“Very. But I’m not going to tell her much.”
“Give it to her with a false cover story. Dream something up. Say it’s a contest of some kind. You could win a trip to Oxford for the Isaac Newton Maths Conference in September.”
“Can’t you not lie? You make up a story even when there’s no need.”
“I take no pleasure in lying.”
“You’re the Holy Roman Emperor of liars. And since when are you so flush? Usually it’s the poor mouth with you. Where are you staying?”
“I’ve been moving around town — spent last night at a twenty-dollar-an-hour motel in Canarsie. Tonight I’ll crash at the Waldorf. Got a morning flight to Hong Kong.”
“Hong Kong? How long are you going to be away?”
“No more than a day. I’ll drop in when I return, see what you’ve found. Don’t call me. And for God’s sake, make sure this Sadie Epstein keeps her trap shut.”
31
Norio Tatsuda had been a flight attendant on Japan Airline’s Tokyo—New York run for almost six years, and when he first saw the man sitting in the wrong seat, he instantly recognized the type: one of those inexperienced and combative travelers who were sure they were going to get disrespected and taken advantage of at every turn. The man was wearing an expensive suit and a silly, floppy American hat, and he clutched a plastic carry-on as if it might be snatched away at any moment by one of the many obvious thugs and criminals roaming about the cabin.
With a warm, fake smile, Tatsuda approached the gentleman and gave a little bow. “May I trouble you to see your boarding pass, sir?”
“What for?” the man responded.
“Well, it seems the lady here”—he indicated the woman standing behind him—“has a seat assignment for the seat you are sitting in, and that is why I wanted to check your boarding pass.”
“I’m in the right seat,” the man said.
“I am not at all questioning that, sir, it could very well be a problem with the booking system, but I need to check nevertheless.” He bestowed another broad smile on the scowling ape.
With a frown, the man searched his pockets and finally extracted a crumpled boarding pass. “There it is, if you’re so interested in it.”
“Thank you so very much.” Tatsuda saw immediately the man was in the wrong seat; the wrong section, even. “You are Mr. Gideon Crew?”
“That’s what it says, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, indeed it does. Now, Mr. Crew, according to this boarding pass”—another expansive smile—“you are actually booked in our business-class section, up front.”
“Business? I’m not traveling on business. I’m visiting my son.”
This man, Tatsuda thought, was almost miraculously stupid. The pugnacious expression on the man’s face, the protruding lips, furrowed brow and tilted chin, only confirmed it. “Mr. Crew, business class is not just for business travelers. There’s more room up there and a higher quality of service.” He waved the boarding pass. “You’re supposed to be in a much more expensive seat.”
Crew frowned. “My son bought the ticket, I don’t know anything about that, but I’m settled in right here, thank you.”
Tatsuda had never quite dealt with a situation like this before. He glanced back at the woman whose seat Crew occupied. Being Japanese, she had understood nothing of the exchange. He turned back to the man. “Sir, do you mean to say you would prefer to remain here for the duration of the flight? Your seat in business class will be much more comfortable.”
“That’s what I said, didn’t I? I don’t like businesspeople. Bunch of crooks. I want to be right here, in the middle of the plane where I’m safe, not up front in the death zone. That’s what I told my son, and that’s what I want.”
Another bow. Tatsuda turned to the woman and switched to Japanese. “The gentleman,” he said, “would like to exchange your seat here in economy class with his business-class seat at the front of the aircraft. Does this meet with your approval?”
It met with her approval.
With a passenger such as Gideon Crew, Tatsuda knew that the ordeal was only beginning, and the next challenge came as soon as the captain turned off the seat belt sign. As Tatsuda passed down the aisle taking drink orders, he found Crew on his feet, hunched over his seat. He had pulled up his cushion and was feeling all along the seams and in the spaces behind the seat.
“May I be of assistance, Mr. Crew?”
“I lost my damn contact lens.”
“Allow me to help.”
He squinted at Tatsuda with one eye. “Help? How’re you going to do that when I can hardly turn around in here?”
Tatsuda could see the passenger next to Crew rolling his eyes in exasperation.
“If you do need help, please let me know. In the meantime, may I have your drink order, Mr. Crew?”
“Gin and tonic.”
“Yes, sir.” Tatsuda withdrew, but he kept an eye on Crew from the galley. The man had finished searching and palpating the seat cushion and was now fumbling about in the seat compartment. He could see that the man’s rough handling had actually caused one of the seams in the cushion to come apart, and the seat covering as well seemed to be falling loose. He would have to carefully monitor the man’s alcoholic intake, as he looked exactly like the type who used a long plane journey as an excuse to get drunk.
But Crew did not order a second drink, and after an endless and obsessive search that even involved several overhead compartments, as if his contact lens might have somehow fallen upward, the man fell back in his seat and went soundly to sleep. And, to Tatsuda’s great relief, the difficult passenger proceeded to sleep like a baby all the way to Tokyo.
32
Gideon Crew stepped into the vast interior of the Tai Tam Hotel in Hong Kong. He stood still for a moment, looking around while buttoning his suit, taking in the acres of white and black marble, the cold opulence of gold and glass. There did not seem to be anything untoward about his arrival; he had gotten through customs without a hitch and everything had gone smoothly. He was fairly sure he had shaken Nodding Crane and any potential henchmen from his trail long before he left America. Who would imagine a person, being chased by a Chinese agent, getting on a plane and flying to China? The unexpected way was often the safer way.
He approached the desk, gave his name, picked up his room card, and rode an elevator to the twenty-second floor. He had booked an expensive room with a view of Hong Kong’s harbor, a necessary part of his cover, and he’d had to spend a considerable amount on some really sharp clothing. The twenty thousand Glinn had given him was almost gone, and he could only hope another infusion of cash would miraculously appear. Otherwise he would be in deep shit.
He threw the stupid hat in the trash, along with the plastic carry-on bag, took a shower, and changed into fresh, crisp clothes. Forty Benjamins’ worth, not counting the thousand-dollar shoes.
“A man could get used to this,” he said aloud, examining himself in the mirror. He wondered if he should cut his hair, decided against it: the modish length made him look dot-com.
He glanced at his watch. Four in the afternoon — of the next day. After thoroughly searching Wu’s plane seat and making sure nothing had been left behind, he’d slept so well he’d be good for another two days. And now he had work to do.
Taking the elevator down to the lobby, he went into the Kowloon Bar, taking a seat and ordering a Beefeater martini, extra dry, straight up, with a twist. The bar’s purple light gave his skin a cadaverous look. He drank it down, paid in cash, and made his way back to the lobby. The concierge desk stood to one side; Gideon waited until a few people there drifted away, and then went over. There were two concierges, and he picked the younger one.
“May I help you, sir?” the man said. He was a perfect specimen of neutrality, discretion, and professionalism.
Gideon walked him over to the far end of the desk and leaned forward, speaking in a low, conspiratorial voice. “I’m a businessman, traveling alone.�
�
A faint nod of understanding.
“I’m interested in engaging an escort for the evening. Are you the man I should speak to about that?”
The concierge said, equally quietly but his voice betraying nothing, “We have a gentleman who handles these requests. May I ask you to come with me?”
Gideon followed the man across the lobby and through a door into a suite of small offices. The concierge ushered him into one. Another man, of identical discretion and almost identical appearance, rose from behind the desk. “Please sit down.”
Gideon took a seat while the concierge left, shutting the door behind him. The gentleman reseated himself at the desk, on which sat several phones and computers. “What kind of escort service are you interested in?” he asked.
“Well.” Gideon gave a nervous chuckle, making sure to breathe out plenty of martini fumes. “A man traveling, away from his family, gets kind of lonely, you know what I mean?”
“Certainly,” the man said, and waited, his hands clasped.
“Well, um…” He cleared his throat. “I want a Caucasian. Blond. Athletic. Over six feet. Young but not too young. You know, late twenties.”
A nod.
“Um, is it possible to get special services with the escort?”
“Yes,” said the man simply.
“Well, in that case…” He hesitated and then said it all at once: “I’d like a dominatrix. You know what that is?”
“That can be arranged,” said the man.
“I want the best. The most experienced.”
A slow nod. “The escort services here require cash payment up front. Do you need to visit our private banking facilities before I make the arrangements?”
“No, I’m in the green already,” he said, with another nervous laugh, tapping the wallet in his suit coat. Christ, this might use up the last of his money.
The man rose. “And when would you need the escort?”
“Soon as possible. I’d like her for drinks, dinner, then the evening, till, say, midnight.”
“Very well. She will contact your room by phone when she arrives.”
33
Gideon entered the bar and saw her sitting at the end, drink in hand. He was surprised at how attractive she was, tall and willowy, not the muscled roller-derby type he had expected. He, for his part, had shed his suit and changed into tight black jeans, a T-shirt, and Chuck Taylors. He approached her and sat down.
“I’m waiting for someone,” she said, in an Australian accent.
“I’m the man you’re waiting for. Gideon Crew, at your service.” The bartender came over. “I’ll have what she’s having.”
“That would be a Pellegrino.”
“Yikes! Get rid of that and bring us a brace of double martinis.”
He found her staring at him, and he fancied he saw a look of pleasant surprise in her face.
“I thought I was meeting some fat old suit,” she said.
“Nope. I’m a thin, young non-suit. And your name is?”
A smile crept across her face. “Gerta. How old are you?”
“About your age. Where are you from? Coomooroo? Goomalling?”
She giggled. “You’re a daft one. You been to Australia?”
He looked at his watch. “Let’s take these drinks into the restaurant and get something to eat. I’m famished.”
In the hotel restaurant, after plying her with Château Pétrus and sweetbreads, Gideon unburdened himself. He did it slowly, reluctantly, and only under gentle urging. He told Gerta about how he had made a fortune selling his company, how he’d worked so hard he’d hardly ever seen his little son, how his wife divorced him and then they were both killed in a car crash, how he hardly recognized his son’s little body in the casket at the wake because it had been so long since he’d last seen him…And now, here he was, a billionaire and so lonely he would trade all of it—all of it—for one hour with his son. One hour of the countless many he had thrown away making all that money while his son waited for him to come home every night, sometimes waiting up with a flashlight under the covers so he wouldn’t be asleep when Daddy came home. But he always was asleep, lying there, flashlight still on. Gideon removed a photograph of an adorable blond boy from his wallet and shed a solitary tear over it, and declared himself the loneliest, saddest billionaire on the planet.
He was rewarded with a corresponding tear from Gerta.
Back in the room, Gerta started to bring out her kit with what he noted was a certain reluctance, but as she was unzipping the duffel Gideon told her he’d never met anyone like her before and he wanted her to be his friend and wanted to talk a little more, she was so funny and interesting, and he couldn’t imagine now going through that stuff with her — the stuff that helped him forget, just the smallest bit — because he now respected her far too much.
Gideon asked about some of her more interesting experiences and she, reluctantly at first but then more eagerly — stimulated by his fascination — began to tell him about her work. They sat side by side on the bed, Gerta talking. After five or six of her war stories, she finally got to it. It had happened, she said, about two weeks ago. She’d been hired by this fellow from an Australian firm for a special job. Apparently the Chinese had ripped off this firm’s technology — did Gideon know China had been stealing from Australian companies for some time? — and they wanted her to get one of the Chinese executives in a compromising position in order to get the technology back. Ten thousand dollars for an evening’s work.
“I was expecting some Chinese gangster type,” she said, “but he was small and nervous. No bigger than a mozzie. Took him forever to get out what he wanted me to do.” She giggled. “But when he got going…here, look out!”
Gideon laughed along with her and went to open a split of Veuve from the minibar. He poured out two glasses.
“Yeah, it was pretty funny. He was like an eager teenager.”
“What kind of work did he do?” Gideon asked.
“He made it seem all deep and dark sounding, something to do with electricity. Never even mentioned his real business was ripping off Australia.”
“Electricity?” Gideon popped a second split.
“Well, I think that’s what he said, electricity or maybe electrons or something like that. Hinted around that it was going to change everything, China was going take over the world. He got pretty drunk, wasn’t making a lot of sense.”
“Were the Australians who hired you happy with the information?”
“They were more interested in getting it all on videotape. They were going to force him to give back their technology.”
“What kind of technology?”
Gerta took a deep swig of champagne. “They wouldn’t tell me. Secret.”
“This all took place in his room?”
“Oh yeah. I never engage my own room.”
“Did you notice if he had a laptop with him? Or a portable hard drive?”
She paused and looked at him. “No. Why?”
Gideon realized he might be pushing it too far. “Just curious. You said he was a scientist — I was thinking maybe the stolen technology might have been in the room.”
“Maybe. I didn’t notice. The room was very neat, everything put away.”
He decided to push it once more. “Did he say anything about a secret weapon?”
“Secret weapon? No, just a lot of talk about China dominating the world, the usual bragging. I get that a lot from Chinese businessmen. They all think in ten, twenty years China’s gonna bury the rest of us.”
“What else did he say?”
“Not much. Once it was over, he suddenly got really paranoid, looked around the room for bugs, was afraid for me to leave. He sobered up real quick. It was kind of scary, actually, how freaked out he got.”
“And they paid you ten thousand?”
“Five up front, five afterward.”
“Australians, you said?”
“Right. And from Sydney, where
I’m from. It was nice to meet some mates from Oz.”
Gideon nodded. The CIA was cleverer than he thought.
“And then,” she went on, with a laugh, spilling a bit of champagne, “there was the guy a couple of years ago wanted to bring his pet monkey. Ugh. Monkeys are nasty beasts, and I mean nasty! You won’t believe what he wanted…”
She eventually fell asleep on top of the covers, snoring softly. Gideon carefully tucked her in on one side, then climbed in the other, his own head whirling from the martinis, wine, and champagne.
34
They arrived about eight in the morning, dressed in blue suits like a group of Hong Kong real estate developers, unlocking the door with their own key and filing into the room. They stood around politely as their leader spoke.
“Mr. Gideon Crew?”
Gideon sat up in bed, his head pounding. “Um, yes?” This was not good.
“Please come with us.”
He stared. The girl, Gerta, was still sleeping soundly next to him. “No, thanks.”
The two men flanking the leader casually removed identical nine-millimeter Beretta pistols, letting them dangle.
“Let us please not have trouble. This is a nice hotel.”
“May I get dressed?”
“Please.”
He got out of bed, all the men staring at him, trying to shake off his hangover and getting up to speed on his situation. He hoped Gerta wouldn’t wake up. That would add an element of unpredictability. He had to think of something fast. Once they got him into a car, it would be all over.
“May I shower first?”
“No.”
Gideon moved to dress in the walk-in closet.
“Take your clothes out and dress here.”
Slowly, thinking all the while, he pulled on the four-thousand-dollar suit and shoes, tie, the works. After spending all that money, he was loath to lose the clothes.
“Walk with us.” They closed around him in a tight group. The guns disappeared as they moved out the door and into the corridor. They all got into a waiting elevator. Gideon’s mind was running like mad, but he could come up with nothing. Make a scene in the lobby? Start screaming like a madman? Say he was being kidnapped? Run for it? As he played out every scenario, one way or another he ended up either shot or hustled off. The problem was, these men would surely have a better story than his. And official identification. He couldn’t win.
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