Codes of Betrayal

by Uhnak, Dorothy

  “No problem, Mr. Chen. Just jot down a list of requirements. I’m sure we’ll come up with something suitable.”

  Mr. Chen explained that he was only stopping over in New York right now for twenty-four hours. He was on his way to London; then to Paris, then to Rome, then back to Hong Kong. Business. He would return to the United States within a few weeks. He was assured a house would be ready for him. No mention was made of price, arrangements, or length of time.

  Mr. Chen and Papa Ventura discussed art: Both admired the richness of the works Nicholas Ventura had collected through the years. Chen reached into his large briefcase and withdrew a small package, unwrapped it, and arranged four small paintings on the desk. Seventeenth-century Chinese watercolors, figures from a fairy tale. The colors were electric, the patterns intricate, and each told a small moment in the life of the person portrayed, from a mighty warlord to a simple peasant. The orange fish about to be chopped by a fisherman seemed to be fresh from the sea.

  They were like two professors getting ready for a seminar. They were so knowledgeable, so scholarly; it was hard to believe that either of them could be involved in any sort of criminal activity. These must be cultured, decent, educated men.

  Mr. Chen glanced at his simple gold watch. It was time to leave. He and Nicholas Ventura exchanged words and nods.

  Then Mr. Chen turned to Nick for his handshake, but his hand tightened on Nick’s and his eyes exuded a powerful force.

  “I am saddened by the death of your son, Nick. I know what it is to lose a child. One of the boys involved in that stupid business of a girl was my son.”

  The man’s eyes were cold and emotionless. He dropped Nick’s hand, and without another word, Dennis then left.

  Papa Ventura had several pages of notes for Nick. It was his first assignment as a double undercover agent.

  “The ship is called the Golden Dream,” the old man said. “Very sad, how people treat each other. They are bringing in all kinds of goods—Eastern furniture, fabric, artworks—but the major part of their cargo is human beings. These poor people, Nicholas, the exploitation is unbelievable. We used to bring in relatives, we doubled up with families and friends. We worked with and for each other. These people, they’ve undertaken huge debts for being smuggled into this country. They are jammed in the cargo area with the clothing on their backs. They and their families are in debt up to thirty thousand dollars. When they get to America—San Francisco or New York—they are forced into servitude in garment shops, restaurants, laundries. They are given a sleeping place in a basement filled with other people; fed a meager diet; earn a small amount, which is held back to pay off their debt. And their families back in China must pay, or they are tortured or killed. Old people, children.”

  “Jesus,” Nick said softly.

  “Some of the girls and women are turned into prostitutes. These are young, ignorant country people. They are terrified. There is no one to turn to when they are here.”

  “What else is on the ship?”

  Nicholas Ventura smiled. “Heroin with a street value of about forty million dollars. China White.” He hesitated, then smiled. “A rival of Mr. Chen. So we get two birds with one stone. Save some poor souls—stop a rival. It is good for us to impress the Chinese. They are hard people.

  “Nick, in the last three years, I’ve placed nearly three thousand illegal Chinese in factories, plants, fishing boats, laundries; some in construction. Some bright ones I’ve sent to school. A few young women have done very well …”

  “What will happen to the people on the Golden Dream?”

  “That is government business. I will not get involved.” As though needing to justify himself, to be recognized for the good things he had done with his life, he continued, “The people I have helped, Nicholas, they become union members, are paid wages they earn, have lives of their own. These things, they make me feel good.”

  He read Nick’s skeptical expression and his voice went lower and tighter. “As we get old, Nicholas, we see life differently toward … the end. Try to balance the scale, maybe. The world is a wicked place, grandson.”

  “And there are a lot of wicked people in it.”

  He could not see into his grandfather’s heart; where one part of him began and another part ended. He was about to engage in one of the largest drug cartels in the world and he insisted on talking about his good deeds.

  “Papa. One of the boys, killed, who was involved in Peter’s death. Was he really Dennis Chen’s son?”

  His grandfather nodded.

  “Christ, what kind of man is he? Papa?”

  Nicholas Ventura stood ramrod-straight, raised his chin, and said insistently, “He is an honorable man.”

  CHAPTER 25

  DEA AGENT RODNEY COLEMAN did not do well in cold weather. There seemed to be a thin translucent sheet of ice over his face, and a shudder ran down his back.

  Battery Park had not been his choice for a meeting. The choppy waters crashed against the bulkhead and the Statue of Liberty’s torch could barely be seen through the sleety fog. He took hold of Nick’s arm, turned him away from the water.

  “A good location. Anyone dumb enough to be following you would have been spotted by now and the meeting aborted.”

  Anyone following him would have frozen to death if he had to stand in one place long. Nick shrugged his arm free, hunched into his lined hunter’s coat: Thinsulate-lined, lightweight but warm. He moved quickly along the cement pathway.

  “Well, Nick, the information you gave us on the Golden Dream—good. Very good. It was intercepted three days ago, just inside San Francisco Harbor. The agency is very happy with this; a great deal of China White was confiscated.” He stopped walking abruptly, squinted against the glassy ice particles that hit him smack in the face. “But, Nick, here’s my problem. This really doesn’t connect the Venturas with the Chen Triad. What we’re doing here is helping Dennis Chen take care of his opposition without him having to lift a finger. So to speak.”

  “You asked me to pass along what I heard. I gave you what I heard.”

  Coleman turned up the collar of his black coat, adjusted his Burberry scarf, and pulled the incongruous knitted watchcap down almost to his eyebrows. It gave him a slightly retarded appearance.

  “You know, Nick, the coalescence of the Triads, the mob, and the Colombians is a very strange coming together. You know about the Triads? They go back hundreds of years, and—”

  Nick hunched his shoulders as he walked, then moved slightly so that he was no longer acting as a windshield for Coleman. “Skip your history lesson, okay, Coleman?”

  Coleman shrugged good-naturedly and continued. “The young bloods in the Triads know how to live well. Quietly, privately. Never flaunt their wealth or their power. The younger ones are not happy about sitting down with a gathering of old Mafiosa who think a trip to Disneyland is a celebration. A collision of cultures, as well as of age. Your grandfather is to their liking, but some of his colleagues—” Coleman shook his head derisively. “If they don’t parade around with glitzy girls on their arms, who’s going to know what big shots they are? You know, it’s these old-timers, they’re the ones insisting on the sitdown that’s going to happen. They have that thing about ‘looking a guy in the eye’—as though eye contact will tell them all they need to know. Wait till they see the poker faces on those Triad honchos.”

  Nick kept walking

  “The young Chinese, they’d rather do it all with no human contact. Via fax, anonymous couriers, coded messages. Computer discs. But they’re willing to come together this once, mostly because they respect your grandfather.”

  “A lot of people respect my grandfather.” Nick was surprised by the pride and anger in his voice. Who the hell was this little shit anyway?

  He could feel the agent hurrying to keep up with him. He saw the two DEA agents moving out of the park toward Broadway.

  “We know your grandfather will never fly.” Coleman was smug; he knew a lot of things.
“And the other old guys, they’d be lost in a foreign land. Without their people around them.”

  Nick gestured toward the figures waiting for them. “Those are ‘your people,’ I assume?”

  Coleman laughed. His breath was icy. “They are indeed my people.”

  He followed Nick into a dimly lit coffee shop across from the park. In the overheated room, Coleman’s glasses steamed up; he wiped them with his handkerchief, then dabbed at his watery eyes. He carefully hung his coat on the hook next to the booth where they settled. When he pulled off the watchcap, there was a dark red band across his forehead. He seemed to have two sets of eyebrows.

  Coleman’s eyes hardened as though frozen. “You do know, Nick—I assume you do know—that we’re going after the whole operation before it gets going. Under RICO.” He watched Nick closely. “If anything’s a racketeer-influenced and corrupt organization, this bunch of thugs is. You do know about RICO?”

  Nick didn’t answer. The waitress delivered two coffees and Nick tasted his carefully. It was steaming hot.

  “Years ago, we used to get the mob guys through income-tax fraud. Until their lawyers learned how to avoid that. RICO is our big ace in the hole these days—it lets us cast a large net over all these various organizations. That’s how we got Gotti and that whole bunch. Sent them away forever on a long, bloody laundry list of charges.”

  Nick stared coldly, unimpressed.

  Coleman didn’t seem to notice. “You’re going to be our fly on the wall. These guys are running billions of dollars’ worth of activities. If we can pull this off, tie them all up into one large package, do you know how much money the government will confiscate, Nick?”

  Nick said softly, “Billions of dollars, you said.”

  Coleman’s voice was controlled but his words were excited. “It can be the biggest roundup of its kind in history. Get them all together, then charge them as individuals. We put you right smack in the middle, get it all on tape …”

  He stopped speaking abruptly. He lifted the steaming cup of coffee to his mouth and drank it straight down without stopping. It must have been near boiling point, but Coleman didn’t seem to notice.

  “So,” he said, easily changing the subject, “you’ve gone back to school. To what end?”

  “Well, I understand you need a college degree to get on the feds. Or is that just the FBI?” Nick sipped his coffee: it was very hot. “Let’s say my plans aren’t firmed up yet.”

  “Planning a fresh start, are you, Nick? Well, of course, your future depends very much on how well you handle your current assignment.”

  “I’m doin’ what I gotta do, okay? Look, Coleman, I can only bring you stuff I get. You want me to make up stuff, just say so. Maybe you really don’t need me.”

  Coleman grimaced. “If I really didn’t need you, you wouldn’t be sitting here with me. You’d be upstate, Nick. Count on it. So, nothing to tell me?”

  “Just one thing. Wait until I call you. I didn’t ask for this meeting, you did.”

  Coleman carefully put his scarf around his neck, slipped his coat on, then his leather gloves. He held his hat until he reached the street.

  Special Agent Alexander Kantor hurried after his boss, pulling his very large, lined trenchcoat around himself. Agent Felix Rodriguiz walked beside Nick.

  “Hey, O’Hara, do me a favor, okay? Next time, pick someplace a little warmer.” He shuddered, rubbed his gloved hands together. “This cold weather is murder, ya know?”

  “Maybe ya never should have left your island.”

  Rodriguiz grinned. “I never did. Born and raised on Long Island. The weather doesn’t bother me so much, but my boss—he’s a fuckin’ icicle to begin with. He’s gonna break chops for the rest of the night.”

  “We all got troubles. Looks like he’s waving for you, Felix, You better hustle.”

  Quietly, Rodriguiz said, “Oh, fuck him.” At the same time he waved and nodded and headed toward his boss.

  CHAPTER 26

  NICK STUDIED THE BOXES of frozen dinners: Healthy Choice, Lean Cuisine; pizza; roast chicken and noodles from the kosher deli down the boulevard. Sounded good.

  As he tossed the package into the microwave, the phone rang. He lifted the receiver from the kitchen wall phone as his fingers played with the timing circles on the micro.

  “Hey, guess who’s downstairs? In your driveway. You hungry?”

  “How’d you know?”

  “Bet you’re deciding which frozen special to have, right?”

  “What are you, a witch?”

  “Always have been. Put on something comfortable and come on down. I’m waiting for you.”

  When he got downstairs, she smiled and pointed to her car phone. “Handy device, huh? You’re having home-cooked tonight.”

  “Your home?”

  Laura Santalvo’s home was a twelve-room duplex in the prewar Beresford Building, across from Central Park and the Hayden Planetarium. There were only two apartments on each floor, serviced by the various elevators. Nick glanced around at the small foyer, watched as she opened the door into what seemed to be another world.

  It could have been a large old house in the country—a very rich, large, old house, with Mexican blood red tile floors and wood paneling in the huge entrance hall. Laura flipped some switches and made a sharp, clicking sound.

  Cats came running from every direction: some leaping down the carpeted staircase, some sliding across the shining floor from other rooms. Laura motioned him toward a closet that was slightly ajar. She tapped on the door and a huge red-tiger cat with golden eyes stretched toward her. When she bent to touch him, he waved a threatening paw and gave a slight hiss.

  “Rocky has a problem expressing love,” she told Nick. “Well, here they are, all eight of them.”

  They pushed against her, rubbed against her legs, buzzed, cried for attention or stood quietly observing, waiting for a turn.

  Nick had never seen Laura so relaxed. Everything about her was spontaneous, unguarded, natural. And joyful. She was totally at ease. “Our housekeeper, Maria, was supposed to feed them before she left for her day off, but I think she must have forgotten. Or maybe she did and Su-Su cleaned up their dishes. Oh well, they can always eat.”

  He followed the parade into the kitchen, helped her to dish out the bowls of food. Two black and white tuxedos—mirror images of each other—ate from the same bowl. Some ate on the floor, some on the table, some on the counters. She named them rapidly, and each cat, responding in turn, looked up at her. Nick had never seen a cat respond to having its name called, and when he said as much she poked at him playfully, cupping her mouth.

  “Be careful what you say. Some of these guys are very sensitive.”

  Upstairs, the hall was stark white to better set off the artwork and photographs Laura had placed on the walls. The doors to the various rooms were dark wood, with gleaming brass doorknobs. Laura held her hand up to Nick: wait a minute. She tapped lightly on one of the doors, poked her head inside the room.

  “Am I disturbing you?” he heard her ask.

  She entered the room and Nick looked at the black and white photographs. They all were of a Chinese child: some at age five or six; then a little older, nine or ten. As he studied them, the subject of the photographs herself, now about eighteen years old, followed Laura from her bedroom.

  Laura’s hand rested lightly on the shoulder of a small, beautiful young woman. “This is Su-Su. Sus, this is Nick.”

  Nick glanced at Laura’s face, and saw there a concentrated pride. The girl came forward, offered a small hand, a surprisingly firm handclasp.

  “Nick,” she said quietly.

  “Su-Su. I was just looking at photographs of you.”

  The girl nodded, glanced at Laura. “My proud mom.”

  For a split second, Nick froze. Laura’s daughter?

  The girl caught his expression and said seriously, “I am her ‘chosen daughter.’”

  Laura added nothing to the explanati
on. She turned to the girl. “You being picked up or do you want me to call Marko to drive you?”

  “Nope. All arranged. Nice to have met you, Nick.” Her eyes, black and expressive, missed nothing. She smiled slightly, a familiarly mocking smile. Then to Laura, “In about two minutes, Margaret will be calling from the lobby.”

  She had no sooner spoken than the house phone rang. She picked it up, listened, smiled, spoke softly. “I’m on my way.” Then to Laura, “Not to worry. I’ll call you tomorrow.” She gave Laura a quick hug. “Fingers crossed for me, right? At about ten-thirty, have a thought of me.”

  “At exactly ten-thirty.” She watched the slender girl in the baggy jeans and large black sweater dash into her room, emerge with a bulky garment bag. Before Laura could ask, Su-Su told her, “Yes, I have a very nice outfit with me. I will impress the daylights out of everyone at Yale.” With a wave, shooing cats out of the way, she disappeared down the stairs.

  “Pretty girl,” Nick said.

  Laura didn’t answer. She pointed to the first photograph: Su-Su at five. The shadowed face, tiny, head down, eyes peeking at the camera, had a hopeless sadness.

  “That’s when I first saw her. In Bangkok, Su-Su had just arrived at a factory that supplied some fabric for my designs. Her parents sold her to the factory owners for about forty dollars. The factory owners had plans for her. At about nine—this is Su-Su at nine—at about that age Su-Su was to be sold to a brothel specializing in young virgins. For the foreign trade. They’d probably get around a thousand dollars. As you can see, by nine, she was already becoming the beauty she is today, at eighteen.” She turned to Nick, put a finger on his mouth. “Not now. Let’s just say my meeting with Su-Su was the most incredibly lucky thing that has ever happened to me. C’mon, I’ll show you the rest of my domain.”

  She showed him the downstairs rooms: a dining room off the eat-in kitchen; a huge living room; a large den, which she called the media room, and a book-lined library. Everything formal, traditional: good dark wood, expensive carpeting, a few good rugs. She led him to a balcony off the living room, swept the view with her arm.