Greg Iles - The Devils Punchbowl

Dad ignores this and motions for Caitlin to continue up the road. She gives his hand a squeeze, then begins driving us deeper into the forest.

We’re meeting in a sixty-by-forty-foot shed of galvanized aluminum, the kind you see along highways all over the South. My father leads Caitlin and me past a ski boat on a trailer, a 1970s-vintage Corvette with a hole in its fiberglass, an orange Kubota tractor, a zero-turn lawn mower, and various other power machinery used for grounds maintenance. Near the far end of the building, sitting in folding lawn chairs beneath two camouflage-painted deer stands, are Danny McDavitt, Carl Sims, Walt Garrity, and Daniel Kelly. At first glance, they look incongruous, like an illustration of different American types: an astronaut, an NFL cornerback, a cowboy, and a surfer with a blond ponytail. I'm surprised to see Carl Sims here, but before I can ask about his descent into the Devil’s Punchbowl, Walt Garrity drawls, “Look what the cat drug in.”

Rising from his lawn chair, Walt catches sight of Caitlin and quickly doffs his Stetson. “Ma’am. I didn't realize we’d be having female company.”

Kelly rises to give Caitlin a hug. They met seven years ago, when we were drawn together by the Delano Payton case. “What do we have here, Penn?” Kelly asks. “The Seven Samurai?”

Carl Sims smiles from his chair. “Kind of looks like it, if you count the lady.”

“Oh, she pulls her weight,” Kelly says.

Gratitude shines in Caitlin’s eyes as she shakes hands with Carl and Danny.

“Maybe you’re right,” I say. “Leaderless soldiers gathered to save a village.”

“Well, I'm impressed,” Caitlin says. “An air force pilot, a marine sniper, a Texas Ranger, a Delta Force commando, and a doctor.”

“You left out lawyer and reporter,” McDavitt points out.

“Superfluous on any important mission, I'm sure,” she quips, getting a chuckle all around and putting everyone at ease.

“Not these days,” Kelly says. “Even the army needs a legal department and a propaganda machine.”

He unfolds three more chairs, and we sit in a tight circle, surrounded by chain saws and Weed Eaters and the oily smell of two-stroke engines. I look across the circle to Carl.

“So, you made it out of the Punchbowl?”

The sniper grins and shakes his head like a man who’s spent a week crossing a desert. “Took a while, but I finally did.”

Danny McDavitt says, “I would have called and told you, but I figured you needed the sleep.”

“Thank you,” says Caitlin. “He did.”

“Did you find anything down there?” I ask.

“Not a damn thing. Not in the car or around it. I grid-searched on my hands and knees. If there was anything down there, somebody else already got it.”

“Do you think the car burned when it crashed, or somebody torched it and dumped it there?”

“Somebody torched it, but I don'’t think they did it until yesterday. I think somebody else made the same climb I did, either to find something or to be sure they destroyed something.”

As I recall the USB drive Tim concealed in his own body, Dad says, “So, where do we start? Is everybody on the same page, or whatever they say these days?”

Walt leans back and speaks from beneath the brim of his hat. His voice has been roughened by years of cigarette smoke, and the clear eyes in the weathered face give him a natural authority that the others seem ready to defer to, at least for now.

“Mr. Kelly was just telling me some things his company has learned in the past few hours. Reckon he ought to start us off.”

“Everybody good with that?” Kelly asks.

The group nods as one.

“As most of you know, I work for Blackhawk Risk Manage

ment. We have a research department, and they’ve been checking out Jonathan Sands. In some ways, our research people aren'’t much different from those at any other corporation. They use Google, Nexis, et cetera. But Blackhawk also employs former counterterror operators from the U.S., Britain, Israel, Germany, South Africa—basically every major military power. We also employ former government lawyers and retired line officers. So our informal network of sources is pretty good. The initial bio I got back is detailed, but it only goes back to February 1989, when Sands left the UK. Northern Ireland, to be exact. This was just after some of the worst fighting in the so-called Troubles over there. The Brits are stonewalling on exactly what Sands did before ’89, so we’ll have to be content with what we have for now.”

“Why would they hold back?” I ask.

Kelly shrugs. “We don'’t know that yet. But he has an amazing story, and I’'ve heard a few. When Sands left Northern Ireland—one step ahead of somebody, is my guess—he worked as a mercenary for almost a decade, then settled in Macao. He started in the security department of a casino owned by Edward Po. Po is a legend, a whole separate story, so let’s forget him for now. Suffice to say he’s a sixty-eight-year-old Chinese billionaire, utterly ruthless and notoriously kinky. The important thing is that Sands arrived just before Macao was returned to Chinese sovereignty. It was about to expand from a serious-gamblers-only city to a Vegas-style destination, and Sands proved a valuable asset to Po. He was white, he could pass for English, and he had the kind of skill set that rough boys develop in Northern Ireland, plus what he’d learned in the interim. That doesn’'t explain his meteoric rise within Po’s organization, though. He was promoted very quickly, and within three years he was often seen with Po at various public functions in China. And not as a security officer, but a corporate officer. Sands even seemed to overtake Po’s son, whose name is Chao.”

“What explains that?” asks my father.

“Dogfighting,” says Kelly. “That'’s what I think. It’s Po’s passion. He’s a famous breeder of Japanese Tosas, and he definitely fights them on a circuit.”

“You think Sands picked up the taste for it there?” Carl asks.

Kelly shakes his head. “My gut tells me Sands grew up around it.

Specialized knowledge about the sport would have got him noticed by Po.”

Caitlin says, “I found a lot online about dogfighting in England and Ireland, going back centuries.”

Kelly nods sagely. “Let’s rewind a few years. Before Sands arrived on the scene, Edward Po had a younger brother named Yang, who died of cancer. Yang Po was a Christian, a Baptist converted by Scottish missionaries, and he ultimately married one of their daughters. Yang had a daughter named Jiao—half-caste, white blood. Very hot—in pictures, anyway.”

“I met her,” I say. “She’s striking, all right.”

Caitlin cuts her eyes at me. “Is she part of whatever’s going on here?”

“I think so, yeah. That'’s the vibe I got.”

“That'’s interesting,” says Kelly. “Because Yang Po had no involvement in his brother’s casinos or any other criminal activity. He was a professor—a

law

professor, if you can believe that. Edward, on the other hand, was neck-deep in every racket you can run in China, and that’s saying a lot. He’s since exported a lot of his operations to the U.S. and Europe, as well. What’s important for us is that Edward Po promised his dying brother that he’d not only take care of Jiao, but shield her from the sinful lifestyle. And he tried. He sent her to Cambridge, in fact. But when Jiao returned to Macao, she naturally fell for Sands, the Irish bad boy, much as her uncle seems to have done. Po hoped she’d grow out of it, but when she didn't, he told Sands to get out of town or else.”

“Or else what?” asks Caitlin.

“If Sands left China without Jiao, he’d get a nice severance package and the highest recommendation. If he stuck around or tried to take Jiao with him, they’d sever his genitals from his body, then his head from his neck.”

Caitlin’s eyebrows arch with interest, if not surprise. “So what did he do? Jiao’s here now. Did Sands risk the reprisal and take her with him?”

“He’s not the type to cave to threats,” I say.

“Depends on who’s doing the threatening,” says Kelly. “The IRA thinks they know something about torture? Trust me, you have to go to Asia to learn about pain. Sands had seen Po’s organization

from the inside, and he knew what would happen. He did exactly what the boss wanted. He left the girl

and

China. Anyone want to guess where he went?”

“Land of opportunity?” prompts Danny McDavitt.

“You got it. Las Vegas, to be exact. With Po’s recommendation, Sands got a top security job with the Palm Hotel group. Turned out his ambition was to own a casino himself. I think that’s what Sands was doing with the niece in Macao, trying to marry into the business. Fast-forward a few months, and enter Craig Weldon, a Los Angeles entertainment lawyer who liked to hang out at the Vegas Palm. Weldon owns a sports management agency, and he had the same dream as Sands, to own a casino. The difference was, Weldon had the money to build one. That'’s how Golden Parachute was born. They made a simple plan to go into secondary markets—like Mississippi—and beat out the competition. They wanted to clean up out in the sticks, then return to Vegas as conquering heroes ten years later. Not a bad plan. But while they were putting all this together, Jiao showed up in Vegas. Couldn’t stay away. True love, and all that. Now, did Sands try to send her back to China? Did he ask her to stay? We don'’t know. All we do know is that Po didn't send an unlicensed surgical team to castrate Sands. He let the Golden Parachute get completely unfurled, ready to catch wind, and then…”

“What?” asks Caitlin.

“He stole it,” says Walt. “Right?”

Kelly smiles. “Lock, stock, and barrel. This is speculation, but probably very close to what happened. Right before Sands and Weldon applied for their license, Po showed up and said, ‘Hello, Jonathan, my faithful servant. I appreciate all the legwork, but Golden Parachute Gaming is about to become a subsidiary of Po Enterprises, Ltd. Unofficially, of course.’ And what could Sands do but grin and bear it? He knew he wouldn'’t live five minutes if Po decided otherwise. So, Po’s name went into the five-percent silent-partner pool as a token investor, but in reality, the bulk of the money that funded Golden Parachute was his. Craig Weldon became a figurehead, either bought off with massive payoffs or scared into silence. Chinese gangsters are pros at both. California still has Triad-affiliated youth gangs who can enforce whatever the higher-ups want. Forget Sands and Quinn—Craig Weldon owns a lot of L.A.

real estate, and an L.A. youth gang could permanently fuck up his portfolio with one weekend’s arson and vandalism.”

I wait for Kelly to go on, but he seems to have come to the end of his story. “So Golden Parachute is actually owned by a Chinese billionaire?”

“That'’s what my employers think.”

“Does the U.S. government know that?”

“That I don'’t know.”

After digesting this, I say, “What do you think Sands’s real position is with the company? Does he even have an equity stake?”

Kelly shrugs. “Whatever his title is, he might as well be chief cook and bottle-washer. He’s under Po’s thumb. It’s like he never even left Macao.”

“Except he has the girl,” Caitlin points out. “Jiao.”

“How happy did he look to you?” Kelly asks me.

“Not very. Which brings us to the question I’'ve been asking since Tim Jessup first came to me. What the hell is Sands really doing here? And is he doing it on his own, or for Edward Po?”

“Your father told me about Jessup’s theory,” Kelly says. “Sands

could