“Smith’s gloriously intricate plot is top-notch, and her writing…is that of a gifted storyteller.” —Publishers Weekly on The Innocents Club “Taylor Smith…John Grisham. It’s a perfectly plausible comparison—though Smith’s a better prose stylist.”

—Publishers Weekly on Random Acts

“The mix of suspense, forensic science, romance and mystery makes this a real page-turner.”

—Orange Coast on Random Acts

“Sharp characterization and a tightly focused time frame…give this intrigue a spellbinding tone of immediacy.”

—Publishers Weekly on The Best of Enemies

“The pace is swift and the action is concentrated…making it a perfect summer read.”

—Orange Coast on The Best of Enemies

Also by TAYLOR SMITH

DEADLY GRACE

THE INNOCENTS CLUB

RANDOM ACTS

THE BEST OF ENEMIES

COMMON PASSIONS

GUILT BY SILENCE

Liar’s Market
Taylor Smith

www.mirabooks.co.uk

Three may keep a secret—if two of them be dead.

—Benjamin Franklin

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

My deep thanks for assistance and ongoing support to Lieutenant Brian Bray and Officer Harry M. Saval (Washington, D.C., Metropolitan Police), Nick Banks, Lee Roberts, D. P. Lyle, the Fictionaires, Philip Spitzer and last but never least, Amy Moore-Benson.

And as always, Richard, Kate and Anna:

I couldn’t do it without you.

This book is dedicated to the memory of Robert Kost (1936–2003) artist, musician and son of the prairie.

This is a work of fiction. Although certain events mentioned in this novel are actual historical events, the characters I placed there are entirely figments of my imagination, as are their personal experiences. Any resemblance to real individuals is strictly coincidental.

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

PROLOGUE

Hong Kong

August 27, 2001

Hong Kong radiated heat, sex and treachery in equal measures. Adding money and politics to that flammable mix guaranteed an explosion of murder.

From her twenty-eighth-floor penthouse terrace near the top of Victoria Park Alexandra Kim Lee gazed down on a city skyline that sparkled like diamonds strewn across a blue-black cape of velvet. Dazzling skyscrapers and light-strung yachts and fishing junks in the harbor made a festive display, specially contrived, it seemed, to mark her birthday. Her latest lover was expected any minute, and the plan was to celebrate at Fantin-Latour, Hong Kong’s newest, most exclusive nightclub.

She’d been born in the harbor below exactly thirty-five years ago that night on board a junk that smelled of fish guts, rotting wood and wet rope. It had been the Year of the Dragon, the luckiest and most powerful of signs. And like the mighty dragon, which begins life in the narrow confines of the soupy egg, Alex had emerged from damp, humble beginnings to conquer her world.

Now, she had luxury homes in London, New York and Eleuthera, as well as this sprawling penthouse in the coveted residential sector high above Hong Kong. It wasn’t so long ago that Chinese hadn’t been permitted to live on the Peak, but the timing of Alex’s life was as lucky as her sign. Schooling for young Chinese girls had become mandatory when she was a child, and she’d gone on to win scholarships at the London School of Economics. Afterward, she’d worked as an assistant to one of the leading British bankers in Hong Kong. When rule of the colony had reverted to China, she’d been in a prime position to strike out on her own, acting as go-between for western businesses looking for profit in the emerging modern China with its billion eager consumers.

Alex’s ancestors had been fishermen and noodle makers, but she was on a first-name basis with British lords, American senators and international businessmen, with whom she was often photographed in the U.S. and European press. Her helpful introductions to leaders in the People’s Republic led to lucrative commercial contracts for these influential Westerners. In return, she used her charm, as well as other incentives, to convince them to support trade accords and political treaties to Beijing’s advantage. If those incentives sometimes included a financial donation or the passing of a secret gleaned in pillow talk with an influential friend…well, that was part of the business, too. In return for her efforts, Alexandra Kim Lee received the grateful largesse of Beijing and foreign businessmen alike—very grateful. Bank presidents from Zurich to the Cayman Islands were on her speed dial, and they took her calls personally.

Turning away from the railing and the stunning view of the city below, Alex reached up and lifted her silken black hair off pale, bare shoulders. The sun had set nearly an hour ago, but the air was still muggy and very warm. She lit a few sticks of fragrant sandalwood incense and set them in sand-filled brass dishes around the terrace to discourage those few hardy mosquitoes who might venture up to this altitude. Down in the harbor on a hot summer evening like this, fishermen would be shirtless, skin glistening with sweat as they prepared their nets for the night run. But up here among the Peak’s green spaces, soft breezes carried delicate scents of jasmine, honeysuckle and orange blossom from well-tended terrace gardens.

The air stirred now, cooling Alex’s body, naked under a lucky red silk Versace gown. The gossamer thin dress dipped low in front and back, held at her shoulders by the sheerest of filaments that looked as if they might give way at any second. Like Alex herself, their apparent fragility was deceptive.

If she looked closely enough in the mirror, she could see the beginnings of a few lines around her eyes and mouth, yet it was a common occurrence still to hear the squeal of rubber heels behind her as men stopped dead in their tracks to stare when she passed by. More important than beauty, though, she had brains, and what little was lost in looks was more than gained back in experience, connections and poise. She was probably at the peak of her operational effectiveness right now. She estimated that she had five, maybe eight good years left before the advantages afforded by her appearance began to dim. It was unfair that a woman’s career should be shortened like that. Still, by the time her run was done, Alexandra calculated, she would have earned an extremely comfortable retirement.

Tonight, though, was an occasion to forget about business. Tonight belonged to her.

She peered once more over the filigreed-iron railing. City traffic sounded distant, muted in the steamy night air, but far below in the circular drive, a white limousine was gliding up to the building’s front entrance. The blue-uniformed doorman rushed out to open the limo’s back door, and as the passenger emerged, a hint of a smile touched the edges of Alex’s crimson-painted lips.

When the door chime sounded a few minutes later, her maid emerged from the kitchen to answer it. Alex turned away from the city lights, leaning against the terrace’s wrought-iron railing to face the richly furnished living room. The back of her silk dress draped to the cleft of her buttocks, and when the metal railing touched her bare skin, a shiver ran up her spine as if a shadow had passed over her grave. But then the maid opened the heavy, carved mahogany front door, and in spite of Alex’s momentary chill of apprehension, a musical laugh escaped her lips. He was such a poseur, this one.

Dressed in an impeccable black tuxedo, he stood in the doorway, one elbow propped up against the door-frame, ankles crossed casually, doing his best Cary Grant, sophisticate-about-town imitation. In one arm, he clutched a sterling silver ice bucket with carved jade handles. Two champagne flutes dangled precariously, upside down, their flimsy stems threaded between the fingers of his other hand.

He glanced around in confusion for a second, seeking her out on the deep, tufted sofas and then over by the marble fireplace mantle. Every highly polished surface in the room held dense arrangements of birthday roses and lilies sent by less favored admirers, many of whose invitations she’d turned down in order to spend her special night with him.

When he finally caught sight of her out on the terrace, he grinned and strode across gleaming cherry wood floors. It was Dom Perignon in the silver bucket, she noted, tiny beads of condensation on the black bottle sparkling under the soft overhead lights. The exquisite flutes dangling between his fingers looked like Baccarat crystal.

Behind him, the maid remained at the entrance, staring, her mouth as open as the still yawning door. She was new, not yet accustomed to the kind of men Alexandra entertained. Still, you’d think the fool had never seen a man in a tuxedo before.

“Shut the door,” Alex snapped in Cantonese. “Then go back to the kitchen.”

“Oh, yes, madam! So sorry.” The maid closed the door with a soft click of the latch, then shuffled away on slippered feet.

Alex turned her attention back where it belonged, on this silly, adorable, handsome man, as he leaned down to give her a kiss.

“Happy birthday, darling,” he said.

He was almost a foot taller than she, and trimly built. Still, her small body and his large one fit together very nicely, she thought. He was quite a decent dancer, too. They would make a striking couple out on the floor at Fantin-Latour.

“You look good enough to eat,” he added.

“Yes, please,” she said demurely.

His grin widened. “Bad girl. Later. First, champagne, then dinner. After that, we’ll see what else we can do for you.”

He set the flutes on one of the low, glass patio tables. When he uncorked the bottle and poured the bubbles into the thin crystal, Alex pretended not to see the blue Tiffany box peeking out of his tuxedo jacket pocket. It didn’t do to show too much excitement over such things or men might think you could be bought like some thoroughbred race horse—or worse, Kowloon whore. And Alexandra Kim Lee was certainly not that. She was a businesswoman, first, foremost and always.

He handed her one of the glasses, and the flutes chimed softly as the rims touched. “Many happy returns of the day, Alexandra.”

“Thank you.” She took a sip, savoring the perfect bubbles. Then she glanced over the rail once more. “Your car didn’t wait?”

“I told the driver to park off to the side. Our reservation is for nine o’clock. I hope you don’t mind not rushing right out.”

She leaned back and studied him over the rim of her glass, smiling. “Not at all. The champagne is perfectly chilled, and I was just thinking what a lovely evening it was for enjoying the view.”

“Gorgeous,” he said, but he wasn’t looking at the city or the harbor lights. “It’s so quiet up here. And it’s good to have you all to myself for a bit before we head back down into the heat and madness. It’s an exciting city, Hong Kong, but it can be a little exhausting with all that frenetic bustle down there.”

“Well, then, you should think of this as your refuge. Just you and me, all alone, floating on a cloud.”

“And the maid.”

She waved a delicate, dismissive hand, and her fine, woven gold bracelets sparkled.

He reached for the bottle and topped up their glasses. “Cheers, then. Here’s to refuge in the clouds.”

“Chin-chin,” she said.

He moved beside her and they stood quietly, gazing down on the glistening city. A swath of swirling blue draped the star-dappled sky, a reflection of lights on the warm haze. Alex felt his hand come to rest briefly on her shoulder, then move slowly, sensuously down her back, raising a pleasant thrum on her skin.

“There’s another reason I wanted a little time alone with you,” he said quietly.

“Really?”

“Yes. I wanted to ask you something. Maybe now’s as good a time as any.”

“What did you want to ask me?”

“Well,” he said, withdrawing his hand and looking down at his glass, suddenly boyish and coy. “I’ll tell you in a minute. But before I do, I have a little surprise.”

Aha, she thought, the Tiffany box. “Would it be a birthday surprise by any chance?”

“I think you could call it that.” He took her glass from her hand and set both flutes aside on the low table. Then he lifted her fingers to his lips. “You’re so very lovely, you know that?”

“Thank you. You’re sweet.”

He studied her face for a long moment and then, to her astonishment, he dropped to one knee. Alex’s smile remained fixed, but inside, she felt a frisson of panic. The little blue Tiffany box in his pocket—it was probably the right size to hold a ring case.

Oh, please, don’t tell me he’s going to propose.

They hadn’t even known each other all that long—not that longevity meant anything in cases like this. Last year, Hans Dietermann, chairman of the board of München Deutsche Bank, had proposed to her during their first dinner together, only a few hours after they’d met. Then, as now, it was out of the question.

She touched his shoulders, a queen signaling her knight to rise. “Darling,” she protested gently.

“Shhh, don’t speak. Let me. What I wanted to say…”

She sighed and leaned back against the railing. What a way to ruin a perfectly good birthday.

His fingers slid lightly down the sides of her dress, as if he could find the words he needed written there in silk-stranded Braille. He leaned his head toward her knees, meekly, almost penitently, hands resting on her calves.

“What I wanted to say, my love, is this…”

He paused and exhaled heavily—working up his courage, she thought. Really, it was too tiresome. She wondered if it was too late to accept one of those other birthday dinner invitations. Finally, he found his voice again and looked up at her, a mischievous expression rising on his handsome face—handsome but not irresistible.

“You’ve been talking to people you shouldn’t,” he said, “telling tales out of school, bad girl. It’s made your masters very angry.”

This was not what she’d expected, but she had no more than a split second to even begin to comprehend his meaning before his grip tightened on her legs. He stood abruptly, and in one smooth movement, flipped her backward over the railing.

Shocked breathless, she made not a sound falling the two hundred and eighty-three feet to the pavement below.

He heard a faint thud as she landed, but didn’t bother to look over the railing. What would be the point?

Instead, he dusted off the knees of his tuxedo pants, then picked up his champagne flute and downed the last dregs, slipping the drained glass into his jacket pocket next to the empty blue Tiffany box. He’d seen how her pupils had expanded when she’d spotted that stupid prop. He knew it would distract her.

Withdrawing a handkerchief, he wiped down the stem of her glass, the only part of it he’d touched, as well as the ice bucket and the bottle. Perhaps the initial thought would be that she’d been drinking alone, depressed on her birthday. The notion wouldn’t stand up to five minutes of careful scrutiny, of course, but he didn’t care. He’d be long gone, from the Peak, from Hong Kong, before the police ever got around to putting together a credible theory of what had happened here tonight—if they ever did.

Back inside, he crossed the living room quickly and silently. The place smelled like a bloody funeral parlor, he thought, with all those ostentatious floral arrangements. Appropriate, though, under the circumstances.

He withdrew a Sig-Sauer automatic from the holster at the small of his back, under his tuxedo jacket. The suppressor was in his other pocket, the one not holding the blue box. He screwed it onto the end of the barrel as he backed quietly along the wall, through the formal dining room and toward the kitchen.

He was at the swinging door when he heard the first faint yell of alarm rising from the front drive, twenty-eight floors below. A male voice. It wouldn’t be the doorman, though. His driver would have long since taken him out, dumping the body in the trunk of the limo before leaving to dispose of it. It could be days before it floated to the surface of the harbor.

He gave the silencer one last, tightening twist. The motorcycle on which he himself would make his getaway had been pre-positioned near the servants’ entrance at the back of the building. He calculated that he had as little as four minutes to get to it before the first police cars came up the Peak Road. In the meantime, the civilians on the scene would be preoccupied with that silk-clad mess on the front drive.

Poor thing. She probably wasn’t so gorgeous now.

When he burst through the kitchen door, the maid was sitting on a stool at the center island, a gossip magazine spread out in front of her, a bowl at her chin. Her chopsticks froze in mid-air and her mouth dropped open, grains of rice tumbling from her lips.

He put a single bullet in her forehead. The rice bowl sailed in one direction, the chopsticks in another, as the stool tipped backward. She slumped to the floor, her head wedged between the gleaming stainless steel stove and a maple cabinet.

Taking care to leave no prints, he left quietly through the rear kitchen door. The maid stared blindly after him, her black eyes milking over.

CHAPTER ONE

TOP SECRET

CODE WORD ACCESS ONLY

NOT FOR DISTRIBUTION

FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION

INTERVIEW TRANSCRIPTION

CASE NO. 1786521-02

CODE NAME: ACHILLES

DATE OF INTERVIEW: August 14, 2002

LEAD INTERROGATOR: FBI Special Agent S. V. Andrews

(Special Agent Andrews) Okay, let’s get started. Today is Wednesday, August 14, 2002, and this is interview number two with Mrs. Drummond MacNeil, also known as Carrie MacNeil.

I should note for the record that two witnesses are present: Mr. Frank Tucker, representing the office of the Director of Central Intelligence, and Mr. Mark Huxley, from MI-6, the British foreign intelligence service. They’re being allowed to observe this interview as part of their damage assessment on joint-intelligence operations resulting from the alleged activities of Mrs. MacNeil’s husband. As of right now, Drummond MacNeil, CIA Deputy Director for Operations, is still at large, whereabouts unknown.

Okay, I think we’re ready to begin now. So, for the record, please, state your full name and date of birth.

(Mrs. MacNeil) Didn’t we establish that in the first interview?

We do it every time to keep the tapes properly identified for the transcribers.

Oh. That makes sense, I guess. So, once again then, it’s Carrie Jane MacNeil. Originally Carolyn, but I’ve always been called Carrie. My maiden name was Morgan.

And your date of birth?

May 16, 1973.

So you’re…um…twenty-nine years old, is that right?

Yes. I’ll be thirty on my next birthday. The big three-oh. And don’t I have a lot to be proud of approaching that landmark.

Such as?

I was being sarcastic, Agent Andrews. Obviously, my accomplishments are pretty limited. In fact, all things considered, I’d say I’ve made a real mess of things, wouldn’t you?

In what way?

Take your pick. I’ve pretty much blown everything over the last decade—education, marriage, credibility. Abandoned my personal goals, so no career to speak of. And now, here I am, suspected of treason—and murder, too, if I understand correctly where you were heading when we talked yesterday. Good job, Carrie.

I told you yesterday, Mrs. MacNeil, the Bureau’s official position is that you’re assisting our investigation into your husband’s activities and subsequent disappearance. No one has said you’re a suspect.

Not yet they haven’t. You’ll be sure to tell me when I am, though, won’t you?

You’ll be the first to know. But in the meantime, I want to confirm for the record that your participation in this debriefing is entirely voluntary. Is that right?

You mean, there’s nothing I’d rather be doing?

No, I mean you’re here of your own accord and we both understand that you’re free of leave at any time.

Yes, fine, we both understand that. I can think of plenty of places I’d rather be, mind you. Having a root canal, for example.

No doubt. But getting back to the subject of your accomplishments, what about your son? You’re proud of him, aren’t you?

Oh, God, yes, I am. He’s the best part of my life. All right, fair enough. I’ve messed up the rest of it, but I wouldn’t have Jonah if it weren’t for everything else. Let’s just hope I haven’t completely ruined his life, too.

That has to be a concern, for sure. But depending on the extent of your involvement in your husband’s activities—

There was no involvement! I don’t even know for sure that he was doing anything illegal. It’s you people who keep insisting he sold state secrets and caused the deaths of I don’t know how many people. Even if that’s true, I had no idea anything was wrong until he vanished two days ago.

And you say he’s gone into hiding, but what if you’re wrong? What if he’s been kidnapped? Isn’t it possible he’s innocent? That he’s being held hostage—or worse—by terrorists? And you’re just sitting here, wasting time, asking me questions I don’t know the answers to?

We think it’s highly unlikely he’s been kidnapped, the evidence being what it is.

I’m still waiting to see all this supposed evidence.

All in good time. And if, in fact, it turns out you weren’t involved, you’ll be free to go home and raise your son and try to get past all this. But first, we have some information blanks to fill in and we think you can help.

So, let’s just get back to the task at hand, shall we? State your address and place of employment once again for the record, if you don’t mind.

What if I do?

Do what?

Mind.

Are you saying you won’t cooperate with this investigation?

I’m just—never mind. It doesn’t matter. My address—1221 Elcott Road, McLean, Virginia. At the moment, anyway.

You’re planning to move?

I’m not sure. It’s a little awkward there right now, and I’ve been offered the chance to house-sit for some family friends so…Well, I haven’t decided yet what I’m going to do.

Do you own the house in McLean?

No. I think I mentioned yesterday that it belongs jointly to my husband and his mother. Actually, the house was left to Drum when his father died, but with the stipulation that my mother-in-law continue to live in it during her lifetime. Drum left her on the deed as co-owner because he was out of the country so much.

But this information you’ve already verified, I’m sure.

These are routine questions we have to ask. So, lastly, your employment.

None, at the moment. My son just turned six. With him so young and with us living abroad during my husband’s last posting, I wasn’t really able to work. I’m thinking about looking for something part-time in the fall, though, once Jonah’s settled into first grade. Or, I was going to. But now that this has happened…

Sure. Things are up in the air, I can see that. Anyway, Mrs. MacNeil, I want to go back now to a subject we touched on yesterday before we had to wrap up—the murder of Alexandra Kim Lee in Hong Kong last summer.

I told you yesterday, I never met the woman.

But you know who she is.

Anyone who reads the papers or a newsmagazine would have heard of her. Her picture showed up there often enough, even before she died. I gather she was fairly well connected. Her murder was quite a little mystery back in the dog days of last summer. I seem to recall reading articles in Time—or Newsweek. Or both, I’m not sure. Weren’t her maid and butler killed, too?

It wasn’t a butler. It was the doorman of her building. Obviously, the killer wanted to eliminate witnesses.

Right. Anyway…I’m not sure why you keep asking me about her. It’s not like I have anything original to offer.

You say most of what you know is from the papers. But not all, isn’t that right? You have heard of Ms. Lee outside the media coverage of her murder, haven’t you?

(unintelligible)

Pardon?

I said, yes, but it’s still secondhand information. Until two days ago, when all hell broke loose, I only knew of her because of those newspaper stories. How would I have known her personally? She died in Hong Kong, right? At the time, we were living in London.

She had a home in London, too. Did you know that?

Not while we were there I didn’t. I only just found that out.

At the same time you learned your husband knew her?

(unintelligible)

What was that, Mrs. MacNeil? You’ll have to speak up for the microphone.

I said, you really like to rub it in, don’t you?

What do you mean?

The fact that Drum knew this woman—in the biblical sense, I suppose is what you’re implying.

Is that true? Was he having an affair with her?

I have no idea. You’re suggesting he was, apparently, but I have no proof of it.

Do you think it’s possible?

Anything is possible. I would have had no way of knowing. You know what my husband’s position was in London. He was CIA Chief of Station there. He had contact with all kinds of people, but I wasn’t allowed to ask questions about any of it. That’s how that game works, isn’t it? Need to know—isn’t that the operational term? Does your wife need to know about this conversation we’re having right now, Agent Andrews? Are you going to go home tonight and talk it over with her? I’m guessing not. You guys and your precious little spy games and secrets. You just love them.

Mrs. MacNeil, if you and I were sleeping together, I guarantee you, my wife would know it in two minutes flat. She’d see the guilt in my face, for one thing, even before she found lipstick on my collar or whatever.

Ah, well, there’s the problem—you just put your finger on it. You, Agent Andrews, would apparently feel guilty about sleeping with another woman and your wife would pick up on that. Bravo. She’s a lucky woman. Nice to be married to a man you can count on.

Are you saying your husband was unreliable in a general sense? Or just that he didn’t love you? Mrs. MacNeil? Carrie? Would you like some water?

No, I’m fine. I just—I thought—at the time…I knew there were other women. I did. Not because Drum showed any sign of guilt, mind you. Oh, there was a little pro forma remorse, maybe, on a couple of occasions when I tried to confront him about it, but I wouldn’t call it guilt. He didn’t even try all that hard to deny it. He said it was the nature of the job, that it didn’t mean anything.

Not to him, maybe….

Look, you have to understand, Drum’s twenty years older than me. His career and his habits were firmly established long before I came along. Not that I knew that when I married him, mind you. But from the time I found out what he really did for a living, I had to accept that he would be keeping odd hours and meeting people I’d know nothing about—his intelligence contacts, agents, sources—whatever you want to call them. Women in my position—it’s mostly women, although these days, I suppose there are some husbands in the same boat, too—anyway, when you marry into this business, you soon learn not to ask questions.

And Alexandra Kim Lee?

Well, I guess it makes sense she was the kind of source Langley would want to cultivate. The papers said she was bribing western officials on behalf of Beijing.

So that’s what you think your husband was doing? Cultivating a source? Or eliminating a threat?

I told you, I’m not even certain he knew her.

And if there were proof he did?

What kind of proof?

Copies of CIA contact reports on meetings he had with her. Surveillance photographs.

You have those? Do you have them here?

I can’t show you the contact reports. Those are highly classified, obviously. But I do have these pictures I can show you—

Oh, God—then it’s true.

This last one was taken three days before she was murdered…. Carrie? What is it?

The park they’re in here? I recognize it. That statue of the soldier on the horse? Jonah, my son, used to call it the dancing horse statue. It’s across the street from the American International School in London—Bloody hell! Drum took that woman to our son’s school?

According to the surveillance report, they had been at her place in Mayfair that afternoon until your husband had to leave to pick up your son. The Brits had her apartment bugged. Apparently he told her you were at the British Museum—something about a seminar on African sculpture?

It was that day? I remember. I’d been updating the research on my master’s thesis, trying to finish it. The British Museum was having a lecture series on African art that was right up my alley, so Drum agreed I should attend. Our housekeeper was off sick, so he said he’d take care of Jonah after kindergarten. Damn him! Then he goes and takes one of his bimbos to our son’s school? What a bastard! Did he—