London shook her head. “Usually, it’s from the aggrieved party. This came from an anonymous sender.”
“So it could be PetroSaud. Ergo, the guards.”
“My instincts tell me it’s not.”
“What will you do?”
“Do you mean will I stop looking into PetroSaud? Of course not. It’s my job.”
“Are you sure?”
“Do I look like a coward?”
“You most certainly do not,” said Lord Grantham. Lady Grantham felt a stab of pride at his vote of confidence.
The entrées arrived. Fish for Benson and the rib eye for London. Conversation turned to other matters. The local social scene. Who was sleeping with whom. Who was making the most money. Who looked absolutely awful at so-and-so’s dinner party. London was glad for the reprieve. The food was excellent.
“I have a confession to make,” said Benson Chow. “There’s something else I want to bring up. I was going to try to get you back to my place before I told you.”
“Did you think that would work?”
“The way you look tonight it was worth a try,” he said. “Anyway, forget it. This is more important than…than…”
“Go on, Ben.”
“Well, I thought there might be one other thing you could look into. All those wealth funds I was talking about…at least the first ones…”
“Malaysia, India, Brunei…”
“Yes, those…they all used the same underwriter. Harrington-Weiss.”
“HW’s the top investment bank in the world. Why is that strange?”
“No, no,” said Benson. “I mean the funds used HW exclusively. It’s customary to spread that kind of business around. Multiple underwriters. Two at least. Usually more. I mean, we’re talking about raising billions of dollars.”
London put down her knife and fork. In other words, Benson Chow was suggesting the fact that all these funds had hired a single bank to handle the underwriting was highly irregular. “How many billions?”
“Four billion for Malaysia. Six for India. Two for Brunei. You’d think it would be easier to hire several banks, bigger client pool. Just saying.”
“Who’s the lead banker?” she asked.
“Deals this big are run by dozens of people. Besides, you know HW. All very hush-hush. Their ethos is that it’s all about the firm, not the individual. I was just checking the public records, what’s on the net, what the various exchanges might have. Tell you one thing, though. The teams running those deals are going to make a helluva bonus.” Benson’s eyes lit with greed. To an investment banker, the mere thought of a bonus was as enticing as sex with a Victoria’s Secret angel.
“You can still go back to the Street,” said London. “They’d snap you up in a New York minute.”
“Wouldn’t think of it,” said Benson, affronted. “There’s more to life than money.”
Easy to say when you’re sitting on twenty million U.S. in your private account, thought London. She raised her glass. She was quite drunk, she realized. But not so drunk as to not already be mapping out her next steps. She needed to get ahold of HW’s internal phone directory. She knew one or two people at the office who might have one. Sure, teams run deals, but individuals run teams.
“Cheers to that!”
Chapter 30
Ratchaburi Province
Night.
Simon lay in the mud, hands and feet bound, head throbbing. A canopy of trees blocked the sky. He was aware of the sound of rushing water. The world came into focus and he saw that he was on the banks of a fast-flowing river.
Shaka kneeled beside him, slapping his cheek. When he saw Simon’s eyes open, he showed him the flash drive in his open palm. “Just so you didn’t think I came all this way for nothing.”
Simon struggled to free his wrists and ankles.
“Not a chance,” said Shaka. “Handcuff knots. It’s how we tie up our enemies back home before we necklace them. Know what that is? Put a tire around their neck and shoulders, fill it with petrol, and light ’em up. You better believe they struggle.” A smile at the memory. A jab to the shoulder. “You’re lucky I didn’t find any spare tires around here.”
Simon took stock of his situation. His last recollection was of hearing his name called. He turned…and then he woke up here, in considerable discomfort, unable to move, and at the mercy of a trained assassin.
“How did you find me?”
“Trade secret.”
“You chipped me,” said Simon. “Where? I never felt it.”
“You’re too good for me, Riske.” Shaka stuffed the flash drive into a pocket. “Airport baggage claim. You could perform a cavity search in there and the person wouldn’t know it. A medical implantation device from Siemens. They call it a mosquito because that’s how little you feel it. A friend of mine from my old outfit gave it to me. GSG 9. Mean anything to you?”
“German counterterror.” Simon was more interested in why a former commando was involved with a crooked Saudi Arabian investment firm and what an Italian named Luca had to do with it all.
“Why did you kill them?” Simon asked.
“Neater that way. No questions asked.”
“But they didn’t know anything.”
“They knew De Bourbon. That was already too much.”
“What is this all about? PetroSaud?”
“Who? What’s that, man?” Shaka stood, his knees cracking. “You’re asking the wrong end of the stick. Me, I’m the sharp end.”
“Should I ask Luca?”
Shaka raised a hand at Simon. “Him, you don’t say his name. You’re not good enough. You’re like the rest, looking at the world with your eyes shut. You don’t see what’s happening right in front of you. He’s the one with vision.”
“Vision?”
“He knows what needs to be done.” Shaka looked at the heavens, frustrated. “You want to know what this is about, Simon Riske? It’s about purity. Preservation. Even piety, in a way.”
Simon was confused. What did any of those lofty concepts have to do with ripping off a sovereign wealth fund? Once again, he was brought back to his suspicions. Who was “them”?
“Tell me, then. What needs to be done?”
“You’ll find out soon enough. Everyone will. Then again, maybe you won’t.”
“Is that a threat?”
“No threats. Just action. I believe I’m a case in point. We do what’s required.”
“And that is?”
“Wait a week and you’ll know. I’m sorry, there I go again.”
“Colonel Tan told me that Luca was in charge,” he said.
“Tan had a high opinion of himself. He didn’t understand the chain of command. Only one person gives orders.” Shaka kneeled on his haunches. “You want to know who’s in charge? I am, Riske. See anybody else here?”
“And Malloy?”
“I told you. No loose ends. My job is to make certain done is done. No more questions asked. Now or later.”
Shaka stared at Simon a little longer, then gave a last shake of his head. He’d had enough. He hauled Simon up off the ground and threw him over a shoulder, no differently than if he was picking up a Persian carpet. He walked down to the river’s edge, wading into the water up to his knees. Simon could see where he was more clearly now. In the mountains, a steep hillside climbing from the opposite side of the river. Trees growing in abundance, vines falling from their branches to the ground. A rain forest or something like it.
A hundred yards downstream, two pale towers rose from the center of the river, red hazard lights blinking atop each, the water agitated, waves rising and falling, as it approached them. He guessed he was looking at some type of dam, which meant a hydroelectric power plant. Water passed through the dam, spinning giant turbines that in turn generated electricity, before being spewed out the other side, often hundreds of feet below. Not an ideal spot for an evening swim.
“Don’t yell,” said Shaka. “You’ll just end up getting a mouthf
ul of water, not that there’s anyone around to hear you. If I were you, I’d try and get as much air as possible. You’ll be under a long time.”
He took another step and, with a grunt, lifted Simon with both arms and threw him toward the center of the river.
Simon landed facedown, the water colder than he’d expected. He struggled not to gasp. He felt himself moving, gathering speed, and worked to turn himself over. It was remarkably difficult. He rolled his shoulders back and forth, tried to kick his feet. Nothing. Already his air was going, his lungs constricting. A large and heavy object brushed against him, and he turned onto his back. He sucked down the warm air gratefully. A moment later, something washed across his face, cool and slimy, part of it catching in his mouth. He spat it out, shaking the rest free from his face. All the while, he fought to free himself, grinding his hands and feet back and forth, hoping the water might provide some lubricant. Quickly, he realized he was mistaken. The ropes, absorbing the water, were growing tighter as they expanded.
The current swung his feet around so he was traveling headfirst downstream. A piece of wood struck his head, something sharp poking below his eye. Reflexively, he rolled to avert it and swallowed a mouthful of water. The current grew stronger, jostling him. He felt himself rise and fall, entirely at the mercy of the river. He caught sight of the towers, closer now. Each was shaped like a gently rounded horn, a wide band of glass enclosing the control rooms. He shouted, but his voice was no match for the river. Water filled his mouth. He choked, spat it out, unable to keep from swallowing much of it.
He spun again, feet leading now, water spilling over his face, a battle to keep his mouth clear, to take a breath without gagging. For the first time he heard the turbines, a steady, low-pitched thrum. He continued working his wrists, mashing them together in a circular motion. He felt a little play, just a little, but maybe…
A log struck his shoulder, as hard as a body blow, turning him over, then staying with him, preventing him from rolling back. He opened his eyes, saw only black. He shifted his shoulder, thrashed. The log fell away. He turned onto his back. Air. Precious air.
And then he was angling downward, speeding faster, feeling as if he were sliding down a slope, the towers at his side, white ghosts there and gone. Steeper now. He felt himself drop and drop again, as if passing over speedbumps. A final breath. No time for a prayer. He went under.
And stopped.
Something encased his body, preventing him from moving any farther. Water continued to rush past, a torrent lifting his head clear. He looked to either side. A filter of some kind, a metallic net designed to keep larger debris from fouling the turbines. He was wedged against it, his feet tucked inside one of the perforations, somehow upright. A miracle.
The closest tower was ten yards upstream. He could see shadows moving inside the control room. He shouted. He screamed. No one could hear him. Nor could they see him. In the dead of night, he was invisible, made more so by the water rushing past him, a frothing turbulent shroud.
Chapter 31
Ratchaburi Province
Time passed. Minutes. Hours. He shivered until he could shiver no more. Cold left him. He grew numb. He couldn’t feel his feet, his hands, nothing. He was aware of his heart slowing. His thoughts grew fuzzy. He knew he was slowly dying of hypothermia, but the thought caused him no fear. His brain had grown as numb as his body.
Consciousness came and went. At some point he began to dream. He saw a beach and a woman on it and the sun. It was very pleasant. The sun grew brighter. He wanted to look away but couldn’t. It grew brighter still, until it was blinding him.
He opened his eyes and stared into the beam of a spotlight. He heard men shouting, was vaguely aware of a commotion on the walkway that circled the tower. The water passing him slowed, then grew calm. The thrum of the turbines ceased. A motor launch approached. Two men tried to lift him out of the water but were too weak to pull him aboard. One clutched his arm as the other drove the boat back to the dock, towing him alongside. As they slowed, a third man jumped into the water and cut his ropes.
Simon’s feet touched bottom. Silt flushed between his toes. He tried to stand, and immediately toppled into the man’s arms, the pain unbearable as blood rushed to his extremities. Tears ran from his eyes. He buried his face in the man’s shoulder to keep from crying out. After a minute, he regained his strength and walked onto the riverbank. He was naked. The current had ripped off his clothing hours before.
He saw that it was almost dawn. In the growing light, the three men gathered around him. His skin was so pale as to be translucent, wrinkled like a prune. But it wasn’t his skin or his pallor they were interested in. They were scrutinizing the latticework of scars crisscrossing his torso. Knife wounds, burns, bullet holes, the gash he’d suffered jumping out of the embassy window. He saw himself through their eyes. A foreigner bound hand and foot found caught in the power plant’s filters, dead but for the grace of God, his body covered with evidence of extreme physical violence, a garish tattoo running the length of one forearm that all but screamed “gangster.” What could they think but that he was a criminal caught out on the wrong side of a deal gone bad?
They said none of this.
“Are you able to walk inside?” one of the men asked in fluent English.
Simon nodded, discovering that he was unable to speak.
With kindness, they led him inside the tower, one man assisting him on either side. Over and over, they asked if he was all right, if he needed to go to the hospital. Simon shook his head, making an okay sign with his fingers, though he was far from it.
They went to a locker room, where a shower was already running. Simon spent five minutes beneath the hot water. Gradually, he regained his strength and his senses. Then, a memory: You chipped me. He ran his fingers across his upper arms and shoulders. There, a hard nodule where none should be. An RFID transmitter had a limited range, no more than five miles, and a limited life span. Odds were that it was no longer functioning. But Simon was in no position to play the odds.
He finished showering and wrapped a towel around his waist. He found the men huddled in a conference room. Politely, he asked if any of them had a knife or, better yet, a razor blade. “A splinter,” he said, by way of explanation.
Finally, one of the men rose and accompanied him to the snack kitchen. Simon found a paring knife in one of the drawers. Ten seconds over a gas flame sterilized the blade.
“Where is the splinter?” asked the engineer.
Simon pointed at his shoulder. “In here.”
“I see nothing.”
Simon sat on a chair and, with the knife in one hand and a paper napkin in the other, excised the transmitter. One, two, three, and it was out, bouncing on the linoleum floor.
The engineer picked it up, a titanium grain of rice. “What is it?”
“Top secret,” said Simon. “You don’t want to know.”
A few seconds later, the transmitter landed in the kitchen sink and was washed down the drain. As far as Shaka was concerned, Simon was at this very moment floating his way into the Gulf of Thailand, there to stay forever.
Back in the shower room, he found a set of clothing folded neatly on a bench. Gray T-shirt, dark work pants, socks, a pair of boots, a cap. All fit him, more or less.
A bowl of noodles and a cup of hot tea waited in the conference room, complete with a napkin and utensils. Simon sat, sipped the tea, devoured the noodles. A map on one wall showed the locations of power plants across the country. One was colored with a red dot. Ratchaburi Hydroelectric Plant #2. He believed this to be his present location, some hundred kilometers southwest of Bangkok.
“The police are on their way,” said one of the men, bald with thick glasses, a patient smile, and a frank manner, who’d introduced himself as “Steve.” “It will take a while. We are some distance from the nearest town. I imagine you will want to tell them who did this to you.”
“Yes,” said Simon, though it was more of a cr
oak. He drank some more tea and felt his throat relax. “Thank you.”
He gazed out the window onto the parking lot. Four cars. A motorcycle. His mind switched into gear. He began to plot his escape. He could overpower the men, steal a car, make it to someplace where he could obtain a new passport—a false passport. Find out where London Li was, contact her, or, better yet, go there. The police could never protect her from someone like Shaka. Maybe he couldn’t either.
“What happened?” asked Steve.
Simon put down his tea. He’d been working up a story, something about a waylaid tourist, a robbery…or was it a kidnapping? He was too tired to keep the facts straight. He looked at the men. All were well educated, engineers or the like. He knew his story wouldn’t fly. He made a radical choice. The truth.
He told them everything, from his meeting with Dickie Blackmon in London to his visit to the Remand Prison and meeting with Colonel Tan, to the shootout at the Spanish embassy and his subsequent capture by Shaka. Along the way, he told them about himself—who he was, what he did for a living—making it clear he was not a gangster.
No one said a word. No one interrupted him. An interesting thing happened as he spoke. The moment Colonel Tan entered the story, the men shared a common look, as if each had his own history with Tan and the national police. Not a pleasant one if judged by the scowls on their faces.
When he’d finished, the men exchanged words in their native tongue. Now that he needed her, Helen Mirren had gone missing. He was unable to decipher what they were saying. By their heated tones and varied expressions, they either wanted him shot at dawn or nominated for sainthood. Simon hoped for something in between. The best word to sum up their collective mood was “confused.” Simon was not a problem any of them had come across in a textbook.
A knock at the door interrupted their bickering. Steve rose and opened the door. Simon was surprised to see him place his hands together and bow. The other men shot from their chairs and followed suit. A clean-shaven head peered around the door. Intelligent eyes appraised Simon. The man said something that made the others laugh, then he entered the room. He was no more than thirty, clad in an orange-saffron robe draped over one shoulder, and sandals. A Buddhist monk.
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