The Palace

by Reich, Christopher

  “No time. Listen, I have an emergency. It’s a long story, but I need you to hack into a password-protected flash drive.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “You can’t? I thought—”

  “I’m a hardware man,” said Singh. “I don’t play with software, at least not in a way that I’m not permitted. It is illegal, you know.”

  “I wasn’t asking you to…well, yes, I was. The drive belonged to a friend of mine. He wanted me to look at the information he stored on it. He was killed before he could give me the password.”

  Singh answered with marked calm. Twenty years at MI5 had left him inured to talk of murder and desperate circumstance. Panic was the enemy’s best friend. “And you? Are you all right? You sound, well, a little crazed.”

  “Not having my best day. I’m in trouble. A lot, actually. I wouldn’t have bothered you otherwise. Anyhow, I’m sorry…forget I called.”

  “Hang on there, Simon. I said I couldn’t help you. Let me find you someone who can.”

  “You know someone?”

  Simon noted that Singh had placed his hand over the receiver. Then, muted, though no less clear: “Arjit! Come down to my lab. And be quick about it.” The hand lifted from the receiver. “Just a minute. Arjit is on his way. He’s been hacking all manner of devices since he was eight. The little bastard got into my BMW last week, reprogrammed my entire music library. He replaced my Tom Jones with Rick Astley. I was ‘Rick-rolled’ by my own son.”

  Simon smiled, appreciating Vikram’s effort to make him feel better.

  “Hello, Simon. It’s Tiger,” said Arjit Singh.

  “Hey, there, Tiger. Heard you’re causing your dad some problems.”

  “Have to keep the old man on his toes.”

  Simon explained that he’d come into possession of a friend’s flash drive that contained important information, but he did not have the password to unlock it. In no uncertain terms, he added that the information should be considered dangerous and that several men had died because of it.

  Arjit possessed his father’s sangfroid. The mention that the information stored on the drive might put him in peril did not appear to faze him in the least. “Is that what you do?” he asked. “Are you some kind of secret agent?”

  “Hardly,” said Simon. “I was helping a friend out of a bind. Things went sideways. Listen to me, Arjit, this is serious.”

  “The first rule of hacking, Simon, is to keep your identity anonymous. You do know that?”

  Simon reminded himself that he was speaking with a fifteen-year-old whiz kid who’d just finished his first year at Caltech, one of the world’s foremost temples of science and technology. Invincible, at least in his own mind. “I guess I do.”

  “Here’s what I need you to do. Plug the flash drive into your laptop. I’m going to send a piece of software to your email. Download it immediately. I’ll walk you through the installation. After it’s activated, I’ll be able to take control of your laptop and access the flash drive. Then it’s a question of cracking the password.”

  “And you’re sure no one will know it’s you?”

  “Only you.” A pause. “We’re not talking about nuclear launch codes, are we?”

  “No, Arjit. No launch codes.”

  As soon as Simon received the email, he downloaded and installed the software. “And now?”

  “Let me go to work.”

  “Any idea how long it might take?”

  “A while,” said Arjit. “An hour. Maybe more.”

  Simon carried the laptop to the snack bar in an adjacent room. He hadn’t eaten since morning. He was starving. He ordered a bowl of curry noodles and a hot chai. The food arrived and he took it to a table nearest the window. Outside it had begun to rain. Lightning strikes illuminated a dark canvas. The water fell in sheets, hard enough to obscure the other side of the highway. He thought of the girls he’d seen in the truck—was it only yesterday afternoon? He remembered that people like them were called “stateless.” Rightly or wrongly, he felt in a similarly unmoored condition. The police would be looking for him. It was only a matter of time before his name and his photograph were released.

  Simon finished his food, then returned to the gaming room. There was no message from Arjit, no indication that the laptop was being controlled by someone ten thousand miles away. His thoughts went to Lucy and he considered calling the clinic. What could they tell him? As Harry Mason had said, it was in the Lord’s hands.

  And Delphine?

  She needed to know the truth about what had happened. That Rafael had been betrayed. That he was a victim of a conspiracy perpetrated by individuals who wanted the files he’d stolen from PetroSaud kept secret at all costs. He picked up the phone and realized that he no longer had her number, that he’d saved it to his real phone, the phone that right now was lying at the bottom of the Chao Phraya.

  Or did he?

  He opened his wallet and found a square of white paper folded into quarters slipped in with his business cards. It was the list of contacts Dickie Blackmon had included in the packet of information he’d thrown onto Simon’s desk. “I’m old school. Prefer things printed out. Don’t trust all that digital mumbo jumbo.” Delphine’s cellphone was listed at the bottom.

  He tapped in the number. If Delphine had left on the seven a.m. flight for London, she would still be in the air. He didn’t like leaving a message, not with this type of information. Still, it was important she hear from him what had happened.

  He hit SEND.

  “Who is this?” a woman demanded, answering even before the first ring had ended.

  “Delphine. It’s Simon.”

  “Simon?” she asked, sounding confused.

  “Simon Riske,” he stated. “I wasn’t expecting to reach you. I thought you were in the air.”

  “Simon, of course. Connection in Hong Kong. Second leg’s delayed. Do you have him? Is he there with you? Put him on.”

  “Are you with someone?”

  “What do you mean? Where are you? Simon?”

  “Something happened at the embassy. Rafa is dead. So are eight others. There was a gunman. Delphine, I’m sorry.”

  “Dead…What are you saying? Where’s Adamson? He arranged everything. He said there would be no problems.”

  “Adamson was killed, too. It was a setup. Colonel Tan was involved. He and others. They wanted the flash drive.”

  “But you…you’re alive.”

  “I have it, Delphine. I have the flash drive. I’m going to find out who did this.”

  “Simon…you promised.”

  “Delphine…”

  “I have to go. Daddy’s calling. Oh God, this can’t be…My Rafa.”

  The call ended.

  Simon drew a breath, the weight of her words damning. He closed his eyes as the horror of the day swept over him. The gunfire, the blood, the shock of holding his friend’s dead body.

  Simon was falling, tumbling, all sense of direction lost. A collage of images blinded him; blood, everywhere blood. Worse, the knowledge that he’d failed the one woman he’d ever truly loved. He grabbed the edge of the table with both hands, tortured by the images of Rafa’s wounds, unable to drive them away.

  Not now. It wasn’t the time for guilt, for recrimination. Too much to do.

  He stared at the screen, willing Arjit to get back to him. What kind of information had Rafa taken from his former employers? All Simon knew was that PetroSaud had helped a sovereign wealth fund defraud its investors. Rafa hadn’t gone into the details.

  First things first. Simon had to get out of Thailand. He needed a new passport, a false one at that. But where to find one? He considered who he might call. Ben Sterling? Dickie Blackmon? He couldn’t bring either of them into this. What about his old buddies in Marseille? Did La Brise de Mer do business in Thailand? Of course they did. One word: heroin. But how to contact them? Jojo Matta? No, Jojo was a street soldier. Un petit voyou. Not a planner. There was only one person Simon migh
t contact. Il Padrone. The capo di tutti capi. Not going to happen.

  Even with a false passport, he didn’t dare fly out of one of the country’s major airports. Customs and immigration agencies at nearly every major international airport around the world had been using facial recognition software for years. Reports varied as to its efficacy. Some claimed the recognition rate was greater than eighty percent, others, less than fifty. Either way, he’d have to disguise himself, and that didn’t include wearing a surgical mask.

  And go where?

  The answers to all his questions lay on Rafa’s flash drive.

  I won’t let you down, my friend. I owe you.

  “Riske.”

  Simon turned his head. He’d been daydreaming. Had someone said his name? He checked the screen. Still nothing from Arjit.

  “Riske.”

  Again. Clearer this time. A man’s voice. A foreign accent. Dutch? No, South African.

  He felt a presence behind him. A wind at his ear. He spun to look.

  A blow.

  Darkness.

  Chapter 29

  Singapore

  The Goodwood Park Hotel was long one of Singapore’s best-kept secrets. Built in the late 1800s, the hotel sat above Orchard Road tucked in its own lush enclave, a world away from the bustling commercial district outside its gates. To look at, it was a planter’s country estate with broad sweeping wings extending from an elegant main entry topped with a Victorian tower. The picture of British colonialism.

  Benson Chow arrived just ahead of London’s Uber and was standing next to his Bentley convertible, wearing a pink open-collared shirt and a sweater draped over his shoulders in the English fashion.

  London exited the compact car and crossed the driveway, her limp impossible to overlook.

  “What happened?” said Benson, hurrying over.

  “I took a fall,” said London with a smile to make light of her injury.

  “Tennis?”

  “Not exactly. Let’s wait until we have a drink. The story goes better with vodka.”

  “You should have told me,” said Benson. “I would have picked you up. I don’t mind crossing the bridge.”

  London ignored the slight, saying she had been working until the last minute. He gave her a kiss on each cheek and they walked into the lobby and then downstairs to the Gordon Grill.

  The restaurant was like Benson: classy, traditional, but without much pizzazz. It was the kind of place, she thought, you took your fiancé’s parents to impress them.

  Benson signaled a waiter and ordered two martinis. “Grey Goose, very dry and very cold, olives.”

  “Three olives,” said London. “Stuffed with blue cheese, if you have them. What the hell.”

  Benson eyed her with concern. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  London put a hand on his and nodded. Benson relaxed. They exchanged pleasantries while waiting for their drinks. Work for the government was exciting enough, he said, though not especially remunerative. The economy was doing so well, throwing off such monumental surpluses, it felt as if they had too much money and not enough projects to invest it in. “After all, how many U.S. treasuries can we buy?”

  Benson found the line hilarious.

  London laughed with him. She’d dressed in a jade cocktail dress that made the most of her European curves, spent thirty minutes on her hair, and even dashed on a little makeup. It was a ruse, her version of a honey trap, though there wouldn’t be any honey. She needed his help and, like any investigative reporter worth her salt, was going to use her every ploy to get it. She might be an award-winning journalist, but this was Asia. The #MeToo movement wouldn’t get here for another few years.

  The waiter set their cocktails on the table and took three excruciating minutes to discuss the evening’s specials. London had already decided. The Gordon Grill was known for their steaks, and after the events of the day, she was in a carnivorous mood. The waiter departed. Benson raised his glass. “To you, my dear. May I say you look ravishing?”

  London inclined her head, won over. In truth, she was thinking, Who still talks that way in the twenty-first century? He sounded like Lord Grantham speaking to his wife at Downton Abbey.

  “To PetroSaud,” she said. “May they rot in hell!” She took a swallow of her drink—far too large—and, eyes watering, set it down.

  “I think you had better tell me what’s going on,” said Benson.

  “She’s here,” said London.

  “Who?”

  “Nadya Sukarno. Our Nadya Sukarno, Indonesia’s minister of finance, who also manages their sovereign wealth fund. I was walking past PetroSaud’s offices this afternoon and happened to see her arrive.”

  “Here in Singapore? I hadn’t read anything about her paying a visit.”

  “In the flesh.” London went on to explain how after seeing Sukarno, she’d waited outside the offices until she left, then confronted her with questions about her involvement with PetroSaud.

  “What did you ask her…exactly?”

  “Exactly? I believe I said, ‘Excuse me, Minister, how long have you been stealing from your own fund by investing in nonexistent oil leases and pocketing the proceeds?’”

  “You didn’t!” It was Benson’s turn to take too large of a gulp. His cheeks flushed a violent hue of scarlet.

  “Verbatim. And did I mention that there were three security guards posted outside the building’s entrance? Why were they there? I didn’t see guards in front of any other building.”

  “How did she take it?”

  “She froze. She stopped right then and there and gave me a look I’ll never forget.”

  “And?”

  “I repeated the question. Did I tell you that I had my phone out? I was filming. I mean, obviously.” London took another sip and noted that she’d finished her drink. She was feeling it, too, but at that moment, she didn’t give a damn. “That was my mistake. The guards didn’t like that. Not one bit. Before Mrs. Sukarno could give me an answer, they took me down.”

  “Took you down?” Lord Grantham was gobsmacked. Things like this didn’t happen at Downton. “But you were just standing there.”

  “A guard tried to take my phone away from me. I wouldn’t let him. We had a tussle, and a second one tackled me. I’d already shouted my name and who I worked for. He finally let me up after Nadya Sukarno had gone.”

  “And you have this on film?”

  “Well, no,” London admitted. “The guard erased it before returning my phone.”

  She might have gone on. She might have told him about the murderous look on the guard’s face, her belief that he’d been expecting trouble, or the look on Sukarno’s face when London had called out her crimes.

  In fact, she was thinking that so far all she had done was corroborate what R had sent her. An Indonesian sovereign wealth fund managed by that country’s minister of finance had, as per R’s message, invested seven hundred million dollars in Saudi Arabian oil leases. She had only R’s word and the copies of bank transfers, none of which would hold up to real scrutiny, to suggest that the fund manager, Minister of Finance Nadya Sukarno, had transferred the entirety of the investment to a personal account at the Bank of Liechtenstein after paying PetroSaud a generous commission.

  To be honest, she had nothing.

  And yet this was how every story began. Disparate threads bound by some common denominator. In this case, that denominator was PetroSaud.

  “I’m sorry you were hurt for nothing,” said Benson, all concern and compassion.

  “It wasn’t for nothing,” said London. “I found out everything I needed.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A confession that she is as guilty as sin.”

  “But you said she didn’t answer.”

  “She didn’t need to. Her look was everything.”

  “And so?”

  “And so I’m here with an ankle that’s swollen as large as a grapefruit and the feeling that I’ve got my hands on the
biggest story to rock the financial world since Bernie Madoff.” London raised her empty glass. “Your turn.”

  Benson finished his drink and signaled for two more. “You were right,” he said. “Indonesia isn’t PetroSaud’s only client. They work with a dozen sovereign wealth funds. Malaysia, India, Brunei, Kuwait—”

  “Paragons of transparency.”

  “As well as Japan, Mexico, and a few hedge funds on Wall Street,” said Benson, naming the good guys. “There’s no indication of wrongdoing. Not from where I stand.”

  “There wouldn’t be, would there? All you’re seeing is the public side of the transaction.”

  “All of them list their investments in the KSA on their annual reports. They’re certainly not trying to hide anything.”

  “But how we do know if the investments are real?”

  “Come on, London. How do we know they’re not? The Japanese do not invest in fraudulent oil leases.”

  “Where there’s smoke, there’s fire.”

  “All this based on one unattributed email? You don’t even know who the whistleblower is.”

  “Those documents are real, Benson. I know it. There’s a reason PetroSaud posted security guards in front of their building. They’re frightened.” London wrung her hands in her napkin. “There’s something else.”

  Benson sensed the change in tone. “Oh?”

  “I received a strange email this morning, sent to my business email at the FT. It said very clearly that others might not be pleased if I were to look into PetroSaud and that I should watch my back.”

  “A specific threat?”

  “God, no. More like fair warning.”

  “From who?”

  “No attribution. I showed it to the IT guys and they just scratched their heads.”

  “What did it say? Verbatim.”

  London dug out her phone. “‘Look into PetroSaud at your own risk. Others are aware of your interest. Actions will be taken.’ Like I said, ‘fair warning.’”

  “‘Actions will be taken.’” Benson leaned across the table. “Is that the first time you’ve gotten something like that?”