Necropolis

imagine him breaking every one of your fingers when you shook hands.
    His hair was black. His face was round, with thick lips and hard, watchful eyes. He was elegantly dressed in a suit that was obviously expensive, possibly silk. His fingers, resting on the table in front of him, were manicured, and he wore a slim, silver wedding ring. There was a packet of cigarettes and a gold lighter on the table next to him…his one vice perhaps. But none of his guests was ever going to give him a lecture on smoking. Everything about the man, even the way he sat there — still and silent —
    suggested that he wasn't someone to be argued with. He was someone who was used to being obeyed.
    And yet his manner was pleasant enough. "Good evening," he said. "Please come and sit down." His English was perfect. Every word was well modulated and precise.
    He was sitting in the dining room, at the head of a long table that could have seated ten people but which had been laid for only four. The room was as elegant as the rest of the house, with floor-to-ceiling windows looking out onto a wooden terrace and views of the garden beyond. Richard, Matt, and Jamie took their places. At once, a door at the side slid open and two women appeared, pouring water and shaking out the napkins.
    The man waited until they had gone. "My name is Han Shan-tung," he announced.

    "I'm Richard Cole." Richard introduced himself, then the boys. He had already decided he was going to use the names that were on their passports. "This is Martin Hopkins. And Nicholas Helsey."
    "I would have said that this was Matthew Freeman and Jamie Tyler," Shan-tung muttered. "And I would add that it is discourteous to lie to a man in his own home — but I will overlook it, as I can understand that you are nervous. Let me assure you, Mr. Cole, that I know everything about all three of you. More, in fact, than you perhaps know about yourselves. Otherwise you would not be here."
    "And we know nothing about you," Richard replied. "That's why we have to be careful."
    "Very wise. Well, it will be my pleasure to enlighten you. But first we should eat."
    As if on cue, the two women returned, carrying plates of food. Silently, they laid out a Chinese dinner. It was a world apart from the sweet-and-sour, deep-fried grease balls that Matt had once purchased at his local takeaway in Ipswich. The dinner came in about a dozen china bowls — fish, meat, rice, noodles —
    and it had obviously been cooked by a world-class chef. Matt was glad to see that he had been provided with a spoon and fork. Han Shan-tung ate with chopsticks.
    "I must apologize to you," he began. There was no small talk. He didn't ask them about their journey or what they thought of their rooms. "Urgent business took me to America. It was badly timed because it delayed your arrival here. And I'm afraid I have bad news. I had hoped that the object of your journey would have been sitting here with us tonight. I am referring to the girl, Lin Mo." He continued quickly, before Richard could interrupt. "You call her Scarlett Adams. But I refer to her by the name she was given before she was adopted and taken to the West."
    "How do you know about Scarlett?" Richard asked.
    Shan-tung leaned forward and plucked a prawn off one of the dishes. Despite his large hands, he used the chopsticks very delicately, like a scientist handling a specimen. "I know a great deal about the girl,"
    he replied. "The fact of the matter is that she was with my agents in Hong Kong only yesterday. I have spent a great deal of time and money — not to mention human life — trying to remove her from the city."
    Matt played back what Shan-tung had just said and realized that it confirmed exactly what he had thought. "The Old Ones are in Hong Kong," he said.
    "The Old Ones have taken over
    Hong Kong," Shan-tung replied. "They control almost every aspect of the city. From the government and the police to the street cleaners. I do not know how many people they have killed, but the number must run into thousands. My people have been fighting them on your behalf. We are the only remaining resistance."
    "Who are your people?" Richard asked.
    Shan-tung sighed. "It is unnecessary to keep asking me these things. I am about to tell you anyway."
    "I'm sorry." Richard realized his error. "I suppose it's a habit. I used to be a journalist."
    "I do not like journalists. It is nothing personal — but they have caused me trouble in the past. I suggest you continue