No Place to Hide:

Introduction:

One of the reasons I set up this website was to gauge the reaction to my writing so as to assess the possibility of publishing another novel. I’ve gotten lots of feedback, mainly in relation to shorter articles but I guess these things take time, so I’ll persist. For now, here are some extracts from another novel I’ve written. It starts in Hong Kong, where I lived for a time in the 1990’s. Being a novel, it is of course fictional, but some of the characters are based on real people, obviously with names changed :)

Hong Kong Harbour with HK Island in the foreground and Kowloon opposite.

Prologue

Hong Kong, July 1997:

The South China Sea was flat calm as Captain Ho eased the trawler out through the roads on the exit from Lamma Island. It was a stunningly beautiful summer’s evening. The heat haze and the high humidity which had lingered over the region for days had cleared and the air smelt fresher and cooler. It was still 27C but that was fine; the weather forecast was good. He didn’t need any freak storms or high seas or, God forbid, cyclones. The calm weather would do just perfectly. The Jasmine Flower was a rather large boat for a trawler out of Lamma, where smaller fishing boats proliferated. But then, Captain Ho sometimes carried more in his boat than fish.

Lamma is the third largest of the archipelago of almost three hundred islands which form the territory of China known as Hong Kong. When most people visualize Hong Kong, they see a vastly overcrowded city on the southern edge of China where people barely have room to move. This vision is true, but only of parts of the main Hong Kong island itself which has a population of over 1.5 million; by contrast, other parts of the island are largely uninhabited. When you explore the other two hundred and eighty or so islands which form part of the territory, the contrast begins to get even starker. The largest of all the islands, Lantau, only has a population of forty five thousand and most of them only came with the building of the new international airport on the neighbouring island of Chek Lap Kok. The vast majority of the population of Hong Kong actually live on mainland Kowloon and The New Territories.

Lamma, in contrast to Hong Kong Island and Kowloon, is a tranquil place, with beautiful natural unspoiled scenery. Small hills and valleys and unpolluted rivers criss-cross the landscape. Buildings higher than three storeys are prohibited and there are no automobiles. The only vehicles on the island are a few diminutive fire trucks and ambulances, as well as distinctive open-back vehicles used to transport construction materials. The community’s only means of transport is by foot or bicycle. As a result, the population of the island is tiny. Lamma provides an alternative lifestyle to the hectic pace of the nearby city. Property and rents are cheap compared with those of central Hong Kong. Partly in consequence, there is a significant expatriate community on Lamma Island. It is also popular with younger people and is a haven for artists and musicians. It does however, have a very regular ferry service to Hong Kong and Kowloon and it was this service that Captain Ho based his little operation around. He loved living on Lamma and would never settle anywhere else.

It was ridiculously easy to bring anything at all into Hong Kong on the regular ferries, provided it was relatively small and portable. Literally millions of people moved about by public transport every day in the territory and ferry services were just one more link in a complex chain which included trains, buses, taxis and private cars. This situation was just fine if you were a small time smuggler who didn’t want to risk bringing in boatloads or truckloads of contraband. Neither Ho nor any of his associates would ever attempt such a feat and as a result, none of them had ever been caught. They were simple fishermen at heart and if their ‘catch’ occasionally contained a little contraband which for some strange reason seemed to abound in the waters of the South China Sea, no one seemed to mind very much. They never landed their boat load in Hong Kong, no matter how tempting. No, they always returned to Lamma where there were no checks, no real Customs presence and no suspicions. This was just a peaceful fishing village. In any event, in terms of smuggling, there were far bigger fish to be caught elsewhere.

Ho had been born on Lamma and he intended to die there. He could trace his family history on the island back through at least six generations and they had all had some connection to the sea. But he was not alone; almost all the people he knew there earned their living from the sea in some form or other; it was almost in their blood. The Captain himself had always loved the sea, for as far back as he could remember. As a small boy he had longed to be old enough to go regularly with his father and grandfather on their fishing trips. He had grown up on that old boat and had inherited the business when his father had passed on. He loved earning his living from the sea; he loved being on it; taking its bounty and giving thanks for it. He felt he only really came alive when he was at sea. He was very much alive this evening. He breathed deeply now as he exited the last of the buoys in the channel, gave the order to accelerate his diesel engines and turned the old trawler slightly to its port side.

All around him, the sea was like black glass with just a hint of a greenish hue. Although it was only 6.45 pm and high summer, it would be full dark soon. Hong Kong was so close to the equator that it had almost equal day and night year-round. It would be dark as pitch by the time he made his rendezvous, which suited him just fine. It might be an old trawler but Ho kept it well serviced and maintained. Not just the powerful diesel engines were new. He had also installed an expensive radar system and of course the latest G.P.S. Most of his crew of six were below decks resting. He nodded to his first mate to take the wheel and stepped out on to the deck.

He had brought his powerful binoculars with him and he now slowly scanned the surrounding area, doing a full three sixty degree loop. The sunset was directly behind him, a gradually fading but beautifully vivid orange disk sinking rapidly beneath the mountains on the main island. He could see the tops of some of the very high buildings in Central Hong Kong silhouetted in the gathering dusk. From this angle, they were like frozen pre-historic monsters from another time. It was so quiet, he could hear the gentle splash of the waves on the bow as the Flower eased her way through the calm waters. It was difficult to imagine that between the main island and the main land opposite, there lived the best part of twelve million people. Out here there was no one and it was as if the mountains which shut off the views of the huge city also guarded against the cares and worries and stresses which it contained. They certainly had no effect on Captain Ho as he swung his field glasses back seaward. In the distance he could make out one or two big slow moving freighters which were headed south having left the main island’s harbour. The roads were surprisingly quiet given the time of year and the ideal sailing conditions. Normally, these seas to the south and west would be teeming with vessels.

Not so where he was going. Oh there was shipping traffic between Taiwan and Hong Kong, lots of it in fact but although they would be rendezvousing with a boat that had come from there, the meeting would not be conducted in or near any of the regular shipping lanes. He took another final three sixty sweep and noticed, through a gap in the mountains on Lantau, the proliferation of construction cranes on Chek Lap Kok, where around fifty thousand mainland Chinese were employed working on constructing apartments for the workers at the international airport. The thought struck him of where better to market the cargo of smart phones he was going to collect, than among the thousands of migrants. They would be flush with money but would have little to spend it on until they returned home as most were housed in temporary dwellings on site. Not ideal conditions, Ho thought, but still, a good marketing opportunity. He made a mental note to advise his dealer.

Anyone who knows anything at all about boats or seafaring will tell you that it is almost impossible for two vessels to rendezvous on the high seas, unless the waters are calm and the boats are around the same height. It is just not like vehicles rendezvousing on land. For a start, the ground keeps moving and if the boats collide violently, irreparable damage can be done. While it is extraordinarily difficult for a person to board a ship on the ocean from another in even lightly choppy seas, transferring a cargo is virtually impossible. But if the sea is calm and if both boats are of similar height, as they would be tonight, and if the crew are experienced and know how to quickly lash both boats together, then it is a relatively smooth operation.

Ho was primarily a fisherman and he would usually insist that despite carrying an additional ‘cargo’, their main responsibility was to return to port with a catch. This doubly ensured that they wouldn’t be searched. But tonight he wasn’t sure he would be able to accomplish both tasks. He had instructed his crew to put out the trawl a good half hour ago but he had partially known it would probably be futile. His sophisticated radar could find no fish and he did have the latest equipment. Under normal circumstances, he would have diverted his course and tried other fishing grounds but he would not be afforded that luxury tonight if he was to make the rendezvous on time.

Yes, Ho was a fisherman but he was also a smuggler even if it was small time. He had never been bothered by the Customs or had never been suspected by the Police and he had been bringing in contraband goods for over thirty years. He sometimes wondered why he still bothered to do it; his family had grown up and was well catered for. His wife had died a few years back — so he was alone and his needs nowadays were few. Perhaps he did it for the company; he loved the sea and the freedom it gave him. He loved the fishing and the expectation of a good catch; then the haggling with the fishmongers and the fish restaurateurs when he returned to Lamma, eventually agreeing a price. He also had friends and colleagues in the other side of his business and he had to admit that he still got a buzz from a deal; he had the contacts in both Taiwan and Hong Kong and the business was so good that it would be a shame to abandon it now. Yes, he supposed that he had been doing both businesses for so long now that they were not just his livelihood, they were a part of him; a part of what he was.

The smuggling had always been a sideline; very much an adjunct to his main business because Ho had cracked the secret to never getting caught. The Police and Customs in investigating thieves and smugglers always assumed certain things, one of which was that the smugglers were greedy. Ho wasn’t. For a start, he rarely undertook such activities and when he did, he was generous with the spoils. He would split the proceeds of tonight’s ‘catch’ fairly with his crew. He had always done this and it had served him well. His crew of six had all been with him for many years; they were trusted and loyal and knew not to speak of anything other than the fishing expedition. In return, he would reward them and treat them fairly. He led a simple non-ostentatious lifestyle. The extra dollars that he made from the illicit activities he had used wisely, helping his sons and daughters to acquire apartments in the horrendously expensive Hong Kong property market. For himself he required little. He still lived in the same old shambling house on Lamma that his father and grandfather had lived in. He ate and drank modestly and for all intents and purposes, he was just a simple fisherman.

But Captain Ho was far from simple. He was quite clever and highly intelligent. He would only do a smuggling ‘run’ when sailing conditions were ideal and he would only do it at night. The transfer usually took place in the same area, in international waters, but he wasn’t particular about the location. What he did insist on was knowing the men who were piloting the boat he was meeting and he would not make the rendezvous and the transfer until he had spoken to someone on the other boat whom he knew and trusted. Tonight, the Captain of the Taiwanese boat was Jiang, whom he had known for years. The cargo was smart phones from Taiwan; about six tons of them. How many phones would that be he wondered as he lit his pipe and glanced again at the fabulous orange ball that was the setting sun behind the mountains to the west. These new fangled mobile phones were all the rage he believed. Personally he had little use for them. When at home, he used an old fashioned land line and when at sea, he relied on his radio.

But still, these things were popular and Ho was always a man who would move with the times. While he had no reason to use the devices himself, he had no problem whatsoever with others doing so and he had no issue in trading them. He mused again; six tons. He took out his pipe, loaded it up with tobacco from his pouch and lit it. He sucked deeply and inhaled the sweet smell. He had seen these mobile phone devices in the past and they had been large and bulky. But he was sure that the modern versions couldn’t weigh more than a few ounces. So, six tons of them would amount to what, fifty thousand of the things? No, he must have miscalculated. He ran through it in his head again; there was no paper work in this business; ah, he remembered, they all came with chargers and accessories. That was why Wang had said approximately twenty thousand devices. They were of Japanese manufacture. He had checked in some of the numerous electronics outlets in Wanchai earlier in the week and he had found that they retailed for around five hundred dollars. He calculated conservatively and figured that he could expect to get probably no more than $150 on the black market, well maybe $200 if he was lucky. Ho was under no illusions; not only were these goods contraband; they were also almost 100% certain to have been stolen.

He stepped back on to the bridge and took the wheel from the mate. He was thinking; he would have to pay the couriers also. But he did not begrudge them their share. Everyone had to make a living and these people were part of the beauty of his operation. They were ordinary workers who lived on Lamma but took the ferry to work on the main Hong Kong Island on a daily basis. They were just a few dozen of the millions who took ferries every day and they attracted zero attention from the Police or Customs. The Authorities were far too busy trying to apprehend the bigger fry, the drugs and gold and diamond smugglers and those that moved bigger cargoes but took bigger risks. Each of the couriers would bring say a dozen phones in their bags or briefcases each day. These would be collected on the island by the black market dealer that Ho dealt with and trusted. It would be a slow operation but all the phones would have been transferred within a month. Most people in Hong Kong worked six days per week. There would be no difficulty in selling the merchandise. Everyone seemed to want one and twenty thousand phones was only the tiniest fraction of trade in a marketplace which ultimately contained over a billion potential customers.

The couriers would probably make the largest share of the price Ho would obtain from his dealer. He had no problem with this either. They, after all, took a greater degree of risk as they transported the goods over a sustained period of time whereas he only risked exposure on one night in about every six months. When everyone was paid, he would still clear roughly $30 per phone. That was $600,000 U.S. and it was more money than Ho had ever cleared before which now made him quite nervous. Still, the offer had come from Wang, his trusted friend in Taiwan, whom he had dealt with also for years. The offer was for the entire shipment; all six tons; $100,000 take it or leave it. He had decided he would take it. The forecast had been for flat calm weather for the next three days so he had advised his partner in Taiwan to let the cargo sail. The rendezvous point and time had been agreed. Ho had always split his takings fairly with his crew; to him, that meant that he, as the owner of the boat and the one who took the greatest risk, took half of the profit. The remaining fifty per cent was divided evenly. With a profit of around $500,000, this meant that each crewman would, in time, receive over forty thousand U.S. from this run. That was a lot of money for a crewman on a fishing boat. He hoped none of them decided to retire or get drunk and talk too much; he banished the thought as it was unlikely.

His thoughts were interrupted by the crackling from his radio.

“Golden Tiger to Jasmine Flower; come in Jasmine Flower.”

The Captain pressed the call button:

“Jasmine Flower here, receiving you loud and clear. Good evening my dear friend.”

“Good evening to you too, Ho Ching. I am about three nautical miles from our rendezvous and slightly to your starboard bow.”

Ho engaged his radar and confirmed the position. He slowed the engines and confirmed fifteen minutes to rendezvous. He passed on the word to the first mate who quickly informed the crew to be on stand-by. Ho now increased his radar scan to the limit of its range; there was nothing within twenty miles. The transfer could take place smoothly. This was the way he liked it. No point in taking unnecessary risks; do the job properly and calmly and everyone would profit.

Both boats pulled smoothly alongside each other and greetings were exchanged between some of the crew members who were familiar with each other. All spoke Cantonese and all had roots in this region. The boats were firmly tethered to each other and it was possible to pass freely from one to the other. Ho himself went on board the Golden Tiger and entered Captain Jiang’s cabin. There, both men again exchanged greetings and made small talk. Captain Ho discreetly handed over a heavy sealed envelope containing the $100,000. It was a lot to pay up front but he was getting all of the goods tonight even if it would take him a while to dispose of them. Jiang placed the envelope in a safe but didn’t count it. He smiled, nodded, then opened a drawer in a small cabinet and produced a bottle of Camus X.O. Neither man was a heavy drinker and while they would never encourage drinking on board, they had enough common sense to realize that this was a different type of celebration; this was to seal their deal. While the crews efficiently transferred the cargo, both men spoke of their families and their lives. Both were ostensibly fishermen and much of the talk related to that industry. After about twenty minutes, there was a slight knock on the cabin door and Jiang’s first mate indicated that the goods had been transferred. Ho thanked him and thanked his host for his hospitality. As Ho turned to take his leave, Jiang suddenly advanced and embraced him. Jiang was a big man, heavy jowled and with a considerable paunch. Ho was slight and wiry so the embrace was somewhat awkward.

“Safe journey back my good friend,” he said.

“And the same to you Jiang,” Ho replied.

The crews said farewell; both ships restarted their engines and began to disengage. Ho checked the radar again; still nothing for miles. He smiled and turned the rudder to starboard and headed for home. Within minutes, the Golden Tiger was but a pin prick of light in the far distance. The Captain checked his watch. It was just gone midnight. He had previously ordered the trawl to be hauled in and had abandoned all pretence at fishing. Still, he was quite calm and unworried. With his twin five hundred horse-power diesel engines, he would be back in port in Lamma by around five a.m. In all his years, he had never seen a Customs official on the island before ten a.m. He set a course for home and ordered maximum cruising power from both engines. He then handed the wheel to the mate, sat down, refilled his pipe and lit up once again.

He thought again of the money he would clear from this deal. He already had some savings and none of his family wanted for anything. He had ensured that they had all received a good education and all of them had acquired good jobs in the city. He was a bit saddened that it was unlikely that either of his boys would succeed him in the fishing business. But maybe it was for the best. It was a tough life; out in all weathers and it could be dangerous too. But there was more to it than that. Either the sea was in your blood or it wasn’t. He loved his two sons dearly but he would have to say that they took after their Mother. He had loved Feng dearly but she had been a city girl and while she had lived with him on Lamma, it had never been as much home to her as to him. She had lived for her weekly trips back to the main island and Ho didn’t begrudge her. To each his own had always been his motto and he had always respected her and was in some ways sorry that he had brought her to such a quiet place. It was heaven for him but for her, used to the sights and sounds and smells and bustle of the big city, it must have seemed boring. But still, they had had a good life and she had bore him two fine sons and two beautiful daughters. They had all moved back to the city now and were thriving. He doubted that any of them would ever settle on Lamma but it didn’t bother him. He adored all of them and visited them frequently.

Although none of his family would take over the trawler and the fishing business, Ho had an inkling that someone else he knew might. He had high hopes for Ricky, the little cabin boy whom he had been grooming for nearly six months now. No one knew where he had come from, least of all Ricky. Ho assumed that he was just one more of the literally tens of thousands of children that are abandoned in China and other parts of South East Asia every year. Ricky wasn’t his real name but a nick name one of the crewmen had given him when they had seen him pulling a rickshaw along the dockside in Kowloon where they had been taking on supplies. The Captain had noticed that the man in the rickshaw whom Ricky was pulling was very obese and Ricky was under extreme pressure to try to carry him. What was worse was that the man had a stick and was beating Ricky and shouting abuse at him. The Captain had intervened and had admonished the man who had promptly told him to mind his own business. Captain Ho had told him it was his business as the boy was under his guardianship. The man had frowned in disbelief but had reluctantly agreed to abandon the rickshaw and try for a taxi. Subsequent enquiries to the boy revealed that he had no father or mother or any kin that he knew of. He thought he was thirteen years old but he wasn’t sure. The crewmen had shrugged but the Captain had a soft heart and invited the boy on board. Anyway, they needed an extra pair of hands.

Ricky was a quick learner and a willing worker. He had started by running and fetching everything the Captain or the mates wanted. He was a grateful boy and was willing to work hard for his keep. When they weren’t at sea, the Captain let him stay at his house on Lamma. Why not? There was plenty of room there now and the boy kept the place clean and a lot neater than Ho himself had done. Ricky had shown a genuine interest in fishing and in seafaring generally. He couldn’t remember where he had been brought up but he was fairly sure that it had been near some part of the sea or perhaps a large river. The Captain doted on the boy and after a while began to treat him almost as a grandson. He fed and clothed him and even paid him a small salary which Ricky was delighted with. He in turn looked up to the Captain and idolized the man. He hadn’t brought Ricky on this trip but had assigned him some domestic duties. Even though the Captain was sure that they would have no trouble on the run, he knew that it was still an illegal operation and he didn’t want to expose Ricky to that, at least not yet. At thirteen, the boy was too young to understand but he would learn; of that, Ho had no doubt. The more he thought about it, he figured Ricky was the long term future of his business, whether it would be legitimate or otherwise.

The thrum of diesel engines was constant and the deck vibrated gently under Ho’s feet as he sat to the side of the bridge, silently smoking his pipe and half watching the mate keep the boat on course. The radio had been silent since they had left the rendezvous with the Golden Tiger and both men’s senses were heightened when the instrument now crackled to life. The sound though, was indistinguishable. The first mate increased the volume but could only hear static. Then what seemed to be a voice but only in snatches; it was as if the frequency was just off or the signal was just out of range.

“Try another frequency,” Ho ordered. He moved to the radar and scanned the area. Nothing showed up.

“That’s odd,” he said, “We should be able to see something, unless the signal is from very far away.” Another burst of static followed but the words ‘help’ and ‘us’ were clearly audible. The Captain grabbed the microphone and hit the send button: “Unknown vessel, please identify yourself and state your position?”

There was silence from the radio. The Captain again keyed the send button:

“Unknown vessel, I repeat, please identify yourself and state your position.”

He had been careful not to identify the Jasmine Flower, just in case. Suddenly the first mate shouted:

“Captain sir, vessel straight ahead sir, range about three miles. I just caught it in the moonlight sir. It appears to be drifting Captain, doesn’t appear to be under its own power.”

“Then why the hell aren’t we getting a signal on radar?”

“I’ve no idea sir but I’m sure it’s there.”

The bridge was silenced again by another crackle from the radio:

“Badly hurt… hospital….three men…must help us…please….can.”

The Captain took hold of the intercom to the engine room:

“Please reduce speed Mr. Chow, possible distress call just over two nautical miles ahead. Reduce speed to dead slow and proceed with caution.”

The light brightened as the moon cleared an obscuring cloud and they could clearly see the boat as they drew nearer. It seemed to be listing heavily to one side as if it was holed to starboard. But that was odd, thought Ho. How could a boat be holed in this weather? The entire South China Sea was still as smooth as a lake. There wasn’t even a ripple, apart from the wake that the trawler was churning up.

As they approached the vessel, it appeared to have no sign of life; for all intents and purposes, it was a ghost ship. But there had to be people still alive on there, as someone was trying to operate the radio. Maybe it was a passenger, thought Ho. That would explain the poor transmission. But what had happened? Perhaps there had been an explosion on board. As they drew closer, the Captain realized why there had been no signal on their radar. The boat was an old Chinese Junk and was made entirely from wood which would either give a very weak or no signal. It was a fairly large Junk though and it appeared to have been a working one. He left the mate on the bridge and grabbed a loud hailer. The fishing trawler now pulled level with the Junk and stopped. The Captain spoke into the loud hailer:

“Ahoy there, this is the Captain of the fishing trawler Jasmine Flower. Is there anybody on board? If you can, please identify yourself.”

There was silence for a few moments and then a man struggled on to the deck. He was Chinese and he was barely able to drag himself to the Junk’s starboard side. He was badly wounded and was covered in blood. He spoke in gasps:

“Captain, I’m Li, Li Dong. We were attacked; everything stolen; our men attacked; most killed; three of us still alive but barely. Please you help us?”

“Hold your position,” the Captain responded. “We’ll come and get you.”

The man made to respond but sank to the deck. Ho ordered the trawler brought alongside the Junk and requested his men to make ready to transfer the wounded men. Pirates, he thought. He had heard about them operating in these waters but not to any great extent and he certainly had no fears about encountering them. He would only rendezvous with boats he trusted or in exceptional cases like this, in times of distress.

The two boats drew ever closer until eventually one of the crewmen of the Jasmine Flower jumped on to the deck of the Junk and secured a rope to her. Other ropes followed and with the flat calm sea, both ships were locked together in moments. There were two of Ho’s crewmen on board the junk and three on his own boat plus himself. His first mate was on the bridge, keeping the boat steady. Then a strange thing happened. The movement was so quick that it took the entire crew by surprise. The man who had been covered in ‘blood’ leaped across to the deck of the trawler and a machete materialized in his hand. He was followed by three other men, all similarly armed. The Captain watched, transfixed, as his two crew members on board the junk were cut to pieces by two more crewmen who emerged from the hold of the other boat. It was all over in seconds. His crew was mercilessly cut down; most of them had barely enough time to call out. None were armed so they had no chance to defend themselves. One of the boarders flew up the stairs to the bridge where the first mate made a brave dash to try to seal the door but was also cut down. The man who had called for help and who had pretended to be covered in blood now slashed the machete across Ho’s throat and a fountain of real blood erupted, leaving the poor man gasping and falling backwards. As he fell, a jumble of thoughts ran through his head but one was clearer than the rest: Jiang never embraced me before; Jiang doesn’t embrace people; he never has. Why didn’t I notice; why didn’t I pick up on it? He also realized that he had never been offered such a lucrative deal before; certainly not one which delivered him such profit. I was betrayed, he thought, double crossed, out thought, but I was stupid. I should have known. There’s no fool like an old fool, Captain Ho thought, as he died.

The cargo of smart phones was very quickly transferred to the Junk. The seawater, which had been pumped into the starboard bilges to make it appear that the ship was holed, was quickly pumped out again and the ship righted itself. Within fifteen minutes, the junk was fully loaded. It then engaged its heavy diesel engines and powered away into the night. Five minutes after it had departed, there was no sign of it ever having been. It was like a bad dream; a nightmare, except that this nightmare had been very real. The sea was flat calm again, with not even a ripple; there was no wind; more eerily, there was no sound; none at all; the Jasmine Flower was now the ghost ship. Its engines had been shut down and it was drifting but only marginally, so still were the waters. It was a magnificent night, warm and the air smelt sweet and pure with just a hint of the tang of salt. It was a wonderful night to be alive but unfortunately, all around the trawler was the stench of death; and not just ordinary death but vicious, violent, merciless slaughter.

It was at least another hour, perhaps more, before a small cabin boy emerged, shaking uncontrollably and utterly terrified, from his hiding place in the Captain’s cabin. Ho had been a good man and he had told Ricky that he didn’t need him for this trip. But Ricky had heard from one of the crew that they were picking up a cargo of contraband and there was no way he was going to miss this. So he had hidden away in the cabin, only emerging when the cargo was being transferred and when he was sure there was no one about. He had watched the slaughter from his hiding place which offered a crack in the planking through which to view. He had been sick to his stomach but he dared not move a muscle. He thought all the crew of the junk had left but he couldn’t be sure. After an hour he had eventually plucked up the courage to emerge. What he came out on deck to was a horrific sight, one no young boy should ever have to see. Ricky had had knocks in his life before and he had seen and experienced violence but nothing like this. No, this was sheer unvarnished savagery; like something out of the middle ages. He saw each of the crewmen in turn and when he saw one of them with his insides torn asunder he couldn’t hold back any longer and dashed to vomit over the side.

He emptied everything in his stomach and continued to retch. His whole body ached and shook. When he recovered somewhat, he made his way nervously to the bridge. There he spied the Captain; the man who had been kindest of all to him in his young life. The man had taken him under his wing; given him a new start in life; given him dignity but had asked for nothing in return. His whole body shook and he sat down and cried his eyes out. What could he do now that his mentor was gone? Would he get thrown on the scrapheap of life again? Would he again be used and abused? He resolved there and then, for the Captain’s sake if nothing else, that it would not happen again. Ho had wanted the best for him and he would not let him down.

Ricky was only thirteen, well maybe close to fourteen and he had had a tough upbringing; but he was resilient and he had learned a few things along the way. After he could cry no more, he got up and took stock of his situation. Dawn was breaking in the east but there was no sign of any other shipping. He knew there wouldn’t be either as they had been operating outside the usual shipping lanes. But that wasn’t necessarily a problem. The sea was still flat calm. Ricky had been a good learner. Unbeknownst to the Captain and crew, he had observed everything they had done closely and he was fairly sure he’d be able to bring the trawler back to port. He just had to start the engines and keep the wheel steady; everything else was automatic, he thought. But what would he do when he got there? Call the police? He had distrusted the police on mainland China; they had done him no favours. Would the police on Lamma be any different? He had heard they were. Surely no one would suspect him of this massacre? He was only thirteen and they wouldn’t think he had overpowered seven grown men. But he’d have to go back to port and report it and take his chances. And after that? Well he did have the keys to the Captain’s house and perhaps the man’s family wouldn’t object to him staying for a while? Then he remembered something else he had learned, purely by accident. He knew where Captain Ho kept his secret stash.

Chapter 1

Hong Kong — 2005:

Patrick O‘Loughlin was unique or at least he liked to think so. He had spent most of his life purveying the story anyway. You see, Patrick had been born in Northern Ireland. That much at least had been established as a fact. Everything else about Patrick was a mixture of bluff, imagination, exaggeration and at times, sheer fantasy. It was highly likely that he had been born in Belfast but as to what part of it, no one was really sure. Depending on whom he was speaking to, Patrick would dare to claim roots or connections on the Nationalist Falls Road or the Unionist Shankill Road. In fact, some insiders who knew him well used to privately joke that Pat was the only man ever to be born on both sides of the divide.

They often laughed about this late into the night. It wasn’t that they disrespected him; they were aware that Patrick had accomplished quite a bit in his life but they never failed to show amusement at the extent to which he exaggerated it. When you got right down to it, Patrick had been involved in every matter of any significance in Irish history since the revolution in 1916. The fact that he had only been born in 1945 was of no hindrance to him whatsoever and was a minor detail. His friends joked that Patrick had at one stage even claimed to be in the GPO when the revolution broke out. After that, he had played a prominent role in the War of Independence, escaping death or capture on numerous occasions. Or maybe it had been his Father or his Grandfather; the lines often seemed to blur when Patrick was holding court.

He had been, in his own mind anyway, a leader all of his life — everything had to go through him and no one knew how things should be done except he. His friends often recalled a story from his youth when he played soccer, although never when Patrick was about. The story went that Pat had organised the team and was both a player and their manager. He played in midfield and every ball had to go through him. At one stage, he took a corner and a spectator was heard to remark that ‘he was surprised Pat wasn’t over for the header’. Such was the way he dictated the play, screaming instructions at his team mates, the referee and the linesmen. He had continued in this vein all his life. There was no doubt that he had certain people skills and he was imbued with a seemingly endless supply of nervous energy which allowed him to stay ahead of most of his peers.

Ireland, and in particular, Northern Ireland, had gone through a long troubled period over much of Pat’s lifetime. But all had changed now. Around 1994, the warring factions had declared a ceasefire. This had taken a while to take hold and led on to long painful negotiations for a settlement, a period which became known as ‘The Peace Process.’ Although even today, some dissident elements remained, for the vast majority, a new Ireland had emerged, which was fairer, more equitable and ultimately stronger than before. Power was shared between both sides in a unique arrangement and the terror and suffering and atrocities of the past had been put behind them.

Politicians from both sides in Northern Ireland and from mainland Britain and Southern Ireland had worked ceaselessly and tirelessly to broker this arrangement but to Pat, there was no doubt as to how the peace had come about — it had all been down to him you see. He had actually been away from ‘The North’ for many years but, in his own words, once he visited back there, he immediately knew he had to do something about what was happening. It was generally acknowledged that the Genesis of the peace process was the (initially) secret discussions held between John Hume and Gerry Adams. These had been rumoured to have been held in a monastery under the patronage of a monk. Pat never tired of telling the story — this monk was well known to him; in fact, the way Pat told the story, it was he who had suggested to the monk that he get Hume and Adams to come together in the first place.

During the peace talks, he had kept a low profile but he had always, in his own mind anyway, been there in the background whenever advice or guidance was needed. He was, he claimed, connected to everyone — Nationalist leaders, Unionist leaders, former terrorists, peace makers, mediators, Prime Ministers, U.S. Presidents — Pat knew them all and they all knew him — by his first name mind. The fact that he had spent very little time in Ireland at all over the previous 40 years wasn’t a barrier either — “sure wasn’t I there for the important parts,” or “sure didn’t I set them up,” he’d say. Yes, Pat had accomplished quite a lot in his sixty odd years, some would have said, quite odd.

In fairness, he was a good businessman and had made a tidy fortune in the former British colony of Hong Kong, often trading on his name and connections, real or imagined. The Irish question didn’t really fly in HK but Pat used it relentlessly anyway, whether he was speaking to fellow Irishmen, British or Chinese. He felt that this image gave him a certain status and perhaps it did. It certainly hadn’t done him any harm. Business was business and a dollar was a dollar and whether it was a U.S. one or a Hong Kong dollar, it didn’t matter to Pat.

Most of his wealth came from his association with Johnny Wu. They had met at function years previously and Johnny, although he had not been called Johnny then, had been impressed by Pat’s knowledge and his respected position in Hong Kong society. The Chinese would never accept him as one of their own — this was culturally impossible — you either were Chinese or you were a Farang, a foreigner and that was that. But they seemed to trust Pat and respected his business achievements. Johnny had met some of the Farangs in what was then still British controlled territory but had been shunned by many of them as coarse or uneducated. Others had wooed him but he had seen through them and their interest purely in his wealth. Pat was a cross between both. He had no problem with Johnny’s coarseness. As he’d say to some of his friends who would have frowned on Johnny, “sure haven’t I dealt with rough boys all my life?”

Pat had been the one who had suggested to Johnny that he change his name. Johnny had been known from birth as Wu Fang Dong. But he had lately adopted the local fashion of taking an English first name and pairing it with his own surname. Thousands of Chinese did this and although they were still proud countrymen, they saw no problem with it nor did not see it as a concession to foreigners. Therefore you had Simon Wang, Victor Ho, Gary Yang and so on. The famous film star, Jackie Chan was formerly Chan Kong Sang. He had taken the name Jackie when he had worked as a construction worker in Australia in his younger years. He had been befriended by an older worker called Jack and had adopted his name for greater western recognition. Many Chinese acquired western names in similar fashion; others merely adopted a name they liked. Here was where Wu Fang Dong was different. He had adopted the name ‘Strategic’, so he became Strategic Wu. When they had initially met, Pat had asked, in his typical offhand Irish way:

“Sure what sort of a fucking name is that?”

Wu had initially been somewhat upset but quickly countered:

“It’s my name Pat, you are called Pat O’Loughlin, I was born Wu Fang Dong but I am now Strategic Wu. I took the name because I liked it.”

“Aye, I understand my wee man, but you see, it isn’t a name at all, I mean, it’s sort of a business term really but it can be used in lots of ways but never as a name.”

“So you think I should change it then?” Wu had asked.

“Ach, it’s up to you but if you want to be taken seriously by the Brits, I’d change it to something simpler like say, Johnny.”

Wu thought about it for a while, went home and discussed it with his wife, went into his office and discussed it with his secretary and called O’Loughlin back the next morning.

“I think you’re right Pat,” he said. “I’m changing it today. In fact, I’ve made a reservation at the Grand Hyatt for lunch in the name of Johnny Wu and you’re my guest, how about it?”

So began a lucrative business partnership. O’Loughlin could open doors as he was known and trusted by the British, who still held the levers of power. Pat didn’t have the money to invest but Johnny did. They now, between them, owned hospitals, nursing homes, large tracts of real estate and a string of gas stations. There had initially been worries when the Chinese took the place back in 1997 but these were proven to be false. The Chinese troops just came in and replaced the British ones and stayed in their barracks. A Chinese Governor was appointed to replace Chris Patten, the last British Governor and life went on as before. There were some complaints that personal freedoms had been limited but Pat or Johnny could see no sign of this. Johnny had, in any event, cleverly aligned himself with Chinese interests before the handover and they were involved in most of his businesses now. In fact, he wasn’t sure he needed O’Loughlin any more but held on to the relationship anyway for old time’s sake.

Hong Kong had been declared a ‘Special Administrative Area’ or S.A.R. for fifty years after rejoining China. This was to assist in preserving Hong Kong’s unique position in world trade and to restrict the huge inflow of illegal immigrants from mainland China. The immigrants still came in, as they always had done but the fact that it was a special region allowed the authorities to control the flows. The region was also exempted from some of the stricter controls which applied on the mainland and this allowed its economy to grow unfettered and continued to attract inward investment as before. As China began to grow exponentially as a world economic power, both the mainland and the special region became more and more alike. By the time the fifty years would expire, the locals were sure that there would be no difference.