by Todd Merer
Richard spoke quietly. “Missy Soo’s some piece of ass, right?”
I didn’t reply.
He said, “A little birdy informed me you’re about to be seeing her again soon. A word to the wise? She’s trouble. By that, I mean if she crosses a certain bright line she’s ending up in a courtroom. She may be a US citizen, but she’s also a bird colonel of the People’s Republic Ministry of Security. I don’t give a rat if you mess yourself, but I don’t want you shitting on my op. Got it, Bennjamin?”
“Processing,” I said.
“Do not touch her.”
“Scout’s honor.”
Obviously, Richard wanted to keep me away from Missy Soo. It was almost as if he were jealous. More probably, he worried she’d outbid him for me.
Richard stood, smiled at Ms. Vogue-ish, and left. As he swaggered out, to my dismay, she displayed definite interest in him.
I leaned toward her. “I’m Benn. Buy you a drink?”
She looked at me. “No, thank you.”
CHAPTER 19
I knew my real-estate attorney would pad my bill, but not triple what I’d expected it to be. He’d traveled first-class up and down the eastern seaboard, ostensibly to obtain the skinny on the Phuket deal. I was of a mind to dispute the bill, but the last thing I needed now was to litigate a litigator; I’d have to hire a lawyer whose fee would eclipse those gratuitously phony add-ons.
My old bud, the PI—for whom I’d gotten some nice scores—also went greedy on me. His voyage to Phuket was a daytime-TV game-show-winner’s dream, with all the trim—his pun, not mine—covered under “Miscellaneous Investigative Hours.” Him, I just wrote a check; the guy deserved a fantasy memory.
The ink on the check had scarcely dried when I got a call. A summons, actually, from Missy Soo. Not delivered personally, rather by a Chinese woman who spoke English almost perfectly, but for a trace of the L problem, addressing me as Mr. “Bruestone.”
“Good day,” she said. “On behalf of the manager of the People’s Republic Trade Mission, you are pleased to be invited to business conference this afternoon.”
“I’m expected halfway around the world in eight hours?”
She laughed daintily. “The Mission’s in Manhattan.”
“I’ll be there.”
I immediately replayed her words in my head: The Mission’s in Manhattan.
And thought: Oh shit. I doubted my phone was tapped but was sure the Trade Mission’s lines were. I had a hot flash: a change-of-life scenario; a bomb goes off in Manhattan, and the Chinese, hoping to curry spy-swapping, give me up. The proof of my guilt would be in my own words:
UNKNOWN FEMALE: The Mission’s in Manhattan.
B. BLUESTONE: I’ll be there.
And, bingo, I fall into the hands of an overly ambitious federal prosecutor trying to inflate an indictment to bolster his resume. Dirty lawyers’ scalps were worth many rungs on the bureaucratic ladder.
I quickly covered my ass. “Please inform your superiors I’m honored to attend the meeting. I’m committed to explaining the legalities of the textile trade between our nations.”
The Mission was in a neighborhood of five-story walk-ups, originally second-rate tenements for workers exiled east of the long-defunct Third Avenue El. Now the tenements were garden-gated, multimillion-dollar condos whose ever-escalating prices never failed to astound me.
On the corner of Second Avenue, NYPD Midtown South had erected barriers, behind which stood a ragtag group of protesters, all carrying signs: TAIWANESE PEOPLE AGAINST PEOPLE’S REPUBLIC AGGRESSION. REPUBLIC OF VIETNAM PROTESTS CHINA ISLAND CLAIMS. MALAYSIA OPPOSES CHINESE LAND-GRAB. There were a few more similar signs supporting other countries on the rim of the South China Sea. There was even an American presence, an angry old escapee from the ’60s waving a cardboard sign that said US IMPERIALISTS OUT OF ASIA in Magic Marker. A burly NYPD sergeant halted the Second Avenue traffic, and I crossed the street.
The Trade Mission building’s neighbors had preserved their quaint brick-and-mortar exteriors, but the Mission’s facade was smooth gray granite and tinted windows. Discreet lettering identified the Mission in English and Mandarin. The front door was a steel slab with no handle. No bell—
Yet the steel door slid open. I touched my brow as a thank-you to the camera-watchers. In the doorway, a Chinese woman in a blue dress bowed.
Then she waved a metal-detection wand over me.
The conference room was an interior space—windowless and bug-proofed, its decor functional, featuring an oval table. I sat on one end. Four middle-aged Chinese gentlemen in ill-fitting suits were seated in pairs on both sides of the table. Missy Soo sat on the opposite end, but we didn’t touch eyes. Her attention was on one of the gentlemen, probably her superior, as he went on and on . . . and on, in Mandarin.
When he’d finally finished, Missy addressed me.
“The manager apologizes for the space, but it is necessary for security. My country and Russia get the headlines, but I assure you that they are dwarfs compared to American cyberintelligence.”
I said, “Not that we’re doing anything illegal here.”
“Many things I admire about America. Your constitution’s guarantee of separate branches of government breeds competition between them. Smart politics. My country and Russia prefer having a single massive organization. At last count, your government employed eighteen separate intelligence agencies and probably an equal number unknown. So many information-gathering tentacles.”
“The manager said that, too?”
Missy smiled. “The comment regarding intelligence services was mine. A prelude for my again asking what agency you are with. I assume Richard’s your fellow agent, so my guess is CIA.”
She paused to study my reaction to her knowing, or knowing of, Richard, but I kept things in neutral. “You asked me here. Why?”
She said something in Mandarin. As one, the four gentlemen stood, gave me a stiff bow, and left. Missy opened a drawer and removed a small device that bristled with buttons and dials. She pressed a button. Small green lights winked on the device, and it emitted a barely audible electronic hum. She set it on the table between us. I figured it was the latest in bug-killers, no doubt equipped with a recording option, now turned on.
Missy got up and sat next to me, and I sniffed her perfume. Comes to women’s luxury items, I’m all too knowledgeable, having spent hundreds of hours and hundreds of thousands of dollars gifting women on mornings after. Missy wore Turbulence. Figures.
She said, “Politically, we respect the integrity of the Democratic People’s Republic of North Korea. Even were we to cut them off completely, they would continue their present course.”
I wasn’t surprised.
But then I was.
She said, “That is not to say there doesn’t exist an element among us who believe the North Koreans will eventually pose a threat to China, just as it now does to the United States. The element who believe this have certain . . . resources. If our deal is completed satisfactorily, this element might be willing to employ those resources. There will be repercussions. Including, perhaps, the emergence of a new North Korean leadership.”
She was bullshitting a bullshitter, and we both knew it. I said, “A bloodless coup of a leader whose finger is on the nuclear button? Nice work if you can do it; not so nice if you fail.”
“We won’t fail. China possesses codes that will freeze the DPRK’s launching communication systems. Simultaneously, their public television will be jammed. A special detachment will arrest the present leader. The television will resume, introducing the new leadership. And, of course, the new leader’s finger will not be poised above the nuclear button. Convey this to your superiors at Langley.”
Either Missy Soo was a genius at a quick reaction or maybe, just maybe, she was being truthful. Hmm. I, who earned his keep as a criminal mouthpiece, was actually negotiating a coup that might alter the course of humanity.
Humbling thought.
&nbs
p; Missy crossed her legs. Silken. Nice, but her next words were not:
“Do not betray us. At any moment, I could have you exterminated.”
“Save you the trouble. I’ll cross Second Avenue against the light.”
“I believe the world would thank me for killing a mass murderer.”
“You don’t think well of me, but I never mass-murdered a soul.”
“Not personally. You just give orders. Isn’t that so . . . Sombra?”
Wow . . . I hadn’t seen that coming. But it figured that somehow, openly or subversively, Missy had learned Richard was working with Sombra. And Richard—perhaps with Dolores’s connivance—had passed along word that I was Sombra.
How, why, did Dolores doing so relate to the whole megillah?
The answer had to be in the basic motivations. Missy and Red China wanted unfettered reign over the South China Sea and for the United States to recognize Red China as the sole legitimate Chinese government.
The pro-Taiwan China lineup was larger: Uncle and Duke wanted to protect Stella and brought Richard in to help them. Richard wanted money and power. Richard used Dolores to destroy the cartels, thereby elevating his position with Washington. Dolores wanted to conceal her Sombra alter ego and most of all wanted the Chinese out of the Logui homeland.
“Prove that you have Lucky,” said Missy.
Lucky, again. Lucky was the key.
“Like a DNA sample, or what?”
“Richard knows what.”
PART THREE:
2006
CHAPTER 20
Long Island. November 2006.
On a crisp evening a few weeks before Thanksgiving, Duke—against his doctor’s orders—poured himself a superb port, lit up a genuine eight-inch Havana, and sat in his den by his fireplace. The exotic wood filled the room with its rich aroma, reminding him of the smell in the Burmese hills following the rainy season, the sweet aroma of new flowers that carpeted everything. After they’d blossomed, his Shan workers plowed them under and in their place planted fields of poppies.
So many years . . .
So much money.
And look what it had bought him: a new identity, a magnificent home, and a lonely old age. It was hard on him, and each year grew harder. His body was beginning to decay; his mind dwelt on the past; his only human contact, Dr. Keegan. He not only hated Keegan’s weaknesses, he hated himself for the way he treated Keegan.
Christ, all I want is to love . . . and be loved.
He inhaled his cigar deeply, as if wanting to hasten the corruption of his body. Ashes to ashes, dust to . . . no, not dust, white powder. He chuckled for a moment, then refilled his glass and went on brooding. Waiting for . . . what was the name of that play . . . ? Ah, Waiting for Godot—
He chuckled again. He was turning into a damned existentialist. Doing nothing but waiting for tomorrow.
But then everything changed.
It began when outer security buzzed. Duke growled, “What the fuck is it?”
“You have a visitor, sir. A gentleman who says he’s a relation, but if you don’t mind my saying so, that’s unlikely because he’s Oriental—”
“His name, you cretin.”
“I don’t know, sir. He just said to inform you that he’s your uncle.”
“Let him in.”
“Yes, sir.”
When Duke saw Uncle, his mood abruptly changed. It was as if the unexpected visitor had jolted him from his bourbon-induced malaise. Last time they’d met, Uncle had spoken of rescuing Kitty and her daughter. Had something happened to them?
Uncle nodded as if they’d seen each other yesterday. His appearance shocked Duke: Uncle had been slender, fastidious, but age had diminished him to slabbed piles of fat. Duke’s attention quickly shifted to the extraordinarily beautiful adolescent girl, who introduced herself—most properly—as Katrina, accompanying him.
Within minutes, Duke was attracted to her—not sexually, but because of who Uncle said she was:
“This is your granddaughter, by Kitty.”
“Wait,” said Duke. “My daughter?”
“She became ill. It was terminal.”
Duke felt a pang for the death of a daughter he’d never seen. Yet that pain was diminished by a sense of wonderment. It’s incredible! Katrina, a Caucasian, bore no resemblance to Kitty; yet she had his own long limbs and thick brown hair. And, he thought, his own strong personality.
The girl Katrina spoke, as if by rote.
“My grandmother raised me and my cousin, who’s my age . . . actually, I’m not sure she’s really my cousin . . . you see, our family has a history of problems. My so-called cousin plans to kidnap me and demand you pay as ransom something called Lucky’s hat. My grandmother says it’s part of the Ming Treasure, a priceless, long-lost antiquity. They say if the Red Chinese acquire it, it will embolden them to proceed to expand the Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere.”
“How do you know all this, child?” said Duke.
“Grandmother instructed me to tell you.”
Uncle stood. “Goodbye, old friend.”
“Goodbye, Winston.”
They knew they’d not meet again. Duke’s regret was brief. Katrina fascinated him. Her movements, her boldness. It was like seeing part of himself. During dinner, they spoke of many things, none of which concerned her predicament. Duke was further impressed by her poise, her worldliness. She was mannered, patient.
After dinner, Duke asked if Katrina’s grandmother had sent him any other message. Katrina nodded. “She said my being here explained everything.”
Yes, it does. It means Kitty trusts me.
When they’d left the table, Dr. Keegan carefully wrapped Katrina’s glass in a linen napkin he sent to a laboratory for DNA testing. The result was 99.9 percent conclusive:
Katrina was the living proof of his union with Kitty.
Katrina moved in. He had her homeschooled and shielded her from the outside world. Despite the clandestine nature of things, he was happy.
He was no longer alone.
CHAPTER 21
Manhattan. November 2006.
When Ming Chan shaved, he avoided looking in the mirror full-face. He found it abhorrent to see himself as a hideously disfigured old man who needed naps and had to avoid certain foods and was subject to the lingering aches and pains of a lifetime’s accumulation of wounds and injuries. Nearly all the comrades with whom he’d fought were long dead. He had no friends and, except for the daughter and wife he hadn’t seen since they’d disappeared seventy years ago, no family.
He was rich, powerful, and honored among the masters of the People’s Republic, but he didn’t care. Only one thing kept him from total despair.
Seeing his wife once more before he died.
He would. He was Ming of the Chans.
So, come a warm late-autumn morning, he awoke feeling spry as a young man. He washed his still-sturdy body but, most pleasantly, did not bother shaving. He planned to cultivate facial hair, hopefully to partially mask his well-known disfigurements during the mission ahead.
One week later, he entered the United States illegally from Canada. The next day he arrived by bus in New York’s Chinatown. He wore an old baggy suit, yellowed white shirt, worn-down shoes. In his pocket were his papers: a false US passport and Medicaid card, and a scrap of Chinese-lettered coded phone numbers.
He ate in a noodle shop on Bayard Street where codgers his age babbled in Cantonese. In that dialect, he made an inquiry that led to his checking in to a jerry-built hotel in a ramshackle tenement. The hotel rented tiered bunk beds by either half a day or a six-hour night. Ming rented a day bunk and instantly fell asleep.
That night he ventured out. He followed memorized directions: four blocks east, two blocks north, half a block west to a bus stop. Buses came, but he didn’t board any. Just stood there, chain-smoking, amazed that this all-Chinese neighborhood existed in the heart of the de facto capital of the American empire.
A big black
vehicle slowed. Winked its lights. A rear door opened.
Ming Chan climbed in and found himself gaping at . . . Li-ang?
She was still as young and fresh as he remembered. It . . . she, was an impossibility: if he was dreaming, let him never wake up—
“Hello, Grandfather,” said Missy Soo.
Earlier that day, Missy Soo had been reclined on a chaise, smoking opium with her lover of the moment, a handsome but boring clerk at the consulate. When her phone rang, she answered in a haze that immediately cleared when she realized whom she was talking to. The conversation was brief. When Missy hung up, she told her lover to get out. When he protested, she cursed him, raked her opium pipe across his face, and threw him out. She spent the next several hours alternating between a sauna and ice baths. Her clarity restored, she went to meet her legendary grandfather, whom she’d fantasized about meeting all her life.
He was all she’d thought, and more.
She saw his disfigurements as badges of honor. To her, he was a pillar of strength and wisdom whose eyes, determined yet loving, matched her own feelings. There were so many things to say, yet they no longer needed to be spoken. Each instantly knew they belonged to each other. Always had belonged and forever would belong. They were Chans.
“Your mother?” said her grandfather.
“Dead. Grandmother raised me.”
He blinked, said, “Talk, girl.”
Missy related the proposed deal that included Lucky’s return to his homeland. Ming asked who had approached her.
“A piece of shit who’ll do anything for money,” said Missy. “I demanded proof. He agreed to get me Lucky’s hat for ten million dollars. Afterward, I’ll get rid of him.”
“One step at a time, girl. Where’s the hat now?”
“Winston Lau of the Foochow Tong has it.”
Ming’s frown deepened. He knew Winston Lau had been Kitty’s enabler. He remembered his Burmese days and the meek coward who’d years later facilitated his family’s escape from China. From his bag, Ming took a thick leather braid, snapped it like a whip, then tied it around his waist beneath his long shirt. He’d killed with the braid and would again, if need be.
