Dragon Head

by James Houston Turner

  “Question is, why was he running?” asked Kai. “I mean, Wu Chee Ming would not try running from someone like Dragon Head unless he did something so drastic it put his life on the line.”

  “I agree,” said Talanov, “and we’re here to find out exactly what it was he did.”

  CHAPTER 61

  The Sun Cheng Financial Group Limited occupied the entire twenty-fifth floor of the office tower. It had a spacious lobby with a formidable front counter of polished oak. The name of the company was written on the wall behind the front counter in letters of stainless steel, in Chinese, first, then English.

  After emerging from the elevator, Alice led the group to the counter, where she was greeted by the receptionist, a young Chinese woman in her twenties. Dressed in a tailored suit and white shirt, the young woman had spiked hair, a nose stud, and the hint of a tattoo peeking out from the low V-neck of her shirt.

  Alice presented her CIB identification while Talanov scanned the lobby. To his left were two ivory-colored sofas and two stuffed chairs with a burnished orange trim in a Chinese motif. The furniture was arranged symmetrically around a glass coffee table. On the coffee table were several financial magazines. Near the wall was a pedestal featuring an ancient Chinese urn, and above it were two framed ink drawings. The first was a vertical column of Chinese characters beside a drawing of a bamboo stem, entirely in black except for one leaf, which was pale green. The second was of a gnarled branch, with delicate cherry blossoms in a slight blush of pink. On another wall was a large acrylic painting that looked like someone had had a good time squirting bright colors onto a canvas. There were splatters and smears juxtaposed in a way that was orderly in its chaos.

  Talanov returned his attention to the name of the company in stainless steel letters. Stainless steel, of course, carried a subtext of security, so the company wanted people to feel secure. The quality of the furnishings carried a subtext of success, with the tidiness of the furnishings letting people know that Sun Cheng was conservative and solid.

  And yet the modern painting, a striking anachronism, carried a different message entirely. It carried a subtext of boldness and flair, which let people know this company was willing to go beyond the bounds of conventionality.

  The mention of his name refocused Talanov’s attention on Alice.

  “. . . and this is Colonel Talanov and his team,” Alice was saying in English, obviously for his benefit. “Colonel Talanov has an account here that he would like to access.”

  The receptionist picked up the intercom phone and pushed a button. When the call was answered, she spoke in an inaudibly low voice, then hung up and told Alice that someone would be with them shortly.

  Less than a minute later, a door buzzed open and a short man with oiled black hair appeared. “I am Mr. Song,” he said in English after a polite bow. “How may I help?”

  Alice, who stood a full head taller than Song, showed her CIB identification. “My friend, Colonel Talanov, would like to access his account. Please give him your full cooperation.”

  Song bowed again. “Of course.”

  “Phone me when you are finished,” Alice said to Talanov. “If there are any problems, let me know.”

  Talanov thanked Alice, who stepped over to the elevator and pushed the lighted button.

  “This way, Colonel Talanov,” said Song. Stepping up to the door, he entered numbers on a keypad and the door buzzed open. Pulling open the door, Song stepped aside and allowed Talanov and the others to enter.

  Once the door had clicked shut, Song led the way along a corridor that opened into the company’s operations hub, which was a large room with windowed offices located around three sides of the room. The fourth side, a solid wall, featured a line of clocks showing the times in major financial centers. Beneath the clocks were two rows of flat-screen monitors showing real-time fluctuations in various global stocks, commodities, utilities, real estate, and mining resources, along with news headlines and currency rates. The center of the room was populated with back-to-back desks, where brokers were busy at keyboards and phones.

  Song led the way around the perimeter of the hub into his office, which overlooked Victoria Harbor. Junks and ferries were visible on the water, along with several cruise ships. The office, with its bookshelves and file cabinets, was neat and tidy because Song was a neat and tidy man. Designer suit. Not a hair out of place. Shoes polished to a shine.

  There were two chairs in Song’s office and Song gestured toward them while rounding his desk. Once behind his desk, Song adjusted his cuffs, then seated himself with great formality.

  “You say you have an account?” Song asked, making direct eye contact with Talanov while folding his hands neatly in front of him on the desk. Song’s skin was smooth and unblemished, as if he used moisturizing lotion each morning.

  Talanov picked up a pen and wrote an alphanumeric sequence of characters on one of Song’s note pads, which he slid in front of the banker, who made the tiniest gesture of disapproval before looking indignantly at the note.

  Song’s eyes suddenly widened. “You have a double-alpha account?”

  Sliding his special passport very deliberately across the desk, Talanov maintained steady eye contact and did not reply.

  Song glanced at Talanov’s passport, then at Talanov, after which he faced his computer and entered the characters. His eyes then widened even more.

  After a nervous glance at Talanov, Song performed a few more commands, then gathered his composure and looked at Talanov with imposed calm and authority.

  “We have no biometrics on file for you, Colonel Talanov,” Song declared. “Biometrics are required of all account holders. This prevents unauthorized access, you understand.”

  Talanov picked up his passport and held it in front of Song’s face. “It’s my account. I’m me. I’m authorized.”

  “Of course, but this account has been . . .”

  Song stopped mid sentence and struggled for words.

  “Has been what?”

  “You should contact our legal department.”

  “Has been what?” Talanov demanded again. “If something has happened, I want to know what it is.” With a drilling stare, he planted his hands on the edge of Song’s desk.

  Song tried not to blanch under the heat of Talanov’s stare. “Company policy will not permit me to discuss the matter,” he said, mustering courage. “You must contact our legal department.”

  Talanov knew this was not a biometric issue. If that had been the case, Song would have repeated that requirement. But he hadn’t. That meant the issue was something else – something Song did not want to talk about – which was why he was trying to hide behind company policy and legalese. It was an obfuscation designed to render the situation bewildering and unintelligible so that what had actually happened would never be known. Even more important, however, it was an effort to get them out of his office and into the hands of the firm’s most experienced team of obfuscators, their lawyers. If that happened, he would never be able to access his account, at least not in time to save Su Yin.

  Which meant they could not leave Song’s office without getting answers.

  But Song was not about to reveal anything, at least not voluntarily.

  Song stood and adjusted one of his cuffs, head erect, shoulders back, an indignant expression that proclaimed Song’s belief that he was in charge. “If there is nothing else,” he said with a slight sniff, gesturing toward the door.

  “Oh, but there is,” Talanov replied without moving. He smiled briefly before allowing his smile to morph into a hardened stare. “Have my funds been stolen?”

  The question hit Song like a torpedo and Talanov immediately knew the answer, and not by anything Song had said, but by his facial movements. These extremely brief involuntary movements, called micro-expressions, reveal whatever emotions the subject is feeling, such as anger, fear, or happiness, or whether the person is lying or not. Micro-expressions vary for different emotions and situations,
so an observer must know which expressions mean what.

  Talanov watched as Song stopped breathing for a moment. His mouth was slightly open, his lips were taut, and his eyes were wide open with surprise. In other words, Song was afraid, but why? Whatever the reason, Talanov knew his question had hit a nerve. And what happened next depended on who acted first.

  “Call Alice Ti,” Talanov said to Wilcox. “Tell her to launch an investigation into my stolen funds. Then phone Dragon Head, since he considers the money to be his, and tell him the funds have gone missing. Be sure to mention Song’s name, as I’m certain he’ll want to address this matter himself.”

  Jingfei picked up on the ruse and said, “What about Twitter? There may be restrictions here in Hong Kong, but investors in the West will definitely want to know that Sun Cheng allowed money to go missing, then tried to cover it up, then tried to obstruct the investigation.”

  “Use the hashtag SCAM,” offered Kai. “S-C-A-M, in caps, as an acronym for Sun Cheng Assets go Missing. We could do a series of SCAM alerts. Something like this would go viral in minutes.”

  “Do it,” said Talanov. He tossed his phone to Kai, who began working the keyboard. To Wilcox: “Make the calls.”

  Wilcox took out his phone and began dialing.

  “Wait,” cried Song.

  Talanov held up a hand, stopping Wilcox and Kai.

  “What is it you want to know?” asked Song, his shoulders slumped.

  “I want to see my account,” replied Talanov.

  When Song hesitated, Talanov glanced over at Wilcox and Kai, who were both poised with their fingers over their phones, waiting for the command to continue.

  With a defeated sigh, Song sat at his terminal and called up Talanov’s account. When finished, he stood and gestured for Talanov to sit. Talanov rounded the desk, but instead of sitting, he motioned for Jingfei to sit. Song moved to object but Talanov stepped in front of him like a defensive lineman protecting his quarterback. Song stepped back, and with a grin, Jingfei sat in Song’s chair and began navigating the account. Three seconds later, Jingfei slumped back in the chair, mouth open, staring dumbfounded at the screen.

  “What is it?” asked Talanov, bending over her shoulder to look at the monitor.

  “Some funds have gone missing, all right. The entire amount, it’s gone.”

  CHAPTER 62

  Talanov stared in shock at Jingfei for a long moment, then turned his focus onto Song, who was staring at the floor. After glaring at Song for a long moment, Talanov looked back at Jingfei and said, “What happened? Where did it go?”

  Jingfei began calling up page after page of statements and banking websites. When the screen was full of overlaid pages, she tapped a button and Song’s printer sprang to life. Song moved to intervene but Talanov planted his palm in the center of Song’s chest, stopping him. With pinched lips, Song again stepped back.

  Talanov took one of the statements from the printer. “What am I looking at?” he asked while the printer kept spitting out pages.

  Jingfei found a felt-tip marker and drew a circle of twenty-three dots on a blank sheet of paper. She then began labeling the dots: Albania, Cayman Islands, Ghana, Bahrain, Mauritius, Abu Dhabi, Switzerland, Guernsey, Nevis, Thailand, Uruguay, Samoa, San Marino, Marshall Islands, Seychelles, Panama, Djibouti, Vanuatu, Antigua, Singapore, Cyprus, Latvia, and Bermuda. She then began connecting the dots, faster and faster, lines everywhere, crisscrossing the page. When she was finished, she laid down the marker and held up the page for Talanov to see.

  A blank stare was Talanov’s response.

  “It’s a global network of banks,” Jingfei explained, “twenty-three in all, each linked not only to your account, but to one another with layered passwords so complex it would take a super-computer years to decrypt, which is more time than we have right now.”

  “Is my money in one of those banks?” asked Talanov.

  “That’s how it looks. But without a transaction history – which there isn’t – there’s no way to tell.”

  Talanov looked over at Song. “Is my money in one of those banks?”

  Song lowered his eyes and shrugged.

  “How did this happen?” asked Talanov, stepping over to confront Song, who kept looking at the floor and did not reply. He just stood there, hands folded, eyes averted. Talanov snapped his fingers in front of Song’s face and made Song look at him. “Either you tell me or I will turn this over to Dragon Head.”

  Song did not reply.

  Talanov looked over at Wilcox. “Get Dragon Head on the phone.”

  “The account was managed by two bankers,” Song said quickly. “Their names were Ling Soo and Wu Chee Ming.”

  “Who are dead now, yes, I know. Which still doesn’t answer my question. Now, how did this happen?”

  “Ling Soo stole the money.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Ling Soo confessed in a suicide note.”

  “Then why kill himself?”

  “For the shame it brought on his family.”

  “Why not return the money?” asked Talanov. “Save himself a lot of dying?”

  Song shrugged.

  “If he stole it, then, where is it?”

  “We do not know,” answered Song.

  “What’s a double-alpha account?” asked Jingfei.

  “An investment account for very large sums,” explained Song.

  “Is Alex – Colonel Talanov – the only signatory to this account?”

  “The only one who is alive,” answered Song.

  “Were Ling Soo and Wu Chee Ming authorized to make withdrawals?”

  “No.”

  “Did either of them hold power of attorney?”

  “No. They had authority to invest, but the transactions were strictly monitored, and approval was always required. Plus, our system would have prevented any unauthorized transfer or withdrawal.”

  “You’re talking in circles,” said Jingfei. “You say Ling Soo confessed to the theft in a suicide note. You then say there is no way he could have stolen funds because withdrawals are strictly monitored by your system, and that Alex – Colonel Talanov – is the only person who could have made an actual withdrawal. And yet one and a half billion dollars is now gone. Where did it go?”

  Song lowered his head and shrugged again. He had no answer.

  While the others watched, Talanov began pacing Song’s office, back and forth behind Jingfei, thinking, occasionally glancing at the screen. After several moments, he stopped beside Jingfei and pointed at her diagram of dots.

  “Any way to check the balances in those twenty-three accounts and see if the money is there?” he asked.

  “Not without a PIN for each individual account,” Jingfei replied. “Plus, many of those accounts are in countries where banking laws range from sloppy to non-existent. If Ling Soo has hidden the money somewhere in this cybermaze, we’ll never find it.”

  Talanov looked over at Song. “Are you certain the other guy didn’t steal it?” he asked.

  “You refer to Wu Chee Ming?”

  Talanov nodded.

  “He had access, of course, but the suicide note . . .”

  “Unless Wu Chee Ming wrote the note because he wanted us to think Ling Soo stole the money,” Talanov said, then looking again at Jingfei. “Didn’t Alice say the note was typed and not handwritten?”

  “No one uses typewriters,” Jingfei replied. “But, yes, you’re right: the note was not handwritten. It was composed and printed by a word processor.”

  Talanov looked over at Kai. “Where would you hide something that you’d stolen?”

  Kai thought for a moment, then said, “In a place where no one would look.”

  Talanov responded with an annoyed frown.

  Kai pointed toward Jingfei’s diagram. “Isn’t that where everyone’s looking?”

  Talanov picked up Jingfei’s drawing, studied it for nearly a full minute, then looked at Song. “Take us to Ling Soo’s office.”

/>   Ling Soo’s office was two doors down and looked much the same as Song’s, with a desk, a chair, some bookcases and file cabinets.

  When they entered, a young woman was seated at the desk. Song motioned for her to leave and the young woman did.

  “Naturally, the office has been reassigned,” Song explained, closing the young woman’s laptop.

  Talanov asked Wilcox for the photos of Ling Soo’s office that had been taken by the police shortly after Ling Soo’s death.

  Wilcox handed him the envelope and Talanov removed the photos and compared them with how things looked now. Whereas Ling Soo’s office was shown in the photos to have been chaotic and sloppy, the young woman’s office was orderly and clean.

  “Would you say these are an accurate representation of Ling Soo’s office?” asked Talanov, showing Song the photos.

  Song looked at each of the photos and admitted they were accurate.

  “What kind of an employee was Ling Soo?” asked Talanov.

  “A man of honor,” Song replied, handing back the photos.

  Talanov stepped over to a bookcase and picked up one of several awards that were on display. The award looked like a small glass headstone mounted on a wooden pedestal. Unable to read its Chinese characters, he replaced it beside the others.

  “Will there be anything else?” asked Song.

  “I’d like to speak with some of Ling Soo’s coworkers.”

  Song started to object – Talanov could tell by his face – so Talanov responded with a menacing stare. Swallowing his objection, Song grudgingly stepped out of the office and signaled three women from the main floor of the operations hub. Thirty seconds later, the three women had been ushered into the office and introduced by Song.

  “Do any of you speak English?” asked Talanov.

  Penny Kwan raised her hand. A product of today’s fast-food generation, Penny was as plump as she was tall, which was three inches shorter than the five-foot-two-inch Song.

  “Thanks, I’ll take it from here,” Talanov told Song.

  Before Song could protest, Talanov led Song out of the office and shut the door. Turning his back to the door, Talanov said, “Anything you say remains confidential.”