by Kevin Kwan
It was only then that Bettina noticed three tan, well-built men in fitted white T-shirts and black Kevlar pants sitting at the adjacent table. The guys weren’t eating but sat watchfully, sipping glasses of seltzer water. “I assume that’s the duke’s security detail? They couldn’t be more obvious! Don’t they know that we’re all billionaires here on Briland, and this isn’t how we roll?”*1 Bettina tut-tutted.
“Actually, those bodyguards belong to the duke’s special guest. They did a whole sweep of the restaurant before the party arrived. They even searched my walk-in freezer. See that Chinese fellow seated at the end of the table?”
Bettina squinted through her Dior Extase sunglasses at the portly, balding, seventy-something Asian man dressed in a nondescript white short-sleeved golf shirt and gray trousers. “Oh, I didn’t even notice him! Am I supposed to know who he is?”
“That’s Alfred Shang,” Julie said in a hushed tone.
Bettina giggled. “He looks like their chauffeur. Doesn’t he look like that guy that used to drive Jane Wyman around in Falcon Crest?”
Julie, who was trying to focus on searing a cut of tuna to perfection, shook her head with a tight-lipped smile. “From what I hear, that chauffeur is the most powerful man in Asia.”
“What’s his name again?”
“Alfred Shang. He’s Singaporean but lives mostly in England on an estate that’s half the size of Scotland, so I’m told.”
“Well I’ve never seen his name on any of the rich lists,” Bettina sniffed.
“Bettina, I’m sure you know that there are people on this planet who are far too rich and powerful to ever appear on those lists!”
PROBLEM NO. 2
The twenty-four-hour on-call personal physician that you have on a million-dollar annual retainer is busy attending to another patient.
Sitting on the terrace overlooking Harbour Island’s legendary beach, Alfred Shang marveled at the spectacular sight before him. It’s true—the sand really is pink!
“Alfred, your lobster quesadillas are going to get cold!” the Duke of Glencora piped up, interrupting his reverie.
“So this is the reason you dragged me all the way here?” Alfred said, staring dubiously at the triangular wedges placed artfully before him. He didn’t really care much for Mexican food, except when the chef of his good friend Slim in Mexico City was doing the cooking.
“Try it before you judge it.”
Alfred took a careful bite, saying nothing, as the combination of semi-crisp tortilla, lobster, and guacamole worked its magic.
“Marvelous, isn’t it? I’ve been trying to convince the chef at Wilton’s to replicate this for years,” the duke said.
“They haven’t changed a thing at Wilton’s in half a century—I don’t think there’s much of a likelihood they would ever put this on their menu.” Alfred laughed, picking up a stray lobster chunk that had fallen onto the table with his fingers and popping it into his mouth. His phone began to vibrate in his trouser pocket. He took it out and stared at the screen in annoyance. Everyone knew that he was not to be disturbed on his annual fishing trip with the duke.
The screen read: TYERSALL UPSTAIRS SECURE.
This was his elder sister, Su Yi, the only person whose calls he would take no matter the hour. He picked up immediately, and an unexpected voice said in Cantonese, “Mr. Shang, this is Ah Ling.”
It took him a few seconds to register that it was the housekeeper at Tyersall Park. “Oh…Ling Jeh!”*2
“I was instructed by my lady to call you. She was feeling very unwell tonight and has just been taken to the hospital. We think it’s a heart attack.”
“What do you mean you think? Did she have a heart attack or didn’t she?” Alfred’s plummy Queen’s English suddenly shifting into Cantonese in alarm.
“She…she didn’t have any chest pains, but she was sweating profusely, and then she vomited. She said she could feel her heart racing,” Ah Ling stuttered nervously.
“And did Prof Oon come over?” Alfred asked.
“I tried to reach the doctor on his cell phone, but it went straight to voice mail. Then I called his house and someone there said he was in Australia.”
“Why are you doing all the calling? Isn’t Victoria at home?”
“Mr. Shang, isn’t Victoria in England?”
Alamak. He had completely forgotten that his niece—Su Yi’s daughter, who lived at Tyersall Park—was at this moment at his house in Surrey, no doubt embroiled in some inane gossipfest with his wife and daughter.
“How about Felicity? Didn’t she come over?” Alfred inquired about Su Yi’s eldest daughter, whose house was nearby on Nassim Road.
“Mrs. Leong could not be reached tonight. Her maid said she was in church, and she always turns off her mobile phone when she’s in the house of God.”
Bloody useless, all of them! “Well, did you call an ambulance?”
“No, she didn’t want an ambulance. Vikram drove her to the hospital in the Daimler, accompanied by her lady’s maids and two Gurkhas. But before she left, she said you would know how to contact Professor Oon.”
“Okay, okay. I’ll take care of it,” Alfred said in a huff, hanging up the phone.
Everyone at the table was staring at him expectantly.
“Oh my, that did sound rather serious,” the duke said, pursing his lips worriedly.
“I’ll just be a moment…please carry on,” Alfred said, getting up from his chair. The bodyguards trailed after him as he strode through the restaurant and out the door to the garden.
Alfred hit another number on his speed dial: PROF OON HOME.
A woman picked up the phone.
“Is this Olivia? Alfred Shang here.”
“Oh, Alfred! Are you looking for Francis?”
“Yes. I’m told he’s in Australia?” Why the bloody hell did they have this doctor on a million-dollar retainer if he was never available?
“He just left an hour ago for Sydney. He’s doing a triple bypass tomorrow on that actor who won an Oscar for—”
“So he’s on a plane right now?” Alfred cut her off.
“Yes, but he’ll be arriving in a few hours if you need to—”
“Just give me his flight number,” Alfred snapped. He turned to one of his bodyguards and asked, “Who has the Singapore phone? Somebody get Istana*3 on the line right now.”
Turning to another bodyguard, he said, “And please order me another of those lobster quesadillas.”
PROBLEM NO. 3
Your airplane is forced to land before you can finish drinking your Dom Pérignon.
EAST JAVA, INDONESIA
The silk sheets had just been turned down in the first-class suites, the enormous double-decked Airbus A380-800 had reached a comfortable cruising altitude of thirty-eight thousand feet, and most of the passengers were comfortably ensconced in their seats, scanning through the latest movie offerings. Moments later, the pilots of Singapore Airlines Flight 231 bound for Sydney received the most unusual instructions from Jakarta air traffic control as they flew over Indonesian airspace:
AIR TRAFFIC CONTROLLER: singapore two thirty one super jakarta.
PILOT: singapore two thirty one super go ahead.
ATC: I have been instructed to have you turn around immediately and return to Singapore Changi Airport.
PILOT: Jakarta, you want us to return to Singapore Changi?
ATC: Yes. Turn the plane around and return immediately to Singapore. I have the amended route advise ready to copy.
PILOT: Jakarta, what is the reason for the course change?
ATC: I don’t have that information, but this is a direct order from the Directorate General of Civil Aviation.
The pilots looked at each other in disbelief. “Should we really be doing
this?” the captain wondered aloud. “We’ll have to dump a quarter-million liters of fuel before we can land!”
Just then, the aircraft’s selective-calling radio system lit up with an incoming message. The co-pilot read the message quickly and gave the captain an incredulous look. “Wah lan! It’s from the minister of fricking defense! He says to get back to Singapore pronto!”
When the airplane made an unexpected landing at Changi Airport just three hours after it had departed, the passengers were disoriented and startled by the strange turn of events. An announcement was made over the intercom: “Ladies and gentlemen, due to an unexpected event, we have made an emergency diversion back to Singapore. Please remain in your seats with your seat belts fastened, as our flight to Sydney will resume immediately after refueling.”
Two men in discreet dark suits came aboard and approached the man seated in suite 3A—Professor Francis Oon, Singapore’s leading cardiologist. “Professor Oon? I’m Lieutenant Ryan Chen from SID.*4 Please come with us.”
“We’re leaving the plane?” Professor Oon asked, utterly baffled. One minute he was in the middle of watching Gone Girl, and the next minute the plane had landed back in Singapore. He hadn’t even recovered from the film’s jaw-dropping plot twist.
Lieutenant Chen nodded curtly. “Yes. Please gather up all your belongings—you won’t be returning to this flight.”
“But…but…what did I do?” Professor Oon asked, suddenly feeling uneasy.
“Don’t worry, you didn’t do anything. But we need to get you off this plane now.”
“Am I the only one leaving?”
“Yes, you are. We are escorting you directly to Mount Elizabeth Hospital. You have been requested to attend to a VVIP patient.”
At that moment, Professor Oon knew something must have happened to Shang Su Yi. Only the Shangs had the kind of influence to turn around a Singapore Airlines flight with four hundred forty passengers onboard.
* * *
*1 A slight exaggeration, but this island—known affectionately as “Briland” to the locals—is home to twelve billionaires (at last count, and depending on who’s counting).
*2 Cantonese for “elder sister,” often used as a term of familiarity for household help in the way that “boy” is sometimes used, as in Sonny Boy or Johnny Boy.
*3 Malay for “palace.” In this instance, Alfred is referring to Istana in Singapore, the official residence of the president.
*4 The Security and Intelligence Division, Singapore’s equivalent of America’s CIA or Britain’s MI5, is so secretive that most people don’t even know it exists. But yes, that man eating fish ball on a stick outside NTUC FairPrice could be the Singaporean James Bond, and you wouldn’t even know it.
PART ONE
The only thing I like about rich people is their money.
—NANCY ASTOR, VISCOUNTESS ASTOR
CHAPTER ONE
DAVOS, SWITZERLAND
Edison Cheng stared up at the soaring honeycomb-structured ceiling in the vast white auditorium, feeling on top of the world. I’m here. I’m finally here! After years of Olympic-level networking, Eddie had at long last made it—he had been invited to attend the annual meeting of the World Economic Forum in Davos. Strictly by invitation only,*1 this prestigious event was the most elite schmoozefest on the planet.
Every January, the world’s most important heads of state, politicians, philanthropists, CEOs, tech leaders, thought leaders, social activists, social entrepreneurs, and, of course, movie stars*2 would descend upon this secluded ski resort high in the Swiss Alps in their private jets, check in to their luxurious hotels, put on their $5,000 ski jackets and ski boots, and engage in meaningful dialogues about such urgent issues as global warming and rising inequality.
And now Eddie was part of this ultraexclusive club. As the recently appointed senior executive vice chairman of Private Banking (Global) for the Liechtenburg Group, he now found himself standing in the middle of the futuristic auditorium at the Congress Centre, breathing in the rarefied air and catching slivers of his own reflection in the thin chrome leg of an auditorium chair. He was wearing his new bespoke Sartoria Ripense suit, which had been outfitted with an inner lining of ten-ply cashmere so that he never had to wear a ski jacket over it. His new Corthay squirrel suede chukkas had special rubber soles, so he would never slip on the slick Alpine streets. On his wrist was his newest horological acquisition—a rose gold A. Lange & Söhne Richard Lange “Pour le Mérite,” peeking out the precise amount from his sleeve cuff so other watchophiles would see what he was wearing. But most important of all was what he wore over this sartorial splendor—a black lanyard at the end of which was attached a white plastic badge with his name printed in the middle: Edison Cheng.
Eddie fondled the slick plastic badge as if it were a jewel-encrusted amulet, personally bestowed on him by the God of Davos. This badge distinguished him from all the pee-ons at the conference. He wasn’t some PR hack, journalist, or one of the common attendees. This white plastic badge with the blue line at the bottom meant that he was an official delegate.
Eddie glanced around the room at all the clusters of people in hushed conversations, trying to see which dictator, despot, or director he could recognize and connect with. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a tall Chinese man wearing a bright orange ski parka peeking in through the auditorium’s side door, seemingly a little lost. Wait a minute, I know that guy. Isn’t that Charlie Wu?
“Oy—Charlie!” Eddie yelled, a little too loudly, as he rushed over toward Charlie. Wait till he sees my official delegate badge!
Charlie beamed at him in recognition. “Eddie Cheng! Did you just get in from Hong Kong?”
“I came from Milan, actually. I was at the men’s fall fashion shows—front-row seat at Etro.”
“Wow. I guess being one of Hong Kong Tattle’s Best Dressed Men is serious work, isn’t it?” Charlie quipped.
“Actually, I made it into the Best Dressed Hall of Fame last year,” Eddie replied earnestly. He gave Charlie a quick once-over, noticing that he was wearing khaki pants with cargo pockets and a navy blue pullover under his bright orange parka. What a pity—he used to be so fashionable when he was younger, and now he’s dressed like every other tech-geek nobody. “Where’s your badge, Charlie?” Eddie asked, flashing his own proudly.
“Oh yes, we’re supposed to wear them at all times, aren’t we? Thanks for reminding me—it’s somewhere buried in my messenger bag.” Charlie dug around for a few seconds before fishing out his badge, and Eddie glanced at it, his curiosity morphing into shocked dismay. Charlie was holding an all-white badge affixed with a shiny holographic sticker. Fucky fuck, this was the most coveted badge! The one they only gave to world leaders! The only other person he had seen so far wearing that badge was Bill Clinton! How the fuck did Charlie get one? All he did was run Asia’s biggest tech company!
Trying to mask his envy, Eddie blurted, “Hey, are you attending my panel—Apocalypse Asia: How to Secure Your Assets When the China Bubble Really Bursts?”
“I’m actually on my way to give a talk to IGWEL.*3 What time do you go on?”
“Two o’clock. What’s your talk about?” Eddie asked, thinking that he could somehow tag along with Charlie.
“I don’t have anything prepared, really. I think Angela Merkel and some of the Scandinavians just wanted to pick my brain.”
Just then, Charlie’s executive assistant, Alice, walked up to join them.
“Alice, look who I found! I knew we’d bump into someone from back home sooner or later,” Charlie said.
“Mr. Cheng, so nice to see you here. Charlie—could I have a quick word?”
“Sure.”
Alice glanced at Eddie, who looked only too eager for her to continue while he was standing right there. “Er…would you mind coming with me for a moment?” she said diplomatically
, guiding Charlie into a side reception room furnished with several lounge chairs and glass-cube coffee tables.
“What’s up? Are you still trying to recover from sitting at the same breakfast table with Pharrell?” Charlie teased.
Alice smiled tensely. “There’s been a developing situation all morning, and we didn’t want to disturb you until we knew more.”
“Well, spit it out.”
Alice took a deep breath before beginning. “I just got the latest update from our head of security in Hong Kong. I don’t quite know how to tell you this, but Chloe and Delphine are missing.”
“What do you mean missing?” Charlie was stunned—his daughters were under round-the-clock surveillance, and their pickups and drop-offs were handled with military precision by his SAS-trained security team. Missing was not a variable in their lives.
“Team Chungking was scheduled to pick them up outside Diocesan at 3:50 p.m., but the girls couldn’t be located at the school.”
“Couldn’t be located…” Charlie mumbled in shock.
Alice continued, “Chloe didn’t respond to any of her texts, and Delphine never showed up for choir at two. They thought maybe she sneaked off with her classmate Kathryn Chan to that frozen yogurt shop like she did last time, but then Kathryn turned up at choir practice and Delphine didn’t.”
“Did either of them activate their panic codes?” Charlie asked, trying to remain calm.
“No, they didn’t. Their phones both appear to have been deactivated, so we can’t trace them. Team 2046 has already spoken with Commander Kwok—the Hong Kong police have been placed on high alert. We also have four of our own teams searching everywhere for them, and the school is now reviewing all their security-camera footage with Mr. Tin.”