The Water Rat of Wanchai (17 page)

When Ava hung up, she noticed that an overweight middle-aged man had joined her. His large gut was accentuated by the tight T-shirt tucked into his jeans. The shirt read, guyana sucks. He had tattoos on both arms: RED
DEVILS down one and MANCHESTER
U down the other. He walked over to the coffee shop and rattled the closed grate. A young East Indian woman stuck her head out, saw him, and swung it open. Ava followed him in.

The coffee shop was small, but she tried to find a table as far away from him as possible. It didn’t do much good.

“So what in hell are you doing here?” he called over to her.

She wasn’t adept at identifying English accents, but even without the tattoos she could have figured out that he was from northern England and definitely working class. “I’m here on business,” she said, wishing she had a book or a newspaper to hide behind.

To her surprise he got up, walked over to her table, and sat down. “I’m Tom Benson,” he said.

“Ava Lee.”

“So what are you doing in this hellhole?”

“Some business — financial. In and out.”

“I should be so fucking lucky,” he said, pronouncing it more like
fooking
.

“Really.”

“Been here six fucking months and probably good for another six.”

“And how is that?”

“The power. I’m here to fix it, if it can be fixed.”

“You don’t seem to be having much success, if last night is any indication.”

The waitress came to the table. “Coffee and toast,” he said, “and make sure you use bottled water for the coffee.” He looked at Ava. “Don’t order the eggs or any of the meat. It’s given me at least two bouts of food poisoning. And you have to insist on bottled water or they use that shite from the river. They tried to sneak it by me once, but I went to the fucking kitchen and caught them. Now I pop in and out of the kitchen every so often to keep them honest.”

“I’ll have what he’s having,” Ava said to the waitress.

“I work for Rolls-Royce. They used to be in the diesel generator business, like about a hundred fucking years ago. This city has the last of those generators that are still working. They should have been replaced years ago but no one gives a shite, and even if they did they probably don’t have the money. So the Guyana government went to the U.K. government and said, ‘We have this problem. Could you arrange to send someone over to fix it?’ The U.K. guys went to Rolls-Royce and said, ‘Send someone over. We’ll pay for him.’ So here I am.”

“Six months?”

“Right. The second week I was here, I figured out one of the major problems and told the Power Authority — what a joke they are — they needed to order some parts. They have to be custom made, see. They told me they ordered them from an outfit in the U.S., some high-end tool-and-die operation. I’m still waiting for those fucking parts.”

“So what do you do? I mean, how do you fill your days?”

“At eight thirty they’ll send a car and driver for me. I’ll go to the office, make my long-distance calls back home, fuck around on the Internet, and then around eleven drag my arse into the boss’s office and ask him if the parts have arrived. He’ll say no and I’ll have the driver bring me back to the hotel. I usually sit by the pool drinking beer all afternoon, and then I head into town for dinner. I didn’t have this belly when I got here. I also had a girlfriend back home, and she’s packed me in.”

“So why do you stay?”

“The money mainly. I’m living here for virtually fucking free. All I have to pay for is my beer. Then, of course, there are the girls,” he said, looking to gauge her reaction. When she registered none, he went on. “I mean, for a bloke like me this is heaven when it comes to the girls. At home you practically have to beg before you can get laid. Here I flash a few dollars and, voila, I have my pick of the lot — every night if I want.”

“Sounds like fun.”

“Not always. Sometimes it can get dicey.”

“Meaning?”

“This is a rough place, even for someone like me. Have to be careful. I was robbed twice before I figured out it was smart to leave my watch, wallet, room key, and everything but the money I needed for the night here in the hotel. If you’re going out anywhere, you should do the same thing. They’ll fucking come at you for a plastic Timex, never mind a Cartier,” he said, pointing at hers.

“Thanks.”

“No bother.”

Breakfast arrived. He didn’t let the waitress leave until he had sniffed and tasted the coffee.

Ava took a sip of hers. It was instant coffee, Nescafé, she thought. She wondered whether, if she brought her VIA instant in, they’d make that for her.

“Tom, do you know a club called Eckie’s?”

“Sure, it’s my favourite. Better class of girls. Imported beer.”

“Who owns it?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Have you ever seen a Chinese man hanging around the club?”

“A few.”

“This one is tall and skinny, really skinny. His hair is streaked with grey and he’s got a moustache that’s a bit off balance and a pointy, thin face like a rat.”

“Oh fuck, he’s a madman, that one. Drinks like a fucking fish and treats the girls like shite. He tosses money around like crazy too, which gets the girls all excited, but I’ve never seen him actually leave with one or nip into one of Eckie’s back rooms.”

“I thought you said it’s dangerous to have too much money on you.”

“For me, for you, for any other fucking tourist. He’s a local, that lad. I’ve seen the cops come into the club and give us all the fucking evil eye except for him. He has connections, he does.”

“The police are, what, corrupt?”

Benson started laughing, slivers of wet toast spilling from his mouth. “Jesus, what do you think?”

“That’s why I asked.”

“Look, the army, the police, the security people — it’s all one big happy gang here. You can’t tell one from the other.”

“So the Chinese guy is paying them off?”

“One way or another, but that’s true for anyone in this country who has money. You don’t get money and you sure as fuck don’t keep money unless you’re looking after the powers that be.”

“And who are they, the powers that be?”

“I don’t fucking know and I don’t fucking care. As long as I’m left alone, the cops and the army and the rest of them can fiddle away.”

“That seems sensible,” she said.

They walked to the elevator together. She sensed that he was going to come on to her and wasn’t surprised when he said, “Would you like to go out tonight? You know, hit some clubs?”

“Tom, I’m not really your type,” Ava said gently. “Believe me, I’m not.”

( 20 )

AT TEN O’CLOCK AVA SLIPPED HER NOTEBOOK AND
her Canadian passport into the Chanel bag and went downstairs. Dressed in a black knee-length skirt, black pumps, and a white Brooks Brothers shirt, she looked every inch a conservative, serious businesswoman.

She went straight out of the hotel up to Young Street, turned right, and walked two and a half blocks to a white wooden house the size of a small apartment building that flew the Canadian flag. She assumed that the embassy offices were on the ground floor and the residences above. She had expected to meet security at the double doors, but there was none. In the small air-conditioned vestibule, a young black woman sat at a reception desk behind a plastic shield that was perforated at mouth level.

Ava walked towards her, the woman eyeing her as if she were a thief. “Hello, my name is Ava Lee. I’m Canadian and I’m here on business. I’ve run into a bit of trouble and I need to speak to the ambassador,” she said, flashing her passport.

“There is no ambassador. We have a high commissioner, and he sees no one without an appointment.”

“This is an emergency. If he isn’t available, is there anyone else who can help me?”

“I’m not sure —” she began, and then was interrupted by the appearance of a man who didn’t look to Ava much like a diplomat.

He stared at her from behind the shield, his hand resting on the woman’s shoulder. Ava smiled and held up her passport. “I’m having some problems and I hope you can help.”

There was a slit at the bottom of the shield. He pointed to it. “Slide your passport through there, please.” She did. He took it and examined her picture and all her visas and entry stamps; then he spread it apart to check the binding.

“What’s the problem?” he said.

“Do I have to stand out here?”

He thought about it. “No, I guess not.” He reached down and hit a button. The door to the offices buzzed and swung open.

She walked through and held out her hand. “I’m Ava Lee.”

“Marc Lafontaine.”

He was a hulk of a man, layered with muscle. “You’re not the high commissioner, are you?” she said.

“I’m with the RCMP.”

“Ah.”

“I’m the security around here.”

“You may be exactly the person I need to talk to.”

“No one ever wants to talk to me.”

“Don’t be so sure.”

“What is it you want to discuss?”

“Out here? You don’t have an office?”

“Pushy, aren’t you?”

“Desperate is more like it.”

That caught his attention. “Follow me,” he said. “We normally don’t let people back here, but you don’t look like a threat.”

His office was modest, containing a metal desk, a wooden swivel chair, and two four-drawer metal filing cabinets. On a coat rack in one corner, his uniform hung inside a plastic dry-cleaning bag. She noticed there were three stripes on the sleeve. Two photographs of three young girls sat on top of one of the filing cabinets. “Are those your daughters, Sergeant?”

“Yes, and call me Marc.”

“Are they here with you?”

“They’re in Ottawa with their mother.”

“I see.” She looked at the pictures and then at him. He had short auburn hair cropped close to his scalp, thin eyebrows, a long nose, and a chin that was distinctively pointed. All the girls shared that chin. “They look like you,” she said.

“We don’t get many Canadians walking in off the street the way you just did. Tell me why you’re so desperate. That is the word you used, right?”

“That may have been a bit of an exaggeration. It’s a bit too soon to tell.”

“Are you going to make me guess what this is about?”

She had dealt with Mounties several times before. They had not been very imaginative but they had been rigorously honest, and she knew they valued the same in return. She had no intention of lying to him; she just needed to gauge how much she could tell him. “As security, I imagine you have to deal with the local police and the like.”

He nodded.

“Well, I need to know how the system works here.”

“You are going to tell me why, aren’t you?”

“I represent a Canadian company that was bilked out of a substantial amount of money by someone currently residing in Guyana,” she said carefully. “I’m here to try to collect some or all of that money.”

His face didn’t register any emotion; he had probably heard this story before. “That’s why there are lawyers. I can recommend a couple if you want,” he said.

“This has gone beyond lawyers,” she said. “Besides, the scam took place in the U.S., the money is probably in an offshore account, and the culprit is here. You can imagine how complicated any legal action would be, involving four separate jurisdictions.”

“I can. Now you haven’t told me just what you do. Are you a lawyer?”

“I’m an accountant, a forensic accountant.”

“So you tracked the money.”

“I did.”

“And you know who took it and where he or she is?”

“His name is Jackson Seto. He has a house in Malvern Gardens, on the outskirts of Georgetown, and he’s there right now.”

“I know Malvern Gardens. Him I’ve never heard of.”

“Why would you?”

He shrugged. “You’d be surprised.”

“Anyway, I need to tackle Seto head-on.”

“What’s stopping you?”

“I’ve been told by several sources that he’s connected to the people who run things in Guyana, that he probably has some measure of protection.”

“If he lives in Malvern Gardens it wouldn’t surprise me to know he’s connected.”

“To whom?”

“What do you mean?”

“How do things work here? You just can’t land at the airport, pay off a few cops, and all is well. There has to be some kind of established system, yes?”

“Very established.”

She waited. “Is it my turn to guess?” she finally said.

He looked troubled.

“You know, if we need to be off the record, that works for me. Both ways, of course,” she said.

“Do you want to start?”

“Are you serious?”

“Yes, I am.”

With anyone else she might have asked for more assurance of discretion, but she knew from experience that he would take offence. Mountie honour is a prickly thing.

“As I said,” she began, “I’m here to try to collect money that was stolen from a client. To do that, I need to meet with Seto to try to persuade him that it would be in everyone’s best interest if the money were returned.”

“And how exactly would you do that?”

“Well, I would try to reason with him initially, and if that failed . . .” Time to take a little leap of faith. “Then I would pressure him in any way I could, and that might include some physical interaction.”

“Physical interaction?”

“I’m not as gentle as I look,” she said.

“How extreme might this physical interaction get?”

“He’s no use to me dead, crippled, maimed, or otherwise unable to function.”

“You’re serious?”

“Absolutely.”

He shook his head, a tiny smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I am so glad I came to work today.”

“I don’t actually find this amusing.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, still shaking his head. “It’s just that I’m sitting across from a young, beautiful woman who can’t weigh much more than a hundred and ten pounds, who tells me she’s an accountant and then tells me she’s here to rip this Seto guy a new asshole.”

“That’s the way it is,” she said. “My problem — my potential problem — is that if I have to go beyond reasoning with him I’m going to run into his friends, and my experience in the developing world is that I won’t stand a chance. They’ll run me right out of the country, or worse.”