Page 159 of King’s Ransom

I noticed his voice then. It was only slightly different from the one I’d heard on the 21st; the Unperson had gone so far as to mimic this man’s voice.

‘I’m, uh, Sam Speedman. We’ve never met before, have we?’

‘Erm, no . . .’ The real McCade gave me a weird look.

‘Have you ever been to Aristo King’s penthouse at 59West?’

‘Again, no . . .’ McCade said. ‘I think I’d remember that.’

I said, ‘Listen, Mr McCade, Georgy—there’s been a crime committed here, a very clever crime, and I think I can explain it, but I have to go. I have to go now.’

‘Dr Sam, wait!’ Georgy said as I made to leave. ‘What is it?’

‘Yasmina was set up. I’m absolutely certain of that. Mr McCade, your company was set up, too.’

‘What?’ Quinn McCade said.

I said, ‘Everything that happened at 59West on December 21st was an elaborate ruse designed to destroy Yasmina, to make her look like a wronged wife seeking horrible vengeance using the Grandmaster.

‘As for Sinclair & Loewe, the man behind everything that happened that day used this company as a disguise so he could be at the scene and watch everything unfold from up close. And he also used you, Mr McCade.’

‘He used me? How?’ McCade asked.

‘He researched your position at this company, how you look and what you wear, right down to your brand of glasses. He also has a very specific set of medical skills. I think he performed plastic surgery on himself to steal your body and impersonate you.’

With that, I raced out the door.

I had to get to Chinatown.

And I also had one other place to go to.

Chinatown, Manhattan

30 December, 1030 hours

Doyers Street was so small you’d miss it if you weren’t looking for it.

It was a crooked laneway that connected Pell Street with the Bowery, wide enough for only one vehicle. Lanterns crisscrossed it, dangling above sidewalks lined with classic family-run Chinese businesses: dry cleaners, knick-knack stores, phone-repair shops. Fire escapes hung over it all.

23 Doyers Street had a glass window etched with Mandarin and English text that read:

ERNEST CHANG

EMPLOYMENT AGENCY

A bell above the door rang as I pushed it open and stepped inside.

A modest one-room office greeted me: three partitioned desks, old carpet, faded prints of the Great Wall of China on the walls. And a receptionist’s counter, at which sat a young Chinese woman.

I thought of the stories I’d read about China having its own underground police system in New York—a system Chinese nationals used instead of calling the NYPD; a system used by the Chinese government to keep tabs on Chinese folk in America.

It made perfect sense that such a system would be run out of a place like this: an employment office in broad daylight.

Ernest Chang—whoever he was—ran a very unpretentious operation. But then, so would anyone helping out China’s spy agency, the Ministry of State Security.

‘Er, hello,’ the receptionist said quizzically.

I doubted she saw many white Americans walk through her door, especially if she worked for the Chinese Communist Party. ‘How, um, may I help you?’