China Dolls

by Rob Wood

  “You see what you learn at Annapolis!” laughed Bill.

  “I repeat,” said Purdy wagging his finger mock-seriously. “You haven’t lived until you’ve had Lake Erie perch filets.”

  “Or your mother’s pies, I bet,” smiled Cochrane. “ She’s been so nice. You guys are lucky that anyone that sweet can also cook. “

  Mrs. Purdy walked up to them, wiping her hands on her apron and beaming. She gave Cody a hug. “Now I cook. When they were growing up and I was working, it was pretty much mac and cheese as a steady diet.”

  “Well, I didn’t have my boat then,” shrugged Tom. “It’s only natural.”

  “Come set those salads down, Honey,” said Mrs. Purdy. “You can help me put out the table settings and the ice tea. You boys do whatever it is you have to do with those filets, and think about what we’re going to do after dinner. Are we going to play horseshoes or canasta….or are you just going to tell whoppers about Lake Erie fishing?”

  68

  BLIP ON THE RADAR

  “What’s this?” Jovanovich eyed the folder being pushed toward him with suspicion. “Another of your sub-rosa agenda items?”

  “It’s a joint Justice and State brief on transnational crime in Asia,” said Izquidero. “Care to guess where the epicenter of crime is?

  “We’ve always said it’s Macau.”

  “Bingo. Trafficking in drugs and arms, prostitution, extortion, loan-sharking, money laundering and counterfeiting. A big organized crime presence.”

  “Yeah, Macau hit the criminal trifecta,” growled Jovanovich. “But how is that a Navy problem?”

  “Well, State wants to take a stand on humanitarian concerns. Commerce wants the world safe for American business, and Treasury sees the money laundering and counterfeiting as a financial attack—a big security risk.”

  “War has changed since I was a boy.”

  “Yeah, there are a lot of problems,” Izquidero sighed, paused, and looked Jovanovich in the eye. “But you may view this as an opportunity, once I’m done.”

  “Bring on the good news.”

  Carla opened the file and removed a photograph of a distinguished Chinese, with a crop of white hair, and a suit that said ‘Better than Saville Row.”

  “Meet Billy Hong. Hong is a powerful film producer in Hong Kong. He is chairman of Five Dynasties Group, with interests ranging among property development, jewelry and accessories, film and records, and financial services.”

  “Good for him. What connects him to Macau?” asked Jovanovich.

  “Gaming. There are satellite casino partnerships available from the big concessionaires on the Cotai Strip. Hong’s deep into it. The fact is there are many casinos dealing with large amounts of essentially untraceable cash without adequate government oversight.”

  “Break it down for me.”

  “The satellite partner controls autonomous VIP rooms in the larger casinos where the high rollers go. The satellite managers take about 40 percent of a room’s profit, plus unregulated side bets. The revenue potential is huge. A guy like Billy Hong has taken millions of dollars out of the system.”

  “The rich get richer. Why would anyone care?”

  “Billy Hong is the son of Hong Chin, the founder of the Koi triad or organized crime family. The triads really like Macau gambling centers. You see, ordinarily there are institutional credit limits on gamblers. But when a high roller needs money—lots of money—it’s much easier to go to a triad. Then again, the high rollers are from mainland China. The law currently prohibits Macau casinos from collecting gambling debts on the mainland.”

  “Safe harbor on the mainland? That would seem to be a problem for the casinos.”

  “One solved by the triads who are obviously not constrained by the law. They’re good at collecting debts—or breaking legs. Billy Hong is not alone. Albert Yeung shows up in Macau. He has reportedly been arrested on multiple occasions and served a prison sentence for witness tampering. He has been fined 20 million Hong Kong dollars for insider dealing. He was investigated by Hong Kong’s Independent Commission Against Corruption—the ICAC—over a graft and corruption scandal in the local music industry. He owns a casino in North Korea. I could go on and on.

  “I’d like to remind you,” Izquidero continued, “that not long ago Macau had 42 murders linked to organized crime. There were automatic weapons showing up everywhere, bombs going off, assassinations, general mayhem. Most of this was orchestrated by a crime boss with the picturesque name of Broken Tooth. He was ruthless. Eventually he went down—jailed for loan-sharking and illegal gambling. But now there are new bosses—the Hongs and Yeungs and their ilk. And they’re even more dangerous.”

  Jovanovich shook his head. “Why are you talking to me? Sounds like Interpol is your best bet.”

  “All these people, at least those who specialize in the property and entertainment industries, have, one time or another, been seen in the company of Lily Zhang. And now she shows up in Macau herself.”

  “At last!” Jovanovich sat bolt upright. “A blip on the radar screen.”

  “I thought you’d be interested,” said Carla.

  “Are you worried that she’s one of them?” Jovanovich searched the face of his colleague. “In league with Hong, for instance?”

  “I’m not worried about that. I’m worried about Lily Zhang disappearing on us before we can make use of her. There are those in Langley who still don’t trust her and want her out of the picture. Frankly, if she went missing now, I wouldn’t know whom to blame—Langley, the Chinese government, or triad organized crime. And now is not a good time for her to go missing. We’ve got a pro-democracy peace symbol in Cheng Guangcheng being watched in Shandong by a hundred pairs of angry eyes. I want him safely out of there. Lily Zhang could do it. Someone needs to get to Zhang.”

  69

  COMING OUT PARTY

  Precisely at eleven o’clock, Raj, his swarthy good looks set off by a white tux, knocked at Lily’s door.

  “Come in,” Lily said, opening the door. “ I have a private elevator to the rooftop terrace. That’s the way to go.”

  “Okay,” returned Raj. “But should I have worn black like you? Together I’m afraid we look like a pair of saddle shoes or old audio cables.”

  “I love your honesty. I deplore your lack of tact.”

  “Just saying…”

  “This is an original LBD by Givenchy.” Lily took in the look of total incomprehension on Raj’s face. “Little black dress. Hubert de Givenchy. Does that name mean anything to you?”

  “No.”

  “Think of it as the Colt Python of couture. It has stopping power.”

  “Indeed so,” said Raj, appreciatively.

  “Besides, it’s a simple, elegant foil for my Bulgari diamonds. “

  “Is that wise?”

  “One glance and anyone should be convinced that I have the resources to do any damn thing I please.”

  “Including building a luxury hotel casino. Are you going to tell them?”

  “I’m not going to tell them much. I’m going to let them speculate. That’s what the press is for.”

  “Other people will be speculating, too. Billy Hong and Albert Yeung, for example.”

  “Good. I want to know who the players are.”

  “You call them players. I call them rivals. Has it occurred to you that you might not be universally welcomed here? Macau has seen its share of casino wars.”

  “That’s why I have you.”

  “Semper vigilans. Ever vigilant.”

  “You better be. Let’s go ‘entertain.’”

  The doors of the private elevator peeled back. Lily and Raj stepped into a blinking neon, strobe-lit world, pulsing with light and sound. A sober-looking chamber quartet sawed away furiously on violins and cellos. But it wasn’t Bach. The instruments were wired through an electronic synthesizer so that what they played emerged as the Nicki Manaj hit, “Turn Me On.” A cluster of gyrating young women dressed in flames danced
above the musicians. Spotlights threw their shadows against the wall and ceiling.

  Carts of congee and chicken feet hurtled past. Waiters in black with Dong and Miao embroidered sashes shouldered silver salvers of dewy martinis, straight up with olives and lemon peel. Ladies in brilliant gold cheongsams, slit to the thigh, circulated with trays of cigarettes.

  The four corners of the room were anchored by gigantic cypress roots, cut and polished to serve as tea tables. Banks of Pu’er tea cakes, jasmine leaves, and Silver Streak tea surrounded each tea officer brewing, whisking, and pouring tea for eager customers.

  Shouts of joy or dismay erupted from a sumptuous baccarat table in the center of the room, engineered on a lavish scale. When the gamblers caught sight of Lily, they rushed over, stretching out their fluttering hands. “Touch me. Touch me,” they begged “For luck!”

  A stout man whose belly was bursting his cummerbund saluted her, holding up a canapé like a talisman. “Lily Zhang…this is exquisite! What is it?”

  “It’s a mini po’boy,” she smiled. “Oyster and baguette.”

  “Sounds ethnic,” cummerbund said. “Tastes delicious.”

  A young man pushed his way over to her, practically panting with the effort. “I’m Johnny Po, from the Macau Closer online,” burbled the eager young man, squeezing his way close to Lily. “This is quite a party!”

  “Everyone deserves a good time,” returned Lily.

  “Not everybody invites the DICJ—the Gaming and Coordination Bureau or the executives of Macau SAR.”

  “True. Not everybody does. Don’t you think they deserve a good time? After all, they are party officials.”

  “Yeah, “ laughed Po, “but it makes it look like the rumors are true—that Zhang Enterprises is going to bankroll a new development project here. Instead of the Americans.”

  “A rumor is just an evanescent whisper—unless it sounds true.”

  “Well, is it true? I’m thinking of the chengyu expression—‘wind from an empty cave’—a rumor with no facts behind it.”

  By this time other people had crowded around. Many eager, shining faces, flushed with drink, turned toward Lily. Among them were staffers from the Post and Times.

  “It’s good to see a modern journalist who has been trained in classical idioms. However, if I commented, Macau would lose a good rumor,” Lily smiled. “Now I’m going to play at something else.” Lily swept toward the baccarat table, trailing Raj, as well as admiring or inquisitive hangers-on eddying about her.

  In the sea of people, she missed a Chinese woman in a gray tropical suit with front welt pockets and notch lapel, open over a black blouse knit as tightly as the fine dark eyebrows joined above her darting black eyes. Were it not for those eyes, which seemed to take everything in and process it quickly, efficiently and ruthlessly, the woman would have been as inconspicuous as gray floor tile in a cement factory. Instead, she was imbued with the color and the attentiveness of a shark.

  The baccarat table rose in the center of the terrace like a baroque altar. Ponderous claw-footed legs supported the felt board wrapped with mahogany and carved to resemble dragon scales. There was a slot for the dealer and his bank of chips available for purchase. There were stations for ten players, running down five to a side. Despite the extremely high table stakes, each station was occupied. The gambler who called herself the Queen of Clubs was there, as was the Dutch Fat Man, a Sydney Greenstreet knock-off in white tux and double chin. Anybody who was anybody, as they say.

  A laser-illuminated hologram quivered overhead, recording the cards drawn and the past wins and losses of player and dealer. Half a dozen gamblers, those who believed in the power of charting, furiously copied down the results, their foreheads creased with the effort to discern patterns and, so they hoped, “patterns within patterns.”

  One man with about $50,000 in chips in front of him leaned his head on the dragon-scale banquette and peered underneath his cards as he peeled up the edges, creasing them in the process. Eight or ten people stood on tip-toe around him, pressing on him, urging him on. A beautiful woman, her arm around him, leaned forward so that her breasts hung clearly visible in her low-cut gown. She was huffing, “Hoi, Hoi, Hoi!” trying to blow the high cards away. Her breasts shook with each breath.

  “What shall our starting wager be?” Lily asked absently.

  “Nothing,” Raj shot back. “Your guests are already costing us and are already having a good time.”

  “How about half a million?” Lily smiled at the casino dealer.

  “Would Miss Zhang like the shoe?” the dealer asked softly, eyes locked on hers, pleased that he had identified her and been the first to speak her name. The chatter of conversation stopped. The chartists ceased scribbling. The winners lost their audience, the losers warmed with new hope.

  The woman in gray, circling like a shark, turned her eyes toward the center of the silence, the center of the drama.

  “Yes. A half a million on the player,” Lily said. A gasp shivered round the table.

  “Other bets?” the dealer asked.

  Everyone with chips on the table pushed them to the box marked “player”

  “No bets on the banker? This is un . . .unprecedented,” stammered the dealer.

  “Let ‘em ride,” someone said. “Let ‘em ride!” chanted the crowd.

  “What’s going on? Raj whispered.

  “There are only two hands—the dealer and the player. Everyone is betting with me.”

  “Why?”

  “It would seem that I am what the marketers call ‘an opinion leader.’”

  “What if you lose?”

  “Then I will show them that losing a half million dollars on the turn of a card does not phase Lily Zhang. It’s a lesson with a moral—don’t play what you can’t pay.”

  “Have you got the fever?”

  “Temp normal. Pulse normal. BP is 120 over 80. All systems go.” Her eyes returned to the dealer. “Cards,” she said.

  The woman in gray knifed through the crowd, making for Lily Zhang with an unwavering sense of purpose.

  The dealer pushed two cards toward Lily on the lip of the card shoe. Lily took them, glanced at them, and passed them back. The dealer placed two more cards on the space marked ‘banker.’ These were a five of clubs and a seven of hearts. Lily was showing a Jack and a four.

  Raj leaned forward.

  “Face cards count zero,” Lily said.” Closest right-side digit to nine in the total sum wins. I’ve got a four presently. Banker has a sum of twelve. That score is two.”

  “Ready?” asked the dealer.

  “Cards,” said Lily.

  The final deal lay a Queen on the player and a Jack on the banker.”

  “Player wins!” said the dealer. People danced and hugged one another, shouting and pounding on the table.

  The woman in gray pushed her way through the crowd to Lily. She dug into one of the welt pockets. She removed an envelope and placed it carefully in Lily’s hand.

  “I took the jet express from Hong Kong. I got here as quick as I could,” she said.

  “What? Why?” asked Lily, giving the woman her full attention.

  “It’s from overseas and . . .”

  “And?”

  “And it’s nushu.”

  Raj took her elbow and squired her away from the baccarat table, as Lily bent her head over the envelope and its contents.

  “What is it, Lily? Is it serious?” asked Raj.

  “I hope so,” she smiled. “It’s a wedding invitation.”

  Point of Interest

  On April 22, 2012, Chen Guangcheng escaped from house arrest in Shandong Province, People’s Republic of China. He was given refuge at the United States Embassy in Beijing.

  Chen is a very high-profile civil rights figure, a storied symbol in China akin to Martin Luther King in the West. He is best known for advocating women’s rights, land rights, and the welfare of the poor.

  The circumstances of Chen’s escape are
remarkable.

  In Shandong, Chen was monitored 24 hours a day. Accounts say there were approximately 100 guards. Authorities seized his cell phone and other communication devices. Electric power was cut off to his residence. Metal sheets were fastened over the windows.

  Chen eluded guards, scaled a wall, crossed the Meng River, and made his way more than 200 miles to Beijing. Chen had a broken foot. Chen is blind.

  Within 24 hours of his escape, Chinese online censors had blocked Internet access to his name, the initials “CGC,” as well as a variety of descriptors such as “the blind man.” Yet The New York Times wrote that news of Chen’s escape “electrified China’s rights activists.”

  Eventually, Chen and his family were brought to the United States.

  THE END