“Tell me now,” Pansy finally said.
And I did.
“DO YOU REALLY THINK the money these people have been moving through the casino is counterfeit?” she asked when I finished.
“The early indications are that it might be, but of course it’s still too soon to be absolutely certain and there is always the possibility that we will—”
“For God’s sake, Jack, stop being such a fucking lawyer!”
I shut up and awaited developments.
“Do you think the money these people have been moving through the MGM casino is counterfeit?” she asked again after a moment. “No lawyer talk. Just give me a simple yes or a no.”
“Yes.”
Pansy sighed heavily and began making a swishing sound with her feet as she slid them over the loose clay surface of the track. It made me think of a little girl playing in the sand.
“How much have they put into circulation through us?” she asked in a voice so soft I had to strain to hear it.
“I don’t know. Tens of millions certainly. Maybe a lot more.”
“So what you’re telling me is this. The MGM casino has put fifty or even a hundred million dollars of counterfeit currency into the international banking system for the government of North Korea.”
“Yes. But it was entirely unwitting, and nobody is going to blame—”
Pansy cut me off with a laugh, although there was no humor in the sound.
“Come on, Jack? Do you seriously think anyone is going to believe I wasn’t involved somehow? I can see the headline now. Chinese Triads Use MGM Macau to Launder North Korea Counterfeit Money. I’m finished. I am absolutely fucking finished.”
“No, you’re not.”
Pansy stopped walking and looked at me. There was something in her eyes that I liked.
“What do you mean? Have you got some kind of plan you haven’t told me about?”
I didn’t, of course, but there was no way I could stand there and look into Pansy eyes and snuff out the hope I saw.
“Stick with me,” I said. “That’s all I can say now.”
It was all I could say because I didn’t have anything else to say. I had no idea what to do now. Only I couldn’t tell Pansy that. Pansy reached out and put her hand on my arm. It felt warm and small and I wanted to protect her in the worst way. I would have to think of something. That was all there was to it.
“I want you to talk to Dr. Ho,” she said. For a moment, I wasn’t certain I had heard her right.
“Your father?”
“Yes.”
“What for?”
“He can help you.”
I didn’t see why Stanley Ho would deal with some white guy he didn’t know and who couldn’t do anything for him in return, but I didn’t think I ought to say that to Pansy so I said nothing at all.
“If you’re going to make all this go away without anyone finding out about it,” she said, “you’re going to need some help.”
Did I say that’s what I was going to do?
“Dr. Ho has the connections you’ll need.”
I’ll bet he does, was what I thought, but that wasn’t what I said.
“Connections to do what, exactly?” I asked Pansy.
“To do…”
Pansy stopped talking and looked at me. She smiled and I couldn’t help noticing that it was a very nice smile indeed.
“…whatever you might need to do to shut this down before it destroys me.”
I had no idea what to say to that, none at all, so I only nodded. Apparently that was good enough for Pansy because she grabbed my elbow and gave it a tug.
“Let’s go, Jack. We’ve got a lot to do.”
Pansy turned and began to walk back to where the car was parked. She moved so quickly and with such determination that I could barely keep up with her.
THIRTY EIGHT
STANLEY HO WAS APPARENTLY somewhere in Macau because by seven that night Pansy and I were in a helicopter headed back there, too. I called Pete before we took off to tell him what was going on. When I talked to Pete I actually pretended I knew what was going on and he was nice enough not to laugh. Pete said he and Archie would grab a ferry that night and meet me back at the suite at the MGM as quickly as they could get there.
They got there about nine. Somewhere along the way Archie had conjured up a liter-sized bottle of Bushmills Irish whiskey and the three of us sat and half watched ESPN while we talked and drank the Bushmills and waited for Pansy to call.
Finally, about eleven, she did.
“It will have to be tomorrow, Jack.”
Pansy sounded tired. I could only imagine.
“Tomorrow’s fine.”
“Do you know Clube Militar?”
I did, and I didn’t. “Is it that pink building by the park right behind the Lisboa?”
“That’s it. Meet me there at noon.”
“I thought your father doesn’t move around much anymore. I always heard that since his stroke, he—”
“He is much healthier than most people think. He comes to Macau frequently and he often goes to…well, other places, too. He finds it useful that not many people know how active he still is.”
I wondered if it would be rude for me to ask what exactly Stanley Ho was so active in, but before I could decide, Pansy ended the conversation, which was probably a good thing.
After that, Archie, Pete, and I finished the Bushmills and speculated on what it would be like to meet the King of Macau. I was more curious about what the hell good it was going to do me.
CLUBE MILITAR DE MACAU is an anachronism, even judging it by Macau’s rather generous standards of anachronism. It is a low slung, pink and white colonial building on Avenida da Praia Grande that looks like a strawberry wedding cake someone left in the rain. It was a Portuguese officers’ mess in the 1870’s, but now it is a private club that counts among its membership the political elite of Macau, if a former Portuguese colony now completely controlled by China can be said to possess a political elite.
A little before noon the next day I strolled over from the MGM. By cutting through the casino at the Wynn and through the lobby of the Lisboa, I made the walk in about fifteen minutes. When I reached the Avenida da Praia Grande, I followed a black and white mosaic tiled walkway between two whitewashed balustrades and up half a dozen stairs to a pair of well-worn wood and glass doors. I half expected to find military guards on alert inside where they would no doubt demand I produce photo identification, but I was being far too American. There were no guards inside the doors, nor anybody else for that matter. The lobby had the sleepy feel of a room that was accustomed to being completely deserted.
Not having any better idea, I wandered into the bar looking for Pansy. It was a cozy little room with subdued lighting, a walnut plank floor shined to a gloss high enough to use it as a shaving mirror, and a white-painted bar with shiny brass fittings. The bartender was spiffily dressed in a short red jacket and black trousers and he had big ears and a military short-back-and-sides haircut. I pulled out one of the high-backed stools, ordered a soda and bitters, and looked around. There wasn’t much to see since, except for the bartender and me, the room was completely empty.
I sipped at my drink and asked the bartender, “Do you know who Pansy Ho is?”
He peered cautiously at me, probably wondering if that was a trick question, so I tried again.
“I’m supposed to meet Pansy Ho here somewhere. Do you know where I might be able to find her?”
The young man wouldn’t meet my eyes. In Macau, the name Ho was magic, I knew, but there is white magic and there is black magic and sometimes it’s one and sometimes it’s the other. This time it looked like it was definitely the other.
“Never mind,” I said, letting the suddenly nervous young man off the hook. “I’ll look around.”
I dropped what I figured had to be enough money on the bar to cover my drink and a decent tip and headed back out in search of Pansy.
There was
still no one in the lobby, and the first corridor I followed further back into the building turned out to lead to the toilets. I stuck my head in the dining room, but noon was far too early for lunch in Macau and only a handful of people were scattered in there, none of whom were Pansy. I had retraced my steps to the lobby again when I noticed the brass plaque mounted above a closed pair of wooden doors. It said…
SALA DR. STANLEY HO
Of course it did.
SALA DR. STANLEY HO turned out to be an airy, high-ceilinged room with big arched windows hung with gauzy white fabric, and half a dozen wooden bladed ceiling fans turning slowly overhead. It was divided into three seating areas by large green and gold rugs arrayed across the glistening hardwood floor. Arranged on each rug were groupings of comfortable looking but undistinguished couches and chairs.
Pansy was perched on the edge of a blue and green striped chair in the grouping furthest away from me. Her back was to the door and she was facing an elderly man seated in a wheelchair who I recognized as Stanley Ho. Between us and only a few steps inside the doorway two broad shouldered Chinese men in dark suits, white shirts, and dark ties regarded me with undisguised suspicion.
Pansy must have heard the door open and close because she stood, turned toward me, and called out, “Over here, please, Jack!”
I started toward her, but one of the Chinese men took a step toward me and held up one hand, palm out. The other man made a raising gesture with both hands and, in case I didn’t get the idea, followed it with a demonstration of raising his own arms.
“Are you serious?” I asked him. His face remained impassive and he repeated the arm raising gesture again.
“I’m sorry, Jack,” Pansy said as she crossed the room toward me. “Dr. Ho is something of a traditionalist.”
“I know a lot of traditionalists, and not one of them has ever demanded a couple of goons search me before we have a conversation.”
“If you wouldn’t mind—”
“Actually, I do mind. I mind a hell of a lot.”
“Jack, please. Don’t make a scene.”
“You asking me not to make a scene?” I waved one hand at the two hard guys patiently blocking my path to Stanley Ho. “What do these guys think they’re going to find on me? A gun? Do they think I’m going to shoot your father or something?”
“It’s not personal. My father has many enemies. There is always security around him.”
Pansy stepped closer to me and lowered her voice until it was not much more than a whisper.
“Dr. Ho is an old man, Jack. He relies on routine and this is his routine. Do this for me, please.”
Are all men utterly helpless to say no to a beautiful woman?
Yes.
Do all beautiful women know that and work it for everything they can get out of it?
Uh-huh.
I lifted my arms and one of Ho’s goons stepped around and gave me a thorough frisking from behind. He spent so much time checking out my crotch that I wondered if he might be considering proposing marriage, but he didn’t. He stepped back when he was done and the second heavy waved me forward.
Pansy and I crossed the room toward Ho. I saw him studying me as I approached and I studied him right back.
Stanley Ho had to be at least ninety and he looked it. He was wearing some kind of high collared black jacket, grey slacks, and a black flat cap with a short bill. I had heard that Ho was proud of once being famed for his skill as a ballroom dancer and that he had been particularly adept at the tango. I figured that had to have been a century or two back. Now he looked like a retired cab driver.
His wheelchair was another matter altogether. It was a conveyance designed for an emperor, not a cab driver. It was motorized, of course, and the seat, back, and headrest were all thick leather cushions the color of United States currency. It looked like a first class seat on some expensive airline unaccountably detached from the plane and equipped with wheels.
Stanley watched me carefully as Pansy and I walked toward him, but he never moved. His hands were folded together in his lap as if he were preparing to say grace. His face was waxen and puffy and there were red blotches on his cheeks, but his eyes were locked onto me and he never blinked. I could only imagine the fear those eyes must have conjured up in all sorts of people over the course of Stanley’s long and active lifetime. Now they looked like two black buttons sewn onto his face.
“Please sit down, Jack.”
Pansy pointed to the chair where she had been sitting when I came in. I wondered if I should offer Stanley my hand first, but he was sitting there impassively so I settled for simply nodding to him. He didn’t bother to nod back.
“Jack, please,” Pansy repeated, nodding toward the chair again.
I sat.
“DR. HO WOULD LIKE to hear what you have discovered about the money passing through the MGM casino.”
“Haven’t you already told him all that?”
“He would like to hear it from you.”
So I took a deep breath and summarized what I knew as succinctly as I could. I told Stanley about my discovery that the excess funds moving through the MGM could be accounted for by a large number of $50 bills and €100 notes that had been exchanged for chips, and those chips promptly cashed back out for Hong Kong dollars. I told him about our identification of the smurfs and tracing one of them to the building that had been emptied out. I told him about our discovery of the money strap in one of the banker’s boxes that had been left behind, and I told him about isolating some of the $50 bills and €100 notes collected by the casino and taking them to Hong Kong to be scanned by the HSBC’s computers. Finally, I told him that the computers had identified a number of the bills as possessing anomalies, which meant they were almost certainly counterfeit.
Stanley looked at me the whole time I was talking, but no expression crossed his face. I briefly wondered if he had died of boredom.
“Dr. Ho would also like to know who you think is responsible.”
Was Stanley mute, or was there some other reason Pansy was leading me through this dog and pony show like it was being recorded for later playback? I supposed it didn’t really matter, so I didn’t ask. I just explained to Stanley about the security pictures we had collected of the smurfs and our conclusion that they were all Koreans who had probably had a bit of surgery done to make them look less Korean.
“So you are telling Dr. Ho—”
“I’m not telling him anything. Not for sure. It’s all circumstantial,” I finished, “but I think North Korea is using the MGM and probably other casinos in Macau to exchange very high quality counterfeit US dollars and euros for Hong Kong dollars. Then they’re smuggling the Hong Kong dollars out of the country.”
I wasn’t sure why I bothered, but in the interest of full disclosure I also told Stanley about Freddy, about Freddy’s promise to trade important information about what North Korea was doing in Macau for political asylum in the United States, and finally about Freddy’s kidnapping.
“I think they will either kill Freddy or try to take him out of Macau the same way they are sending out the currency,” I finished.
Ho just sat there and looked at me. He didn’t say a word. He didn’t even blink.
“HOW ARE YOU GOING to stop them?” Pansy asked.
I was so completely flabbergasted by her question that for a moment I didn’t know what to say.
“I asked if you know how you’re going to stop them, Jack.”
“Look, Pansy,” I said very quietly as soon as I regained the power of speech, “I’m not the cops. You hired me to find out where this money was coming from and who was moving it through your casino. I’ve done that and I’ve told you what I found. I’m all done here.”
“So you’re going to walk away now? What do you think the press will do to me when they find out that the MGM has laundered millions of dollars of counterfeit money for North Korea? Don’t you think all the old stories about Dr. Ho’s presumed criminal connections will be dred
ged up and they will be used to imply that I am involved somehow? They’ll ruin me, Jack!”
“Look, Pansy, I don’t see what—”
“And what about Freddy? You’re just going to let them kill him?”
“What the hell do you expect me to do?”
“I expect you to stop them. I expect you to keep that money from leaving Macau. I expect you to prevent them from killing Freddy because he’s the only one who can say that I had nothing to do with it and be believed.”
“Stop them? I don’t even know how to find them!”
Pansy leaned back in her chair, crossed her legs, and offered a very small smile. I shot a quick glance at Stanley and saw his eyes moving back and forth between us. At least the old man was still alive…
“Finding them is not a problem. Dr. Ho has friends everywhere. He will ask his friends to find them and his friends will do so. After that, we will tell you where they are and you can stop them.”
“Why can’t he do that?” I waved a hand at the old man in his wheelchair and immediately realized how silly my question sounded, so I amended it slightly. “What I mean is why can’t he get some of these same friends of his to stop them?”
“Dr. Ho cannot be seen to be involved in this. If he is, many will assume the triads are involved, too.”
No shit, Sherlock.
“He can arrange to get information to you about their location,” Pansy continued, “but that is all he can do. I’m sure you understand.”
I didn’t understand, actually, but it didn’t feel right demanding that an old man in a wheelchair do something I wasn’t willing to do myself.
“I need you, Jack. Freddy needs you. Both our lives are in your hands. We have no one else to turn to.”
I shot a glance at Stanley. I could swear I saw the sides of the old man’s mouth curl up for a second into something that approximated a grin.
THE KING OF MACAU (The Jack Shepherd International Crime Novels) Page 24