is just an illusion. But illusion or not, you can stay in the dark, or you can break free from your cocoon, spread your butterfly wings, and fly free up into the sunlight.”

  Fagan smiled. “Even if it only lasts for one day.”

  The monk gave a gentle shrug. “Even if it only lasts for one day.”

  The phone buzzed in Fagan’s pocket. “Sorry, we will have to save the answer to that for another day.”

  The monk nodded. “I will see you tomorrow?”

  Fagan nodded back and stood up. He gave the mudra. “Namaste.”

  Bakti did the same.

  Fagan stepped out into the bright sunlight. He had to smile at Bakti’s little story. He took out his phone. He had to shield it from the brightness to read the message on the screen. It was from Walter. The text was terse and chilling.

  Come back to the house — Now!!

  Fagan ran down the hill faster than he had gone up. He stepped up onto the verandah at the front of Charlie’s house and stopped to catch his breath. The main door was closed. He couldn’t shake the bad feeling that sat cold in his gut. He reached for the door handle and stepped inside.

  Walter was there. His face was grim. Tommy stood with his arm around Nancy. She had obviously been crying. Tommy’s eyes were dry, but his face was white as alabaster.

  “What’s going on?” Fagan scanned their faces.

  It was Tommy who spoke. “It’s my father. He’s dead.”

  12

  Charlie’s House, Pandau Island.

  “What happened?”

  “Heart attack,” Tommy answered. “In his apartment in Hong Kong. Uncle Wei found him this morning.”

  But what caused it?

  Part of Fagan was in shock, trying to take in what he had just heard, but some other part, deep down amongst the detritus of his past life, told him not to be surprised.

  He recalled Charlie’s words only yesterday.

  Promise me you’ll take care of things here.

  Along with a carton of 9mm, 124gram, hollow point cartridges for the SIG, Charlie had given him.

 

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