“The passengers didn’t always get there, though,” Rip pointed out.
“Rip, I just couldn’t say. Dumping the cargo at sea — something like that the people involved don’t talk about. Oh, you hear whispers, but people like to whisper. Gives them something to do.”
Rip waved away that possibility. He knew those kinds of things were happening, but he really didn’t believe China Bob had gotten his hands that filthy for the paltry dollars involved.
Rip glanced at the Russian. On the other hand, Yuri looked like he would cheerfully cut your throat for cigarette money.
“Was Bob into Chinese politics, do you think?”
“Hey, Rip, I don’t think the guy intentionally set out to die young.”
“Well, he figured wrong somewhere, that’s for sure.”
“Everyone makes mistakes occasionally. Even China Bob.”
“Think someone double-crossed him, one of his associates maybe?”
“I doubt if somebody shot him to get his wife. Wives being what they are, not too many people kill to get one. To get rid of one, yes.” Wong snorted at his own wit. When the noises stopped, he said, “A double cross is likely. Though if I were a betting man, I would put my money on the PLA. Rumor had it Bob might go to America, embarrass a lot of important people.” He shrugged.
“Thanks for coming by tonight, Sonny.”
“Okay. Now tell me the real reason you called.”
“I enjoy seeing your smiling face.”
“I didn’t shoot him, Rip. Bob and I did a lot of business together. His death leaves me scrambling, trying to salvage some things we had going. I’m not saying his death will be a net loss to me — I figure over time everything will balance out. You gotta be philosophical. These things happen.”
“Uh-huh.”
Sonny Wong gave up. “Great view you got here, Rip.”
“Yeah.”
“You ever want a passport for your mother-in-law, call me.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Come on, Yuri. Let’s go find some beds.”
With her husband’s help, Callie Grafton got the small tape reels properly installed on the player and pushed the play button. She was wearing the headset Carmellini had brought. Before her was a legal pad and pen on which she made notes and summarized the conversations as she listened. She made no attempt at a word-by-word translation. Occasionally she had to rewind the tape and listen to portions of conversations several times to make sure she had the meaning right.
Midnight came and went as she listened intently, occasionally jotting notes.
Finally she took a break, stopped the tape, and took off the headset. After she had helped herself to water, she muttered to her husband, who was out on the balcony watching the lights of the city; “What are you going to do with the tape after I finish with it?”
“I don’t know. Depends on what’s on it.”
“I’m about halfway, I think. I don’t understand everything I’ve heard, but Chan was apparently laundering money.”
“For whom?”
“For the PLA. The money was going to America.”
“Okay.”
“The congressional investigators might be able to put voices and facts together to make something of all this.”
“Perhaps.”
She stood silently, stretching. Finally she lowered her arms and massaged his neck muscles. “Do you think Tiger killed him?”
“Hon, I don’t know. I’m waiting for you to tell me what you think.”
“What are you going to do if he did?”
“I don’t know that either.”
She went back inside and put on the headset.
It was three in the morning when Callie Grafton removed the headset and turned off the tape player. Jake was curled up on the bed, asleep.
She went out on the balcony and saw that rain had fallen during the night. Just now the air was almost a sea mist, which made the lights of the city glow wondrously.
She had listened to the ten minutes prior to the gunshot, which the tape captured, three times.
China Bob Chan had been a human, and presumably somewhere there was someone who cared for him, perhaps even loved him. Try as she might, Callie could work up no sympathy for the murdered man. He was gone and that was that.
She turned off the lights and lay down on the bed. She was so exhausted she wondered if she could relax enough to sleep. Then her eyes closed and she was out.
The sound of morning traffic coming through the open sliding-glass door woke Jake. Callie was asleep on the bed beside him.
Being as quiet as possible, he got up and put on running shorts, shirt, and shoes, made sure he had a key to the room, then slipped out and made sure the door locked behind him.
Down on the street the day was in full swing. People filled the sidewalk, all in a hurry, all rushing somewhere. Jake tried to stay out of their way until he got to Kowloon Park, with its semi-empty sidewalks. As he jogged through the park he passed morning exercise classes engaged in slow, stylized calisthenics that reminded him of ballet.
He ran the entire length of the park and out onto the sidewalks of Austin Road, where he headed for the docks on the western side of the peninsula.
He had gone only a few dozen yards along Austin Road when he realized that he was being followed. Someone was jogging behind him, huffing loudly. And there was a car on the street, creeping along.
Jake Grafton glanced back over his shoulder, taking in the car and the man in casual pants who was running behind. He was a couple hundred feet back, and running was obviously not a sport with him. The guy was wearing the wrong shoes and carrying too much weight, for starters.
The thought of Callie asleep in a hotel room with the tape of China Bob’s last hours on the bed beside her flashed through Jake’s mind.
When he reached the street that ran beside the dock area, Canton Road, he turned left, south, to head back toward Tsim Sha Tsui on the southern tip of the peninsula. He kept his pace steady and tried not to look over his shoulder, though he did glance back once to make sure his tail had not collapsed on the sidewalk.
He veered left onto Kowloon Park Drive, just loping along.
Ahead was a ramp up to an overpass that went across the street and into the lobby of a major hotel. Looking neither right nor left, Jake took the ramp, made the turn at the top, and slowed just enough to go through the glass doors, which reflected the early morning glare.
His tail came thudding up the ramp, made the turn, charged for the door with his head down, inhaling deeply as he tried to get enough air to ease the pain in his chest. On the street below the car that had been keeping pace with the runner accelerated away.
Jake Grafton caught the tail by the throat as he came through the door and slammed him into a marble pillar, where the man collapsed, too stunned to move.
Glancing around to be sure no one was paying too much attention, Jake picked the man up by his pants and shirt and shoved him back out the door onto the ramp. There he slammed the man’s head into the ramp railing, and the man passed out.
After he eased the heavy man to the concrete, Jake patted him down. He had a small automatic in a holster in his sock, so Jake relieved him of that and pushed it down inside his own athletic sock. A wallet… he didn’t need that anymore, either. A few keys, matches, an open pack of Marlboros…
Grafton spent no more than ten seconds searching the man, then he straightened and went on into the hotel, leaving one middle-aged Western woman staring open-mouthed at him. No one else seemed interested.