Choke Point (19 page)

She nodded slowly, thinking about it. “Let’s assume you’re right. Who are
they
?”

“No idea,” he admitted, “but they’re determined and ruthless, and probably more than a little pissed that I managed to avoid their trap.”

“So you intend to grab the crest and skedaddle before the bullets start flying.”

“I’m a chicken at heart.”

“Does Jim know about this? He’s supposed to be the point man on this thing.”

Knowing she would ask, he gave her a little smile, the one his sister called boyishly irresistible. “I was hoping you would tell him.”

“Oh, no.” She flapped a hand back and forth, as if to ward off a fly. “You’re not hanging me with that job, Leonidovich.”

So much for irresistible. “He’s not going to like it, is he?”

“Would you?” The question was purely rhetorical and she didn’t wait for an answer. “You just cut him out of the loop. It’ll look like he failed at his job. Yeah, I think he might be a little upset.”

“Sorry, I didn’t want to put you in the middle.” Though he realized that was exactly what he was doing. “I just thought—”

“Oh, don’t you worry about that, Leonidovich. You’re not putting me in the middle of anything.” She grabbed her cell phone and began punching numbers.

“Who are you calling?” As if he couldn’t guess.

She scowled at him, her green eyes firing laser shots across the table.

“I wish you—”

She held up a hand, cutting him off. “Can you come over here?…Yes, right now…No, not over the phone…Room 718…”

It surprised him that Atherton had never been to her suite, and embarrassed him that he should feel so good about it.
Leonidovich, you’re pathetic.

“…Yes, they’ll be expecting you…Okay, thanks.” She set down the phone, took a deep breath, then let it go with a disappointed sigh. “Simon, why did you do this? Jim’s the one who got you out of jail for Christ’s sake. What the hell were you thinking?”

He hated the way she said
Simon,
which somehow sounded more impersonal than her saucy and sarcastic
Leonidovich.
“Apparently I wasn’t.” But he knew exactly what he was thinking, that the last time he said anything—about his intended visit to Mei-li Chiang’s—somebody had overheard, or inadvertently shared the information; a mistake that had nearly landed him in a Chinese prison doing twenty-five to life. “I’m sorry.”

“Tell it to, Jim. He’s on his way.” She made two quick calls: one to the security kiosk at the front gate, authorizing Atherton’s access to the property; and one to Li Quan, telling him they would have to reschedule their meeting. She pushed herself up from the table. “I’ll make more coffee.”

They waited silently, drinking their coffee and watching a line of gray-white clouds spill over the horizon. He wanted to explain, but couldn’t think of anything that wouldn’t sound like a self-serving excuse. “I’m sorry, Kyra. It’s not what you think.”

She didn’t look at him, her eyes fixed on the darkening skyline. “Don’t tell me what I think, Leonidovich.”

At least she was back to
Leonidovich,
and he knew enough about that fiery Rynerson temper not to push harder. She would cool down soon enough, that was her nature, though he had no idea if she would forgive him.

Finally, after what seemed an eternity but couldn’t have been more than fifteen minutes, Robbie’s familiar Irish brogue broke the uncomfortable silence, his voice squawking from the two-way radio attached to Kyra’s belt. “Ms. Rynerson?”

Kyra reach down and pressed the talk button. “Yes, Robbie.”

“Just got a call from downstairs. Mr. Atherton is on his way up. Says you’re expecting him.”

“Thank you, Robbie. Please let him in when he gets here.”

“Aye. Will do, ma’am.”

She turned, her eyes boring in. “You think I look like a
ma’am,
Leonidovich?”

He heard the challenge, but knew better than to give her some kissass, I-want-to-get-back-on-your-good-side answer. “No, ma’am, you sure don’t.”

“You’re a shit, did I ever tell you that?”

“Yes, ma’am. Stupid too.”

“Don’t think you’re forgiven, smartass.”

“No, ma’am.”

“You call me ma’am again, and you’ll be singing soprano at the—”

“Yeah, I remember. The Temple of Lost Jewels.”

“That’s right.” She pushed back her chair back and stood. “I think it would be better if we were in the living room when he got here.”

Better? Better that Atherton didn’t see them having coffee in the breakfast room, like it was some postcoital ritual?

They had barely gotten seated when Atherton came in, bubbling with enthusiasm. “Wow, this place is really something.” Dressed in a cream-colored silk pullover shirt and tailored slacks that perfectly matched his caramel-colored shoes, he looked all smooth and shiny, like a melting cone of vanilla ice cream. He stopped in the center of the room and did a complete three-sixty, his gaze taking in the lush furnishings, the original art, the panoramic view, and finally landing directly on Kyra as he delivered the benediction. “Absolutely spectacular!” Then he smiled, a thousand-watt dazzler, stepped forward, and brushed a kiss across her cheek before turning to Simon. “Hey there, good buddy, you’re looking better this morning.”

Good buddy!
In twenty-four hours they had apparently gone from casual acquaintances, to friends, to ride-the-hog buddies. Simon forced a smile and took the man’s outstretched hand. “A good mattress is a highly underrated thing in this part of the world.”

Atherton chuckled sympathetically. “I hear that. I’ve slept on a few mats in my time.” He grabbed an armchair and pulled it around, until they were sitting knee-to-knee in a triangle. “Okay.” He glanced from Simon to Kyra, then back to Simon. “What’s the problem?”

“No problem,” Simon answered, “just a small change in the schedule.”

Atherton leaned forward in his chair, his expression attentive and curious. “What kind of change?”

Simon began to lay out the details, waiting for the man to explode, but he showed no emotion, absorbing the information without any sign of annoyance. “I’m sorry, Jim—” The casual familiarity echoed through Simon’s head with a camaraderie he didn’t feel. “—if this puts you in an awkward position.”

Atherton waved a hand dismissively. “Of course not.” He glanced at Kyra, who looked stonier than Washington on Rushmore. “We’re all on the same team here.”

Simon felt an unexpected sense of relief, hoping the man’s understanding attitude might help soften Mount Rynerson. “I didn’t want to say anything until I received approval from the State Department.”

“I understand,” Atherton answered. “You’ll probably think I’m crazy, but it’s occurred to me that ‘the incident’—” He said the words as if they were written in italics. “—at Madame Chiang’s might somehow be connected to the trade agreement.”

Though sure of it, Simon had purposely avoided making the connection. The further he stayed away from that subject, and the gun, the better.

“The sooner we make the transfer,” Atherton continued, “the better I’ll feel about it.”

Simon nodded, hoping the
we
was nothing more than a casual turn of phrase. “I’m glad we’re in agreement.”

“Absolutely. So what’s your timetable?”

Your.
Much better. “I should be in the air by eleven.”

“Today?” The man’s expression went from full-steam-ahead to you-must-be-kidding. “This morning?”

“Yes.”

You-must-be-kidding turned to you-must-be-crazy. “There’s no eleven o’clock flight to Taipei.”

“I chartered a plane.” He kept his voice casual, as if he did that kind of thing all the time. “I thought it might be safer if my name didn’t show up on any passenger manifest.”

Atherton frowned. “What are you saying? You think the police might go back on their agreement and not let you out of the country?”

Simon nodded, though he was more concerned about the people who had done the shooting and tried to set him up, than the ones who were trying to find the shooters. “I don’t want to take any chances with the crest.”

Kyra rotated her chair toward the window. “What kind of plane?”

“A Beech King 90,” Simon answered, afraid that things were about to get dicey. “The same plane I used to get my multiengine.”

She dipped her head, looking at him from beneath her eyebrows, her expression frozen in a shadowed look of suspicion. “And does this charter come with or without a pilot?”

“It’s only a three-hour flight.”

“Three hours over water, Simon. You don’t have that kind of experience.”

Back to
Simon.
“You said I was your best student ever.” He grinned, trying to keep it light. “Besides, I plan to follow the coast north. It’s barely a hundred miles between the mainland and Taiwan.”

Atherton stared at Simon, as if seeing him for the first time. “You’re a pilot, too?”

“A rookie,” Kyra snapped, never taking her eyes off Simon. “I don’t care if it’s twenty damn miles.” She hooked a thumb toward the window. “Look at that cloud bank.”

“Which is not supposed to move inland until late afternoon,” Simon answered. “That’s why I need to get out of here now.” Even more important, he wanted to get out before anyone knew he was leaving.

“Then we better get moving,” she said, as if they had already agreed that she was going. “I’ll take the right-hand seat.”

He groaned inwardly, not really surprised, but knowing that once an idea got stuck in that pretty head, it would not be easy to dislodge. “You need to stay here. We can’t leave Li Quan alone.”

“Mr. Quan is doing just fine. He can call if anything big comes up.”

“You really need to stay here.”
Brilliant, Leonidovich,
not exactly the kind of argument that made him captain of his college debate team. “What if there’s another accident?”

“Then it’s too late,” she fired back. “I’m tired of sitting around here doing nothing. Let’s get moving.”

Atherton rotated his head back and forth between them. “Are you people serious? This is all too quick. Why not wait until the weather clears?”

Simon cocked his head toward the bank of clouds. “That’s the leading edge of another typhoon. There won’t be another window for at least—”

“So what?” Atherton interrupted, an unfamiliar tightness in his voice. “The Chinese have been waiting for this thing since World War II. It won’t hurt them to wait a few more days. What’s the rush?”

“I think there may be an information leak. I want to move the crest now, when no one’s expecting it.”

“You talked to the embassy,” Atherton responded, a rising inflection that made the act sound foolish. “God knows how many people listened in on that.”

“I used a scrambler,” Simon answered, being careful not to show any irritation. He suspected the man hated small planes, and was trying to hide his fear behind security concerns. “No one listened in.”

Atherton hesitated, his face flushed, the desperate look of someone trapped in an elevator. “I still don’t like it.” He glanced at Kyra, smiled weakly, then shook his head. “I think we should wait until after the storm.”

We?
It was, Simon realized, the first time he had seen the man nervous about anything. “Jim, there’s no reason for you to go. This is what I do for a living. It’s routine.”

“Of course I’m going,” he fired back. “That’s
my
job. And unless you’ve got some other secret talent you failed to mention, I’m the only one in this group who speaks both Mandarin and Cantonese.”

Simon ignored the sarcastic dig, trying to be diplomatic. “We don’t need to worry about that. The embassy has everything worked out.”

“Sounds to me,” Kyra said, “like you’re the one who has everything worked out. Why shouldn’t Jim go?”

Simon heard the challenge and realized she had boxed him into a corner. He didn’t have a good reason, nothing beyond his penchant to work alone, to worry about nothing beyond
the package
; but he was already stuck with Kyra and couldn’t use that as an excuse.
God hates you, Leonidovich.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-THREE

Macau

Tuesday, 10 July 08:14:16 GMT +0800

With practiced ease, Thomas Chricher ducked his head and pulled his lean frame into the pilot’s seat. “We’re ready.”

Sitting sideways in the helicopter’s passenger seat, Mawl lowered his binoculars and twisted around. “You’re late.”

“Bleedin’ hell, man, you rather they grabbed my ass? I had to wait until they finished fueling the bloody thing.”

Mawl ignored the sarcasm. “Anyone notice you?”

Chricher rolled his eyes. “What security they have is tutti-frutti. A bunch of wankers who wouldn’t know Osama if he showed up with a crate of box cutters.” He chuckled and unzipped his coveralls, neck to crotch, then arched his back and shoved the mechanic’s uniform down over his body, until it lay heaped in a puddle around his ankles. His T-shirt and SeV cargo pants were both stained with sweat. “Once I got past the gate, no one gave me a second look.” Using first one foot, then the other, he pushed the blue fabric down over his shoes. “What’s the status?”

Mawl twisted around and gave the main access road leading to Macau International another sweep with his binoculars. “No sign of him. He should have left the hotel thirty minutes ago.”

“Big Paddy could have missed him.” Chricher pulled a small tracking device from his pocket, peeled the film off the sticky back, then pressed it to the instrument panel, directly between the two seats. “Or he might have taken a taxi instead of one of those hotel limos.”

“Maybe.” Mawl didn’t really care; Big Paddy had become irrelevant, an early-warning system in case Chricher got delayed at the airport.

“Doesn’t matter now.” Chricher tapped the transponder’s
ON
button and the tiny gridlined screen blossomed to life: a red dot marking the target as south-southwest of their location, four digital readouts indicating the exact location, distance, and altitude.