CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

The silence on the line was so complete that I thought we had missed the call.

Lennox didn’t utter a word, only pressed the phone mutely to his ear.

“Are you there?”

“I’m here,” Lennox said.

“Did you receive our package?”

“You bastard, you goddamned—”

“Now, Mr. Lennox,” the voice interrupted, “don’t be rude. I’m calling you with good news.”

Lennox said nothing.

“You don’t want to know what it is?”

“What is it?”

“That’s much better. I assume you have people listening, attempting to trace the call perhaps? Don’t bother, it can’t be done. Besides, I truly don’t think you want outsiders to hear what I have to tell you.”

“Where is my grandson?”

“I didn’t hear any clicks, so I suspect that no one got off the line. I’ve given you fair warning. The choice is yours.”

“Where is my grandson?”

“He’s a fine boy, Mr. Lennox, very brave.”

I caught Lennox’s eye, mouthed to him, “Ask to talk to Randall.” Proof of life.

Lennox nodded.

“I want to talk to him. I want to speak to my grandson.”

“Ahh,” the voice was mock-disappointed. “I’m so sorry. That can’t be done. He’s sleeping.”

“You sonofabitch, Soong,” he hissed. “If you’ve—”

J.R. looked up from the trance he’d been in and gazed at his father. He turned to me as though he didn’t know how we’d all gotten here.

“Really, Mr. Lennox, please. Quite the contrary. I’m calling because I want to give him back.”

“Why?” he said.

I winced.

“Because I no longer need him.”

I knew it meant that the caller had something damaging on Lennox, but Lennox’s mind had wandered somewhere else.

A moment’s hesitation, then, “When?”

“Perhaps as early as tonight,” he said. “But it’s up to you.”

“What do you want?”

“You know what I want,” he replied evenly.

Lennox’s hand was tight on the receiver, his knuckles white, his face mottled with anger. “You know I won’t—”

“Mr. Lennox, your House of Representatives has delayed the vote on Kelleher’s trade bill for one week.” Joey Soong paused to let it sink in. “I want a draft copy of a speech that you will agree to make, denouncing that bill. And I want a letter, signed by you, that authenticates it.”

“I’ve told you before—”

“I’m not finished yet. You will then schedule a press conference within the next forty-eight hours in order to deliver your statement. I expect you to bring every pressure to bear upon your friend the congressman to withdraw the bill from the floor completely.”

“That’s ridiculous, he’ll never agree to that.”

“I think that, for you, he might,” Soong said. “In fact; I think the congressman would do anything you asked of him.”

Lennox squeezed his lips tightly, and cast his eyes to the wall. He took a deep breath before he spoke again.

“And if I give you the statement you’re asking for, you’ll return Randall to me?”

“The statement, and all the rest of what I’ve asked for. Including your commitment to have Mr. Kelleher withdraw the bill from the House floor.”

I watched Lennox’s mind begin to work, plotting new moves, calculating new percentages. He twisted the phone cord between his fingers as he paced the floor.

“I can hear your puzzlement,” Soong said. “You’re wondering what’s to keep you from going back on your word after I return your grandson.”

Phillip Lennox didn’t reply, but stopped pacing long enough to cast me a sideways glance. His eyes were ice.

“Hostages are a bother, Mr. Lennox,” he said. “And I am now in possession of something even more potent.”

“What are you saying?”

Soong laughed. “Do you remember the document that our friend from the embassy showed to you?”

“Yes.” Lennox’s voice was hoarse, his expression morphed to something that resembled panic.

“What I have is even better than that.”

“No one would believe you.”

“They won’t have to believe me. They will be able to see it for themselves.”

The color drained from Lennox’s face.

“Haven’t you been following the news, Mr. Lennox?”

“What?”

“Your coast guard rescued a cargo ship yesterday,” Soong said. “It was discovered while foundering in the open ocean, and had been abandoned by its crew. The coast guard is keeping it afloat with temporary pumps. They are towing it to Pearl Harbor as we speak. I’m told it should arrive there within the next two days.”

“What does that have to do with me?”

His voice told me he already knew.

“One of the pieces of cargo on the manifest was destined for your facility in Baja California. I think you know what I am speaking about.”

Lennox looked as though he was going to pass out.

“If I don’t see your speech on television, and hear of the trade bill’s withdrawal before that ship arrives in Honolulu, I’ll make sure the entire story becomes public. Every detail. So you see? I no longer need the boy.”

Lennox’s face had gone white, the collar of his dress shirt ringed with sweat. “You’ll be implicated, too.”

Soong laughed again. “I am a Chinese citizen. I’ll be back home by the time your press airs the story.”

“Bastard,” he said.

“I’ll call you again in an hour, and you can give me your decision. Either you agree to exchange your grandson for what I want, or I will send him back to you in small pieces like the one you already received. One piece every hour. And believe me, Mr. Lennox, I know how to keep a person alive for days this way. Please save me the trouble.”

“How do I know you’ll keep your word?”

“To disclose the cargo situation even after you’ve done what I’ve asked? Think about it, Mr. Lennox. Why would I do that? Why would I kill the golden goose? You’re far more valuable to me with your wealth and influence intact. But, remember, you are of no use to me at all if you are unwilling to use it.”

“Where is my son?” J.R. said. He was coming back to reality.

Lennox stood motionless, the tone from a dead line buzzing dully from the receiver still gripped in his hand.

“Is he all right?” J.R.’s eyes were moist, expectant. “Is Randall okay?”

Lennox set the phone gently back in its cradle.

“He’s okay,” I said. “They want to give him back.”

J.R. looked to his father, then turned back to me. He seemed to have come alive for the first time since I’d met him in the lobby. “That’s wonderful!” he said. “That’s great . . . isn’t it great?” He wiped his eyes with the back of a hand, and I felt his enthusiasm die into the empty silence of the room.

“Your father has to do something first,” I said. “He has to agree to make a public announcement, and persuade Kelleher to withdraw his trade bill.”

J.R. looked confused. His face went dark, but different than before.

“Dad?” he said, looking back and forth between Lennox and me. “What’s happening?”

Phillip Lennox looked ill as he faced his son. “The stakes have gone up.”

I felt it before I saw it—an almost electric snap that brought J.R. to his feet, his expression one of incredulous rage. “The stakes have gone up?”

He took a step toward his father.

“Did you say the stakes have gone up? Are you out of your goddamned mind? They’ve got my son, your own grandson held hostage.” He stopped and pointed behind him at the small box that still lay on the table. “They cut off his finger for Chrissakes! And you say the stakes have gone up?”

He cocked his fist and let fly before I could reach him. The elder Lennox raised his arms to defend himself, but too late.

The force of J.R.’s blow slammed his father into the corner. The older man slid halfway down the wall, even as he continued his struggle to ward off the blows being rained down on him.

“You sonofabitch!” J.R. rasped, as he pounded his father without mercy.

I wedged my way between them, finally able to gain a position to shove J.R. to one side. His knuckles were skinned and bloody, his breath coming hard, his face slick with sweat and snot and tears. His father had collapsed into a fetal ball, the front of his shirt stained with the blood that had begun to flow freely from his nose and mouth.

The room stank of loathing as I stood in the gap between them, their chests heaving for air, their eyes hard and red. Lennox looked up at his son as J.R. drilled an accusing finger toward his father’s ravaged face.

“You will do what is necessary to get Randall back, you sorry fuck. No more negotiating. No more waiting.”

Lennox locked eyes with his son for a long moment, and I saw something pass from them. He swiped the sleeve of his shirt across his mouth, smeared blood high across his cheek, and nodded so slightly I nearly missed it.

Phillip Lennox had sequestered himself behind the double doors of his room, scrawling out a draft of the speech that was meant to secure Randall’s return, when Hobart and his man, Ted, returned.

“What the hell happened in here?” Hobart said. The stink of sweat and something primal still lingered in the air.

“The Lennoxes worked out some family issues while you were out,” I said.

Ray Hobart made for the doors of Lennox’s room, rattled them in frustration when he found them locked. “Mr. Lennox? You okay in there?”

“I’d leave him be, Ray,” I said.

Hobart gave me a look that suggested I go fuck myself, and rattled the doors again. “Mr. Lennox?”

No answer.

“Any luck with the security tapes?” I asked Hobart.

Ted answered instead, shook his head. “Couldn’t see a face.”

“Where’s J.R.?” Hobart said.

“Taking a walk.”

Hobart knocked again, rattling the doors on their hinges. “Mr. Lennox?”

“Leave him alone, Ray.”

He turned back toward me with an expression of confusion. “What’s he doing in there?”

“There’s been a change of plans,” I said. “He’s decided to ditch yours and get Randall back instead.”

I stood outside on the suite’s balcony, looked south past Diamond Head, far into the distance where Kona lay. I leaned against the railing and pulled in a lungful of clean air, laced with the fragrance of plumeria, sunscreen and sea salt. A patchwork of colored towels was spread out on the sand far below, and the carefree sounds of laughter and crashing surf drifted up to me. The scene was punctuated by the blasts of an air horn aboard the catamaran that was returning to the beach from a sightseeing trip up the coastline. Somewhere down there in that crowd I knew J.R. was walking the beach, wondering which patch of sand had been the last to touch the soles of his son’s bare feet.

It took a special kind of strength to be the son of a man like Phillip Lennox, a kind of self-possession that shrugged off other people’s desires to believe that nothing ever could be difficult for the son of a wealthy man. J.R. had it easy; J.R. had it made. I was sure he’d heard it all his life. I had heard it in my own life and taken a different road. But J.R. had stuck with the program. He’d worked his way through the corporate maze at Lennox Biomedical, having to work twice as hard as the next guy just to be considered an equal. A lesser man would have coasted, but J.R. had not, and even so, I knew he’d likely never be accorded the respect that had been given to his father.

Another burst of laughter carried up from the hotel swimming pool, and I turned my attention to a clutch of lotion-­slathered children, standing in a line that snaked beneath a roiling manmade waterfall, waiting a turn on the waterslide. Their parents lay on nearby lounge chairs, sucked cool drinks through long straws, squeezed fresh wedges of lime into colorful blended cocktails, and waved down passing waitresses for more, more, more. These were people who brought their au pairs along to look after the youngsters, and snapped twenties off designer money clips if the kid asked for an ice cream—the kind of people who’d never give a guy like J.R. an inch, never an ounce of respect. And he was down there somewhere, alone, listening to the same sounds that I was listening to, knowing he’d give every last dime he had to hear his son laugh that way again.