Stealing the Dragon by Tim Maleeny Page A

undercurrent in Mitch’s voice, some subtext to the narrative.
    “This is personal for you,” he said simply. “Isn’t it?”
    Mitch turned from the water, his right hand raised to block the sun. “Yeah,” he said, meeting Cape’s eyes. “My parents came over on a ship like this one. Lucky for me, they got asylum.”
    A long minute passed as Cape held Mitch’s gaze. “What will happen to these people?”
    Mitch shrugged. “Depends on who they are, in large part. Things are a little funny with China right now, as you probably noticed in the papers. We’re asking for help with North Korea, trying to play nice. So these people might get asylum, but they also might get sent home.”
    Cape cringed at the thought, thinking of the derelict ship, trying to wrap his head around making a voyage like that twice. “But they’ll keep trying, won’t they?”
    “Oh, yeah,” said Mitch. “Once you get it in your head you’re leaving, most people find a way. And there’s enough people waiting to help them, or prey upon them, depending on your perspective.”
    “You going to find out who’s behind this?”
    “Not me,” said Mitch, “though I’d like to. That’s for the feds to figure out. The INS and FBI, mostly. Me, I’m just a narcotics cop who speaks Chinese.”
    Cape suspected Mitch was much more than that, but he kept the thought to himself. “What if I wanted to find them?”
    Mitch smiled, his mouth a little crooked. “You have to go hunting for the snake.”
    “Snake?”
    “The person behind this is called a ‘snakehead,’” Mitch replied. “There’s a little snakehead and a big snakehead .”
    “What’s the difference?” asked Cape.
    “The little snakehead is probably in China. He or she—women are involved sometimes—arrange for the transportation and handle logistics on that end.”
    “And the big snakehead?”
    “That’s the one you want,” replied Mitch. “He or she is probably here, in the States. The big snakehead is the main investor—the one that fronted the money and the one that gets the big payoff. Without them, none of this would be possible.”
    “You think the feds will find them?”
    “Not a chance,” said Mitch, his cynicism audible. “They’ll probably find some of the handlers—the middlemen who took the money, set up the safe houses, that sort of thing. But the real power behind it…those guys are almost never caught. Too many layers between them and the actual crimes.”
    “What kind of person am I looking for?”
    Mitch shrugged. “Could be anybody. An anonymous businessman, a well-connected financier, or some guy you never heard of—working in the shadows. They may not even be Chinese.”
    Cape’s surprise must have registered, because Mitch continued.
    “The old days of Chinese-only crime are over,” he said. “Now the tongs and their gangs are in bed with the Russians, the Italian Mafia, even the Chinese government. If they can make money, they’ll call you brother—at least until they cut out your liver.”
    Cape caught the edge in Mitch’s voice and gestured toward the tattoo on his arm.
    “Were you in a gang?”
    Mitch smiled, rubbing the back of his hand as he spoke. “Beau said you were smarter than you looked.”
    “I’m even smarter than he looks,” replied Cape.
    “A long time ago,” said Mitch. “The Flying Dragons in L.A. took me in, along with my younger brother. I got out before it was too late.”
    Cape wanted to ask about the brother, but Mitch’s expression made it clear the subject wasn’t open for discussion.
    “OK, smart guy,” said Mitch, “what else do you want to know? I should get back inside.”
    “Fair enough,” said Cape. “Two more questions?”
    “Shoot.”
    “If you were looking for a snakehead, where would you start?”
    “I’d try to find the tail,” replied Mitch. “Find someone lower on the food chain, and take it from there.”
    Cape nodded; no surprise there.
    “And the second?” asked