Yin Yang Tattoo by Ron McMillan Page A

up the Cholla factory that only last night he had been adamant could not exist. Maybe at the reception he was more plastered than I thought.
    I steered the subject away from K-N Group and for a while resisted any notion of drawing it back there. Bobby kept hosing himself down with beer, and I did my best to keep him company.
    We decided to move on and when I came back from a visit to the Gents, I found Bobby in earnest discussion with a tall Westerner I had seen before. His was an easy face to remember and at the GDR reception, I noticed him hanging around close to Chang and Schwartz. In his late forties, he had the big build of a sportsman gone to seed – and he wore the worst hairpiece I ever saw, a monstrosity of an avian crash-landing. He was prodding Bobby in the chest with a meaty finger, their faces only inches apart. Bobby pitched further forward until their noses almost touched, and I didn’t have to be a lip reader to understand what he said next. Fuck you. Bobby pushed past him and joined me at the exit.
    â€˜What was that about?’
    â€˜Typical Geoff Martinmass. He’s a Brit, a banker – you’ll get to know him in the next few days, since he is up to his idiotic rug in the GDR.’
    â€˜What was he so pissed off about?’
    â€˜Me talking to you. If you and I are up to no good, he says, he’ll see me ruined. Whatever that’s supposed to mean.’
    When this job came out of nowhere, I worried that it seemed too good to be true, and now it looked like I might be right. Ignoring Bobby’s pleas to accompany him out of the hotel for more drinks, I pled exhaustion, saw him into a taxi, and headed for my room.
    I was half-way across the lobby when a small hand slipped under my arm. Even before I looked sideways I recognised the perfume. Miss Hong.
    â€˜Hello Alec.’
    She played it as if bumping into me at midnight in my hotel was an everyday occurrence. Maybe she was in the neighbourhood. She nuzzled closer and spoke in Korean:
    â€˜Would you like me come to your room?’
    Did I want to spend another night in bed with the delectable young woman with the tattooed midriff? I led her to the elevators.
    In my room she slipped off to shower, modestly pulling the bathroom door closed behind her. Perfect. I flicked back the latches on one of my equipment cases, peeled back a foam insert and took out a small video camera. If I was quick, I would have time. The tired face that looked back at me from the desk mirror broadened in the first smile of a long day.

Chapter Nine
    When John Lee hurried into the Hyatt lobby at eight o’clock sharp I was rooted to an armchair, trying and no doubt failing to look better than I felt. Another night cavorting with Miss Hong had been fun, but right now I would trade some of that frivolity for a little more in the way of sleep.
    I levered my way out of the chair and he changed course, the soles of his gleaming shoes mouse-squeaking across the polished lobby floor. I flipped one of the trolleys onto its wheels, stuck it in his outstretched hand and let him follow me to the door.
    Lee stood aside and watched as I stripped the two trolleys and filled first the boot, followed by the front seat of his small grey Hyundai. Treating him like a chauffeur was just too tempting a response to the way he lorded over me during the last couple of days, so I stretched out across the back seat and watched him settle, grim-faced, behind the wheel.
    While he jousted with the traffic I tried to work out what the hell I was going to do. The implications of photographing a fake factory central to a stock issue worth hundreds of millions of dollars had me spooked. A big part of me argued that I should walk away right now, but the immediate price of doing that was bankruptcy. We both know exactly how badly you need the money , Schwartz told me with obvious relish, and the bastard was right.
    I could write the whole job off and head towards a queue of