The Palace

by Reich, Christopher

  She decided on Singapore, Thailand, Malaysia, Indonesia, Taiwan (as cunning a people as she’d come across), Brunei, and Vietnam.

  Sovereign wealth funds were simply investment funds where the money in play came from the populace—either via government surpluses, taxes, or monies underwritten for just this purpose. Most sovereign wealth funds, or SWFs, were required to file quarterly reports that included a comprehensive list of their investments. But not all. Many got away with listing investments by sector—energy, manufacturing, gaming—and providing a few financial highlights, primarily the announcement of important new investments and/or the successful liquidation of profitable positions. Everybody liked a winner.

  R had provided London with two paths to follow. Find a fund that had invested seven hundred million dollars in a Saudi Arabian oil venture (on or around the date listed on the transfer) and/or identify those funds managed by that country’s minister of finance.

  She shooed Freddy off her lap, then double-checked the dates listed on the bank transfers. Next, she downloaded PDFs of the quarterly reports issued by each of the seven countries’ sovereign wealth funds for that time period. Reporting was detective work, a slog through facts and figures, your magnifying glass ever at the ready.

  Two hours later, the first cull. Out went Thailand and Vietnam. Neither had reported any investments in Saudi Arabia. Which left Singapore, Brunei, Indonesia, Malaysia, and Taiwan. All five listed investments in Saudi Arabian entities for the dates mentioned on the transfers.

  More digging. More quarterly reports, these from the periods immediately preceding the transfer date. No joy. All five countries had made investments in Saudi Arabia going back years. None gave specifics about amounts invested.

  London told the countries what she thought of them in no uncertain terms and stood from her desk, stretching her arms over her head. She didn’t know if she loved this part of her work or hated it. A tour of the apartment. Five minutes straightening up the bathroom. Another five in front of the television, channel surfing.

  She needed reinforcements. Coffee wasn’t enough. Time for her secret weapon. From the back of the fridge, an ice-cold Snickers bar. This was war.

  Back at her desk, she picked up her phone and scrolled through her contacts, stopping at the letter C. Chow, Benson. Singapore National Bank. An irritated voice answered. “Yeah?”

  A small favor, London told him. Could he possibly ask around and see if any Asian SWFs had dropped nearly a billion on an investment in Saudi Arabia a few years back, maybe seven hundred million was a more accurate figure. No, she didn’t know which country, and, no, it was none of his business why she was asking.

  Chow hemmed and hawed. He ran the bank’s trading desk, a big job, but he had the résumé for it. A Singaporean success story—MIT, Wharton, partner on Wall Street by thirty-two, before returning to work for his country. She’d interviewed him a half-dozen times for one story or another and turned him down for a date just as many.

  “Caught me at a tough time,” he said. “I’m really jammed.”

  And so, a carrot: “Find out,” said London, “and I’ll let you take me to dinner at the Gordon.” The Gordon Grill, the fancy eatery at the Goodwood Park Hotel.

  “Now that I think about it, it rings a bell,” said Benson Chow. “Give me till tomorrow?”

  “Close of trading today.”

  A sharp knock at the door came as she ended the call. London checked her watch as she rushed to the door. She’d forgotten what day it was. “I was just on the phone. Come in. Come in.”

  Astrid Sörensson Li swept into the apartment, slowing to bestow two brittle kisses on London’s cheeks. She was sixty-six, an inch taller than her daughter, her thick hair more silver than blond, pulled off her forehead and gathered into a severe ponytail. She was a vigorous woman, with broad shoulders and a determined step. God forbid those who blocked her path. Dressed in a knee-length skirt and a sleeveless blouse, an essentials bag draped over one shoulder, she looked little different from the buxom, no-nonsense, Swedish schoolteacher who had swept London’s father off his feet forty years before.

  “I had hoped you would be practicing,” said Astrid Li as she entered the kitchen, depositing the bag on the counter.

  “It’s almost noon, Mama. I’m working.”

  “I haven’t seen your name in the paper for quite some time. I’d thought that maybe you’d lost your job. Then who would pay for this?”

  “No, Mama, I haven’t lost my job,” said London. “In fact, I think I’ve found my next story.”

  Astrid Li nodded, adding nothing more to the subject as she unpacked their lunch. “Are you still working on the Fauré nocturne? It was your father’s favorite.”

  “I’ve put it aside for now.”

  No comment. London’s mother had never given up hope that she’d one day find the grit to overcome her injury and resume her career. “Grit.” Her word. In the Li family’s mixed household, it was her mother who had exhibited the Asian insistence on excellence. If there was a Swedish term for “tiger mom,” it could be applied to her mother.

  “What did you bring?” said London. “I’m hungry.” She shot a glance at the trash can, hoping her mother wouldn’t spy the Snickers wrapper. Too late, said the damning blue eyes.

  “I made meatball soup and gravlax sandwiches…if you still have an appetite.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “And I’m not giving any salmon to that damned cat. He’s fat enough already.”

  London noted that her mother’s hand shook only a little as she set the sandwiches on their plates and poured herself a glass of Chardonnay.

  “Are you feeling well?”

  “Why shouldn’t I be?”

  “You look wonderful.”

  “I can still outrun you, young lady. Don’t forget it.”

  “I won’t, Mama.”

  “Two miles this morning.”

  “Wow. Good for you.”

  Astrid Li carried the plates into the dining area and set them on the table. “Let’s eat.” She shot London a sly smile. “I hear salmon goes wonderfully with candy bars.”

  Lunch lasted an hour. Afterward, Astrid Li packed the empty containers into her bag. There was no disguising the shaking this time.

  “Mama!”

  “I’m just fine. The tremors come and go. It’s to be expected.”

  “Isn’t there medicine?”

  “Don’t you think I’m taking it?” retorted Astrid Li. “Now, shall we talk about something else?”

  “Have you fallen lately?”

  “Do I look as if I’ve fallen? I’m fine, and I’ll stay fine as long as I tell myself to. It’s a question of discipline. Like the piano.”

  London took her mother by the arms. “Please, Mama, you have to let it go.”

  But Astrid Li had never asked for quarter, or given it. “If you wanted it, if you really wanted it, you could be there now. Carnegie Hall. The Salle Pleyel.”

  London nodded, knowing better than to argue. It had always been this way. Her mother would beat her multiple sclerosis just as London should have conquered the injuries to her hand. The Book According to Astrid Sörensson Li.

  London handed her mother her bag, kissing her on the cheek. “You know I’m here if you need me. Just call.”

  “We see each other once a week,” said Astrid Li. “I think that is sufficient. You’re a busy woman. So am I.”

  “Yes, Mama.” London didn’t bother with a smile as she walked her mother to the door.

  “I’ll be looking for your name in the paper,” said Astrid Li in parting.

  After her mother left, London sat back down at her desk and got back to work. She started on the second path, turning to the pages listing members of the management teams and boards of directors. Quickly, two hits. Brunei and Indonesia, each country’s minister of finance serving on the board.

  She called back Benson Chow with the news.

  “By the way,” he said. “I was t
hinking, instead of dinner, how about a weekend at Amanpuri?”

  Black-bottom pools. Chaise longues. The ultimate in luxury and serenity atop a bluff overlooking the Andaman Sea. And sex.

  “Don’t push your luck,” said London, hanging up.

  She dropped the phone on her desk. She’d done all she could for the moment. It was a question of waiting.

  On the balcony, she gazed out over East Coast Park and, craning her neck, caught sight of the ocean.

  “R,” she said aloud, “where are you?”

  Chapter 15

  London

  Where are you off to, then?” asked Harry Mason.

  Four thirty p.m. The sounds of drills and rotors echoed off the shop’s walls. A motor revved wildly, then died all at once. Sunlight streamed through the transom above Simon’s office door. He tossed his travel bag onto the couch.

  “Thailand. An old friend is in trouble.”

  “I’ll look after the shop.”

  “I know you will. That’s not why I called you in. Get the door, will you?”

  Harry Mason closed the door. “You all right? You’ve been a royal pain these last few days.”

  “It’s Lucy.”

  “Figured as much, me and the lads. Any change?”

  “Still waiting for word.” Simon shook his head. “This trip I’m taking…I don’t want to go. Not with Lucy the way she is.”

  “You don’t need to explain to me.”

  “Sure I do. I’m responsible for Lucy. She got hurt working for me.”

  “She loved it,” said Harry, brightening. “Always talking about the little problems she helps you with. You didn’t force her.”

  Simon patted Harry on the shoulder, a thank you. “Still…Well, like I said. I’m responsible. While I’m gone, I’d appreciate it if you could look after her. Visit her every day. Don’t worry about your work here. If anything changes, call me. Doesn’t matter when. Day or night.” Simon drew a breath. “Her family won’t…Well, we’re all the family she has.”

  “Understood, boss.”

  “One more thing.”

  “I’m listening.”

  Simon chose his words with care. “This trip…I’m not exactly sure what I’m getting into. It’s different from my usual line of work. Might be a little out of my depth. Anyway, there’s an envelope in my desk with instructions, you know.”

  “Why are you telling me?”

  “Believe it or not, you, Harry Mason, are the only family I’ve got.”

  Harry’s face sagged, caught unawares. “Stop your blathering,” he managed after a moment. “Never heard such a bunch of nonsense. You’ll be fine. Always are.”

  “Sure I will be.”

  Harry considered this, unhappy to be put upon. “Christ, I didn’t know you were one of them.”

  “One of who?”

  “What’s Lucy always saying? A ‘drama queen.’”

  Simon laughed. For some things, he didn’t have a response.

  “Need a lift, then?” asked Harry.

  “You bet.”

  “Gatwick or Heathrow?”

  “Heathrow.”

  “What time?”

  “Seven thirty.”

  Mason looked at his watch. “Cutting it close.”

  Simon picked up his bag and threw a hand onto Harry’s back. “We better take the LaFerrari. Let’s see if we can’t get us a speeding ticket on the way.”

  Chapter 16

  Cannes

  Monet or Degas?

  Samson Sun studied the brochure from Christie’s listing artworks for sale at the coming auction in London. Lily pads or ballerinas? He wasn’t crazy about either. Or maybe a Van Gogh? He liked sunflowers, and the colors went well with the furniture in his bedroom. Estimated price: ninety million dollars. He wrinkled his nose. Not so much at the price. The problem with Van Gogh was that his friends back home could never pronounce his name correctly. It came out “Wan Gah,” which sounded perilously close to “wanker,” a name he’d been called more than once during his days at Harrow, the elite boarding school located in northwest London.

  Sun dropped the brochure on the coffee table as his assistant arrived with a mug of steaming chai and a plate of figs. There was no question that he would replace the stolen work. This time, however, he would avoid the black market. Producers whose motion picture was set to screen on the last night of the Cannes Film Festival—an honor nearly equal to winning the Palme d’Or—did not keep works of questionable provenance on their walls, at sea or on land.

  A sip of tea. Sun frowned. “Sugar?”

  “Two packets.”

  He thrust his mug toward his assistant, displeased. Her name was Jen, and he’d found her bartending at the Soho House in Los Angeles, a six-foot blond gazelle who’d said she would do anything—absolutely anything—to get into the movie business. So far, she’d made good on her word.

  “Stevia,” he said. “Stevia, stevia, stevia. How many times do I have to tell you?”

  “I couldn’t find any at the supermarket,” said Jen.

  “Did you ask by the French name?”

  “Isn’t stevia the same everywhere?”

  “Stévia,” he said, with the accent aigu. Stay-vee-ah. He was proud of his ability with languages.

  From Jen, a blank look.

  Sun gave up. “Have it flown in,” he said. “By noon.”

  Jen nodded and turned for the kitchen, before Sun grabbed the mug of tea. Just this once.

  He adjusted his shirt—a loose-fitting batik his aunt had given him—and returned his thoughts to the stolen Monet. He had not yet heard from the police; then again, who was going to tell them about the theft? Still, he imagined he’d be receiving a visit in the not too distant future from an investigator interested to learn from whom exactly he’d acquired the painting. No questions asked, of course.

  He was more bothered by the betrayal of a friend. He’d liked Riske. Not his usual type at all. No simpering, no sucking up, no currying favor. For once, a man who didn’t give a damn about his money. Someone with whom he’d shared an authentic mutual interest. They had bonded. Or so he’d thought. In reality, Riske had been an operative sent by one of the insurance companies—Lloyd’s, Swiss Re, it didn’t matter which—on behalf of whatever museum the work had been lifted from who knew how long ago.

  He didn’t begrudge Riske doing his job. He only wished that he’d come straight out and asked him for the painting back. Unrealistic, Sun knew. But still…maybe, just maybe, he might have given it to him. A present to cement his friendship with the American with the frightening green eyes.

  He enjoyed giving presents to those he liked.

  On this day in May, Samson Min Chung Sun was thirty-one years old, stood five feet six inches tall, more fat than thin, horribly myopic, allergic to exercise, and congenitally ambitious. He was born on the island of Sumatra, largest of the Indonesian archipelago, to a wealthy family of planters—palm oil magnates—the youngest and sole male of six children. His father had been sent to boarding school in England at the age of seven, and so was Samson, first to Fettes in Scotland, then to Harrow, the school for British elites that before him had educated seven British prime ministers, including Winston Churchill and Lord Palmerston, as well as the poet Lord Byron, and, more recently, and of far more interest to Sun, the singer James Blunt and the actor Benedict Cumberbatch.

  He was an unexceptional student, a non-athlete, not a luminary in any of Harrow’s clubs or societies, not a thespian, a debater, or a chorister. And yet, Samson Sun was a presence. The rotund Asian with the Mona Lisa smile and the funny spectacles. Everyone knew him, though few could remember why. He was simply there, always with money in his pocket to make whatever occasion it might be a little better. More champagne. More pot. More anything. Over the years, he became a kind of barometer. If Sun was present, sure enough you were in the right place. If he wasn’t, you’d better think twice. By some strange, unexplained process of human alchemy, he’d taken a drab hu
nk of Indonesian clay and fashioned himself into cosmopolitan gold.

  From Harrow, he went on to Oxford, though no one understood how he could have scored well enough on his A levels or obtained the necessary recommendations from his masters. He lasted two years before his shortcomings were discovered. His dons at New College—or was it Balliol (he forgot himself sometimes)—were not amenable to offers of cashmere sweaters or cases of Cristal Champagne or weekends at Le Bristol in Paris. He was sent down.

  A headache, he was fond of saying. Nothing more.

  As was his skill, he turned the setback to his advantage, landing a job at a small merchant bank in the City. After that, details became nebulous. A year in Geneva. A year in Barcelona. A year in the Middle East followed by a sudden return to Jakarta. Then his path went dark altogether, until he surfaced in Hollywood with his screenplay about the Medusa to be produced and piles of money to make it happen.

  When asked about those missing years, Sun smiled his inscrutable smile, ordered another bottle of the finest Champagne, and kept his mouth shut. Sometimes mystery was better than a thousand words.

  Stewing, he opened the French doors and stepped onto the flagstone terrace. It was a gray, drizzly morning, and cold. He’d bought the villa in Mougins, tucked away in the hills above Cannes, expressly for the festival. The yacht was for pleasure. The villa was for business. The next week promised to be a flurry of luncheons, interviews, press junkets, parties, and meetings, meetings, meetings. The lifeblood of the entertainment industry. He intended to be a presence on the Croisette.

  Across the Bay of Cannes, he could see the Yasmina at anchor. And beyond it, the Mediterranean. Somewhere out there, far over the horizon, was Libya. A distance of eight hundred miles. It didn’t sound so far, but if you were on a rickety fishing boat crammed with hundreds of other desperate souls, most of whom couldn’t swim, it might as well be the moon.

  Sun knew all about the Mediterranean and the tide of refugees willing to risk their lives, the lives of their loved ones, their “everything” to reach a better life. He couldn’t help but become an expert producing a film on the subject. The movie, The Raft of the Medusa, took as its subject the final voyage of the fishing vessel Medusa, which sank in the Mediterranean with five hundred men, women, and children aboard, only ten surviving a three-week ordeal afloat, clinging to a raft fashioned from the wreckage.