Ian Hamilton - The disciple of Las Vegas

“We’ll have them cleared and brought to the hotel. Mr. Ordonez wants you to come directly to the office.”

They skirted the long, ragged Customs lines. Ava noticed the airport’s shiny tile floors, paint peeling off the walls, and a row of flowers in pots, a few of which had cracked and were spilling dirt from their bases. The Filipinos stood quietly, waiting patiently in line, while the Western tourists and businesspeople were sweating, red-faced, and visibly agitated by the almost casual disorganization.

The senior official who had met them at the gate led them to an empty Customs booth. He climbed in, turned on the computer, and held out his hand for their passports. Ava heard murmurs of angry disapproval from the Westerners waiting in line. It had probably taken them an hour to get where they were, and she knew it was making them crazy to see her and Uncle short-circuit the system so casually. Welcome to the Philippines, she thought. There were few countries in the world where connections mattered so much.

When they walked out of the airport, they were led to a parking garage on the other side of the roadway, where a black Bentley was purring right beside the exit door. The air was hot and heavy and smelled of diesel fumes. Ava was glad they wouldn’t have to linger outside for any length of time.

Moreno opened the back door for Ava and Uncle. “We’re only about fifteen minutes from the office, if traffic cooperates,” he said. Ava’s experiences with Manila traffic told her that fifteen minutes would more likely be thirty — and that was if they were lucky.

As they pulled out of the parking garage they merged with a chaotic crush of cars, buses, motorbikes, bicycles, jeepneys, and pedestrians, all jockeying for space with little regard for rules of the road. Manila’s sixteen million people needed to get from point A to point B, and the jeepneys — bright, garishly painted old American military Jeeps converted into small buses that could carry more than thirty people at once — just made it worse. They wove haphazardly from one side of the road to the other, often stopping in the middle of traffic as passengers struggled to get in and out.

The Bentley’s driver was being understandably cautious. He was handling $300,000 worth of car — more money than he could expect to make in a lifetime.

“It’s not too bad right now,” Moreno said. “The rush hour — well, we call it crash hour — has been over for a while.”

As they travelled towards Makati, the financial capital of the Philippines, the city landscape changed. Ava watched low-rise apartment buildings, small storefronts, and sidewalks jammed with vendor stalls and pedestrians give way to the city centre’s bank towers, office buildings, Western-style shopping centres, and upscale hotels. The only street vendors there had spread their goods on the pavement and were selling their wares with one eye out for the police.

They passed the Ayala Centre, a massive commercial complex in the very heart of Metro Manila. Ava was remembering wandering its fifty or so hectares on previous visits when they pulled up in front of the Ayala Tower, an impressive V-shaped skyscraper sheathed almost entirely in glass. Moreno leapt out of the front seat and opened the back door for Uncle and Ava.

Outside the soundproofed Bentley they were confronted by the jarring sounds of traffic and a miasma of smoke that smelled of gasoline and ozone pollution. “Let’s hurry inside,” Moreno said.

There were two guards at the tower entrance, and each held an Uzi across his chest. Ava wasn’t surprised. Manila was an armed camp. Every bank branch, every major commercial retailer, every office tower had security stationed at the door. Moreno led them past the guards and into the lobby. Ava veered towards the bank of elevators, only to be redirected. “Mr. Ordonez has a private entrance,” he said.

They were led to a small alcove with a single elevator manned by another guard with another Uzi. They rode the elevator to the top floor, where the door opened onto a semicircular reception area with oak floors covered by a scattering of old and expensive Persian rugs. To Ava’s left were two maroon leather couches flanked by easy chairs and anchored by a long rosewood coffee table covered with magazines. To the right was a matching rosewood dining table that held a set of crystal glasses and a crystal decanter filled with water. Groups of eclectic original paintings hung on every wall.

Straight ahead was a young Filipino woman sitting behind a desk. She had a long, lean face and jet-black hair pulled back in a ponytail; she was wearing a sleeveless white blouse with a plunging neckline. There were two doors on her right and one on her left, guarded by a giant of a man in a black suit. He stood quietly, his eyes never leaving them. His weapon wasn’t visible but Ava had no doubt he was carrying one.

“Welcome,” the young woman said. “I hope the trip from the airport wasn’t too difficult.”

“It was fine,” Moreno responded.

“Please, have a seat. I’ll let Mr. Ordonez know you’ve arrived.” She stood and walked to the door to the left. The guard opened it for her and she disappeared inside. Ava and Uncle had barely settled onto one of the couches when she re-emerged alone. “You’ll be meeting in the boardroom,” she said, motioning to the double doors on the right, and then opened them for Ava and Uncle.

The boardroom had the same oak floors as the reception area, but the soft, rich carpets and rosewood tables were replaced by ultra-modern leather and stainless steel chairs and a sleek glass-topped table. On the walls, a series of Chinese paintings depicting fountains, forests, and dragons made for a strange contrast to the slick, minimalist feel of the furnishings.

A distinguished-looking Chinese man, not much taller than Uncle, walked through a narrow side door almost as soon as they had sat down. He was wearing a red Polo golf shirt and a pair of black Hugo Boss jeans. He was small but sturdy, and his bald head shone in the light. “My friend,” the man said, holding out his arms in Uncle’s direction.

Uncle and Ava both stood to greet him. The two men hugged, whispering words in each other’s ears. As they separated, the man nodded at Ava.

“Ava, this is Mr. Chang Wang,” Uncle said.

Chang stared at her, his eyes moving up and down as if doing an appraisal. “Mr. Chang,” she said.

“I have heard very good things about you from Chow Tung,” Chang said, motioning for them to sit. Ava was surprised by his use of Uncle’s given name. She hadn’t met many people who were familiar enough with him to address him that way. “But it wasn’t nice of you to keep us waiting so long,” he said, in a playful tone that still conveyed some displeasure.

Before she could reply, the double doors swung open and Tommy Ordonez strode into the boardroom. He was close to six feet tall but slouched as he walked, his head down as if there were loose change to be found on the floor. She took in the rest of him, and her disappointment grew. He was wearing a casual yellow shirt and blue jeans and a Patek Philippe watch, and his fingernails were cracked and chewed down to nubs. He wore his black hair unfashionably long, flopping over his ears and hanging down well past his shirt collar. It was a huge contrast to the image he projected to the public. In the photos she had seen online, he was always wearing a three-piece suit and had a refined, distant look about him.

Everyone stood and Chang made the introductions. Ordonez gazed fondly at Uncle and then swung his attention to Ava, examining her from head to toe. “I wasn’t told you were such a pretty young woman. I expected someone more like a bookkeeper.” Ava was startled by Ordonez’s voice. The words seemed forced from his mouth, as if an iron vise were gripping his larynx.