Dragon's Eye Read Online Free Page A

Eight grunts. Eight bodies. A slow weaving line across soft shadowed broken foreshore. Staggering, stuttering up the steps to the Bund. The wagon doors being opened. Caskets slid in. The wagon doors being closed.
    Piao meandered through the lines of waterproof suited policemen on their knees, sifting through the mud. A thankless task. He knew, already knew … these murderers would leave no calling cards. These murderers would leave nothing but their ravaged quarry. He looked up, across the stacked grey graduations of Huangpu Park. Clouds now rolling in against the moon, overtaking it and swallowing it whole. It was going to be a brushed steel grey of a day. He would be waiting for the leach of red rust to seep into it.

Chapter 2
    Softly, the wind blows from the south,
Caresses the stems of the brambles.
Holy mother, good mother,
I was not your son.
    WASHINGTON D.C., THE UNITED STATES OF
AMERICA.
    She had known that he was dead at that very moment, in that very instant; beyond her, beyond everything. The scream that filled her head waking her from a deep sleep. Her own voice crying out the name of her only child …
    “Bobby.”
    As clear, as pure as a crystal sphere splintering onto a marble floor.
    “Jesus … Jesus … Jesus …”
    Shaking. Hearing her own words and pleadings, that seemed to pierce the night as the steel pin impales the butterfly. And all of the time his name burning inside her. An indigestion of loss, pain, and disjointed flooding memories. And knowing that it was too late. Already … too late.
    *
    Calm now. Reaching for the telephone. Counting …
    ONE … TWO … THREE …
    Brandy in one hand. A letter, his writing, the telephone number … in the other hand. And all of the time, reality and intuition in a fierce grapple for her attention.
    “Bobby … Bobby.”
    Counting. Slowly …
    FOUR … FIVE …
    It can’t be true … he can’t be dead.
    The telephone number, endless. Halfway through it, she realised that she had misread a digit. A five for a four. His writing had always been so poor, so chaotic; as if his mind was in a constant head-on collision of ideas, schemes. His brain working faster than his hand. A five for a four. The pain pressed harder. She re-dialled, counting …
    SIX … SEVEN … EIGHT …
    “Come on, come on.”
    The connection clicked into life. A ringing tone, replaying.
    Be there, for God’s sake be there. Let me be wrong, please. Please God.
    A ringing tone, repeating itself.
    Stupid. Stupid. He’ll be there. The phone will be answered, the call put through to his room. He’ll be there. ‘Hi Mom, how are you?’ Just like a few days ago … a week ago … a month ago. He’ll be there. He’ll be there, won’t he, God?
    A woman’s voice answered. Draped in a Chinese accent, but her English starched rigid and oh so correct.
    “Good evening, this is the Shanghai Jing Jiang Hotel. How may I help you?”
    “Can you connect me to Mr Hayes in room 201. Thank you.”
    Seconds of silence punctuated by her own heartbeat.
    “We have no Mr Hayes in room 201.”
    Putting down the brandy. Her ear pulsing, sweating against the plastic of the receiver. Again, counting …
    ONE … TWO … THREE …
    “Are you sure? Room 201 was his room, I’m positive. Maybe he checked out, or perhaps he’s moved rooms. Can you please look again? It is urgent.”
    “Sorry, Madam, but we have no Mr Hayes in the hotel.”
    “Look, double-check. The name is Hayes.
    H—A—Y—E—S. BOBBY HAYES.”
    A longer silence. Distant snippets of conversation in Chinese playing peekaboo behind it. With each second, it feeling as if an endless corridor of doors between her and Bobby were being slammed shut. Finishing the brandy. Relishing its burn. Counting …
    FOUR … FIVE …
    “Madam, we have checked our records thoroughly and we can find no mention of a Mr Bobby Hayes. You must be mistaken. He must have resided at a different hotel.”
    “But I