Choke Point (13 page)

“He’s got a name. Someone he thinks might be involved. He’s trying to find her.”

“Her?”

“A woman by the name of Mei-li Chiang.” Atherton’s mouth went a little slack. “You know her?”

“I know the name,” he answered. “She’s a back-alley power broker. A political chameleon with lots of contacts.”

Kyra leaned forward over her untouched bowl of food, keeping her voice to a whisper. “So this really might have something to do with—”

“The grand opening,” he interrupted, as if fearing she might not remember their euphemism for the trade agreement. “No, that’s doubtful; the details of that event are too tightly guarded. It must be something else.”

“Like…?”

He shook his head. “No idea, but I’m sure of one thing, Madame Chiang won’t be hard to find. And she won’t run. She survived the turnover in ’99—she knows how to work the system. Probably knows where more than a few bodies are buried in this town.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that woman is clever and ruthless. Dangerous. Simon needs to be careful.”

C
HAPTER
F
IFTEEN

Central Macau, southern peninsula

Thursday, 5 July 13:46:53 GMT +0800

The lunch crowd had finally evaporated, the porch of the small noodle shop empty except for Simon and Kyra, and her body man, Robbie Kelts, who sat directly behind her, at the next table. The remainder of her security detail—six men, all big, all Asian, all evenly spaced along the railing, all facing outward, all wearing identical lightweight jackets to hide their weaponry—couldn’t have looked any more conspicuous had they been naked. Trying to read Kyra’s expression, Simon reached up and tilted the edge of the umbrella just enough to keep the sun from hitting his eyes. “I think you’re being a little dramatic, Rynerson.”

The skin tightened across her high cheekbones, her response a restrained hiss. “I am
not
being dramatic. Those were his exact words.”

“I understand that.” He should have known better than to use the word
dramatic.
To a woman like Kyra Rynerson, that was akin to
airhead.
“But ‘knowing where the bodies are buried’ is just an expression. He meant politically.”

“I know what he meant, Simon. You think I’m an idiot?”

Christ almighty,
why didn’t he just dig a hole and cover himself with shit? “No, of course not. I only meant—”

She cut him off. “You think because I’m blond, I can’t tell the difference between reality and drama?”

“No, I—”

“He said ‘clever and
ruthless.
’” She leaned forward, drilling him with her icy-green stare. “He said ‘Simon needs to be careful.’”

“I understand. I get it. I will.”

“Then why not take security?” As quickly as it flared, her anger had dissipated, her tone suddenly pleading. “Please.”

“Because I don’t need it. I’m going to have a conversation with the lady, nothing more.” He reached out, clasping her hands. “Kyra, honey, look at these guys. They’re scary big. I walk in with one of these palookas and she’ll clam up.”

“She’s not going to tell you anything anyway. She’s too smart for that.”

He smiled, trying to reassure her with his confidence. “She agreed to the meeting.”

“Yeah, right.” She rolled her eyes. “And just why do you think that is?”

The question was rhetorical, a sarcastic aside, but he pretended to take it seriously. “That’s easy. She wants to know how I found her, and what I know. Until she knows that, she’s at risk.”

“No! You’re wrong.” She jerked her hands free. “It could be a trap. If she’s the one who set up my father, what’s to stop her from doing the same to you? She’s setting you up.”

“It’s not like that.”

“How do you know?” she demanded. “How can you be sure?”

“Because it’s the middle of the day,” he answered, spelling out for her what he had already worked out for himself, “and we’re meeting at her house. Because, for all she knows, I’ve shared that information with at least a hundred of my closest friends. Because she’s a woman, and that means she’s snoopy curious.” This earned him a little you-better-be-careful glare, but it was a smiling glare, and that’s all he wanted. “And because she’s a back-alley politico, not a black widow.”

She took a deep breath, then let it out slow. “I’m rather of fond of you, Leonidovich. You know that?”

He reached out and patted her hand. “I kinda like you too.” More than he cared to admit, even to himself. “I need to go.” He glanced at his watch, more to avoid her eyes than to check the time. “I told her I’d be there by three.”

“We can drop you.”

He shook his head—the last thing he needed was to show up in a two-car, armor-plated caravan—and pushed himself to his feet. “It’s a beautiful day. I need the exercise.”

She nodded, her eyes gazing up at him from beneath her eyebrows. “Be careful.”

“Of course.” Beyond her shoulder, he could see Robbie’s back, his head cocked to one side, and Simon realized the kid was eavesdropping. “Always careful.” Especially, he decided, whenever Robbie was around. The last thing they needed was some indiscreet bodyguard whispering secrets to his friends.

He left the shop and headed east toward the inner harbor. The narrow street, bordered on both sides by small boutiques, was loud and crowded, a cacophony of languages and colorful attire, everyone enjoying the sunshine after all the rain. When he reached the waterfront, he turned south on Rua das Lorchas, the street crowded with tourists waiting to board the floating casino, and followed the route he had mapped out in his mind before leaving the Pearl. It was one of those perfect summer days, the sky deep and blue beyond a scattering of white clouds, the heat diminished by a light breeze smelling of salt and seaweed. Perfect, except for a vague sense of being watched that kept itching across the back of his neck.

He stopped twice at small waterfront shops, casually browsing the window displays and checking the reflections in the glass, making sure Kyra hadn’t decided to play nursemaid with her team of bodyguards, but he saw no sign of the black Land Rovers. Satisfied, he followed the street through a progression of name changes around the tip of the peninsula, past the Pousada de São Tiago—an incredible hotel built on the remains of a seventeenth-century Portuguese fortress, the Fortaleza de Barra—until he was heading north toward Penha Hill, into the city’s most prestigious residential area. Along with the traffic and pedestrians, the sounds of the city dissolved away, the commercial buildings giving way to large colonial mansions surrounded by plush gardens.

He found the home of Mei-li Chiang on a quiet, dead-end street, surrounded by a fortress-like wall covered in vegetation. Even before he reached the gate—a narrow wooden door with iron straps thick enough to withstand a vehicular assault—at least two motion-sensitive cameras had zeroed in on his movement. Madame Chiang either liked her privacy, or feared her enemies. Probably both, he decided, considering the woman’s reputation. He pushed the bell and offered up a friendly smile to the camera, knowing someone beyond the wall would be comparing his physiognomy to a database of persona non grata.

A man’s nasally voice erupted from a small speaker above the door.
“Nî jiào shénme míngzi?”

Though most of the locals spoke Cantonese, Simon recognized the words as Mandarin, and one of the few common phrases—
What is your name?
—that he could actually respond to in most languages. “
Wô jiào
Simon Leonidovich,” he answered, and opened his passport to the camera.

Someone inside threw a latch, the sound heavy and muted, followed by the accelerating hiss of an air piston and the scrape of locking bolts being withdrawn. As the door moved silently inward, a disembodied hand motioned Simon to step inside. For the first time he felt a flutter of anxiety, an ominous foreboding, the way, he imagined, a convict must feel when he takes that first step behind the gray walls.
It could be a trap. She’s setting you up.
He stepped forward and the door closed behind him with a dull and irrevocable
thunk
. In contrast to the fatalistic sound, the lush garden that stretched out before him—an artful coalescence of fountains, miniature fruit trees, and limpid pools of koi—was both welcoming and serene, a virtual Garden of Eden. Unfortunately, it wasn’t Eve who stepped out from behind the door, but an Asian version of Mr. Clean: shaved head, gold earring, tight T-shirt over bulging muscles. Without so much as a smile or a “let’s get to know each other,” the man pushed Simon’s arms into the air, then with the quick and thorough hands of a professional, proceeded to explore clothes and crevices, no body part left untouched. Apparently satisfied, the man turned toward the house, an impressive three-story colonial villa, and motioned for Simon to follow.

A gatekeeper with skills, Simon thought, taking note of the man’s tool belt, which contained an assortment of small gardening tools and one very large handgun. When they reached the door, Mr. Clean punched a combination of numbers into a keypad, then stepped back. There was a faint but audible corresponding tap of keys from the other side, then the snapping click of electronic locks.

The man waiting inside might have been a gatekeeper clone—
Clean II
—except for his clothes: black slacks and a white Nehru-style jacket that failed to hide the bulge of a weapon beneath the hem of his coat. “Mr. Leonidovich.” He bowed, the shallow bend typically reserved for foreigners. “Please welcome to this home.”

Simon returned the bow, purposely giving the man a more courteous dip. “
Do je.
” Thank you.

The man smiled, a somewhat arrogant upturn of the lips. “If you would be pleased to follow this way.” Without waiting for a response, the man turned and started toward the back of the house. They passed through the entry gallery, a formal waiting area, a large drawing room, and emerged onto a sweeping veranda overlooking another spectacular garden. Mei-li Chiang was waiting at one end, her back to the wall, ensconced in an extremely wide and high-backed wicker chair. So high and wide, in fact, it appeared to have wings, and might have taken flight had it not been for its short and corpulent occupant. Sitting very upright on a thick layer of colorful silk pillows, and dressed in an equally bright kimono-style robe, the woman looked like a garishly dressed Buddha.

“Mr. Leonidovich—” Her voice was soft and breathy, almost suggestive, with only a hint of accent. “Welcome.” She offered her hand, palm down.

“Madame Chiang.” He took her hand and affected his best imitation of a French courtier. “I am honored to make your acquaintance.”

Her blood-red lips curled into a coquettish grin, the affect somewhat ghoulish with her over-rouged cheeks and bat-wing eyebrows. “Any friend of Jake Rynerson, is a friend of Mei-li Chiang.” She motioned toward a chair on her left, separated from her throne by a narrow table containing a tea service and a double-tiered plate of Chinese confectioneries. “Please be comfortable.”

Simon lowered himself into the chair, a miniature version of her great wingback, which left him a good two inches beneath her brightly painted eyes, and even further below the judgmental gaze of Clean II, who had stationed himself slightly behind and to the right of his mistress. “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”

“It is of no inconvenience.” She reached out, her stubby fingers surprisingly quick, and palmed one of the sweets. “May I offer you a light refreshment?”

Simon shook his head. Judging from her girth, the woman considered the tiny candies—made of glutinous rice paste and wheat flour—more of a staple, than a
light refreshment.
“No, thank you. I just finished lunch.”

The bat wings curled upward, as if this reason made no sense, then she shrugged, popped the small candy into her mouth, and swallowed. “So.” She leaned forward, as if to share a confidence. “How may I be of service to the great taipan? What is his condition?”

Simon knew this would be the first question and he answered without hesitation, adding a slight but enthusiastic lift to his voice. “Better every day. Since his transfer to Bangkok the improvement has been remarkable.” And true enough, if one considered only the physical wounds. “We’re expecting a full recovery.”
Hoping
would have been a more accurate description, but he needed her to believe Jake was actually talking.

She tried to smile, an awkward attempt to pretend the information pleased her, but the effort failed before it reached her eyes. “This is most gratifying news.”

“Yes. I knew you would want to be kept informed.” This, he hoped, would only confuse her more.

She nodded slowly, trying to hide her consternation, the wheels spinning so fast he could almost hear the grinding. “Yes, I—” She popped another candy, the gesture instinctive and without thought. “I…yes…your courtesy is much appreciated.”

“It’s the least I could do.” He wanted her to dig for the information, to force her, through her own questions, to expose what she knew. “Under the circumstances.”

The bat wings found a new direction to flutter. “Oh, yes…the circumstances…”

He smiled innocently, letting her swing.

“So, uh…” She paused, just long enough to pop and swallow. “The taipan…he mentioned me?”

“Of course.” He gave her a curious look, as if he couldn’t understand why this should surprise her. “Naturally, he was worried.”

“Worried?”

“That you were okay.”

She looked like a woman sifting through a dozen possible responses, trying to decide which was the most appropriate, then simply gave up and admitted her confusion. “I don’t understand?”

That was the last thing he wanted to hear. Now he was really stuck, hanging over a ledge with no safety net. If he was wrong, if she hadn’t been there when Jake was shot, she would know he was lying. Then what? He tried, but couldn’t stop himself from stealing a glance at Clean II, who looked especially protective of his mistress.
Not good.
It was even possible she had orchestrated the attack, but that seemed unlikely; she was a power broker, not a killer. At least that’s what he hoped, because if the Clean twins had done the shooting, then Simple Simon was about to get dead. And very fast. He suddenly felt cold to his bones, his bowels going to ice water.
You idiot, Leonidovich!
But it was too late now, she was waiting for an answer, and he needed to know the truth. He took a deep mental breath and stepped off the ledge. “He doesn’t remember much after the first shot. Naturally, he was worried about you.”