“Agreed. How’s she doing?”
“Other than being worried sick about your imperiled hide, she is, as I said, a trooper.”
“Thanks, Tom. If I need you …”
“Don’t worry, Mikey. My man’ll keep an eye on the hotel. You take care of yourself. For both of you.”
* * *
My plane landed at the Manchester-Boston Regional Airport around four in the afternoon. I made the hour drive by rented car from the airport to the Governor’s Inn in Rochester in less than forty minutes.
My reunion with Terry was like a “happily ever after” scene from a fairy tale. “Ever after” was one day, but it was a welcome oasis in a very arid desert.
I had decided in advance, with no objection from Terry, to eliminate that next day from the calendar. It didn’t exist in the real world. For twenty-four hours, there were no gangsters, no treasure, no world beyond the Governor’s Inn.
For the first time since what was billed as a “second honeymoon” began in Sinaia, Terry and I could feel together, alone, and in real communication. We were at lunch at Benedict’s Grille when it happened—one of those moments that puts your life on a totally different plane.
I began to tell Terry that as soon as I could see this debacle to a conclusion, I’d see to it that we’d have peace and permanent safety for the rest of our lives. My professional life would take a serious reversal. Whatever might come along, I was ready to promise her the life together that we both wanted more than anything on earth.
I got as far as the word “promise.”
Terry stopped me. “No. No promise. No matter how deeply you mean it. Are you listening to me?”
I most certainly was.
“This time, Michael, it has to be more than a promise. This time it has to be a fact … for the three of us.”
Those last three words shifted gears in my mind with an instant resolute finality. From that moment, I knew that my life—our lives—would belong not only to each other, but to someone we could both hardly wait to meet.
The joy of that moment could only be expressed in a hug that lasted for what must have been minutes. When I could find my voice again, I whispered, “No promise this time. I’ll make it a fact. For the three of us.”
* * *
On the day after that, as Mr. Kipling once wrote, “The dawn came up like thunder.” The world’s entanglements came back into our lives like gangbusters. But we were recharged to face it.
What had happened in the farmhouse outside of Bucharest had undoubtedly been a severe poking of the Russian hornet’s nest. I had also had a flash course on how closely they had been able to monitor my Boston doings in spite of evasive tactics. I began to realize that sticking to populated public places was my best, if not only, protection.
I got back in action in Boston that first day with one hell of a to-do list. It began with phone calls to Mr. Devlin, George, and Harry Wong to set up an agenda.
I dialed Mr. Devlin on his direct line to avoid explaining to my secretary, Julie, why I didn’t have her book the flight home from my “vacation” in Bucharest. Mr. D. settled for a brief synopsis, with the promise of details at lunch at the Marliave, hopefully with Deputy D.A. Coyne in attendance. I knew that the Marliave was probably under the ubiquitous surveillance of the Russian mob, but to hell with them. They’d be unlikely to pull a grab-and-run on me in such a populated place at noon.
The second call was to George. He picked up on the first ring.
“Michael, are you alright? Are you back?”
“Yes and yes.”
“I heard you had a bit of an adventure.”
“Before we talk, can you pick up a prepaid, untapped phone in the next ten minutes?”
There was a brief hesitation. “I can. Do I assume I should not ask why?”
“Good idea. Call me back when you’re in a safe place, alone.”
George was quick on the pickup. He simply hung up.
My third call was to Harry Wong.
“Mike. I was wondering when I’d hear from you. You staying out of trouble?”
“Of course, Harry. Just a poor boy tryin’ to make his way in the world.”
“Uh-huh. That sounds ominous. What’s up?”
“How does your morning look?”
“Well, I could research an article on photo plastic solvents. I could attend a lecture on metallic stress in alloys. Or I could join you and probably put my skinny yellow neck in a guillotine. Pick one.”
“Let’s go with the guillotine. Chinatown? Back room of Mr. Leong’s poultry shop? Ten o’clock this morning? You ready to saddle up?”
“Hi-yo, Silver.”
Only my trusty Harry could joke about it. What I had in mind could well fit his “guillotine” metaphor.
I had just hung up with Harry, when George called back.
“Good timing. You’re on a safe phone?”
“As requested. Why so?”
“I have reason to believe that our Russian friends have more access to my personal life than I find comfortable. It may be an excess of caution, but …”
“There’s no such thing for people in our business.”
“Your business, George. It’s strictly a one-shot freelance for me. The more one-shot, the better.”
“Understood. Tell me about Bucharest.”
“You could say that Romanian hospitality fell short of its reputation. I take it Irina gave you the details. Probably better than I could.”
“It was a close call. I had no idea what you were walking into.”
“Your young lady is quite a surprise. I owe the rest of my life to her.”
“Irina is one of a kind. Probably not quite as young as you thought she was at the Glam Club. But amazing.”
“I’m afraid her undercover work is cut short. The head of that mob of Russian thugs at the farmhouse, Boris, he could be a problem. I shot him twice, but not fatally. He could break her cover.”
“Don’t worry about Boris. My people cleaned up. Her identity is safe.”
Without asking, I assumed that that meant Boris was no longer on the active player roster of the Russian team. Perhaps selfishly, I was still glad that it was neither of the bullets I fired that had permanently dispatched him to his final accounting.
“You and I have to meet, George. We have things to talk about.”
“I was hoping so. Dinner at the Wallachia Café?”
“No. I hate to tell you this, but I’m afraid your boat has a leak. Boris and his pals seemed to know about everything we discussed during our lunch at the Wallachia.”
That seemed to trigger more tension than anything else I’d ever said to him. I was becoming more convinced with each contact that in spite of his outlaw pursuits, George and I shared a mutual respect for loyalty. Betrayal by someone in whom we placed trust had a personal sting that went beyond the danger it presented.
There was a heavy pause. “We’ll talk about this further. Where shall we meet?”
“What do you know about sea dragons?”
“Probably a lot less than you.”
“I doubt it. Maybe it’s time we both learned. I’m thinking this afternoon. Three p.m. The sea dragon exhibit at the New England Aquarium. It’s on the second floor. Are you game?”
“You’re a never-ending surprise—one of your greatest charms. Sea dragons it is. I might be a few minutes late. No worries. I’ll be there.”
* * *
At ten o’clock on the button, I walked among the sidewalk population on Tyler Street to Mr. Leong’s poultry shop. I could sense both Russian and Chinese eyes watching my every step. It could have been an overactive imagination, but no matter. I felt free to move as long as I was wrapped in the protection of a public crowd.
Mr. Leong greeted me with a smile and a gracious bow, both of which I returned. I asked for his well-being, which he rightly took to mean freedom from the tong’s fist in his cash register, and more critically, their talons on his grandson. His smile broadene
d. He simply nodded twice. That said it all.
Still the master of coded speech, he said within hearing of his customers, “Your package has arrived. It is in my office. You may pick it up while I attend to my customers.”
I nodded, grateful that my purpose in being there was undisclosed without having to find a way to dispose of another goose.
I walked back into Mr. Leong’s office. I closed the door. Harry was there, as expected. I was relieved that without my asking, he had brought Mickey Chan with him. I assumed correctly that they had again used the back-alley entrance. I indulged the belief that neither the Russians nor the tong had their eyes on Harry or Mickey.
By now, I had some notion of a plan for dealing with the Chinese team of treasure-hunters. It required face-to-face dealing with the top dog on their side. And that required learning who he might be. I laid out the problem for Harry and Mickey.
Harry explained the first hurdle. The tong thrives on secrecy—particularly in the matter of the upper levels of the chain of command. The second in command, the Fu Shan Chu, is known to only a few at the top. The dragon head, the very top man, the Shan Chu, is known only to the Fu Shan Chu.
Mickey chimed in to remind us that there was another layer. At our last meeting, Danny had mentioned that, because of the size of the prize involved, the parent triad in Hong Kong had taken over the running of the hunt for the violin.
“Then that’s the man I need to meet. The man with power to make a deal. How do I find him?”
Harry answered. “You don’t. Not directly. Too much secrecy. You have to jump in at some level and work your way up.”
“So where do I jump in?”
Harry and Mickey looked at each other. I knew they were thinking alike. Mickey said it. “How about the fat man you scared the crap out of for Mr. Leong. His name is Tow An-Yan. You already have some leverage on him.”
“Good thought. Maybe we can get some more mileage out of the deportation threat. How do I make contact?”
Mickey had the idea. “I know the route of the collection of lo mo, lucky money—extortion from the shops in Chinatown. I used to be part of it. On Thursday, the youth gang will collect from six shops on Tyler Street. They’ll bring the collection to the fat man.”
“Where?”
“That’s the problem. It’s called the ‘large-stakes gambling den.’ It’s open twenty-four hours. It’s also the banking operation that funds all of the tong’s other criminal activities like drugs, bringing girls from China for prostitution, money laundering, murder for hire. Every Chinatown has one.”
“Do you know where it is?”
“Yes.”
“Can you take me there?”
“No.”
“No? Why not?”
“It’s strictly guarded by the tong’s boo how doy, the youth gang enforcers. You’d have a better chance of getting into Fort Knox, alive.”
“Then what? I just need to plant a message that’ll get to the man from the triad.”
It was Harry’s turn. “I can try. I’ll go there. I speak the language.”
“I’ll go with you.”
“Not a good idea, Mike. Not a healthy one anyway. You’re a gweilo—non-Chinese. The welcome mat is not out for you. In a big way.”
“On the other hand, I’m the only one who has access to what they want. The violin. The only lead to the code.”
“And with that you want to walk into their den?”
“‘Want’ may not be the word, but yes. You handle the introductions. If you can get them to listen, I’m going to make them an offer they can’t refuse.”
“And if they shoot first and listen later?”
“Then we’ll know the plan isn’t working.”
Harry just looked at me.
Mickey offered to come with us. I jumped in. “No. As your lawyer, I want you under wraps. You’re still under indictment. Go back to wherever you were. I don’t want to know where. Keep in touch with Harry.”
Harry still looked unconvinced. “Are you sure about going with me, Mike? I could deliver the offer myself. You stay out of sight.”
“Doesn’t work that way, Harry. It only has leverage because I’m the only one with the information. If I can pull it off, it might solve two problems. You ready?”
It took a second, but Harry gave me the nod.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
HARRY LED THE way down Tyler Street at a brisk, self-confident, man-on-a-mission pace. I followed suit, according to instructions.
“‘Face’ is everything, Mike. The message we exude is ‘We’re in control. No fear.’ Like the old joke—walk this way.”
And I did. It’s a funny thing about putting on “face.” No matter how shallow it runs, it can give you a totally unfounded sense of confidence.
We turned left at the end of Tyler Street and crossed Beach Street. While we walked, an idea began to congeal. I had just one card to play and very little time to make the most of it. I pulled Harry to the side of a building out of foot traffic. I needed one phrase in Chinese. I said it to Harry.
Harry shook his head. “You can’t say that, Michael. You’re playing with dynamite. No one says these words in public, not even a Chinese.”
“That’s what I was hoping. Say it slowly in Chinese.”
Harry was obviously uncomfortable, but he said the Chinese words four or five times while I repeated them. I worked them over until I had the sounds, the pitch, and the inflection as close as a weilu could get to Harry’s phrase.
“Good enough to be understood, Harry?”
“Close enough to get your head taken off in one swipe.”
“That’s close enough. Let’s do it.”
“God help us.”
Harry put us back in motion. He led us half a block to the ancient door of an unexceptional building. His pace never slackened. He walked straight up to the stone-cold eyes of two late-teens in leather jackets, one by each side of the door. They caught sight of me behind him and moved together like a brick wall in front of the door. Harry’s voice descended half an octave and took on a serious bite.
Whatever he said to them in Chinese would have moved me aside just from the tone. If it had any effect whatever on the two terra-cotta soldiers in front of us, they hid it well. One of them never took his eyes off of mine. The other one matched Harry’s commanding tone and raised it a level.
I kept eye contact with my staring partner until I heard rapid footsteps coming down the sidewalk from two directions. I broke contact just long enough to confirm with a glance that two more well-muscled teenage terra-cottas were boxing us in from behind. At this point, the face of confidence I was putting on had no substance behind it whatsoever.
About a minute into the confrontation, Harry suddenly put his fists on his hips for five seconds in silence. His features radiated a glaring message of impatience. His expression suddenly melted into one I can only describe as formalized respect. He turned to me. He gave a slight bow in what looked like a conveyance of deep deference. To my total befuddlement, he spoke to me softly but firmly in Chinese. The befuddlement was apparently contagious. Whatever he said stemmed the raucous flow of words from the soldier to the left.
To my surprise, all eyes were on me in silence. The stage was set for my cadenza. I drew myself up, slowly inhaling oxygen and false courage. With full Shakespearian projection, I delivered the words Harry had coached as if they were in my native tongue.
Miraculously, while Harry’s previous Academy Award performance had no impact that I could detect, my rehearsed opus seemed to crack the stone. I caught what I could only call a shocked freeze on the two faces.
Harry picked it up like a fullback driving through an opening off-tackle. The intensity of what sounded like his demands rose to a peak. His last two words were the first I’d understood in ten minutes—“Michael Knight.”
The terra-cotta soldier in front of Harry still looked a bit stunned. He turned to the one in front of me and barked an order. My sold
ier quickly opened the door and disappeared inside. In less than twenty seconds, the door reopened. A man well fitted in a suit of excellent silk bowed to each of us—me first, I noticed.
His hand gesture invited us to enter. Again, me first. I accepted the invitation, relieved that Harry was on my heels.
If the outside of the building was mundane brick, the inside could only be described as unstinted opulence. From the crystal chandelier that could have opened a performance of Phantom of the Opera to the flocked, hand-painted, silk wall-covering, and everything in between, I felt as if we’d been transported into the entry hall of the palace of an emperor of the Ming dynasty.
We were graciously escorted by the silk suit to a private room to the left of a grand staircase. If the entrance hall was palatial, this room could pass for the domain of the royal harem, absent the ladies. The silk suit made a gentile gesture that invited seating on a silk-brocade sofa that would have had any museum guard shooing visitors away like flies.
The silk suit said something in Chinese that went over my head, but it sounded unthreatening. Harry waved it off. The silk suit bowed, left, and closed the door.
I was next to Harry with a low whisper in a flash. “What the hell was that?”
Harry’s whisper was even lower. “That last? I passed up the offer of tea. Did you want tea?”
“To hell with the tea. What’s happening?”
“Listen to me. We only have a minute. This is a miracle. You’re probably the first weilu to ever make it through that door.”
“I’m honored.”
“Yeah, well, the real miracle will be getting our breathing bodies out that door.”
“What exactly did I say in Chinese?”
“There wasn’t time to explain on the way. You wanted the Chinese words to ask to see the man here from the Hong Kong triad. They could have gotten you killed. No weilu should even know he’s in the country.”
“So what did I say?”
“These people thrive on secret codes. You demanded to see the man from Hong Kong by a number code name that no white man on earth could know. Thank God, I heard it years ago. Those goons at the door were so stunned when you said it—with great ‘face,’ I might add—they were afraid not to relay the message inside.”
High Stakes Page 17
