The Wild Beasts of Wuhan (11 page)

“You’re sending me copies of all those transactions?”

“We’re searching for them as we speak.”

“Who did the small wires go to?”

“I won’t know where any of them went until we see the wires.”

“I want to thank you for this,” Ava said. “You’ve been helpful.”

“Not a problem, except — can I assume you’ll try to contact Georges Brun and maybe the overseas bank?”

“You can.”

“You can’t mention that we gave you this information.”

“I won’t. And look, send the information to me as soon as you have it. Don’t wait until tomorrow.”

“Will do.”

She stared at the Liechtenstein phone number. Everything she knew about Liechtenstein told her that the number was probably the bank’s and that Brun was probably a bank employee. Assuming that was true, she tried to come up with a plausible excuse for calling that would get Georges Brun or whoever else was at the other end of the line to speak to her. She came up dry.

Frustrated with herself, she went online and began to research Liechtenstein banking and company registration regulations.
Maybe I’m overthinking this
, Ava thought.
Maybe the country’s reputation as a haven for offshore accounts has been overstated.

Half an hour later she gave up. Incorporating a company in Liechtenstein was as easy as buying milk at a corner store in Canada. There were officially more than seventy thousand registered holding companies in a country with a population of thirty-five thousand. And there were more than two hundred private banks to service those companies. Their reputation for secrecy was second to none, although they frowned on money laundering and were prepared to work with foreign government authorities if any fraudulent activity was suspected. Ava had no government credentials she could wave at them, and there was no hint of money laundering.

She then began considering the idea that the phone number was an actual company’s, not the bank’s. If it was, there would be a real name attached to the number she had.
What the hell,
she thought,
it’s worth a try.

She dialled the number and a woman answered in a language that sounded like German. “I’m sorry, I only speak English,” Ava said.

“Liechtenstein Private Estate Bank,” the woman said.

So much for that plan,
Ava thought. “Georges Brun, please.”

“Who shall I say is calling?”

“Never mind,” Ava said, and hung up.

She had no one else related to this case to talk to, or rather no one who would talk to her. Either way it made no difference. All she had left were the wire transfers, and she had no reason to believe they would contain information she didn’t already have.

( 12 )

The wires hadn’t arrived by seven thirty, and Ava was scheduled to join Uncle at eight at the Shanghai restaurant on the Kowloon side. Reluctantly she left her hotel and walked to the Star Ferry. This time she sat in the stern so she could look back at the magnificent skyline, which expanded as she moved farther away from shore.

Uncle was, as usual, already at the restaurant when she arrived. She hadn’t even sat down before he asked, “The banker called you?”

“Yes, and he was helpful.”

“Good. My friends want to know.”

Ava could only imagine what the banker had been told.

“What did you find out?”

“Nothing of any substance, but there may be some leads I can pursue.”

“So it is not over?”

“Not yet. Close, but not yet.”

He looked at the menu. “What kind of Shanghai food does your mother like?”

“Do they have drunken chicken?”

“Yes, and the stewed sea cucumber.”

“Steamed buns?”

“Of course.”

“Add a soup and that should be enough.”

“They have a Shanghai soup with pork, baby bok choy, and bamboo shoots.”

“Perfect.”

They talked idly while they ate. Ava’s last case had involved bringing two of Uncle’s men, Carlo and Andy, from Hong Kong to Las Vegas. Ava said some nice things about their contribution and asked what they were up to.

“Carlo has a bookmaking sideline, and Andy and his wife own a noodle shop near the Kowloon train station,” he said. “They were sorry they did not get to see more of Las Vegas. Carlo said you were a very tough boss. He meant that as a compliment, of course.”

They left the restaurant at nine. Sonny was waiting outside for Uncle, the Mercedes running. She hadn’t seen him there when she arrived. “I am going for a massage,” Uncle said. “Call me tomorrow and let me know if you are staying.”

Ava rode the ferry back to Central, the view of the skyline now almost overpowering. She had tried to explain it to an American friend one time and all she could compare it to was Times Square — ten times over.

When she arrived at the Mandarin, she asked the concierge if any packages had arrived for her. She was told that an envelope had been taken to her room a half-hour earlier.

Ava opened the door to her room and saw the envelope on the floor. She picked it up and went over to the desk, then opened it and smiled.

As the Kowloon banker had said, there had been seventeen wire transfers, and the envelope contained copies of them all. As she expected, fifteen wires had been sent to the Liechtenstein bank. The other two were more interesting. One, for US$100,000, had gone to a bank account in Dublin in the name of N. O’Toole, five years ago; the other, for $20,000, had been sent to a Jan Harald Sørensen in Skagen, Denmark, two weeks after the O’Toole wire.

It was just past nine o’clock in Hong Kong, late afternoon in both Dublin and Skagen. Ava found the Dublin bank’s phone number online and dialled the number. It took her two minutes to work through the prompts and get to a person.

“Hello, my name is Ava Lee. I work at the Kowloon Light Industrial Bank in Hong Kong. We’ve been asked to send a wire transfer to an account at your branch. Before transmitting it I wanted to confirm the account number and the holder’s name.”

“Yes, go on,” a woman replied.

“The account is in the name of N. O’Toole, and the number is 032-6567-4411.”

There was a pause. “You said you were going to send a wire?” the woman asked.

“That was the plan.”

“You should change it. That account was closed three years ago.”

“That’s strange. Mr. O’Toole gave us the number himself.”

A longer pause. “There was no Mr. O’Toole on this account, just a Mrs. O’Toole.”

“Are you absolutely sure about that?”

“Let me double-check,” the woman said. “Yes, it was Mrs. O’Toole. It’s quite clear.”

“And the N was the first letter of what name?”

“It doesn’t say, and I’m actually surprised that you wouldn’t know at your end. I mean, you’re the one sending the wire.”

“We Chinese aren’t all that good with Western names,” Ava said quickly. “Do you have any information on file that might help me contact Mrs. O’Toole?”

“No.”

Ava started to phrase another question when the line went dead.
Maybe the Danes will be more co-operative
, she thought, and dialled the number of the bank in Skagen.

She got a live person at the Skagen bank on the second ring. She repeated her story about preparing to send a wire transfer and passed along the account number and the name Jan Harald Sørensen.

“Yes, we can confirm it,” a woman said.

“Would you also have contact information for Mr. Sørensen?” Ava asked. “We normally like to put an address on the wire.”

“No, we can’t give out that type of information.”

“It would —”

“No, we don’t do it under any circumstances,” the woman said and hung up.

Bankers in Europe aren’t very accommodating,
Ava thought.
But then, they aren’t connected to Uncle and his network of friends.

She went online and spent the next fifteen minutes trying to find a Jan Harald Sørensen in Skagen, a town with a population of fewer than ten thousand people. She found a number of Sørensens, but no Jan, Harald, J.H., or even J.

She pushed her chair back from the desk and walked over to the window. She had the name of a Liechtenstein bank that wouldn’t talk to her and the names of two people she couldn’t locate. She knew that the bank had some kind of connection to Mrs. O’Toole and Mr. Sørensen, whoever they were. She also knew that it had been directly responsible for setting up the second Great Wall company account at the Kowloon bank, and the money from the forged art sales had flowed to them. Given that the company existed for the sole purpose of selling forged art to the Wongs, it made sense to her that this somehow linked O’Toole and Sørensen to the scam.
But how?
Ava thought.
Were they agents who set up a deal or two? Were they artists? Were they the painters who created the fakes?

Ava caught herself. She went back to the desk and leafed through the wire transfer copies. What it came down to, she finally decided, was that she had to assume that O’Toole and Sørensen were directly linked to the forgeries and were — a big leap in logic, she knew — probably the painters who had been used.
It’s the only connection I have to pursue
, she thought, as she started to call London.

“Frederick Locke.”

“This is Ava Lee.”

“Ms. Lee, I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon.”

“Something’s come up,” Ava said. “Do you know an Irish painter from Dublin named O’Toole?”

“Maurice O’Toole?”

“All I have is an initial, N, and I’ve been told the person is female.”

“I don’t know any female artists named O’Toole.”

“I thought it was a bit much to expect.”

“And if it’s Maurice you’re after, he’s been dead for some time.”

“Did he do fakes when he was alive?”

“Not that I know.”

“Are you being circumspect?”

“No, Ms. Lee, I’m not. I’m telling you I have no idea whether Maurice O’Toole painted forgeries or not.”

“Okay,” Ava said. “Now I have another name for you: Jan Harald Sørensen. He’s Danish, I think, and lives in Skagen.”

“Sorry again. I’ve never heard of him, although Skagen does have a very famous art colony, and the fact that I’m not familiar with him doesn’t mean he doesn’t exist and doesn’t paint.”

Ava sighed. “I think I’m just about ready to pack this in. I’m running out of doors to go through.”

“I wish I could be more helpful.”

“I understand, and thanks for taking the time. By the way, if my hunch is right, the two Dufy paintings among those Brian Torrence wants you to authenticate are the real deal.”

“How do you know that?”

“I’ve found a financial trail that indicates they were purchased like the other three that are genuine.”

“I’ll take a close look at them as soon as I possibly can.”

“Look, if you can think of anything about an O’Toole or a Sørensen, call me on my cell. I think I’ll be leaving Hong Kong tomorrow, but I’d still be interested if you uncovered anything.”

Ava closed her Wong notebook. She doubted it would be opened again. Liechtenstein wasn’t going to give her the information she wanted. She had a dead Kwong and a dead O’Toole, and that left her with exactly one lead. If she wanted to pursue it she would have to fly to Denmark and tromp around Skagen looking for someone named Jan Harald Sørensen, and if she found him, she had to hope he actually was an artist. That was too small a needle in too big a haystack.

She opened her laptop and emailed her travel agent, telling her to book the next day’s Cathay Pacific flight to Toronto. Then she let Mimi and Maria know she was heading back to Toronto. Maria answered immediately.
I’ll meet you at the airport.

Yes, I’d like that,
Ava replied.

Before turning off the computer she wrote to her father. She asked how the cruise was proceeding, told him that the Wuhan job wasn’t going to materialize, and then, almost as an afterthought, wrote,
I met Michael at dim sum yesterday. He looks very much like you, and acted very much like you.
It felt strange even writing his name.

She wasn’t sure what time she had fallen asleep but she knew it was just past two a.m. when she woke, the digital clock glowing next to the phone that rocked her into consciousness. “Ava Lee,” she said.

“This is Frederick Locke. I’m sorry for calling so late, but I knew you were going to be travelling and I thought you’d want to know what I’d found out before you left.”

“Found out?”

“The two paintings by Dufy — I think you were correct. I had a quick, intense look at the provenance and it seems to hang together.”

“That’s good. I’m sure the Wongs will be pleased.”

“And while I was looking into that, I had one of my assistants do some research on your O’Toole and your Sørensen.”

“And?”

“I had her check into Maurice O’Toole, and it emerges that he was married to a woman named Nancy. She managed his business affairs before he died.”

“Did she locate Nancy?”

“Yes, she died three years ago.”

Ava groaned. “Great. Everyone I need to talk to is dead.”

“The thing is, my assistant also said that Maurice was known to do a bit of funny stuff now and then. The idea of his painting some fakes isn’t out of the question.”

“How could I confirm that?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did they have children?”

“No.”

“Then it’s a long shot that any records still exist.”

“I agree.”

“One more dead end, pardon the pun.”

“Don’t be gloomy. We haven’t talked about Sørensen yet.”

Ava detected a touch of excitement in Locke’s voice, and whatever disappointment she felt vanished. “I’m listening,” she said.

“My assistant thought the name sounded vaguely familiar and went hunting through some Danish art databases. The reason we couldn’t find Jan Harald Sørensen is that he paints and sells under the name Jimmy Sandman.”

“Strange name.”

“Strange man. The name was originally a nickname his Skagen colleagues pinned on him because of his habit of scouring the beach every morning for driftwood, which he used to paint on. His paintings were focused on the seas and beaches around Skagen and were filled with repetitive characters: a Lutheran minister in his religious garb, a black-haired woman with bright red nipples, and a mournful clown-type character that was his take on himself. He is very, very talented, but limited in imagination and range.”