by Ian Hamilton
“We’ll call you.”
Ava sat at the desk as five minutes turned into ten and then fifteen. She had no idea what they might do, but to her surprise she didn’t feel the least bit anxious. There would either be a deal or there wouldn’t be. It wasn’t going exactly the way she and Uncle had planned it, but whatever choice the Mounties made, she and Uncle would be ending this job in the next twenty-four hours.
When the call came in, she let the phone ring four times before answering. “Yes?” she said.
“We have decided we’re onside as far as Ottawa is concerned,” Valliant said.
“Good.”
“But now we need to talk to the Indonesians before making a final commitment.”
“Of course.”
“You know that it can’t be done without the Indonesians,” Torsney said.
“So we’re not making any promises,” Valliant added.
“I understand. Now, about the Indonesians — whoever speaks to them should keep in mind that at least some customs officials are being paid off by the Italians. Some central bank regulators are on the take as well, so at all costs those two groups have to be kept entirely out of the loop.”
“It won’t be anyone here speaking to them, but I will pass that information along,” Torsney said.
“Thank you.”
Half an hour later, Torsney called again. “You will be dealing with Ryan Poirier. He is our senior man at the embassy in Jakarta. He’s feeling out the Indonesians as we speak. You can expect to hear from him before the night is out.”
“Is he RCMP or Canadian Security Intelligence Service?”
“He’s the assistant commercial minister at the embassy.”
“Marc is the assistant trade commissioner at the high commission in Georgetown.”
“Ryan also wears several hats. It’s up to him if he wishes to expand on that.”
One more twist, Ava thought. First, so much for Marc Lafontaine, and now, so much for Ottawa. She couldn’t help but feel that whatever control she thought she had was slipping away as she got passed along the chain of command.
( 44 )
Ryan Poirier called her two hours later. With a name like Poirier, Ava had expected at least a hint of a French-Canadian accent, but if anything his deep, rumbling voice contained traces of a Scottish brogue.
“Well, you’ve turned my Monday evening into an adventure,” he said. “That is quite the story that Ottawa relayed. I can only hope it doesn’t turn out to be a pig in a poke.”
“I’m impressed that you think enough of it to work late on a Monday night.”
“If it’s real, it warrants the effort.”
“It’s real enough.”
“Ms. Kwong, what kind of business do you run that brings in clients like the one you have now?”
“My name is Jennie. I’m an accountant, and my partner and I have a debt-collection business.”
“This is a little different, no?”
“Not as much as you might think. At the end of the day, it’s all about getting paid. We negotiate settlements all the time in the course of our business. This one is a bit odder than most, but money is money.”
“Yes, the money does seem to be your primary motivation.”
“Do you have a problem with that?”
“Not as long as the rest of the story holds together and we can capture some bad guys.”
“Like I said, it’s all real.”
“Well, real or not, it’s going to be you and me who carry the load now — along with the Indonesians, of course,” he said.
“Does that mean you’ve struck a deal with them?”
“A tentative one. They won’t sign off completely until they have all the details about the shipment, but assuming there isn’t any dramatic change from what I’ve been told, there shouldn’t be a problem. They were more reluctant to commit to turning over as much as thirty million dollars to a third party.”
“Were?”
“They have now been persuaded.”
“Mr. Poirier, you did keep Customs out of this?”
“I spoke to a senior military officer. No one else is involved or needs to be involved.”
“So where does that leave us?”
“We need to get prepared for tomorrow night, and that starts with you telling me absolutely everything you know about the shipment.”
“The money will arrive by plane, a private jet owned by or registered to a company called Brava Italia.”
“What time?”
“I don’t know, but they will have had to file a flight plan. They’ve been arriving every Tuesday night for some time now, so we should be able to run a background check and see what’s normal.”
“Always into Surabaya?”
“Yes. They have some kind of deal with the Customs people there.”
“Just the pilot and co-pilot on board?”
“That’s what I’m told.”
“And not armed?”
“Correct.”
“What happens after it lands?”
“It’s taken to a hangar. The Italians meet it there to unload the money. They use a panel truck to transport it to the bank.”
“How many guards?”
“I’m told it’s just the two Italians. Normally my client would be there as well, but obviously he isn’t available.”
“Do these Italians have names?”
“Foti and Chorico.”
“And we should assume the Italians are carrying weapons?”
“Definitely.”
“Do they always use the same hangar?”
“I don’t know.”
“Ask your client.”
“He’s out of reach right now. He’s paranoid about getting in touch with anyone until he gets his money. I have a prearranged time to call him tomorrow night.”
“Out of reach?”
“He’s in hiding.”
“Get him out of hiding. I need him to be at the airport tomorrow night.”
“Not a chance,” Ava said.
“That represents a problem for me,” Poirier said slowly.
“Why?”
“The plan is to have a squad of Indonesian security forces there to meet the plane. They’re superbly trained professional soldiers and will be led by a captain who happens to be a friend. So it will be them and me. And if, for whatever reason, the plane doesn’t arrive, or if it arrives carrying a shipment of Italian silk scarves, or if it arrives and we end up in a gun battle with ten Italians . . . Do you understand?”
“You don’t want it all on you.”
“I don’t want any of it on me, or the Canadian government.”
“The plane will be there as described.”
“If you’re that convinced, why won’t your client agree to be there? He can confirm the amount of money it’s carrying. He can positively identify the Italians. And he has absolutely nothing to fear, given that an elite squad of Indonesian soldiers will be protecting him.”
“I’ll try to reach him.”
“Yes, please do that.”
“But I can’t promise —”
“Ms. Kwong, I want the man there.”
“I will do what I can.”
“No, you are not hearing me correctly. I want him there.”
“And I will do what I can,” Ava said.
“Okay, and while you’re doing that, I’m going to be talking to my friend the captain. Assuming your client agrees to make an appearance, his squad will fly into Surabaya tomorrow on a military plane.”
“And if I can’t reach my client?”
“Then no one will be going anywhere. We’ll wait until you can.”
“I think it’s important to move quickly.”
“That isn’t my problem.”
This man is not going to bend, Ava thought. “Mr. Poirier, given the problematic circumstances, would you be prepared to accept a substitute?”
“Who?”
“Me.”
“Are you serious
?”
“Entirely. I mean, if the sole purpose of his being there is to have someone designated accountable if things get fucked up, then what difference does it make if it’s him or me? In fact, if you think about it, it’s more logical to have me there. I’m the one who’s been in contact with the Mounties and who’s passed along all the information they and you have.”
“I’m almost glad to hear you say that.”
“Why?”
“It gives me more faith that what you’ve been telling us may indeed be true.”
“I didn’t realize you doubted me.”
“You aren’t naive enough to think that I didn’t.”
“True . . . Now, how about my offer?”
“Are you guaranteeing I will see either you or your client tomorrow in Surabaya?”
“I am.”
“I have a strong feeling, Ms. Kwong, that it’s going to be you.”
“That won’t be such a bad thing,” she said.
( 45 )
It wasn’t until she was in line at passport control at HKIA that she felt a stab of doubt about her Hong Kong–issued Jennie Kwong passport. She had renewed it without any bother two years before but hadn’t used it in more than a year, and she had never used it to enter or leave Hong Kong. This time she had no choice. Ryan Poirier had her flight schedule, and she wasn’t taking any chances that he would check the manifest and not find Jennie Kwong on it.
There were twenty people ahead of her but the line moved quickly, the customs officer barely glancing up as he scanned passport bar codes and stamped documents. When it was her turn, he looked at the passport photo and then stared at her. She felt discomfort but held his gaze. Five minutes later she had cleared security and was walking to the Cathay Pacific business-class lounge. As she neared it, her phone rang and she saw Uncle’s number. She let it ring out. He was worrying, and she had enough worries of her own.
She had called Uncle late the night before to tell him the Canadians had bought into their deal and that the Indonesian government was willing to take the lead role. Their conversation went well enough until she told him she had decided to fly to Surabaya the next morning. She did not mention Ryan Poirier’s demand.
“I do not think you should go,” he said instantly.
“We have money coming in on that plane. Someone from our end needs to make sure it’s counted properly and signed for. A few days from now, when the Canadians have their information, I don’t want to get into arguments about how much money actually arrived and how much we’re to receive.”
“I would rather trust them than have you go back there.”
“Uncle, I also feel I have an obligation. I’ve initiated this entire series of events. The Canadian government on two levels has responded in a supportive and responsible way. I feel that the least I can do is be there.”
“And if the plane does not arrive?”
“Or if it arrives and is full of Italian silk scarves . . . ? Well, I’ll look stupid.”
“Or worse.”
“Uncle, I wouldn’t feel right doing this any other way.”
“The other side — the Indonesians and the Canadians — they are all right with it?”
“Yes. They didn’t think it was necessary, but I persisted.”
“I wish you had not.”
“I did and I’m going. I’ve booked a morning flight out on Cathay Pacific and a return flight early the following morning. I intend to be on both.”
“I am going to send Perkasa.”
“Uncle, please. He has no role in this now. His presence will only raise questions that none of us want to answer.”
“You need to keep in touch with me. If things go badly and the Indonesians become difficult, then we will need him. He has contacts that reach deep into that government.”
“I’ll keep in touch.”
Uncle paused. “There is, I admit, one good thing about your being there.”
“And that is?”
“You will know for sure that they get the Italians.”
“Yes, I thought of that too,” she said.
It was just past ten o’clock when she reached the lounge. She found a Balzac chair off by itself in a corner and phoned Ryan Poirier. “It’s Jennie Kwong. I’m at the airport in Hong Kong. My flight is on time.”
“Thanks for the update. I leave Jakarta at noon. Our Indonesian friends left an hour ago. Overall, it’s been a good morning.”
“How so?”
“We ran a very discreet check on your Italians, Foti and Chorico.”
“Who is ‘we’?” Ava interrupted.
“My local very official and close-mouthed contacts. According to them, the two men arrived in Indonesia about six years ago, so your banker’s timeline is credible. They’ve been renewing visas every six months since then. They list Reggio di Calabria as home.”
“Why would they do that?”
“I guess they figured no one in Indonesia would see any significance in it.”
“True enough, until now.”
“And then we nailed down your Brava Italia jet. It’s been going back and forth between Surabaya and various European airports for about the same time, infrequently at first — I guess they were trying to make sure there weren’t any flaws in their system — and then gradually increasing. In the past few months they’ve been landing once a week, on Tuesdays, as you said.”
“What times does it land?” she said, annoyed that Poirier was making it seem as if nothing she had said the night before could be trusted.
“Anywhere between seven and nine.”
“Is there a flight plan registered for tonight?”
“Not yet.”
“Shouldn’t there be?”
“Yes, but the Indonesians aren’t fussed about it yet. Surabaya isn’t exactly a hub for private jets, so incoming flights don’t have to reserve landing times quite so far ahead.”
“Do they use the same hangar every time?”
“Evidently they do, according to our sources.”
“Mr. Poirier, I know you said your inquiries were discreet. Are you sure your sources are?”
“I trust the man I’m dealing with. There’s nothing else you need to know or be concerned about.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Our associates will be staying in a barracks close to the airport until we have some indication when the plane will land. When I get in, I’m going to join them there. You should call me after you arrive and have cleared Customs and Immigration.”
“Fine.”
“Jennie, in case I didn’t make it clear — I probably seemed less than ebullient about your coming here — I just want you to know that I think you’re doing exactly the right thing.”
You mean exactly the only thing, Ava thought. “Thanks for that. I’ll see you sometime this afternoon,” she said.
She rested her head against the back of the chair and opened the email on her iPhone. Maria had written, When will you be home? and nothing else. It filled Ava with guilt. She didn’t reply.
Her mother had also written. Her message heading was “BITCH.” Theresa Ng called me again tonight, and this time all she did was complain about the way you work, and then she suggested that maybe you weren’t working on the case at all. She said she thinks you might have pretended to take it on to get me off your back. She says we have put her in a difficult position with all of the Vietnamese. I don’t know where you are with the job, but wherever it is, feel free to stop. I’m sorry I involved you. I will never ask you to do anything like this again. Love, Mummy
A bit late for that, Ava thought, not answering that email either.
She went to the newspaper rack and came back with the Wall Street Journal and the South China Morning Post. She tried to lose herself in the economic death spiral of Europe, managing to pass enough time that the announcement to go to the gate came before she reached the editorial page in the Post. She left the lounge carrying her bag. In it she had her computer, her phone,
a small toilet kit, and one change of clothes that she hoped she wouldn’t have to use. She had no idea how long it would take from the time they seized the plane to counting the money that would be on it. Hours, she presumed. If it went on long enough, she could forego a hotel, staying at the airport to catch her plane back to Hong Kong.
The CX flight was already boarding when she got to the gate: a long line of Bali-bound tourists waiting to board the economy section. There was no one in line for business class, and Ava was swiftly ushered to her seat. As she settled into it, the realization that she was actually returning to Surabaya took hold. I hope this isn’t a mistake, she thought. Please don’t let this be a mistake.
She searched the in-flight entertainment list to find something that would distract her. She was hoping to find a Gong Li film but saw there was a Maggie Cheung movie. Cheung was her mother’s favourite actress. And as with Anita Mui, her mother’s favourite Cantonese singer, Jennie bore a physical resemblance to her — lean and languid, with a long face and large eyes filled with emotion. Maggie Cheung Man Yuk had Shanghai roots like Jennie, and she spoke English, Mandarin, Cantonese, Shanghainese, and French with almost equal ease. She was a great actress, a star of close to seventy films, with a particular ability to convey vulnerability and heartbreak. Even if there hadn’t been a physical resemblance, Ava now wondered if her mother would still have identified with Man Yuk because her movie loves were often unrequited.
Ava started to watch a film in which Cheung played a drug addict in an unstoppable downward spiral, but the futility was too sad to bear. In its place she found a replay of that year’s Miss Hong Kong contest. The final group of contestants included a woman from Vancouver and another from Toronto. The woman from Toronto played the cello; Ava rooted for her even though she had no idea how well she was actually playing.
The plane landed five minutes early, but the extra time was immediately swallowed up by a long line of arrivals waiting to buy visas. Ava got in behind some Australians who, thankfully, were so merry that the thirty-minute wait passed quite quickly. At quarter to four she cleared Customs, bypassed Baggage Claim, and walked into the main terminal.
She turned on her phone and called Poirier. His cell rang four times and then went dead. Shit, she thought. She was about to redial when her phone sounded.