He approached the desk, gave his name, picked up his room card, and rode an elevator to the twenty-second floor. He had booked an expensive room with a view of Hong Kong’s harbor, a necessary part of his cover, and he’d had to spend a considerable amount on some really sharp clothing. The twenty thousand Glinn had given him was almost gone, and he could only hope another infusion of cash would miraculously appear. Otherwise he would be in deep shit.
He threw the stupid hat in the trash, along with the plastic carry-on bag, took a shower, and changed into fresh, crisp clothes. Forty Benjamins’ worth, not counting the thousand-dollar shoes.
“A man could get used to this,” he said aloud, examining himself in the mirror. He wondered if he should cut his hair, decided against it: the modish length made him look dot-com.
He glanced at his watch. Four in the afternoon — of the next day. After thoroughly searching Wu’s plane seat and making sure nothing had been left behind, he’d slept so well he’d be good for another two days. And now he had work to do.
Taking the elevator down to the lobby, he went into the Kowloon Bar, taking a seat and ordering a Beefeater martini, extra dry, straight up, with a twist. The bar’s purple light gave his skin a cadaverous look. He drank it down, paid in cash, and made his way back to the lobby. The concierge desk stood to one side; Gideon waited until a few people there drifted away, and then went over. There were two concierges, and he picked the younger one.
“May I help you, sir?” the man said. He was a perfect specimen of neutrality, discretion, and professionalism.
Gideon walked him over to the far end of the desk and leaned forward, speaking in a low, conspiratorial voice. “I’m a businessman, traveling alone.”
A faint nod of understanding.
“I’m interested in engaging an escort for the evening. Are you the man I should speak to about that?”
The concierge said, equally quietly but his voice betraying nothing, “We have a gentleman who handles these requests. May I ask you to come with me?”
Gideon followed the man across the lobby and through a door into a suite of small offices. The concierge ushered him into one. Another man, of identical discretion and almost identical appearance, rose from behind the desk. “Please sit down.”
Gideon took a seat while the concierge left, shutting the door behind him. The gentleman reseated himself at the desk, on which sat several phones and computers. “What kind of escort service are you interested in?” he asked.
“Well.” Gideon gave a nervous chuckle, making sure to breathe out plenty of martini fumes. “A man traveling, away from his family, gets kind of lonely, you know what I mean?”
“Certainly,” the man said, and waited, his hands clasped.
“Well, um…” He cleared his throat. “I want a Caucasian. Blond. Athletic. Over six feet. Young but not too young. You know, late twenties.”
A nod.
“Um, is it possible to get special services with the escort?”
“Yes,” said the man simply.
“Well, in that case…” He hesitated and then said it all at once: “I’d like a dominatrix. You know what that is?”
“That can be arranged,” said the man.
“I want the best. The most experienced.”
A slow nod. “The escort services here require cash payment up front. Do you need to visit our private banking facilities before I make the arrangements?”
“No, I’m in the green already,” he said, with another nervous laugh, tapping the wallet in his suit coat. Christ, this might use up the last of his money.
The man rose. “And when would you need the escort?”
“Soon as possible. I’d like her for drinks, dinner, then the evening, till, say, midnight.”
“Very well. She will contact your room by phone when she arrives.”
33
Gideon entered the bar and saw her sitting at the end, drink in hand. He was surprised at how attractive she was, tall and willowy, not the muscled roller-derby type he had expected. He, for his part, had shed his suit and changed into tight black jeans, a T-shirt, and Chuck Taylors. He approached her and sat down.
“I’m waiting for someone,” she said, in an Australian accent.
“I’m the man you’re waiting for. Gideon Crew, at your service.” The bartender came over. “I’ll have what she’s having.”
“That would be a Pellegrino.”
“Yikes! Get rid of that and bring us a brace of double martinis.”
He found her staring at him, and he fancied he saw a look of pleasant surprise in her face.
“I thought I was meeting some fat old suit,” she said.
“Nope. I’m a thin, young non-suit. And your name is?”
A smile crept across her face. “Gerta. How old are you?”
“About your age. Where are you from? Coomooroo? Goomalling?”
She giggled. “You’re a daft one. You been to Australia?”
He looked at his watch. “Let’s take these drinks into the restaurant and get something to eat. I’m famished.”
In the hotel restaurant, after plying her with Château Pétrus and sweetbreads, Gideon unburdened himself. He did it slowly, reluctantly, and only under gentle urging. He told Gerta about how he had made a fortune selling his company, how he’d worked so hard he’d hardly ever seen his little son, how his wife divorced him and then they were both killed in a car crash, how he hardly recognized his son’s little body in the casket at the wake because it had been so long since he’d last seen him…And now, here he was, a billionaire and so lonely he would trade all of it—all of it—for one hour with his son. One hour of the countless many he had thrown away making all that money while his son waited for him to come home every night, sometimes waiting up with a flashlight under the covers so he wouldn’t be asleep when Daddy came home. But he always was asleep, lying there, flashlight still on. Gideon removed a photograph of an adorable blond boy from his wallet and shed a solitary tear over it, and declared himself the loneliest, saddest billionaire on the planet.
He was rewarded with a corresponding tear from Gerta.
Back in the room, Gerta started to bring out her kit with what he noted was a certain reluctance, but as she was unzipping the duffel Gideon told her he’d never met anyone like her before and he wanted her to be his friend and wanted to talk a little more, she was so funny and interesting, and he couldn’t imagine now going through that stuff with her — the stuff that helped him forget, just the smallest bit — because he now respected her far too much.
Gideon asked about some of her more interesting experiences and she, reluctantly at first but then more eagerly — stimulated by his fascination — began to tell him about her work. They sat side by side on the bed, Gerta talking. After five or six of her war stories, she finally got to it. It had happened, she said, about two weeks ago. She’d been hired by this fellow from an Australian firm for a special job. Apparently the Chinese had ripped off this firm’s technology — did Gideon know China had been stealing from Australian companies for some time? — and they wanted her to get one of the Chinese executives in a compromising position in order to get the technology back. Ten thousand dollars for an evening’s work.
“I was expecting some Chinese gangster type,” she said, “but he was small and nervous. No bigger than a mozzie. Took him forever to get out what he wanted me to do.” She giggled. “But when he got going…here, look out!”
Gideon laughed along with her and went to open a split of Veuve from the minibar. He poured out two glasses.