Detained (17 page)

Darcy had shafted him. Enacted her revenge. Somehow she had pictures, and she’d published them. He closed his eyes as memories of that night collided with the spike of anxiety that’d hit him when he’d seen that news crew. Somehow he’d known he wasn’t safe.

“Will, are you still there?”

“I’m here. We’re on our way to Pete’s.”

“You can’t go home tonight.”

“Why the hell not?”

“They’re at your apartment as well.”

“Fucking hell.”

“I sent Wendy to pack you an overnight bag. Clothes, toiletries, your laptop. Pete has it with him. You can stay with him. But I think you should go to Hong Kong and wait this out.”

“I’m not running off to Hong Kong. Bad enough I’m chased out of my own office and home.”

Aileen’s voice caught and when Will heard the slight hitch, that tiniest note of panic, he knew things really were bad. Nothing ruffled Aileen. “It’ll be all right. We’ll get through this.”

“It’s your worst nightmare. I should’ve—”

He cut her off. “Don’t start that. I’ll see you at Pete’s.” He rang off and exchanged a look with Bo.

“Are we in trouble, Boss?”

“I’m in trouble. And you just broke about three hundred traffic regulations.”

“Tough times call for extreme measures,” said Bo, as he broke half a dozen other rules by cutting down a narrow one-way street the wrong way and doing it at speed with his fist on the horn, Shanghai style.

Pete was standing in the underground garage of his apartment with Will’s overnight bag. Will opened the door and Pete leaned inside the car. “Wait, Bo. We need to get Will on a plane tonight.”

Will shoved Pete out of the car. “I’m not going anywhere. Bo, come get me here in the morning. Early, 4am, before the bastards are awake and organised.” He unfolded out of the Audi and faced Pete. “Tell me the worst.”

“Come upstairs and I’ll show you.”

In Pete’s luxurious apartment, Will’s world was rocked. Pictures only Darcy could’ve taken were all over the
Shanghai Daily
. Robert Yee kneeling where the overzealous security buffoons hired by the hotel had put him, and Will standing over him like he was judge, jury and executioner. He looked savage, untamed, inhuman in his rage. She’d captured the moment he’d finally understood his own risk taking, arrogance and egotism was his downfall. She handed his humiliation to him on a platter of his own making.

The pictures were all over the internet as well, but the Australian media was the worst. When Aileen arrived she had transcripts and recordings of radio and TV broadcasts, as well as Darcy’s original
Herald
story that started it all.

Pete cracked the seal on a new bottle of Lagavulin and poured them all glasses. “We sue. This is a clear breech of privacy. You were set up. This won’t stand up to the public interest test.”

“The horse has bolted. I don’t see the point.”

“I don’t know how much information you gave her, but she could go with everything. We have to show our hand now, before she does.”

Will looked at the caramel coloured fluid. He could almost taste its smoky vanilla buzz at the back of his throat, but he left the glass on the table. “How does that help us now?”

“It’ll make it easier to insist on those photos being taken off websites. It’ll make other publishers think twice about printing invasive images like this. It will tangle the
Herald
up in so much red tape and legal expense they’ll wish they never started this.”

“And Avalon?”

Pete shook his head. “Australia’s favourite chairman, Ted Barstow, tough old boot, won’t take my call. He wrote an email to say they’re advising all their shareholders to reject our offer.”

“We’ll increase the price.”

“I don’t think it’s going to help. And paying above fair value makes us look desperate. The Australian media have been hammering this story. You’re a tax dodging capitalist raider from hell. It’s over, Will. We can try again in a year or two when it’s all forgotten, but it’s over now.”

Will picked up his glass, heavy-bottomed. It’d make a good missile. Problem is he’d have to aim it at himself. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not that getting control of Avalon was going to be easy.

It went back to Aileen’s phone call from Mark Mason. Fat, lazy Gerry Ives, who they could wine, dine and manipulate, wasn’t coming. From that point on Will had been the inventor of his own disaster. It was supposed to be a quick match of hide and seek with a different journalist whose background was too obscure to clue them in to her ability. A quick assessment of risk and reward. Get in, get out. No harm, no foul.

But she’d been a surprising reward, and he’d taken every risk to be with her, and now he’d lost the main prize.

He looked at Pete. “And Darcy?”

“What do you care what happens to that bitch?”

Avalon was gone. Darcy had played him brilliantly at his own game. What did he care about her now? Tomorrow was what mattered. Regrouping so he could put Avalon back in his sights. Retreating so he could attack again.

He took a sip of the Lagavulin and savoured its smooth burn. “What’s the plan?”

“I really think you should get out, go to Hong Kong or Singapore or even Europe, Will. How long is it since you’ve taken a holiday? You could take one now,” said Aileen.

Will bit back the desire to shout at her. A holiday—a back seat, at the very moment he should be on the front foot. “Why?”

“The story is too hot. They’re going to chase you until they get more pictures, a comment, anything to keep it alive while it sells newspapers. If you disappear for a while it will get old quicker.”

“You want me to run?”

“We want you out of the firing line, that’s all,” said Pete.

“What if we give them a free shot instead?”

Pete looked from him to Aileen and back again. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

“A press conference, a statement, a photo call. I’ll go play basketball with a bunch of Peony orphans and let them see I’m not such a monster.”

Pete laughed. “The very opposite of what you really want to do.”

“I really don’t want to be in this fix. I’ll do anything to get out of it.”

“Even let them all take your picture and write what they want.”

“If that’ll work.”

Pete looked at Aileen. She shook her head. “If I thought it would I’d say let’s do it, but they’re baying for your blood. You won’t get a fair hearing, and we’d keep the story pumped full of air.”

“So, what? I’m supposed to slink off to a remote island and get a tan?”

“Is that such a bad thing?” said Pete.

Will stood, walked around Pete’s home office. “Why can’t I go to the Julu Road house? I can work from there.”

“Will, we can’t be sure they don’t know where all your properties are. They have the apartment, they could just as easy have the mansion house, and the villa in Jinqiao. It’s only a matter of time till they figure out you’re here.”

He leant against the glass wall, his back to the river, to the office where the media pack were probably still hanging out waiting to rub his nose in his ego.

“What are you thinking?” said Pete.

He was thinking of the expression on Darcy’s face just before he leaned into her punch. She’d truly hated him. He heard the sound of beads pinging off glass, and saw the heat in her eyes. But she’d wanted him too, even in his anger and frustration, even while he scared her.

“I don’t want to go after Darcy personally. As an employee of the
Herald
, with the protection of the paper, fine. But if she quits, if they sack her, we call the dogs off her.”

Pete grunted his assent. It wouldn’t have been the way he’d play it.

“I’m not leaving China, but I’ll get out of the city.”

“You can’t go to any of our sites,” said Aileen.

“I’ll go bush with Bo. A week, ten days, but that’s it. Whatever’s happening then, I’m coming back to work.”

Aileen looked relieved, and Pete was pacified. Will pulled his phone out and called Bo. They’d go visit Bo’s village, like he’d always wanted him to do. It was remote, difficult to get to, and the last place anyone with a camera or a recording device would look for him. It would give him time to think, clear his head properly of distractions and get his focus back on. Because when the dust settled there’d be a new plan, and there’d be no running.

“Never give a sword to a man who can't dance.” — Confucius

Bo brought the four-wheel drive and a face full of little boy on a big adventure to the parking garage under Pete’s apartment at 4am. He’d packed it with camping gear, groceries and a bag full of Will’s knockabout clothing. Will spied a fishing rod and Bo’s harp, and in the face of the older man’s excitement, felt his anxiety start to settle like the silk over the steel of a harp string.

He ditched Pete’s dressing gown for jeans with the knees ripped out of them, a t-shirt and hiking boots.

Let the hacks stand in the sun all day waiting to see if he’d show. He’d be kilometres away, working the kinks out of his neck, the flex out of his business strategy, and the girl out of his senses.

“Fifteen minutes at the temple and then out of here,” he said, as Bo slammed the tailgate shut.

Bo looked momentarily unhappy about that. “I’ll keep the engine running.”

Will grinned. “Deal.”

The temple on Wen Miao Street was the closest thing Will had to a spiritual home. Yet strictly speaking it wasn’t even a temple because Confucius was a secular leader, not a god. But his philosophy of personal and government morality, correctness in relationships, justice and sincerity appealed to the pragmatist in Will. Since basing himself in Shanghai he’d started coming here to be still, to reflect and to think. Something about the quiet, the contained purposefulness of the people who visited, and the sheer oriental novelty of it helped him stay focused.

He only wanted a quick visit before they kicked the city. To light a stick of incense, to watch the favours tied to the big rubber plant flutter in the pre-dawn light. He liked to think people who left their wishes, written on paper inked with Confucius’ image and tied in red ribbon to the tree, got what they needed in life. Good marks in an exam, a promotion at work, a financial windfall, a much wished for pregnancy.

He’d been blessed with so much more than he needed, and on a day when that fact was clouded by trouble, he needed the reminder. He wasn’t religious, but Confucius was a cool dude, a scholar and a businessman, and Will could relate to his philosophy of order and peace, compassion and loving others. That, and he’d read Confucius copped a beating as a kid, so the bearded one felt like his people.

He watched the favours flutter in the breeze. He breathed in the sweet incense, and kept an eye on his watch. Bo would do more than quote real and made up Confucianism’s at him if he was late.

At 4.30am, exactly fifteen minutes after Bo dropped him outside the big red doors of the Da Cheng gate with their bronze dragon knockers, he made his way back to the street. But no Bo, no dragon sized car with its throaty purr. He looked about. This was odd, but maybe Bo had forgotten something he thought they needed. There was no one about and the light was still grey so it wasn’t a problem to wait. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and dialled. Bo’s phone rang out.

Will had known Bo for ten years. He couldn’t remember a time when he’d not picked up before the fourth ring. Even in the middle of the night. Even when it was least expected. A prickle of doubt made him clench his jaw. But the man would jump off the Lupu Bridge before he’d do anything to inconvenience Will.

He shook his head. Bo was probably scouring the city for somewhere to get good coffee at his hour. He turned to go back into the temple and a man appeared on his right. He gave a polite nod and the man nodded back, but instead of keeping a respectful distance, the man started towards him.

It’d taken Will a while to get used to the difference in the concept of personal space in Asia. Back home arms-length away was crowding. In Shanghai, someone would try to build an apartment block in that space. Still, it was annoying to find the only other person on the street wanted to walk right beside him.

At the gate he hesitated, dropped back to let the other man go ahead. The man hesitated too. He had busy eyes, darting around. He had one hand shoved inside a coat it was too warm to be wearing.

Will sensed the danger when it was almost too late to do anything about it. This bloke was a pickpocket or a standover man, and Will was his designated victim. Ironic. He looked like a bum this morning. He hadn’t shaved. He wasn’t carrying a wallet or wearing jewellery. Not even a Shanghai cutthroat would be interested in his old Tag.

He put both hands up to show he wasn’t a threat. To show he was onto the game. He said, “What do you want? I don’t have any money,” in Shanghainese, repeating it in Cantonese.

He was aware of a movement behind him. Another man, more than one? This was a beat down. Where the fuck was Bo?

The first man revealed the shortened wooden Kung Fu practice sword he was carrying. The Chinese urban equivalent of a sawn-off shotgun. At least it wasn’t a blade. There were definitely three men. Was this random, or did they know who he was? All he needed was a TV news crew to pull up and yesterday’s scandal would be the warm-up to today’s disaster.

He had a decision to make. Buying his way out of trouble wasn’t possible unless Bo showed up in the next ten seconds. Talking himself out of trouble was even less likely when it was three to one. He hadn’t been in a physical fight for years. The smart thing to do would be to take the beating and hope they got bored quickly or Bo arrived to scare them off. But if they’d gotten to Bo first, he could end up being thoroughly hurt here. There were two other options. Make a run for it, and hope he was faster, or take the fight to them.

He was fit and they might not expect him to attack first. The odds weren’t great but his adrenaline was pumping, and he’d never been a fan of running from trouble. Thug number one had the sword, he had no idea what weapons thugs two and three had, but it was time to find out.