‘I got voicemail, then nothing.’
‘And when he didn’t come out of customs at the airport?’
‘I wondered if I’d made a mistake, or he was delayed – you know, had to take a different flight or fly with a different carrier.’
‘Did you try calling him again?’
‘Yes, yes,’ she said. ‘I got nothing.’
‘Did you call his work?’
‘I called his hotel first. They told me he’d checked out.’
‘When?’
‘The morning before. Which was what he told me he was going to do. Then I called Jen – she’s Joe’s new assistant. She didn’t know what was happening. She said she’d call the Shanghai office as soon as it was eleven here. That’s eight there.’
‘Did she?’
‘I don’t know. Dennis called me.’
‘Dennis?’
‘Dennis Jackson,’ she said. ‘He’s BBK’s CEO.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He said he didn’t know Joe had even gone,’ she said, starting to cry again. ‘He said don’t worry, there had to be a simple explanation. He told me he’d call the Shanghai office too, and he’d call me back when he had some news.’
‘Did he?’
‘Yes, later that afternoon. He said Joe had been in the Shanghai office on Wednesday, but didn’t show up Thursday, and didn’t make his flight. That’s all they knew.’
‘Did – he must have said they would do something?’
‘He told me to call Joe’s parents and his brother and sister, and see if they’d heard from him. I wondered – Christ, he asked me – I’d been thinking it – he asked me if it was possible Joe could be with someone.’
‘A woman?’
There was a long pause before she could answer. ‘I told him no, that Joe – I told him no.’
‘Did you call his parents?’
‘I didn’t want to alarm them. I just asked if they’d heard from Joe. They hadn’t. And I forgot Dennis . . . Dennis said they’d call the consulate, and he’d get someone to contact the police. Then I got a call from the consulate.’
‘Who called you?’
‘His name’s Jon.’
‘What’s his last – ?’
‘I’m looking it up on my notes. Clarkson. Jonathan Clarkson.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He said they’d liaise with local officials, and the police.’
‘And since then?’
‘I keep ringing the firm, trying to get Dennis. His assistant called me back and said there was no news. The police had no information – the consular guy, Jon, he said the same thing at first. I kept saying a person can’t just disappear into thin air. Then today.’
‘Who called today?’
‘Jon. He said the police had contacted them. They said Joe had been detained.’
‘For what?’
‘They won’t say yet.’
‘There had to be some reason given?’
‘They haven’t, Pete,’ she said, raising her voice. ‘Jon said for some offences, some investigations, they don’t give reasons. I don’t know what it could be.’ She burst into tears again, and was unable to talk for the moment.
‘Did he tell you anything else?’ Tanner asked when Melissa’s sobs had subsided a little.
‘He said he hoped there’d be some clarification in a few days.’
‘That’s it?’
‘Yes.’
‘But Joe . . . he hasn’t been charged with anything, right?’
‘They said he’s under investigation. I kept telling Jon they must have given a reason, but they haven’t. It has to be some kind of mistake, Pete. It has to be.’
She cried again, and Tanner waited until she was able to compose herself. ‘And the consulate doesn’t know where they’re holding him?’ he asked.
‘Jon said it’s likely to be a detention centre in Shanghai. He said he’d call as soon as they know.’
‘Have you spoken to the firm since?’
‘Dennis rang me tonight,’ she said. ‘I told him it has to be a mistake, Joe wouldn’t deliberately do anything wrong. I asked what he was doing there, but he said he couldn’t say.’
‘Are they arranging a lawyer?’
‘I don’t – I should have asked that. He said they’re trying to find out themselves why Joe’s been detained.’
‘I’ll call him,’ Tanner said. ‘As soon as I hang up. I’ll go see him tomorrow.’
‘Would you? Please?’
‘What about the consulate? When are you next due to speak to them?’
‘Jon said he’d call me as soon as they’re told something. I got upset . . . I know he’s doing all he can. I told him – I don’t know – I think I just started crying. It’s killing me. That’s why I called you.’
‘Let me ring BBK for you. I’ll call you in the morning.’
‘Please . . . can you call me back tonight?’ She gave Tanner Dennis Jackson’s mobile number.
‘If you don’t hear from me, I haven’t been able to reach him. What time does the consulate open our time?’
‘Eleven thirty here. Will you ring Jon for me?’
‘You ring him first, tell him I’m your lawyer.’
When he ended the call, Tanner got up from his couch and poured the rest of his wine down the sink. He dialled Jackson’s number, but got voicemail. He left a message saying who he was, and asking to be called back no matter how late.
He went to bed well after midnight, and fell asleep at about two, without his call being returned.
4
Hendrik Richter sat behind the desk of his office and studied the press release. He held it in the fingers of his left hand. The hand had now seen many summers, and his skin was blemished and thin. He checked the time on his watch, like he had somewhere to go. His wrist was narrow, and appeared fragile, like the rest of him. That was an illusion, of sorts.
He looked to the man standing with his back to him, gazing out the window. ‘Are you satisfied with this, Andre?’ Richter asked. He spoke in a clipped, precise English. He’d lived in London for ten years before moving to Australia. The move to London had been made before Mandela was released.
Andre Visser turned his head. He nodded slightly, then returned his gaze to the water. Like Richter, Visser was from the Western Cape. A few years younger than the man who’d founded the company, Visser had been with Citadel Resources from the beginning, since the days of Richter & Co. Over the years, mines had been bought in the Americas, Australia, PNG, Indonesia, Mongolia, and in several African countries. Copper mines. Gold mines. Nickel. Silver. Alumina. Iron ore. Coal. The company had listed on the New York Stock Exchange, with a secondary listing in Hong Kong. Annual revenue had now reached more than two hundred and fifty billion. Market capitalisation was more than a hundred billion. Visser had stood down as CEO a few years ago, but remained on the board. He was still the right-hand man of the king.
‘And the Chinese will be saying something soon, you say?’
Visser didn’t turn this time. Out on the street forty floors below them, it was already thirty degrees, even though it was still early spring. It was going to be a hot summer. ‘Hard to know for sure with them,’ he said slowly. ‘We think so.’
‘This’ll be released after that,’ John Richter said. He had thick, dark brown hair that was combed back from the front, chiselled features, and big brown eyes, which occasionally gave him a slightly startled look. His suit and shoes were bespoke. He was deeply tanned. Everything about him screamed wealth.
Not for the first time, his father and Visser ignored what he said.
‘When they make their statement,’ Visser said, talking to the window, ‘we’ll put that out the following day.’
Hendrik Richter scanned the draft press release again, found the word he wanted, picked up his pen, and circled it. In the margin he put a large cross. ‘How much do we pay our – what exactly are they? The PR people?’ He didn’t really want to kn
ow the answer, and no one responded. ‘They wrote T, H, E, I, R,’ he said, ‘“their have been no charges”.’ He dropped the paper onto his desk in front of him. ‘Did you read it, Andre?’
Visser didn’t turn his gaze from the blue water, but he smiled slightly. ‘That’s why I brought it to you, Hendrik,’ he said. ‘To fix the typographical errors.’
Hendrik looked again at his old confidant. ‘It’s not a typographical error,’ he said. ‘It’s illiteracy. Thirty years ago, my mother would have made me fire the person who drafted this.’
‘We’d be down seventy thousand employees under those standards.’
‘I don’t expect a mine worker to have mastered Strunk & White,’ Richter said, ‘just the people who draft our corporate literature. Surely they . . .’ He gave a flick of his hand, but didn’t bother to end the sentence.
Visser stifled a laugh. ‘Literature might be a grand term for the work product of our message people.’
Richter looked at his son. ‘You didn’t draft this, did you, John?’
The younger Richter slowly shook his head.
For much of his life, Richter had called his son Jack; through prep school in the UK, and even through his senior years at an exclusive school on Sydney’s North Shore. Then there was a party when his son was finishing university, some fancy-dress thing. Jack had gone wearing a toga. He was a Roman emperor. He took along his girlfriend, half a case of Krug, and thirty grams of cocaine. There was a misunderstanding over a dance the girlfriend had with another young man.
Even at school, John Richter had a reputation for violent outbursts. Once drugs and alcohol entered the scene, young John, heir to a billionaire, became known as someone not to cross. The week following the party, it cost Hendrik Richter a sizeable sum to resolve the misunderstanding. It was then that Andre Visser told his friend about his son’s nickname: ‘Jack the Richter’.
Hendrik Richter began calling his son John after that.
Richter was seventy-one, and in no hurry to retire. The new CEO they’d brought in would get five, maybe seven years at most. That was as long as anyone should be CEO of such a huge business, Richter believed. Maybe John would have matured by then.
Richter’s daughter, Isla, had no interest in running the company. Mining wasn’t sexy, only the vast fortune it provided. She was sharper than John, but her obsessions were Instagram and plastic surgery. He forgave her the latter; only the boy had inherited the best of both parents. Isla was, in truth, a pleasant-looking woman, but moved in circles where only drop-dead gorgeous would do.
Five to seven years, Richter thought. Then John might be ready.
‘When are we lodging the development applications?’ Richter asked. His son opened his document holder. Visser beat him to the answer.
‘Close to Christmas,’ he said. ‘A day or two before.’
‘Here and Queensland?’
‘Yes.’
‘How long for approval?’
Visser smiled softly, and finally turned to face his old boss. ‘If it’s only months, we’ll all be happy. Within a year.’
‘And the – ?’
‘Every wheel that we can grease,’ Visser said, ‘is being greased.’
Richter nodded. ‘And the gold mine here? Bageeyn River? I don’t need to emphasise its importance to anyone, do I? With coal the way it is?’
Visser shrugged. ‘You left that one with John, Hendrik.’
Richter turned his gaze to his son. ‘Well?’
John Richter smiled. ‘Every wheel that can be greased,’ he said, ‘is being greased.’
5
Bloomberg Butler Kelly’s reception hall had a white tiled floor, white leather chairs and couches, and a white marble front desk. As he walked out of the lift, Tanner saw floor-to-ceiling windows, through which Sydney Harbour lurked between the buildings. To his left was a giant TV. Under it, built into the wall, was an enormous fish tank, containing tropical fish from the Barrier Reef. To his right was the receptionist. By some dystopian directive she too was in all white, her red lipstick vibrant against white skin. On the wall behind her, in lettering an optometrist could have used, was a list of all the firm’s offices.
‘Can I help you?’ she asked.
‘My name’s Tanner,’ he said. ‘I’m here to see Dennis Jackson.’
For a short moment she looked surprised. ‘Please take a seat,’ she said, picking up the phone.
He walked over to the wall of glass instead and looked out. He’d never been able to conceive of a career in a place like BBK; he’d only ever seen himself in a courtroom. A few minutes later someone approached. He turned around, and saw a woman somewhere in her thirties, on the tallish side in the heels, wearing a blue skirt. She had on a matching jacket, from which the frills of her white blouse spilled like cream from a bun.
‘Mr Tanner? I’m Helen Bishop, Mr Jackson’s executive assistant.’
‘I need to speak to him urgently,’ he said. ‘He knows why it’s important.’
‘He’s very busy today,’ she replied, ‘but he’s able –’
‘We’re all busy,’ he said quickly. ‘I called last night and again this morning. I’m surprised to have been ignored, given the circumstances.’
‘What I was about to say is that Mr Jackson can give you ten minutes.’
He looked at her for a moment. ‘That’s very kind of him.’
She nodded. ‘Mr Jackson’s office is this way.’ She walked to a door behind reception and used the security tag clipped to her waist to open it. ‘After you.’
They walked down the corridor, past fishbowl offices on one side and cubicles on the other, to the north-west corner office, a fifty-square-metre glass box. The CEO was standing behind his desk, a phone to his ear. He didn’t look at Tanner, just held up his hand to indicate no one was to enter yet.
Tanner looked at the nameplate on the door. DENNIS JACKSON, CEO, AUSTRALIA. ‘Are any of you confused about who has this office?’ he said.
‘Everyone has a nameplate.’
He nodded and looked through the glass at Jackson, who’d now turned his back.
‘I guess he doesn’t want me to lip read what he’s saying?’
‘Can you?’
‘It’s handy to know what appellate judges are whispering to each other.’
She smiled.
‘Everything looks new.’
‘We’ve only been here a year.’
‘Interesting building.’
‘It’s a Lund.’
‘A Lund?’
‘He’s the architect. He’s quite well known.’
‘I’m sure.’
‘The building is ultra-green.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘We have geothermal wells underneath us. They help with the heating in winter.’
‘What self-respecting law firm doesn’t have a geothermal well?’
She smiled again. ‘The lifts are solar-power enhanced,’ she said. ‘That’s what they tell us, anyway.’
‘Do they get this high on a cloudy day?’
‘Always,’ she said.
‘An ultra-green office tower full of the lawyers and bankers of the world’s great polluters,’ he said. ‘Now that’s ironic.’
She glared at him for a long moment. ‘Mr Jackson is ready to see you now,’ she then said.
Tanner’s eyes shifted from Helen Bishop to Dennis Jackson, who made a slight gesture, ready to grant an audience.
‘I understand you’re a friend of Joe Cheung’s,’ Jackson said, holding out his hand. Tanner shook it and nodded. Jackson’s grip was modest, his fingers almost unnaturally long. He was as tall as Tanner. A personal trainer was involved in the lean frame. ‘I’m sorry I haven’t been able to get back to you yet.’
‘I’m a friend of Joe and Melissa’s,’ Tanner said. He noticed a bike leaning against the far wall in the left of the office.
Jackson smiled. ‘Got it last week,’ he said. ‘I had a Cervélo before.’
&nbs
p; ‘Did you,’ Tanner said flatly.
‘It’s an American brand. They’re more technologically advanced than the European bikes these days.’
Tanner looked at the bike again. He saw an upmarket pushbike, not something that could fly to the moon.
‘A group of us here cycle three or four times a week.’ Jackson walked over to his bike. He touched the handlebars as though Christ had ridden it. ‘Cost me an arm and a leg. Carbon frame, Shimano brakes, the wheels are –’
‘Dennis,’ Tanner said, ‘I’m not here to talk about the specifications of your bike.’
Jackson stopped smiling. ‘You seemed interested.’
‘I’m not. I’m here to talk about Joe Cheung, and I’m told you don’t have much time.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Then tell me what’s happened.’
Jackson sat down behind his desk. The desktop was frosted glass, nothing on it but a computer screen, a keypad, and a solitary silver fountain pen. ‘If you’ve spoken to Melissa,’ he said, ‘then I probably know less than you.’
‘That surprises me.’
Jackson narrowed his eyes. They were dark, and too small for Tanner’s liking. ‘Who are you representing, exactly?’ he asked. ‘Joe?’
‘Why not?’
‘He hasn’t retained a lawyer yet, as far as we know.’
‘He’s in a Chinese detention centre. They don’t appear to be rushing to give him his phone call. I’m acting for Melissa.’
‘I’ve told her what we know.’
‘Tell me.’
‘We’ve been told very little. Generalisations, no specifics.’
Tanner leant forwards. ‘Whatever has happened,’ he said, ‘whatever is alleged, this is an almighty fuck up.’
Jackson shrugged barely perceptibly, but didn’t respond.
‘Dennis?’
‘From what we’ve been told, it doesn’t sound like they think they’ve made a mistake.’
‘Who are “we” and “they”?’
‘This firm. The Chinese. The state security bureau.’
‘Is there a Chinese equivalent of Inspector Clouseau? Who have you been speaking to?’
‘People in our Shanghai office.’
‘Who in those offices?’
Cyanide Games: A Peter Tanner Thriller Page 4
