CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Hong Kong was starting to cool with the approach of autumn. The peak summer temperatures were gone, and an October chill was in the air. That wasn’t a bad thing, considering the relentless heat and congestion of the city. To Edward Brand, standing on the eleventh hole of the Hong Kong Golf Club in prestigious Deep Water Bay, the changing weather didn’t matter. Eight more holes of golf, and he was heading for Costa Rica. Hong Kong’s usefulness as a city where one could easily disappear into a crowd was drawing to a close. His flight was departing Chek Lap Kok in six hours.

The foursome ahead of him moved off the green, and he swung an easy five wood, the ball traveling the two hundred and twenty yards and landing on the green, thirty feet from the pin. His golfing companions, all natives of Hong Kong and casual acquaintances, applauded the shot. He smiled and bowed slightly. He loved this game.

As he walked back to the golf cart he let his mind drift back over the last few months. The NewPro scam had gone off without a hitch. The FBI was dead in the water, unable to connect Tony Stevens back to him. They had nothing concrete to work with from any of the cities where they had run the con. Every detail had been carefully covered, nothing to chance. Still, mistakes can slip through, and the first few weeks after the con is run are the most crucial. That’s when you find out if you really did cover all the bases.

He reached the cart and slipped into the passenger’s seat. Losing Tony Stevens was akin to a boxer taking a hard punch to the solar plexus, but it hadn’t knocked him down. The operation was in place and running smoothly. Only a few more loose ends to tie up, and they would be done. All nonessential players had been paid and were finished. Only three people remained in the know. Soon that would be down to two. Each cog in the wheel slowly dropping off until there were none left, and the gears that had driven the machine were stripped clean.

Two hundred and twelve million dollars. What a scam. Less than a year to set it up, up-front expenses of just over eight million and payouts to the key players in the range of sixty million. A lot of very happy people. And unhappy ones. He chuckled at that. It all depended on which side of the con you were on. Sometimes crime does pay—and when it does, it pays very well. His own take was somewhere between one hundred and fifty and one hundred and sixty million dollars. Not bad for forty months of his life and limited risk. The only downside to the scam was that his face was well known in the United States now, and he would have to steer clear of the country for a few years. Not a problem, he preferred Europe and Mexico anyway.

His partner pulled up by the green, and they walked onto the manicured grass, putters in hand. He waited for his turn, then read the green and tapped the ball. It broke hard right to left and rimmed the cup. Everyone groaned. He tapped in for a par and gave his buddies a grin. They were all rich, and shitty golfers. Common for Hong Kong. Lots of money, no time to get out for more than a couple of rounds a year. Brand slid back into the cart, and they headed for the next hole.

He had given the police and the FBI the Canadian connection, the computers and the tie to Mexico. And they had done exactly what he expected them to. Follow up, looking specifically for him. But Edward Brand didn’t exist. Nothing about him existed. They were hunting for a ghost, and that’s exactly what they would get. A mist that dissipated every time they got close. Nothing of substance. Nothing—ever. He smiled. Leading the police was so simple. They took the bait and ran about like lemmings until they finally headed for the cliff and the inevitable sea. The only real threat the authorities represented was that he might eventually get sloppy simply because they were so easy to manipulate. That was the only true danger.

They reached the tee box for the twelfth hole. He had the honors and hit first, his drive straight down the middle, two hundred and eighty yards. Again, the appreciative clapping. Jesus, golfing with these guys was an ego-booster. He smiled and retook his seat on the cart. He returned the polite clap when one of the others in the foursome hit a good shot. They started down the fairway, the breeze cool and invigorating.

One more detail and the con was wrapped up. One more. This should be fairly simple. It involved planning and execution, but then, what didn’t? He glanced at the surrounding hills, home to the extremely wealthy and privileged of Hong Kong’s society. Li Ka-shing, the reclusive real estate billionaire and Hong Kong’s richest man, lived in those hills. What a life. But then, why did anyone really need more than a hundred and fifty million dollars. He could buy houses wherever he wanted and live out the rest of his life in luxury on the money the NewPro scam had generated. Whether he would or not was debatable. The lure of taking other people’s money from them was too great. He had been wealthy before the NewPro job, but had still taken the time and risk to pull it off.

The truth was—he loved the risk. The adrenaline rush of knowing you had taken somebody completely by surprise and stolen something of great value. Because aside from children and family, nobody cared about anything as much as they cared about their money. They were all like Scrooge McDuck, alone in his money fortress, dancing on piles of coins and dollar bills. The silly fools.

Dance on. And enjoy it while it’s there. Because you never know when someone might come along and take it.

And then what?

He grinned. That was a question only people like Alan Bestwick and Taylor Simons had an answer to. He was fine not knowing the answer to that question.