Murder on the Potomac by Margaret Truman Page A

of one on which black Chinese symbols announced the business and its purpose: import-export. He inserted a key, entered, and locked the door behind him.
    Three men and one woman were in the room. She greeted Cheong in Chinese. The others glanced up, said nothing, returned to their desktop tasks. The room’s windows overlooking the street were covered by heavy draperies. The only light in the room came from powerful halogen lamps illuminating the desks of the four people. Two of the men wore jewelers’ loupes. Familiar fragments of Chinese music played from a small tape recorder.
    Cheong stopped at each of the four desks. The powerful, focused light from the halogens caught the dazzling multiple facets—dozens of diamonds spread out on soft green cloths, the effect kaleidoscopic.
    He left the room and entered another, a small office as tastefully decorated and furnished as the outside room was sparse. The windows in this room, too, were draped against outside light—and eyes. It was a study in blacks.
    A large black lacquer desk with a white marble top.A high-backed black leather chair separating the desk from a long black lacquer credenza, its surface bare except for an elaborate telephone system that included a black tape recorder, answering machine, speakerphone, and earphones. A second, plain phone sat next to it—but red. A large circular black-and-brass clock displaying time zones around the world dominated the wall above.
    On the opposite wall was a white plastic chart. Written on it with erasable pen were the names of a dozen American cities. A series of columns following each name were filled with Chinese notations.
    Cheong picked up the red phone and dialed a private number. “Is Ricky there? This is Sun Ben.”
    A minute later Ricky, a host for special customers, came on the line and said with extreme pleasantness, “Sun Ben. Great to hear your voice. How are you, my friend?”
    Cheong’s voice was humdrum. “I’m fine, thank you. I have to be in Philadelphia tomorrow. I would like to stay with you tonight.”
    “Terrific,” said Ricky. “All the usual?”
    “Yes.”
    “What time?”
    “Eight-thirty.”
    “Dinner in your suite?”
    “Yes. Broiled skinless chicken, no sauce, a salad, one roll.”
    “You got it, my friend. We’ll welcome you again to Atlantic City. See you tonight.”
    Cheong carefully hung his suit jacket on a hanger behind the door and returned to his chair. He sat back,propped his feet on the edge of the desk, and closed his eyes.
    Until the larger, more elaborate phone rang.
    He slowly swiveled, picked up the receiver, and spoke in Chinese, as did the caller.
    CHEONG : How are you?
    CALLER : Fine. Just fine. You have an order to place?
    CHEONG : Two-hundred fifty.
    CALLER : At the prevailing rate?
    CHEONG : Yes. Has it changed since last week?
    CALLER: NO .
    CHEONG : Good. The money will be wired in the morning. All is well with your family?
    CALLER : My family is fine. Your … family?
    CHEONG : We are all in good health.
    CALLER : We must see each other again one day.
    Cheong dangled the receiver over the cradle and lowered it until it clicked. The clock on the wall said it was 3:15 in Washington, 9:15 the following morning in Hong Kong.
    He sat motionless in the room’s dim light until 3:30, when a buzzer indicated someone had entered the outer office. Cheong got up from behind his desk, put on his jacket and buttoned it, returned to the chair, and sat ramrod straight. Someone knocked. “Come in,” Cheong said in Chinese.
    One of the men wearing a jeweler’s loupe stepped aside to allow another man to enter. He was fat; his straining suit had been purchased many pounds ago. He carried a canvas Hecht’s shopping bag, bulging like his suit.
    After exchanging the briefest greetings, the visitor came to the desk, lowered the bag to the floor, nodded,and left. Cheong waited until he heard the buzzer again. He came around the desk, picked up the bag, placed it on the desk,