The Gaze of Caprice (The Caprice Trilogy Book 1)

by Cole Reid

  Mr. Li went upstairs to his room, dropped his shoulder bag and threw water on his face. He proceeded downstairs to the second floor and the hotel’s business center. He spent four hours on the Internet doing research. Maps. Graphs. Structures. Timetables. Ownership titles. Corporations. Separately, they were random scraps of public information. Mr. Li put the scraps together in his head. He printed out the information fitting it all together. But it was still scattered scraps printed on A4 paper. The scrapbook was in his mind. The next morning Mr. Li treated himself to the hotel’s buffet breakfast. With a full stomach and clearer picture in his head. He went to the hotel concierge to arrange a taxi. His jacket covered everything except for his hands. He covered his hands by hiding them in his pockets. The rest was still available to see despite his jacket. He didn’t spray his arms with polymer spray as was his habit. He wanted to be known as he once was. He gave the taxi driver an address that was known to most taxi drivers. He didn’t have to repeat himself. The drive took twenty-seven minutes door-to-door.

  • • •

  The Wesley Hong Kong was in Kowloon, so Mr. Li didn’t waste time crossing the harbor bridge. And he didn’t waste time with the doorman. He put cash in the doorman’s hand and pushed through the front door on his own. The Wesley had remained unchanged since Mr. Li’s first visit. But it had been updated. The classic interior and design was the same as always. The difference was the clientele. There were more Mainland Chinese members than before. And everyone was attached to a wireless device. Tablet. Smartphone. PDA. The Wesley prided itself on uninterrupted wireless Internet connection everywhere. Local circulation newspapers were delivered six days a week. But they were read only by the long-tenured members and only out of habit. So much information was available online. Mr. Li walked up the rug-covered main staircase and turned left. He walked boldly through the wooden doors of the second-floor restaurant and kept going. If he was spoken to, he didn’t notice. He walked with his bag over his shoulder. He was eyed by wait staff but looked as if in a hurry. They left him alone and without hospitality. Hospitality took too much time. Mr. Li paused in the middle of the restaurant and looked around. He drew considerably less attention than his first visit to the club. He wasn’t breaking any rules. He was a child the first time. A grown man could pass through The Wesley unscathed. Dress was unimportant. Members of the club were in various stages of dress or undress. There were racket ball and tennis courts and a half-sized pool. Few members came formally dressed since the 80s. Ideas had changed. Being a club member was well-dressed enough. As new money became old money, the desire to show off waned. Only the nouveau riche had something to prove. Mr. Li’s jacket and pants fit in more than he knew. He headed to the back patio. Walking toward the patio he saw something that hadn’t changed. Senior members of the Moon Dragons still reserved the back table under the glass canopy.

  Mr. Li reached in his bag and pulled out the gift-wrapped gin. He stood in the doorway leading to the patio. An old man looked up at him then looked at him. The look was long enough to be a study. The old man studied Mr. Li like a guilty man studying his accuser. He looked as if he had something to lose. Mr. Li stood like he was waiting for permission. The old man gave Mr. Li a nod. Mr. Li. nodded back, still waiting. The old man motioned to the other two men at his table. The other two men looked toward Mr. Li. They seemed to recognize him as well. The two men stood up and walked toward Mr. Li. One of the men was big and stocky. The other was slim. Both took time to shake Mr. Li’s hand before walking out leaving the old man at the table.

  Mr. Li walked over to the table and extended his hand to the old man. The old man shook hands with Mr. Li. Mr. Li slid the gift-wrapped gin across the table toward the old man.

  “I remember so much about you,” said the old man. Mr. Li pointed to the box of gin.

  “The first thing I remember about you,” said Mr. Li. The old man started opening the box. He tore the paper off and lifted the lid. Looking at the bottle of gin made the old man smile. He gave Mr. Li a grin.

  “Your memory is quite good I’d say,” said the old man, “You were real young then.”

  “You teach lessons that stick,” said Mr. Li.

  “That was the point,” said the old man.

  “Point taken,” said Mr. Li.

  “You vanished,” said the old man, “We thought you were dead.”

  “When you first met me what did you think?” asked Mr. Li.

  “I thought you were different,” said the old man, “That’s why we chose you. You were special.”

  “I’ve learned something,” said Mr. Li, “Death waits when he wants to. He’s a curious bastard. Sometimes he gets a feeling about you and he waits. He wants to know what he’s getting when he gets it.”

  “That I can understand,” said the old man, “We did the same. We had to know what we were getting with you as well. If we left you with the others, we would never have known.” Mr. Li looked off to the side.

  “Let’s enjoy this now,” said the old man, holding up two fingers and the bottle as the waiter walked by.

  “How are things?” asked Mr. Li.

  “In Hong Kong?” asked the old man.

  “In general,” said Mr. Li.

  “Well if you knew where to find us, I suppose you know much about us still,” said the old man.

  “I know that you are Dragon Head,” said Mr. Li.

  “Please don’t call me that,” said the old man.

  “What should I call you?” asked Mr. Li.

  “Uncle,” said the old man, “Like they did Martin.”

  “Uncle,” said Mr. Li.

  “You don’t still let them call you Gui do you?” asked the old man.

  “It’s been a long time since anyone has called me that,” said Mr. Li.

  “And what do they call you now?” asked the old man.

  “Mr. Li,” said Mr. Li. The waiter brought two glasses. The old man poured a half measure of gin for both of them.

  “Just a taste to give you the courage to tell me why you’re really here,” said the old man.

  “You’ve asked very few questions,” said Mr. Li.

  “So much doesn’t matter anymore,” said the old man, “I could ask where you’ve been but that would make it seem like we needed you. We operate our hotels and have a few investments. It’s all reported. No one’s after me or my job. Some kid studying accounting at the university can do my job better than me. There’s no respect anymore, just numbers and ledgers and dividends. I had never heard so much of these things and now I’m always hearing about them. Life of a smuggler was simple in comparison. I’m a seaman. That’s me.” The old man took a sip of gin.

  “Gordon’s has always been the best,” said the old man, “Always will be.”

  “Are any of the Sheltered Ones still around?” asked Mr. Li.

  “I told you to call me Uncle,” said the old man.

  “Uncle, are any of the Sheltered Ones still around?” asked Mr. Li. The old man kept his left hand on his gin glass and held up his right hand extending five fingers.

  “Which ones?” asked Mr. Li.

  “Wang Xi, Yi Le, Li Tao, Huang Sitian and Liu Ping,” said the old man.

  “That will work,” said Mr. Li.

  “Work for what?” asked the old man.

  “I need you to pull an old trick,” said Mr. Li.

  “I’m old,” said the old man, “So what’s the trick?”

  “I need you to put those five on a plane to Los Angeles,” said Mr. Li, “And some things on a boat.”

  “What things on a boat?” asked the old man. Mr. Li slid a sheet of paper across the table. The old man took a look.

  “These things are very difficult to come by in New Hong Kong,” said the old man, “Things aren’t like they once were. It’s difficult to move things that are prohibited.”

  “That’s the trick,” said Mr. Li. “I’m not saying these things have to enter Hong Kong just that they need to arrive in Los Angeles and I will
collect them before the container is checked. You can use one of your legitimate businesses to order the shipment. I’ll make sure your business stays legitimate.” Mr. Li slid another piece of paper across the table.

  “What’s this?” asked the old man.

  “The name and address of the company you’re shipping to,” said Mr. Li.

  “You know anyone at this company?” asked the old man.

  “Only the company matters,” said Mr. Li.

  “Why?” asked the old man.

  “Because that’s the company you ship to, when you want to clear customs without inspection,” said Mr. Li.

  “I can ship all these things to this company in America with no problems,” said the old man. Mr. Li nodded.

  “How do you know of this?” asked the old man.

  “I’ve been away a long time,” said Mr. Li.

  “How do we pay for all this?” asked the old man. Mr. Li handed the old man a third piece of paper.

  “Is that the right number?” asked Mr. Li, “The account you order through.”

  “I can’t be sure,” said the old man.

  “Be sure,” said Mr. Li, “You’ll see $800,000 posted to that account today, if it’s not already there. The transfer was made last night. Enough will be left over for your consideration after the arrangements. It’s my thank you.”

  “Five plane tickets and these items on the list,” said the old man, “I should thank you. About half of the money will be left over.”

  “When do you need them to arrive in Los Angeles?” asked the old man.

  “I need the equipment two weeks from today,” said Mr. Li, “The boys should arrive that same week.”

  “To Los Angeles?” asked the old man. Mr. Li nodded.

  “That’s a tight schedule,” said the old man.

  “I wouldn’t be here if you couldn’t make it,” said Mr. Li.

  “Neither would I,” said the old man. He poured some more gin into Mr. Li’s glass before being generous to himself in the same regard.

  “Let’s drink,” said the old man.

  “To what?” asked Mr. Li.

  “To privileges,” said the old man, “To the last of their kind.” Mr. Li pinged the old man’s glass and took a hard swallow of gin.

  “Interesting toast,” said Mr. Li, “Interesting topic.”

  “Is it?” asked the old man, “You are the last of your kind, making me privileged to be here with you.” The old man took another swallow of gin.

  “You do realize the old ways are gone. Permanently,” said the old man, “The family is not coming back. It’s simply outdated. The force you brought was an inevitable one. Even Deni saw it coming, he just didn’t know who or how. Gone are the Dragons of Hong Kong and gone are their traditions. Which means I’m now drinking with the last Jade Soldier.” The impact of the old man’s words hit Mr. Li and scattered throughout the atmosphere. The space began to change and become absorbing. Mr. Li felt himself being sucked into a different dimension, one that existed in the same space but a different room.

  Chapter Fifteen A Different Room

  The room was as much a secret as it wasn’t. Almost everyone who passed through CIA halls at Langley had the same idea. There must be a room. A room no one was ever rebuked for asking about because no one knew enough to ask. A room most would never visit. A room full of men. A relic of the agency’s misogynist past.

  • • •

  During the 60’s, the name The Stew was given by an employee at Langley to describe what he thought went on in the Room. He imagined the atmosphere remained heated. That issues were constantly stirred. And the final decision was a mixture of ideas. Most of all, he felt decisions in the room took a long time to make. His idea of the room reminded him of his mother’s stew. This idea caught on and The Stew was stuck on the minds and lips of Langley staffers for the better part of a decade. The trendiness of the 70’s updated the nickname to The Soup, which lasted about half as long as its predecessor. Before the onset of the 80’s, The Soup didn’t match any current political trend and the Watergate scandal wiped everything else from front pages of Washington. Although unidentified, many at Langley were fascinated with Deep Throat, a shadow behind an empire. Deep Throat was the figure who met two sympathetic journalists in garages at late hours to spiel about President Nixon. Deep Throat was a legend at Langley because he was as much one of them as the myth would suggest. Deep Throat was a well-trained civilian informant as so many Langley staffers imagined themselves to be. Although he would turn out to be an Associate Director at the FBI, Deep Throat’s sketch as a well-trained civilian informant was accurate.

  It was decided that Deep Throat had the inside scoop. It followed that those with access to the Room also had the scoop. The two terms being mutually inclusive lead to The Soup being dubbed The Scoop. Not long after The Scoop became an unofficial designation for the Room it was decided that The Scoop did not accurately represent the scale of what went on in the Room. Some letters and meaning were replaced by The Scope. The Scope was an adequate name for the Room and lasted adequately long. In the mid 90’s, a senior staffer played the name game after hearing about The Scope. His long tenure did not lead him to more knowledge about the Room, but he was more familiar with what got digested in the bowels at Langley. This staffer was senior-enough to be more practical and more cynical. He imagined a more sinister use for the Room. He was old enough to remember the name The Stew. He was quite sure the men who had a seat in the Room spent much time stewing. Like so many things for so many years, he was sure the Room was where managers at Langley went to make a decision and wash their hands of it. But the Room served its purpose—it was there.

  The Room was different than what was imagined. The Room did not have the modern updates that most staffers assumed. The Room was not decorated. It was not comfortable. It was not livable. The Room was old, simple and subtle. The Room had the faintest smell of must from carpet that had been worn but not changed. The Room had no knowledge of the world outside. No windows. No servers. No computers. No connects. The Room wasn’t on the top floor. It was in the basement. The Room had remained practically unchanged for fifty years. The same topaz colored paint covered the stacked cinder block walls. The same blue and gray checkered carpet was glued to the floor. The Room was masculine and willing to reveal its age. It made no attempts to hide a design from a once cash-strapped agency. The one splurge was fifteen and one-half feet of solid cherry wood. Polished. The edges of the table were sharp. The wood deflected but didn’t reflect light. It wasn’t a mirror. It wasn’t for looking at. The table like the room didn’t take compliments. The cherry wood slab rested on four cherry wood pods that resembled the legs of a lion weighing on the poured cement floor. The Room was lit by eight rectangles, soaking everything in the whitest of artificial light. The light in the Room was so acidic it wiped and smeared all other senses. Most of the Room’s participants fell deaf after long discussions. Before long, they no longer felt it necessary to listen at all because they could see everything, even the pores and wrinkles of each other’s skin. It all became too much to look at before long. The light was so macho it had to pick on everything in the Room. After a while, the light—like other bullies—became a problem. The Room was occupied by officials but nothing official-looking occupied the room. The walls boasted no pictures. No paintings. No prints. Nothing framed or unframed hung on the walls. Blue paint flaked and revealed a beige undercoating.

  • • •

  Georgia sat in the Room. She was the Mona Lisa. Her face was a feminine charm and a masculine beauty. Her eyes dominated. They were large chunks of amber that stared with daggers behind them. When her eyes were fixed they locked. They interrogated. They were big and encapsulating, like two fiery planets—hot and incubating. To avoid their gaze, most followed the trail created by her long left-leaning nose. There was a noticeable bump in her nose. The foundation had once been broken. Georgia was an infecting beauty in her gloried days. The Agency found her
looks useful. A different technology. So many micro devices couldn’t collect as valuable information as Georgia’s eyes forced out. She would drop her voice half an octave and her eyes would lock. Men felt a masculine challenge in her eyes. The challenge had proved too much once. He broke her nose. She looked in the mirror and saw blood coming out of her nostrils. She felt like her sinuses were congested. Yet the damage was minimal. She would still be sexy over twenty-five years later. And she was.

  Georgia’s lips were small and the top was noticeably smaller than the bottom. They formed a comfortable contact. Her face was narrow; her chin was narrower. Her neck was slightly thick and her throat protruded out like something caught under a tablecloth. It was either a man’s neck sculpted by a woman or a woman’s neck sculpted by a man. Her skin was tan; even without sun it stayed dark. She could easily be mistaken for Italian or Greek. She wasn’t. Her parents were English. They left a bombed-out London in early 1946 and settled in Virginia. Her father worked for a glass manufacturer; her mother worked in a kindergarten. Their son—Henry—was born in 1949. Georgia Noya Standing came along in 1952. Her hair for the past ten years went from sprinkled with gray to bathed in it. Nowadays she was usually the oldest woman in the room and the most sensual. She could create a sensation from across the Room. And the Room was small. She sat like a queen bee with six drones. Drones were only good for one thing.

  • • •

  “We’re going to have to take turns making this stuff,” said a slightly gravel voice, Edward.

  “More like take turns pouring it,” said the sarcastic, Philip. The more hot coffee hit cups the more warm bodies took their seats.