Dead and Kicking (16 page)

‘This is Mr Rayes. Mr Rayes is Macanese – Portuguese Chinese. If I was a serious wanker I’d say he was our comprador.’

‘What’s a comprador?’ Nhu asked.

‘In the old days, foreign trading companies in Macau and Hong Kong employed native-born agents as sort of go-betweens to represent them in commercial transactions with local Chinese. You really couldn’t get anything done without them. And we probably couldn’t get anything done around here without Mr Rayes. He’s extremely discreet, has a black belt in Tae Kwan Do and a Harvard MBA, and I’ve got a sneaking suspicion he could buy and sell me three times over. He also mixes a mean Manhattan.’

‘Sounds good to me, Jack,’ I said.

We settled into leather armchairs by the fire. I chose one where I could keep an eye on the bar.

Mr Rayes placed four cocktail glasses on the counter, then filled them with ice and topped them up with water to chill. He noticed me watching and, turning back to the shelf of liquor bottles, selected two and held them up for me to choose. One was a Jim Beam Yellow label and the other was Old Overholt. I nodded towards the Old Overholt and Mr Rayes smiled.

A few minutes later four cocktails arrived on a tray, the liquid classically golden red with a maraschino cherry resting on the bottom of each glass.

‘Here’s to living to fight another day,’ Jack said raising his glass.

‘I’ll drink to that,’ I said, taking a sip.

‘This is delicious,’ Nhu said.

‘Proper American rye whisky,’ I said. ‘Accept no substitutes. Only way to make a real Manhattan.’

‘Anyone hungry?’ Jack asked. ‘I can whip us up a quick snack.’

I shook my head. I could feel my body starting to complain about the abuse it had taken over the course of the evening, and I flexed my shoulders. I must have grimaced or twitched at the movement and Jack smiled.

‘Can’t take a couple of kidnappings and a bracing sea voyage all in the one evening, Alby? Struth, mate, you’re getting old. Ought to get yourself some exercise. Mr Rayes is available for workouts in the basement gym for those wishing to keep limber,’ he continued, looking at Nhu, ‘and we can also supply an interesting range of pistols and light automatic weapons for those who like to keep their distance,’ he said, looking at me.

‘I’m a lover, not a fighter, Jack,’ I said. ‘You know that.’

Jack laughed. ‘In your dreams, mate,’ he said, and VT gave me one of those concerned-uncle warning looks.

‘And speaking of dreams,’ Jack continued, ‘just grab any key from reception when you’re ready to hit the sack. Breakfast will be served on the terrace upstairs anytime you want.’

I finished off the Manhattan and stood up. ‘It’s been a bit of an interesting day and I think I need a good night’s sleep. And maybe a nice long soak in a hot tub.’

‘There’s a jacuzzi in the Lisboa Suite. Mr Rayes can point you in the right direction.’

Reception was unattended, but the door behind it was slightly ajar so I stuck my head in. The brass plate on the door said ‘Manager’s Office’ and Mr Rayes was managing very nicely. He looked up from behind a desk and smiled. Besides the usual computers and office equipment there was a wall of video monitors showing images of every possible approach to the hotel and the building’s entry and exit points.

‘To let you know when guests might be approaching?’ I asked, indicating the monitors. ‘So you can break out the bellboys?’

Mr Rayes nodded. ‘Mr Stark likes to be aware of the disposition of all visitors at all times.’

That sounded fair enough. I’d had a few unexpected visitors just lately whose disposition I hadn’t much cared for.

‘And I guess in a classy establishment like this some of your visitors warrant a twenty-one gun salute.’

I was referring to the rack behind the desk that held half a dozen nasty-looking Benelli M4 Super 90 shotguns.

‘We reserve the right to refuse service,’ Mr Rayes said, ‘and sometimes it is necessary to make the point forcefully.’

I made a mental note not to complain about anything during my stay.

‘Mr Stark has suggested I might like the Lisboa Suite,’ I said.

Mr Rayes stood up. ‘An excellent choice.’

You had to wonder if in a five-star, four-room hotel there was such a thing as a bad choice.

The Lisboa Suite was huge, decorated in a Chinese retro thirties style with antique rosewood furniture, old brass ceiling fans to complement the air-conditioning and a bigger-than-king-size bed. The bathroom had a tub the size of an Olympic swimming pool, which I filled while hunting down some aspirin in a well-stocked cabinet full of razors, aftershave, moisturisers, shampoos and bubble bath. I squirted some bubble bath into the tub, stripped off and lowered myself slowly into the hot water.

I’d turned on the spa jets and was just getting comfortable when Nhu walked in. She was naked; well, almost, apart from the 9mm Russian Yarygin Pya.

She was just as spectacular as I remembered from Saigon – lean, muscular and very, very toned, with a flat belly and the most amazing breasts. I suddenly wondered if the hotel’s video surveillance system was confined to the exterior.

‘Nice gun,’ I said, ‘but you won’t need it. I’ve taken some aspirin. I wasn’t going to pull the old “not tonight, I’ve got a headache” routine.’

‘It would appear there are still many people who want you dead, Mr Murdoch,’ she said quietly, ‘and not just in Vietnam.’

My eyes flitted backwards and forwards between the gun and her naked torso. ‘Well,’ I said, ‘that’s certainly put a dampener on the romantic mood.’

She put the pistol down on the green jade vanity, pinned her hair up and stepped elegantly into the tub. As her breasts disappeared under the froth, I regretted using so much bubble bath. The toes of her left foot found a rather sensitive part of my anatomy and I sat up straight.

‘Is that perhaps bringing the mood back?’ she asked.

I nodded.

The next fifteen minutes were a battle between the water jets trying to relax me and Nhu working diligently on having exactly the opposite effect. She used that age-old female trick of doing and saying nothing and just looking gorgeous.

Eventually, Nhu stood up, smiled and stepped out of the tub. That bottom really was amazing. There was a pile of plush white towels on a small table and she tossed me one. She took the pistol and placed it under the pile before towelling herself dry.

‘So I guess I can take it that you don’t think I’m in any danger of dying tonight?’

‘I think we can say there is little danger of that, Mr Murdoch,’ she said, dropping the towel and walking into the bedroom.

But as it turned out she was mistaken. A couple of times before morning I felt like I might have come very, very close.

The Lisboa Suite was the bee’s knees. We had Krug champagne and Godiva G Collection chocolates in the minibar, a real espresso machine, windows that actually opened and no TV with CNN giving us all the bad news all the time. The bed was firm, the lighting was subtle, Nhu was soft and if things got too much for a bloke you simply pressed 9 on the phone on the bedside table for a paramedic with a defibrillator. Okay, 9 was really for room service, but I couldn’t think of anything I needed to send out for that I didn’t already have.

At around three in the morning, when the traffic noise outside had died down and the room was dark, I realised I was alone in the bed. A light was on in the bathroom and Nhu came out with a glass of water and no gun so I figured I’d been holding up my end of the deal. She handed me the glass and I took a drink.

I watched as she walked across to the window and pulled back the heavy drapes, leaving the semi-sheer diaphanous curtains in place. She was lithe, light on her feet and totally comfortable with her nakedness. In the moonlight she was all soft curves and mysterious shadows. I decided I could watch Nhu walk around naked all night, and all day for that matter.

Even though there was no TV, the suite did have a sound system. Not one of those CD players made to look old in a retro cabinet, but an actual vintage rosewood console record player from the fifties. It looked like something Chairman Mao might have owned. Nhu walked across the room and searched through the collection of twelve-inch LPs next to the player. I decided I could watch her search through LPs all day as well.

The control knobs on the record player were labelled in Chinese characters but she eventually figured things out and gently lowered the needle onto a black vinyl disk. There was a momentary crackle and then the mellow tones of Nat King Cole filled the room, enhancing the romantic atmosphere.

Nhu got back into bed and settled down beside me, looked deeply into my eyes and delicately, subtly and with great sensuality began to pick my brains. I’d been interrogated a couple of times before in my life by people using less subtle methods, and given a choice I’d definitely prefer to go with this technique.

This stunningly beautiful woman who was apparently keenly interested in my hopes and dreams and aspirations was in a rather skilful way trying to find out exactly what I knew about the Honourable Vaughan Crockett.

‘How would a Vietnamese police investigation into money laundering in Macau involve the American Ambassador to Australia?’ I asked.

‘These things are sometimes complex, Mr Murdoch. They are not always as they seem.’

‘Too complex for a simple photographer?’

She smiled. ‘Sometimes simple photographers are not always what they seem, either.’

I was wondering just what to make of that when Nhu decided to change the subject. The way she did it put her questions and the Ambassador right out of my mind.

When I woke up again around six, the curtains were open, the sky was already bright and the traffic noise out on the street was beginning to build. Nhu was awake, too. She was standing at the window, naked, her back to me. The soft early-morning light diffused by the semi-sheer curtains accentuated the curves of her body.

‘You will be travelling back to Australia soon, Mr Murdoch?’

‘Today or tomorrow,’ I said. ‘WorldPix is launching a big photographic exhibition in Canberra later this week and they want me there.’ I paused for a moment and then added, ‘The American Ambassador will be doing the honours.’

There was a subtle change in Nhu’s body language and I reached across and put my hand on the little Leica camera on the bedside table.

‘Please don’t make me go and get my gun, Mr Murdoch,’ she said, without turning around. I took my hand away from the camera.

Nhu walked back to the bed, scooping up several discarded pillows on the way. She piled them up against the headboard then picked up my camera from beside the bed and pointed it down at me. The sight of this beautiful woman towering over me, naked with a camera obscuring her face, was one of the most striking images I’d ever seen. If I’d had a second camera handy, it would have been a shot worth risking my life for.

‘There are people in my department who would give almost anything for a picture of me with my clothes off,’ she said.

I could actually help them with that since I’d casually pressed the shutter button when I touched the camera on the bedside table, just as she had warned me off.

‘I doubt if they’d be much interested in one of me,’ Isaid.

She laughed and put the Leica down, but not before I caught a quick glimpse of the shutter opening briefly in the lens.

‘Something on your mind?’ I said, trying to read the expression on her face.

‘I was just thinking about breakfast,’ she said.

‘Want me to ring room service?’

She shook her head. ‘I’m certain room service won’t have what I had in mind.’

The next fifteen minutes were a strange mix of bliss and discomfort. I jumped a couple of times because Nhu had very sharp teeth, which she used with tantalising effect.

But those pearly white teeth also made me a bit uncomfortable for another reason. I was wondering if Nhu had been lying to me through them ever since we’d first met. I found it somewhat difficult to relax and go with the moment. But only somewhat.

‘How’s your head this morning, Alby? My old gran always used to say feed a cold, starve a fever and treat a mild concussion with a big cooked breakfast.’

‘Your old gran wasn’t a practising neurosurgeon by any chance, was she, Jack?’ I asked.

It was just after ten and a typical sunny Macau morning, the humidity already building. A breakfast table was laid on the rooftop terrace under a large green market umbrella. There were fresh pastries and rolls, sliced cold meats and cheeses, and a jug of chilled orange juice, along with a bottle of Krug in an ice bucket. Jack was standing over the barbecue while VT made coffees at a rather serious-looking espresso machine.

The cast-iron barbecue plate held bacon, sliced black pudding, thick sausages, lamb cutlets, mushrooms, sliced tomato and thick chunks of potato sizzling amongst nicely caramelised onion rings.

‘Bugger all those chefs with their mod-Oz and fusion bullshit,’ Jack said, ‘believe me, Australia’s great gift to the culinary world is the mixed grill for breakfast. How do you like your eggs?’

‘Over easy.’

The breakfast terrace had an amazing view across Macau that was being built out by the rapidly sprouting casinos. There were just the three of us and the table had only three place settings.

‘Nhu not around?’ I asked.

Jack shook his head. ‘She’s done a bunk. Mr Rayes said she left sometime before eight.’

I hadn’t heard Nhu shower or dress or leave the room, but then the events of the past week had been exhausting and the overnight erotic activities had left me totally wasted.

‘She told Mr Rayes she was on an important assignment and had to get back to it,’ Jack continued. ‘I suppose that could be true, Alby, or maybe you were just seriously crook in the sack.’

VT gave Jack a dirty look before I could answer. Jack whistled and a bleary-eyed beagle wandered out from under the shade of a potted palm. I had a feeling Jack wanted to move the subject away from bedrooms and activities therein.

‘Meet Biggles,’ he said.