“Well, you’ve got the need for one now. Mr. Lee, you’re in a war, and you better have the best strategist money can buy. Ask around, then pick one. If you want a tip from me, try Pistol and Burns on Wall Street. It’s an old outfit. Very conservative. Talk to G. Fergus Twiggs. He’s a full partner and a smart apple.”
Lee looks imploringly at his wife. “Claire, will you remember that?”
“Yes, daddy,” she says. “Pistol and Burns. G. Fergus Twiggs.”
“Thank you, dear. Now show Mr. Cone the second letter.”
She goes back to the bedside table, returns with a sheet of white foolscap. She hands it to Cone with fingers that are trembling even more than they did at Carpacchio’s bar.
Timothy unfolds the paper and reads. No letterhead on this one. Just two typed lines:
He looks up in astonishment. “What the hell is this?” he demands. “Has someone grabbed him?”
“I checked,” Claire says, gnawing at a knuckle. “He didn’t sleep in his bed last night. No one’s seen him or heard from him since yesterday afternoon.”
“Oh, Jesus,” Cone says. “No wonder you’re in bed, Mr. Lee.”
The oldster sighs. “As the Good Book says, ‘Man that is born of a woman is of few days and full of trouble.’”
“I’ll buy that,” Cone says. “This is the only letter you’ve received?”
“The only one,” Claire says. “It came this morning.”
“Phone calls?”
“About Edward? No, none.”
“Well, if he’s been snatched, you’ll be hearing from the people holding him. They’ll either phone or send you another letter. I think you should bring the cops in on this, Mr. Lee.”
“No,” the gaffer says in an unexpectedly firm voice. “Absolutely not. I’ll pay anything to get him back, but I won’t endanger his life.”
“You’ve got no guarantee,” Cone argues. “You could pay off and they still might croak-they still might do away with him because he can identify them. But listen, this is a rough decision and you have to make it yourself. Don’t listen to me.”
“I want to do the right thing,” the septuagenarian says, his voice faint again.
“Sure you do.”
“You won’t tell the police, will you?”
“If you don’t want me to, I won’t.”
“But is there anything you can do to help?”
“Very iffy,” Cone says. “Right now they’re just letting you sweat a little. You’ll be hearing from them again. Then we’ll know where you stand.”
He looks at Claire to see if she picks up on that: practically the identical language he used at Carpacchio’s. But she won’t look at him.
“Tell me something,” Cone says. “How did this letter arrive? In your regular mail delivery?”
“No,” Claire says, “it wasn’t mailed. A messenger left it with our concierge this morning. The other letter-the one from Yangtze International-that was hand-delivered, too.”
“Uh-huh,” Cone says. “Both letters came at the same time by the same messenger?”
“No,” she says. “I asked. They both came this morning but at different times. About an hour apart. The letter from Yangtze came first, delivered by a commercial service. Then, an hour later, the letter about Edward was brought by a young Chinese boy. The concierge says he dropped the letter on his desk and ran out.”
“I get the picture,” Cone says. “Look, I’m going to leave you folks now. I’ve got some calls to make to people who may be able to help.” Then, when Chin Tung Lee glares at him, he adds hastily, “Not the cops. Just some guys who might have heard some talk. It’s worth a try. Listen, do you mind if I take this letter about Edward along with me? I got a pal in the typewriter business. He’ll be able to identify the machine used. That might help; you never know.”
“Take it,” Lee says wearily.
“And call me if you hear anything more. Either by letter or phone. And don’t forget to contact an investment banker. I know that your son’s disappearance is enough troubles, but you’ve got to start moving to protect your business, too.”
The old man nods and holds out his hand. Cone shakes it gently, afraid the wrist bone might snap.
“I’ll be in touch, Mr. Lee,” he says as lightly as he can. “I’m not going to tell you not to worry because I know you will. But you’ve lived a long life and had a lot of problems, and you solved them all, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” Chin Tung Lee says, straightening up a little and raising his head from the pillow. “That is true.”
“So? I’m betting you’ll grab the brass ring on this one, too.”
Claire Lee leads the way to the front door. Cone appreciates that or he’d be lost in the warren.
“First that letter I got,” she says in a low voice, “and now this. I think I’m going nuts.”
“Nah,” Cone says. “You’re a survivor. And your husband needs you. Got any ideas who might have snatched Edward?”
“Anyone out to make a lot of fast bucks,” she says bitterly. “But no, I have no idea who it might be.”
“How about your problem? Did you get another letter or phone call?”
“No.”
“Okay,” Cone says at the door, “hang in there and take care of your husband. He looks shvach.”
“Just the way I feel,” she says. She puts a hand on his arm. “Please, Mr. Cone, help us.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” he says gruffly.
Mercifully, the Ford Escort is still peaceably double-parked, which Cone considers a good omen-but of what he cannot say. He drives back to the loft, his brain whirling like one of those spheres of ivory intricately carved by Chinese artists. Within the outer ball, the size of a softball, is a smaller one, turning freely; within that a golf ball; within that something smaller, the balls dwindling down to a carved pea, and all these nesting globes are perforated with ornate designs and revolve dizzily like Timothy’s brain.
The first thing he does in the loft-even before he pours a vodka-is to compare the letter from Edward Lee’s kidnappers with the letter from Claire Lee’s blackmailers. Even to his inexpert eye it’s obvious the two letters are of different sizes and grades of paper and were typed on different machines.
“Shit!” he says aloud.
He works on that, smokes a butt in short, angry puffs, and ponders his next move. First things first, he finally decides, and calls Johnnie Wong at FBI headquarters on Federal Plaza. A real grouch of a guy tells him Wong is not available, but he can leave a message if he wants to. Cone wants to, and does.
It’s one hour, two drinks, and three cigarettes later before Johnnie gets back to him.
“The office told me you called,” he says breezily. “Second time today we’ve talked. When are we going to start living together?”
“God forbid,” Cone says. “Where are you-can you tell me?”
“Sure,” Wong says, laughing. “I’m calling from my car. I was over in Jersey on a job, and just came through the Lincoln Tunnel. Traffic is murder! Right now I’m heading south on Ninth Avenue. What’s up?”
“Listen, I think we better meet as soon as possible. The pasta fazool just hit the fan.”
“Yeah? Well, don’t say any more about it. Too many big ears on these mobile circuits.”
“So I’ve heard,” Cone says. “How’s about you stopping by my place? Don’t come up; I’ll wait for you downstairs. Double-park and we can talk in your car. How does that sound?”
“Okay by me,” Johnnie Wong says. “Give me fifteen minutes or so. I’m driving a black Chrysler two- door.”
Cone’s waiting on the sidewalk when the Chrysler pulls up about twenty minutes later. He slides into a leather bucket seat.
“Nice yacht,” he says to Wong. “So this is where the taxpayers’ money goes.”
“This is where,” the FBI man agrees. “What’ve you got?”
“The first thing I got is a question. Then I’ll trade. Ever hear of Yangtze International, Limited?”
Johnnie turns sideways to stare at him. He’s not smiling. “You really come up with some doozies,” he says. “Yeah, I’ve heard of that outfit. It’s the business arm of the Giant Panda mob. Handles all their purchases, leases,
