"Soon he will be in a position to launch new ships." The words came with a veiled implication that Quan Ting would be financed by the Chinese government with Yin Tsang's blessing and endorsement.
"You insult my intelligence. You have used the Orion Lake mishap as an excuse to cancel my association with the People's Republic of China so you can go into partnership on the sly and rake in the profits yourself."
"You are no stranger to greed, Qin Shang. You would do the same in my shoes."
"And my new facility in Louisiana?" asked Qin Shang. "Am I to lose that too?"
"You will be compensated for your half of the investment, of course."
"Of course," Qin Shang repeated acidly, knowing full well he would never receive a cent. "Naturally, it will be given to my successor and you, his silent partner."
"That will be my counsel at the next party conference in Beijing."
"May I inquire as to whom else you've discussed my expulsion with?"
"Only Quan Ting," answered Yin Tsang. "I thought it best to keep the matter quiet until the proper time."
Qin Shang's private secretary stepped into the room and moved to the sitting area with the grace of a Balinese dancing girl, which is exactly what she was until Qin Shang hired and trained her. She was only one of several beautiful girls who served as Shang's aides. Women he trusted more than men. Unmarried, Shang kept nearly a dozen mistresses-three lived in his penthouse-but he followed a policy of never becoming intimate with the women close to his business dealings. He nodded his appreciation as his secretary set a tray with two cups and two teapots on the low table between the men.
"The green teapot is your special blend," she said softly to Qin Shang. "The blue teapot is jasmine."
"Jasmine!" Yin Tsang snorted. "How can you drink tea that tastes like women's perfume when your special blend is far superior?"
"Variety." Qin Shang smiled. As a show of courtesy he poured the tea. Relaxing in his chair while he cradled the steaming cup in his hands, he watched as Yin Tsang sipped until his tea was gone. Then Qin Shang politely poured him another cup.
"You realize, of course, that Quan Ting has no cruise ships available to carry passengers."
"They can either be purchased or leased from other cruise lines," said Yin Tsang offhandedly. "Let us face the light. You have made immense profits over the past few years. You are not about to go bankrupt. It will be a simple matter for you to diversify Qin Shang Maritime Limited into Western markets. You are a shrewd businessman, Qin Shang. You will survive without the People's Republic of China's benevolence."
"The flight of a hawk cannot be accomplished with the wings of a sparrow," said Qin Shang philosophically.
Yin Tsang set down his cup and rose to his feet. "I must leave you now. My plane is waiting to fly me back to Beijing."
"I understand," Qin Shang said dryly. "As minister of internal affairs, you are a busy man who must make many decisions."
Yin Tsang noted the contempt but said no more. His unpleasant duty performed, he gave a curt bow and entered the elevator. As soon as the doors closed, Qin Shang returned to his desk and spoke into the intercom. "Send me Pavel Gavrovich."
Five minutes later, a tall, medium-built man with Slavic facial features and thick black hair greased and combed back across his head with no part stepped from the elevator. He strode across the room and stopped in front of Qin Shang's desk.
Qin Shang looked up at his chief enforcer, once the finest and most ruthless undercover agent in all of Russia. A professional assassin with few equals in the martial arts, Pavel Gavrovich was offered an exorbitant salary to leave a high-level position in the Russian Defense Ministry to come to work for Qin Shang. Gavrovich had taken less than one minute to accept.
"A competitor of mine who owns an inferior shipping line is proving to be an irritant to me. His name is Quan Ting. Please arrange an accident for him."
Gavrovich nodded silently, turned on his heels and reentered the waiting elevator, never having spoken a word.
The following morning, as Qin Shang sat in the dining room of his penthouse suite alone and scanned several newspapers, foreign and domestic, he was pleased to discover a pair of articles in the Hong Kong Journal. The first read,Quan Ting, chairman and managing director of the China & Pacific Shipping Line, and his wife were killed late last night when their limousine was struck broadside by a large truck transporting electrical cable as Mr. Quan and his wife were leaving the Mandarin Hotel after dinner with friends. Their chauffeur was also killed. The driver of the truck vanished from the scene of the accident and has yet to be found by police.
The second article in the newspaper read,It was announced in Beijing today by the Chinese government that Yin Tsang had died. The untimely death of China's minister of internal affairs, who succumbed to a heart attack while on a flight to Beijing, was sudden and unexpected. Though he had no known history of heart problems, all efforts to revive him failed, and he was pronounced dead upon arrival at the Beijing Airport. Deputy Minister Lei Chau is expected to succeed Yin Tsang.
A great pity, Qin Shang thought wickedly. My special blend of tea must not have agreed with Yin Tsang's stomach. He made a mental note to tell his secretary to send his condolences to President Lin Loyang and set up a meeting with Lei Chau, who had been nurtured with the necessary bribes and was known to be not nearly as avaricious as his predecessor.
Putting aside the newspapers, Qin Shang took a final sip of his coffee. He drank tea in public, but in private he preferred Southern-style American coffee with chicory. A soft chime warned him that his private secretary was about to enter the dining room. She approached and set a leather-bound file on the table beside him.
"Here is the information you requested from your agent at the Federal Bureau of Investigation."
"Wait one moment will you, Su Zhong. I'd like your opinion on something."
Qin Shang opened the file and began studying the contents. He held up a photograph of a man standing beside an old classic car who stared back at the camera. The man was dressed casually in slacks and a golf shirt under a sport coat. A crooked, almost shy grin curled the lips on a face that was tanned and weathered. The eyes, laughter lines wrinkling from their edges, were locked on the camera lens and had a probing quality about them, almost as if they were measuring whoever peered at the photo. They were accented by dark, thick eyebrows. The photo was in black-and-white, so it was impossible to assess the exact color of the irises. Qin Shang wrongly guessed them as blue.