THE KING OF MACAU (The Jack Shepherd International Crime Novels) (30 page)

“Not exactly,” Archie smiled. “The problem with some of these bills is that the micro-engraving is too sharp. It’s actually of higher quality than the micro-engraving on a genuine bill.”

“You’re telling me the counterfeits are
better
than real currency?”

Archie smiled again and nodded, and I nodded, but this time Pete jumped in before all the nodding could get out of hand.

“What about the serial numbers?” he asked.

“Some appear to be duplicates,” Archie said, “but it will take a day or two to nail that down for sure.”

“But you’re saying there’s no doubt about the design anomalies?”

“Well, the software says there are design anomalies, but personally I wouldn’t feel comfortable putting my name to a finding of counterfeiting until some actual human beings who know about this stuff examine the notes the software flagged.”

“I’ve got to tell Pansy now,” I said. “I can’t stall any longer. She deserves to know what we know.”

“It’s pretty much London to a brick the software nailed it,” Archie shrugged. “I think you’re safe telling her she’s looking at a big whack of funny money there, mate.”

THE BLACK MERCEDES WAS
idling at the curb along Queen’s road when I came out of the HSBC building. I crossed the narrow plaza and got in. The first thing I saw was the grim look on Pansy’s face.

“Tell me,” she said. “Yes or no?”

“It’s a little bit of both.”

“Oh God, I hate lawyers,” she sighed.

“I thought you said you loved me.”

“I lied,” Pansy laughed. “Or at least I exaggerated a whole lot.”

The driver put the Mercedes in gear and pulled into traffic.

WE MADE SMALL TALK
while the driver worked his way through the traffic in Central and into Sheung Wan. When we passed the University of Hong Kong, the car turned inland and I saw we were heading in the direction Pok Fu Lam, one of Hong Kong’s most beautiful areas tucked away on a sandy bay on the island’s southern shore.

“Do you want me to tell you what we’ve found?” I asked.

Pansy caught my eye and looked at the back of the driver’s head. I got the message, nodded, and fell silent.

The car turned off Pok Fu Lam Road and passed through Kennedy Town, the far western reach of the forest of featureless high rise towers that jostled for space throughout most of Hong Kong. We tracked the coast on a road that ran along a narrow ledge between the South China Sea and Mount Davis. On the right steep cliffs fell sharply away into the ocean and on the left the dense vegetation of the mountainside reached down to the edge of the pavement. It was a wild and untamed sight, a stupefying counterpoint to the human density and structural congestion that was Hong Kong’s very soul. I lowered my window and breathed in the fresh, cool ocean air. I could almost feel my pulse slowing and my blood pressure dropping.

“I like to come out here when I need to think,” Pansy said, as if she were reading my thoughts.

“Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.”

We drove another ten minutes or so until Victoria Road abruptly swung inland. Up on our right, between the road and the ocean, I spotted what looked like athletic fields, the dark green of their carefully tended grass contrasting sharply with the gunmetal grey of the sea beyond them. The driver slowed the car when we came to a utilitarian looking concrete structure about four stories high. He turned in and I saw it was a parking garage. Then I saw the black lettering above the entrance:

THE STANLEY HO SPORTS CENTRE

Of course it was.

PANSY AND I WALKED
slowly around a track made of crushed red clay that was divided into running lanes with precisely etched white lines. The sun was sinking into the ocean somewhere behind the mountains and the last light of the day was making its final stand in the sea. There was a breeze from the west which carried the heady odors of salt and dead fish, and in the distance I watched a Chinese junk moving under sail through the Lamma Channel, its sails sparkling red in the dying light. The junk looked like a child’s toy trapped forever in a sea of pewter.

“Tell me now,” Pansy finally said.

And I did.

“DO YOU REALLY THINK
the money these people have been moving through the casino is counterfeit?” she asked when I finished.

“The early indications are that it might be, but of course it’s still too soon to be absolutely certain and there is always the possibility that we will—”

“For God’s sake, Jack, stop being such a fucking lawyer!”

I shut up and awaited developments.

“Do you think the money these people have been moving through the MGM casino is counterfeit?” she asked again after a moment. “No lawyer talk. Just give me a simple yes or a no.”

“Yes.”

Pansy sighed heavily and began making a swishing sound with her feet as she slid them over the loose clay surface of the track. It made me think of a little girl playing in the sand.

“How much have they put into circulation through us?” she asked in a voice so soft I had to strain to hear it.

“I don’t know. Tens of millions certainly. Maybe a lot more.”

“So what you’re telling me is this. The MGM casino has put fifty or even a hundred million dollars of counterfeit currency into the international banking system for the government of North Korea.”

“Yes. But it was entirely unwitting, and nobody is going to blame—”

Pansy cut me off with a laugh, although there was no humor in the sound.

“Come on, Jack? Do you seriously think anyone is going to believe I wasn’t involved somehow? I can see the headline now.
Chinese Triads Use MGM Macau to Launder North Korea Counterfeit Money
. I’m finished. I am absolutely fucking finished.”

“No, you’re not.”

Pansy stopped walking and looked at me. There was something in her eyes that I liked.

“What do you mean? Have you got some kind of plan you haven’t told me about?”

I didn’t, of course, but there was no way I could stand there and look into Pansy eyes and snuff out the hope I saw.

“Stick with me,” I said. “That’s all I can say now.”

It was all I could say because I didn’t have anything else to say. I had no idea what to do now. Only I couldn’t tell Pansy that. Pansy reached out and put her hand on my arm. It felt warm and small and I wanted to protect her in the worst way. I would have to think of something. That was all there was to it.

“I want you to talk to Dr. Ho,” she said. For a moment, I wasn’t certain I had heard her right.

“Your father?”

“Yes.”

“What for?”

“He can help you.”

I didn’t see why Stanley Ho would deal with some white guy he didn’t know and who couldn’t do anything for him in return, but I didn’t think I ought to say that to Pansy so I said nothing at all.

“If you’re going to make all this go away without anyone finding out about it,” she said, “you’re going to need some help.”

Did I say that’s what I was going to do?

“Dr. Ho has the connections you’ll need.”

I’ll bet he does,
was what I thought, but that wasn’t what I said.

“Connections to do what, exactly?” I asked Pansy.

“To do…”

Pansy stopped talking and looked at me. She smiled and I couldn’t help noticing that it was a very nice smile indeed.

“…whatever you might need to do to shut this down before it destroys me.”

I had no idea what to say to that, none at all, so I only nodded. Apparently that was good enough for Pansy because she grabbed my elbow and gave it a tug.

“Let’s go, Jack. We’ve got a lot to do.”

Pansy turned and began to walk back to where the car was parked. She moved so quickly and with such determination that I could barely keep up with her.

STANLEY HO WAS APPARENTLY
somewhere in Macau because by seven that night Pansy and I were in a helicopter headed back there, too. I called Pete before we took off to tell him what was going on. When I talked to Pete I actually pretended I knew what was going on and he was nice enough not to laugh. Pete said he and Archie would grab a ferry that night and meet me back at the suite at the MGM as quickly as they could get there.

They got there about nine. Somewhere along the way Archie had conjured up a liter-sized bottle of Bushmills Irish whiskey and the three of us sat and half watched ESPN while we talked and drank the Bushmills and waited for Pansy to call.

Finally, about eleven, she did.

“It will have to be tomorrow, Jack.”

Pansy sounded tired. I could only imagine.

“Tomorrow’s fine.”

“Do you know Clube Militar?”

I did, and I didn’t. “Is it that pink building by the park right behind the Lisboa?”

“That’s it. Meet me there at noon.”

“I thought your father doesn’t move around much anymore. I always heard that since his stroke, he—”

“He is much healthier than most people think. He comes to Macau frequently and he often goes to…well, other places, too. He finds it useful that not many people know how active he still is.”

I wondered if it would be rude for me to ask what exactly Stanley Ho was so active in, but before I could decide, Pansy ended the conversation, which was probably a good thing.

After that, Archie, Pete, and I finished the Bushmills and speculated on what it would be like to meet the King of Macau. I was more curious about what the hell good it was going to do me.

CLUBE MILITAR DE MACAU
is an anachronism, even judging it by Macau’s rather generous standards of anachronism. It is a low slung, pink and white colonial building on
Avenida da Praia Grande
that looks like a strawberry wedding cake someone left in the rain. It was a Portuguese officers’ mess in the 1870’s, but now it is a private club that counts among its membership the political elite of Macau, if a former Portuguese colony now completely controlled by China can be said to possess a political elite.

A little before noon the next day I strolled over from the MGM. By cutting through the casino at the Wynn and through the lobby of the Lisboa, I made the walk in about fifteen minutes. When I reached the
Avenida da Praia Grande,
I followed a black and white mosaic tiled walkway between two whitewashed balustrades and up half a dozen stairs to a pair of well-worn wood and glass doors. I half expected to find military guards on alert inside where they would no doubt demand I produce photo identification, but I was being far too American. There were no guards inside the doors, nor anybody else for that matter. The lobby had the sleepy feel of a room that was accustomed to being completely deserted.

Not having any better idea, I wandered into the bar looking for Pansy. It was a cozy little room with subdued lighting, a walnut plank floor shined to a gloss high enough to use it as a shaving mirror, and a white-painted bar with shiny brass fittings. The bartender was spiffily dressed in a short red jacket and black trousers and he had big ears and a military short-back-and-sides haircut. I pulled out one of the high-backed stools, ordered a soda and bitters, and looked around. There wasn’t much to see since, except for the bartender and me, the room was completely empty.

I sipped at my drink and asked the bartender, “Do you know who Pansy Ho is?”

He peered cautiously at me, probably wondering if that was a trick question, so I tried again.

“I’m supposed to meet Pansy Ho here somewhere. Do you know where I might be able to find her?”

The young man wouldn’t meet my eyes. In Macau, the name Ho was magic, I knew, but there is white magic and there is black magic and sometimes it’s one and sometimes it’s the other. This time it looked like it was definitely the other.

“Never mind,” I said, letting the suddenly nervous young man off the hook. “I’ll look around.”

I dropped what I figured had to be enough money on the bar to cover my drink and a decent tip and headed back out in search of Pansy.

There was still no one in the lobby, and the first corridor I followed further back into the building turned out to lead to the toilets. I stuck my head in the dining room, but noon was far too early for lunch in Macau and only a handful of people were scattered in there, none of whom were Pansy. I had retraced my steps to the lobby again when I noticed the brass plaque mounted above a closed pair of wooden doors. It said…

SALA DR. STANLEY HO

Of course it did.

SALA DR. STANLEY HO
turned out to be an airy, high-ceilinged room with big arched windows hung with gauzy white fabric, and half a dozen wooden bladed ceiling fans turning slowly overhead. It was divided into three seating areas by large green and gold rugs arrayed across the glistening hardwood floor. Arranged on each rug were groupings of comfortable looking but undistinguished couches and chairs.

Pansy was perched on the edge of a blue and green striped chair in the grouping furthest away from me. Her back was to the door and she was facing an elderly man seated in a wheelchair who I recognized as Stanley Ho. Between us and only a few steps inside the doorway two broad shouldered Chinese men in dark suits, white shirts, and dark ties regarded me with undisguised suspicion.

Pansy must have heard the door open and close because she stood, turned toward me, and called out, “Over here, please, Jack!”

I started toward her, but one of the Chinese men took a step toward me and held up one hand, palm out. The other man made a raising gesture with both hands and, in case I didn’t get the idea, followed it with a demonstration of raising his own arms.

“Are you serious?” I asked him. His face remained impassive and he repeated the arm raising gesture again.

“I’m sorry, Jack,” Pansy said as she crossed the room toward me. “Dr. Ho is something of a traditionalist.”

“I know a lot of traditionalists, and not one of them has ever demanded a couple of goons search me before we have a conversation.”

“If you wouldn’t mind—”

“Actually, I do mind. I mind a hell of a lot.”

“Jack, please. Don’t make a scene.”

“You asking me not to make a scene?” I waved one hand at the two hard guys patiently blocking my path to Stanley Ho. “What do these guys think they’re going to find on me? A gun? Do they think I’m going to shoot your father or something?”