Satori - Don Winslow [51]
The phone rang in Haverford’s room at the Peninsula Hotel in Hong Kong.
“Monsieur Cartier?” the voice asked, speaking French with a heavy Vietnamese accent.
“Yes?”
“A large transfer of funds request has just come through our Vientiane branch,” the speaker said, “and triggered an internal notice that you were to be notified.”
“Yes?”
“From a Monsieur Guibert?”
“Routed to what destination, please?”
The speaker rattled off an account number in Lausanne.
“That’s fine, yes.”
“Thank you. Good morning.”
“Good morning.”
Twenty long minutes later, the manager returned with the happy news that everything seemed to be in order, and escorted Nicholai to a different room where a wire operator sat behind a broad wooden table. The manager handed the operator the papers and told him to effect the transfer.
“The funds will be available at opening of business in Switzerland,” the manager said, nonverbally according Nicholai more respect. It had been a very large sum indeed.
“Thank you,” Nicholai said.
“Thank you for banking with us,” the manager replied. Then, needing to let Nicholai know that he was a busy man, he added, “If there is nothing else?”
“That will be all, thank you.”
Nicholai met the insulted Chen back in the lobby.
“Finished?” Chen asked brusquely.
“The man is an officious fool,” Nicholai said.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“I would like to see some of the sights now,” Nicholai said, “if you would be kind enough to escort me.”
“With pleasure.”
They got back in the car and headed for the Great Wall.
38
THE PLAN, HAVERFORD THOUGHT as he stood at the Star Ferry landing in Kowloon, is coming together.
Hel had received the message sent through the Muslim restaurant. He knew where to go and how to get there. The members of the extraction team, composed of Hui, were making their way to the Temple of the Green Truth.
“We’ll need some talent,” Haverford warned. “Things could get tough.”
Benton answered, “The whole team is trained in a Muslim Chinese martial art — bajiquan. Very good for close-range work in confined spaces. Same art used by Mao’s personal bodyguard. The team leader is a master.”
“He’ll need to be,” Haverford said.
“Don’t worry,” Benton answered. “He’s quick and clean.”
Quick, maybe, Haverford thought, but nothing about what we do is ever clean.
It would be good to get out of Hong Kong. Haverford never really liked the city, and the British were ridiculously sensitive about the “cousins” poaching on their turf. Just this morning, his British counterpart, Wooten, had accosted him at the breakfast table at the Peninsula before Haverford could even get down a cup of the less than mediocre coffee.
“Good morning, Adrian,” Haverford said. “A little early for you, isn’t it?”
“A Bloody Mary’s on the way over,” Wooten answered. A large, bluff man with, if Haverford recalled correctly, a rugby background, Wooten looked out of place in China. Looks were deceptive — Wooten was a noted Sinologist, a first at Cambridge and a lifetime in Asia attesting to the fact. “What brings you onto my patch, Ellis?”
“It isn’t the coffee, I’ll tell you that.”
“Then what is it?”
“Awfully direct, Adrian.”
“It’s early and I’m hungover.” The waiter arrived with the Bloody Mary. Wooten took a grateful sip.
“Just passing through,” Haverford said, “on my way back from Macau, checking in with some of the tea-leaf readers there.”
“Anything my king should know about?”
“Not unless he’s awfully bored,” Haverford said. “It’s the usual unusual — the Chairman is winnowing his enemies, what opposition he has are keeping their heads low, anti-this and anti-that campaigns are going on.”
“My boys reported a Benton sighting yesterday.”
“Everybody gotta be someplace,” Haverford answered, echoing the old Myron Cohen joke. He’d have to catch him the next time he was back in New York. But damn Benton and his leadfootedness.
Wooten nodded.