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  “Ten,” she answered instantly, obviously aware she had him on the hook, and could reel him in at will. “You are familiar with the Leal Senado?”

  “The old senate building?”

  “Hai. From there you must walk.”

  He pressed the RECORD button on his smartphone. “Give me directions, I’ll find you.”

  Billie leaned forward over the white tablecloth, her whispered voice as tight as the string on a new guitar. “This isn’t like you, Jake. You’ve never paid a bribe in your life.”

  He shrugged, trying to keep it casual, nothing he couldn’t handle. “I’ve never done business in China.”

  “It’s too dangerous,” she snapped back, her voice rising, the words echoing through the dimly lit bistro. “Forget it, Jake. Please.”

  He gave her his best good ol’ boy smile, trying to dampen the fire in her eyes. “You sure do look spectacular when you’re angry, darlin’.”

  “Don’t you try and sell me with that cowboy bullshit. Don’t even try. I’m too old to buy, and too smart to believe.”

  “I mean it, Billie.” And he did. She might have acquired a few wrinkles around the eyes and mouth, but it was a face built on a magnificent superstructure of bones that didn’t depend on makeup and perfect skin. “You look as good as the day we got married.”

  She frowned in mock disgust, though her eyes sparkled with affection. “Like that’s a big whoop. We’ve only been married two years.”

  “I meant the first time.”

  “You’re so full of bullshit, I’m surprised those baby blues haven’t turned brown over the years.” She dropped her voice another notch. “What else did he say?”

  She assumed it was a man and he saw no reason to say otherwise. That would only exacerbate the problem, her thinking he was meeting some Chinese seductress in the backstreets of Macau. “That was it. The person who called was just a go-between.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  No, but he believed it. Mei-li Chiang was a political parasite; she didn’t create problems, she lived off them. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “It does matter. You’re one of the richest men in the world; you can’t start paying bribes to everyone who tries to shake you down. For all you know it’s the Triad.”

  “The Triad hasn’t operated in Macau since ’98. These are just some local yahoos trying to score a few bucks from the newest qai loh wanting to play in their sandbox.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  That was the problem with Billie, too damn smart. They both realized the accidents were too severe for a bunch of local yahoos. “Why?”

  “If this was just about money,” she answered, “they would have made a try after the escalator got trashed and before a bunch of innocent people got killed.”

  He shook his head, but that was exactly his thinking. There was something else going on, something he didn’t understand. “There’s no reason to worry, they just want to be sure nothing is being recorded. They’ll give me an amount and the number of some offshore account and I’ll be back at the hotel in less than an hour. Besides—” He glanced around, making sure no one was eavesdropping on their conversation. “—I don’t really have a choice. If these accidents continue we’ll never get the place open in time. The Alliance will fail.”

  “That’s not your problem.”

  “The President made it my problem. I gave my word.”

  “Don’t do it, Jake.” She reached out and clutched his hand, the way a person does at thirty thousand feet in bad weather. “Please, I’ve got a very bad feeling about this.”

  “I’ve got to, honey. You know I do.” He gave her fingers a reassuring squeeze. “I’ll be careful.”

  She cocked her head toward the three-man security team near the door. “At least take one of them.”

  “Can’t do it. The instructions were very specific. Private. If I don’t show up alone there’ll be another accident tomorrow, you can bet on it.”

  She released his hand and slumped back into her chair, resigned.

  Ten minutes later he was on the Avenida de Almeida Ribeiro, the main thoroughfare dividing the narrow southern peninsula from northern Macau. Despite the late hour and the rain, there was still an abundance of foot traffic, a combination of tourists and locals. Jake pulled the collar of his Gore-Tex jacket up around his neck and hunched over, trying to conceal his massive frame, but it was hopeless, like trying to hide Paul Bunyan in a land of midgets, and he gave up the effort. Guided by street names etched onto azulejos—the distinctive blue-enameled tiles of Portugal—he turned north on Rua de Camilo Pessanha, then west toward the inner harbor, moving deeper into old Macau: a maze of narrow, cobbled streets offering a colorful mixture of shops, churches, and small cafés.

  After twenty minutes of back and forth and around, he was thoroughly confused, blindly following Madame Chiang’s directions into the hodgepodge of alleyways and backstreets, away from the tourists and pedicabs. From time to time he had the feeling of being watched, eyes following his every move, but saw nothing and dismissed the apparitions as the fruit of an over-stressed imagination.

  Another few turns and he found himself in a dimly lit area of closed shops, the foggy street empty of people. Though the rain had eased to a drizzle, the humidity was thick enough to chew, and his shirt was now soaked with sweat. He stepped into the covered entryway of a Chinese apothecary and checked his notes in the reflected glow of his cell phone. Almost there. He leaned into the misty rain, checking the street for any sign of activity. Nothing, but he could feel something, or someone, and didn’t like it. The place was too dark and remote, the whole scenario too much like an old Charlie Chan movie the moment before everything went bad. But what choice did he have? If he didn’t show up, there would be another accident, more innocent people dead. And that’s all it would take, one more accident and they would miss that magic feng shui timetable; and then the dominos would fall, Taiwan would blame Beijing, Beijing would blame the United States, and the President would have no choice but to blame that dumb ’ol West Texas cowboy. Shit.

  He stepped back into the narrow street, moving cautiously toward the hazy glimmer of a streetlamp about a hundred yards ahead. It was like moving underwater, the fog softening the harsh lines of the shops into muted shades of gray, the sound of his own footsteps muffled and distant. At exactly ten o’clock a woman stepped out of the fog and into the yellow cone of light beneath the streetlamp. She was dressed in a shapeless silk chemise, as garishly colored as a macaw, a cream-colored shawl draped over one arm. “Good evening, taipan.” Her soft, sensual voice dissolved into the heavy air, barely spanning the short distance between them.

  “Nei ho ma?” he answered, the standard Hello, how are you? greeting of the province. She was a short woman, not more than five foot, early forties, with black hair pulled back into a bun at the back of her head, and thick black eyebrows that arched together like bat wings over sharp, black eyes—ugly as a Komodo dragon. “Madame Chiang?”

  She smiled coquettishly and dipped her head. “Hai.”

  He returned the bow and stepped forward into the light. He wanted to get straight to the point, the money—the how much, the when, and the where—but that was not the way of business in China. “It is generous of you to meet me on such a night.”

  She smiled again, the cryptic grin of a gambler with aces in the hole. “It is my honor to serve the great taipan.”

  Honor. Great taipan. The bullshit and exaggerated politeness made his skin crawl. “And it is my—” From the corner of his eye he saw a man step from the shadows, not more than ten yards away, his skin so white it seemed transparent. Dressed in a dark jogging suit and black running shoes, he had the broad shoulders and narrow hips of an athlete, and the steady hand—which contained a black machine pistol—of a professional. Before Jake could react there was another sound, from behind, someone light on their feet, coming fast, emerging out of the fog, arm outstretched, a small chrome-plated automatic wa
ving erratically with each step.

  Twisting his body to avoid a direct hit, Jake shoved Madame Chiang out of the way, but he was too slow and too late, a lightning bolt of fire burning through his chest as both guns fired simultaneously. He felt the air leave his lungs, the blood draining from his legs, the earth rising to meet him as he pitched forward onto the wet cobblestones. You dumbass cowboy!

  He landed with a hard, dull thud, but felt nothing, his body already numb. He could see the hem of Madame Chiang’s dress, her booted feet as they peddled backward out of the light.

  “Billie…” He gasped her name with his last bit of air, knowing it would be the final word to cross his lips.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Manhattan Island, New York City, New York

  Wednesday, 27 June 10:53:32 GMT-0500

  Lara dropped the deli bag onto the small glass table next to the window, and pulled the mouthpiece of her head-mike down below her chin. “Let’s eat.”

  Simon glanced over at the wall-mounted clock—a new two-thousand-dollar global time indicator—located above Lara’s equally new twelve-thousand-dollar, ultramodern, ultra high-tech desk. Her command center. In fact, everything in the place was new and expensive and high-tech: his blatant attempt to overcome her resistance to their new office. Despite her assurances that she never thought of Eth Jäger and what happened, he didn’t really believe it and wanted the added protection of a building with full-time security. “It’s not even eleven o’clock.”

  “I don’t care. We’ve been moving this crap around for hours.” Though dressed in a lightweight tank top and loose-fitting khaki shorts, her tan skin glistened with perspiration. “I’m hungry and tired and I need a break.”

  He wanted to point out that the moving around was her doing, that no matter where he put things, she wanted them somewhere else. That was the problem with having your sister manage your business: she felt an inherent right to bitch, and he felt a familial obligation to let her get away with it. “Okay, we’ll take an early lunch.”

  She pulled out two of the unborn chairs, still wrapped in their thick plastic membranes, but before she could peel away the covering, a tall man with broad shoulders and brown curly hair stepped through the open hallway door. His coffee-colored eyes made a quick sweep of the room, lingering for an extra microsecond on Lara’s slim figure. “Excuse me.” Dressed in tan slacks and a blue blazer, he was holding a clipboard in his left hand. “Is this a bad time?”

  “Of course not,” Lara answered, her voice suddenly perky and full of energy. “What can I do for you?”

  He reached inside his coat—exposing the butt end of an automatic pistol holstered beneath his left arm—and pulled his identification: a laminated PVC card with photo ID, and an embedded hologram of the building. “I’m Bill Rapp, head of security. I just need a few more details for our records. Number of employees, that kind of thing.”

  “Sure, no problem,” she answered, as her tiny hand disappeared into his large one. “I’m Lara. Lara Quinn.”

  He flashed a boyish grin. “Nice to meet you, Ms…. I’m sorry, is that Ms. or Mrs. Quinn?”

  “It’s Ms.” she answered. “But call me Lara.”

  “I will, thank you.” He released her hand and turned to Simon. “And…?”

  Simon stepped forward and extended his hand. “Simon Leonidovich.” He pronounced his name slowly and distinctly—Le-on-o-vich—letting the man know the d was silent. “That’s L-E-O-N-I-D-OV-I-C-H.”

  Rapp recorded the information on his clipboard. “I’ve got you listed here as Worldwide SD. What’s the SD stand for?”

  “Special delivery,” Simon answered. “We’re a courier service. Most of our work is international.”

  Rapp’s pupils expanded with interest, as if he had just stumbled across the Playboy Channel on his television. “You ever transport valuables? Jewelry or bonds, that sort of thing?”

  Simon smiled to himself, thinking of Lara’s common refrain: At ten thousand a pop, you don’t hire the man who can deliver anything, anywhere, to haul toilet paper. “Sometimes.”

  “Will valuables ever be stored here on the premises?”

  “Never.” Almost never. He wasn’t about to divulge that kind of information to a stranger—security service or not.

  Rapp recorded the information on his form. “And your position with the firm, Mr. Leonidovich?”

  “He’s one of our delivery people,” Lara answered before Simon could speak up, “and a general pain in the ass.”

  Rapp’s gaze bounced back and forth between them, clearly wondering what kind of weird relationship he had just stepped into.

  “She’s my sister,” Simon explained before the man became overly confused, “and I own the company.”

  “Aaah.” Rapp expelled a faint sigh of relief and turned his attention to Lara. “So you’re…?”

  “My secretary,” Simon answered in quick retaliation. Of all his sister’s self-anointed titles, secretary was most decidedly not on the list. “But you might want to put her down as the office manager. She’s very sensitive about job titles.”

  “Thank you, Boris.”

  Though tempted to strike back, he realized that’s exactly what she wanted—an excuse to embarrass him with the story of how Boris Leonidovich Pasternak Simon became Simon Leonidovich—and he wasn’t about to step into that trap. “You’re welcome, Sissie.”

  Rapp took a step back, as if wanting to extract himself from a situation he didn’t understand. “That’s all I need.” He pulled a couple of business cards from the breast pocket of his blazer. “Any questions or concerns about security—” He leveled his eyes on Lara, his tone going from helpful to inviting. “I’m the man to call.”

  Eating her lunch—a footlong Italian sub that miraculously disappeared into the confines of her tiny stomach—Lara stared out the window and tried to hide her interest in the handsome Bill Rapp. “This really is a nice view.”

  Simon suppressed a smile. He would have teased her about the obvious attraction, but the last thing he wanted was to dampen any possible relationship. It had been seven years since Jack’s death, Allie and Jack Jr. would soon be teenagers, and she deserved to have a life beyond work and kids. He followed her gaze down to the small community park, eight stories below. The patch of green, a pleasant little garden surrounded by ornamental wrought iron, offered a welcome respite from the surrounding towers of steel and concrete. Under the watchful eyes of mothers and nannies, children scampered back and forth through the playground, a pinball movement of colorful little bodies bouncing from swings to slides to climbing bars. “Yeah, sure is.”

  “It looks hot.”

  “Sure does.” He could see the heat shimmering off the hot cement; could almost smell the hydrocarbons through the glass.

  “Bill seemed nice.”

  He forked another scoop of salad into his mouth, trying hard to conceal his amusement. “Mmm-hmm.”

  “This place might not be so bad.”

  Not so bad! The building was newly remodeled with plenty of underground parking, the offices were light and airy, the security chief handsome and friendly—what more did she want? “If you decide you don’t like it, we’ll move.”

  She gave him a suspicious look, realized he was yanking her chain, and immediately changed the subject. “What’s with you and the salad? You lose any more weight, you’ll need a new wardrobe.”

  Wardrobe. He could barely keep from laughing. “Men don’t have wardrobes, Sissie. As long as we’re covered and comfortable, we’re good to go.”

  “Yeah, well…” She leaned to the side, giving his ratty T-shirt and paint-spattered gym shorts the evil eye. “That’s probably the reason you keep getting dumped.”

  “I didn’t get—” The sharp buzz of the phone saved him from once again having to explain his breakup with Caitlin Wells.

  Lara pulled the tiny head-mike up from under her chin and toggled the switch on the wireless receiver attached to her belt. “Worldwide
SD. How may I help you?” As she listened, her expression mutated from happy recognition to puzzlement. “Yes, he’s right here.” She pressed the HOLD button on her controller. “It’s Billie Rynerson. She sounds…odd.”

  “Odd?” Simon was already up and moving toward his office. “What do you mean by ‘odd’?”

  “I think something’s wrong.”

  He leaned over his desk from the front side and snatched up the phone. “Billie, what’s up?”

  “Jake’s been shot.”

  The unexpected words hit like a gut punch, and for several eternity-in-an-instant heartbeats he couldn’t muster a response. Without conscious thought, he reached over and pressed the INTER-LINK button on the phone, automatically recording the call on his computer. “Is he okay?”

  “No,” she answered, in what sounded like a major understatement. “He can’t breathe. They’ve got him on a ventilator.”

  This time he noticed the distinct intercontinental hiccup between question and answer, and remembered they were in Macau. “Is he conscious?”

  “No, but he’s hanging on. He’s fighting.”

  Of course he was fighting; she was talking about Big Jake Rynerson, a man who didn’t know the meaning of quit. “Then he’ll make it, Billie. Jake’s got the heart of an elephant.”

  “Absolutely,” she answered with a confidence that failed to hide the truth: hope mixed with fear, mixed with panic. “That’s exactly what I told the doctor.”

  “What happened? Tell me everything.”

  As she started into the medical details, Simon printed four words on a scratchpad—JAKE SHOT, HANGING ON—and handed it to Lara, who had followed him into his office and looked ready to burst with questions.

  By the time Billie finished, her voice was edgy with impatience. “That’s everything.”

  But it wasn’t, not even close. She hadn’t said anything about the shooting, and Simon could think of a dozen unanswered questions. How did it happen? Where did it happen? Was the shooting random or intentional? What happened to Jake’s security? But Billie Rynerson was a tough old West Texas broad, and he knew better than to push too hard or too fast. “What can I do?”