Addison Cooke and the Tomb of the Khan Page 4

  “Are we safe?” asked Eddie from behind the sofa.

  “We are,” said Addison, “but the aunt and uncle aren’t.”

  “They look like they’re in trouble,” Molly agreed. “But, Addison, what if we’re jumping to conclusions?”

  “There’s only one way to find out.”

  “Does it involve us going back upstairs and sleeping?” asked Eddie.

  “Nope. We’re going to follow them.” Addison led his team through the lobby and out the front glass doors. He confidently approached the doorman, a thickset man with a taxi whistle, and offered him a five-dollar coin. “You didn’t happen to hear where that last taxi was heading?”

  The doorman stared at Addison with a face of chiseled granite.

  Addison sighed and handed him another five Hong Kong dollars. “Maybe this will make you more talkative.”

  The man only frowned vacantly at Addison. It was like conversing with an Easter Island head.

  Addison was about to burn a ten-dollar note before Eddie stepped in and spoke to the doorman in Cantonese.

  Hearing Chinese, the doorman brightened and cheerily replied.

  Addison grimaced; ten good Hong Kong dollars down the drain. “What’s he saying, Eddie?”

  “He says those men asked the cabdriver to take them to Edinburgh Place.”

  Addison nodded his thanks to the doorman and slid into the backseat of the next waiting taxi.

  Molly hesitated. “We’re not allowed in cabs.”

  “We’re not allowed in New York cabs. Aunt Delia never said anything about Hong Kong cabs.”

  Molly felt this was stretching the rules a bit, but figured if anyone was going to get grounded for it, it would be Addison. She piled into the cab, followed by Raj.

  Eddie climbed in the front seat and used his Cantonese to tell the driver to head toward Edinburgh Place.

  “And tell him to step on it!” said Addison. He smiled. He’d always wanted to say that.

  The car peeled out, heading north at speeds even more terrifying than usual for a Hong Kong cabbie. The bustling city was aglow with the dazzling lights of restaurants, cafés, and dance clubs, all reflected in vibrant colors in the glistening, rain-slick streets. Double-decker tramcars crept along brass rails, crisscrossing the intersections. Glass skyscrapers, rubbing shoulders with jungle foliage, sprouted high enough to disappear into fog. And people, everywhere people, from every nation in the world. Hong Kong was a tropical Manhattan.

  Molly shifted in her seat. “What’s the plan, exactly? Hong Kong is a big place, and all we have is a street name.”

  “We’re not going to Hong Kong,” said Addison calmly. “Edinburgh Place is where ferries leave for the other islands.” He pointed ahead to a cab swerving through traffic and pulling up to the Star Ferry terminal. “You see, we’re on the right track.”

  He watched closely as Madame Feng’s bodyguards pried Uncle Nigel and Aunt Delia from the cab like shucking the meat from a stubborn clam. “You don’t have to worry about Hong Kong, Molly. We’re going across the harbor to Kowloon.”

  “Isn’t Kowloon dangerous?” asked Eddie.

  “Extremely.” Addison smiled and patted him on the shoulder. “But so are we.”

  Chapter Six

  The Alleys of Kowloon

  ADDISON’S TEAM LOW-LINED THROUGH crowds of shoppers strolling the pier. Fishermen sold eels that slithered and writhed in their wooden buckets, and hawked wicker baskets of crawfish that clenched and flexed their tiny pincers. A wrinkled old lady sold wrinkled old peppers and deep-fried beef to deep-fried tourists.

  The team sneaked into the ferry terminal, keeping a measured distance from Aunt Delia and Uncle Nigel. The ferry to Kowloon cost two Hong Kong dollars per person, but Addison got the boatman down to one fifty on a group rate.

  They raced up the gangplank just as the ferry’s engines cranked up, belching diesel and shaking the ship. The old boat shoved off into Victoria Harbor.

  Molly kept a sharp-eyed lookout on Aunt Delia and Uncle Nigel as the bodyguards maneuvered them to the far end of the ship. She anxiously paced the deck.

  Addison maintained a low profile, leaning against the gunwale on the starboard side and listening to the lonely sighs of a blind erhu player, bowing his python-skinned instrument and begging for change. The ferry crept across the channel with a rhythmic chug, sliding past the silent wraiths of three-masted Chinese junks whose fanned sails unfurled like the translucent wings of dragons.

  The team disembarked in Kowloon, which Raj informed them was the most densely populated neighborhood in the world. Amid the throngs of people, Addison had to periodically hop into the air, trying not to lose sight of Aunt Delia and Uncle Nigel. He halfway wished for a periscope, but at least they had Eddie, who was tall and skinny enough to serve as one. They pushed north against the raging flood of foot traffic, fighting their way upstream like spawning salmon.

  “This is triad territory!” Raj announced excitedly, pointing to several triangles spray-painted on the cracked walls of tenements. “The triads are the most powerful Chinese gang.”

  “That doesn’t sound good,” said Molly. “Also, why do you know that?”

  “My favorite book, Mission: Survival, by Babatunde Okonjo, devotes several chapters to surviving encounters with Asian gangs.”

  Before Raj could unleash a tidal wave of data on Asian street gangs, Eddie halted the group with a warning palm of his hand. Up ahead, Madame Feng’s bodyguards paused outside a restaurant called the Jade Tiger. They ushered Aunt Delia and Uncle Nigel inside, shutting the doors behind them. Two guards with square jaws, squared shoulders, and flattop haircuts blocked the doors, crossed their arms, and stared down any pedestrian who passed.

  “Do we follow them into the restaurant?” asked Raj uncertainly.

  “I don’t think they’re open,” said Eddie.

  “Addison, is this the part where you talk our way inside?” asked Molly.

  Addison pursed his lips. Normally, he had boundless confidence with this sort of maneuver. Yet maybe it was the predatory stare of the guards, maybe it was the gun holsters protruding from their leather jackets, or maybe it was Addison’s complete lack of Cantonese, but he just didn’t see any percentage in this gamble. He made up his mind. “Back door.”

  They circled around to the rear alley and found the restaurant kitchen door by dead reckoning. Addison crossed his fingers for luck and tried the handle, but it was locked.

  “I brought my new lock-picking set! Bought it downtown on Canal Street.” Raj eagerly drew a felt cloth from a side pocket of his camouflage pants and unfurled it, revealing a row of glittering picks and files. He cupped his ear to the lock, tongue out in concentration, and began inserting wires and pins into the keyhole.

  Eddie and Molly kept a lookout.

  Addison gave Raj a minute, then two, tapping his foot. “I could have sawed a hole through the door by now.”

  “Lock-picking is an art, not a science. It just takes time and patience.”

  “I have neither.” Addison knocked loudly on the door.

  “What are you doing?” Eddie yelped, leaping three inches into the air.

  “This is how I pick a lock,” said Addison. He heard someone unbolting the door from the inside. He turned quickly to his sister. “Mo, play dead.”

  Molly, trained by a lifetime of living with Addison, collapsed into Raj’s arms, no questions asked.

  Raj blushed red. He had no choice but to hold her up by the armpits, or she would fall into the alleyway, which was probably filthy. With one free hand, he did his best to gather up his lock-picking set.

  The door scraped open, nearly tipping Raj over. “Eddie, don’t just stand there, help me!”

  Eddie scooped up Molly’s legs. Her limp, lifeless body hung suspended between Eddie and Raj like a hammock.

 
A sullen man in a poofy white chef’s hat stood backlit in the doorway, taking in the scene. A crooked trail of ash dangled from the cigarette wedged in his frowning mug. He was thick-necked like a bulldog and with the same jowled cheeks.

  Addison stepped forward, straightening his tie. “Addison Cooke, pleasure to meet you.”

  The chef barked a few guttural words in Cantonese and set to slamming the door.

  Addison quickly made his pitch. “Help us,” he pleaded. “My sister is sick!”

  Eddie translated and turned back to Addison. “He says, ‘You think you’ve got problems—his stove is on the fritz.’”

  Addison held up one of Molly’s limp arms and let it drop to her side, dangling helplessly. “Please, she has so much life ahead of her. We just need to use your phone!”

  The chef growled a few more words and pointed down the alleyway.

  “He says there’s an animal shelter three blocks away,” Eddie translated.

  Molly scowled, but the chef did not seem to notice. Again, he tried to shut the door, but Addison stopped it with his foot, scuffing his prized wingtip.

  Addison felt some tears might help sell his performance. He tried to think of a time he had lost a cherished childhood pet, but Aunt Delia had never allowed him to get one. This made him think of Aunt Delia’s animal allergies, and Addison was able to approximate the teary-eyed look she gave after a cat-induced sneezing fit. “Please, sir. My sister barely has the use of her brain. She basically only cares about sports. We just want to use your phone!”

  The chef shook his head firmly, but this time Addison did not trouble himself to listen. He marched through the back door and into the kitchen. Sometimes, it is better to ask forgiveness than permission.

  Eddie and Raj waddled in after him, struggling to keep Molly’s sagging body from dragging on the floor.

  The chef threw his arms up in the air in defeat. He pointed to the phone hanging on the wall.

  Addison turned to Eddie. “Well?”

  “Me? You’re the one who does the talking.”

  “Eddie,” said Addison as patiently as he could, “only one of us speaks Chinese.”

  “Right.” Eddie dropped Molly’s legs abruptly and picked up the phone. “What’s the number for emergency services in Hong Kong?”

  “Eddie, she’s not actually sick!”

  “Oh, right.”

  “Just pretend to call someone!”

  “Sure, got it.” Eddie began plunking random numbers.

  The chef folded his arms and watched suspiciously.

  Addison helped Raj hoist Molly onto a stainless-steel prep station, shoving aside chopping boards and measuring cups that clattered to the floor. He found a meat thermometer and considered poking it in Molly’s mouth, but she cracked one eye open and glared at him. He made a show of feeling her forehead instead. “She’s burning up!” He scanned the kitchen and spotted the walk-in freezer. He called to the chef. “Please, sir, do you have any ice? We’ve got to keep her temperature down or she’ll get more brain damage.”

  Eddie cupped a hand over the phone he wasn’t really using and translated.

  The chef sighed and lumbered into the freezer room.

  Addison took three quick steps and slammed the freezer door shut. He sealed the latch, trapping the chef inside.

  The chef pressed his face against the window, hollering with rage and pounding his fists against the glass. But his shouts were barely audible through the sealed door.

  “And that,” said Addison, patting his hands together, “is how you sneak into a restaurant.”

  “Do you think he’ll be okay in there?” asked Molly, returning to life.

  Addison peered at the freezer thermostat and raised it to a balmy seventy-two degrees. “We’ll let him out before we leave. He’s in a room full of food—he won’t starve.”

  Molly marched over to the kitchen doors and peered through the smudged circular window into the restaurant. Aunt Delia and Uncle Nigel were seated in the center table, surrounded by guards. “They’re here!”

  Addison found waiters’ aprons in the kitchen closet and doled them out. He made Eddie tuck in his shirt and found a salad fork so that Raj could properly comb his hair.

  “We’re not real waiters,” Eddie grumbled.

  “Still,” said Addison, fussing over Molly’s apron knot, “I won’t have you going out there looking like slobs. Not while I run this kitchen.” He lined them up straight, examined their hands and fingernails, and nodded his approval. “It’s showtime,” said Addison, and pushed his way through the swinging doors into the restaurant.

  Chapter Seven

  Sir Frederick’s Clue

  THE JADE TIGER RESTAURANT was a feast for the eyes. Plush red couches were backed by thousand-gallon fish tanks that teemed with coral fish, manta rays, and the occasional circling shark. Underwater lights cast watery blue reflections across the patterned teak floors. Decorative jade tigers, mounted on pedestals, stood on their hind legs, baring their fangs.

  Aunt Delia and Uncle Nigel sat at a center table, surrounded by Madame Feng’s guards. The restaurant was closed, empty of customers, and eerily quiet.

  Addison emerged from the kitchen and beelined for the stairs to the balcony seating area. Dressed in waiter aprons, his team was practically invisible. Madame Feng’s guards did not move their eyes from their captives.

  “Addison, where are you taking us?” Molly whispered as they mounted the steps.

  “Uncle Jasper gave me Sun Tzu’s Art of War for my birthday present.”

  “So?”

  “Sun Tzu was an ancient Chinese general. He says, ‘Always occupy the high ground. It will provide a safe vantage point.’”

  The balcony seating area was dark and empty. Chairs were stacked up on tables for sweeping. Addison lay flat on his stomach and peered down through the banisters at the scene below.

  Beaded curtains parted at the restaurant’s entrance, and Madame Feng padded into the room with the coiled stealth of a black panther. She was flanked by thick-browed men with blue, green, and red tattoos peeking out from the starched white collars of their Italian suits.

  “Triads,” Raj whispered.

  Addison watched, his senses on full alert.

  Uncle Nigel stood up from his table, but was pushed back down by the strong arms of two triads. “Madame Feng, what is the meaning of this? Why force us from our hotel room and drag us all the way out here?”

  “Privacy, Dr. Cooke,” said Madame Feng. “Hong Kong has a million ears.”

  “I’ve heard that already.”

  “Then you prove my point.” A guard pulled out a seat for Madame Feng. She perched primly on the edge, eyeing Uncle Nigel coolly. “People know me in Hong Kong. They know me in Macau. But in Kowloon, nobody knows anyone.”

  “These are triad headquarters, aren’t they?” asked Aunt Delia.

  Madame Feng only smiled.

  “Let me guess,” said Uncle Nigel. “You need our help because you want the Khan’s treasure for yourself?”

  “I do not care about the treasure,” said Madame Feng, her eyes flashing. “I only care about one thing: the Khan’s golden whip.”

  “The golden whip is just a legend,” said Uncle Nigel.

  Madame Feng rose and crossed to the fish tanks, admiring the grace of the hunting sharks. “A whip made of interlocking links of gold. Genghis Khan found it on the banks of the Tuul River in Northern Mongolia. It was a gift from the gods, a sign that he would rule the world.” She wheeled suddenly to face the Cookes. “I am descended from the Khan himself! And I believe the legend of the golden whip.”

  “Lots of people are descended from Genghis Khan,” said Aunt Delia. “And if the whip exists, it is invaluable to the Mongolian people. It’s the single most important relic of their country—the symbol of their cultural heri
tage. You can’t steal who they are.”

  Madame Feng smiled. “I possess many things that are valuable. But I covet things that are invaluable. The golden whip will be the prize of my collection.”

  “We work for the museum,” said Aunt Delia firmly.

  “You work for me now.” Madame Feng signaled the triads, who unbuttoned their coats, revealing their guns.

  “If we don’t show up at the museum tomorrow, Eustace will notify the authorities.”

  “I’ve already handled Eustace.” Madame Feng smiled. “He is on a slow boat to China.”

  “Literally?” asked Aunt Delia.

  “Yes. By the time he reaches Beijing, it will be too late for him to interfere. I own the Hong Kong authorities. The local police will not want to see Asian relics fall into foreign hands.”

  Madame Feng folded her arms and stared down at Aunt Delia and Uncle Nigel. “Sir Frederick’s tomb has been unearthed. A race has begun. The Russians are already hunting for the Khan’s tomb. I cannot allow them to find it first.”

  “You don’t need to worry,” said Uncle Nigel. “Eustace hid Sir Frederick somewhere you will never find him.”

  “Oh, really?” Madame Feng snapped her fingers, and the beaded curtain parted. Two triads trundled in, staggering under the weight of Sir Frederick’s coffin.

  “You thief!” gasped Aunt Delia.

  Madame Feng laughed delightedly. “Thanks to your visit today, I finally figured out Eustace’s hiding place. Then it was just a question of persuading him to give us his access code.”

  “Did you hurt him?” Uncle Nigel demanded.

  “He didn’t break easily,” said Madame Feng, by way of an answer.

  Upstairs in the balcony, Molly whispered in Addison’s ear. “We’ve got to do something.”

  “Well, we can’t call the police,” said Addison. “Madame Feng says she owns them.”