Timothy's Game (43 page)

“I checked with the SEC early this week,” he says. “No one has filed a 13-D notifying an investment in White Lotus of five percent or more and declaring intent. But that doesn’t necessarily mean anything; there’s a ten-day delay allowed.”

“But what does it
mean,
Mr. Cone?” Lee asks.

“You know what it means,” Cone says harshly. “They’re making a run on your company. Now we know why the stock has been going up, up, up.”

“I’ll never sell out,” the old man wails. “Never!”

“You won’t have to,” Cone says, “if you play your cards right. You’ve got options. You can pay them greenmail—more than the market value of the stock—and buy
them
out. You can start a poison pill defense to make it so expensive to take over White Lotus that they’ll just go away. You can look for a friendly buyer. You can consider a leveraged buyout: You buy everyone’s shares and go private. You’ll have to take on debt to do that. But then, in a couple of years or so, depending on what the Dow is doing, you can go public again. It could make you a zillionaire. But I’m not the one to be giving you advice on this. Have you got an investment banker?”

“No. I’ve never had the need for one.”

“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:
We have Edward. Do not go to the police if you wish to see your son alive again.

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.

Then
he mixes a vodka and water.

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, rentals, and investments. How did you hear about it? And don’t tell me it was in idle conversation.”

“Chin Tung Lee, the boss of White Lotus, got a letter from Yangtze this morning. They claim they now own sixteen percent of White Lotus stock and want to put their people on the Board of Directors. Sounds like the start of a takeover to me.”

“I’ll be damned,” Wong says thoughtfully. “But then I shouldn’t be surprised. I see the fine Italian hand of your old pal Henry Wu Yeh behind that deal. Did I tell you the guy’s an MBA? It fits the pattern of the Pandas trying to muscle into legitimate businesses. What’s Lee going to do?”

“Fight it, of course. I gave him the name of a good investment banker. The old man really loves that company; it’s his whole life, and he’s not going to fold because of one letter from Yangtze. But all that is just an appetizer. Here’s one from Column A: It’s a letter that was delivered to Lee’s apartment house this morning.”

He hands over the two-sentence note from the kidnappers. Wong scans it, then looks up in shock.

“Jesus,” he says, “they grabbed his son? The guy you were with at Ah Sing’s?”

“That’s what it says. Listen, Johnnie, you’ve got to cover my ass on this. I promised the father I wouldn’t go to the police.”

“So? We’re not the police—exactly.”

“I know, but if you guys go charging up there, install phone taps and tape recorders, put on around-the-clock guards and all that crap, Chin Tung Lee will know for sure I tipped you, and my name will be mud. He’ll probably send a hatchetman after me, and I got enough problems with Henry Wu Yeh.”

“Maybe you should read
How to Win Friends and Influence People.
You figure Giant Panda pulled the snatch? It makes sense. They put more pressure on Lee to make him turn over White Lotus to them. And if he pays a hefty ransom, they use the money to buy more White Lotus stock. It’s neat.”

“Too fucking neat,” Cone says angrily. “And it doesn’t listen. Because Edward Lee is palsy-walsy with the Pandas.”

Then he tells Wong the story of how, when he was frisked by Giant Panda foot soldiers, they went directly to his ankle holster. Only Edward could have told them about that. Also, Lee and Chen Chang Wang were thick as thieves at Ah Sing’s Bar & Grill before Wang got popped.

“Yeah,” the FBI man says, “I see what you mean. It sure sounds like Edward is sleeping in the Pandas’ bed. Maybe he’s in so deep that he gaffed his own kidnapping. It wouldn’t be the first time the so-called victim was working hand in glove with the so-called kidnappers.”

“That’s possible, too. But look, you told me the United Bamboo and Giant Panda gangs hate each other’s guts—right?”

“You better believe it. Like Cain and Abel, the Yanks and Red Sox, Texaco and Pennzoil.”

“You think they both got spies in the other’s camp?”

“You believe there’s honor amongst thieves? Of course they do. About a month ago we found two Giant Panda thugs sliced to linguine in a Jersey pig farm. Only it turned out they weren’t really Pandas; they were actually United Bamboo undercover guys. Their cover was blown, and they ended up feeding the pigs—personally.”

“So you’ve got to figure both mobs have a pretty good idea what the other one is up to. How’s this for a scenario: Giant Panda starts buying White Lotus stock through Yangtze International, planning a takeover. United Bamboo hears about it, takes a look at White Lotus, and decides they want a piece of the action. But Giant Panda has already accumulated sixteen percent of the stock, so United Bamboo has got to move fast. That they do. They kidnap the son of the CEO and biggest shareholder in White Lotus. You want to see Edward alive again? Okay, the ransom will be all your stock in White Lotus. And that amounts to about twenty-six percent of all outstanding shares. So by snatching Edward, United Bamboo ends up with a bigger hunk of the company than Giant Panda assembled by buying shares on the open market.”

Johnnie Wong, frowning, considers it for a moment. Then: “I’ll buy that. Mostly because it’s the way United Bamboo operates: they’re tough, direct, violent. They prefer physical action to reading SEC regulations before they move.”

“Have you guys got snitches in United Bamboo?”

The FBI man gives him a blazing grin. “You don’t expect me to answer that, do you? I will neither confirm nor deny.”

“Okay, then I reckon you do,” Cone says. “How about contacting your plants and find out if United Bamboo is holding Edward Tung Lee.”

“I’ll try,” Wong says cautiously.

“You’ve got to do better than that,” Cone urges. “This thing has to be wrapped up by Monday, or I may end up in a pig farm.”

“All right, I’ll move on it as soon as I get back to the office.”

“When will I hear from you?”

“Depends. You’ll be home tonight?”

“Oh, yeah,” Cone say. “With the door locked, bolted, and chained.”

“Why don’t you teach Cleo karate?” Johnnie Wong suggests.

After the black Chrysler pulls away, Cone goes around the corner to a deli and buys a whole barbecued chicken, a container of potato salad, and two dills. He carries the fragrant bag back to the loft, rips it open, and starts on his dinner, after twisting the tail off the chicken and tossing it to Cleo.