A tall Filipino man in a grey suit was standing just past the gangway at Manila’s Ninoy Aquino International Airport, holding a sign that read mr. chow. Standing next to him was a senior Customs official.
Uncle identified himself. The man in the grey suit nodded and introduced himself as Joseph Moreno.
“We’ll take you through Customs,” Moreno said. “Do you have checked bags?”
“Yes,” Uncle said.
“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.
She glanced quickly at Uncle. His expression betrayed no reaction. Then she looked back at Ordonez, studying his face. It was certainly Chinese, the eyes smaller than the photos portrayed, the irises pitch-black and intense, but the whites were shot through with crimson patches of broken blood vessels. His face was round, his nose bulbous, his lips thick. High on his left cheek and partially covered by his unruly mop was a large black mole from which sprouted a single long, curly hair. It was a Chinese superstition to let such hairs grow — they were thought to bring good luck.
“I’m not sure what a bookkeeper should look like,” Ava said.
Ordonez seemed surprised and shot a look at Chang.
“Let’s sit,” Chang said.
They took opposite sides of the boardroom table, Ordonez and Chang sitting with their backs to the window so the light shone directly on Uncle and Ava.
“This is a terrible mess,” Ordonez said to Uncle. “I’m grateful that you’re going to help us get to the bottom of things.”
“Until we know exactly what happened, we cannot be sure how much help we can be,” Uncle said.
“I have faith in you. When we met all those years ago, I never thought I would actually need to engage your services — or be able to.”
Uncle dipped his head to acknowledge the compliment. “And I am honoured to meet you again. This is a remarkable enterprise you have built.”
Ordonez took a deep breath. “Thank you. We have worked hard, my brothers and I and Wang, to bring it this far. There haven’t been many setbacks, although, as you can imagine, there are always challenges in the Philippines, always some politician who wants to nationalize us, always another who wants us investigated for bribing his colleagues — though that kind usually disappears as soon as we add him to the payroll. All in all, it has been good.”
Ordonez’s attention was focused entirely on Uncle. Ava was used to that. Chinese men of Ordonez and Chang’s background and position treated most women as window dressing. It irritated her, but she would never embarrass Uncle by overreacting. She waited until they had finished their little dance of compliments before inserting herself into the conversation.
“Excuse me, but is Philip Chew going to be with us?”
Ordonez gave her another sharp glance and then turned to stare at Chang.
“I’m sorry for asking, but since your problem seems to stem from the Canadian operation that Mr. Chew runs, I just assumed he would be here.”
“Philip is ill. He can’t travel,” Chang said.
“He’s in Vancouver?”
Ordonez glared at Chang.
“This isn’t the time to talk about Philip,” Chang said. “The records and the files are here, not in Vancouver. That should be a good enough place to start. Louis Marx, who is the comptroller for our Canadian business, is one floor below, in the boardroom there. He’s been briefed and will give you all the assistance you need.”
“How much money are we discussing?” Ava asked.
“Just over fifty million dollars,” Chang said.
“Can you explain to me how you found out about the missing funds?”
“Marx can tell you,” Ordonez snapped.
Ava glanced quickly at Uncle, whose steady gaze was on Ordonez. “I don’t mean to be rude,” Ava said quietly, “but I would like to get an overview from you before I meet with Mr. Marx. He may have a vested interest.”
“Ava makes a good point,” Uncle said.
Chang looked pained. “It’s a swindle, plain and simple. Our Vancouver office thought it was investing in a golf course and residential complex in Kelowna — you do know where Kelowna is?”
“I do,” Ava said.
“They worked through a supposed local developer named Jim Cousins. The plan was for him to purchase various tracts of land and to start clearing it and putting infrastructure into place. He fronted the first two million. Our Vancouver office sent him the balance on a purchase-by-purchase basis,” Chang said.
“He bought the land first?”
“Yes.”
“Then sold it to you?”
“Yes. Marx has all the paperwork downstairs.”
“So what happened?”
“There is no land.”
“And no fucking Jim Cousins,” Ordonez hissed. He was sitting stiffly upright and his eyes were still on Uncle. She could feel him bristling under her gaze.
“How did you find out?” she asked.
“Deloitte is our outside accounting firm,” Chang said. “They do an annual audit. This time they were particularly thorough.”
“In what way?”
“They sent someone from their Kelowna office to the local land registry to confirm that we had title to the property.”
“And you didn’t?”
“No. Deloitte informed us that the land that we were supposed to be developing was actually owned by a whole bunch of people who had never heard of us or Jim Cousins.”
“But didn’t you have copies of the bills of sale, title transfers? Weren’t the purchases papered from your end?”
“Forgeries.”
“Wonderful,” she said.
“That’s a poor choice of word,” Ordonez said, his eyes finally meeting hers.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“This man Marx,” Uncle cut in, “he is completely knowledgeable?”
“As much as can be expected,” Chang said. “Philip was the primary contact for Cousins. Everything flowed through Philip.”
“And I can’t speak with him?” Ava said.
“Ms. Lee,” Chang said, “please, no more discussion about Philip. He is ill.”
“We can talk by phone, email.”
Ordonez interrupted. “My brother has had what my sister-in-law insists is something like a nervous breakdown. She says he isn’t up to talking to anyone about anything.”
She heard scorn, verging on disgust, in his tone. Ava guessed that Ordonez was someone for whom mental illness either betrayed a character flaw or was merely an excuse for failure. “That is regrettable,” she said. “Have you spoken to him at all?”
“No,” Ordonez snapped.
“Mr. Chang, have you?”
Chang shifted in his seat. “Louis Marx was the last person in the business to talk to him. You can ask him about what Philip had to say.”
Uncle’s eyes were still on Ordonez as he said to Chang, “Where is this man Cousins?”
“We have no idea. His office in Kelowna turned out to be a vacant apartment; he moved out about two weeks ago. None of his phone numbers work. His bank says he cleaned out his accounts. We hired a private detective agency to track him through family and friends, credit cards — anything and everything. They came up empty. Cousins has vanished.”
“Did Marx meet him?” Ava asked.
“Twice, both times at our Vancouver office when he was dropping off papers.”
“So he can describe him for me?”
“I imagine,” Chang said.
She heard Uncle shift in his chair. She knew she was trying the men’s patience and that he was sensitive to it.
“I think that maybe Ms. Lee’s time would be best spent with Marx,” Ordonez said, his breathing rapid and heavy. “There is nothing more we can tell her.”
“I agree,” Uncle said, reaching over to touch her hand.
“I’ll have my girl take her down,” Ordonez said to Uncle, turning slightly away from Ava.
“We’ll spend some time getting caught up, and we still need to finalize your fee,” Chang said. “Then I’ll have you taken to the Peninsula. Ms. Lee can join you there later.”