She nodded. ‘Yes,’ she said softly. He had the kind of face that made you say yes.
Jack called her the next day. It took her thirty seconds to realise it was one of his versions of an apology. She hung up. Then he rang the day after her lawyers wrote their first letter. ‘Don’t think you’ve fucking won, you cheap bitch,’ were the first words she heard. He sounded drunk.
She explained briefly why she’d win. The things she knew that made the pre-nup not worth taking out of his lawyer’s safe. His drug habit. His hands on her throat. And things she knew about Citadel. The mighty fucking Citadel. This time, he hung up.
In the weeks since, she’d come to realise that one thing she didn’t want was the apartment. It made her feel like she was in the most lavishly appointed prison in the world. She didn’t say this to anyone. It didn’t seem right to say she hated an apartment that was worth $18 million. She’d decided to sell it once the property settlement was finalised. More than one Chinese billionaire would be very happy with it. Probably one in the same game as the Richters, digging up shit, killing the planet.
Nikki kicked her shoes off in the lounge room, and told herself to shake off the memories of her marriage and its failure. She walked into the bedroom, then into the bathroom. She started a bath. The tub was made of stone the colour of Bondi sand, and shaped like half a dinosaur egg. The window faced east. The lights had now come on in the houses and apartment buildings of Elizabeth Bay and Double Bay, and the big spreads of Point Piper. She could see the Richter family mansion. There were yachts still sailing in the harbour, even in the fading light. Hendrik might be on one, for all she knew. He and Jack did the Sydney to Hobart every year. Was it wrong to hope their fucking boat sank in next year’s race?
She stood and stretched, and went back to the bedroom to get undressed. She threw her dress on the bed, put her hands on her hips, stood still. The room was dark, lit only by the light coming from the bathroom. She thought about what she’d wear to the party.
She felt a chill before he grabbed her. A gloved hand went over her mouth, the other on top of her head, tilting it towards the ceiling. She thought at first it had to be Jack – no one else could get in. Only a split second after the hands were on her, someone else took hold of her wrists, and then her feet and legs were quickly lifted.
‘Don’t struggle,’ a man said in her ear, his voice a harsh whisper. ‘You won’t get hurt if you don’t struggle.’
Her heart slapped against her chest. They were strong, without hurting her. She could not flay her arms and legs. She knew she could not get out of their grip.
There was a fire in her arm. Fear drained away a moment later, euphoria followed. She felt safe. They were here to protect her. They wouldn’t hurt her. He’d made a promise. She was warm. She was tired. She wanted to fall asleep in their arms, in the arms of the man who’d whispered in her ear like a lover. Her mouth felt dry, but her body was in water. She wondered if she was breathing. She didn’t think she was breathing. She was dreaming. It was all a dream.
The water was still warm when her heart stopped.
9
Tanner tried to speak with Dennis Jackson the following morning without success. He had a trial on, and tried again over the lunch break, but still couldn’t reach him.
When court finished for the day, he had two missed calls from Melissa Cheung. He hurried back to chambers to ring her from there, but his chambers phone rang before he could. He was told Dennis Jackson was on the line.
‘What the hell are you doing stealing my client’s computer?’ Tanner said as soon as Jackson was put through.
There was a pause. ‘The computer wasn’t stolen,’ Jackson said. ‘There was work product owned by this firm on it. Melissa understood, and consented to us taking it.’
‘You sent goons to the home of a woman whose husband is in custody in China. She didn’t consent to anything.’
‘We don’t employ “goons”. I’m going to hang up if –’
‘Who’s Jordan Irwin? I can’t find him on your website.’
‘Head of cyber security for this region.’
‘Jesus Christ. You have a head of cyber security? What the fuck do you want from Melissa’s computer?’
‘Material this firm owns.’
‘What material?’
‘We explained it to her. I’m sure she’s told you.’
‘Send it back now.’
‘She’ll have it soon. Talk to our lawyers if you want to make any more allegations.’
‘Have you got Joe a lawyer yet?’
‘That’s complicated.’
‘How is getting him a lawyer complex?’
A slight pause, an exhalation of breath. ‘We think a statement about Joe is about to be released. That’s why I’m calling.’
This was what Melissa must have tried to reach him about. ‘Released by whom?’
‘The Chinese authorities.’
‘Saying what?’
‘We think Joe is about to be charged with attempting to sell state secrets.’
‘What? What state secrets?’
‘Citadel won the exploration licence tender I spoke to you about previously. They’re in a joint venture with a Chinese company, and paid two hundred and fifty million for the licence.’
Tanner was momentarily stunned by the size of the figure. ‘What’s Joe alleged to have done?’
‘It’s in line with our previous intelligence: we think the charge will relate to Joe seeking to sell Citadel’s bid price to another mining company – so that they’d know they’d have to go higher than two-fifty if they wanted the licence.’
Tanner was silent for a few moments.
‘Peter?’
‘How much was he seeking to sell this information for?’
‘Fifteen million – that’s what one of our Shanghai people was told.’
‘Who told you this?’
‘Some information has come from the consulate. Some to our Shanghai office.’
‘Do we know where he is yet?’
‘No. I spoke to the consul general myself. She was hopeful that –’
‘What’s her name?’
‘Michelle Barrett. If you let me finish, she told me she hopes they’ll be able to see him within a week. She says they’re working towards a deal.’
Tanner tried to absorb the enormity of Joe being charged. ‘I take it BBK’s position is that you don’t think Joe would do this, right?’
‘I don’t know.’
Tanner closed his eyes and held the phone away from his mouth. ‘You need to arrange a lawyer for him now,’ he said. ‘Your people in Shanghai should be working with the consulate to help get visitation rights.’
‘Peter, I’m the Australian CEO. Citadel is a global client. So is its joint venture partner. Every one of our offices around the world has a stake in this. I can’t –’
‘Joe’s your partner.’
‘I can’t make a unilateral decision to help a man who’s alleged to have tried to damage a client of this firm in relation to what is potentially a multibillion-dollar mining project.’
‘Did you hear what you just said, Dennis? You said “alleged”.’
‘Be real for a moment.’
‘Since when did your law firm get to reverse the presumption of innocence?’
‘This isn’t about presumptions. We have a partner who looks like he’s about to be charged with doing something that could’ve had a devastating economic impact on a client.’
‘Does it occur to you as relevant that it didn’t have such an impact? Citadel got its EL, didn’t it? Joe couldn’t have done a very good job of corrupting someone in a country where that’s usually not that difficult.’
‘You’re not listening.’
‘Just get your China people to give us a heads up on a decent lawyer.’
‘The consulate is in just as good a position to recommend a lawyer as we are.’
‘Fuck you, Dennis. You have lawyers in your office the
re who must know who the good criminal lawyers are, right?’
‘It’s not my call.’
‘Didn’t you like Joe? Do you – ?’
‘Liking Joe is not the issue.’
‘You said you were the Australian CEO, Dennis. Act like it. He’s one of yours.’
There was a snort of derision down the line. ‘You know, Peter, there are no such concepts as presumption of innocence or beyond reasonable doubt in China. You mightn’t have such success for your clients if you had to practise under their rules. Evidence of guilt only has to be sufficient and reliable. Do you think they’d be laying a charge without that?’
‘Joe would not have done what they’re saying.’
‘I’m only telling you what the burden of proof is.’
‘He has three children, Dennis. The oldest is eight. Can you consider that for a moment? You can’t abandon him on the back of an allegation.’
There was no response from Jackson, and Tanner wondered if he’d hung up.
‘Dennis?’
‘Peter . . . it’s not . . . it’s not my call.’
• • •
On the same day that Nikki Richter’s body was found, the Minister for Foreign Affairs and the Australian Consulate General in Shanghai released brief statements concerning the detention in China of Joseph Cheung, a partner in the firm of Bloomberg Butler Kelly. The consul general confirmed that on the morning of 12 September, Mr Cheung had been detained by officers of the Chinese Ministry of State Security. He was being held on suspicion of stealing state secrets, and of seeking a bribe in relation to the grant by the New South Wales Government of an exploration licence to Citadel Resources three years ago. Australian consular officials were presently being denied access to him, but were hopeful of establishing visitation rights soon. The minister’s statement echoed that of the consulate.
BBK put out a statement immediately after, jointly signed by local CEO, Dennis Jackson, and global chairman, Sir James Parr. It confirmed that Joe Cheung was a partner of the firm, that he had been detained, but it offered no information as to the precise circumstances surrounding his detention. The firm was cooperating fully with Chinese officials, including making attempts to meet with Mr Cheung, and expressed ‘surprise’ at what had occurred.
After BBK, it was Citadel’s turn. It was ‘alarmed’ by the detention of Mr Cheung, one of the external legal advisors to the company. It would take ‘a keen interest in the outcome of the investigations into Mr Cheung’s conduct by the Chinese Authorities’, but noted that no charges had been laid. The statement was signed by Citadel CEO, Jacques Proctor, and board chairman and founder, Hendrik Richter.
Four days later, the Australian Government released a further statement, saying that it had now been informed that Mr Cheung had been charged with seeking a secret payment from a Chinese commercial ‘entity’ in exchange for the sale of a state secret. No further details were provided. Consular officials had now, however, been granted a date to visit Mr Cheung in custody.
10
John Richter came out of the lift first. He walked down a corridor towards a brilliant white door. Next to the door was a security pad, and an intercom. There was also a box with a glass face. Underneath the box were the words RETINAL SCANNER.
The security pad was real. He inserted a red card into it, and then punched in a passcode. The door clicked, and he pushed it open. He and his friend walked into one of the city’s most exclusive clubs, Pantheon. It was on the top floor of a six-storey redevelopment called Olympus in the north of the CBD, not far from Circular Quay. Ordinarily the red card he’d used to gain entry to the club would cost its owner ten thousand a year. Membership was by invitation only. It included your first five thousand in drinks, but there was an expectation that in any calendar year you’d be paying for your drinks by Good Friday. If you weren’t, you shouldn’t expect a renewal. Every year there were a couple of new bright young things or high flyers in the corporate world suitable to take the place of absent friends.
Richter sat on the committee that decided who would be invited to join the club, and whose membership would not be renewed for another year. That was part of what he got for his twenty-five per cent investment in the entertainment complex that was crowned by the private club.
In the nine days since his wife’s death, Richter had kept out of the public eye, apart from the afternoon he’d attended her funeral. His family had earlier put out a statement expressing their deep sadness and profound sense of loss. The people who minded him had told him to lie low – no nightclubs, no parties.
He’d followed the advice, but the funeral was over. He was entitled to get out for a quiet meal. Even so, Richter’s driver took them to the rear of the building and they’d been shown in via the kitchen. After dinner, he’d suggested the private club upstairs. It didn’t offer anonymity, but it was an oasis away from any paparazzi, or just from some idiot with a smart phone.
A hostess greeted them as they walked in, and escorted them to a corner booth that had been reserved in an elevated part of the huge main lounge area. Like the other women working there, she was in a black dress. The neckline was almost profoundly low. The man with Richter was an old school friend. Justin Matheson now worked at Stott Ackerman, the global investment bank. He specialised in raising finance for gaming and hospitality developments and resorts. He and Richter hadn’t been especially close at school, but they’d fallen in together after Matheson moved to Stott Ackerman, not long after a stint with another investment bank in New York.
Richter hadn’t liked Matheson at school: Matheson had been captain of the cricket team, and the school swimming champion. Back then, he’d often wanted to rearrange those perfect white teeth. The same teeth that were smiling now at the blonde hostess. The hostess who’d waited on Richter the last two times he’d been to the club.
Hendrik Richter dug holes in the ground and brought minerals to the earth’s surface. Those simple acts had made him a billionaire. John Richter wanted to do something other than look for more carbon. He wanted lights, cameras, Vegas. Justin Matheson knew his stuff – he was in Nevada, Singapore, Atlantic City, Macau, five or six times a year. He wanted to do deals about casinos and luxury resorts. Richter wanted to own them. They were each valuable to the other.
‘What can we get you to drink?’ The blonde hostess was joined by a brunette. She had an accent. Her skin was deeply tanned, her hair darker. Richter’s eyes flitted from her chest to her lips, which were a warm topaz.
‘Is there a cocktail special?’ he asked.
‘There is. It’s –’
‘No, no,’ he said, smiling. ‘We’d like to be surprised.’
‘Of course.’
‘Just make sure there’s whisky in it. A good one.’
The hostess looked confused. ‘But that – that won’t be the special then.’
‘Tell the barman we’d like our own special.’
‘Certainly,’ she said, walking off.
‘I’ll be right back,’ the blonde said to Matheson. She’d been whispering in his ear and giggling while the drink order was taken.
‘What are we drinking?’ Matheson asked.
‘The special.’
‘Which is?’
‘A surprise,’ Richter said. ‘What were you discussing with the blonde? Do you like her?’
Matheson smiled. ‘Her name is Klaudia,’ he said. ‘With a K.’
Richter nodded. ‘And your wife’s name is Sarah. With an S.’
Matheson glared at him, but said nothing.
‘Which part of England is Klaudia with a K from?’
‘London,’ Matheson said, ‘but her folks are Polish.’
‘Jesus, the life story. You didn’t answer my question. You like?’
Matheson sat back in the leather booth, and shrugged. ‘She seems friendly.’
‘She’s paid to be friendly.’
• • •
‘Careful, the barman said these are powerful,’ Klaudia with
a K said, placing their drinks in front of them.
‘What is it?’ Richter asked.
‘It’s a rol and rye,’ the brunette answered. ‘Whisky, Aperol, soda and orange.’
‘Arancia,’ Matheson said.
‘Yes,’ she replied.
‘Aperol is Italian, isn’t it?’ he asked. ‘Sei Italiana? I’m right, aren’t I?’
‘Si.’
‘Di dove sei?’
‘Rimini.’
‘On the coast? The Adriatic?’
The girl smiled and nodded.
‘So, you’re what? Travelling at the moment?’
‘I’m studying here.’
‘Che cosi studi?’
‘English literature.’
‘Wow,’ Matheson said. ‘I’m impressed. And your name again?’
‘Elena.’
‘Piacere,’ he said. ‘I’m Justin.’ He picked up his glass. ‘Salute.’ He took a sip. ‘Perfetto.’
‘Prego.’
‘Something else, gents?’ Klaudia with a K said. ‘Something to eat?’
‘Maybe later,’ Richter said. ‘So Justin,’ he said when their hostesses had left to attend another table, ‘who are you making a play for here, Klaudia with a K or the Italian babe? Or are you getting greedy on me?’
‘I don’t know, Jack,’ Matheson said. ‘They’re both gorgeous. Which one do you like?’
Richter took a long sip of his cocktail. ‘I didn’t know you spoke Italian.’
‘I don’t.’
‘What was all that, then?’
Matheson smiled and leant over the table. ‘That, Jack, is the basics you pick up after your first day’s skiing in Cortina.’
‘Is that right?’ Richter got up and straightened his jacket. ‘The blonde or the Italian, Justin?’ He left the booth and headed for the bathrooms.
John Richter looked up from washing his hands as another man entered the men’s room. The man nodded briefly at him, then walked, a little unsteadily, to one of the urinals. Richter picked up one of the folded hand towels.
‘Sorry about your wife, mate,’ the man at the urinal said.
Richter turned and looked at the back of the man’s head, then threw the hand towel into a basket next to the marble sink. ‘What?’
Cyanide Games: A Peter Tanner Thriller Page 7