—
SO CHEUNG’S VISITS spurred a mix of awe, greed, and fear among the hosts and managers at 88 Gamma. Awe that a man could pour away money so stupidly. Greed because whales like Cheung translated into paychecks and bonuses for the people who served him. And fear . . . because Cheung’s appetites extended past the baccarat tables. Sober, he was no more arrogant than the average Chinese plutocrat. But Cheung rarely stayed sober long. He drank to celebrate his wins and to drown his losses. The more he drank, the bolder his requests became. And Aaron Duberman had made clear how he expected his staff to treat Cheung and his fellow whales. Like kings. Whatever they want.
To prove his point, Duberman himself regularly visited the ultra-high-roller VIP rooms. Whether the whales were winning or losing, shouting or calm, Duberman sat beside them and made happy promises. If you need a break, please, share dinner with me. Foie gras? Bird’s nest soup? Shark fin? Say the word, my chef will make it . . . We’ve made sure all your favorite hostesses are here, but if you’re bored, let me know. More where they came from . . . I hope my manager told you we’re hosting the welterweight Thai boxing championship. Front-row seats for you, naturally. But how would you like to watch the champ practice tonight? A private session, just you and his trainers.
And, after fifteen or twenty minutes of watching, one last offer, this one whispered. If you have any special requests, anything not on the menu, so to speak, Chou-Lai is the man to ask. Chou-Lai Zhen held the deliberately vague title of Special Assistant/High Limit Operations. In reality, he was the house pimp and pusher. 88 Gamma was too careful to provide anything illegal itself. But Chou-Lai made sure that if a whale wanted companionship, female or male or both, or drugs, uppers or downers or anything in between, he’d have them.
Chou-Lai’s services were available to only the biggest whales of all, men—and they were without exception men—who lost at least fifteen million Hong Kong dollars a year. They might not know exactly how much they were worth to 88 Gamma, but Duberman did.
—
CHEUNG SPENT THE FLIGHT to Macao reading a classified briefing on the Snow Moth, a new fifteen-centimeter drone with an advanced self-guidance system. The Snow Moth was designed to be nimble enough to fly in the most crowded cities, small enough to sneak over hostile military bases. Its biggest problem was battery life. But a month before, air force engineers had redesigned its battery into tubes that could be embedded in its plastic skeleton. Now the Snow Moth could stay airborne for ten hours in smooth conditions, six in high winds. Production costs were estimated at seven thousand dollars each. For what the United States spent on a single fighter, China could build twenty thousand drones.
Another successful development program, another project that Cheung could recommend be moved to full production. China National Automated Aircraft Company would no doubt find a way to thank him. As the Smoothwind descended, he stuffed the report back in his briefcase and poured himself a taste of eighteen-year-old Glenfiddich. Only a taste, though. He wanted to be in top form tonight.
He landed at the Aeroporto Internacional de Macau just after 8 p.m. To the west, the sun set behind the mammoth casinos of Cotai—the artificial island that Macao had built to give the gambling industry room to expand. Two dozen casinos rose out of the landfill, with more coming. Duberman’s 88 Gamma complex towered over the others. Its main casino was fifty stories of sleek black glass. Near that tower was the new skyscraper, which looked about ready to open. Cheung was already looking forward to opening night.
Technically, Chinese citizens needed visas to enter Macao. But for elite officials like Cheung, the border wasn’t even a formality. A limousine waited for him on the tarmac, carried him through a gate beside the main terminal. No passport check, no record of his entry.
Ten minutes later, the limo rolled into a parking garage at 88 Gamma that was reserved for VIPs. Cheung’s personal host Xiao, a dapper forty-something man in a suit, bowed deeply as Cheung stepped out. “General.” As a rule, Cheung preferred to be addressed only by his title, not his name. “So good to see you again.”
Cheung merely nodded.
“Would you prefer to see your room, or directly to your table?”
Cheung felt the luck foaming inside him. “The table, I think.”
Xiao nodded gravely and led Cheung to an elevator, where a tall Chinese woman waited. “General.”
“What a pleasant surprise, Jian.” A lie. She was always here for him. But he liked to pretend their meetings were coincidence, another form of luck. This part of the night was a show, one that the casino put on for him alone.
“I’ve missed you.” Jian smiled shyly, leaned down, kissed his cheek. She wore a pale blue silk dress that draped her slim body perfectly.
Cheung wondered if he would bed her this trip. Probably not. She would no doubt agree if he asked. But he knew he could be rough. Inevitably, he grew angry at his conquests if they didn’t do what he wanted. And ashamed of them if they did, especially if they seemed to like it. He preferred to see Jian as untouched and perfect.
Or maybe he just liked his women younger.
“To your table.” Xiao pushed the button for the forty-eighth floor, reserved for the biggest whales. This particular elevator made only three stops: the garage, the main lobby, and forty-eight. As they rose, Cheung flipped open his gold cigarette case, another gift from 88 Gamma, and reached for a Dunhill. Macao banned smoking in its casinos, but the rule didn’t apply to men like him.
The elevator door opened into a lobby whose glass north wall offered a stunning view of the nearby casinos and the city beyond. “I can’t wait for the Sky Casino,” Xiao said. “On a clear night we’ll be able to see Hong Kong.”
“As if the nights are ever clear around here.” Cheung felt a pleasant impatience building. The cards were so close. He walked down the corridor that led to the VIP suites. At the far end, an open door beckoned.
Inside, Cheung found himself in a windowless room ten meters square, two baccarat tables side by side. The air was cool, with a faint jasmine scent. A painting of cherry blossoms by the Chinese master Qi Baishi adorned the back wall. Practically no one outside China knew Baishi’s name, but he was a favorite of the new Chinese elite. The painting was worth at least fifty million dollars.
The tables were ready for play, dealers waiting, chips stacked high, cards shuffled and in the long plastic trays called shoes. Six decks in each shoe, three hundred and twelve cards in all, embossed with the 88 Gamma logo, a forest of skyscrapers growing out of a globe.
The dealers stood and bowed as Cheung entered. He chose the table on the right, the seat directly across from the dealer, a position that offered the best read on the cards.
“General. We’ve been waiting for you.”
The dealer was a heavy man with a smoker’s rasp. Lin. Cheung had gambled against him a dozen times. While the hosts and waitresses were uniformly deferential, the dealers had more freedom. Some seemed to root for Cheung and be upset if he lost. Others didn’t hide their desire to beat him, as though the casino’s money belonged to them. Lin belonged in the second category. Cheung would take pleasure in knocking him down tonight.
“Here I am.” Cheung stubbed out his cigarette. “To begin, fifteen.” As in million.
“Fifteen.”
Cheung always bought in for fifteen, so the stacks were already counted. Lin tapped them for the security cameras before pushing them across the green baize. Four stacks of ten sky-blue chips, ten million dollars. Four stacks of ten orange chips, another four million. And two stacks of ten mint-green chips, the final million. Ten stacks in all, an even hundred chips. Lined up against the rail of the table they stretched not even fifty centimeters from edge to edge. Together, they were worth more money than the average American made in a lifetime. Cheung flipped two of the mint-green chips back.
“Ten thousands.”
Lin tucked the chi
ps into his drawer, slid back one more stack, ten yellow chips worth ten thousand Hong Kong dollars each. Cheung used those to tip the waitresses.
—
IN THE MOVIES, high rollers like Cheung carried suitcases full of cash to fund their gambling. In reality, Cheung had brought only clothes. A week before, he had wired forty-one million Hong Kong dollars from a Credit Suisse account he controlled under a fake name to an equally anonymous Citibank account run by a Macao junket operator. The junket company kept seven hundred thousand dollars as a “travel and conversion fee” and sent the rest to 88 Gamma. Both the junket company and the casino knew the money was Cheung’s. But his name was never attached to it, a prudent precaution. Cheung’s gambling wasn’t a secret, but the size of his wins and losses were. They might attract attention in Beijing. China’s Ministry for State Security spied on Macao’s casinos, looking for government officials and party leaders. But 88 Gamma guarded its VIP rooms to keep the ministry’s operatives at bay.
Cheung took other precautions, too. On his first trips to Macao, he had brought friends. More recently, with his bets and his extracurricular appetites growing, he traveled alone. In any case, arriving by himself and with only a few dollars in his pockets added to the pleasure of the night. When he showed up this way, he could indulge the fantasy that the casino had given him the chips because it valued his company so highly. We’ll pay you to play with us.
Usually, Cheung started small, betting a hundred thousand dollars a hand, and worked his way up. If he was winning, he increased his bet size gradually. If he wasn’t, he might stay small for hours, then throw down a series of million-dollar bets, trying to shock the gods onto his side. But tonight he thought of the cat, its boldness on the highway. He decided to open fast. He pushed eight sky-blue chips into the box in front of him marked Player. A two-million-dollar bet.
“Two million.” Lin’s voice held a hint of surprise. “Starting with the maximum.” Even 88 Gamma had limits. Two million per hand was the official maximum. In truth, the casino took bets as high as five million from regulars, gamblers whom the managers could be sure would return after a big win.
“Don’t be scared! Deal the cards.”
Lin pulled the first card of the night, the burn, from the shoe. He flipped the card up, showed it to Cheung. A king. A zero.
“A fine card. Let’s go.”
Lin pushed aside the burn, snapped out the first hand of the night. He passed the first and third cards to Cheung, placed the second and fourth on the spot on the table marked Banker. Cheung reached for his cards, leaned in close. No serious baccarat player turned over his hand too quickly. To do so was to invite the worst kind of luck. No, the cards had to be squeezed and pinched until they revealed their precious secrets. Cheung turned up the edge of the first card. In ultra-high-limit games, decks were never reused, so players could treat the cards as badly as they wanted.
A five of diamonds. An okay card, though hardly perfect. Eights and nines were the ideal starting cards, face cards the worst. Cheung flipped it over to show Lin.
“Let’s see what you’ve dealt yourself.”
Lin turned over the cards in the Banker space. Two fours. An eight. A natural eight. Lin smirked, not trying to hide his glee. Cheung’s margin for error had vanished. He needed a four for his second card to win the hand, or a three to tie. Otherwise, he would lose to Lin without even the chance to better his hand.
“Two million,” Lin said.
Cheung ignored him, leaned so close to the table that his cheek nearly touched it. He thought of the cat, fearless in traffic, only one goal. He turned up an edge—and found himself peeking at a four of spades.
Making nine. A natural nine. The best possible hand.
“Ta made niao,” Your mother’s dick. Cheung lifted the card high, spun it down. Security cameras caught everything in this room, so Cheung didn’t worry about losing the hand if the card skipped off the table. “Can you add that, or do you need my help?”
“Nine. Player wins. Two million.” Lin picked out eight sky-blue chips and slid them across.
Cheung looked up, caught Jian’s eye. She stood in her customary position beside the Baishi painting. Their proximity made both of them more beautiful. She came over and he reached up and wrapped an arm around her waist, leaned in to smell her honeysuckle perfume.
“Are you surprised, Jian?”
“Not for a second, General.”
“A Johnnie Walker Blue. A double.”
—
SO WENT THE NIGHT. Cheung’s wins mounted hour by hour. He drank steadily until the room blurred into a single frame, the table and nothing more. Aside from the scotches, he neither ate nor drank. In fact, he didn’t leave the table at all. His bladder ached, but he didn’t want to risk disrupting the field of luck that had settled over him. Finally, he lost three straight hands and pushed himself from the table. He stumbled, nearly fell, but Xiao grabbed him. His mouth tasted of ash and whiskey and he could hardly see.
He steadied himself, looked at his watch. Nine a.m. He’d gambled through the night. He looked at the chips—and the plaques beside them, coated with a deep black metallic sheen like the skin of a luxury car. Each plaque was worth one million Hong Kong dollars. He had four stacks of ten to go along with all his chips. How much had he won? Sixty million? More?
In twelve hours. Had anyone ever won like this?
He stumbled to the toilet and held himself upright as he pissed all over the floor. No matter. They’d clean it up. They’d do whatever he wanted to keep him happy so they could get their hands on the money he’d taken. Anything at all. He could squat like a monkey on the table and pull down his pants and open his bowels. Xiao would smile and move him to the other table so he could keep playing.
But no, he was done tonight. He had won all he could for now. To push further would be to spit at the gods. He would lose everything if he went back.
What he wanted was a woman. A girl. A little bird who would be properly impressed with his little bird, which, truth be told, was hardly bigger than his thumb. Years ago, in a hotel in Shanghai, a whore had laughed at it. He’d beaten her until her screams brought security to his door. He’d shown them his air force identification. They’d given her a clout, too, and taken her away.
Cheung didn’t know why that memory came to him now. He hated it and yet some part of him enjoyed it, the way her face had changed when he’d stopped slapping and started punching, the fear in her eyes—
No. Enough. He would enjoy this night. This morning. Morning, yes. He laughed into the empty room, grinned at the skull in the mirror. He turned on the taps, buried his face in cold water until he was sober enough to know he could ask Chou-Lai for what he wanted, make his point without speaking too clearly. And he staggered back to his fortune.
8
HONG KONG
Duberman was halfway through an hour on his elliptical trainer when his iPhone buzzed, a call from the casino. He didn’t want to stop working out, but no one at 88 Gamma would call him on his personal phone without good reason.
“Sir? It’s Malcolm.” Malcolm Garten, who ran the ultra-high-limit rooms. “Are you all right? You sound out of breath.” Years of kissing up to big players had given Garten a tendency to brown-nose.
“Get to it, Malcolm.”
“It’s about the general.”
General Cheung Han. A great customer. He’d come in the night before. “He need a credit line? Not a problem. Whatever he wants.” Unlike some whales, the general paid his chits quickly. Maybe he worried 88 Gamma would rat him out to the air force.
“No, sir, he’s up. Sixty-two million.”
Duberman whistled. No wonder Garten was upset. In truth, Duberman didn’t mind. Cheung wasn’t a hit-and-run player. Even if he hung on this trip, he’d be back soon enough. The math would grind him down. It always did. In the meantime, he’d remember thi
s night. Big wins breed bigger losses.
“So what’s he want? To up his bets to five million? You don’t need to call for that, Malcolm. Keith can handle it.” Keith Huang, the casino’s executive director.
“No, sir, he seems to be done. In fact, he’s passed out. But before he did, he had a special request for Chou, and I thought you should know about it.”
Garten briefed Duberman on “special requests” from the whales, so Duberman knew that Cheung preferred Vietnamese women. And that they sometimes ended their sessions with him with bruises and black eyes. He wondered what Cheung could have said to upset Garten. He and Chou-Lai had heard plenty of unpleasant requests from the whales over the years. They understood the job.
Whatever it was, Duberman didn’t want the NSA or the Chinese government to hear it.
“We’ll talk face-to-face. Here. Figure an hour?” Duberman would have time to finish his workout and take a shower.
“Yes, sir.”
Duberman hung up. He had just started to move again when Gideon appeared in the doorway, a sheet of paper in his hand.
“Not now—”
“You know those manifests from Hong Kong International—”
Duberman paused again. Gideon handed him the sheet.
The Chinese border authorities closely monitored the airport’s real-time immigration records, and Duberman’s guys hadn’t found a way to see them. But every other week, the border-control desks sent a list of names and nationalities to the airport’s management. HKIA kept its own meticulous records of how many foreign nationals had landed, mainly for marketing purposes. Gideon had found a local private security company that could provide the list for a mere ten thousand Hong Kong dollars a pop. Duberman assumed the list would be useless. It didn’t contain photos or other biometric identification or even passport numbers, just names and countries. Wells wouldn’t possibly fly in under his real name. But for ten thousand HK a pop, they could afford to take the chance. And there, halfway down the page—
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