Free The Death and Life of Nicholas Linnear by Eric Van Lustbader Page A

mistresses, political notables and their mistresses, and even a smattering of Hollywood stars, who were in Shanghai making films or ads—he’d been introduced to Harrison Ford and Scarlett Johansson.
    He had been drinking Champagne—more than he should have. But this was his night—the celebration of the first of a fleet of American LNG tankers doing business with the Chinese. More than eighteen months of excruciating negotiations finally had led to this moment. Of course there was talk—there was always talk!—of the Tomkin family background having played a major part in the success of the deal. Nicholas had taken over Tomkin Industries after the old man had died. Since that time, Nicholas had quadrupled the company’s size while increasing its bottom line tenfold. Of course, when it came to him there were always rumors. Being mixed race had led him into perilous currents during his childhood in Japan. This night he could not have cared less about rumors. The prize was his and his alone. He only wished Justine had lived to share in his victory.
    He had opened the curtained doors to the balcony in response to an urgent coded text message from Joji, his vice president. His mobile couldn’t connect to calls or to voicemail in the ballroom—indeed, anywhere inside the hotel, he had found. Texts barely squeaked through. This was typical of hotels that deliberately suppressed cell signals, forcing their guests to use the landlines in their rooms.
    The people waiting for him must have known that. They had stationed themselves behind the clattering palms on either side of the balcony. He was just dialing the number from the text when they came for him. Even then, he should have been prepared. He should have heard them despite the hubbub spilling out from the ballroom, but he was thinking of the LNG fleet and the repayment of the debt it had incurred. And in the heady release of his triumph he had allowed the surfeit of Champagne to turn his mind a bit muzzy. Surely after hammering out so long and difficult a bargain he had a right to relax.
    That’s what they had been counting on.
    By the time he had become aware of them, the Propofol had been injected into his vein. He went out instantly. They had used Propofol deliberately. They hadn’t wanted to kill him on the spot. Where would be the fun in that? They wanted him to awaken in the coffin and know that he had been buried alive.
    That was how these people worked.
    Now, brushing the last of the sticky dirt from his tux, he looked at his watch. Twenty-nine minutes to midnight. His gaze rose to the Justine . It was preparing to get under weigh.
    His heart skipped a beat and he felt the first onrush of adrenalin that would push him forward. He knew why they had been in such a hurry.
    The three men who had been lying in wait for Nicholas, who had dropped him into the pine coffin and hurriedly dug the grave, now joined their two comrades aboard the Justine . Their I.D.s, meticulously manufactured by Section Six of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, gained them access to the ship as officials of customs and immigration. The captain, informed of their presence, anxious to weigh anchor on time, was disinclined to cause a delay by querying them.
    “Just tell them they have to be off the ship in fifteen minutes,” he told his mate, and was immediately absorbed in the charts the local harbor pilot had put in front of him.
    The five men scurried belowdecks, swift as rats. They each had a mission to perform, and they knew they had little time to complete it. Between the engine room and the massive LNG tanks was a corridor interrupted by a series of thick metal doors specifically designed to prevent any fire that broke out in the engines from coming anywhere near the highly flammable liquid natural gas. Other safeguards were in place: the corridor could be flooded with the flip of a switch; all electrical circuits could be shut down as quickly and efficiently; there were heavily armed