Codes of Betrayal (16 page)

“Ralph Lauren. Yes. I think so,” Laura said. “This gets priority, right?”

He glared his annoyance. She didn’t have to tell him anything. He reached out without apology, the privilege of a very old man. He pulled her toward the light. His bony fingers ran up and down the edge of her jacket, examined seams and buttonholes.

Grudgingly, he said, “Good work. Yes.” As he packed his battered leather sample case, he muttered, “But you stay away from men’s clothing, yes?”

Laura hugged him from behind, which he acknowledged with a shrug and a sigh. He left without another word to either of them.

Nick hadn’t seen her since the funeral mass for Peter. In fact, it just occurred to him that she had been there. And had left a card in his son’s name. He thanked her now, apologized for not having acknowledged …

“Kathy sent me a lovely thank-you note. I heard about you two. Should I say sorry or what?”

“Don’t say anything.”

“You got it.” He followed her into the kitchen. “Watch carefully. So one day
you
can make espresso for me.”

Nick loved watching her face as he teased her. The little girl appeared, mock angry. “Hey, that’s
woman’s
work. There are some things in this world that are—”

“Nicky, Nicky. You’re still such a
Bensonhurst
boy. You still think like a Bensonhurst boy. It’s been a long time since I’ve been with anyone remotely like you.”

Impulsively, he asked her, “Are you happy, Laura?”

There was a split second of sadness over her face: eyes blinking, lower lip sliding between her teeth. And then it was gone and the mocking Laura was back.

“Bensonhurst boy.”

“Bensonhurst brat.”

N
ICK STUDIED THE MANUAL
that came with the Apple computer. User-friendly? Tessie had tried it and lost five hours of work by tapping one wrong button. Or not tapping one right button. She told him he could play with it anytime.

He had some small knowledge: Peter had shown Nick a few basics. He placed the stack of folders into two piles and two-finger-typed, just like doing a police report, watching the letters appear on the blue screen. He entered all the data on each property: location, ownership, registration, history, size of property, number of rooms, special features, price, taxes, possible negotiations, problems re: mortgage, cash only, whatever.

As he reached across the desk for another file, he suddenly felt a cold round object dig into his neck. He froze.

“What the hell do you think ya doin’, cuz?”

He whirled around, smacked the pen from Richie’s hand. Richie took a step back, held his hands, palms up.

“Easy, Nick. I just really wanna ask you.” He ran his hand over his thick black, graying hair, lightly skimming it. He pointed at the folders, then at the computer. His lips were pulled back into a tight grin that resembled the expression of a dog’s face just before an attack. “What the fuck do you think you’re doin’?”

“I’m supposed to tell you what my job is? You wanna know, ask Papa.”

Nick clicked off the computer; collected the folders, and slammed them into the old steel filing cases.

“Papa know you making a record of all the holdings here?”

“Richie, I told you. Ask Papa what you want to know. What I do has nothing to do with you.”

Nick had been working right out in the open; it was during working hours. Richie decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. For now.

“Old Tessie’s afraid of that damn thing.”

“I don’t think Tessie’s afraid of anything in this world,” Nick said. He looked his cousin over: cashmere coat; dark brown suit and tie; pale yellow shirt; gold tie clip. He shot his cuffs so Nick could see his gold links.

No matter what he wore, Richie still didn’t have it. Something gave him away.

“Well, I see they got ya wearin’ some decent clothes. Christ, what are you trying for, the Ivy League look?”

“Just trying to avoid the rich thug look.”

Richie drew his breath in sharply, glanced over his shoulder, making sure none of his men were close enough to hear the insult.

He snapped his fingers. “Close up shop, Nick. Papa wants to see you.”

Nick followed Richie’s black Mercedes, not quite keeping up as it cut in and out of traffic and ran red lights. They were waiting for him as he pulled into Papa Ventura’s driveway.

There were more than the usual number, of cars parked around the house. There was a gleaming black limo off to one side. A small man dressed in a black uniform leaned beside it, smoking a cigarette.

Richie put his hand on Nick’s shoulder and said softly, “Papa got some chink he wants you to meet.”

It was difficult to determine the age of Dennis Chen. His face was smooth except for a collection of crinkles at his eyes when he smiled, which was often, but it was not sincere. He was a handsome, soft-spoken man, meticulously styled by a good British tailor. There was an intelligence about his expression. His eyes seemed to see things not readily apparent to others. While at first glance he seemed Chinese, his face was longer, narrower. He had the healthy color of a man who spent time outdoors; no yellow-pale undertones. His nose was narrow and straight; his lips thin over sparkling white teeth. There was a blend of ethnicities. He was not purely one thing or another. He could be intensely Chinese when he wanted to be, but there was something of the British effete about him. More than just his Oxford education; the way he spoke, the slightly superior pull at the corners of his mouth, suggested he considered many about him to be in some way inferior. Or unintentionally amusing.

He gave Nick a cursory examination, but did not treat him with the warm respect given to his grandfather.

His handshake was weak—in the Chinese way, not from lack of strength. Though he was tall and slender, it was obvious, from the way his clothes fit, that he had a muscular, well-defined body. He wore no jewelry, no sign of his tremendous wealth. You either knew or did not know about him.

The three men sat near the fireplace, watched the play of orange and yellow flames. No smoke entered the room. It was sucked straight up the chimney without a whiff of pollution getting into the den.

“Your grandfather assures me you will be able to find me a very comfortable house in”—he glanced at Nicholas Ventura to make sure he had it right—“Forest Hills Gardens.”

“No problem, Mr. Chen. Just jot down a list of requirements. I’m sure we’ll come up with something suitable.”

Mr. Chen explained that he was only stopping over in New York right now for twenty-four hours. He was on his way to London; then to Paris, then to Rome, then back to Hong Kong. Business. He would return to the United States within a few weeks. He was assured a house would be ready for him. No mention was made of price, arrangements, or length of time.

Mr. Chen and Papa Ventura discussed art: Both admired the richness of the works Nicholas Ventura had collected through the years. Chen reached into his large briefcase and withdrew a small package, unwrapped it, and arranged four small paintings on the desk. Seventeenth-century Chinese watercolors, figures from a fairy tale. The colors were electric, the patterns intricate, and each told a small moment in the life of the person portrayed, from a mighty warlord to a simple peasant. The orange fish about to be chopped by a fisherman seemed to be fresh from the sea.

They were like two professors getting ready for a seminar. They were so knowledgeable, so scholarly; it was hard to believe that either of them could be involved in any sort of criminal activity. These must be cultured, decent, educated men.

Mr. Chen glanced at his simple gold watch. It was time to leave. He and Nicholas Ventura exchanged words and nods.

Then Mr. Chen turned to Nick for his handshake, but his hand tightened on Nick’s and his eyes exuded a powerful force.

“I am saddened by the death of your son, Nick. I know what it is to lose a child. One of the boys involved in that stupid business of a girl was my son.”

The man’s eyes were cold and emotionless. He dropped Nick’s hand, and without another word, Dennis then left.

Papa Ventura had several pages of notes for Nick. It was his first assignment as a double undercover agent.

“The ship is called the
Golden Dream,”
the old man said. “Very sad, how people treat each other. They are bringing in all kinds of goods—Eastern furniture, fabric, artworks—but the major part of their cargo is human beings. These poor people, Nicholas, the exploitation is unbelievable. We used to bring in relatives, we doubled up with families and friends. We worked with and for each other. These people, they’ve undertaken huge debts for being smuggled into this country. They are jammed in the cargo area with the clothing on their backs. They and their families are in debt up to thirty thousand dollars. When they get to America—San Francisco or New York—they are forced into servitude in garment shops, restaurants, laundries. They are given a sleeping place in a basement filled with other people; fed a meager diet; earn a small amount, which is held back to pay off their debt. And their families back in China must pay, or they are tortured or killed. Old people, children.”

“Jesus,” Nick said softly.

“Some of the girls and women are turned into prostitutes. These are young, ignorant country people. They are terrified. There is no one to turn to when they are here.”

“What else is on the ship?”

Nicholas Ventura smiled. “Heroin with a street value of about forty million dollars. China White.” He hesitated, then smiled. “A rival of Mr. Chen. So we get two birds with one stone. Save some poor souls—stop a rival. It is good for us to impress the Chinese. They are hard people.

“Nick, in the last three years, I’ve placed nearly three thousand illegal Chinese in factories, plants, fishing boats, laundries; some in construction. Some bright ones I’ve sent to school. A few young women have done very well …”

“What will happen to the people on the
Golden Dream?”

“That is government business. I will not get involved.” As though needing to justify himself, to be recognized for the good things he had done with his life, he continued, “The people I have helped, Nicholas, they become union members, are paid wages they earn, have lives of their own. These things, they make me feel good.”

He read Nick’s skeptical expression and his voice went lower and tighter. “As we get old, Nicholas, we see life differently toward … the end. Try to balance the scale, maybe. The world is a wicked place, grandson.”

“And there are a lot of wicked people in it.”

He could not see into his grandfather’s heart; where one part of him began and another part ended. He was about to engage in one of the largest drug cartels in the world and he insisted on talking about his good deeds.

“Papa. One of the boys, killed, who was involved in Peter’s death. Was he really Dennis Chen’s son?”

His grandfather nodded.

“Christ, what kind of man is he? Papa?”

Nicholas Ventura stood ramrod-straight, raised his chin, and said insistently,
“He is an honorable man.”

D
EA AGENT RODNEY COLEMAN
did not do well in cold weather. There seemed to be a thin translucent sheet of ice over his face, and a shudder ran down his back.

Battery Park had not been his choice for a meeting. The choppy waters crashed against the bulkhead and the Statue of Liberty’s torch could barely be seen through the sleety fog. He took hold of Nick’s arm, turned him away from the water.

“A good location. Anyone dumb enough to be following you would have been spotted by now and the meeting aborted.”

Anyone following him would have frozen to death if he had to stand in one place long. Nick shrugged his arm free, hunched into his lined hunter’s coat: Thinsulate-lined, lightweight but warm. He moved quickly along the cement pathway.

“Well, Nick, the information you gave us on the
Golden Dream
—good. Very good. It was intercepted three days ago, just inside San Francisco Harbor. The agency is very happy with this; a great deal of China White was confiscated.” He stopped walking abruptly, squinted against the glassy ice particles that hit him smack in the face. “But, Nick, here’s my problem. This really doesn’t connect the Venturas with the Chen Triad. What we’re doing here is helping Dennis Chen take care of his opposition without him having to lift a finger. So to speak.”

“You asked me to pass along what I heard. I gave you what I heard.”

Coleman turned up the collar of his black coat, adjusted his Burberry scarf, and pulled the incongruous knitted watchcap down almost to his eyebrows. It gave him a slightly retarded appearance.

“You know, Nick, the coalescence of the Triads, the mob, and the Colombians is a very strange coming together. You know about the Triads? They go back hundreds of years, and—”

Nick hunched his shoulders as he walked, then moved slightly so that he was no longer acting as a windshield for Coleman. “Skip your history lesson, okay, Coleman?”

Coleman shrugged good-naturedly and continued. “The young bloods in the Triads know how to live well. Quietly, privately. Never flaunt their wealth or their power. The younger ones are not happy about sitting down with a gathering of old Mafiosa who think a trip to Disneyland is a celebration. A collision of cultures, as well as of age. Your grandfather is to their liking, but some of his colleagues—” Coleman shook his head derisively. “If they don’t parade around with glitzy girls on their arms, who’s going to know what big shots they are? You know, it’s these old-timers, they’re the ones insisting on the sitdown that’s going to happen. They have that thing about ‘looking a guy in the eye’—as though eye contact will tell them all they need to know. Wait till they see the poker faces on those Triad honchos.”

Nick kept walking

“The young Chinese, they’d rather do it all with no human contact. Via fax, anonymous couriers, coded messages. Computer discs. But they’re willing to come together this once, mostly because they respect your grandfather.”

“A lot of people respect my grandfather.” Nick was surprised by the pride and anger in his voice. Who the hell was this little shit anyway?