GOLD DRAGON

  A RUN AND HIDE THRILLER

  JJ MARSH

  Gold Dragon

  Copyright © 2022 by Prewett Bielmann Ltd.

  The moral rights of the author have been asserted.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the email address below.

  Cover design: JD Smith

  Published by Prewett Bielmann Ltd.

  All enquiries to admin@jjmarshauthor.com

  First printing, 2021

  eBook Edition:

  ISBN 978-3-906256-15-3

  Paperback:

  ISBN 978-3-906256-16-0

  1

  The least Hong Kong could have done to welcome Olivia after travelling over three continents via five airports was to bring out the sun. Instead, weather and light levels were exactly as she had left them in northern Brazil: relentless, dispiriting rain and miserable darkness.

  “Kwun Chung Street in Tsim Sha Tsui,” she told the taxi driver, making an effort to sound in control despite her jet lag.

  “Chungking Mansions?”

  “Not in a million years, mate.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Nothing,” she muttered and gave him the piece of paper with the address to clear up any ambiguity. “Kwun Chung Street, number 7. Please.”

  “OK.” He handed back the paper and lurched into the traffic. Olivia was transfixed by the lights. Everywhere was colour, blurred by watery windows, but bright and alive and buzzing with energy. She’d reached that phase beyond tired, where delirium was waiting in the wings. So many people, so much traffic, a total disconnection from the time of day, she had the impression she’d landed on an alien planet with no idea what was going on.

  The cabbie’s radio was playing something frantic and incomprehensible, a suitable soundtrack to her state of mind. She could not think about the past or the future, neither distant nor recent, merely focusing her attention on the immediate present. She needed a safe place to hide and sleep or she would collapse from exhaustion. Of the four flights, she’d only booked First Class on one intercontinental. Brasilia to Addis Ababa was a twelve-hour stretch and her full-length seat was comfortable and quiet. The fact her brain refused to rest was certainly not the fault of the solicitous air crew. A five-hour gritty-eyed layover in the Ethiopian capital persuaded her to splash out on an upgrade on the next leg. She would sleep until Bangkok, even if that meant consuming free champagne until she passed out.

  Now she was hungover, disoriented and if she never saw another airport in her life, she could die happy. Endlessly changing electronic billboards assaulted her eyeballs and the synthetic wafts from the scented palm tree over the driver’s mirror gave her a headache. She was about to burst into tears when the constantly lane-changing, braking and rapid accelerations came to a halt.

  “Kwun Chung, number 7.”

  She paid him in US dollars with a tip and a silent prayer she would never suffer his driving again. Just in case, she waited till the cab had driven away before crossing the street to her actual destination – The Lucky Bee Residences. She lugged her backpack into the three-star hotel, checked in on a fake passport and paid for three nights in advance. Then she took a shower, drank half a litre of bottled water, secured her room and embraced oblivion for fourteen hours straight.

  When she did regain consciousness, it seemed impossible anyone could sleep through such a racket. Traffic, horns, music, shouting from the street below and the rooms above, along with the on-off clatter of the air-conditioning unit outside her window came as such a contrast to her quiet shack on the beach she actually clamped her pillow around her head. The gesture was partly symbolic. As so often when her conscious mind was at rest, her subconscious was busy connecting random associations and images into a wildly incomprehensible narrative.

  Flashes of her dreams returned, open to interpretation if she could only recall the detail. Fish? Yes, there’d been a brightly coloured fish with long iridescent blue stripes. He was trying to show her the way. He darted around her legs, glinting with promise, leading her deeper underwater, as eager and helpful as Nemo. She dived, trusting her neon guide, only to encounter a welter of black, suckered tentacles intent on grasping vulnerable prey. When she opened her mouth to scream, salt water rushed into her lungs.

  She threw off the pillow and sat up in bed, taking deep breaths. The worst thing about such dreams was waking up before seeing what happened in the end. She told herself not to be ridiculous. Why the hell would she voluntarily replay such nightmares when the symbolism was clear? With a grunt, she collapsed backwards onto the mattress. The temptation was to curl under the bedclothes, block out the world and find peace. No such luck. She had a job to do. The question was, where to start?

  Her stomach replied. With breakfast, that’s where.

  She swung her legs out of bed and took in her surroundings for the first time. The carpet was an industrial beige, with so many stains and bald patches they almost created a pattern. The bedside cabinet was taped shut and one glance at its broken hinges explained why. How this place merited three stars, she had no idea. In her exhaustion yesterday, she hadn’t taken in the state of the bathroom, but now that she did, she opted to wear flip-flops. Three nights in this shit-hole? She washed her face and sighed. She had no choice.

  The second she stepped onto the Kowloon street, she marvelled at how she’d thought the noise was bad from inside. The assault on all her senses was relentless. Humid air mixed with diesel fumes entered her lungs, limp and lacking in oxygen. People swarmed along the pavements at such a terrifying pace Olivia was amazed they didn’t cannon into one another. Everyone was shouting, mostly into their mobile phones. The scent of food was everywhere, fragrant, spicy, burnt, meaty and confusing. Cars and trucks jostled for position on the road, while pushbikes and mopeds ducked and weaved through the smallest of gaps, many carrying ridiculous loads.

  She pressed herself into the doorway and acclimatised to the chaos until she was able to gather her courage and step out into the Hong Kong sunshine. In seconds she was damp with sweat and craving her air-conditioned room. Street food stalls were ubiquitous and she browsed by looking at the pictures and checking the English description. Offal kebabs and deep-fried pig’s guts did not appeal, but Cheung Fun sounded like ... fun. Rice noodle sheets rolled up like pasta with a choice of sauce. She ate a paper plateful with peanut and sesame topping, leaning on a stand-up table and watching the world go by. Braver now, she oriented herself with the map she had memorised on the plane. She turned right, heading towards the sea. Her need for water or greenery was a physical desire. Ducking through crowds, scarcely able to understand the ceaseless blast of advertising placards and desperate for some clean air, she cleaved to the walls until she came across the entrance to Kowloon Park.

  It truly was an oasis, with a lake of flamingos, pavilions, fountains, lawns and views across the harbour to ease a troubled mind. The skyscrapers surrounding the verdant sanctuary reminded her of New York’s Central Park, a curated wilderness in an urban jungle. Beneath canopies of palm trees and away from the hectic conurbation, she began to relax. Snakes or spiders waiting to drop on one’s head were less likely here in this manicured forest than her little corner of Brazilian jungle. Her jungle? Olivia meandered along the paths, soothed by tai chi practitioners and painters, and charmed by the sound of birdsong from the aviary. She reached a viewing point and stared out across the harbour at Hong Kong Island. It seemed a long way away. As did her mission to seek a man who, like her, had been trained how to hide.

  Is that where you are, Thanh? Or are you here, on the mainland, maybe even watching me from that bamboo thicket by the swimming pool?

  She bought some green tea from a vendor on a bike and sat on a bench to make a plan. Koi carp swam in circles around the pool by her feet, triggering memories of her dream. She shook the thought away, still hypnotised by the patterns and movements of the fish. Her jet-lagged disorientation made thinking muddy and slow.

  Think in stages, she reminded herself. To go to Britain, you must be sure they won’t arrest you at the border. To be sure you won’t be taken into custody, you need to come to an arrangement with the Metropolitan Police. Even opening a dialogue is risky, which is why you have to find Thanh Ngo. To find Thanh ...

  That was where she stumbled. Somewhere in this crazy conglomeration was a man who did not want to be found. It would take every element of her ingenuity to locate him and only then could she begin to apologise. In the unlikely event he forgave her for what she had done, perhaps he would help. She reversed roles and imagined the situation the other way around. Had he cut and run, leaving her to fend for herself, could she forgive him?

  To focus her mind, she repeated her sister’s name. Katie. Katie. Katie. The sister she had abandoned without a word, leaving her to care for their father alone. It was for the best, Olivia had told herself then and believed it still. Katie knew nothing, so could not be compromised. Now things had changed.

  The hit man sent to kill Olivia failed in his mission, but h
it his mark in a different sense. Her nemesis wanted the hired killer to deliver a message: Tell her I’ve taken care of her sister. What did that mean? They knew she couldn’t just pick up the phone and check Katie was unharmed. She would have to return to the British Isles, come hell or high water. The only way to be sure neither her sister nor her father had suffered from the fallout of her own career was to go there and see for herself. They knew that. So did she. A voice in her head was whispering, it’s a trap! Don’t do it!

  She answered aloud. “I’m not that stupid.”

  For the thousandth time, she asked herself what she was doing. Was there another way of seeing her family instead of flying to the Far East in the faint hope of begging a favour? Deep inside, she knew there must be. But since discovering Thanh was alive, she was consumed by the urge to see him. If he helped her return to Britain without fear of capture, he no longer considered her desertion an act of extreme selfishness. Then, perhaps, she could come to terms with her decision, let go of the guilt and exonerate herself. She constructed a haiku aimed at concentrating her will.

  Find a betrayed man

  Beg forgiveness and seek help

  Defend those you love

  A stall outside the swimming-pool was selling tea eggs. Olivia bought one and walked towards the water. The shell came away in pieces, leaving the egg white marbled with purple veins. It looked like something from the imagination of H.R. Giger. Olivia discarded the dyed shell in a bin and carried her patterned egg in her palm as she approached the expanse of water between Kowloon and the spectacle of Victoria Harbour. With minimal interest, she walked past shopping malls and exclusive hotels all the way down to the Avenue of Stars, where film celebrities were honoured with plaques and a wide promenade offered seating, shade and an admirable view.

  She looked at the marbled egg in her hand and the island across the bay. Her chances of finding him were on a par with her hurling it over the water and hoping to hit land. Instead, she bit into it and swallowed. No matter how slim the chances, she had to try.

  The Avenue of Stars was a good place to sit and think. For a start it was cooler and quieter by the harbour, enabling her to attune to her environment. Vine-covered structures in the shape of whale tails worked as sunshades, and the presence of water always helped calm her agitated mind. She sat on a bench and gave her mind and body permission to just be, letting thoughts come and go without direction.

  Ferries chugged back and forth across the sea, loaded with passengers. A classic Chinese junk sailed majestically out to the horizon, probably for the tourists. Joggers ran along the promenade, sweating and panting. In this heat, they must be crazy. A light sparked in her subconscious but the second she trained her attention on the idea, it retreated into the shadows. She leaned back and looked up at the sky, with Bruce Springsteen on her mind. A jet crossed her vision, dragging its vapour trail and triggering unpleasant memories of her marathon journey from South America to East Asia. Endless hours of waiting, sitting, desperate for the clock to speed up so she could move on.

  Then it clicked. The Bruce Springsteen connection.

  When they used to work together, the hardest thing for Thanh was sitting still. The man had the energy of a puppy, bouncing and bounding and pacing wherever there was enough room. Constrained by a police surveillance van, he fidgeted as if he had a flea. Once released, he had to move. Long-distance running, city marathons, moorland scrambles, anything where he pushed his physicality to its limits. A couple of times she’d joined him but it wasn’t a happy experience for either runner. Olivia’s jogs were not the companionable kind. She used the forward motion and pumping of her limbs to clear her mind. Another person tempering his speed to suit hers or chatting about their caseload had the opposite effect. Thanh was fitter and faster, with differing objectives. He was indeed ‘Born to Run’.

  The insight made her sit up and look around. There was every possibility Thanh Ngo was one of these men pounding the paving stones in front of her.

  She hid. Thanh ran.

  That sparked the first concrete thought of how to locate him. She walked back to the park entrance and read the billboards she didn’t remember registering on the way in. The Hong Kong Marathon was due to take place at the end of October, by which time she’d be long gone. The cut-off date for registration was 1 September. She wasn’t exactly sure of today’s date after the time zone confusion but September must be two or three days away. If she could get into that website, Olivia was convinced she would find the Vietnamese ex-detective she’d left behind.

  So to the next pressing issue – money, how to get some and where to keep it. On a Brazilian beach, it was easy to live off-grid and survive with little cash. Hong Kong was different. Besides, she also wanted to arrive with a full war chest in Europe. To get her hands on cash was one thing, storing it another. Opening a bank account was something she’d avoided since fleeing for her life. Each country had varying application procedures before letting you into the system, with most requiring a passport and a picture of her face. That was something to avoid at all costs.

  Moving around under the radar while utilising modern technology was the only solution. She would store her cash as cryptocurrency in a digital wallet. And in order to keep the wallet completely anonymous, she would get the necessary software from the darknet. That tiny corner of the deep web, where one remained as traceable as a ghost, was notorious for unsavoury, illegal activities. Although its original purpose was to enable journalists or activists to report on stories and evade governmental censorship, alternative uses soon became prevalent. None of those appealed to Olivia, who simply needed financial muscle which was neither tracked nor searchable like the conventional web. Once established, she could use the cryptocurrency to pay for information, employ hackers, or convert the digital cash into hard currency.

  On the walk back to her digs, she stopped in various different shops and bought three USB sticks. One she’d use to hold a miniature operating system that connected to the web and ran the digital wallet. Wherever she was in the world, she could insert that little box of tricks into any computer and boot into its RAM. Then she was free to surf all corners of the net and pay in cryptocurrency, without leaving a single trace once that computer was rebooted. The other two sticks would hold nothing more than her private keys and recovery keys to restore the digital wallet on any other device. Those were her back-up for the underground stash. If she lost these, she lost everything.

  Everything? In other words, just under $1,000. It was all the money she had managed to bring with her and after paying for the taxi and her ratty little room, she was down to $800. Access to funds was becoming urgent. The most frustrating element was the knowledge that she had a handsome stockpile in a UK bank account but no means of reaching it. Once again, she wondered if clearing out her secret Channel Islands account to buy five flights was had been her wisest move. She rolled her shoulders. Olivia Jones was and always had been resourceful. She would find a way. Just as soon as she had found Thanh.

  Olivia’s attitude to a problem was a kind of philosophy. Start with the easy option but load the big guns. Prepare her digital wallet and then see how to fill it. But first, she had a go at hacking the marathon website itself. The database of registered runners was publicly available through her little laptop but personal details were blocked by a firewall.

  She worked with what she had, trawling through 4,000 names. And that was just the standard marathon. Would Thanh enter the Elite race? Probably not, as it would leave him more exposed. She knew his face as well as she knew her sister’s but had to take into account the cosmetic surgery factor. When a detective got a new identity, they went the whole nine yards. She checked 500 runners at a time, took a break and checked other websites to see if any IP address was watching the same stories as her. Tiring, eye-punishing work exhausted her and she lay down to rest, convinced the clamour from the street would keep her awake, but jet lag had other ideas.