First Strike

The waitress started to list American beers.

Jade glared at her dad. “I said, you’re driving.”

“Just curious. I’ll have a pineapple juice,” he said. “With ice. If I’m allowed.”

“Ice is OK,” Jade confirmed.

“Made from frozen vodka if you can manage it,” Chance added. He grinned. “Kidding,” he assured the waitress.

“Right. I’ll be straight back with your drinks, and I’ll take your food order then. OK?” She didn’t wait for a reply.

On the TV screens a reporter was talking, though the sound was muted. Text flashed up underneath him: Chinese Peacekeepers enter Wiengwei province…No sign of missing US air crew…Chinese deny airmen have been arrested…

“I don’t know why they do that,” said Jade.

“They’re worried the rebels are getting more support,” said Rich.

“The Chinese have had trouble in Wiengwei ever since they invaded back in 1950,” Chance added. “At the time the western world was more concerned about Tibet. They hardly noticed what was happening at the same time down the road.”

“I meant,” said Jade, “why do they show the news channel with the sound turned down and music blaring out? I mean—what’s the point? You have to guess what’s happening. It’s just like visual noise and a confusing tickertape.”

…White House accused of abandoning airmen…President refuses to condemn Chinese…

“You can sort of see what’s going on,” said Rich.

The scrolling caption across the bottom of the screen now read: Still no sign of rebel leader Marshal Wieng.

“Only because we saw the news before we came out this evening,” Jade told him. The 6 o’clock broadcast had been almost entirely devoted to the developing story: an American military plane appeared to have gone down over Chinese airspace, but the Americans were refusing to confirm that their men had even been there, and the Chinese were denying having captured them. “And because we’ve got Mr Global Trouble-Shooter here to help.” She turned to her dad. “I bet you were there in Wiengwei in 1950 when China invaded or annexed it or whatever, weren’t you?”

Chance laughed. “How old do you think I am?” He leafed through the large glossy menu. “I have been to Wiengwei, actually” he admitted. “But rather more recently.”

“Official visit?” Rich wondered.

“Sort of. Well, no, not exactly. The ribs look good. What are you two having?”

“I’ll have a burger,” Rich decided.

“Jade?” Chance asked.

But she wasn’t listening. Jade was watching the waitress roller-skating across the restaurant carrying a tray with a large bottle of champagne balanced on it.

“Who does that?” she said. “Who comes out on a Friday night to a diner like this and orders champagne? At least you were asking about beer,” she told Chance. “If you ordered champagne to go with a burger or ribs, I’d be seriously worried.”

“I’d be seriously impressed,” said Rich, “if you could get champagne while Jade’s on the case.”

The waitress spun to a halt right next to their table.

“Your champagne, sir,” she said.

Jade’s eyes widened.

Rich’s mouth dropped open in awe. “How did you do that?”

Chance seemed every bit as surprised as his children. “I didn’t order champagne. I asked for pineapple juice.”

The waitress continued to smile, unperturbed. “Your friend ordered it for you.” She put the bottle down on the table, together with a glass. Then she handed Chance a folded slip of paper. “He seems a nice man.” She leaned closer. “Must be very wealthy!”

Chance took a quick look at the paper. “Appearances can be deceptive.” He swung round in his chair, scanning the restaurant.

“Who is it? Who’s it from?” Jade asked.

Chance handed her the paper, and she unfolded it. Rich leaned across to read what was written on it. Scrawled in block letters, the message said:

Urgent I speak with you now.

I am in danger, and things are going nuclear!

Only you can stop it.

“But who is it from?” said Rich.

Chance pointed across the restaurant. On the other side of the bar, close to the far window, a man was getting slowly to his feet. He was wearing a smart, pale linen suit. His face was weathered like old stone. He had dark, thinning hair and a neatly-trimmed moustache. The man raised a hand in greeting.

“Ralph!” said Jade.

That wasn’t his real name. But it was the name they all knew him by. Ralph was a villain, who ran an organised crime syndicate in Eastern Europe. He had no loyalty except to himself, and Rich knew that he could have them all killed just as soon as buy them champagne, if it suited his purposes.

“What does he want?” Rich wondered.

“I don’t know,” Chance grimaced. “But I doubt if he’s really in as much danger as he’d like us to think.”

On the other side of the room, Ralph was smiling. He spread his arms in a generous, welcoming gesture. At that moment the window behind him exploded into fragments as the sound of a gunshot rang out.

A red stain appeared on the front of Ralph’s pale jacket. He looked down at it, surprised. Then he fell forwards, crashing down on the table, sending glasses and crockery flying.

Instinctively, Rich and Jade ducked.

Chance was already running. Before the sound of the second shot, he was sprinting towards Ralph’s motionless body—colliding with a roller-skating waiter and sending him spinning away. People were scrambling to their feet or throwing themselves to the floor in confusion as the second shot hammered through a table and into the floor.

“Get an ambulance!” Chance shouted as he reached Ralph. He grabbed a handful of paper napkins from the nearest table and balled them into a wad, which he pressed to the red stain on Ralph’s shirt. “Ambulance!” he yelled again. “Now.”

The waitress who’d brought the champagne kneeled beside Chance and Ralph. Her face was pale.

“Is he…?”

“He’s still breathing. But it’s not looking good.”

Chance grabbed the girl’s hand and pushed it down on top of the wad of napkins. “Hold that there, tight as you can, till the paramedics get here.”