Choke Point (10 page)

Simon knew better, but kept his eyes on Quan, conscious of the man’s clever evasion. “So you accept the possibility?”

“Yes, Mr. Leonidovich, I accept the possibility. I reject the likelihood. The Pearl will bring worldwide attention to the province. Why would anyone wish to delay the opening?”

That, of course, was the question. “I wouldn’t know,” although he could think of at least six countries that would be against any kind of trade alliance that would unite Taiwan with mainland China. “But Mrs. Rynerson thinks that some of the accidents might not have been accidental.”

Quan responded with a tight smile, the expression of someone reluctant to express what he truly felt. “Confucius said, ‘Worry often gives a small thing a big shadow.’”

A quote for every occasion, Simon thought, though he didn’t understand how Quan could view the accidents as a
small thing,
or why he would want to diminish their significance. “And we have a saying in my country: ‘If you’ve got a problem with roaches or rats, it helps to turn on the lights.’”

Quan leaned forward over his shiny black desk, his dark eyes suddenly fiery with indignation. “I assure you, Mr. Leonidovich, the lights are on. Security is at the very highest level.”

“Good. So, you’re telling me there’s nothing to worry about? Nothing I can do to help?”

Quan hesitated, obviously aware he had just been painted into a corner. If he refused help, and something happened, he would look incompetent. “It has not been made clear to me what kind of
help
you are here to provide, Mr. Leonidovich.”

They were now into the cat-and-mouse, Simon realized, establishing territories and boundaries. “Mrs. Rynerson has asked me to assist in any way I can.”

“Assist,” Quan repeated, clearly wanting to emphasize that role. “What, if I may ask, is your experience in the hospitality business, Mr. Leonidovich? In what area are you most qualified to
assist
me?”

Kyra glanced back and forth between them. “Now wait just a second. Simon is here to—”

“That’s okay,” Simon interrupted, “it’s a perfectly reasonable question.” A question, he was sure, to which Quan already knew the answer. “I have no experience in this business, Mr. Quan. Absolutely none. And, just so there’s no misunderstanding—” He paused to emphasize his point, to make it clear he wasn’t there to play assistant. “—I’m
not
here to learn.”

Quan leaned back in his chair. “
Neh
…?”

“No. Mrs. Rynerson wants me to investigate the accidents and do whatever it takes to prevent any further disruption in your efforts to open the Pearl on schedule.”

“I see. And what of those decisions normally reserved for Mr. Rynerson?”

It was the question Simon had been waiting for, the only question that really mattered—the question of purse strings and power. “Mrs. Rynerson has indicated—” He purposely used the word
indicated,
which was open to interpretation, since he and Billie had never actually discussed the matter. “—that Kyra and I make those decisions together, as best we can.”

Though his expression never changed, the contraction of muscles around Quan’s eyes was proof enough of his displeasure. Kyra, who knew nothing of this phantom discussion, looked equally unhappy. “I’m not really qualified.”

“Nor I,” Simon admitted, knowing he needed to offer Quan a way to save face if they were ever going to make things work between them. “It’s a terrible idea. A formula for deadlock and disaster. I suggest that any major decisions be decided between the three of us.”

“Sounds good to me,” Kyra said without hesitation. “Majority rules.”

Quan nodded thoughtfully, trying, but failing, to conceal his relief. “
Hai,
that should work.”

Simon extended his hand across the desk, wanting to move on before the man began thinking about power lost, rather than power gained. “Settled then.”

Quan nodded, and they all shook on the deal.

“So,” Kyra asked, “where do we start?”

“Perhaps I can help,” Quan answered. He reached over, pressed the intercom button on his phone, and in rapid-fire Cantonese began issuing instructions to his secretary. He released the button and sat back in his chair. “This will not take long.”

Though tempted to ask
for what,
Simon thought he detected a glint of wry amusement, and decided to give the man his moment.

While they waited, Quan extracted two mag-stripe smartcards from a locked drawer in his desk, inserted one of them into a special slot on his laptop, entered a memorized string of alphanumeric characters, then rotated the laptop toward Kyra. “This will allow you access to all areas of the property. Please, place your right thumb over the touchpad and hit the
ENTER
key.”

She did as instructed and a moment later it was done, the information embedded on a tiny chip within the plastic card. “Certain areas,” he explained “require only a passkey. The more sensitive areas require both a passkey and a biometric fingerprint match.”

“How much of the property,” Simon asked, “do you visually monitor?”

“How much?” Quan seemed surprised by the question, at its naïveté. “We maintain video surveillance over all public areas, including the parking garage.”

Simon tried to look appropriately impressed, zeroing in on something he should have considered earlier. “I’m talking back-of-house.”

“Everything,” Quan answered, “with the exception of changing rooms and showers.” He held up the second smartcard, moving it back and forth like a windshield wiper. “But access to
all
areas are electronically controlled.”

“So you’re able to control which employees have access to any given area?”

“Of course.” He inserted the card into his laptop and began entering code. “That’s essential.”

Simon nodded, being careful to keep his tone casual and curious. “So how many people have access to the entire property?”

“Only a select few,” Quan answered. “The principal managers and a limited number of top-level security officers. Employees are generally restricted to their area of assignment.” He turned the laptop toward Simon. “Right thumb, please.”

Simon placed his thumb on the touchpad and hit the
ENTER
key. “How about the roof?”

The dark eyes narrowed, the man finally realizing the conversation had a definitive destination. “The roof?”

“The tower roof.”

“And why would you be interested in the tower roof?”

Simon was sure the man already knew. “I would like to interview anyone who was up there when the building inspector fell to his death.”

“That was an accident.”

“How can you be sure? I understand his body landed twelve feet from the building.”

“
Hai,
that is true, but—” Quan gestured once again toward the window and the unrelenting storm. “The man was small of frame, and the wind currents quite substantial that day. Neither the police nor the safety officials found the distance to be significant.”

Wind currents,
he hadn’t even considered the effect. Why didn’t Billie say something? She must have read the report. Did she forget, or was she overreacting, looking for some excuse to explain the accidents and delays? “I’d like to see the official report.”

Before Quan could respond, the door opened and a huge man with raven-colored hair and Mongolian features came in toting two large, and obviously heavy, open-topped file boxes of tabbed and color-coded manila folders. He set the boxes in front of Quan, politely dipped his head, then withdrew without comment.

Quan pushed the boxes across the polished surface of his desk. “These are
all
the accident reports.” He smiled, the same wry grin from before, though this time he didn’t bother to hide his pleasure. “A good place to begin,
neh
?”

Buried in paper,
Simon thought, though he suspected any real clues, if they existed, were now locked away inside Big Jake’s head.

C
HAPTER
T
WELVE

Central Macau, northern peninsula

Saturday, 30 June 18:16:26 GMT +0800

Robbie gave the door a quick succession of coded taps, waited five seconds, then stepped into the dark room and closed the door. “Sir?”

“Here,” Mawl answered, not turning from his observation spot at the window. Nothing had really changed in six days: a few locals hunched over against the downpour, the street awash with floating bits of trash. Anyone but a native would stand out like a purple cow.

Robbie pulled off his fatigue cap, slapped it against his leg, and dropped it on one of the plastic molded chairs. “Bloody rain. Worse than Cambodia.”

Cambodia!
Robbie had missed that action by a couple of decades, but he loved war stories and Mawl saw no reason to smother the kid’s gung-ho enthusiasm. “Almost.” If you didn’t consider the bombs and bullets. Satisfied the kid hadn’t been followed, Mawl pulled the black plastic tarp back over the curtain, carefully taped the edge, then snapped on the light. The pale yellow glow did nothing to brighten the room’s seedy appearance. “Well…?”

“Yessir, you were ri—” His words dissolved in a muffle as he pulled his rain poncho over his head. “—looking for people.”

“And…?”

Robbie grinned, proud as a schoolboy who had just discovered he had the biggest willy in the locker room. “Aye, got the job sure enough.”

Mawl smiled to himself. “When do you start?”

“Monday morning, oh-seven hundred. We’re to be workin’ twelve-hour shifts, seven to seven, six days a week.”

“Good. Then you’ll be with her most of the time.”

“Yessir, up close and personal like.” His eyes glowed with lascivious mischief. “Until they hire some more blokes, I’m the only one on the team speakin’ English.”

“Don’t start getting ideas, kid. Kyra Rynerson is one smart lady. She catches you looking sideways and you’ll be gone.”

“Aye, I understand. No sweat.”

Mawl didn’t like the casual response, or that stupid Yankee idiom, and gave the kid a look hot enough to cauterize any foolish ideas he might have floating around in that boyo brain. “I mean it, kid. You mess up this job and I’ll let Big Paddy turn you into one of his nancy boys.”

Robbie grimaced. “Yessir, I understand.”

Mawl was now sure of it. A friend since his early days in the regiment, Big Paddy had spent six years in a Cambodian prison camp, an experience that left him slightly twisted, with a distinct taste for young men. Despite his many unusual proclivities, the man was absolutely loyal, absolutely trustworthy, and willing to do whatever Mawl asked. Anything. Without question. “You better, kid. Big Paddy’s got a stonker that would make a donkey jealous.”

“Yessir,” Robbie answered quickly. “You can count on me.”

“I am,” Mawl said, “that’s why I picked you for this assignment.” In truth, Robbie was the only one on the team with a record clean enough to get hired by such a high-end security service. “Just keep your ears open and your eyes lowered.”

“Yessir, I’ll be doin’ that.”

Mawl nodded confidently, not wanting to completely crush the kid’s warrior bravado. “That’s exactly what I told the client.” Trader, of course, had no idea Robert Joseph Kelts inhabited the same planet. “Assured him I had one of my best men on the job.”

The sun freckles on Robbie’s face brightened noticeably. “You mentioned me to the client?”

“Sure did. Don’t let me down.”

“No, sir.”

“Good.” Mawl lowered himself into a chair, being careful not to aggravate the wound under his arm. “I want you to find us a new place.” He pulled his wallet and counted out twenty thousand
pataca.
“Two bedrooms.”

“Only two?” The kid’s expression of self-assurance dissolved away, apparently afraid he might have to share a room with Big Paddy. “For five of us?”

“Paddy, Chrich, and Catman will stay here.” They wouldn’t like it—the place was so dirty even the cockroaches had fleas—but they were professionals and wouldn’t complain. At least not to him. “We need a place that fits your cover. Decent, but not conspicuous. With at least two good exit points.”

Robbie stuffed the money into his pocket, a relieved lift in his voice. “Aye. I’ll be gettin’ right to it.”

As soon as the kid was gone, Mawl attached his micro-recorder to his scrambler phone and punched in Trader’s private number. As always, the phone rang four times before an automatic router took control, followed by another distinctive click, then ten seconds of silence before the familiar voice came snapping back. “This is Trader.”

“And this is English.”

“I’m listening.” Though it was after midnight in the States, the man sounded fresh and fully awake.

There was no good way to say it, no way to spin the bad news into something positive, and Mawl knew it would be foolish to try. “They’re moving him to Bangkok.”

“Continue.”

Mawl hesitated—he expected an explosion, a demand to “finish the job!”—not
continue.
“He’s surrounded by his own security now. A team from Las Vegas. It’s unlikely we can get to him before he’s out of the country.”

“I understand.”

Why the change of attitude, this never-before understanding? “We can follow, of course. Eventually, we’ll get another—”

“Just tell me everything that’s going on. I’ll decide what to do.”

Mawl flipped open his surveillance log and started down the list of entries. “His daughter flew in early yesterday morning. She arrived at the hospital at 1:44, accompanied by—” He flipped over to his profile notes, the information supplied by his contact at the hospital. “—a Simon Leonidovich. Identified as a family friend. They’re staying at the Pearl.”

“In the same room?”

“No. Separate suites. 718 and 726.”

“Go on.”

“They met with Quan later that morning. The meeting lasted forty-eight minutes.”

“Don’t suppose you have any idea what they discussed?”