The Water Rat of Wanchai (6 page)

“Wait,” he said.

The line went dead for close to five minutes, and Ava began to think she had been cut off. She was just about to hang up and redial when Tran came back to the phone. “The wire was sent two weeks ago. It went to Dallas First National Bank, 486 Sam Rayburn Drive, Dallas, Texas.”

“Whose bank account?”

“Seafood Partners, who else?”

“Do you have a contact at the bank?”

“No.”

“Phone number?”

“None.”

“Well, thanks for this. I’ll follow up with the bank.”

Ava hung up and went back to her computer. Dallas First National was a two-branch bank, and the main branch, on Sam Rayburn Drive, was located in a strip mall. Jeff Goldman was the chairman, president, and CEO.
Busy man
, she thought.

The FDA cover wasn’t necessarily going to have an impact on Goldman. It was time to bring Rebecca Cohen out of the drawer.

She called the general phone number provided on the website. For close to a minute she listened to a Texas drawl extolling the virtues of hometown banking and personal service, and then she was transferred to voicemail. Again she debated about leaving a message. In the end she felt she had no choice, and added that the number she was giving was her direct personal line.

Goldman didn’t call her back until mid-afternoon. In the meantime Ava had convinced herself that he had checked her out and was never going to call, so it was with some relief that she saw the 214 area code appear on her screen.

“This is the Treasury Department, Rebecca Cohen,” she said.

“Ms. Cohen, I’m Jeff Goldman, Dallas First National Bank. You called me earlier today.”

The accent was hardly Texan; he sounded more like a New Yorker. “Yes, I did, and thank you for returning my call.”

“Ms. Cohen, exactly what part of the Treasury Department are you with?”

“Internal Revenue.”

“That’s still pretty vague.”

“My section specializes in money laundering,” she said.

“So why in hell are you calling me? We’re a local bank, a mom-and-pop shop.”

She waited for him to consider some possibilities, then asked, “Do you have a customer called Seafood Partners?”

She heard his fist banging on the desk. “Shit,” he said.

“How long have they been a customer?”

“Shit, shit, shit.”

“Mr. Goldman,” she prodded, “how long have they been a customer? Not very long, I would wager.”

“About three weeks,” he said, his voice pinched.

“Who opened the account?”

“A Chinese guy named Seto.”

“How much did he put in the account?”

“A thousand dollars.”

“Did he do it in person? Did he come into your branch?”

“That’s the only way we do business.”

“So you met him?”

“No, one of my account officers handled it. I mean, it was a business account with a thousand-dollar deposit. I saw the guy, though. Tall, real skinny, scrawny moustache.”

“And then about two weeks ago the account received a wire transfer from G. B. Flatt in Houston for close to four million dollars. You saw that, I bet.”

“I sure did.”

“You didn’t find that a bit strange?”

“No, why would I? We’re a small bank, but this is Texas, this is Dallas, and million-dollar transactions are common enough.”

“Still, one of your staff brought it to your attention.”

“We had to make sure it was legit.”

“How did you do that?”

“We called the issuing bank, and then to make doubly sure, we called the accounts department at G. B. Flatt.”

“And?”

“Flatt said they had bought a lot of shrimp from them. It made sense.”

It was time to back up, she thought, not to press too hard too quickly. “This Seto — what kind of information did he provide on his company?”

“They’re registered in Washington state, with a Seattle address.”

“So why use a Dallas bank?”

“He told my girl they were thinking of relocating to Texas. Looking at the deal they did with Flatt and knowing how big the shrimp business is in places like Brownsville, it was kind of logical.”

“So they didn’t have a Dallas address or phone number?”

“No, everything was Seattle.”

“Can you give me that information, please?”

“It’ll take a minute.”

“I’ll wait.”

The address and phone numbers were the same ones she had gotten from Andrew Tam and Barry Ho.

“Now, Mr. Goldman, that money from G. B. Flatt, is it still in their account at your bank?”

“Some of it is,” he said carefully.

“How much?”

“About ten thousand.”

“Are you joking?”

“No, and the way this conversation is going, I wish I was.”

“Mr. Goldman, don’t fret,” she said. “This happens all the time. A bank, a good honest bank, opens an account for a customer who seems entirely above board, takes in deposits for genuine commercial transactions, and then at the customer’s request transfers that money elsewhere for what are thought to be other real commercial transactions. That’s just about what happened, isn’t it?”

“You got it.”

“So where did the money go?”

“The British Virgin Islands,” he said.

“I could have guessed,” she said.

“How’s that?”

“Mr. Goldman, the BVI are the world’s tax haven. There are more than half a million offshore companies registered there — that’s about half the world total.”

“I run a small local bank, that’s all,” he said.

“I understand, I understand. Now, to which company was the money sent?”

“S&A Investments.”

“Address?”

“I have a copy of our wire in front of me. It was sent six days ago to S&A Investments, P.O. Box 718, Simon House, Road Town, Tortola, British Virgin Islands.”

“Care of which bank?”

“Barrett’s”

“Account?”

“Account number 055-439-4656.”

“Great,” she said. “You’ve been just great.”

“We don’t like to get mixed up in things like this,” he said.

“I know, but sometimes it’s difficult to avoid people like Seto.”

“Never again. I’m closing his account as soon as I get off the phone with you.”

“Oh no, don’t do that,” she said quickly. “Please leave it alone. I need you to call me at once if Seto comes back to the bank or contacts you in any way.”

“Ms. Cohen, you do know there was a second wire as well?”

Ava couldn’t help being surprised. “No, I didn’t.”

“Yeah, for just over a million dollars, from Safeguard, a retail food chain in Portland, Oregon. We sent it to the same account in the British Virgin Islands.”

“When?”

“Two days ago.”

It looked as if Seto had cleared out the inventory. That was a good thing. Money was easier to repossess than goods, and she wouldn’t have to worry about selling it if she got her hands on it.

“You’ve been terrific, Mr. Goldman. Let’s hope I don’t have talk to you again.”

It was just past two o’clock and Ava hadn’t eaten anything all day except a bowl of congee for breakfast. There was a Chinese restaurant on Bloor Street that served dim sum till three. She looked out her window at the street below. It wasn’t snowing but it was cold and blustery, and the few pedestrians who had ventured out were wrapped up tightly and walking as quickly as they could, chins buried in their chests. She called the Italian restaurant where she had eaten the night before and ordered a pizza for delivery.

Then she called the travel agent she always used to book her trips. Most of her friends booked online, but she preferred having a buffer between herself and the airlines in case she had to make schedule changes, which she often did. She told the agent to book her on a flight to Seattle and to reserve a seat from there to Hong Kong and then on to Thailand.

Ava called her mother and her best friend, Mimi, to let them know she was getting out of town. The winter was wearing her down, she said, and she was heading to Thailand for ten days or so of fun and sun.

“Are you going through Hong Kong?” her mother asked.

“Yes.”

“Will you call your father?”

“No.”

She heard disappointment in her mother’s voice. “So, you are just seeing Uncle?”

“Mum, I’ll be in transit in Hong Kong. I probably won’t see anyone.”

Ava travelled light. It took her less than half an hour to pack her Louis Vuitton monogrammed suitcase and her Shanghai Tang “Double Happiness” bag. The suitcase was where she packed her business look: black linen slacks, a pencil skirt, Cole Hahn black leather pumps, two sets of black bras and panties, and three Brooks Brothers shirts in powder blue, pink, and white — one with a button-down collar, the other two with modified Italian collars, and all of them with French cuffs. She chose a small jewellery case to hold her Cartier Tank Française watch, a set of green jade cufflinks, and a simple gold crucifix. She then went through the leather pouch that held her collection of clasps, pins, barrettes, headbands, and combs and took out an ivory chignon pin she especially loved, adding it to the jewellery case. Ava wore her hair up nearly all the time and liked to accentuate it. Nothing did so better than the chignon pin.

Her toilet kit was always packed and ready to go: toothbrush, toothpaste, hairbrush, deodorant, shampoo, Annick Goutal perfume, one lipstick, and mascara. The shampoo was in a hundred-millilitre bottle, as required by airport security. She had four such bottles neatly packed in the plastic bag that was also required. Only one of the bottles held shampoo; the other three contained chloral hydrate.

The contents of the Shanghai Tang bag were more eclectic: the Moleskine notebook, two fountain pens, her computer, running shoes and shorts, a sports bra, socks, three Giordano T-shirts, a Chanel purse to take to meetings, and two rolls of duct tape. Ava went to the kitchen, took thirty Starbucks coffee sachets from a container, and tossed them into the bag.

At eight she called Uncle.

“
Wei
,” he answered.

“I found the money,” she said.

“The shrimp?”

“No, the shrimp have been sold already. I’ve located the money.”

“How much?”

“About five million.”

“Where is it?”

“British Virgin Islands.”

“That’s not a surprise,” he said. “Half of Hong Kong has bank accounts there.”

“I’m heading for Seattle tomorrow morning to see if I can find Jackson Seto and persuade him to give the money to Andrew Tam.”

“What do you think?”

“I have no expectations. I get into Seattle tomorrow morning around eleven. Both his office address and supposed home address are downtown, within a couple of blocks of each other. Who knows, I might get lucky.”

“If you don’t?”

“I’m booked on Cathay Pacific tomorrow night into Hong Kong.”

“Are you staying?”

“Maybe a day or two. I want to check out Seto’s Hong Kong address in Wanchai, and I might meet with Tam. I also want to talk to the guy who introduced Seto to Dynamic Financial Services.”

“Let me know how it goes in Seattle. I don’t care what time you call. If you come to Hong Kong, where do you want to stay?”

“The Mandarin.”

“I’ll book it for you just in case.”

“Thanks, Uncle.”

“And I’ll meet you at the airport.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I know, but I want to.”

She usually slept well. Her sleep mechanism was bak mei, the basic moves played and replayed in slow motion. That night was a little different. The core form was the panther, but this time she had a target: a tall, skinny Chinese man with a scrawny moustache and five million dollars in a bank account in the British Virgin Islands.

( 5 )

SEATTLE WAS A BUST. THE OFFICE WAS CLOSED, EMPTY.
Seto had moved out of the apartment the month before.

Ava was back at Sea-Tac Airport four hours before her flight was scheduled to leave, so she killed some time getting a full body massage in the Cathay Pacific business lounge. She called Uncle just before boarding. He again insisted he’d meet her at the airport and she again told him he didn’t have to. She knew how much he hated the new Hong Kong International Airport at Chek Lap Kok. He lived in Kowloon, no more than ten minutes by car from the old airport, Kai Tak.

Kai Tak had been theatre and drama, the planes approaching Hong Kong precariously through mountains and skyscrapers, crossing Kowloon Bay, their wing tips almost touching the lines of laundry on the balconies of the apartment buildings that pressed in on the airport. Then there was the bus ride from the tarmac to the tired old terminal, which had been built for l950s levels of air traffic, and the long lines at Customs before one emerged into a small, cramped Arrivals hall where hundreds, if not thousands, of people lined the corridor, waving and yelling at the incoming passengers.

Ava wasn’t as nostalgic about Kai Tak as Uncle. To her mind, the Arrivals hall at Chek Lap Kok might be huge and sterile, reducing people to ants scurrying under its soaring roof, but its almost brutal efficiency made up for any deficiencies in its character.

“I’ll sit in the Kit Kat Koffee House,” Uncle said.

The business-class section of the airplane was more than half empty, and the window seat next to her was vacant. That was good; Ava wasn’t one for casual conversation with strangers, and now she didn’t have to find an excuse to avoid it.

It would be a thirteen-hour flight, leaving Seattle at 7 p.m. (10 p.m. Toronto time) and getting into Hong Kong at 11 p.m. the following day, factoring in the International Date Line. Ava hated that, because jet lag was almost inevitable. The only way she could avoid it was not to sleep at all on the plane, and for her that just wasn’t possible. For reasons she couldn’t understand, the moment a flight took off her eyes began to close. On a one-hour flight to New York in the middle of the day, she could sleep for forty-five minutes. During one seventeen-hour flight from Toronto to Hong Kong, she figured she had slept for fifteen hours.

The Seattle–Hong Kong flight turned out to be not that extreme. Ava managed to stay awake long enough to eat dinner and to watch a Hong Kong action film starring Tony Leung and Andy Lau. Then she fell asleep until the flight attendant woke her two hours before landing, to serve her breakfast.