Ghost Hero (33 page)

The glass in our window was ballistic, an inch thick, but I’d swear I heard Anna shout Mike’s name. A man just through the doors stopped. He was thinner and paler but otherwise looked exactly like the photos I’d seen of Mike Liu. Appearing dazed, he searched the crowd. Anna jumped, waved, shouted all at once. He spotted her, pushed his way over, and enveloped her in a huge, crushing hug. The little group disappeared out the terminal doors.

“Okay,” Jerrold said. “That was touching. Now you owe us. And this information had better be good. Or—”

“We know,” I snapped. “The terrorist watch list, the Justice Department, our families, we know.”

Jack turned from the window. “Don’t worry. It’s good.”

He waited for Dr. Yang, but the professor’s mouth was drawn into a hard, flat line. He shook his head slowly: He wasn’t going to speak.

So Jack nodded, rubbed the back of his neck, and gave Jerrold and Jin the name they’d been waiting for.

He said, “Doug Haig.”

27

The debriefing was, well, not so brief. The four of us—the Three Musketeers and Dr. Yang—sat alone in separate rooms waiting for Jerrold, or Jin, or Jerrold and Jin, to stride in and hurl questions at us. We each told the story as we had it. I gave my version, messing up the details that were mine to mess up, forgetting the answers that were mine to forget. Our versions were unavoidably different, just as we’d planned. Nothing’s more suspicious than four people whose stories match exactly, especially if three of them are supposed to have gotten the facts secondhand. Bill and Jack were pros, so I wasn’t too worried about them screwing up. It was Dr. Yang, the academic with a certain professional stake in the truth, and little experience at interrogations, who concerned me. On the other hand, he had the most to lose; he was capable of improvising—witness the three paintings, when the plan had been for him to bring one—and as Jack pointed out, he had the scariest scowl.

To Jerrold, on his first visit to my windowless room, I gave the details of the investigation we were claiming we’d done. We’d looked into the situation, so the story went, after Dr. Yang told us about Doug Haig arranging for him to slip out of China. We didn’t know about Chau then, I said, but his story must be substantially the same. I told Jerrold what was there to be found, most of it on the Web, which is where PI’s do our background investigations these days, didn’t he know that? All the evidence, of course, was circumstantial: records of Haig’s China trips, meetings he’d had with young artists who’d been caught up in the Tiananmen violence or denounced afterward. Some of the information I directed Jerrold to was real. Haig had made a lot of trips, talked to a lot of people. The patterns that pointed to political activity, though—phone records, surveillance reports from not-quite-identified, now defunct Chinese agencies, newspaper photos documenting Haig’s presence in this town or that—had been planted by Linus, to shore up reality.

It wasn’t the nature of the evidence against Haig that brought the steam out of Jerrold’s ears, however. It was Haig. “He’s an American citizen!”

“You were thinking a Chinese person pulled this off?”

“I can’t turn him over to the Chinese government! And you’re not giving me anywhere near enough to arrest him here.”

“Mr. Jerrold, we didn’t promise we’d make your case for you. We just said we’d give you the smuggler’s name. You’ll have to do your own police work. Maybe you can get Haig to confess.”

“Oh, sure! On what basis?”

Actually, I had no idea, so I held my tongue, and he stomped out. The really lucky break in all of this was that neither Jerrold nor Jin knew Haig particularly well. If they had, they’d never have bought for a minute the fantasy that Doug Haig would lift a finger, especially in the face of danger, to rescue anyone.

Finally, disgusted with my inability to deliver damning details, Jerrold told me I was free to go. I called Bill and Jack from the airport monorail, left messages on both their phones, and settled in for the ride home.

28

Threading through the boisterous crowd to reach our center-of-the-action banquette, a waiter lifted down a single-barrel bourbon, neat; a martini with three olives; and a pink cosmo in a wide-mouthed glass.

“Oh, come on, you guys,” I said to Bill and Jack. “I’m supposed to drink that?”

“Do it,” Jack said. “Don’t be a wimp.”

“Speaking of wimps”—I picked the glass up and sniffed at it—“Jack, I said it before but I’ll say it again: You were
fabulous.
”

“Completely convincing,” Bill agreed. “Except you said ‘smuggler’ about three dozen times.”

“I was trying to plant the seed and I wasn’t sure Jerrold was catching on. I’m sorry, Lydia, but your client does seem a bit thick.”

“He works for the government,” I reminded him. “
Your
client, on the other hand, has an instinctive genius for the con. As do you. Jack, you
so
sold it!”

We all clinked glasses. Jack said, “I’m not sure that’s a good thing.”

“What, that your acting talents are Oscar-level?”

“That I can be that convincing as a sell-out lily-livered spineless rat.”

“Bill was convincing as a Russian thug.”

“I’m talking about
acting.
”

“Guys?” That was a fourth voice. We looked up to see Eddie To standing at our table. “What just happened?” I slid over and Eddie slipped in next to me. He was introduced to Bill, whose hand he shook; then he looked around the table, blinked, and said, “Frank and I just had a long conversation with a gentleman, and I use the word dubiously, named Lionel Lau.”

“So he did call,” Jack said.

“Just the way you said he would. It’s a good thing we were prepared or we’d have both been on the floor in a swoon. He represented himself as the new owner of Baxter/Haig, which he’ll be liquidating as soon as he can. No, as soon as
we
can. He wants Red Sky to handle the sale of the current inventory, for a fee.”

“A fair one?”

“Jack. Those works, I’d have paid
him
to have our name associated with. But very fair, thank you. And he tells us we’re welcome after that to whatever artists are willing to sign with us, their existing contracts becoming null and void upon the dissolution of the gallery. Apparently Frank and I were highly recommended as experts in the field.”

“Is that wrong?”

“No, of course it’s not wrong. It’s merely miraculous.” A waiter appeared at his elbow. “Would it be out of line to order champagne?”

Jack said, “I don’t think so, no.”

The waiter was dispatched for some Tattinger’s and a selection of munchies.

“Furthermore,” Eddie To continued, “two also dubious gentlemen are reported to have appeared at Baxter/Haig within the hour, waving badges and wanting to discuss various things with the proprietor.”

“Who reported that?”

“Caitlin Craig, when she called to inquire whether we’d be needing administrative help.”

“Haig’s nervous assistant?” I asked. “She’s leaving the sinking ship already?”

“It seems so. Do you think we should take her on?”

“She probably knows a lot about the inventory. You’d have to nurse her through a case of PTSD, but it might be worth it. I wouldn’t touch Nick Greenbank, though.”

“Uck. Not with surgical gloves. But that’s on principle. You have something specific in mind?”

“We think he was Lau’s inside man. Probably ever since Haig first borrowed money from Lau. He’s how Woo knew about me.”

“Who’s Woo?”

“Never mind,” said Jack. “Just do this: Get things in writing with Lionel Lau and stick to the letter of the contract. In case of a tie, do it his way.”

“Jack, what are you telling me? The man’s a crook?”

“Yes.”

“In the art world? How can that be?”

“And I’d suggest that when you’re done with the liquidation, you be done with Lau, too,” I said.

“I see. Well, you people have certainly proved to be fonts of wisdom so far. I’ll tell Frank to do as you say.”

The waiter returned with a champagne flute, and plates of prosciutto-wrapped figs, tiny
merguez
lamb meatballs, and boiled peanuts with salt and seaweed. This hip multi-culti bar was one of Jack’s favorite haunts. Bill and I had let him pick the celebration spot because he’d had the hardest role in the con.

Eddie To lifted his glass, watched the bubbles rise, and took a swallow. “Yum. So tell me, besides being unable to pay his debt to a crook, is Haig in trouble? The men with the badges—has being a douchebag become a crime?”

“It hasn’t, but he is,” said Jack. “It won’t last, though. For what he’s accused of, there’s no proof.”

“Did he do it?”

“No. The trail’s long, but it’s mostly fresh brushstrokes to fit the picture we wanted to paint.”

“Careful,” I said. “That’s awfully close to a nature metaphor.”

“Well,” Eddie said, “lucky for Haig, then.”

“Sure,” Jack said. “He only has two problems. One’s Lau, but he expected that. His plan, if he couldn’t pay him off, was to let Lau have Baxter/Haig and walk away. Find another sucker to finance him and start again.”

“You speak of that plan in the past tense. As though it were over.”

“It is. The other problem interferes. The PRC government’s seriously irritated with him. I don’t think he’ll be getting any more visas.”

Eddie To’s eyes lit up behind the round glasses. “Doug Haig, PNG in the PRC?”

Jack nodded and stuck the silver martini sword into his mouth so he could pull the olives off.

“Can it be?” Eddie said. “Doug Haig’s edge, gone? The era of Haig Hegemony over the field of contemporary Chinese art, coming to a close?”

“The sun sets on every empire,” I said.

“Drink your cosmo,” said Jack.

I held my pink drink up to the light as Eddie had his champagne and squinted at it.

“I’m not sure I want to hear any more,” Eddie said. “It almost sounds like you people framed Doug Haig for something he didn’t do.”

“Would that bother you?”

“Are you serious? I just don’t want to know too much because I don’t want to be arrested when you are.”

“We already were arrested,” I said. “And look at us now.”

“You were?”

“Well, close.”

Eddie waited, but no more explanation was forthcoming. “All right,” he shrugged and said. “The fact that Frank and I have suddenly become Rulers of the Universe is only one of the thunderbolts Lau threw. Among the items he wants us to unload are three new Chaus.”

“He told you you can’t do that until after next week, right?” said Bill.

“‘Unload’ is the least important word in that sentence.” Eddie frowned at Bill. “Three! New! Chaus!
New.
Previously unknown. In fact, previously unpainted. Lau says they’re new, like really, really new. He says Chau’s alive.”

“Well,” I cautiously brought the cosmo closer, “there’ve always been those rumors. And Bernard Yang is ready to authenticate these as real, and possibly new. Of course, authentications are often disputed.”

“These won’t be,” said Jack.

“Not that they’re Chaus, no. But that they were painted in the last year or so. I just want Eddie to be prepared. He may get a different opinion from Dr. Snyder, or from the real Dr. Lin.”

“There’s a fake Dr. Lin?” Eddie asked.

Jack didn’t answer that. Instead, he said, “He won’t.”

I’d been about to taste the pink thing, but I stopped. “Jack? What are you saying? Those are the Chaus from Anna’s room. From the Tiananmen days. They’re not new.”

Jack paused before he spoke. “When I told Dr. Yang about the plan, after the first burst of Jack-that’s-insane, he started arguing details. He said those three Chaus were Anna’s, given to her before she was born so she’d never forget what’s important. He couldn’t give them away, they weren’t his. Anyone else, I’d have thought he didn’t want to part with them because they’re worth so much. But Dr. Yang would do anything for Anna. So I thought maybe he wasn’t interested in any scheme that would get Mike Liu out of prison.”

“Mike Liu’s getting out of prison?” Eddie broke in.

“He’s out, Eddie.”

“Let Jack finish,” I said.

“But—” said Eddie, looking like the Red Queen had just suppressed him.

“It’s not public yet,” said Jack. “So keep it in your hat. It will be, in a few days.”

“I—” Eddie stopped. “Am I supposed to have any idea what we’re talking about?”

“No.”

“Oh. Fine.” He reached for a fig.

“So I asked him,” Jack said. “About Mike. He told me to back off. He’d opposed the marriage because he didn’t want Anna involved with a Chinese dissident, something he knew something about. But now Mike’s his son-in-law, now he’s family. I said, then for his son-in-law’s freedom, Anna’s happiness, and incidentally her career, this was his best shot. Now, Eddie, here’s what matters to you. Where Dr. Yang got stuck every time was at claiming Chau was alive. I told him we had to, that we had to make them want badly something that they couldn’t get, so they’d demand second best, which was the smuggler. He dug in and fought me. I thought his problem was the old idea of exploiting his friend.”

“But?” I said.

“Finally he told me he had to think and he’d call me. When he did and agreed, I thought I’d just worn him down. Then at the gallery he pulled those paintings out, and I got it. You were blindsided because he brought three. For me it was the paintings themselves.”

“Jack, really, you’re not saying—”

“Yes, I am. The line quality, the composition—everything about those paintings screams the same painter, twenty years later. When I was supposed to be up the street having coffee while you guys messed with Jerrold’s head in my office? I really
was
with Dr. Yang. I had to know. Then I came back and read from my script the way we’d made it up. Except it was all true.”

“My God. Jack, really?” I stared at him. “The Ghost Hero is alive?”

Jack looked into the clear liquor of his drink, possibly because it was more attractive than the three pairs of bugging eyes around the table. Well, two—mine and Eddie’s. And one narrowed: Bill’s. He doesn’t bug. Jack went on: “That’s why Dr. Yang didn’t want us to say it. Because it’s true.”