Choke Point (38 page)

Jake considered his answer, then apparently decided to avoid giving one. “What do you think?”

Simon realized he was teetering on the edge of trouble—that Jake wasn’t about to make this easy—but he couldn’t back away, not before he had the answers. “It was Billie.”

For a moment Jake said nothing, his face showing neither shock nor outrage, then he chuckled softly, as if amused, though nothing about his expression supported such a sentiment. “And what makes you think that?”

Not easy at all.
There were actually a number of reasons—the fact that Billie failed to mention her husband had been shot with two different weapons, from two different angles, and then, most damning, her denial of a second shooter—but those were all things she could explain away as heat-of-the-moment oversights. What she couldn’t explain had come from another source. “Madame Chiang inferred your meeting was a romantic liaison.”

“What! That old witch! You can’t be serious. You believe that?”

“No,” Simon answered. “I don’t. It’s ridiculous. But I realized she would never have made the accusation if Billie had been there.”

“But she was there. She told ya that. I’m telling ya that.”

“Yes, but not
with
you, Jake. Madame Chiang never saw Billie, because Billie was in the shadows. She was one of the shooters.”

“And you think my wife shot me?”

A question, Simon realized, not a denial. “Yes, Jake, I’m sure of it.”

“But that’s not the worst of it, is it? You think Billie might be behind this whole thing? That Atherton worked for her?”

“No, that’s not what I believe.” Certainly nothing he
wanted
to believe. “But it does make sense.”

“Right, the wife is always first on the list. The one who stands to benefit the most.”

“It’s more than that, Jake, and you know it. You can’t deny giving her a few good reasons over the years.”

“A few extra wives in between, you mean? That was nothin’ but a temporary loss of sanity. Billie understands that.”

“This isn’t funny, Jake. If I kept my mouth shut, I wouldn’t be your friend.”

“Hell no, it’s not funny,” Jake bellowed, though he looked throughly amused. “So that’s why you told Billie about the flight to Taiwan, but didn’t tell her about using another courier to transport the crest?”

“Exactly.”

“So you set up my wife, and used yourself as bait?”

“Yessir, I’m afraid I did. Of course I didn’t want it to be true, but when the plane went down, and Billie was the only one who knew about the flight…”

Jake howled like an old wolf. “Man-oh-man, that
is
rich. Billie’s going to get such a kick out of this.”

Was the man putting on a show, or was he serious? “Just tell me it isn’t true, Jake. Whatever you say, I’ll accept.”

“Hell no, it’s not true. Here’s the deal, Simon boy. Billie tried to talk me into taking security, but I refused. Well, you know Billie, she doesn’t take no for an answer, and decided to follow me herself. She saw the guy come out of the shadows the same time I did, and here she comes, charging over those cobblestones, wavin’ and firin’ that little peashooter like an old momma bear protectin’ her cub. She must have hit the guy or he would have finished us both off. Unfortunately, she hit me too.”

Simon flashed on the moment, pulling his conversation with Madame Chiang from his memory file.
Bang-bang-bang
—three shots.

“So, yes,” Jake continued, “she shot me. And she saved my life. She was on her cell phone almost before I hit the ground, calling for an ambulance, applying pressure to my wounds, and cussing me every minute.”

Simon slumped back in his chair, feeling like he could breathe for the first time in a month. “I can’t tell you how happy I am to hear that.”

Jake howled again. “And I can’t wait to tell her.”

“Come on, Jake, I’ll never be able to look her in the eye.”

“Oh, don’t you worry, she’s gonna give you some grief, son, no getting around that, but you know Billie, she’ll think it’s all just—” He stopped, his eyes suddenly serious as ice picks. “You can’t tell Kyra. Ever! That’s why Billie wouldn’t say anything. She was afraid Kyra would blame her if I died. You know how those two are, oil and water. Kyra would never forgive her.”

“I’ll make you a deal. You don’t tell Billie, I won’t tell Kyra.”

“Stop worrying about Billie. It’s my daughter you should be thinking about.”

“What do you mean?”

Jake shook his head, a look of disgust. “I do believe Billie’s right. Men are stupid.”

Her exact words, Simon recalled. “I don’t understand.”

“For someone so godawful smart, you sure are a dummy when it comes to women, Leonidovich. Kyra’s got a thing for you, son. You too blind to see that?”

He wanted to see it—wanted more than anything to believe it. “Are you sure?”

“Hell yes, I’m sure. Even a dummy like me can see that. Every time your name gets mentioned she turns all flushy-faced.”

“Well I…I guess I’d like to know what you think about that.”

“What do I think! Hell, man, she’s my daughter! I might be a tad biased, but I damn well think you could do worse.”

Worse!
“No, sir, I can’t disagree with that, but I’m asking if you think she could do better?”

“Well, first of all, son, if you know anything about the women in this family, you know it doesn’t much matter what I think. But between you and me, nothing would make me happier.”

C
HAPTER
F
ORTY-FIVE

The Pacific Pearl, Taipa Island, Macau

Saturday, 21 July 19:41:06 GMT +0800

The waiter pulled back the last vacant chair at the front table, and Simon took his seat between Li Quan and Kyra, who was holding T.J. on her lap. The boy looked over and grinned, obviously very pleased to be back in his mother’s arms. A mother, Simon thought, who couldn’t have looked any more spectacular. Dressed in a simple midnight-blue cocktail dress, she had her hair pulled back in a way that accentuated her face and gave her a somewhat regal appearance. Overall, she looked sleek, sophisticated, and sexy. “You don’t look too bad in a dress, Rynerson.”

She cut him a little sideways look. “Was that supposed to be a compliment, Leonidovich?”

“I was simply comparing this look to that fashionable wet T-shirt thing you wore on the island. This is nice, but…well, not quite as spectacular.”

She chuckled, the sound low in her throat, her eyes taking in his new Armani tux, which had been custom-tailored to accommodate his cast. “You clean up pretty well yourself, Leonidovich.”

Within minutes, all the invited guests—a confluence of world politicians, business leaders, and international celebrities—had taken their seats, and the doors were now closed, tuxedoed security agents from three nations circling the giant ballroom. Architecturally, the room looked like it might have been plucked from the palace of Versailles: the walls covered in pale blue silk, the ceiling awash with gleaming prisms of cut crystal. Even the tables and chairs looked vintage. The flags of China, Taiwan, and the United States hung over the dais, empty except for a long table covered in ivory silk brocade. At the center of the table, encased within bulletproof glass, sat the hallmark of Shih huang-ti, First Sovereign Emperor of a united China: the Crest of Ch’in.

Simon turned to Li Quan, who looked ready to burst with pride. “The place looks spectacular, Mr. Quan. Congratulations.”

Quan smiled and dipped his head. “Very good
joss.
”

Plus four billion dollars and a lot of hard work, Simon thought, as the din of conversation suddenly faded. A moment later, everyone rose to their feet as a military guard escorted the three presidents, Jake and Billie Rynerson, and a brigade of political functionaries onto the dias. Simon reached over and gave Kyra’s hand a squeeze. “I see your father talked his way out of that wheelchair.”

She nodded, her eyes brimming with tears. T.J., who until that moment had been remarkably composed for a two-year-old, suddenly spotted his grandfather. “Poppy!”

Big Jake winked and gave his grandson a thumbs up as a ripple of laughter pulsated across the room.

James Atherton watched the three presidents toast their great accomplishment—the Pacific Rim Alliance—and knew he was in serious trouble. He turned away from the screen, looking down the length of the conference table to the slab face of Tureyuki Yakamaro, chairman of Yakamaro Industries and titular head of the consortium of Taiwanese businessmen who had paid to see the Alliance fail. “You can’t blame this on me.”

Yakamaro picked up the tiny remote, the sole object on the long glass table, and muted the sound. “Of course not.”

Just the way he said it—
of course not
—as if the matter were of little consequence, made the hair rise on the back of Atherton’s neck. “That’s not the real crest, you know. Not all of it, anyway.” He tried to remain calm, but could hear the tightness in his voice. “I can’t help it if Beijing decided to go ahead without the real thing.”

“Of course not.”

Jian-min Weng—the only one Atherton had ever met or talked to before that day, and the only other person present in the room—stood and bowed to the chairman. “Yakamaro,
xiansheng.
”

“Hai.”

Weng stepped forward, laid the black case with the Smithsonian imprint on the table, then stepped back, bowed again, and left the room.

Atherton swallowed, trying to draw some saliva into his mouth. “That’s the—”

Yakamaro held up his hand and turned to the window, a spectacular overview of Taipei and the Pacific Ocean beyond. The sun was just going down, a disk of orange fire slipping into the water beneath a salmon-pink sky.

Some kind of ritual, Atherton thought, as he tried to appear appropriately impressed with the colorful display. Then, just as the sun winked below the horizon, Jian-min Weng hurtled past the window, his suit coat flapping behind him like a pair of broken wings, his face oddly serene. Atherton leaped to his feet, staring in shocked disbelief as the man plunged toward the sidewalk, fifty-three stories below. “What the…why…?”

Yakamaro showed no emotion, his dark eyes as dull and dangerous as a shark. “He failed in his mission. The decision was appropriate.”

Appropriate!
Atherton sank back into his chair, trying to decide what he needed to do, how he could save himself—
It wasn’t my fault, I got the crest
—but his mind felt like a lump of dough, beyond any ability to reason.

Yakamaro reached down, picked up the small black case, and twisted open the lock. He studied the piece for a long moment, then carefully pried the carving free of its molded impression. About the size of his massive hand, he bounced it in his palm, as if estimating the weight, then turned it over. For the first time, his face showed a flicker of emotion, his eyes narrowing as he leaned forward, his face only inches from the back of the carving. Then his lips curled upward and he started to laugh, a kind of rolling, mirthless bark.

Though he knew better, Atherton couldn’t stop himself from asking. “What?”

“It’s a fake,” Yakamaro screamed. “A reproduction.”

“That’s not possible. It was on the plane. It’s the same one. I was—”

“You were tricked,” Yakamaro interrupted. “That courier played you for a fool.”

“No. That’s not possible. How can you be sure? You hardly—”

As if it was nothing more than an oversized hockey puck, Yakamaro slid the crest down the surface of the table. “You’re a clever man.” He made
clever
sound like an insult. “You figure it out.”

Atherton picked it up, barely able to keep his hands from shaking, and read the words stamped in clear English along the bottom edge.

Made in Taiwan

A ticket, he realized, to the next flight off the Yakamaro building.

E
PILOGUE

The Pacific Pearl, Taipa Island, Macau

Saturday, 22 July 23:04:15 GMT +0800

Kyra rolled off his body just as the crescendo of fireworks reached its peak; the night sky an eruption of brilliant explosions and pulsing claps of color. Simon struggled to catch his breath. “Holy Jesus!”

She stared down at him, her skin pink with the afterglow of good, adventurous sex. “That’s all you can say, Leonidovich? Holy Jesus?”

Bitch-bitch-bitch
—after two hours, she was lucky he could talk. “That’s what I call timing.”

She glanced toward the windows, a panoramic view of Macau and the contrails of a thousand colored sparklers. “It’s been a while. I was ready.”

“Any more ready and I’d be dead.”

She grinned and crossed her legs—as naked and shameless as a child—her scent sweet and wild. “You know, Leonidovich, the Secret Service is out there in helicopters.”

“Swell. I feel very well protected.”

“You sure they don’t have some kind of special equipment that allows them to see through this reflective glass?”

“I’m sure.” Thermal imaging, yes—and there had been enough heat to make the room glow like a plutonium stockpile—but she didn’t need to know that.

“You better hope so. If my bare ass shows up on the Playboy Channel, I’m going to break your other arm.”

“Trust me, Rynerson, if your ass shows up on television, it won’t be on the Playboy Channel.”

“Oh.” There was a dangerous chill in that
Oh,
like the first snowflake of an approaching blizzard. “You don’t think it’s good enough?”

“Not for Playboy.” He gave her a little smile. “You most definitely have a Magic Kingdom ass.”

She laughed—
haw haw
—and then they were both laughing and rolling around on the giant bed in a kind of postcoital frolic: a celebration of their survival and freedom, and maybe—though it was still unspoken—a future together. Finally, their energy spent, they drifted off to sleep, the lights still on, their arms and legs intertwined. They didn’t move for two hours, until his new cell phone began its annoying chirp. “Sorry, I have to take that.”