And then, life…
Leaving a recital, an accident. She had reached her hand into the car for a score as the valet slammed the door. Four fingers broken. Twelve pins. Multiple surgeries. Months in a cast. And after, the inevitable. Arthritis. Fifteen years later, she couldn’t entirely close her left hand. It was hard to pick up a plate; napkins were impossible.
She would never play the Salle Pleyel.
But a person like London required attention, and if not adulation, then at least appreciation. Recognition. She had always been a reader. A fan of nonfiction. True crime. She liked to write. She was driven, not especially friendly, congenitally cynical. Journalism was a perfect fit. Her professor had said she was a born muckraker. But where to look these days? The same place as always. Business. The bigger, the better. Behind every great fortune lies a great crime. It was true in Balzac’s time. It was true today.
By now the time had gotten to 7:30. The seat across from her remained empty. London was a realist. R was not coming. She ordered a cold sake and a plate of dim sum, then dug her laptop out of her shoulder bag and opened R’s email. She reread the letter and examined the attached spreadsheets. Was such a brazen act of larceny possible? Who would have the audacity to think of such a plan, let alone to execute it? And how had it gone unnoticed all this time?
She stared at the open seat, seized by a surge of rage at R,whoever he or she was.How dare he whet her appetite and not show up? If half the information he’d sent was true—and he would have to provide verification—he had an obligation to meet with her. Not to London, but to the wronged parties—in this case, millions of men and women. An entire country.
London took a sip of her drink.
Fence or ladder.
She smiled wistfully. One of daddy’s sayings. Daddy, who’d abandoned them for another woman when London was just ten. How terribly un-Chinese. And then, even worse, had the audacity to go and die at the age of forty, leaving them utterly broke.
Maybe she wasn’t congenitally cynical. Maybe life had made her that way. But really, what did it matter one way or the other?
Fence or ladder.
A problem, a disappointment, a failure, could be either a help or a hindrance. It could stop you cold or carry you over an insurmountable obstacle. Up to you to decide.
Without corroboration, the information R had sent her was worthless. No different than a note received from an anonymous party saying they’d seen who shot President Kennedy and it was Fidel Castro. TheFTdid not print innuendo. London needed hard proof to write an article. Without R’s help there was no point in going on.
Fence.
Or…
The material was true, all of it. It was a beacon pointing her in the direction of the biggest story she’d come across in her career. She didn’t need R to go on. She’d been a reporter for ten years. She had all the skills necessary. If the material was true—and her every instinct told her it was—there would be a great many people upset to see it revealed. More than upset. R could be in danger. Or worse.
A chill rattled her spine.
London stood, throwing her laptop into her bag. Forget the drink. Forget the food. She dropped fifty dollars on the table and stormed from the lounge. She wasn’t afraid. She was inspired. It was her story now.
Ladder.
Chapter 7
London
Simon slammed his foot on the brake pedal as he passed the entrance to his shop. Parked out front was a silver Rolls-Royce Phantom: no two alike, three hundred fifty thousand pounds apiece if you could get one. Vanity plates. He knew who the car belonged to. Everyone in London did. They called him the “Sultan of Stratford,” and he’d recently purchased one of the city’s football clubs, returning it to English ownership after a decade of Middle Eastern control. Simon knew him for a different, less celebratory reason.
He drove around the block, turning into the alley that led to a fenced-in security lot at the rear of the shop. A sign above the work entrance read,EUROPEAN AUTOMOTIVE REPAIR AND RESTORATION. Inside, he crossed the shop floor as if on a mission, not slowing to inspect any of the dozen Ferraris currently being restored.
“He’s in your office,” said Harry Mason, standing in the reception, looking awestruck. Harry was pushing seventy, Irish, too feisty for his own good, and ran the shop’s day-to-day operations. He loved football the way a wino loves his red. The Sultan of Stratford was the closest thing to English royalty he’d ever see. “He said he knew you, that you two went way back. Why didn’t you say so?”
“Don’t ever let anyone into my office again unless I say so.” Simon spoke the words with more venom than he would have liked.
“But it’s the Sultan—”
“Ever!”
Harry promised and withdrew, though not before muttering what he thought of his employer.
Simon drew a breath to gather himself, seized by an instinct to stand taller, puff out his chest, hating himself for it. He opened the door with authority. “Make yourself at home, Dickie,” he said, striding into his office. “Or is it Sir Dickie? Or Sir Richard? I suppose congratulations are in order.”
“Piss off, Riske. Just a bloody ribbon with a slug of lead on one end.”
