Macau, China
SIXTY-TWO COUNTRIES. That’s how many Luke had been to in his nearly forty years. He knew that because he had totted them all up one afternoon while sitting waiting for a flight back from Medellín. Yet never, in all that time, had he seen anything quite like the place they had come to now.
The shimmering opulence of the Venetian Hotel Macau was either an object of beauty or an affront to the senses, depending on your point of view. Approaching the palatial entrance, already uncomfortable in the muggy, cloying heat, Luke had yet to make up his mind which side of the fence he was on. They were walking along a raised pastel-coloured terrace and facing what looked like a life-size replica of the Doge’s Palace in Venice’s St Mark’s Square. At this time of day there were few others around, with most people sensibly preferring the air-conditioned comfort of the casinos and hotels. Luke’s eyes swept over the building they were walking towards. Ahead, he could see ornate white Gothic columns and arches, balustrades and crenellations, beside a row of elaborately decorative green lampposts. There was even a pink and white replica of the campanile, the bell tower, over to one side. The whole effect was spoilt by a gigantic modern tower block that loomed over everything from behind.
‘I suppose,’ he said, as they walked up to the hotel, blinking in the full glare of the afternoon sun, ‘the clue is in the name but even so … this whole place just screams the word “fake” to me.’
‘It’s completely OTT, isn’t it?’ Jenny said. ‘A piece of fourteenth-century Venice transplanted here on the banks of the Pearl River. Apparently it cost over two billion dollars to build.’
‘Right,’ Luke said, as they walked the last few metres to the entrance. ‘So we need to be on level one, shop 1038. It’s a place called McSorley’s Ale House. No idea why Mr Lim suggested that but maybe it’s where our Mr Rodrigues likes to meet his guests. At least, the cheap ones like us. Hang on a second.’ He stopped just before he went in. ‘Can you just show me that photo of him again?’
Jenny retrieved it on her phone and passed it to him. ‘Can’t we do this inside, Luke? I’m actually melting out here in this heat.’
Luke’s first impression of McSorley’s Ale House was that it was one of those cosy, dimly lit faux-Irish bars that only made expats miss home even more. Big, overstuffed brown-leather sofas that looked like unpricked sausages, dark-wood panelling, a collection of antique tennis racquets and framed prints on the walls. The clientele was a mix of Chinese and Western, casually yet expensively dressed, seated in groups around tables and talking in animated voices. There was money here – he could almost smell it. Luke scanned the room looking for the lone individual sitting in a corner and pretending to study their phone: the stereotypical watcher. He couldn’t see one, but he couldn’t rule it out. China’s MSS would be running a sophisticated surveillance programme in a gambling capital like this that attracted so many high-net-worth individuals. As for the triads, he imagined they had their own ways of keeping tabs on people.
He scanned the room, looking for the table in the far right corner, as Mr Lim had instructed. Good: there was no one at it and they were a few minutes early. They sat down and waited for the waitress to take their order. A low, green-shaded light hung above their table, giving it a clandestine, conspiratorial feel. A good place to conceal a microphone, Luke thought. This would have to be a guarded conversation.
‘I think that’s him over there now,’ Jenny said. They got to their feet and pushed back their chairs. ‘He’s got someone with him,’ she added.
Luke watched as a smartly dressed figure strode confidently across the room towards them. Dark blue tailored suit, crisp white shirt opened down to the second button, black hair glistening with product. Luke also noticed his brown leather shoes, polished to perfection, but this man looked to him like someone who left that job for other people to do. Walking alongside him, yet ever so slightly behind, was a tall slim Chinese girl, her silver earrings catching the soft light from the bar.
‘My friends!’ exclaimed the man, beaming as he approached their table and holding out his arms expansively. ‘Francisco Rodrigues. Welcome to my second home!’ He waved a hand around the bar where a few people were nudging each other as they recognized him. Spies don’t like people looking at them in public places. Both Luke and Jenny shifted uncomfortably at this sudden, unexpected attention. Luke had never trusted anyone who called him ‘my friend’ and wasn’t about to start now. But he would play along with this to get what they’d come for. He put on a smile.
‘This is my executive assistant, Miss Xinyi,’ said Rodrigues, indicating his companion. Luke watched her as she bowed politely. She seemed to be avoiding eye contact with either him or Jenny.
They took their seats at the table and immediately a waiter appeared, hovering over them with menus. Rodrigues held up his hand. ‘I do hope you’ll join me in a Golden Ale? It’s their speciality here.’
‘Of course.’ Luke beamed. He hated drinking in the middle of the day and he had always preferred lager to ale. Jenny asked for a sparkling water and Miss Xinyi declined altogether.
‘And who is your delightful companion?’ Rodrigues asked, looking across the polished table at Jenny while the waiter scurried off with their order.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, holding out her hand, ‘I should have introduced myself. Bel Trubridge. It’s the first time for both of us here in Macau.’ She touched Luke’s arm affectionately as she said this.
Cover names and made-up back stories had become second nature to him by now, after several years in the Service. Yet he still admired the way the lie tripped off Jenny’s tongue with such effortless ease.
Rodrigues flashed her a smile of perfect white teeth. He must have had a little work done there, Luke thought. He was altogether more youthful than he had expected, with perfect English and only a trace of an accent. His fresh, blemish-free face was lightly tanned, and it was only when he turned to Jenny that he noticed the faint scar close to his ear.
‘So, then …’ Rodrigues rubbed his hands together, intertwining them like a pair of mating snakes. ‘How is my good friend Limbo in Hong Kong?’
‘Limbo?’ Luke replied.
‘Yes. Eddie Lim. We call him Limbo. Let me guess, he made you spar with him in that gym of his?’
‘Well, yes, he did, as a matter of fact.’
‘Ha!’ Rodrigues unclasped his hands and clapped them together in triumph. ‘I knew it! He does that, but I hope you said no to him.’ He looked from Luke to Jenny and back again.
An awkward pause seemed to have wormed its way into the conversation and Luke was about to fill it when Jenny spoke up. ‘So, Senhor Rodrigues. We are so grateful for your time and—’
She stopped in mid-sentence as the waiter arrived with their drinks. Miss Xinyi, who had still not said a word, got up to take a call on her phone. Rodrigues then pointedly changed the subject. He reached for a menu and tapped the laminated page with his middle finger.
‘Fish and chips,’ he pronounced. ‘It’s their signature dish here. You have to try it. Come on, it’s my treat.’
‘Sounds delicious,’ Jenny said. ‘I’ll have that. Thank you.’
‘And me,’ Luke said, thinking of the burger he’d consumed less than an hour ago.
‘All right, then,’ Rodrigues said, when the waiter had gone, leaning slightly forward in his chair and scanning their faces, from one to the other. ‘What can I do for you lovely people?’
‘We’re looking for a friend who might be here in Macau,’ Jenny said, cutting straight to the point. ‘Well, she’s missing, in fact.’
Immediately there was a peal of unrestrained laughter. Not from Rodrigues, but from a nearby table where two couples were clearly sharing a great joke. Rodrigues turned and scowled at them. The laughter subsided. ‘So I have heard,’ he said, facing them again. ‘You have my sympathies. But you’ll need to give me a little more information than that.’ He sat back in his chair and took a long swig from his glass of Golden Ale, waiting for an answer.
This was the hard part, Luke thought. Say the wrong thing now, give him even the slightest hint that we know about the traced phone calls from Hong Kong to Macau, and this guy will walk away. Or, worse, arrange for something to happen. Until now, Rodrigues had been nothing but charming and genial towards them, but Luke still had no doubt he was dangerous. His file spoke for itself.
‘Yes, of course,’ Jenny replied amiably. ‘Her name is Hannah Slade. I can write that down, if you like?’
Rodrigues shook his head. Why is he doing that? Luke wondered. Is it because he’s not that interested or because he already knows all about Hannah?
‘She’s a British lady in her early forties, an academic,’ Jenny continued. ‘She’s an expert on climate change. In fact, she was over in Hong Kong for a conference. But now … now she’s vanished.’ She looked pointedly at Rodrigues.
For a second or two there was silence, and then he let out a short, high-pitched laugh and spread his hands in despair. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said, ‘but I think you might have been given an exaggerated idea of what I can do for you. I run many businesses here in Macau, it’s true, but a vanished English lady from Imperial College? I’m afraid that’s beyond me.’
Jenny and Luke stared hard at him. There was no mistaking what they had just heard.
‘I never said,’ Jenny replied, in an even tone, ‘that Hannah was from Imperial College.’