Necropolis

carried down the wide, silver-and-gray corridors. The other passengers looked more dead than alive, bleary-eyed and pale. Nobody was talking. Nobody seemed happy to be there.
    And there was something else that struck her. Everyone was heading the same way. They were all pouring into the main building. People might be arriving in Hong Kong but, this morning, at any rate, no one seemed to be leaving.
    They arrived at immigration, joining a queue that snaked back and forth up to a line of low, glass booths with officials in black-and-silver uniforms, seated on low stools. They all looked very much the same to Scarlett — small, with brown eyes and black, spiky hair.
    And then it was her turn. The official who took her passport and arrivals card was young, polite. He opened the passport and examined her details, and as he did so, she noticed a surveillance camera just above him swivel round to examine her too. It was quite unnerving, the way it moved without making any sound, somehow picking her out from the rest of the crowd.
    "Scarlett Adams." The official spoke her name and smiled. He wasn't asking her to confirm it. He was just reading it off the page as if he didn't quite understand what it meant. Then he reached out for his stamp, inked it, and brought it down on the passport with a bang.
    And at that exact moment, he changed. Did it really happen or was her mind playing tricks with her after the long flight? It was his eyes. As the stamp hit the page, they seemed to flicker as if someone had blown smoke over them. Suddenly they were yellow. The pupils, which had been brown a second ago, were now black and diamond-shaped. The passport official glanced up at her and smiled, and right then she was afraid that he was going to leap out of his booth and tear into her. His eyes were no longer human. They were more like a crocodile's eyes.
    Scarlett gasped out loud. She couldn't help herself. She was paralyzed, staring at the thing in front of her.
    The escort, standing next to her, hadn't noticed anything wrong. Nobody else had reacted. There was a stamp as another visa was issued in the booth next door, and Scarlett glanced in that direction as a student with a backpack was allowed through. When she looked back, it was over. The official was normal again. He was holding out her passport, waiting for her to take it. She hesitated, then snatched it from him, not wanting to come into contact even with the tips of his fingers, as if she was half expecting them to turn into claws.
    "We need to pick up your bags," Justin said.
    "Right…"
    He looked at her curiously. "Is something the matter, Scarlett?"
    "No." She shook her head. "Everything's fine."
    The suitcases took about ten minutes to arrive. Scarlett's was one of the first off the plane. Justin picked it up for her, and the two of them went through the customs area, which was empty. Presumably nobody bothered smuggling anything into Hong Kong. The arrivals gate was directly ahead of them and Scarlett hurried forward. Despite everything, she was looking forward to seeing her father again.
    He wasn't there.
    There were about a hundred people waiting on the other side of the barriers, quite a few of them dressed in chauffeur uniforms, some of them holding names on placards. She saw her own name almost at once.
    It was being held by a black man in a suit. He was tall and bald with a face that could have been carved
    — it showed no emotion. Somehow, he didn't seem to belong in Hong Kong. It wasn't just his color. It was his size. He towered over everyone else, staring over the crowd with empty eyes as if he didn't want to be there.
    There was a woman standing next to him, and Scarlett took a dislike to her at first sight. Was she even a woman? She was certainly dressed in women's clothes, with a gray dress, an anorak, and fur-lined boots that came up to her knees. But she had the face and the physique of a man. Her shoulders were broad and square. Her neck was thickset. She wore no makeup although she was badly in need of it. She had skin like very old leather. She was Chinese and half the height of the chauffeur, with black hair hanging lifelessly down and thick, plastic glasses that wouldn't have flattered her face even if there had been something to flatter. She reminded Scarlett of a prison warden. It was impossible to guess her age.
    Forty? Fifty? She didn't look as if she had ever been young.
    Scarlett went over to her.
    "Good morning, Scarlett," the woman said.