Choke Point (17 page)

Monday, 9 July 09:32:33 GMT +0800

Sitting cross-legged on the straw sleeping mat, Simon strained to identify the approaching footsteps: the heavy-booted tread of the morning guard, and the lighter step of a second person, a woman or small man. They paused outside the steel door, a key scraped in the lock, the heavy tumblers rolled over, and the door swung open, revealing the dour and always officious Mr. Gao Wu. He dipped his head—“Mr. Leonidovich”—then took one measured step forward, stopping just inside the door.

Simon nodded, mimicking the man’s less than cordial bow. “Mr. Wu, how good of you to visit. I would offer you a chair—” He motioned toward the steel toilet. “—but that’s the best I can do.”

Wu never diverted his eyes from Simon’s face, the unassailable expression of a man on a mission. “I wish you to know, I have been doing all that is possible to obtain your release.”

Simon knew better—suspected the man wanted something—but kept his thoughts hidden behind an expression of grim understanding. “I’m grateful. These things take time.”

Wu nodded, not realizing his favorite bureaucratic aphorism had just been shoved into his bureaucratic face. “Unfortunately, this is true.”

“Is there anything I could do to expedite the process?”

Wu hesitated, as if considering the thought for the first time. “It is a most delicate matter. The investigation is still ongoing.”

“I understand.”

“Any premature disclosure of information could jeopardize the investigation.”

So that was it, the great and mighty People’s Republic was worried about what little ol’ Simple Simon might say to the press. “Yes, that would be unfortunate. In my country—” He tried to make it sound like America had an answer to everything. “—the judge would simply impose a gag order while the investigation was ongoing.”

“Really?” Though Wu tried to look surprised, it was obvious he cherished the moment. “What about your famous ‘freedom of the press?’”

Simon shrugged. “The order is usually lifted once the investigation is complete.” And this one, he had a feeling, was now destined for the land of never-over.

“You would not find such a thing…” Wu paused, struggling to find the right words to express himself.

“Too restrictive?”

“Hai.”

“Not for me,” Simon answered, being careful not to overdo it. “But I happen to be one of those people who dislike reporters. Too damn nosy for my taste.”

Wu nodded thoughtfully. “It is possible I may be able to work something out.”

More than possible, Simon suspected, now certain the Rynerson Express had worked out some kind of face-saving compromise with the Chinese government. “Oh?”

“A way for you to be released that would not jeopardize the investigation.”

Simon tried to look appropriately enthused, which wasn’t difficult. “That would be wonderful.”

“I will speak to the lead investigator.”

A man, Simon was sure, who had absolutely no say in the matter. “I would appreciate any help you give me.”

Wu bowed, a bit deeper this time, and backed through the door.

Thirty minutes later, in a small administrative office, Gao Wu pushed four copies of a document typed in English across the metal desk. He laid a cheap ballpoint pen on top of the papers. “If you will agree to these terms and conditions, you are free to go.”

Free to go
: suddenly it sounded too easy. Simon quickly but carefully read through the three-page document, which was nothing more than a gag order relating to:

• The Incident at the residence of Mei-li Chiang (now deceased);
  
• Any and all details relating to the protective custody of the signatory.
  

Simon smiled to himself, imagining how many hours the legal nitpickers had spent arguing over the words “the Incident” and “protective custody.” He scratched his name on the signature line of all four documents and pushed them back across the desk.

Wu extracted an old-fashioned fountain pen from the inside pocket of his suit, unscrewed the cap, then hesitated. “You understand, you may talk to no one regarding this incident?”

“Yes, Mr. Wu, I understand English quite well.”

“Including your lawyer.”

“Unless you charge me with a crime.” A clause, he hoped, that would act as some deterrent against that ever happening. “Then it’s Katie bar the door.”

Wu stared back across the desk, a puzzled, slightly wary look.
“Neh?”

“All bets are off.” Great, now he was explaining one colloquialism with another. “It means this document becomes null and void.”

“Ah.” Wu bent forward, added his signature to all four documents, then sat back, a look of smug satisfaction. “You must agree, the People’s Republic has been most accommodating in this matter.” He spoke like a man who actually believed the words that came out of his mouth.

Though he wasn’t about to
agree,
Simon knew better than to offend petty bureaucrats flush with power. “Mr. Wu, you can’t imagine the level of my gratitude.”

Stepping through that last steel door into sunlight and freedom, Simon felt slightly intoxicated, lightheaded with relief. Barely able to contain a silly-ass smile, he headed toward the champagne-colored limousine parked at the curb, the rear door imprinted with the discreet but distinctive monogram—
PPR
—of Pacific Pearl Resorts. The driver, who showed absolutely no reaction to Simon’s disheveled appearance, dipped his head respectfully and pulled open the door.

Simon ducked into the dim interior. “Hey—” The intended words caught in his throat, the sight of James Atherton coming as a complete surprise. In contrast to the man’s normal attire—casually perfect—he seemed overdressed for the occasion: a perfectly tailored three-piece navy suit, a starched white shirt, and a tightly knotted burgundy tie. “Thanks for picking me up.”

Atherton chuckled softly, friendly creases around his eyes. “You were expecting someone else?”

Simon tried not to look disappointed as he settled onto the plush seat, the softest thing to hit his backside in four days. “Apparently I was.”

“She had a few last-minute things she needed to get done. She’ll see you at the hotel.”

Simon tried to think of something intelligent to say, but his sleep-deprived brain seemed incapable of getting past the suit, and the thought that Atherton looked dressed for either a funeral or a wedding.
A few last-minute things she needed to get done.
Had Jake taken a turn for the worse, or had things progressed that fast with Atherton? Was Kyra that impulsive? “Sure. Great.”
Great,
that’s the best you can do, Leonidovich? No wonder she likes the guy—rich, handsome, successful, and he could actually string words into sentences.

“So, how are you doing, buddy? You okay?”

Buddy?
Now they were pals? “Well, they didn’t wire my testicles up to a battery, if that’s what you mean.”

Atherton grinned, his white teeth flashing in the dim light that filtered through the darkened windows. “Now there’s an image I’d rather not consider. No bruises, then?”

“No, nothing like that,” Simon answered. “Nothing a little sleep won’t cure.”

“Good. The whole thing was ridiculous, to even think you were involved in something like that.”

Though it was exactly what Simon would expect from someone like James Atherton—who always knew exactly what to say and how to say it—the unquestioning support felt good. “And they know it. I had to sign some stupid document about not talking to the press, but they didn’t even bother to restrict my movements. I can leave the country if I want.”

Atherton nodded, his lips curling slightly. “So maybe it wasn’t so stupid.”

The door to Simon’s brain suddenly swung open. “You negotiated my release?”

“That’s my job, remember? Helping clients through the Chinese maze of bureaucratic hurdles.” He smiled, a good-natured flash. “Without endangering the family jewels.”

Damn,
it was getting awful hard not to like this guy. “Did I mention what a swell agreement I just signed?”

Atherton laughed. “Kyra said you would never go to the press anyway, so I just gave them what they wanted.”

Modest too.
No wonder she liked the guy. “I’m sure it wasn’t all that easy.”

He waved a hand dismissively, as if his efforts were of no significance. “Without a weapon, they really didn’t have much of a case.”

“Even so, I appreciate the help.”

“You’re welcome. I’m just sorry it took so long.” He reached up, loosened his tie, and pulled open his collar. “What the hell happened anyway?” Almost before the words cleared his mouth, he shook his head. “No, wait, don’t answer that. You agreed not to talk about it, and I believe a man should honor his agreements.”

Simon nodded, grateful not be pushed. “I agree.”

“But let me put it this way,” Atherton continued. “Without telling me anything about
the incident
—” He smiled, as if sharing an inside joke. “—have you formed an opinion about why it happened? Or who was behind it?”

A good question, Simon thought, one that cleverly skirted around the legal issue, if not the moral intent of the document, and that made him uncomfortable. Did he have an opinion about why it happened?
Absolutely.
After four days of thinking about nothing else, the answer to that question seemed obvious. Did he know who was behind it?
Not yet.
He glanced out the window as the car turned north onto the Taipa-Coloane Causeway, purposely avoiding Atherton’s curious eyes. “Not a clue.”

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-ONE

Macau

Monday, 9 July 21:27:05 GMT +0800

Mawl waited until he heard the lock snap before turning on the light. “Where the bloody hell have you been?” He slipped his Beretta back between the cushions and pushed himself up from the couch. “You should have been here two hours ago.”

Robbie, who had been playing guard dog to Kyra Rynerson since early that morning, scowled and headed for the kitchen. “There was a maintenance crew diddlin’ around near the communications room.” He pulled a bottle of Red Dawn from the refrigerator and collapsed into a chair at the small dinette. “Couldn’t get past the buggers until they finished.”

Mawl realized he was overreacting, but he didn’t trust Trader, and he didn’t trust the kid to recognize a threat if one developed. “You sure you weren’t followed?”

“Aye, I’m sure.”

Mawl knew better, but didn’t say anything. It wouldn’t do Robbie any good to know that Catman Fosseler had been assigned to shadow his backside. “So, did you get it?”

Robbie reached into the breast pocket of his blazer, extracted a flash-memory card, and handed it over without a word. Mawl returned to the couch, inserted the card into the multicard reader attached to his laptop, and clicked open his voice editor. The program immediately identified the source, listing seven separate files: all calls to or from the courier’s suite. “Talkative bastard.” The phone tap was voice-activated, each call listed in sequential order as a separate file, including the date, time, length, and size of each recording.

Mawl highlighted the first file—recorded at 1:04
P.M
.—turned up the volume so Robbie could hear the playback, and hit the
PLAY
button. There was a long series of separate tones, at least ten, indicating an international call, and Mawl immediately stopped the recording and started over, this time recording the tones on his micro-recorder. Once he finished listening to the calls, he could then choose the ones he wanted to trace, and use a tone identifier to convert the sounds into numbers. After the tones repeated a second time, there was a momentary pause, the familiar
brrrrappp-brrrrappp
call signal, then a faint click followed by a woman’s voice. “Billie here.”

Mawl hit the
PAUSE
button, made a quick note in his surveillance log—#001, Billie Rynerson—then clicked the
PLAY
button.

“Billie, it’s Simon.”

“So they let your sorry ass out of the hoosegow, did they?”

“Don’t sound so disappointed.”

“A little time behind bars never hurt anyone. You okay?”

“I’m fine. How’s Jake?”

The woman’s voice dropped an octave. “No change.”

“You hang in there, he’s going to make it.”

“Of course he is,” she snapped back. “The old buzzard’s too ornery to go out like this.”

“Billie, I may have to change the grand opening schedule.”

“You can’t. I told you—”

The courier interrupted. “Not the opening date, Billie. Just the, uh…the travel schedule is all.”

“The travel schedule…?”

“Think about it, Billie.
My
travel schedule.”

There was a momentary pause before the woman replied. “Oh, right. I understand. I assume you have a good reason for this?”