Dark Ambition

by Allan Topol

  Ann opened the door and watched them walk down the steps and head up the street. With a lump in her throat, she saw the police cruiser pull in behind them. She followed them with her eyes until they were out of sight. Suddenly the phone rang.

  Nervously, she picked it up. It was only Ben calling to say they had arrived in London. When he asked about Amy, she reassured him that everything was all right. It was obvious to her that he didn't want to talk over the phone about what they'd been doing. Ann detected a trace of fear in his voice. It made her even more anxious about Amy.

  * * *

  "That's the last Peg Barton in the London directory," Ben said as he put the phone down dejectedly. "Are you sure that was the name the Chinese ambassador used in the tape?"

  They were sitting in the living room of a two-bedroom suite at Claridge's in London. Ben had spent the last half hour in an unsuccessful attempt to locate Peg Barton. Outside it was dark already.

  "You heard the tape, too," Jennifer said, irritable because she was tired. "The London madam's name was Peg Barton."

  "So what do we do now?"

  "I've told you three times that you're going about it the wrong way, but you're so damn stubborn, you won't listen to me. We're not trying to find a dentist. We're trying to locate somebody who runs an illegal call-girl operation."

  He wasn't exactly brimming with patience himself. "We can't go to the British police, because we don't want word to leak back to Washington."

  "I don't want to go to the police."

  "So what do you want to do, genius?"

  "Stick with me and you'll find out."

  Jennifer led the way to the elevator, with Ben following two steps behind, sulking because she hadn't told him what was up.

  On the lobby floor, she headed for the cocktail lounge and sat down at the end of the bar. Ben moved in next to her, separated by four empty chairs from the nearest patron. With a clang, Jennifer placed her room key on the polished wooden bar so the bartender would know they were staying at the hotel.

  "What'll you have?" he asked, coming over.

  "Pimm's cup," Jennifer replied.

  "The same for me," Ben said.

  The bartender brought their drinks. With only a handful of people in the lounge, he wasn't busy, and he lingered near the Americans.

  "You over here on holiday?"

  "Business," Jennifer replied. "We're with a New York investment banking firm. We flew over today. Meetings on a deal tomorrow. Then back on Sunday."

  "Tough to make such a long trip for two days." He had a cockney accent.

  "It's a living," Jennifer said, pretending to sigh. "We'd feel better if we could have some fun tonight."

  The bartender asked, a shrewd look in his eyes, "What'd you have in mind?"

  "A girl for my friend here—and another one for me."

  The bartender raised his eyebrows. He didn't much care for the way the Yanks were taking over London, but he sure liked the way they threw around money.

  He smiled. He didn't really care, as long as he got his.

  Jennifer reached into her purse and carefully extracted a hundred-pound note. She slipped it into the bartender's hand. "A friend of mine back home told me about Peg Barton. You know how I can get hold of her?"

  He had underestimated this little lady. She knew her way around at the top end of the pleasure world. He flashed a smile of delight. She had pushed a good button. There would be more money in it for him. "What Peg arranges doesn't come cheap."

  Jennifer reached into her purse, extracted another hundred-pound note, and handed it to the bartender.

  When he didn't respond, she handed him one more and said, "We're New York investment bankers. We can pay the freight."

  He was now satisfied. "What's your room number?"

  She showed him her room key. "My name's Jennifer."

  "Be back in your room in fifteen minutes. Peg Barton will call you. You can make the arrangements for your friend, too, since he seems like the shy type."

  Ben cursed under his breath.

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later, the phone rang in the living room of their suite. It was a low, friendly voice, warm and inviting.

  "Is this Jennifer? I'm Peg Barton. I heard you wanted some company tonight."

  Jennifer glanced over at Ben and gave him a thumbs-up. "Yeah, a girl for me and one for my business associate."

  "My girls are expensive."

  "How much?"

  "Five hundred pounds for the first hour. For each one. A thousand for three hours. Two thousand for the night. That's pounds. I take major credit cards. It'll be billed as Mayfair Enterprises."

  Jennifer was ecstatic. This was going the way she had hoped. "That's okay."

  "I can have two of them at your hotel in thirty minutes."

  "We have to come to your place," Jennifer said firmly. Peg had to believe she wouldn't bend. "We can't take a chance of being seen at the hotel. Business associates of ours are staying here."

  There was a long pause.

  "The price is double at my flat."

  Jesus, that's a lot of money, Jennifer thought. She found it hard to believe people paid that much. "I can handle that. Give me your address."

  When Jennifer put the phone down, Ben gave a long, low whistle. "I'm very impressed."

  She looked at him quizzically. "Are you being a smart-ass?"

  "No, I meant it as a genuine compliment. You played your part well, Miss Moore, famous Broadway actress. Almost as good as New Orleans."

  When they had been dating, Jennifer had performed in a scene from Picnic one evening at a DOJ lawyers conference in New Orleans. Ben had been bowled over. "Well, thank you, Mr. Hartwell, distinguished prosecutor," she said, and laughed, excited at what she'd done.

  Ben was pleased. They were slipping back into their easygoing, joking partnership, just like old times. Maybe that heart-to-heart on the plane was having an effect, after all.

  * * *

  Peg Barton occupied a house on South Audley Street in Mayfair, a few blocks from the American embassy. It was a posh area. Approaching it with Jennifer, squinting in the heavy London mist, Ben counted four Rolls-Royces, three Jaguars, and a Bentley parked on the block. Either the skin trade in London was very good these days, Ben decided, or Peg Barton had inherited a bundle. The latter thought made him smile. Only in England would an heir of the landed gentry relieve the boredom by opening up a call-girl service.

  A voluptuous blonde dressed in a short black apron and nothing else opened the door for them. "Miss Barton is expecting you," she said. Then she turned and led the way to a book-lined study where Peg Barton was flipping a log on a blazing fire. She stood up slowly and turned around, taking the measure of the two of them all the while. She had ink-black hair that was closely cropped. She was wearing charcoal wool slacks and a gray cashmere sweater that disclosed a good figure. Ben's gaze leaped from Peg to the Ming dynasty vases on each side of the marble fireplace. His instinct about landed gentry might have been correct.

  "Elizabeth's waiting for you upstairs, Jennifer," Peg said. "It's one floor up and in the back. There's a bar and everything up there. Mary's across the hall waiting for your friend here."

  "What about the money?"

  Peg raised her proper British nose into the air. "Talk to the girls. I don't handle transactions."

  "Actually, it's you that I'd like," Ben said.

  She smiled softly. "Sorry, I don't work that way."

  "No, I mean we just want to talk to you."

  Peg drew back in alarm. She grabbed a small black transmitting device resting on a table next to the phone. "The police protect me well. If I punch one button, they'll be here in two minutes."

  Ben raised his hand defensively. "We want to talk about Robert Winthrop," he said.

  She abruptly put the transmitter back down on the table. Terrified, she asked, "Who are you? Who sent you?"

  Ben pulled out his wallet and flashed his DOJ identification. "We're w
ith the U.S. government," he said, "investigating Winthrop's murder."

  "I think I'd better call my solicitor."

  She started toward the phone, but Ben stopped her in her tracks. "I don't think you want to do that. If your role in this case comes out, you'll be charged with a crime and ruined. We're proposing an easy way out. Just talk to us. Nobody has to ever know what you did."

  She stared hard at Ben, trying to determine how much he knew and whether he was bluffing to get her to open up. "Suppose I don't want to talk to you?"

  Following their prearranged script, Jennifer took over. "Then an American associate of mine releases an audiotape to the American press. It's jolly interesting, as you say over here. In the tape, the Chinese ambassador in Washington, Mr. Liu, tells Secretary of State Winthrop about a video the Chinese made in his room at Claridge's when Winthrop was with two prostitutes you sent. And by the way, you're mentioned by name on that tape. It's guaranteed to make you an international celebrity."

  All of the color drained from Peg's face.

  Jennifer said, "I don't know whether you cooperated with the Chinese when they made their little movie, but it will sure look like that in the tabloids when they start to bandy your name around. I don't imagine any of that will be good for your business. It is based on discretion, I take it."

  Peg sneered at her. "Do you think I'm stupid? You don't have to draw me a picture."

  Jennifer shook her head. "No, quite the opposite. That's why we're giving you a chance to talk to us."

  Peg took a deep breath. "What do you want from me?"

  "I want to know how you got involved with Winthrop."

  Guardedly, she looked from Jennifer to Ben and back again. Stalling for time, she paused to smooth down the material in her pants. She had to give these two credit: They had played it well. She had no choice. If they went public, it would be a disaster for her business. Even worse, the illegal tape would land her in jail after the public gorged on the newspaper articles.

  "Winthrop was a referral," she said reluctantly.

  "What's that mean?" Jennifer asked.

  "A woman in New York by the name of Alexandra Hart called me. She said he was a special client of hers. She told me to take good care of him when he was in London."

  Ben took a piece of paper out of his pocket and scribbled down the name.

  "Who's Alexandra Hart?" Jennifer asked.

  "She operates an escort service in New York."

  "You have an address or a phone number?"

  She shook her head.

  "I don't believe you."

  She looked rattled. "I swear it."

  "How'd you get the money to her?"

  "Some American bloke came by and picked it up. A big guy. Fat. Dark brown hair. Greasy looking. Pimply face."

  Jennifer was in cross-examining mode, and Ben watched, admiring her. "Let's go back a little bit. How did the Chinese get to you?"

  The madam was squirming now. "Winthrop used me before on Alexandra's recommendation. The Chinese had been watching him. They picked up one of my girls after she left him at Claridge's about a month ago. She thought they were potential clients. She told them she worked for me."

  "So they came to see you, and you played ball with them?"

  She looked at Jennifer cagily. "You could say that."

  "Did you know they made a tape of Winthrop with your girls?"

  Eager to deny her involvement in this critical part, Peg jumped on the question. "I had no idea. They paid me a lot of money to use my girls. That's all I know."

  Jennifer looked her dead in the eye, weighing her words as she did with a witness on the stand. She decided that she believed Peg. "What else can you tell us?"

  "That's all. I swear. Will you keep me out of the papers?"

  "We'll do our best."

  Back out on South Audley Street, Ben said to Jennifer, "You did that very well. I think we make a good team."

  Jennifer was pleased at the compliment. "I think so, too. There's a good chance George Nesbitt got into Winthrop's house via Alexandra Hart."

  "That's exactly what's running through my mind."

  Amid the excitement, a yawn involuntarily forced itself out of Jennifer's mouth. "God, I'm bushed," she said.

  "How about a nice dinner? We earned it. Then we can get the first plane out in the morning."

  * * *

  It was late at night when the train pulled into the station at Nanping. As Chen climbed down the steps from the old rickety rail car to the platform carrying his two bags, he thought about Donovan's words: "Two soldiers will meet you at the station. They will address you as Comrade Li. You'll go with them."

  A score of other passengers exited the train at Nanping. In a matter of minutes, they scattered, leaving Chen alone on the platform, feeling vulnerable.

  What if they didn't come? What if there had been a hitch?

  While looking around, he made his way into the small station. It was deserted except for an old woman who was mopping the floor.

  Chen walked outside in front of the tumbledown wooden building. The air was damp. It reminded him of Taiwan. Waiting in front was a mud-brown truck with two soldiers from the PLA in the front. Judging from the sound of voices, there were another dozen or so in the back of the truck, which was covered by a heavy brown tarp.

  The soldier in the front who wasn't driving, a captain, climbed out and marched over to Chen. "Comrade Li," he said.

  When Chen nodded, the captain looked around. There was no one watching. Quickly, he hoisted Chen's suitcase into the back of the truck. Without saying a word, he nodded Chen in that direction. Not waiting for Chen to climb up, he picked up the duffel, then loaded Chen in. Quickly, he scrambled back to the front seat of the already moving truck.

  All talk stopped as soon as Chen sat down on one of the wooden side benches in the back of the truck. None of the soldiers glanced at him. They all looked down at their feet.

  Donovan had told Chen about this platoon. The so-called Tiananmen Square uprising hadn't been confined to Tiananmen Square or even to Beijing. Protests and riots had been widespread among students and others throughout the country. When the government had decided to use force on June fourth, it had, whenever possible, used units of troops from remote rural areas in the west, outside the cities, not wanting to require soldiers to shoot at their friends and neighbors.

  That was the goal, but it wasn't achieved throughout the country. There were some units, like this platoon from Shaoguan, which had been ordered to lead an assault with guns and clubs on the dissidents. In the years since, many soldiers had left the platoon. New ones arrived. However, the smoldering bitterness continued, passed on to new recruits, for the blood of fellow citizens they had spilled. And it had all been unnecessary. The students and their allies could have been dispelled without resorting to force. These feelings were fueled by a growing resentment against the old men who ruled with an iron fist in Beijing.

  Donovan had told Chen that Sherman had made contact with one of these soldiers when he was home on leave. He had spoken to his comrades. All were ready to support Operation Matchstick.

  Still, as Chen shivered in the back of the truck, he took the soldiers' silence to mean that they were ambivalent about what they had agreed to do.

  A few minutes into the ride, one of the soldiers nudged Chen and handed him a brown bag. Inside, there was an army uniform. "Put it on. Now," he directed.

  Chen quickly complied, stuffing his own clothes into the brown bag.

  As they rode, Chen peeked through a tear in the tarp along the side of the truck. He saw few civilian vehicles on the road, but there were several large military convoys moving toward the Strait of Taiwan. He began to doubt Sherman's prediction. War with Taiwan was imminent. As soon as this was over, he'd get back home and take Mary Ann and the children to the United States until the situation settled down.

  When the truck reached the barracks, the soldiers helped Chen climb out. One carried the suitcase. Ano
ther the duffel. Both were placed next to a cot inside the unheated, damp wooden building.

  The captain in the front of the truck said, "You'll remain here until we tell you it's time." He walked away without waiting for a response.

  Chen felt isolated and alone. If anything happened to him, Donovan and Sherman would never know. Mary Ann and his father would have no idea. He slid the bags under the cot and tried in vain to sleep.

  Chapter 24

  At two-thirty in the afternoon, a half hour before the Cleveland Park Preschool classes ended, Gwen parked her blue Impala directly across the street from the blue-and-white D.C. Metropolitan police cruiser standing half a block away from the school. Billie Clements was behind the wheel, with his window rolled down, smoking a cigarette, staring off into space, and thinking about what the hell he could do to get Joyce to change her mind about breaking up with him. In the backseat, Charlie Watts was sacked out and snoring loudly. He was counting on Billie to wake him if anything happened.

  Billie stopped daydreaming when he saw a sexy blonde get out of the blue Chevy with a map in her hand. She was wearing large white-framed sunglasses. Her raincoat was open in the front, and the first two buttons of her pink blouse were open. Jesus, what jugs, and she wasn't even wearing a bra. So long, Joyce, he thought. If this baby's lost, I'm ready to get lost with her.

  "Say, Officer, can I bother you for directions?" she asked politely.

  You can bother me for anything, he thought as he tossed the cigarette onto the street.

  "What are you looking for?"

  She placed the map in the open window and leaned over, pointing with her hand to Georgetown. "I've got to get to the Georgetown Mall shopping center on M Street."