Page 125 of Niccolo

“Do you have an appointment?” she asked with a British accent.

“No, but I need to give him this,” I said as I popped open the briefcase.

Her eyes widened.

“One moment, please.” She picked up her telephone handset and said something in Chinese. Whoever was on the other end replied, and she hung up.

“Please wait,” she said with a pleasant smile.

A minute later, a tall, handsome Asian man in a flashy suit appeared. He looked to be in his late 20s. Fausto had told me Lau was in his 60s, so I knew this wasn’t him.

“Who are you?” he asked in a cold voice.

“My name is Sofia Toscani. I need to speak with Mr. Lau.”

“Mr. Lau is unavailable.”

“If he canbecomeavailable, I have a million euros in cash I’d like to exchange for five minutes of his time.”

“That’s a lot of money for such a short meeting.”

“Mr. Lau’s time is very valuable, as is mine,” I replied.

“What is this in regards to?”

“You have a client arriving in a couple of hours named Roberto Rosolini. He’s going to ask you to return his investment of 50 million euros. My employer has a counter-offer.”

The man looked at me in silence for a moment.

For a second, I thought he wouldn’t go for it –

And then he gestured for me to turn around. “I need to check you for weapons.”

I allowed the pat-down and showed him the contents of my briefcase and purse. Once he was satisfied, he led me through the glass doors of the lobby into a maze of hallways.

We reached a massive corner office with a closed door and a secretary out front – a grumpy-looking woman in her 50s.

The man knocked at the door. Someone inside answered in Chinese, and we walked into a beautiful office decorated in a minimalist style.

There was a wooden desk, several black leather chairs, and a stunning view of Hong Kong’s skyscrapers all around us.

Behind the desk sat a sixty-something Asian man. He had a receding hairline, but his hair was still black. He had a soft face and grandfatherly smile, but his eyes were sharp and cunning. He wore a grey suit jacket with a Nehru collar that looked as though it had been in fashion when Mao Tse Tung was still alive.

“Thank you, Mr. Han,” the older man said in a British accent.

Han walked around the desk and stood beside the older man like a bodyguard.

“Well, well… this is quite a surprise, Ms…?”

“Toscani,” I answered. “Mr. Lau, I presume?”

“Correct. I understand you have something for me?”

“Yes,” I said, placing the briefcase on his desk and opening it. “A gift from my employer.”

“How nice,” Lau said, giving the money a cursory glance as though it were no more interesting than a potted plant. “And your employer is…?”

“Fausto Rosolini.”

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