Jade Island (22 page)

“Whatever you need for as long as it takes to sort this mess out.”

“But—”

“Argue while you pack,” Kyle said, taking her arm and urging her down the hall.

“Why should I go anywhere?”

“You’d rather stay and wait for the Red Phoenix boys to get lucky and kill you?”

Kyle’s certainty that the man had meant to kill her was like a blow to Lianne. She stumbled, then caught herself against his arm. “Sorry.”

“It’s the other one that’s cut.” He stopped in front of an elevator decorated by graffiti whose only pretense to originality was in leaving the
c
out of
fuck.
“Which floor?”

Automatically Lianne punched the button to call the elevator. She wasn’t thinking about the elevator or her apartment, but about Kyle’s words.

You’d rather stay and wait for the Red Phoenix boys to get lucky and kill you?

The elevator cage stopped four inches short of the hall floor. The doors opened anyway.

“Are you saying that attack wasn’t just random?” she asked tightly.

“What do you think?”

“I want it to be random.”

“Before I grew up I wanted to marry Tinkerbell. Which floor?”

“Top.”

With a hand that still shook at odd moments, Lianne swept her hair back from her forehead. When the doors opened, she started to step out into the hall. Kyle pulled her back into the elevator.

“Which way?” he asked.

“Left, down the hall, then right.”

“Opposite your office?”

“Yes.”

“Give me your key.”

She went still. “You think someone is lying in wait inside my apartment?”

“I think it’s possible. They don’t call them gangs because they hunt solo.”

“But—”

“The guy who attacked you didn’t have to kick in the door. He had a key or picked the lock. He may have had a buddy, too.” Kyle held his hand out, palm up. “Key.”

She slipped past him into the hall. “You’re hurt. I’ll go.”

“Christ.”

Kyle grabbed for Lianne, only to have her evade his hand with a supple twist of her body. Swearing, he strode down the hall after her. When he reached her, she had the key in the door. When she started to push it open, he yanked her aside, kicked the door open, and flattened her between his body and the hallway wall.

The door slammed open with enough force to echo. There was no other sound.

“I’m going to check the place out,” Kyle said in a low voice. “Stay here.”

“It’s my apartment and you’re hurt.”

“Were you born mule-stubborn or did you just practice a lot?”

Lianne’s chin came up and her mouth opened to tell him more than he had asked about. He bent and gave her a swift, hard kiss. Her pulse and breathing spiked.

“Stay here,” Kyle said. “I won’t be long.”

She waited just long enough to be out of his reach before following him through the apartment door. Heart scrambling, she glanced around the single room.

Empty.

The relief was so great that dizziness swept over Lianne, followed by a not-quite-sane desire to laugh as she watched Kyle systematically search every place that was big enough to hide a man—including under the Murphy bed that she had left open.

Kyle went into the bathroom, checked swiftly. Then he stood on the toilet seat and looked out the open window into the alley. No one in sight, unless he counted the tan Ford with the suit behind the wheel, talking on a cell phone.

With a heartfelt obscenity, Kyle stepped off the toilet and went back to Lianne.

“Do you usually leave the bathroom window open?” he asked.

“Only in the summer. Why?”

“It’s open.”

She raced past him to the bathroom, then stopped and stared at the window. It was open. All the way open. And it was jammed so tightly in that position that she couldn’t close it no matter how hard she yanked.

“I’ll do that,” Kyle said. “You pack.”

“But—”

“I don’t want to hear it,” he interrupted bluntly. “Pack.
And if you give me any more crap about going it alone, I’ll stuff a sock in your mouth and haul you out of here like dirty laundry.”

Lianne opened her mouth, closed it, and started packing.

W
hen Dick Farmer was working instead of impressing CEOs and politicians, he didn’t bother with an office building, a brace of assistants, an archaic wooden desk the size of Lake Michigan, or any of the other modern corporate power symbols. He simply packed up his hard drive and his only personal assistant who was worth a damn, stepped into his private plane, and ordered the pilot to fly them to his own personal island.

Today Farmer was working. He had just arrived on his island, ready to grapple with the new, prickly opportunity that life had given to him. At this point the opportunity looked more problematic than promising, but the difficulties energized rather than worried him. He had made his fortune taking on deals that others had avoided as too risky.

Farmer didn’t want to surrender his prized jade burial suit, but he would. For a price. Until the price was agreed on, the suit would stay on Farmer Island, not in the unopened museum that had become a target of too much official interest.

The sun was only a rumor on the eastern horizon when Farmer entered a remote wing of the institute. With his lapel-pin battery pack blanketing any other signals, doors sprang open, lights came on, and music followed him everywhere he went. He hated silence almost as much as he hated dogs, cats, and tweety birds.

Mary Margaret, his personal assistant, went immediately to her station in a small room with an adjoining door. She didn’t wait for orders or requests; most of the time she knew what her boss wanted before he did. She just booted up her computer and got to work on whatever messages had followed or preceded them to the island.

Farmer walked into a nearly closed circle of surplus and/or slightly outmoded electronic wonders, settled into a rotating chair that had been made for him as carefully as an astronaut’s couch, picked up a standard-issue telephone, and punched his assistant’s intercom button even though he could reach her by raising his voice.

“Did that Chinese jade expert call here while we were in the air?” Farmer asked.

“No, sir,” Mary Margaret said, reading the computer log quickly. “Mr. Han Seng did, on behalf of Sun Ming, who is the Chinese government’s jade expert.”

“SunCo, hmm? Those fellows do get around. Any message?”

“Yes, sir. ‘There are details of the offer to be discussed.’”

Mentally Farmer cursed the stiff-necked mainland Chinese bureaucrats who wouldn’t know a good deal if it grabbed them by their tiny little balls. “What details? I have the jade suit, they want it, and they have something I want. I named my price. They can ante up or get out of the game.”

“Yes, sir. Is that the message you wish to be passed on to Mr. Han Seng?”

“Shit, Mary Margaret, you know me better than that. Is Seng still here on the island?”

“Yes, sir. I canceled his plane reservations before we left Seattle.”

“Yeah? When’s he going back to China?”

“He didn’t say, sir. Do you wish for me to inquire?”

“Not yet. Where is Seng now?”

There was a pause while Mary Margaret asked the mainframe to search for the guest wearing lapel button 9-3.

“The east terrace room, sir. He just ordered breakfast.”

“Send some bagels and cream cheese and coffee to the terrace for me. I just can’t warm up to pickled cabbage and green tea before dawn.”

“Yes, sir.”

Farmer hung up, hitched up his jeans, and headed for the east terrace. His running shoes made little squeaky noises on the marble floors, but he rarely noticed. His lapel pin was programmed to spread music wherever he went.

He passed the main conference room but didn’t look in. He just crossed his fingers and hoped that Seng had finally packed up his sleazy jades. Seeing all that stone pussy spread out on the conference table had made Farmer uneasy. Screwing women was one thing. Looking up their skirts while you did it was another.

Pale predawn light filled the sky along the east side of the terrace room. Han Seng was seated at a sleek mahogany dining table. Printouts from various international newspapers were spread in front of him. As always, Han Ju and the bodyguard were nearby. The latter two men came to their feet immediately when Farmer walked in. Seng took his time standing up.

Farmer noted the lag. It told him that he was in for a rough negotiation. Silently he damned the Chinese trait of saying a polite yes and meaning a flat no. He wondered if he would ever learn all the Asian gradations of
yes
that meant
Not in this lifetime, asshole.

“Good morning, Seng,” Farmer said in English. He was one of the few people on earth who knew that Seng spoke and understood that language very well. “Sorry I couldn’t join your jade party last night. I got held up in Seattle. I trust all the arrangements were satisfactory?”

Seng bowed slightly. Nothing in his expression showed that the party had been a bust and the host had gone to bed without the delectable Ms. Blakely to lick his turtle head.

“Mary Margaret told me that the Chinese government has assigned you to cut a deal with me over the jade suit,” Farmer said bluntly.

“The government of China has complimented me with their trust, yes,” Seng said. “It is a very serious matter, this theft of part of the Chinese soul. My government wishes to be sure you understand just how grave the situation is before irreversible mistakes are made.”

Farmer managed not to sigh. Just barely. Experience had taught him that when Seng got all formal, the price went up. The more words, the higher the price.

“You know me, Seng. If this wasn’t important—goddamn important—I’d have sent someone to negotiate for me, the way SunCo did.”

“My government appreciates your deep concern,” Seng said, ignoring the reference to SunCo. He doubted that an American could understand the subtle, profound entanglement of family and politics in China. In some matters, SunCo
was
the Chinese government. In other matters, it was simply SunCo, a powerful and profitable business. And always there was the fact of
guanxi,
a web of connections that no Westerner could understand. “You do my government much honor by your personal presence.”

Farmer smiled thinly. “I sure as hell do.” He hooked a mahogany side chair with his foot, flipped the chair around, straddled it, and said, “What’s on your government’s mind?”

Seng sat again, sipped tea, and wondered if he would ever understand Westerners. Not only were the women arrogant and without manners, the men showed little grasp of ceremony and less of civility. Always in a hurry. Yet, Seng acknowledged as he carefully replaced his cup on its thin white saucer, all the Western rushing about had its uses. People who hurried were often careless.

“We are much heartened by your offer to return the jade burial suit to its rightful and legal owners,” Seng said. “The international community of citizens shares our…”

Without changing expression, Farmer pretty much stopped listening. He had already heard the answer to his offer: no. But unless he appeared to listen to the counterof
fer, China would be insulted. That would turn a problem into a disaster.

Five minutes later, Farmer held up his index finger. Just that. It was enough.

Seng fell silent and waited.

“Let me summarize,” Farmer began.

It wasn’t a request. Still, Seng nodded agreement.

“Your government thinks the jade burial suit is the most important cultural icon since Christ,” Farmer said, “but they won’t give me fifteen years as the exclusive purveyor of computer equipment to mainland China in order to get the suit back. They won’t even give me ten years.”

“The point is rightful ownership,” Seng countered bluntly, “not exclusive deals for any amount of time.”

Farmer almost smiled. It was worth pissing Seng off just to cut through the bullshit. “That may be China’s point, but it isn’t mine. I have no doubt about who owns that jade suit. Me.”

“Archaeological treasures belong to the country in which they originated. American law on that point is quite specific. I’m sure your government—”

“Who said anything about archaeology?” Farmer cut in. “I didn’t dig up anything. I bought a private collection. The suit was part of it.”

“The jade burial suit was stolen from China. It must be returned. Immediately.”

“No deal.”

“Have you discussed this with your government?”

“I pay a buttload of taxes. That’s all the discussion my government gets.”

Seng’s surprise showed only in the slight lifting of his eyelids. “Even you are not entirely independent of your own government.”

“Entirely? No. I still have property in the U.S.”

Seng nodded and smiled.

“But,” Farmer added, “I also have friends in Congress. A lot of them. American political campaigning is terribly
expensive, as your government knows. Care to match China’s political contributions against mine?”

Seng was silent.

“Smart,” Farmer said. “Now let’s try it again. I have something China wants. China has something I want. There are three days until I open my museum. Talk to me, Seng. Tell me why I should give you my very valuable jade suit and get nothing more than an international pat on the head in return.”

Seng started talking.

Fifteen minutes later, Farmer got up and walked out.

The door to the condominium shut behind Archer. Kyle’s code had appeared on the gizmo snitch, so Archer wasn’t surprised to see his brother at the kitchen table, waiting for the coffee to finish brewing. But after what Archer had just learned from Uncle, he was surprised to see Kyle alone.

“Where’s the Blakely woman?” Archer asked bluntly.

“Where I’d like to be. Asleep.”

“With her?”

“If I was with her, I wouldn’t be sleeping.”

“Still thinking with your dick?”

“If I was, I wouldn’t be with you.”

“You’re in a fine mood, aren’t you? Let me see your arm.”

“How did you find out about—oh, hell, never mind. I’ll bet your informant drives a Ford Taurus. How much do you know about what happened?”

“Is Blakely sleeping in your bed?”

Apparently Archer wasn’t answering questions right now. Kyle didn’t feel like answering them, either. He looked out the kitchen window of the Donovan apartments. Dawn, such as it was, hovered like a coy date, smiling just beyond reach. The lights of Seattle gleamed amid patches of fog. Above the fog, rising in a silver majesty men could only envy, the Olympics waited for whatever mountains wait for.

“Kyle?” Archer said impatiently.

“Shut up and pour coffee.” Kyle rubbed his unshaved face and grimaced at the sandpapery sound. “Yes, Lianne is sleeping in my bed.”

Kyle’s tone didn’t invite questions or idle conversation. Archer ignored the attitude and poured coffee. He was used to surly siblings at dawn. At the moment, he was one himself.

“Do you think that’s smart?” Archer asked.

“It beats the alternative.”

“Just because she bandaged your manly wounds—”

“The med-tech took care of that,” Kyle interrupted. “Give me the damn coffee.”

Archer set a mug in front of Kyle. He drank, grimaced, and got up to look for milk in the refrigerator. Archer watched with cold steel eyes while Kyle poured milk. His brother didn’t have the relaxed, sated look of a man who had spent the night screwing his latest lady. Instead, he looked like a man who was worried.

Or afraid.

“Let’s have it,” Archer said.

Kyle put the milk away, stirred the coffee with his finger, and drank deeply despite the scalding heat. Then he held out the cup for more.

Archer poured coffee.

“It’s pretty simple,” Kyle said. “Someone wants Lianne dead.”

“The city cops say it was a mugging. Homeless illegal immigrant with a knife. Single woman with a purse.”

“That’s crap.”

“So are a lot of things. The guy’s lawyer got him out an hour after he woke up.”

“Lawyer?” Kyle said in disgust. “What would a ‘homeless illegal immigrant’ know about lawyers?”

“Enough to call one,” Archer said dryly.

“Who?”

“Ziang Lee.”

“Is he a freelance ambulance chaser?”

“No. Ziang and his partners specialize in Asian Pacific law. They also have a reputation for taking care of triad business in the Pacific Northwest.”

“What kind of business?” Kyle asked.

“The usual. Prostitutes, gambling, drugs, loan-sharking, trafficking in parts of endangered species.”

Kyle looked blank at the last category.

“Asian medicine,” Archer explained. “The Chinese will pay a lot for potions made out of bear gallbladder, tiger penis, that sort of thing.”

“It’s too early in the morning for this discussion.”

“Stop whining. I’ve been up all night.”

“Why?”

“A game of Twenty Questions with Uncle.”

“Who was asking and who was answering?”

“We traded off,” Archer said.

“And?”

“You want an omelet before we talk?”

“That bad?” Kyle asked.

Archer didn’t answer. He just started cooking.

After a few minutes Kyle made toast and more coffee. The brothers sat down together just in time for sunlight to slide through the east window and across the breakfast nook that was positioned to take advantage of dawn.

“You keep trying to butter me up and I’m going to get fat,” Kyle said, diving into a plate heaped with cottage fries and a Spanish omelet.

“Just stay alive and I won’t complain.”

Kyle’s fork hesitated. “I don’t like the sound of that.”

“Who said anything about liking?”

Archer went through his breakfast like a man who knew it could be a long time before he had another decent meal. When he was finished, he poured himself the last of the coffee and started talking. He focused on Kyle as though force of will alone would make his brother understand that getting emotionally involved with Lianne Blakely was a mistake of potentially lethal proportions.

“The so-called mugger is a lieutenant in the Red Phoe
nix triad,” Archer said. “He’s part of an informal cultural-exchange program. Uncle Sam locks up or deports one triad man and they send two to take his place.”