Heart of Lies (11 page)

“Tell me, what do you know about a man by the name of Liu Tue-Sheng?”

Cosgrove raised his eyebrows. The cigar he was savoring tilted up at a forty-five degree angle. He removed it to speak.

“Good Lord, you haven’t gotten mixed up with him already, have you?”

Smiling, Leo shook his head. “I’ve just heard some interesting things about him, and wondered how much of it was true.”

“Well, chances are it’s all true and then some. What have you heard?”

“That he’s obscenely rich, has three wives, and has the French police in his pocket; that he’s involved in prostitution and opium smuggling, but seems to have carved out a respectable niche for himself, at least in some circles.”

“Well, that’s all true enough, except I don’t agree with the ‘respectable niche’ part. Liu is a character all right, and a damn dangerous one. Why, I heard that he once sent a coffin ’round to someone he thought had cheated him. Had it delivered to the front door, just like a telegram. Chap had the good sense to leave the country, too, chop chop. Liu doesn’t make empty threats.”

Cosgrove paused for a moment to check his cigar. It had gone out. He signaled for one of the hostesses to come over and relight it for him. A tall brunette did so, suggestively striking a match without taking her luminous eyes off Leo. Cosgrove did not appear to notice. He took another puff of his cigar, briefly watched the resultant circle of smoke hover over the table, then resumed his speech.

“And as for the French police, why, the Frogs on this side of the Pacific don’t know the meaning of the word integrity. I’ve no doubt he has the whole force sewn up. Good thing he hasn’t yet wormed his way onto the Municipal Council.”

“I hear he owns a bank, and is on the boards of several important charities, including a hospital.”

Cosgrove gave Leo a curious look. “Listen here. I don’t know what kind of deal you may be cooking up, but Liu is a bad character. Rather than fight corruption, he profits from it. He covers his evil tracks with a veneer of respectability, but the polish can’t hide the dirt underneath. I’ve heard that nonsense about him being a man of his word, but I wouldn’t put it past him to sell his children if the price were right. They just don’t have the same conscience, these Chinese. Even if they seem trustworthy, doesn’t mean they won’t do you in. And you won’t see the knife coming, either.”

“I’ll keep my eyes open.” The reappearance of the dancing girls curtailed their conversation, and gave Leo a moment to think. It sounded like Liu might be just what Olanavich had suggested: a criminal, but also wealthy and discreet. Just the man to approach with some black market diamonds. Three of them. One for each wife.

The next day he tracked down the address Olanavich had given him. It led him to a handsome villa on Bubbling Well Road, in the British residential section. Mr. Lee was not at home. Leo left a message, neatly written on the back of his own freshly printed calling card, displaying his new address at the Palace.

Then he waited.

For a week he heard nothing from the mysterious Mr. Lee. To pass the time he tried to busy himself by learning more about life in Shanghai. He started by chatting up the workers in his hotel. Cloaked with the invisibility of servitude, they learned a lot about the wealthy and the powerful. He engaged the hotel pianist, the flower shop girl, and the bartender in cozy conversations. Reticent at first, they all eventually talked freely. It was impossible not to talk to Leo.

He also hired a real estate agent to show him houses, pretending that he was quite ready to buy one. He picked a man who was as gossipy as Cosgrove. Leo soaked up details about his new home as quickly and intensely as he had when he was a young boy new to Budapest.

Then, just as he was about to try and find another way to sell his first few diamonds, he received a telephone call.

“Mr. Hoffman?” The voice sounded raspy but cordial, and definitely Chinese.

“Speaking.”

“This is Mr. Lee. Our mutual acquaintance, Mr. Olanavich, tells me that you are new to Shanghai, and suggests you have something of value in which my employer may be interested. He thought you may have three such items.”

“He did?”

“Yes. I must confirm such things.”

“Of course. I understand.”

“Mr. Olanavich indicated that you are Russian. Yet, you speak English with no accent. Very difficult. My compliments.”

“Thank you.” Leo offered no explanation. His origins were irrelevant.

Mr. Lee continued. “Could you possibly bring these items to a meeting this evening?”

“This evening? What did you have in mind?”

“Do you know the Willow Lake Tea House?”

“I’ve seen it, but I’ve not yet been inside.”

“You will find it most charming, I am sure. Shall we say four o’clock?”

“That would be convenient.”

“Very well. I will arrange for a private room. Ask for me when you enter.”

“Of course.”

“Then, until this evening.”

“Yes.”

“Goodbye.”

The Willow Lake Tea House was in Nantao, the old Chinese section of the city. It sat in the center of a small lake. One reached the decorative oriental villa via a zigzagging foot bridge, a path designed to confuse evil spirits, which, according to Chinese lore, could only cross water in a straight line.

Leo arrived on time. He was immediately shown to a small, private room. A full English tea had been laid out on the low table. Mr. Lee was waiting.

He was a small, dumpling-shaped man, dressed in a comfortably cut, crisp wool suit. Mr. Lee gave no indication that theirs was any
thing other than a purely social visit, making small talk for the better part of an hour. Leo knew better than to push. He knew he was being evaluated.

Just when Leo thought his meeting would prove fruitless, Mr. Lee asked to see the stones.

He pulled a loupe out of his pocket and examined them for several minutes, saying nothing. Then he looked up. A sparkle of intrigue glinted from within his dark brown eyes.

“I will communicate with my employer. If he is interested, I will contact you.”

Leo received a note from Mr. Lee two days later. Something about the obsequious air with which the hotel clerk delivered it made Leo curious about the size of the tip that had been passed to ensure that it reached his hands unopened. He ripped into the envelope.

The invitation did not provide the opportunity to respond negatively. This confirmed another fact regarding Liu Tue-Sheng: he was accustomed to power. Leo would not tempt the man’s patience. The next afternoon, at precisely two fifty-five, Leo took a seat in a comfortable leather chair in the lobby of the Palace.

He did not have long to wait. A bearlike Asian man, his barrel chest crammed into a western-style suit, strode into the lobby at a moment
before three. Glancing around the crowded lobby, he zeroed in on Leo and marched over to his chair. He spoke in the hissing, deeply accented speech of a coolie who has just moved beyond Pidgin English.

“Meesta ’Offmann?”

Leo did not stand. He had to establish his authority over Liu’s subordinates.

“Yes?”

“The cah await.”

“And for whom is the car waiting?”

This confused the driver. “You not espec a cah?”

“I’m not in the habit of climbing into strange limousines. If you have instructions suggesting that I should accompany you, you must first tell me who issued the invitation, and where we are going.”

Leo could tell he’d stumped the man. He could see consternation building across his face as he weighed his alternatives.

“We go to Meesta Liu Tue-Sheng house, sir,” he finally said.

“Very good.” Thus informed, Leo stood up. “I will retrieve my coat.”

Settling into the back seat of Liu’s Rolls Royce, Leo felt for the three diamonds nestled in his breast pocket. Now, finally, something was happening. This was his first chance to turn disaster into triumph. His first chance to create a future that could include Martha.

With many aggressive maneuvers and much blowing of the horn, Liu’s driver pushed through the chaos of Nanking Road. Once clear of the commercial district they sped past the gracious lawn of the municipal racecourse, then turned left at Mohawk Road, which took them into the residential heart of the French Concession. Within twenty minutes the car stood outside the gates of Liu’s estate.

Leo was immediately struck by the fortifications. The compound was surrounded by an eight foot brick wall crowned with vicious looking slabs of broken glass. The guard at the gate house peeked into the back seat to confirm Leo’s presence, then looked in the trunk as well. Once granted admission, the car meandered up the long, winding driveway. Small guard posts dotted the landscape at regular intervals. Despite the intense security, the grounds were serene and beautifully landscaped, a pleasure for the senses even in the middle of winter.

The vehicle reached the main house and pulled up under the stone porte-cochere. The mansion was built in the manner of an Edwardian villa. Arches, balustrades, and Palladian windows endowed the facade with an airy symmetry. The gigantic building looked like it had been imported stone by stone from Europe.

A young Chinese servant dressed in a floor-length gown of starched white cotton greeted Leo at the door. Once inside, the resemblance to a European residence diminished. The entrance hall was lined with glass cases, displaying not antiques or bibelots, but an impressive arsenal of rifles. Beyond the entrance hall the decor was unmistakably Chinese. Elaborately carved, high-backed chairs, silk settees, exquisite screens, and numerous plants and porcelain pots filled the rooms. Here and there Leo spotted a costly European piece: a Louis XIV clock, a Chippendale chair. Either Liu had an excellent eye, or he knew enough to take the advice of someone who had one.

His guide stopped in front of what appeared to be the entrance to a private study. Before showing him in, the boy executed a delicate but professional frisk of Leo’s person. Leo acquiesced without comment, then was shown into the room.

Lustrous rosewood paneling glimmered on the walls. The room’s grand windows offered a view of a small Buddhist temple, tucked under the branches of an ancient willow tree. The study contained two writing tables, with several matching mandarin-style chairs. The carved wood was inlaid with mother-of-pearl. Rolls of parchment, which Leo took to be correspondence, covered the desktops. A few feet from the desk, a mahogany dragon rose four feet into the air to form the base of a pedestal. Balanced upon the dragon’s curved tail was a crystal bowl containing a large, fan-tailed goldfish.

Leo had only a moment to admire the view before he heard footsteps. As he turned to face the door, Liu Tue-Sheng entered the room.

He was thin, terribly thin, but tall for a Chinese; his gaze met Leo’s directly. The long, traditional Chinese robes he wore were made of heavy, cream-colored silk. The high mandarin collar and wide sleeves were embroidered with red and gold thread. The hem stopped just short of the floor, revealing pointed, western-style boots.

Liu’s face was long and narrow; his cheekbones high and gaunt. What remained of his hair was gray and cut short. His nose added no character to his features. There was nothing particularly intimidating about this man, except for the fact that his black eyes conveyed absolutely no emotion. He had the eyes of a shark.

“Mister Hoffman. I am Liu…Tue-Sheng. Thank you for accepting my…invitation.” He delivered the words in precise, near-flawless English, but the cadence of his speech was stilted. Leo suspected that his awkwardness resulted from the concentration required to avoid the pitfalls of an oriental accent. It seemed that Liu would rather speak slowly than sound like a coolie. Again, Leo was impressed.

“Thank you for inviting me to your beautiful home. It is an honor.”

Liu acknowledged this compliment with a slight motion of his head. Swinging a wide sleeve away from his slim frame, he gestured toward one of the chairs.

“Please be seated. I regret that we have not much time today to conduct our business. You have brought the stones with you, I assume?”

“Of course.”

Liu took a seat behind one of the desks and cleared several scrolls out of the way.

“Would you be so kind as to let me examine them?”

“It would be my pleasure.” Leo placed the handkerchief containing the diamonds on the desk, then reclaimed his seat.

Liu unrolled the handkerchief carefully, allowing each stone to roll onto the wooden surface. He then picked them up one by one, and held each up to the light for a fraction of a moment before setting it back down on the desk.

“Exquisite.”

With this comment, Liu rose, and drifted over to the fish bowl. The crystal orb’s graceful resident detected the presence of its master and swam to the surface, its greedy mouth already searching for goods. Liu removed a pinch of a flaky brown substance from a small porcelain container. With meticulous care, he sprinkled the fish’s repast across the water, and then spoke again, the motionless brocade of his silk-covered back still facing Leo.

“I have been assured that the three diamonds you offer are spectacular. I assume that you could, if necessary, locate others of a similar caliber?”

Liu knew.
Why else would he think there were more diamonds? This was a trap. With every ounce of self-control he possessed, Leo re
mained outwardly unperturbed. He must find out whether he was in any real danger.

“Why? Would you be interested in more?”

“There is that possibility.” Now Liu turned, moving with the un-hurried air of a man used to setting the pace of a conversation. The expressionless eyes once again focused on Leo.

“If we could reach an appropriate arrangement, I have an acquaintance who might find your diamonds useful. He is involved in, shall we say, a certain project, which requires that he distribute reasonably large amounts of capital to various interested persons—”