Ian Hamilton: The disciple of Las Vegas

“I’ll call Arellano,” Ordonez said.

Ava searched her memory. “The president of the Philippines?”

“Yes.”

“He’ll cooperate?”

“I own him. At least, I own the biggest part of him.”

“That’s good.”

“And I’ll call Tong in Beijing.”

“The vice-premier?”

“His oldest son runs our Shanghai office.”

“Mr. Ordonez,” Ava said carefully, “those are big guns. Can you control them?”

“I said I’d call them!” he shouted. “They’ll take my calls.”

“But can you control them?”

“Why do you keep asking that?”

“Because we can’t have them running off half-cocked. We need to make sure the focus is on the money and an apology to Tommy Ordonez. We can’t have them demanding Simmons’s head. If he loses his Cabinet post, then he doesn’t have any reason to cut a deal.”

Ordonez went quiet. All she could hear was his deep, heavy breathing, and she began to wonder if she had offended him again. Then he said, “You aren’t the only one who understands how things work.”

“Of course not.”

“I’ll make the calls.”

“Thank you.”

“You’ll hear from someone,” he said, and slammed down the phone.

Ava closed her cellphone and rolled off the bed. She retrieved her half-full bottle of wine from the work station and poured a glass. “Cheers,” she said, raising the glass in the air. She took a long swallow.

She turned on the television and tried to focus, but her mind was in overdrive, imagining the conversation Tommy Ordonez was having with Felipe Arellano at that very moment. She finished off the wine, filled her glass with the balance of the bottle, and downed it quickly. She turned off the television and lay on her back.

Her last thought before falling asleep was that she had forgotten to tell Uncle about the two Chinese men she’d seen on the street.

Ava’s cellphone rang at four thirty in the morning.

“I know it is probably too early to call,” Uncle said, “but I thought you would like to know that Felipe Arellano just left Ordonez’s office.”

“His office?”

“Yes. After he spoke to you he called Arellano. According to Chang, he went ballistic over the phone. Chang is not sure how much of it was acting and how much was real. Whatever, it was effective. Arellano, along with his full team, went to Ordonez’s office, and by the time Ordonez was finished with him, the President could hardly wait to contact London.”

“I thought he might be exaggerating about that relationship,” Ava said.

“Ordonez owns him.”

“So he said.”

“And what about Vice-Premier Tong?”

“That is a far more delicate arrangement. Even with all his money and investments, Ordonez is a minnow to Tong. Any help Ordonez wants from China will have to be carefully phrased and presented as a request for a favour. The good thing is that Tong loves his son more than anything, and he knows that his son’s success is tied to Ordonez. So he will listen to what Ordonez has to say, and if he can do anything to help — without putting himself at risk — he will probably do it.”

“So they haven’t spoken yet?”

“Yes, they have, but Chang was not there when they did, and he says Ordonez was not forthcoming with details.”

“Was he worried by that?”

“Not particularly.”

“So now we wait,” Ava said.

“Chang said that the British are to contact you directly if they need more information. He gave them your cell number, so keep it on.”

“I will.”

“Call me the moment you hear anything. I will keep my phone on as well,” Uncle said. “Ava, my instinct is that this thing will either move quickly or not at all. If you do not hear from anyone by mid- to late afternoon, you should start planning your trip home. We have exhausted our options. There is not much to be gained by spending time and money just spinning our wheels. We have the money you got from the men in Las Vegas. Everyone will have to be satisfied with that.”

“I agree.”

Ava tried to fall asleep again but her mind was racing. At five o’clock she heard a noise at the door and knew the newspapers had been delivered. She slid out of bed and dropped to her knees. For five minutes she prayed, asking St. Jude to look after her for one more day.

She got up and collected the Times and the Wall Street Journal at the door, made herself a Starbucks VIA Ready Brew, and pushed a chair towards the window. She opened the curtains and looked out onto High Street. The sidewalk and roads were wet, but the streetlights were now illuminating only a fine mist.

She read both papers from cover to cover, made herself two more coffees, and at six thirty turned on her computer. She returned to the web pages she’d been reading about Roger Simmons and watched the BBC interview one more time. He’s a man with ambition, she thought. The more she listened to him, the more hypocritical he sounded.

Ava stretched her arms over her head, yawned, and then yelped as pain coursed through her ribcage. She was still dressed only in panties and a T-shirt, and her legs felt chilled. She stood up and looked outside. The sun had finally emerged, the sidewalk was dry, and Kensington Gardens was lit up so brightly it looked as if the leaves on the trees had been polished. Ava went to the bathroom, washed, brushed her teeth and hair, and put on her running gear. She debated about putting her mobile in her pocket but decided not to.

She left the hotel, crossed Kensington High Street, and entered Hyde Park at the Alexandra Gate. She ran north across the Serpentine Bridge and continued to North Carriage Drive, where she turned east. She thought about Roger Simmons as she ran. A good run usually cleared her head, but the pathways were busy and she couldn’t get to full speed as she dodged in-line skaters and groups of walkers. Negative thoughts began to intrude. She became convinced that no one would call her, that Roger Simmons was going to get a free pass. In the light of day her late-night inspiration seemed more wishful thinking than cunning strategy. She sped along to Stanhope Palace Gate and then south through the heart of the park, to the pathway that ran along the south bank of the Serpentine. She ran as fast as she could, trying to burn off the negativity that gnawed at her.

She checked her cellphone as soon as she got back to the room. Nothing. She sat down at the computer and emailed her travel agent in Toronto, asking her to hold a seat on the day’s last flight from Heathrow to Pearson. I’ll give it the entire day, she thought as she headed for the bathroom and a shower.

Ava stripped and had just turned on the water when she thought she heard her phone ring. She considered running to the bedroom to answer it, but the sound died. Perhaps she had just imagined it.

When she came out of the bathroom, she put on a clean T-shirt and track pants and began thinking about where to have lunch. Moving towards the room phone to call the concierge, she noticed the message light blinking on her cellphone. A man named Anderson had left a number, asking her to call him back.

“Prime Minister’s Office,” a receptionist answered.

Ava drew a deep breath. God bless Tommy Ordonez, she thought. “My name is Ava Lee. Someone named Anderson left me a message and asked me to call him back.”

“That would be Daniel Anderson. I’ll put you through.” The line went silent for a few seconds.

“Ms. Lee, thank you for calling back.”

Ava heard paper rustling in the background. “Are you Daniel Anderson?”

“I am.”

“And am I on speaker phone?”

“Yes, you are.”

“And are there other people with you?”