The water rat of Wanchai al-1

by Ian Hamilton

  “Take him,” she said to Robbins, who had come into the room and was standing only a few feet behind her. “Behave,” she said to Seto.

  “I want nothing to do with him,” said Robbins.

  “I can’t do it, and we can’t have him here all covered in piss if I have to bring the banker back.”

  She watched as Robbins thought it out through his beery haze. “Fuck,” he finally said, brushing past her and reaching down for Seto. He picked him up by the armpits again and, holding him at arm’s length, carried him from the room. Seto looked back at Ava, his eyes rolling in panic.

  While they were in the bathroom she prepared another dose of chloral hydrate in a glass of water. She had only a bottle and a half left. She hoped she wouldn’t have to use it all.

  Robbins carried Seto back the same way he had taken him and threw him onto the bed from a metre away. Seto bounced and then lay sideways across the bed. Ava helped him sit up and held the glass to his mouth. “Drink,” she said.

  He shook his head.

  “Drink it or I’ll get Mr. Clean here to hold your mouth open and I’ll pour it down your throat. Look at it this way: you’ll be sleeping through a whole bunch of unpleasantness. This is a kindness, not a punishment.”

  Seto looked up at Robbins, then at the glass Ava held. His lips parted and he drank. The roll of duct tape was on the bedside table. She tore off a strip and re-taped his mouth. “This will be over soon enough,” she said to him.

  Robbins followed her from the room, breathing heavily, the stench of beer and body odour wafting from him.

  Ava said, “I need to get organized for the meeting this morning. I’m going to get my paperwork and sit in the kitchen. I would appreciate it if you stayed away from there until I’m finished.”

  “Do I bother you that much?”

  “Your smell does.”

  He raised an armpit, sniffed, and then smiled. “I’m not leaving you alone.”

  She went into her bedroom, closing the door behind her. She knelt by the bed and said a little prayer invoking St. Jude, the patron saint of lost causes. Given the Roman Catholic Church’s stance on homosexuality, Ava had quietly cut her ties with the institution. But she couldn’t entirely revoke her childhood. She saw no relationship between prayer and the Church, or between St. Jude and the Church. She prayed to him often when she was working, not because she was involved in that many lost causes, but more because he was also the patron saint of desperate situations, and those were something with which she was more familiar.

  Her prayer finished, she laid out her clothes and accessories for the day. She decided on the pencil skirt, thinking that a show of lightly tanned, nicely shaped legs wouldn’t hurt. The white Brooks Brothers shirt fit a little tighter than the other two, and her black bra would be vaguely visible through it. The green jade cufflinks and the ivory chignon pin were musts, as were the Cartier watch and the gold crucifix. They completed the image she wanted to project: professional, successful, and attractive in an understated, conservative way.

  She opened the Chanel bag she took to meetings and put the business cards from Fong Accounting and all of Seto’s ID into it. Grabbing two sachets of VIA instant, her notebook, and the Barrett’s Bank file she had taken from Seto’s office, she left the bedroom and went to the kitchen. Robbins was back in the chair at the door. She thought he was sleeping until his eyes flickered open.

  Ava put on the kettle, and while she waited for the water to boil she slipped onto the balcony, leaving the door open behind her. The sun was well above the horizon, beaming down on Road Harbour, the Caribbean a shimmering sky blue with streaks of green and the boat hulls gleaming. It was already warm, at least in the mid-twenties, but a light trade wind ruffled the morning air. Ava decided the balcony was for her. She left the notebook and files on the table and returned to the kitchen to make her coffee.

  She drank half a cup standing by the stove, added a bit more coffee, topped up the water, and went back outside. She went through the bank file first, reacquainting herself with the account history. Thank God Jeremy Bates wasn’t entirely new. If she’d drawn a manager who hadn’t dealt with Seto before, her job would have been that much more difficult, if not impossible. At least Bates knew what Seto looked like.

  Then she opened her Moleskine notebook and reviewed the notes she’d made after Seto had described the procedures for withdrawing more than $25,000 at a time. She wasn’t worried about being able to cover the transaction with a plausible paper trail. It seemed to her that Seto’s signature on a wire application, along with presentation of the appropriate identification — with copies signed and dated if necessary — would give the bank everything it needed. The important, overriding question was, would the bank insist on seeing Seto actually sign the documents? But why would they? she thought. They had his signature on record for comparison. She would be able to present his genuine ID in a couple of forms, with copies signed and dated. Not right away though, not at the first meeting. The worst thing she could do would be to overwhelm Bates with documentation.

  The most important thing was for her not to rush, not to appear the least bit anxious. Slow and steady, slow and steady. Spin Bates the story. Establish her credibility. Show him Seto’s ID. Establish the relationship. Get Bates primed to organize a wire but don’t try to close at that first meeting. It would take two meetings, maybe even three. As long as she could keep nudging him along… tiny steps, tiny steps. Let him tell her what they needed and how they needed it. Let him think he was in control of sending the seven million dollars to Hong Kong.

  The only problem was that Robbins thought five million was in play. She knew — at least, if he was smart — that he’d want to confirm the wire that Barrett’s sent to Hong Kong. If he knew it was seven million his price would go up. She needed to convince the bank to send two wires, and that was doable. The way she figured it, if Plan A worked she’d be able to look after Tam and pocket an extra commission for herself. If things moved on to Plan B, Tam would still recover most of his loss.

  She closed her eyes and rested her head against the back of the chair. The sun was naked in the sky, the heat building. She loved the sun on her skin, but it dulled her senses, lulled her to sleep. Time to go in, time to go to work, she thought, pulling herself up from the chair.

  The apartment’s living room was empty. Robbins’s bedroom door was open but she could see no sign of him inside. Then she saw him standing in the bathroom at the sink. He was naked to the waist, rolls of fat rippling like ruffles on a splotchy white dress. He had a cloth in his gloved hand and was rubbing his left armpit. Robbins’s eyes flickered in the mirror, staring back at her. Ava avoided his glance and went on into her room. Maybe he wasn’t a complete animal after all. Or maybe he just couldn’t bear his own stench.

  She took her time brushing her hair, fixing the chignon, applying a hint of lipstick, and slipping into the clothes she had laid out on the bed. It was almost a ritual. When she was done, she stood back and looked at herself in the mirror on the dresser. She had left the top three buttons of her shirt undone. She turned sideways and then bent over to see how much breast showed. Too much, way too much for an accountant and too much for the banker. She buttoned one of them. The Cartier watch went on last, and she saw that it was already nine thirty. She did one last check of her Chanel bag to make sure she had everything she needed and then she was ready to go.

  Jack Robbins sat on the sofa, his bare feet up on the coffee table. He had shaved as well as washed and had exchanged the baggy white tent shirt for a baggy black tent shirt. He stared at Ava, making no pretence that her breasts weren’t his main interest.

  “It’s time,” she said.

  Robbins stopped at the door to shove his feet into his sandals, his hands pressed against his belly so he could see them.

  “We need to talk to Reception before we leave,” Ava said.

  “About what?”

  “Maid service. We don’t want it.”

 
; “I called downstairs already. It’s cancelled until further notice.”

  Ava was surprised he’d remembered.

  Davey was waiting for them, the Crown Victoria the largest car in sight. He smiled at Ava as he opened the back door for Robbins.

  They left Wickham’s Cay and drove into town. In daylight it was at least as pretty as it had been at night, clean and compact, with well-paved narrow streets with actual sidewalks and sections of picket fencing. The town was a mix of British colonial and Caribbean architecture, all on a scale that suited a territory of about fifty small islands and cays with a population of around twenty thousand. Davey kept up a laconic running commentary as they went. He pointed out the two-storey Legislative Council building, with its ground floor fronted by five arches and the second by a balcony that ran its length. “The court is on top,” he said.

  Ava listened, none of it really registering. It was nice not to be in Georgetown, but that wasn’t going to help her with the bank.

  Fyfe Street was in the middle of town, the bank housed in Simon House, a four-storey powder blue stucco commercial building. The street was predictably narrow, the sidewalk meagre. Davey drove the car onto the sidewalk and parked it so close to a wall that Ava doubted he could open his door. But then, he didn’t have to leave the car. She looked at her watch. It was five minutes to ten. “I have no idea how long this is going to take,” she said to Robbins.

  “We’re not going anywhere,” he said.

  The bank was only one of a large number of tenants in the building. On the outside wall, on both sides of a white double door with elaborate brass handles, were lists of the occupants. There were two signs in brass, Barrett’s and an insurance company. The insurer had the third floor to itself and Barrett’s had the fourth. The other businesses, about twenty of them, each had a white-painted wooden sign about the width of a sheet of paper. They all seemed to be involved in offshore registration, providing a legal address and a cubbyhole for mail for God knows how many firms.

  Ava stepped through the door into a small lobby with corridors running off on either side. There was an open elevator that looked as if it had been built in the 1950s. She got in, hit the button for the fourth floor, and then waited for the door to close. As the elevator creaked its way upward she realized it wasn’t air-conditioned; she felt sweat beading on her forehead. She swore as she wiped at it, not wanting to look nervous.

  The door opened onto a reception area that had two red leather couches along the wall to the left and a coffee table stacked with magazines. The wall on the right had pictures of London: Big Ben, Westminster Abbey, the Tower of London. Between the walls there had to be ten metres of Persian carpet. Straight ahead, also about ten metres away, a young woman sat behind a massive mahogany desk that was bare except for a phone and a magazine she was leafing through. Behind her, a wood-panelled wall ran from floor to ceiling. The Barrett’s logo — cast in bronze — occupied its centre; it was at least a metre across and two metres high. Behind and to either side of the desk, two steel-plated doors, painted beige to blend with the walls, barred any further entrance into the bank’s premises.

  There was no one else in the room. There wasn’t a sound save for the woman turning the page of her magazine.

  It gives the right impression for a private bank, Ava thought. Spacious, unpretentious, elegant in a subtle and solid kind of way, certainly quiet, and no hurly-burly, nothing screaming at you to take out a car loan or refinance your mortgage. It looked like the kind of place where you’d have to know someone before becoming a customer, the kind of place that knew how to keep secrets.

  The woman looked up from her magazine and Ava saw that it was People. The Economist would have been more appropriate, she thought. “Hello, my name is Ava Lee. I have an appointment with Mr. Bates.”

  The woman smiled. “Mr. Bates is expecting you. Actually, you and a Mr. Seto.”

  Not many drop-ins here, Ava guessed. “Mr. Seto is indisposed. I’m here by myself.”

  “I’ll let Mr. Bates know. I’ll be back in a minute.”

  The woman left the desk and walked to the door on the left. She punched in a six-digit security code, turned, and disappeared.

  Ava looked through the magazines on the coffee table and found an Economist as well as a week-old copy of the Financial Times. She was debating which one to read when the beige door opened and the woman reappeared. “Could you follow me, please,” she said.

  Ava trailed her down a hallway lined with closed doors. At the end, standing in an open doorway, was a tall, slim young man who bore a remarkable resemblance to the actor Jude Law. That can’t be Bates, Ava thought. The man managing the bank’s interests in the world’s largest offshore tax haven had to be more senior, tried, tested. Ava had the feeling she was being sloughed off. A ripple of panic danced in her stomach.

  “Hello, I’m Jeremy Bates. So pleased to meet you,” he said.

  Ava took his extended hand, assessing his off-white monogrammed shirt, blue and yellow Ferragamo silk tie, slate grey light wool tailored slacks with their sharp, straight crease, and glistening black lace-up shoes. Those shoes are handmade, Ava thought, and Bates is no working-class boy.

  He was just over six feet, and as he looked down Ava saw that he was eyeing her just as closely. She gave him her shyest smile and said, “Thank you so much for seeing me.”

  “I was expecting Mr. Seto as well,” he said, stepping aside and motioning for her to come into his office.

  “He is terribly ill,” she said.

  “We’ll sit at my conference table,” said Bates. “Nothing serious with him, I trust?”

  “Food poisoning. We ate a hurried meal before getting on the plane yesterday and something did not sit right with him. He’s been either in his bed or in the bathroom since we arrived, and either running a fever or experiencing chills.”

  “So he’s here in Road Town?”

  “Oh, yes, just not mobile.”

  She sat, her eyes wandering around the office. It was massive, as large as the reception area, designed to impress. More mahogany in the desk and credenza, another Persian rug spread over wooden floors. A high-backed, heavily padded green leather chair sat behind the desk, with two smaller ones in front of it. There were three picture windows on the back wall and the side walls were lined with bookcases filled with what looked like company minute books. Then her eye caught something a bit more modern. In the upper right-hand corner, where ceiling met wall, she saw a tiny camera. She had no doubt that every meeting in this room was recorded.

  “My business card,” he said, passing it to her.

  “Thank you,” she said, noting his title: DIRECTOR, PRIVATE BANKING, BRITISH VIRGIN ISLANDS.

  “Now, I have tea, coffee, and water. Do you have a preference?”

  “Oh, nothing, thank you,” she said, finding herself still taken aback by his youth and good looks. His hair was dark blond, short, receding at the temples. He had brilliant blue eyes set a bit far apart, and his nose was long and slender.

  “Fine,” he said, pouring himself a glass of water. “Now tell me, Ms. Lee, in what capacity are you affiliated with Mr. Seto?”

  She took her business card from the Chanel bag and held it at two corners as she presented it to Bates. “Our firm is the accountant of record for Dynamic Financial Services. Dynamic finances purchase orders and letters of credit and generally facilitates trade among Southeast Asia, Europe, and North America. One of Mr. Seto’s companies, Seafood Partners, has used Dynamic’s services extensively over the past six months and the principals have developed a close working relationship. About two months ago, Mr. Seto decided to take an equity position in a scallop and shrimp plant in Yantai, on the northern coast of the Yellow Sea. He used Dynamic to broker the deal, and now we’re getting ready to close.”

  Bates looked at her business card and then back at Ava. She sat tall, Havergal style, her breasts thrust ever so slightly forward. “That all seems very interesting,” he said, words sh
e knew meant nothing.

  “Well, it’s never easy dealing with the Chinese,” she said. “Dynamic, though, has extensive experience in that area. They always try, for example, to negotiate terms that leave the investors with exit options in case of problems. Quite obviously, they have contacts inside China that make this possible, contacts they have nurtured over a great many years. The fees they charge for brokering contracts like this, for being the stable bridge between the two parties, are exceedingly reasonable given the level of protection they offer.”

  He had a pen, a notepad, and a closed file in front of him. He didn’t write a single word as she spoke. “Our bank has a presence in Asia, of course, and I have heard how difficult it is to do business there,” he said.

  “It can be incredibly frustrating,” Ava said. “We represented an American firm one time that was negotiating a contract in Shanghai. It dragged on and on for months, and every time they thought the deal was done, some new issue would emerge. Finally they thought everything had been put to bed and were told by the Chinese to bring their senior people to Shanghai for a signing ceremony. A week later their CEO flew into Hong Kong from New York to catch a flight to Shanghai. When he got to Hong Kong, he was met at the airport by his local staff. They had just received a fax from the Chinese company signed by someone none of them had met or even heard of. The fax advised them not to bother coming to Shanghai — the deal was dead. The Americans tried phoning, faxing, and emailing everyone they had met during the course of the previous months. No one would take their calls or respond to any of their communications.