Emmanuelle shook her head.
“No, they didn’t have to,” she said. “Taking you made it real enough to make Yves Blanc cooperate. The rest is pretty straightforward. The paintings were switched while you were held captive. Afterwards, they let you go.”
“I had no idea,” Prarie said.
Emmanuelle squeezed her hand.
“Your father stole art to save your life,” Emmanuelle said. “Unfortunately, it gets worse.”
“EVERYTHING WENT UNDETECTED for about four months,” Emmanuelle said. “Then one of the paintings—the Monet—was going to be shown in a special exhibit in London. Of course, whenever that happens, the piece is inspected by both the museum and the accepting party. That’s when it was discovered to be a fake. Over the next month, every painting in the museum was inspected, which lead to the discovery of the other four fakes. A lot of people did a lot of brainstorming about what happened and came up with the theory that I just told you.”
“What did my father have to say about it?” Prarie asked.
“Nothing,” Emmanuelle said. “He wouldn’t cooperate. Neither would Yves Blanc. They both denied having any knowledge or involvement, no doubt because they had been threatened that you would be killed if they ever cooperated with the police.”
“And the 8-year-old too, I assume,” Prarie added.
“Of course,” Emmanuelle said. “They were both protecting the lives of their daughters. The museum had no alternative but to discharge both of them. That’s why your father left the museum and took a job as a taxi driver. He didn’t quit, he was fired. He was a good man. He did what he did but he also had no choice. Everyone who knows about the situation agrees that they would have done the same thing in his position. No one blames him. They didn’t want to fire him, but couldn’t keep him on for obvious reasons. Everyone at the museum was very clear in that they would never file criminal charges against him. That’s why he never got arrested.” She sighed. “Unfortunately, it might have been better if he had.”
Prarie cocked her head.
“What does that mean?”
“IT MEANS THIS,” Emmanuelle said. “Word of what happened is getting out. Now, unfortunately, there is at least one group of people, and maybe more, who know the paintings are out there in the world somewhere and are hunting for them—not to return them, but for their own personal wealth. It’s our belief that one of those groups confronted your father to try to get a lead. Your father didn’t cooperate. They shot him in the back of the head and made it look like a routine robbery.”
Prarie pictured it and shivered.
“Yves Blanc was also killed last week,” Emmanuelle said. “Did you know that?”
No.
She didn’t.
“It gets worse,” Emmanuelle said. “With your father and Yves Blanc now gone, there’s only one connection left to the original robbers, namely you. That’s why I’m seeking you out and why they will be, too.”
“But I don’t know anything,” Prarie said.
“Maybe yes, maybe no,” Emmanuelle said. “What I propose is that you and I go to Hong Kong and find out. We’ll try to get a lead based on what you know about your own kidnapping. Don’t worry about money. I’ll cover everything.”
Chapter Eight
Day Four—August 6
Thursday Morning
______________
A RAVEN-HAIRED FLIGHT ATTENDANT with white teeth sat down next to Teffinger an hour into the flight, looked into his eyes, and said, “I thought that’s what I saw. They’re two different colors. One’s blue and one’s green.”
He nodded.
“I like to wear my flaws up front,” he said. “That way no one gets surprised down the road.”
She chuckled.
“You don’t look like you have too many flaws.”
Her name turned out to be Ling Ling.
She lived in Hong Kong.
She ended up sitting next to Teffinger more than she should.
“Tell me about Hong Kong,” he said.
She gathered her thoughts and then said, “Hong Kong is a hurricane, a big powerful unstoppable hurricane, blowing at full force, all day and all night. Everything you want is there somewhere, every earthly pleasure and every earthly sin.” She cocked her head. “Personally, I like the sins better, myself.”
He smiled.
“That sounds reasonable.”
“I’ll show you Hong Kong, if you want,” she said. “I’m not talking about the buildings and the streets and the restaurants. I’m talking about the real Hong Kong, the one under the clothes.”
“Under the clothes, huh?”
She ran a finger across his hand.
“Yes, the secret Hong Kong.”
THE FLIGHT GOT IN JUST AS THE SUN BROKE over the horizon. Surprisingly, from the sky, the place actually did look like a hurricane. The eye of that hurricane, namely the sci-fi skyscrapers of Hong Kong’s central business district, sat on the north edge of Hong Kong Island, sandwiched between a mountain range to the south and the blue waters of Victoria Harbour to the north. That was the no-nonsense hunting ground of the rich and powerful, where top dollar and bottom lines ruled. Across the water to the north, a short ferry ride away, sat the bustling Kowloon district, given to shopping, hotels, apartment complexes, neon signs and crazy traffic.
Teffinger felt his pulse race.
Ling Ling gave him her number and told him to call.
“I will,” he said.
“Promise,” she said.
He hesitated and then said, “I promise.”
She ran a finger over his lips.
“Don’t break your promise, Nick Teffinger,” she said.
“I won’t.”
“Are you sure?”
He nodded.
“I have a lot of flaws, but that’s not one of them.”
They kissed, just a taste, and parted.
Outside, Teffinger stuck his head in a cab and said, “Do you know where a hotel called the Fleming is?”
A 60-year-old face grinned.
“Yeah, but I’m going to pretend like I don’t and drive around and run the meter up, if that’s okay with you.”
Teffinger grinned.
“Honesty,” he said. “I like that. What’s your name?”
“Butch.”
“Butch?”
“Right, Butch.”
“You look Chinese.”
“That’s probably because both my parents are Chinese and because I was born here.”
BUTCH TOLD TEFFINGER a few things about the lay of the land. Although he’d hear plenty of Cantonese—which was a southern Chinese dialect—almost everyone spoke English too, very good English in fact. English signs almost universally accompanied their Chinese counterparts. Lots of the locals went by a western name in addition to their formal Chinese name.
Johnny.
Lilly.
Jack.
Currency was in Hong Kong dollars (HKD), with the current exchange rate being seven-to-one. ATMs were everywhere and plastic got whipped out of wallets faster than dicks at a whore house. Bottom line—Teffinger would be able to function without much of a problem.
“What about coffee?” Teffinger asked. “Tell me there’s coffee.”
“Coffee?”
“Right.”
“No, no coffee here,” Butch said. “Coffee is not good for you. We drink mostly prune juice.”
Teffinger must have had a look on his face because Butch busted into laughter and added, “Got you.”
“Got me?”
“Right, got you.”
“So there is coffee, right? Just to be sure I’m getting this straight.”
Butch nodded.
“More than you could drink in a thousand years.”
Teffinger grunted.
“You’ve never seen me drink.”
THE FLEMING turned out to be an upscale boutique hotel near Causeway Bay just east of the business district on Hong Kong Island. Teffinge
r gave Butch a more than fair tip, checked into the cheapest room available and then headed to the Metro under a hazy humid sky to meet his contact, a detective—someone named Fan Rae Fan.
Chapter Nine
Day Four—August 6
Thursday Morning
______________
PRARIE AND EMMANUELLE landed at Hong Kong International Airport shortly before noon on Thursday and took a red taxi to the InterContinental Hotel, which was an insanely over-the-top Kowloon hotel on the north side of Victoria Harbour, literally resting on stilts over the water.
It was expensive but secure.
They checked in under Emmanuelle’s name, took the elevator to the fifteenth floor, and stepped into an opulent room furnished with Asian art, rich silks and elegant textures. The spacious bathroom was fitted with Italian marble, a sunken tub and separate shower. High-speed Internet and email access were complimentary. Emmanuelle opened the window coverings. The skyline of Hong Kong loomed large less than two kilometers across the harbour.
“Impressive,” she said.
Prarie swallowed.
“I forgot how big it is.”
The city looked the same as always, visually, but instead of feeling exciting and adventurous it now felt dangerous and foreboding.
Sinister, even.
“Are you okay?” Emmanuelle asked.
Prarie turned and said, “Yes,” but there was no conviction in her voice. “I can’t be me here,” she added. “I need to change my hair, minimum.”
“You think?”
Yeah.
She did.
They unpacked and then headed down to the spa, where Prarie gave a flamboyantly gay man in his late twenties simple instructions—“Make me look different.”
“How different?”
“Totally.”
The man studied her for ten seconds and said, “You are now in the hands of Park. Stay in the chair until we come to a complete stop.” Then he cut off eight inches of blond hair, styled what was left with rapid scissor swipes, and dyed everything black except for one white streak on the right side.
“It looks like something you’d see on the catwalk,” Emmanuelle said. “Very nice.”
“You think?”
“Definitely.”
Prarie studied it in the mirror.
“I’ve never not been blond before,” she said. “I’m going to have to get used to it.”
THEY TOOK THE STAR FERRY across Victoria Harbour, grabbed a green taxi and headed for the place where Prarie had been released after being held captive for two weeks. They ended up on a deserted road twenty kilometers southeast of the city.
“Right here,” Prarie said.
“Stop,” Emmanuelle told the cabbie. “We’re getting out.”
The man wrinkled his brow.
“Here?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
Emmanuelle looked at Prarie, who nodded, and then said, “Yes, what do we owe you?”
She paid.
The cab disappeared.
They were alone.
Nothing moved.
Not a sound came from anywhere.
“Okay, walk me through it,” Emmanuelle said. “Tell me exactly how it worked.”
“Okay, I was in the trunk the whole time,” Prarie said. “My hands were tied behind my back and there was a black hood over my head. We drove for thirty or forty minutes and ended up stopping right here. The man turned the engine off, got out, came around to the back and opened the trunk. He pulled me out and then cut the ropes off my wrists. I started to raise my hands to take the hood off but he said, No!”
“Okay.”
“I froze,” Prarie said.
“So would I.”
“Then he said, ‘I’m going to get in the car and take off. You’re going to stand here and keep the blindfold on and count to a hundred, slowly, before you take it off. I’ll be watching you in the mirror. If you take it off before you’re supposed to, I won’t have any choice but to come back. Do you understand?’”
“So, did you do it? Did you keep it on?”
“I wanted to rip it off, because I thought he was going to shoot me,” she said. “But I kept it on, just in case he was serious. At that point, all I wanted to do was live. There was no way I was going to give him an excuse to do anything. You can’t believe how I felt when he actually got in the car and took off.”
Emmanuelle nodded, understanding.
“Which way did he go?”
Prarie pointed and said, “The same way the cab just went.”
“And that’s the way he came from, right?”
Good question.
“Yes,” she said.
“How do you know?”
“Because I remember now, that he turned the car around after he took me out.”
“Okay, good.”
“I didn’t remember that until just now,” Prarie said.
“Okay, what happened next?”
“Well, I took off the hood after I got to a hundred,” Prarie said. “I looked in the direction the car had gone and couldn’t see it. It had already disappeared. I was alone. Then I started walking that way, the same way as the car.”
“What did you do with the hood?”
Prarie shrugged.
“I don’t remember.”
They searched the area and found it in the weeds, plus the rope.
Emmanuelle put them both in her purse.
“Okay, so you started walking that way, right?”
“Right.”
“Then what?”
“Eventually, I came to that gas station at the crossroads we passed about three or four kilometers back. The guy there called a cab for me. I took it back to campus, packed a bag and headed for the airport.”
“Okay.”
“That’s it,” Prarie said. “That’s all there is to it.”
THEY HEADED UP THE ROAD.
The sun beat down relentlessly through a humid haze.
“Where the hell are all the cars?” Emmanuelle asked.
“There aren’t any,” Prarie said. “Welcome to my life.”
Emmanuelle chuckled.
“Your life sucks.”
“Tell me about it.”
A kilometer passed, a hot sweaty one.
“I’d give a hundred euros for a ride right now,” Emmanuelle said.
“That’s weird that you said that,” Prarie said, “because that was the exact thing I was thinking when I was here last time, when a car came up the road going the opposite way. The guy didn’t even have the decency to stop and see if I was okay.”
“Jerk,” Emmanuelle said.
“Exactly.”
They walked for another ten minutes, not talking, dealing with the heat.
Then Emmanuelle said, “If I was a man driving out here and saw a woman walking by herself, particularly a blond foreigner, I think I’d be inclined to stop and see what was going on.”
“You’d think.”
“Maybe he didn’t stop because he already knew what was going on.”
Prarie tilted her head.
“What does that mean?”
“It means that maybe he already knew who you were because he was the one who dropped you off,” Emmanuelle said.
“I don’t see the connection.”
“Think about it,” Emmanuelle said. “If it was him, he wouldn’t stop and pretend it wasn’t him, because you’d recognize his voice. He’d just keep driving, which is exactly what he did.”
That made sense, to a point.
“But why would he double back?”
“Easy,” Emmanuelle said. “The quickest way back to where he was going was that way.”
“That doesn’t make sense. If that’s the way he wanted to go, why wouldn’t he have just gone that way to begin with?”
“Because he didn’t want you to know which way he was really headed. He didn’t want you to know that the place you were being kept was somewhere down that r
oad.”
Prarie wiped sweat off her forehead.
“The heat’s frying your brain,” she said.
Emmanuelle ignored the remark and said, “Did you get a look at him?”
“Who? The driver?”
“Right.”
“Yeah, for about a tenth of a second, from the side, while he was speeding and I was wiping sweat out of my was eyes and cursing him for not stopping.”
“Would you recognize him if you saw him?”
“Are you kidding? No way.”
“Do you remember what color the car was?”
“No.”
“Do you remember anything?”
“I remember I would have given him a hundred euros,” Prarie said. “That’s it.”
“Okay.”
“Sorry.”
Chapter Ten
Day Four—August 6
Thursday Morning
______________
KONG’S PHONE RANG THURSDAY MORNING and the voice of Jack Poon came through. Kong pulled up the image of a short underweight man who owned more of Hong Kong that any other human being, not even counting the Macau casino. Poon didn’t call often, but when he did Kong listened and listened hard, not just because of the man’s wealth and power but because he also owned Ra, which Kong managed.
“Do you know how to parachute?” Poon asked.
Parachute?
What the hell?
“I did it once,” Kong said.
“Did you live?”
“To the best of my recollection.”
Poon chuckled.
“Good. I’d like to meet with you. Do you have time?”
Kong did.
He did indeed.
A FIFTEEN-METER PREDATOR picked him up an hour later at the marina and sliced through choppy seas at a breakneck pace to Macau, sixty kilometers to the west, where a black Bentley was waiting for him. Fifteen minutes later he was in the penthouse suite of the Cotai Storm Hotel & Casino—one of several places Poon called home.
Poon slapped Kong on the arm and said, “My man Kong. Thanks for coming.”
“No problem.”
“How’s the club?”
“The club is fine. You should come down some time.”
“I will, when I can break free. Right now, I want to talk to you about something. Do you feeling like making some money?”
Dead in Hong Kong (Nick Teffinger Thriller) Page 3