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more money into the fire. “Cheung murdered me, as well.”
    In a high-security chamber with walls of pumice situated atop the Peace Hotel, Cheung conducted his own rituals in the incense-choked, churchlike ambience.
    Seated behind an artful, almost ephemeral desktop of hewn onyx, Cheung was working with a leather rollup of antique carving tools, delicately carving a detailed cherrywood casket about ten inches long.
    Past the altarlike desk, past the bank of flat-screen monitors, several of his operatives worked damage control by phone, but none would proffer informationor news, good or bad, until Cheung addressed them directly.
    Finally, Cheung looked up and lit a long, poisonous-looking cigarette.
    “Mr. Fleetwood,” he said.
    Fleetwood, a rangy Anglo wearing octagonal glasses wired around his completely shaved head, terminated the call on his headset.
    “How much will last night cost us?” said Cheung, meaning the free-for-all at the Zongchang, including janitorial services.
    “Ten days to reopen at a cost of $2.6 million New Pacific dollars. That’s the repair versus the lost income.”
    “They’re robbing us because they think we’re desperate,” Cheung said. He picked up a hardwood abacus and started clicking the beads on the device’s lower deck, bottom-to-top, right-to-left, carrying totals to the upper deck, where each bead represented five times more value. It was the simplest base-ten counting system in the world.
    “Get everything right. Tell them they have twenty days to reopen. Give them one point one. More time, but less loss.”
    “What about General Zhang’s military loan?” said Fleetwood. “What about the interest the police owe us?”
    Cheung waved this away because Longwei Sze Xie had entered.
    “Ivory,” Cheung said. “My Immortal. Tell me true things.”
    After a formal bow, Ivory exhibited several printouts salvaged from the surveillance cameras at the casino ship.
    “The Nameless One,” he said, unnecessarily. “Same as at the Oriental Pearl Tower. And here, again. And again.”
    “Is she a ghost?”
    “No,” said Ivory.
    “Tell me,” said Cheung, his voice succoring. “Is she a genuine threat, or is she just crazy and lucky?” The implication that Ivory’s job hung in the balance was clear.
    “She will be no threat. I will see to it.”
    Cheung rose and—very uncharacteristically—laid an avuncular hand on Ivory’s shoulder. He rarely touched any of his employees.
    “Longwei Sze Xie,” he said, using respect language, “I shall need you close by at all times. You help enable my…mad little schemes, and I shall always be grateful. There is one small errand to which I would like you to attend.”
    “Name it and it is done,” said Ivory.
    He whispered into Ivory’s ear.
    “Sir, Nairobi’s finally calling back on line two,” Fleetwood announced.
    “I’ll take it,” said Cheung, who picked up his phone and began speaking in perfect Kenyan dialect.
    Ivory had already vanished from the room.
    Qingzhao was punching holes in a sheet of tin with a mallet and chisel. Each time she smacked the metal the perforation made a pank! sound that echoed inside the shrine room.
    “Was she a soldier, this woman?” she asked.
    “Yes,” said Gabriel. “A U.S. Air Force pilot.”
    “Then she knew about soldiers in battle. They die.”
    “Her sister was no soldier. She was a databaseengineer at the American office of a Chinese corporation.”
    “Cheung’s?”
    Gabriel nodded.
    “Cheung is a warrior. Anyone who works for him has to be prepared for the worst.”
    “Bet they don’t tell employees that before they take the job.”
    Qingzhao shrugged this away.
    “What’s your connection to Cheung?” Gabriel asked. “Were you an employee, too? Before you were…what did you say, murdered?”
    She flared with anger: “You have no right to show disdain. Have you fought and killed another man? Ever been wounded in battle?”
    In his nearly twoscore years on the planet