The Wolves Page 20

  Instead he forced himself up, staggered toward the master bathroom. The suite’s size was an absurd luxury when all he wanted was to relieve himself, wash his stench away. The shower proved another ordeal, a dozen showerheads and a touch-screen control. He jabbed at the screen until the water flowed and he could close his eyes and turn over the night in his head. A single link would unlock the memory. Nothing. Nothing. Then he saw the cat on the Beijing airport road, risking his hide for a piece of chicken.

  He’d won. Won and drunk and drunk and won. Fifty million dollars? More. And at the end asked for . . . a flower. A fruit still unripe. A girl. Not too young, eleven or twelve. Ten. The thought dried his mouth, sent blood rushing to the little man between his legs. The only part of his body working properly at this moment.

  The desire had been in him all along. He’d danced with it for years, pushing the limits further each trip. The whiskey had freed his tongue, nothing more. He’d asked. But what had they said? Yes, maybe, no, never? His memories ended like a film cut off too soon. He had a blurry recollection of being steered into the elevator. Then nothing.

  But he didn’t think anything had happened. He didn’t feel like he’d had sex. A flower. Part of him believed that he had asked only to see how his hosts would respond. That he wouldn’t have gone ahead. His erection said otherwise. And as it drooped, he felt not relief but disappointment.

  —

  IN THE BEDROOM, Cheung pulled the shades. Night. The casinos of Cotai glimmered outside his windows, a million ways to win and lose. He pulled on a fresh shirt and pants. Upstairs, his shining plaques awaited. Something more, too. The men who knew his needs. He wasn’t ashamed of his desire. Something he wanted, a need as normal as breathing. He had the right. The real mistake had been bottling it.

  Nonetheless. He knew very well that his desires were illegal, punishable by prison or even death. His rank wouldn’t protect him. The opposite. Xi Jinping, China’s president, was making examples at the top of the party. Anyway, Cheung wasn’t sure what Xiao would say to him now. Much less Jian and the other hostesses.

  Maybe he should bank his winnings, go home. He didn’t feel like baccarat, anyway. He had drunk so much that some of the alcohol was still in his system. Experience had taught him that as his liver broke down what was left, depression would overtake him for a day or two, a psychic counterpart to his physical misery. No. Time for him to go back to his work. The vital work that would give China the world’s strongest air force.

  Back in Beijing, he could keep his wants in check. The state’s power hung heavy there. The risks were too obvious. He would wait for another invitation from 88 Gamma. If it came, Cheung would know that the casino accepted him and his wishes. And if not . . . he supposed that in a few months, when the need built up inside him, he’d find a new place to play.

  —

  THREE WEEKS PASSED in Beijing before his phone lit up with the number he’d been waiting to see. “General. It’s Xiao.” The voice quiet, deferential. “If you have a moment—”

  “Speak.”

  “I wanted to apologize. I missed the chance to say good-bye on your last trip.”

  “I had to get back to my work, Xiao. The people’s work.”

  “I don’t presume to understand, General.”

  “Which you’re interrupting.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. You know our Sky Tower opens soon. A month or so.”

  “I hadn’t heard.” In fact, Cheung was counting the days. The opening would be a natural chance for 88 Gamma to invite him.

  “We’d be honored if you’d choose to spend that night with us.”

  “You want the money you’ve lost, that’s all.”

  “With your spirit, we’re happy to break even going against you. But there’s something more. Aaron Duberman invites you to see the Tower before the opening.”

  “For a tour.”

  “Not only that. You’ll be the first person to play in the VIP room. What we call the Sky Casino. The very first. Mr. Duberman himself will watch. A chance to give us a test run.”

  An honor, truly. To be the first gambler at the world’s most lavish casino. Cheung supposed he shouldn’t be surprised. They wanted him to give back the money he’d taken. Maybe they figured that the new casino would swallow his luck. Wrong. His heart fluttered. And not only his heart. “I’ll check my schedule.” Words that meant “yes.”

  “Of course, sir. Let me know when you’re ready.”

  “As long as you’re sure you want to open this way.”

  “How do you mean, sir?” Xiao’s voice quieter than ever.

  “With a loss.”

  —

  A WEEK LATER, Cheung found himself outside the main entrance of the Sky Tower. The building loomed over him, more than five hundred meters high. Only a few lights shone inside, and the shape was almost negative, a black space blotting out the sky. Cheung leaned his head back, gazed up at the top floor, lit now. The Sky Casino. Waiting for him.

  “I’m truly the first.”

  “Yes, sir. This way, please.”

  Xiao led him to the front doors, the dark space behind them—

  And the lights inside flared, revealing a vast lobby, twenty meters high, its walls made of a lustrous metal that changed color by the second, now a swirling red, now blue, now green, a trick that seemed almost magical. Its ceiling was glass, an aquarium overhead, sharks and rays swimming tirelessly. One traditional touch, a huge red dragon in the center. As Cheung walked inside, Aaron Duberman strode from the dragon’s open mouth. Duberman wore a black suit, a collarless white shirt, and alligator leather boots that must have cost as much as a car.

  “Welcome to the Saloon!” he shouted, with Xiao translating.

  “I thought the name was Sky?”

  “Yes. Saloon was my first casino, back in Nevada. I used to work the floors just like this. It’s good to be back.”

  “I see.” Though Cheung didn’t, really.

  “So what do you think, General?”

  “I won’t pretend I’m not impressed.”

  “The most expensive casino we’ve ever built. Or anyone else. Twenty-eight billion yuan. My executives told me it was too much, I told them I didn’t care, it had to be the best, like nothing else. To make the engineering work, we anchored it with steel cables that run through the Cotai landfill to the seabed. A hundred cables, two hundred meters long each, a meter in diameter. It can withstand a once-in-a-century typhoon, and it hardly sways up top.”

  “Chinese engineering.”

  “I’m glad you came, General. The way you left us so fast last time, I worried someone on my staff had offended you.”

  “Not at all.”

  “Good. Because nothing matters more to me than the way we treat our clients. Especially men like you. You aren’t just players. You’re my friends.”

  If Cheung had been more self-aware, he might have questioned why he merited so much attention from one of the world’s richest men. Or the crazy notion that 88 Gamma would open this casino for him and him alone. He was a big player, sure, but not the biggest. If he were more self-aware, he might have recognized where his true value lay.

  But then, if Cheung were more self-aware, he wouldn’t have believed that he had the right to have sex with a child.

  And he did. His desire had risen like a fever since the call from Xiao. On his flight down, he had barely glanced at a report delivered just the previous day from a Chinese spy in Washington, a translated copy of Lockheed Martin’s top-secret findings on problems with the software in the F-35 jet. Even the thought of sitting at the baccarat table didn’t hold his attention as it usually did. He was already waiting for the end of the night. Yet . . . when the moment came . . . he wondered if he would have the guts to ask for what he wanted. The courage. He’d need a few drinks, to steady himself.

  “Everythi
ng all right, General?” Duberman smiled, and Cheung felt his charm. A gentleman, a man who understood the world. “You seem distracted.” Duberman pointed at the aquarium. “I was just saying, we’ll bring new sharks through every few weeks so that even our regular players will see something new every time. We have a saying in America, variety is the spice of life. I hate to be bored myself. I hate even more when my customers are bored.”

  Duberman led Cheung to the check-in desk, empty now, of course. Jian walked out from a door behind the desk, bearing a tray with an unopened bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue and two glasses. She wore a stark black dress and looked taller and slimmer and more beautiful than ever. For once, Cheung was genuinely surprised to see her. “Jian.”

  “General. A pleasure.”

  Cheung went to a knee and kissed her hand, inhaling her scent. Beside him, Duberman poured two whiskies, big drinks, the tumblers half full. Looking at the golden liquid made Cheung’s throat ache.

  “I’ll tell you a secret, General. If you can keep it.”

  “Naturally.”

  “What would life be without secrets? I understand that, and so do my employees.”

  You aren’t just players. You’re my friends . . . I don’t want anyone to get bored . . . What would life be without secrets?

  Duberman knew. Not only that, he wanted Cheung to know he knew. He must want to be helpful. Maybe he even shared Cheung’s tastes. A pleasant vision filled Cheung’s mind. I don’t have to . . . and maybe I won’t . . .

  But I will.

  “What’s your secret?” Cheung said.

  “We’re doubling the maximum up there.”

  Not what Cheung had expected. “Ten million? A hand?”

  “Not just for a hand or two. We’ll play all night that way.”

  A staggering number, enough to turn Cheung’s thoughts back to the table. At those stakes, a player could win or lose five hundred million in a night.

  “You don’t expect me—”

  “No. But I hoped you might take some of what you’d won from us last month and start us off with a maximum bet.” Duberman smiled, his teeth more perfect than any man’s should be. For the first time, Cheung felt uneasy. Too easy, don’t trust him, something’s wrong . . .

  But desire overwhelmed the warning, the instinct for self-preservation. “If the maximum is ten million, I’ll have to bet fifteen.”

  Duberman’s smile widened. “Do you know why I asked you to be our first guest? My managers said, not Cheung. He’s too smart. He won’t be so easily impressed. And such a gambler. After what he did to us last month, you want him back? I told them, I don’t want someone I can buy off with a day at the spa, a fancy dinner. A visit to my mansion. I want the toughest man we can find. We all agreed it was you.”

  The toughest. Yes. “Be careful what you wish for.”

  “Isn’t that the truth?” Duberman handed Cheung a tumbler and raised his own.

  “To the Sky Casino.”

  “To luck, General. Yours and mine.”

  “Mine and yours.”

  The glasses came together with a clink pure as a church bell. Cheung meant to take only one sip, but before he could help himself, the drink flew down his throat. Liquid courage. Permission.

  “Chou-Lai and I will take good care of you tonight,” Duberman said. “Shall we have dinner? Or may I take you straight to the hundred and eighth floor?”

  Cheung held up his glass for a refill. “The hundred and eighth.”

  —

  THE VIP SALON had walls made of the same strange color-shifting metal as the lobby, though the hues changed more slowly and subtly, so as not to distract the players. For now, the room had no sculpture or paintings, no art, just a single baccarat table. Duberman explained that he had commissioned pieces specifically for the space from Zhang Huan and Zeng Fanzhi, two great modern Chinese artists. They hadn’t yet arrived. “The walls will do for now.”

  Cheung hardly heard him. He couldn’t tear his attention from the plaques at the table. His money. And in the dealer’s seat, Lin, the man he’d battled a month before.

  “General.” Lin stood and bowed. Everything as it had been. The night falling into place, a supercharged version of his previous trip. Again Cheung won his first bet, not a natural this time, instead a three-card four that somehow held up to Lin’s three aces, in its own way an equally miraculous victory. Cheung saw Duberman flinch as Lin pushed fifteen plaques across the table. Beating the house for fifteen million while the owner watched helplessly.

  “My shareholders won’t be happy.”

  “I warned you.”

  “If this keeps up, we’re going to need to come up with a five-million-dollar plaque.” Duberman moved to the door. “I have to make some calls. While I’m gone, Chou-Lai will take care of you.”

  “Is Malcolm here?” Malcolm, the little toady who ran the VIP room at 88 Gamma.

  Duberman seemed puzzled. “He’s at the main casino. Did you want him?”

  “No. Don’t trust him.” The words mumbled, almost hissed. Cheung had no conscious memory of the way Malcolm had flinched at his demands the month before. Yet he knew that Malcolm was his enemy just as the snake knew the mongoose.

  “Then I promise you won’t see him again.” Duberman wagged a finger at Lin. “Don’t let him win, all right?”

  After that first hit, Cheung settled in, sticking to bets of a million dollars a hand, ignoring Lin’s gibes that he was playing like a woman to preserve his money. Not so. For the first time, he sat at a baccarat table thinking about something other than the riches he might win.

  A couple of hours later, Duberman reappeared to offer Cheung dinner. After Cheung turned him down, he watched for a while, then left again. Cheung drank steadily, but he tried to sip rather than gulp. He didn’t want to pass out tonight. Or black out. He wanted to remember every detail, a camera-perfect memory. Cameras. Of course they’re watching, you think they aren’t?

  Again he felt uneasy. Again he ignored the alarm. Or, rather, drank it into silence. He emptied his glass and closed his eyes as a dissociative calm spread over him. He was a hundred stories downstairs, watching the sharks swim, but in no danger thanks to the thick glass protecting him.

  Cheung opened his eyes to find that Duberman had returned. He watched impassively for a while as the cards and plaques moved back and forth.

  “Everything to your liking, General?”

  As an answer, Cheung pointed at his stacks. “A question. Are the suites here ready for business? Or do you plan to bring me back to 88 Gamma?”

  “Technically, no one should be here except the construction crews and our own employees. I was planning to take you over there. If that’s where you want to go.”

  “Where else would I want to go?”

  “Wherever you like.”

  “And will you be coming with me?”

  As Xiao translated, Cheung focused on Duberman. Would he flinch? But he only nodded. “That’s up to you.”

  Cheung never wore a watch when he played. He didn’t want to know how long he’d spent at the table. “What time is it?”

  “Three a.m.”

  Cheung had arrived around 8 p.m. He would have guessed he’d played for three hours, not seven. He counted his plaques. He was still ahead about eight million, but his luck had turned. If not for that first hand, he’d be down. He decided to bet his winnings. If he won, he’d stay at the table, focus on gambling. Back to work. And if he lost . . .

  He’d find out if all Duberman’s hints meant anything.

  He fumbled for the plaques, stacked eight, pushed them forward. “Eight million.”

  “Finally, some balls,” Lin said. He pulled four cards from the shoe, pushed two across the table. Cheung licked his lips as the cards came his way. Did he want to win or lose? He squeezed the cards together, bent low over
the table, peeked at the first. A jack. Useless. Zero. Good. He pushed it away, peeked at the second card, a seven. For a total of seven. Not quite a natural, but close. A very good hand. He flipped both cards over, trying not to be disappointed.

  “Seven. Not bad. Stand on seven.” Quickly, Lin turned both of his cards. A five and a three. A natural eight. The winner. “Not as good as this. You lose.”

  No. I win. Cheung stood, braced himself against the table as the room floated past him. He’d drunk more than he planned. No matter. He had a bottle of Viagra in his pocket. He would take as many as he needed. “Bag it up.”

  “You’re finished for the night? After that? Scared?”

  Cheung turned to Chou-Lai. “What we talked about before. The flower.”

  “The flower, sure.”

  The moment of truth. “I want it.”

  —

  CHOU-LAI NODDED. “Tell him,” he said to Xiao. Who said something in English to Duberman. Who gave Cheung the tiniest smile. “If you’re sure.”

  “Yes.”

  Duberman came around the baccarat table, put an arm around Cheung, waved Xiao over for the translation, a strange three-man huddle. “How old?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  A third alarm, blaring this time, yet so far away. “Why do I have to say?”

  “I don’t want any confusion, that’s all.” Duberman looked at him almost gently. “I’ll say it for you. Fifteen? Sixteen?”

  Cheung wanted to scream. To be so close—“No, no. A flower.”

  “I’m sorry, General—”

  “Nine. Ten. Eleven at most.”

  “A girl.”

  “Do I look like a pansy? Of course a girl!”

  Duberman stepped away. He said something in English that Xiao didn’t translate and then strode out of the room. A pit a thousand kilometers deep opened in Cheung’s stomach. Duberman would kick Cheung out and send him home—