‘And how much of that came from your own pocket?’ Gunning his Grey Goose vodka, Ren Qi cradled the empty glass in his hands. With his London trip taking a turn for the worse, the last thing the Politburo chief needed was the hard sell from some nightclub-owner desperate to snare new investors willing to throw money into the financial black hole that he’d created. The whole point of investing in London was to protect the politician’s net worth, not see it evaporate into thin air.
Ignoring the question, Sammy slipped into his established spieclass="underline" ‘We’re open twenty-four hours a day, offering a casino, two restaurants and four bars, as well as a disco and a bowling alley. You can even get a massage on the top floor.’
Ren raised an eyebrow.
‘All totally kosher,’ Sammy chuckled. ‘Swedish, deep tissue – you name it.’
Ren nodded. Rolling his head, he could feel the tension in his shoulders; he could certainly do with a massage. Maybe he should check it out.
‘Last quarter, we pulled in almost 35,000 people a week, well ahead of our original forecasts. Highest ticket price in town. Highest in-venue spend.’ He gestured towards the dance floor. ‘And with gigs like these, those numbers are going to increase substantially.’
‘Impressive,’ Ren lied. He stared at the ice in the bottom of his glass. He currently had far more pressing matters to attend to than the London entertainment market. His energy levels had been depleted to the point where he knew that he had to step back for a short while, or risk making further mistakes. Things were bad enough already. Wang Lei was on the warpath and even Ren Jiong couldn’t be kept quiet with an endless diet of computer games for ever. Both of them would need to be dealt with, one way or another.
Ren Qi couldn’t risk further details of their London activities getting back to Beijing. There were plenty of people who would feast on the news of his family’s final, incontrovertible implosion. His career – thirty-five years of unstinting hard work – would be over in an instant as he was transformed into a poster boy for the latest clampdown on graft and corruption.
His trial, a carefully scripted affair in some hitherto unheard-of provincial Intermediate People’s Court, would be a classic Tiger-thrashing – the elite throwing one of its own to the mob in an attempt to show the masses that no one was above the law. Of course, everyone would see through the sham but it was a tried and tested technique that the Politburo would cling to for as long as they could. Ren himself had never had any problem with it, so long as he was not the one on trial. Now that he was facing the dock himself, the best-case scenario would be twenty years in jail, the rest of his life, more or less; the worst, a firing squad. Ren could sense them closing in. He was deeply uncomfortable about having to rely so completely on Guo Miao after the State Security man had messed up so badly with the death of Michael Nicholson. On the other hand, this was the first time in the many years they had worked together that the major’s competence had ever been an issue. Just as important, Guo’s dedication to Ren was not in any doubt. Nor was his willingness to undertake the dirtiest of dirty work without complaint.
After being told of Nicholson’s demise, Ren had ordered that the body be disposed of. He was confident that Guo would not fail again. No traces of his wife’s lover would ever be found.
Now, sitting with the nightclub-owner, the thought made him chuckle. He had hoped that Nicholson would be shipped back to China where he would be assured of a slow, painful death. In the event, however, this was retribution enough.
Seeing his guest muster a smile, Sammy ploughed on. ‘We are forecasting a profit within the next couple of years. Around half of our visitors are Asian, many from London and the South East, but we get many Chinese tour groups too. They do a circuit of Bicester Village, Bond Street, Buckingham Palace and the Racetrack.’
The waitress reappeared with another mojito and a large vodka. Although he hadn’t asked for the fresh drink, Ren began mechanically drinking the vodka. Never much of a drinker, he was already feeling slightly woozy. It was hot and he fumbled with the top button of his shirt before loosening his tie. The music, some unidentifiable mush, was beginning to give him a migrane.
‘Send all the information to my financial advisers in Mayfair,’ he said. ‘I will see what they have to say.’
‘Good, good.’ Sammy poked at the ice in his drink with a green straw. ‘I will make sure they have it tomorrow.’
‘Fine.’ Ren took another mouthful of Grey Goose and felt his eyelids slowly begin to droop. ‘But now is not the time for business,’ he muttered.
‘No, no.’ Jumping to his feet, Sammy raised a hand, clicking his fingers.
Three tables away, Sonia Coverdale nudged her co-worker for the evening, a redhead from Scotland called Morag, who already looked like she’d had one glass too many. ‘C’mon.’
‘About time,’ Morag slurred, struggling to her feet.
Sonia tenderly pushed a strand of hair from her companion’s face. ‘Get a grip, girl – Harry won’t be happy.’ Harry Cummins expected his girls to live up to certain standards when they were working. In particular, the boss did not tolerate drunkenness, which he considered ‘prole-like behaviour’. If he found out about Morag, she would be out on her ear faster than you could say ‘sorry sir, but I’m afraid that you do have to wear a condom’.
‘Harry’s a wanker,’ Morag grumbled.
‘Fair comment, but keep it to yourself, eh?’ Sonia nodded at Sammy as she helped Morag stop swaying as discreetly as possible. ‘We’re on. Just try not to puke in the guy’s lap.’
With Sammy leading the way, Ren headed up the stairs, a girl on each arm. It was a struggle to hold the redhead up straight, but Ren took each step with the same grim determination with which he had risen up through the Party hierarchy. At least his reward tonight would be a lot quicker in coming. Reaching the top-floor landing, Sammy turned left and ambled down a long, dimly lit corridor. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, Ren saw there was a set of double doors at the end, guarded by the largest bouncer he’d ever seen.
‘That’s Kendrick,’ Sammy shouted over his shoulder, as if reading his guest’s mind. ‘He’s from American Samoa.’ On mention of his name, the bodyguard reached down and opened the door. With the air of a reigning monarch, Sammy disappeared inside. The redhead stumbled and Ren had to strain to stop her from falling. The other girl gave him an apologetic smile.
‘Morag’ll be OK,’ she whispered. ‘I think she might have just had a dodgy prawn or something.’
Or something, Ren thought. With a sense of weary shame, he realized that this was the type of place better suited to his wastrel son. Pushing that thought as far away as possible, he kept moving forward. ‘Let’s just get her inside.’
‘Welcome to the ultra-VIP suite!’ Sammy shouted over the relentless drive of generic rap lyrics blaring out of speakers built into the ceiling. Extending an arm, he bade them contemplate what looked like the scene from a particularly debauched music video. In front of a buffet table groaning with food of all descriptions, a dozen or so women lay around the floor in various states of undress. As far as Ren could make out, there were only two other male guests. One, sprawled on a white leather sofa pushed up against the far wall, underneath a large poster advertising the residency of Oscar 451 downstairs, had his trousers around his ankles and an almost empty bottle of Jim Beam in his hand. Despite appearing to be asleep, he was being fellated by a white girl while her black colleague filmed the action on a smartphone and offered up the occasional shout of encouragement.