Choke Point (14 page)

She sat there, her body locked in suspended animation, the silence thick as quicksand; then, after what seemed an eternity, but couldn’t have been more than five or ten seconds, she reached down and plucked another morsel off the plate of confectioneries. “You may tell the taipan that I was unharmed in the attack.”

Simon leaned forward, trying to hide his emotions, and casually selected one of the small treats. “That’s excellent news.” He dropped the candy into his mouth, and slowly exhaled, bubbles of relief bursting in his chest.
Thank you, God.
“Mr. Rynerson will be very happy to hear that.” He sat back, gathering himself for the next round. “Is there anything you can tell me about the attack—” She started to shake her head. “—that might help with the investigation?”

Her head rotated faster, the bat wings threatening to take flight. “Very dark that night. Rain and dark. Everything very quick.” She thrust out a hand, pointing it at him like a pistol. “Bang-bang-bang!”

Simon smiled and clutched at his heart, trying to keep it light. “Three shots?”

She continued to shake her head. “Two, three, don’t remember. People running and shooting. Bang-bang-bang.”

“That must have been very frightening.”

“Aieeeeee!”
She threw up her hands and shook them, as if trying to ward off an attack of killer bees. “Mei-li very frightened. Run away fast.” She sank back into her nest of pillows, apparently exhausted at the thought.

“So you saw nothing? Nothing at all?”

Another shake of the head.

“Which, of course, is why you didn’t go to the police.” He purposely offered the excuse, not wanting her to feel that he was the enemy.

“Of course.” Then she smiled, that coquettish grin, the expression completely at odds with her calculating eyes. “That would be the most important reason.”

She was setting him up for something, but he couldn’t avoid asking the question. “There was another?”

She glanced away, as if embarrassed. “Had the circumstance of this meeting become known—” She faltered, feigning the reluctant messenger. “If the press—” She took a deep breath and finally let it out. “This would have been most discomforting to the taipan’s wife.”

Though Simon recognized the words as a threat—that she was prepared to make the allegation—he could barely keep himself from laughing; as if anyone would believe Jake Rynerson would jeopardize his marriage and reputation for two seconds with this painted-up old charlatan. It was too ridiculous, except that he realized the woman had inadvertently answered one important question, and in so doing, had opened a Pandora’s box of new ones. Madame Chiang would never have dared imply such a thing if Billie had been there. “That was very considerate of you.”

She cocked her head and smiled, a little conspiratorial grin, letting him know the accusation would not be made unless he forced her into a corner. “You may assure the taipan of my discretion in this matter.”

Knowing he needed to take away her bargaining chip, he expelled a soft but noticeable breath of disappointment. “Unfortunately, it won’t matter, they’re bringing in the FBI. Everything’s going to come out.” Despite her contacts, it was safe fabrication; the FBI never confirmed their investigations.

“American agents in the SAR?” She glanced up at Clean II, as if to assure herself this would never happen. “Never!”

“I’m afraid it’s true,” Simon said, trying to sound sympathetic. “That’s one of the reasons I’m here. Mr. Rynerson thought you should know.”

She shook her head, as if trying to convince herself. “We would never allow such a thing.”

“It surprised us too. But—” He held out his hands, palms up. “You know how these things work. Mr. Rynerson is an important man. Someone called the President, the President called the Premier…” He could only hope her backdoor contacts did not extend all the way to Beijing.

“Impossible,” but she no longer sounded confident.

He nodded agreeably, certain he had her. “That’s what I thought. But apparently your government isn’t willing to take the risk.”

“Risk?”

“They know the kind of money American corporations are pouring into Macau. The kind of revenue gaming generates for the province.” He shrugged, feigning a look of indifference. “Guess they’re not willing to jeopardize all that.”

She plucked another candy off the plate, sucking on it thoughtfully as she stared into the garden, the silence broken only by the soft buzz of honeybees working their way through the flower beds. Simon could almost feel her weighing options, measuring risks, considering in advance the outcome of every possible move and countermove. Clean II remained at attention, his body as stiff and attentive as a Royal Grenadier.

Knowing any determined push would only weaken his position, Simon concentrated on the movements of a small hummingbird as it flitted from one feeder to the next. The seconds lengthened into minutes, and the air seemed to take on a strange density, thick as water, the hush so pronounced it was deafening. Then, apparently having reached some kind of decision, Madame Chiang let out a thin sigh. “
Do je.
Please tell the taipan, his courtesy in sharing this information is much appreciated.”

Simon realized he was being dismissed, that his efforts had failed. What little he did learn—about Billie—only confused the matter. He considered one last try, then rejected the idea, knowing it would only make the woman suspicious. He pushed himself to his feet and dipped his head. “I will convey your message.”

Without waiting for a reciprocating nod, Clean II began ushering Simon back along the veranda. Just as they reached the door leading into the house, she stopped them. “Mr. Leonidovich…”

He turned, no idea what to expect. “Ma’am?”

She pushed herself forward off her throne of pillows, actually hopping the last couple of inches to the floor. “This thing with the American agents…” She came toward them, her slippers padding silently over the teakwood deck. “Such publicity as this would not reflect well on Macau.”

Right,
like it was Macau she was worried about. “I agree. Makes it look like you can’t handle your own problems. That’s why Mr. Rynerson wanted you to know.” He threw up his hands, a gesture of helpless sympathy. “I’m sorry. The FBI can be ruthless sonsubitches when it comes to digging through files and records.” For a back-alley power broker, he assumed that was the very last thing she wanted to hear. “Please, excuse my language.”

She stepped in close, very close, and Simon had the feeling he was seeing the woman’s true nature for the first time. “We must find a way to prevent this intrusion into the SAR.”

We!
He shook his head, giving her his best look of bewilderment. “I don’t see how. Not unless those bastards who shot Mr. Rynerson suddenly decide to give themselves up.”

She nodded, looking up at him from beneath her bat wings. “This would not be likely.”

“Very unlikely,” he agreed.

“
Hai,
this leaves only one solution.”

He waited, knowing this was the moment.

“They must be apprehended before these
qai loh
agents begin their investigation.”

“That’s always a possibility,” he said, making it clear by his tone that he doubted it would happen. “We did offer a million-dollar reward for information leading to their capture. Somebody might talk, I suppose.”

She placed one of her pudgy hands on his chest, her touch soft as a flower. “It is possible I could be of some assistance in this matter.”

“Oh?”
Simple Simon here,
you’ll have to spell it out.

“I have, of course, no interest in this reward.”

He nodded, waiting, knowing the woman was now ready to sacrifice her firstborn to save herself.

“Some time past, I received a call…a man asking that I intervene on his behalf with the taipan. This is what I do, you understand…assist people in their business relationships here in the SAR.”

Right,
altruism for a price. “Who was this person?”

She stared up at him, her hand still on his chest. “Unfortunately, he refused to give me a name.”

Unless he had suddenly lost his ability to read people, she was telling the truth. “And what did this person want?”

“I’m not sure.” She continued to maintain eye contact, the liar’s classic effort to appear forthright. “I declined his request.”

He could see that she had now ventured into makeup land, where lies were conceived. “And what does this have to do with the attack on Mr. Rynerson?”

“Perhaps nothing.” She stepped back, her tone suddenly museful, as if thinking aloud. “But it now occurs to me, this person may have had ill intentions toward the taipan. That this attack may not have been the simple street crime we all assume.”

Simon nodded thoughtfully, playing the game, but he
assumed
nothing, least of all the
simple
part. “Yes, I see what you’re saying. But if you don’t know the person’s name…”

“I may still have notes regarding this conversation. Perhaps a telephone number, or one of those computer addresses.”

“That could be helpful.”

“Please—” She gestured for him to follow.

She led the way into the house, Clean II a step behind. They crossed through the drawing room and down a long gallery of original art—a nonsensical collection of old-world landscapes and pop-art convulsions—to a wide metal door at the far end of the house. Madame Chiang punched her password into the keypad and the heavy door began to move inward, slow and hushed, like a bank vault.

In contrast to the decor and scale of the home, the area was high-tech and relatively small—a combination panic room/office, without windows—a double row of fluorescent lights, reflecting off a highly polished white linoleum floor. There was little in the way of furnishings: a desk, a small refrigerator, two nonmatching chairs with casters, and a well-used leather couch. The desk, a football field of gray laminate stretching from one wall to the next, was nearly invisible, the top covered in electronic equipment and mountains of papers. A row of gray file cabinets covered the far wall, and above them, the only nonfunctional element in the room: an austere cityscape of black tubular steel, the buildings and bridges jutting out from the three-dimensional sculpture in a nightmarish depiction of futuristic existence.

Madame Chiang motioned toward the couch, indicating Simon should sit, then went to the desk and began searching through a stack of papers near the phone. Above her head, a double row of high-definition surveillance monitors displayed various views of the house and grounds. Clean II stationed himself just inside the door, his dark eyes attentive and unreadable.

Leaning back on the couch, Simon let his mind drift, hoping to sneak up on Billie’s story from a new angle. If she lied, and he was almost certain of that, it had to be for a good reason. But what? Combining the various bits of information, he began to play the scene through his mind: the narrow street…the rain…the fog…the darkness. For a brief moment the fog started to lift—
bang-bang-bang
—a vision of what happened, or might have happened, coming into focus…then something on the security monitors caught his eye. Not something he saw, but a lack of something. He glanced from one screen to the next, searching for movement, a bird or a tree branch, but not until he reached the last monitor—a view of the front garden and gate—that he knew for certain. Near the edge of the screen, the gatekeeper was just coming into sight, one leg extended, his foot an inch or two above the ground…hovering there…locked in suspended animation.
Probably nothing,
an electronic glitch, but for some reason it gave him a bad feeling, a low-frequence hum that vibrated outward along his nerves. “Excuse me…”

Madame Chiang glanced over her shoulder.

He pointed to the monitors. “The screens are frozen.”

She looked up, her head rotating slowly from one monitor to the next.
“Dee karray ray?”

Though Simon didn’t understand the words, her puzzled tone was clear enough. Clean II stepped forward, a look of annoyance as he studied the images, then his gaze settled on the last screen—the front garden and the unmoving leg of the gatekeeper—and his expression mutated from irritation to alarm. He spun around, his arm stretching out for the red panic button that controlled the vault-like door, but he was too slow and too late, someone already standing in the doorway. Except for the goalie-like Plexiglas mask that distorted his face, and a long-barreled pistol in his left hand, he looked like a mechanic or maintenance worker, his body covered neck to foot in a dark blue, zip-up-the front coverall. He smiled, the expression somewhat ghoulish beneath the thick plexi mask, and fired one quick shot—
pop
—the sound of a lightbulb breaking. Clean II stared back at the man, his expression frozen in surprise as a droplet of blood coursed down his forehead and dripped onto his nose, then his knees buckled and he pitched face-forward, his arm still extended toward the panic button—dead before he hit the floor.

Madame Chiang started to scream, but the sound died in her throat as a second bullet ripped through her trachea. Before Simon could react, the gun was pointed at his chest, the man warning him not to move with a gesture of his right hand. Simon nodded, indicating he understood, but knew if he didn’t do something, no matter how rash, he would end up like Mei-li Chiang, who had collapsed to her knees, her hands clutching at her throat, trying unsuccessfully to stem the river of red blood flowing down the front of her kimono and onto the white linoleum.

The man stepped forward, glancing down to avoid the spreading pool of blood, and Simon launched himself off the couch, diving for the man’s legs, bracing himself for the impact, expecting at least one bullet to find his back, but
hoping
it would miss his vital organs,
hoping
for a little luck. The moment seemed to last forever, one of those never-ending dream sequences, the colors muted, the sound turned off, the unending strain to get somewhere…reaching…reaching…almost there…and then, as quickly as it began, reality came crashing down, the searing impact on the back of his neck, the vivid explosion of colors through his head, the immutable fade into darkness.