before they left Hong Kong.
During the entire ride to Hooters, the two men sat in the back of the car talking to each other. “I’d translate,” Ava said to Martin, “but they’re just talking rubbish.”
She checked them into the hotel using her Jennie Kwong credit card. They were, as was their custom, sharing a room.
“Drop your bags off and then meet us downstairs in the bar,” she said to them, pointing towards the Dixie Dam Bar. “We have a lot to go over.”
(27)
Ava slept badly, waking three or four times during the night, trying to get rid of a dream that clawed its way back into her head every time she shut her eyes.
She and her father were in a massive hotel. They had a flight to catch in an hour, so he sent her to get the luggage from their room while he checked out. She wandered aimlessly from floor to floor, searching for their room, poking her head through open doors to gawk at strangers. Panic began to set in. She gave up looking for the room and went to tell her father, but she couldn’t find him. She ran outside to catch a taxi to the airport, where for some reason she assumed her father had gone. When she looked back, the hotel had disappeared.
The last time she forced herself awake, she had been sitting in the cab in the middle of a traffic jam, the airport visible on the horizon, unreachable. She sat up in bed, a cold sweat on her brow. This was a recurring dream. She had lost her father in more places than she could count, but it always unsettled her.
She made herself an instant coffee and sat on the side of the bed. Then she lowered her head and said a small prayer to St. Jude, asking that the day go well and end with her and her boys safe and secure. Prayer usually calmed her, but she still felt edgy. She took a bottle of vitamin B from her kit bag and swallowed two tablets, then sat on the bed again, drawing deep, slow breaths.
They had gone over the plan the night before. Ava had presented it to the men confidently, but deep down she wondered if it would work. Sometimes, she thought, you just have to have faith.
She went to the desk, turned on her computer, and typed in david “the disciple” douglas. Ten minutes later she sat back in the chair, frustrated, unable to find anything of substance to add to the information Maynard and Littlefeather had already given her.
Ava turned her attention to Jeremy Ashton. The investment firm he had worked for in New York was the Whiteburn Group. The name sounded familiar to her, and when she accessed its website, she saw why — it was a major player in many Asian markets. She had been going to call Uncle to tell him the boys had arrived; now she had another reason.
“ Wei,” Uncle said.
“Carlo and Andy are here and there weren’t any problems.”
“Good. And when do you expect to use them?”
“Today.”
“I will not say anything to Chang yet. Let’s wait to see how things go.”
“Yes, I think that’s best. But in the meantime, Uncle, I could use some help getting information. His name is Jeremy Ashton. He’s English and he worked for the Whiteburn Group in New York. I would like to speak to one of his former bosses or colleagues. Whiteburn has a big presence in Asia. We must know someone who’s worked with them, someone who can exert enough influence to find me a contact to talk to.”
Uncle paused. “I think I may know someone myself, and if I do not, then Chang might. And if he does not, between us we will find what you need.”
It was her turn to hesitate, a question about Jackie Leung on the tip of her tongue. She left it there. If Uncle had any news he’d tell her. “I’ll call after we’re done. It could be early in the morning your time.”
Ava turned off her phone and went back to the computer. She reread the data she’d already dug up on Ashton and then googled a name that was linked to his several times: Lily Simmons. Ava was impressed. Simmons seemed to be something of a party girl, but she attended only the best parties. She had gone to the finest schools — Marlborough and then Cambridge — and she had been a champion show jumper, representing Great Britain internationally, including in one Olympics. Now she worked for Smyth’s Bank in London, and Ava assumed that’s how she and Ashton had met. Her mother was Scottish, the daughter of a peer whose title was hereditary. Her father, Roger Simmons, had been a successful businessman who manufactured generators and then turned to politics. After being elected to the British House of Commons and serving three years as a backbencher, he had been appointed to the Cabinet and was now minister of industrial development. Ava saw that he was still listed as the major shareholder of the generator company. Given that the British political system operated much like Canada’s, she assumed his assets were being administered by a blind trust.
She has great pedigree, Ava thought, and then wondered why Simmons was linked to Ashton. What was the connection? She knew enough about England to know that a man from Sheffield who had attended Leeds University and now ran an online gambling site would hardly be a catch for a woman in her social circle. He’d be strictly downmarket to someone like her.
She drank another coffee and downed two Tylenols. Her hip was feeling better, but the pain in her ribs wouldn’t let up. She got up and took a long, hot shower.
When she had dried herself off, Ava put on her bra and panties. Normally for this type of job she would have thrown on a T-shirt and a pair of track pants. Instead she chose her black linen slacks, a white Brooks Brothers shirt, and her black Cole Haan pumps. She dressed slowly, carefully inserting the jade cufflinks, securing her chignon with the ivory pin, slipping her Cartier watch onto her wrist, and finally putting on her gold crucifix pendant. She went to the bathroom and applied black mascara and a light touch of lipstick, and then for good measure a spritz of Annick Goutal perfume. She stood back and looked at herself in the full-length mirror. I may not feel confident, she thought, but I sure as hell look that way.
She made a fresh coffee and then went over to the table where she’d left the gear. She loaded the gun and put it in a paper bag for Carlo. She put the cleaver in a separate paper bag. Two rolls of duct tape and the vial of smelling salts went into her Chanel purse. Then she retrieved her notebook and sat down next to the computer. Taking out copies of the emails she had received from Jack Maynard, Felix Hunter, and Martin, she started going through them, her focus not on entering the house but on what would happen when she was inside.
Ava knew the money wasn’t going to be all in one place — this was not going to be a simple one-time transaction. Douglas and Ashton had the holding company and a controlling interest in The River. Undoubtedly each of them also had personal accounts and assets spread out over various locations. One way or another she had to get at both of them, and she also needed time to execute multiple transactions.
She glanced at her cellphone and saw that she had missed calls; her phone must have rung while she was in the shower. There was a message from her mother telling her about the planned cruise, which she implied had been her idea. That didn’t take long, Ava thought. Uncle had called to say he had found a contact at Whiteburn and to expect a call. Maggie Chew had left a message saying that her father was out of intensive care but the doctors were worried about his will to get better. Ava deleted the messages and had turned back to her paperwork when the phone rang.
“Ms. Ava Lee?”
“That’s me.”
“My name is Jeff Galley.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t know you.”
“I was told to call you by Harold Knox.”
“And I don’t know anyone named Harold Knox.”
“Mr. Knox is chairman of the Whiteburn Group.”
“Oh, yes,” Ava said. “I’m sorry about the confusion.”
“Evidently Mr. Knox was speaking with a friend of his in China, who requested that someone from Whiteburn call you to chat about Jeremy Ashton.”
“And that’s you?”
“It is.”
