by Jay MacLarty
Billie nodded. “That’s the guy.”
“Right. That was about 220 B.C., I think. The Ch’in dynasty. He’s entombed near Xi’an, along with his army of six thousand terra-cotta soldiers.”
Kyra rolled her eyes. “A little! Sheesh. Remind me never to play Trivial Pursuit with you.”
Billie ignored the interruption. “You’re exactly right. In 221, Cheng had a hallmark carved out of green jade to commemorate his achievement, the unification of all China. It’s commonly referred to as the Crest of Ch’in. Shortly after his death, the dynasty collapsed and the crest was broken into pieces…three to be exact, and carried off by the conquering armies. To make a long story short, only one section of the crest remains in China. One of the pieces was taken to Taiwan by Chiang Kai-shek when he abandoned the mainland. Another piece was captured by the Japanese during World War II, and was subsequently appropriated—” She gave the word a sarcastic twang. “—by MacArthur, who turned it over to the Smithsonian.”
Simon suppressed a groan. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what he had in his security case, and where it was going. “And what? I’m supposed to return our appropriated piece back to the land of the dragon? A peace offering, so to speak.”
Billie nodded. “Both pieces, actually. It’s all very ritualistic, from the Smithsonian, to Taiwan, to China. You’re to be in Taipei August seventeenth to pick up the second artifact, and then deliver both pieces to Beijing the following day. Ironically, it will be brought back here and unveiled to the world during the signing ceremony at the Pearl.”
“You must be kidding. You’re saying I’m taking these things to Beijing, just so they can bring them back?”
“With the Chinese it’s all about face.” She threw up some quotation marks with her fingers. “Mianzi. It’s the only way the Politburo would agree to the Alliance.”
“Incredible.”
“It gets better,” Billie went on. “The crest will remain on permanent display here at the Pearl. We’re using it as our logo. You’ll see duplicates displayed throughout the resort.”
“And this has all been agreed to?”
“Yes.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“Who said anything about a problem?”
“When you called, you said Jake was at his chokepoint. You weren’t referring to his condition.”
She hesitated, then shook her head. “We should talk about this tomorrow.”
“For god’s sake, Mother, it is tomorrow. What’s going on?”
Billie took a deep breath, then launched into her story. She talked nonstop for twenty minutes, detailing each of the so-called accidents at the Pearl, and Jake’s efforts to keep the information out of the press.
“So what are you saying?” Kyra asked. “You don’t believe these accidents were accidental?”
“No,” Billie answered, “and neither does your father. That building inspector didn’t slip off the roof, that’s for damn sure. His body landed twelve feet from the base of the building.”
Despite Billie’s certainty, Simon knew it was easy to turn problems into conspiracy when things went wrong. “Maybe the guy was suicidal. He could have taken a run and jumped.”
“We considered that,” Billie answered, “but it’s not possible. There’s a three-foot retaining wall around the perimeter of the roof. He was thrown.”
“Twelve feet? It would take at least two people to throw someone that far.”
“Precisely.”
“And your general manager—” Simon glanced at his notes. “Mr. Quan. He agrees?”
Billie hesitated, carefully considering her answer. “Li Quan is a good man, but he…” She hesitated again, clearly struggling to find the right words, the politically correct words. “It’s a cultural thing. He has a propensity to attribute all things to fate and fortune.” She threw up her hands in exasperation. “Joss.”
“So he thinks the accidents are nothing more than bad luck?”
Billie nodded. “Joss is like a religion here, good luck, bad luck, it all flows from the same river of faith. And like all religions, you can’t argue faith with fact. It’s foolish to even try.”
“But you think the accidents have something to do with the Alliance? Someone literally trying to throw a wrench into the works?”
“No. Absolutely not. Besides the people in this room, there’s only one other person in all Macau who knows about the negotiations.”
“And that is?”
“A man by the name of Atherton. James Atherton. He runs an international consulting firm. The State Department hired him to act as an undercover liaison between us and the three countries involved. He’s a straight shooter. Very professional.”
Simon nodded, being careful not to show his growing skepticism. “Okay, so if it’s not about the Alliance, what is it about? Who would benefit from these accidents? Your competition?”
Billie shook her head emphatically, her silver-blond hair swirling around her finely chiseled face. “It’s true, if that bad-joss tag became synonymous with the Pearl, it would hurt us…no one believes in luck, good or bad, like an Asian gambler…but our competition is well established, they’re not afraid of us, nor should they be. The Pearl will attract droves of new customers to the province. It’s going to help everyone.”
He couldn’t argue with that. It wasn’t like the old days in Vegas, when the Mafia ran everything. Most of the gaming now was controlled by large international conglomerates. “Okay, so if it’s not the competition, and it’s not the trade agreement…?”
“Extortion,” Billie answered without hesitation. “Someone looking for a payoff to make the accidents go away.”
“Have there been demands?”
“No, but Jake received a call intimating as much. He got it the same day he was shot.”
Kyra jerked upright in her chair, as if someone had injected hot lead into her veins. “Are you saying it wasn’t a random street crime? That there’s a link between the accidents and the shooting?”
“No, I didn’t mean it like that,” Billie answered. “The shooting had nothing to do with the problems at the Pearl.”
But the answer came too quick, and Simon had a feeling she was holding back. “How can you be so sure?”
“Because I was there, dammit! We were taking a walk and ended up in a maze of backstreets where we shouldn’t have been. Before we could find our way back, some guy popped out of the shadows and demanded Jake’s wallet.” She shook her head, as if to erase the memory. “You know Jake, he didn’t take kindly to that. He pushed me aside and tried to grab the guy.” She glanced toward her unconscious husband. “You can see how that turned out.”
But what he saw and what he heard didn’t make sense. Something about the street-crime scenario didn’t fit. Jake had been hit twice, from two sides, which meant the impact of the first bullet had spun him around before the second found its target, or—a big or—there were two shooters. And two shooters did not sound random or botched. “The guy was alone?”
Billie dipped her head, her lips set in a tight seam.
“Where was your security?” he asked, being careful to keep his tone inquisitive, not accusatory.
“Jake had already dismissed them for the night. Taking a walk was a spur-of-the-moment decision. Nobody really knows us here. We had no reason to expect trouble.”
Simon nodded, as if her explanation made perfect sense, but he was now positive she wasn’t being entirely candid. Jake was bold, but he was never careless, especially where Billie was concerned. “It must have been terrible.”
“It was. I don’t like to talk about it.”
Whether her back-off warning was intentional or not, Simon realized there were some answers he would have to obtain on his own. “So what can we do to help?”
“The President is depending on us. You have to stop these accidents. We have to make the deadline.”
You, not exactly what he wanted to hear—that he was now responsible fo
r holding together a trade alliance he wasn’t aware existed until ten minutes ago. “Where do we start?”
“With a good show.” She hooked a thumb in the general direction of the lobby. “There are representatives from every major casino in Macau out there. Plus the press. It’s a goddamned deathwatch. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t have anything against the press, and a lot of them love Jake, but they’re reporters, with their noses in the wind, just waiting for that first whiff of blood. We need to put on a good face. A little mianzi of our own. Business as usual.”
“Okay.” If he had to lie to the press, at least it would be for his country. “Then what?”
“Then I get Jake out of town. Away from prying eyes.”
“What’s your timetable.”
“Two days,” she answered. “Maybe three. I need to get the two of you up to speed on the Pearl before leaving.”
Kyra stared incredulously at her mother, as if this were the greatest foolishness she had ever heard. “You don’t really think I’m going to stay here if you’re taking Daddy to Bangkok?”
“What I think is not important,” Billie answered, her voice taking on an edge. “It’s what your father would expect.”
“Don’t play that card, Mother. You don’t know—”
“Yes, Kyra, I do. This is crunch time, your father’s down, and it’s time you stepped into the ring.”
There was a long, uncomfortable moment of silence, then Kyra looked at Simon and smiled ruefully, like someone trapped in a dental chair. “Hell of a choice, a prizefighter or a nun.”
Billie glanced back and forth between them. “A nun?”
“Simon suggested I get on board the Rynerson Express, or retire to a nunnery in the French Alps.”
“Aaah.” Billie nodded approvingly. “Simon’s a very smart man. So, what’s your decision, little girl? You getting into the ring, or should we shave your head and call you Sister?”
Kyra took a deep breath and expelled it: the sound of surrender. “What do you want me to do?”
“Whatever it takes. We’ve only got four weeks to get the Pearl open.”
“But I don’t know anything about the resort business.” She gave Simon a sidelong glance. “Neither of us do.”
“You don’t need to,” Billie answered. “The management team is in place. They’re good people, ready and willing to do the job. Unfortunately—” She glanced again toward her husband. “—the taipan is down, and you have to take his place.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Hospitalar Centro Conde São Januário de Macau
Friday, 29 June 02:55:16 GMT +0800
The hospital had converted the staff dining room into a private waiting area for the unexpected onslaught of visitors, all of whom glowed a sickly shade of green in the reflected glare of the fluorescent lights and baby-shit-yellow walls. As Billie entered the room, Kyra and Simon a step behind, the weary murmur of conversation dissolved into a hushed silence, everyone expecting to hear the final death knell for Big Jake Rynerson.
Billie eased in behind a small lectern at the front of the room, adjusted the microphone, then looked up and scanned the somewhat bizarre gathering: the captains of Macau gaming, all middle-aged men, most of them dressed in expensive, lightweight summer suits; and the media, a mixture of electronic and print, male and female, young and old, most of them dressed in T-shirts and shorts. “Ladies and gentlemen, I do wanna thank y’all for being here.” Her words vibrated with the twang of a West Texas cowhand. “Your concern for my husband is so very much appreciated.” She paused and smiled. “And I know you’ll be happy to hear that Jake’s condition has improved dramatically in the last six hours.”
There was an audible release of breath: universal relief, interspersed with a few soft murmurs from the press: Headline lost.
“He’s off ventilation,” Billie went on, “and breathing on his own.” She paused again, letting the news sink in. “Though he has not yet regained consciousness.” She flashed another smile, as if this were nothing more than an annoyance, something to be expected. “His vital signs are strong and it should be only a matter of hours before he’s barkin’ orders and charmin’ all the nurses.”
This prompted an abbreviated rumble of laughter, the tone somewhat awkward and strained.
“Now before y’all leave.” She made it sound like this was not only appropriate, but expected. “I’d like y’all to say howdy to my daughter, Dr. Kyra Rynerson.” Kyra tipped her head and smiled confidently, playing the game. “And our good friend, Simon Leonidovich. They’ll be standing in for Jake until he’s back on his feet.”
She spoke with such conviction and confidence, Simon could almost believe it, could almost see Big Jake striding through the door, taking command, making everyone look small but feel big just to be in the same room with the celebrated Vegas cowboy.
“So,” Billie continued, “on your way out, if you’ll leave a business card, they’ll be sure you’re notified of any change in Jake’s condition.”
Instantly, three reporters were on their feet, firing questions:
“Mrs. Rynerson, what can you tell us about the shooting?”
“What were you doing in that neighborhood alone at night?
“When can we talk to the doctors?”
Billie waved them off with another charming smile. “I’m very sorry, but I want to be there when my husband wakes up. I’m sure y’all understand.” Without waiting for a response, she turned and disappeared through a door marked STAFF ONLY.
It was, Simon thought, a masterful performance and a perfect escape—no one daring to keep her from the side of her ailing husband. And somehow, despite her overly optimistic presentation, she had managed to do it without actually lying.
There was an immediate frenzy of movement as the press people gathered their equipment and hurried toward an exit at the back of the room, anxious to file their stories. In no apparent hurry, the captains of gaming stood and straightened and began moving toward the front of the room, where Simon and Kyra had taken up flanking positions on each side of the wide double doors.
One by one the men filed past, expressing their concern and offering their support. It was clear they not only considered Big Jake a friend and a colleague—“one of us”—but that the shooting, which had received worldwide attention, was “bad for business.” Simon nodded and smiled and shook hands, accepted their business cards, and promised to keep each man informed.
The president and general manager of Wynn Macau leaned in close, his voice low. “Mr. Wynn is very concerned. I wrote his private number on the back of my card. Please call him direct if anything changes.”
“Thank you, I will.”
“And you need any help getting the Pearl open, you call me. I’ll do what I can.”
Though Simon had a feeling they would need all the help they could get to make the deadline, he felt compelled to maintain Billie’s all-is-good facade. “Thank you, that’s very generous, but I understand everything is on schedule.”
“Oh…that’s good to hear.” It was clear from the man’s reaction—the momentary hesitation and involuntary contraction of muscles around the eyes—he had heard otherwise.
Ten minutes later everyone was gone, except for one man Simon had noticed lingering at the back of the crowd, and who was now talking to Kyra. Tall and handsome, with straw-colored hair and pale amber eyes, he couldn’t have been more enthralled if Cleopatra herself had suddenly emerged from the hereafter.
“Simon.” Kyra motioned him over. “This is the gentleman mother was telling us about. James Atherton. Mr. Atherton, say hello to Simon Leonidovich.”
Atherton extended his hand, his smile open and friendly. “My pleasure. Kyra tells me you’re the man who saved her bacon in Ecuador.” Though he was casually dressed in lightweight designer jeans and a linen sport coat over a crisp blue oxford shirt, open at the collar, everything fit like a fine leather glove.
“Not really,” Simon answered. “I was only part of t
he team.” He gave Kyra an admonishing glance—she knew how he hated that hero crap—and tried to change the subject. “So you’re our go-to guy with this trade-agreement thing.”
Atherton glanced around, as if he expected a reporter to suddenly burst out from beneath one of the tables, microphone in hand. “From now on, it might be better if we referred to it as—” He lowered his voice. “—the grand opening.” His tone was polite and without disapproval. “Just to be on the safe side.”
“Good idea,” Kyra said, apparently charmed by the man’s gracious manner. “We can’t be too careful.”
Simon nodded, trying to suppress a sudden and surprising twinge of jealousy. “But isn’t your being here a risk? If I know reporters, they were checking out everyone in the room, asking about their connection to Jake.”
“Excellent point. And you’re right, that’s exactly what they did. It’s a relief to know I’ll be working with someone who understands these things.”
The man was a true politician, Simon thought, handing out compliments and avoiding answers. “So, how did you explain your presence here?”
“I told them the truth. That I was hired by Jake to help with any bureaucratic hurdles that may arise. It’s a job I’ve performed for many foreign corporations wishing to do business here in the SAR. That’s one of the reasons the SD retained my services.” He looked at Kyra and smiled, a thousand-watt beamer. “It’s not only the truth, it’s an excellent cover that gives me an excuse to stay on top of things.”
The way he looked at Kyra, Simon could only imagine what things Atherton wanted to get on top of. “I didn’t realize that’s what you did.”
Atherton nodded. “That’s it exactly. Most of my clients are international companies expanding into the East. I help open doors.”
Kyra stared up at the man, her eyes full of interest. “I’m sure you’re very good at it.”
Atherton smiled, the impish grin of a college jock who had just made points with the hottest cheerleader on campus. “I try.”
Trying, Simon thought, to impress the heiress to an empire. An effort that appeared to be working. “So, about this…this grand opening. Anything we need to know? Any problems?”