Jake Maroc - Shan Part 33

But at that moment, the kimono'd woman touched his arm, directing his gaze back down to Jake whose eyelids were fluttering closed.

"I see that it is best to let you rest," Mikio said gently. "When you awake, there will be food and something to drink if you wish it. Time enough then to talk."

No, Jake said, I want to talk now. But it was only in his mind. He was already asleep, falling fast through the layers into restful delta.

Tony Simbal had been in Miami Beach a little over three hours when he spotted the Cuban. It was in a splashy joint called La Toucana. Pastel blue-green walls, mirrors, and a long bar built out of translucent gla.s.s blocks, lit from inside by neon strips. Rattan chairs, gla.s.s-topped tables, the place was some zonked-out South American's dream palace. It made Simbal want to throw up.

Dressed in a lightweight white suit beneath which he wore a royal-blue T-shirt, he sat at the bar and had to keep his sungla.s.ses on because of all the neon. He ordered an Absolut on the rocks. He had pushed the sleeves of the jacket up his arms mainly because that was the style and he needed to look like he belonged here.

The Cuban came in a little while later and his presence surprised Simbal. The Cuban's name was Martine Juanito Gato de Rosa. With a name like that it was no wonder he was simply known around the Campus as the Cuban.

The Campus was SNIT headquarters; the Cuban was one of SNITs expert operatives, so it should have been no surprise for Simbal to find him here. The fact that Edward Martin Bennett was also in Miami was what caused the alarm to go off in Simbal's head.

There were plenty of other places around the world for the Cuban to be at this momentin fact, the CIA was always sounding off about him and his effectiveness in "the Subcontinent" as they so quaintly called South America.

This was a coincidence of large enough proportions for Simbal toquestion it immediately. Bennett and the Cuban. How many scores had they been on together? How many times had Bennett claimed the Cuban saved his life and vice versa? Plenty on all counts. Simbal had memorized Bennett's SNIT file filched via the DEA computer with Monica's help.

Monica. When he thought of her now it was with an uncomfortable tightening in his lower belly. What were Monica and Max Threnody up to? What was it Max wanted from him? Simbal wondered for the hundredth time since he flew out of Dulles whether or not he should inform Donovan of his own suspicions. He had opted not to. It seemed enough for the moment that Donovan harbored his own doubts about Max's immediate maneuverings. He did not want things to get out of control while he was away from Washington. Better, he felt, to play along with his former boss until he got deeper into the situation. There was always time to make his report to Donovan and bring in the cavalry.

Or was it just that deep inside him he could not bring himself to believe that Max could be working against him. If he were working against Simbal, then who was he working for? That was another question that Simbal preferred not to have answered. Finally, on the plane, after going through Bennett's file for the third and last time, he had decided, f.u.c.k it, if he was procrastinating in making a decision regarding Max, so be it. He'd just have to take the consequences of his actionor inactionwhen the time came.

Martine Juanito Gato de Rosa cut a dapper figure in a pale peach suit that set his coffee-colored skin glowing. His wavy hair was slicked back from his wide forehead, shiny and formfitting as Lycra. There was a dusting of freckles on his cheeks that gave him a deceptively boyish air.

Simbal knew that he was far from boyish. In fact, Simbal had crossed paths with the Cuban twice during his tenure in the DEA. Once was on a.s.signment in Colombia and he had seen this slim, handsome man with eyes the color of topaz slit open the throat of a cocaine smuggler with the ease and precision of a master surgeon.

It had been the Cuban's att.i.tude while performing the act that had stuck in Simbal's mind. If he wasn't exactly enjoying the task he certainly showed no repugnance.

Simbal was always suspicious of peopleeven the ones in his line of workwho showed no adverse reaction to killing. It wasn't natural and it was dangerous. So he had marked the Cuban down and some months later when they had met at a party on Campus, he was stunnedto see how urbane, witty, relaxed, how utterly civilized the man was. He bore no resemblance to the b.l.o.o.d.y killing machine Simbal had witnessed in South America.

There was some kind of voodoo going down, something very odd indeed about the Cuban. These thoughts had reignited when he had come across the name so prominently in Bennett's file. Now that he saw him here, the flames were burning.

It was no accident that Simbal had come to La Toucana on his first night in Miami. According to both DEA and SNIT files, this was one of the new hotbeds of diqui and drug movement in the area. He had been to the other two earlier in the evening. Lots of deals went down under its spangled roof, all high-level. Heavy money that allegedly ran all the way up to the mayor's office kept the place clean of narcs and adversary types.

The monsters all seemed comfortable here, eating long, voluminous dinners laced with the kind of overpowering California wines that were all the rage. And while they ate and drank they built their individual empires. In this manner, the wholesalers kept themselves in shiny imported sports cars, luxury yachts, terrazzo-floored villas and deep-cleavaged women whose only real interest was in staring at their own painted faces in the column mirrors.

The Cuban fit right in. He was flashy in the way only Miami understands and appreciates. A mixture of the hip, the Latin and the gaudy. It was an interesting and potentially deadly mix.

He sat at a table at which a couple were already having drinks. Simbal searched the catalogue in his mind and came up with a name for the man: "Mako" Martinez, a heavy hitter on the cocaine wholesaling circuit. The most interesting thing about Mako, what set him apart from the majority of his colleagues, was that he was also an arms dealer.

Simbal thought it curious that the Cuban should be sitting down to dinner with this particular monster. Now he had two questions to answer: Why was the Cuban in Miami? Why was he making contact with Mako Martinez?

To his knowledge arms smuggling was right out of Martine Juanito Gato de Rosa's bailiwick. Of course arms could have no place in their discussion tonight. But it seemed like another coincidence and Simbal didn't like that.

He finished his Absolut, ordered another and signaled the maitre d' he was ready for a table. In a moment, he was being led right bytheir table. Simbal looked into the woman's face and smiled. Her gaze was icy, incurious. He thought that in a fight with Monica she could have knocked Monica out with her makeup case.

The maitre d' sat him two tables away and Simbal chose a seat with an oblique view. The second vodka on ice was brought and he ordered soft-sh.e.l.l crabs, a Caesar salad and asparagus vinaigrette despite the fact that the maitre d' extolled the virtues of the char-broiled steak.

Brazilian music was blaring through loudspeakers and, to one side, there was a dance floor made out of Lucite. Water seemed to be running in colored rivulets beneath it.

The meal was mediocre but then Miami was not noted for its culinary level. It didn't matter much anyway since he had his eye on the Cuban's table. The men were deep in discussion; the woman was staring fixedly at something in tight pants reflected in the mirrored columns. The men spoke in desultory bursts. Simbal could just make out the language: Spanish.

It happened in the way Simbal wanted, Mako dismissing his woman as the conversation got around to business. The Cuban had to shift his position in order to facilitate her egress and he caught sight of Simbal.

Pinlights rotated above the dance floor and now there were several couples, moving sinuously to the Latin beat. There was something here that reminded Simbal of the jungle, or, perhaps more accurately, of something that put aside civilization. There was more than a bit of the ritualistic splendor of cultures more primitive and therefore, in his opinion, more valid than this one.

Simbal called for the check. He was aware of the Cuban's eyes on him but he would not look up. He took his time paying the bill, then sauntered out of the restaurant. Plenty of time for the Cuban to follow him.

The valet brought his rented Corvette around and Simbal had no choice but to get in; there were others in line, the place was just heating up. But no Cuban. Simbal looked from the main entrance to the street beyond. Neon spangled the pavement, the enormous lighted bird above La Toucana's name moving its head up and down in a mindless cycle. No Cuban. The beeping of horns became more insistent behind him. He put the car in gear.

Was it his imagination or had he seen one of the valets hurrying inside as he drove off?

"There are approximately twenty-five million shares outstanding of InterAsia," Andrew Sawyer said. He wiped the sweat from his foreheadwith a linen handkerchief. "Peabody, Smithers has in their possession four million una.s.signed shares. Tung Ping An has one-and-a-half million, including what they bought in today's session."

"Dew neh loh moh on going public," Three Oaths fumed.

"It's usually the best way to raise great sums of capital," Sawyer said.

"By the spirit of the White Tiger, I sometimes think I would have been better off staying in the opium trade!"

"Surely you don't mean that."

"By the pox-ridden, dung-eating offspring of our enemies, I do!" Three Oaths thundered. "There at least you know who your enemies are. There's no chance at dummy corporations and lice-infested wh.o.r.e's sons investment brokers acting as shields."

The two tai pan were still in Sawyer's cubicle. Though the Hang Seng had closed for the day hours ago, they had remained in their command post awaiting confirmation.

Sawyer knew the Chinese was merely venting his rage at the thought that they might lose control of InterAsia. Virtually all of their own personal fortunes were tied up in the yuhn-hyun corporation. Shi Zilin had insisted that they give the Zhuan power of attorney over all a.s.sets, liquid and otherwise. Now there was precious little left with which to fight off this takeover bid. If he had not owed such a debt to Shi Zilin. If they had not gone public. If, if, if. Bile rose in his throat at the thought that all his years of hard work would collapse about him in a week's time.

"We've had to close Southasia Bancorp's doors," Sawyer said morosely. "There was no way we could keep up with the demand for withdrawals. Once the word got out about the fiscal shortfall, Southasia was doomed." He slammed his fist onto the paper-littered table. "d.a.m.n it all, I don't know how it leaked out! We were so careful!"

Three Oaths spat. "I have spies at Tung Ping An, many of the other trading houses. Why do you think that we are free of informers? The h'yeung yau, the fragrant grease, works wonders in the Crown Colony. It always has. Money pa.s.ses hands in return for information not readily available. It is the way of life."

"Not in my company!" Sawyer said.

"You are above all the rest, then."

"Ill find the informer."

"Better by far to concentrate on solving the problem he has created for us."

Sawyer turned to the other. "And the next time? We will be caught in the trap again."

Three Oaths was silent at that.

"Where is he?" Sawyer said, looking at his watch. "He was supposed to be here an hour ago."

"Are you worried that he won't come?" Three Oaths said. "He will be here when he can. There is no point in arousing suspicions at Tung Ping An at this late date, heya? Give Bent-Nose time. He is a good man, an honest spy." Three Oaths had a good laugh at that. "If there is such a thing."

"I didn't think there was," Sawyer said sourly.

"Bent-Nose is my brother-in-law," Three Oaths said. "His loyalty is beyond question." He laughed again. "Besides, I pay him more than enough to keep him happy."

The silence of the s.p.a.ce below them was awesome in contrast to the bubbling babble when the Hang Seng was open for business. In that vast echoey s.p.a.ce, now unnaturally quiet, the footfalls, though soft, rose clear to their ears.

"He's here," Sawyer said.

Three Oaths turned as a middle-aged man appeared. He was unprepossessing in appearance and would have been altogether forgettable had it not been for a nose that had been broken several times early in life.

"What news?" Sawyer said.

Three Oaths poured his brother-in-law tea. It was by this time tepid but the man accepted it thankfully. He drained the cup and said, "I have the information. It took a lot of work and I did not obtain it until just moments ago. The office has been inundated with paperwork from the transactions on all the buy orders for InterAsia."

"Who has Tung Ping An been buying the blocks for?" Three Oaths asked.

"Sir John Bluestone," Bent-Nose said.

"Bluestone!" Sawyer said, shocked.

"But that is impossible," Three Oaths said. "There must be some mistake. When we baited Five Star Pacific with Pak Han Min nine months ago, we made certain that its short-term capital was depleted. That was Shi Zilin's plan in implicating his enemies in Beijing who bought up Five Star's notes." He shook his head. "No, no, Sir John has too much debt to be behind all this buying."

"But it is him," Bent-Nose a.s.sured them. He thrust out a handful of Xerox copies. "Take a look."

The two tai pan read the flimsies. They confirmed what Bent-Nose had said.

"Where's he getting the money to sink into InterAsia?" Sawyer said.

"I wondered about that myself," Bent-Nose Su said. "So I rang a friend of mine at Peabody, Smithers. A consortium has been formed, Brother-in-law. I checked our own recent records. Tung Ping An has been selling large chunks of illiquid holdingsreal estate, businesses and the likefor these people. Here are the names."

Three Oaths read them over, handed them on to Sawyer. "We know them all," he said. "Bluestone's mates, business a.s.sociates. Men who owe him favors. He's called in all his markers."

"The proceeds from the sales are being used to finance the InterAsia purchases," Bent-Nose Su said.

"Jake and Shi Zilin never could have antic.i.p.ated such a thing," Three Oaths said, stunned.

Sawyer crumpled the paper in his fist. "That tears it." Despair was evident in his voice. "Bluestone means to get control of InterAsia and because of how Jake and Shi Zilin set up the firm I don't think there's a whole h.e.l.l of a lot we can do about it." His balled fist slammed down onto the polished desktop. "G.o.d d.a.m.n his eyes!"

Bliss took the opal to the Monkey Man. His name was Chanshe knew of no one who could tell her his first name. In any case, to her knowledge no one called him anything but the Monkey Man.

He had a shop on Yat Fu Lane in Kennedy Town. It was a dusty, ramshackle affair from which he sold just about anything one could imagine. On one side was an apothecary dispensing mandrake root, whole ginseng and powdered tiger's teeth to an avid Chinese following. On the other side was a large rug factory.

As she pa.s.sed, Bliss could see the young womenlittle more than girls, reallyhanging the patterns for the men on bamboo scaffolding who wielded electric shears to perform what was euphemistically called "hand cutting" by dealers anxious to fleece the gwai loh tourists.

Chan was called the Monkey Man for good reason. He had a face like an orang-utan. It was part of a head too large for the small, stooped body. This posture, perhaps, was what caused him to seem to have arms longer than any human should.

The Monkey Man's physical oddities never bothered Bliss as they had many children of her acquaintance when she was growing up. Now he was old, venerable in a way that transcended even the manner in which most elderly Chinese arc treated.

He was, of course, delighted to see her. The skin around his b.u.t.ton eyes crinkled all the more as his strange face broke into a wide smile.

He called her tihn gai-jai, little frog, because, when she was a child, he used to take her to a pond in the New Territories to listen to the tree frogs singing their song of summer.

When he was finished with his customer, he locked the front door and took her into the back of the shop. This was where he lived and its contrast to the dismaying plethora of stacked items in the store was remarkable. Here every thing had its place, free of dust, sparkling like cut crystal.

He puttered around, making tea for them, bringing out sweet cakes. Bliss did not deter him; he had always liked to make a fuss over her. She watched him as he worked, overcome with emotion.

In time, they came to the reason for her visit. The Monkey Man knew from the moment she walked into his shop that it was for a specific purpose but it would have been bad manners to inquire what it was right away.

Bliss pulled out the opal and the old man hefted it in his leathery palm. He produced a jeweler's loup, dragged over a table lamp and switched it on. Took a look.

"Excellent," he said softly. "Exceptional fire. Furthermore, it is thick and has been cut by a master." He looked at her, swept the loup off his face. "How much did you pay for this?"

"Nothing," Bliss said, and told him how it came to be in her possession, what she was searching for.

"Uhm, not so easy," the Monkey Man said ruminatively.

"But you said that it was cut by a master. Isn't there a way to tell from that?"

He shrugged. "I suppose, yes. But whoever cut it, might not have been the one to sell it. For all I know this was cut in Australia where it was dug out of the earth."

Bliss felt her heart sink. "There must be a way."

The Monkey Man weighed the opal in the center of his palm, nodded. "Perhaps." He got up and went to a phone. Dialed a local number and for several minutes spoke into the receiver in low enough tones so that Bliss could not hear what he was saying.

Thoughtfully, he put down the phone and came back to the table where she was sitting. "There is a way," he said.

"Good."

"Maybe." He shook his head. "I'm not an expert in opals. I don't sell them, you see, as a rule. If one comes my way, well a"He shrugged again. Rubbed his fingertips over the smooth face of the opal. "I called an acquaintance." Bliss knew better than to ask who it was.

The Monkey Man was connected with a strange and varied a.s.sortment of types throughout the Colony. It was why she chose him to begin her search. "I was given a name but a I hesitate to give it to you."

"Why?"

"Have you ever heard of Fung the Skeleton?"

"The smuggler?"

The Monkey Man nodded. "Most of the opium that flows through here is handled, in one way or another, by Fung." He looked at her. "As it happens, he's also interested in gemstones. Something of a personal hobby. Got a collection, I'm told, that would make any national treasury weep with envy."

"Then Fung's my man." Bliss reached for the opal but the old man closed his fingers over it.

"He's a dangerous man."

Bliss laughed. "Look at me. I'm not a little girl anymore."

"Tihn gai-jai, this is not a joking matter. A man who trades in the tears of the poppy has no scruples, no morals a no soul. He might just as soon kill you as look at you."

"Is he the man I must see?"

When the Monkey Man said nothing, Bliss took this for a.s.sent. "Then tell me where I can find him." She paused. "I have other ways. You cannot stop me by not talking."