The Palace

by Reich, Christopher

  Besides Semtex, he had purchased one hundred Beretta semiautomatic handguns, ten thousand rounds of ammunition, fifty hand grenades, and fifty KA-BAR knives.

  It took thirty minutes to load everything into Borgia’s van. As he closed the doors, Peppe came close. One final question. “May I ask what all this is for?”

  “Friends in the north,” said Borgia. The north: cradle of right-wing politics, bastion of anti-labor, anti-communist, anti-immigrant supporters. Heirs to Benito Mussolini. Il Duce.

  Toto and Peppe nodded approvingly. After all, they were not bad men. They would not want to see the weapons used for the wrong purposes.

  “Arrivederci,” said Borgia. “Grazie tanto.”

  “Arrivederci.”

  Chapter 42

  Singapore

  Shaka arrived at Tanjong Pagar market at three o’clock. He strolled past the stalls and vendors and hawkers, just another tourist. He’d traded his dark suit for khaki shorts and a T-shirt, a baseball cap covering his hair. He ignored the glances thrown his way, both admiring and apprehensive. Sun’s out, guns out. Deal with it.

  The market was one city block in length, a pedestrian-only thoroughfare crowded with stands selling food, electronics, clothing, you name it. It was a lively spot, colorful banners fluttering in a soft breeze, lights strung overhead, and chock-full of visitors, their sights and senses drawn in all directions. In every way, the market was perfect for his work.

  He made a circuit of the block twice, familiarizing himself with its layout. Should London Li come directly from her office, she would approach from the southeast. He found an ideal vantage point tucked behind a stall preparing fried squid—plenty of activity here, steam spiraling into the air, excited voices, woks shaken and drained with flair. Far too much going on for the eye to pick out a lone man keeping watch for his prey.

  It went without saying that come four p.m. Hadrian Lester wouldn’t be anywhere near the Tanjong market. It wouldn’t do for the vice chairman of one of the world’s most important banks to be in the vicinity when a prominent journalist dropped dead on the pavement.

  Shaka felt the mosquito pressing against his leg. The device resembled a staple gun, but finer boned and fashioned from high-tensile titanium. Originally, Siemens, the German industrial conglomerate, had designed it to inoculate livestock. Years later, the device was appropriated by his country’s intelligence services and modified for other, less bucolic, uses, namely to track adversaries and, when necessary, to kill them. His other pocket carried a pellet filled with a lethal dose of potassium cyanide, contained safely in a stainless-steel caplet. The job called for a “wet insert,” meaning he would have to load the pellet into the mosquito immediately before use.

  Cyanide acted as an oxygen suppressor, blocking the cells’ ability to absorb the molecules from the bloodstream. Within seconds of ingestion, the victim would feel light-headed, disoriented, then lose control over her muscles and collapse. Unconsciousness and death followed quickly. Sixty seconds at the most.

  Shaka sat down on a bench behind the stall to wait. One last task to attend to, then back to Europe. He had booked himself a seat on the midnight Swiss Air Lines flight to Rome via Zurich. All in all, a productive trip, the redundancies in Bangkok notwithstanding.

  He checked his watch. Thirty minutes yet. He looked at the picture of London Li on his phone. A half-breed like him. Sexy as hell. All he had to do was keep an eye out for a woman with hair the color of warm caramel.

  It shouldn’t be too hard.

  Chapter 43

  Singapore

  No, sir, once again, I cannot tell you if Ms. Li is in the building. She is not answering her phone. You’re welcome to call the main number and leave another message. I understand that it is a matter of some urgency. If you’d like, I’d be happy to call again on your behalf in a quarter hour. Until then, you may take a seat in our lounge.”

  Beside himself, Simon walked to the seating area in the lobby of the Mapletree Anson tower, home to the offices of the Financial Times. “A matter of some urgency.” Yes, thought Simon, you could call it that. A trained assassin twice as strong as Superman is looking for one of your journalists and he isn’t hoping to fill her in about life on the planet Krypton.

  He sat down, eyes taking in every corner of the lobby. No amount of cajoling or persuasion was going to get him past the reception. He watched a procession of employees enter, each in turn running an ID badge over the turnstile. The guards, he noted, were keeping an eye on him. Even if he could steal a badge, he’d have to find another way in.

  A clock high on the wall read 3:45.

  He checked his phone. Still no response from London Li to his email or his voice messages. Most likely, the email had never made it to her inbox, had been filtered out for one reason or another and sent to a file reserved for spam or junk. As for his voice messages, either she hadn’t checked them or she thought he was unhinged. If he received a message from an anonymous woman telling him to stop looking into an important matter and immediately seek protection, he would delete it without thinking twice. If you’re going to tell me my life’s in danger, you’d better have the courtesy to leave your name.

  Simon gave a last look around the building and stood. This wasn’t going anywhere. There was only one thing to do. If Mohammed couldn’t go to the mountain, he would bring the mountain to him.

  Once outside, he walked around the corner and called the FT’s main number.

  “Financial Times Asia. How may I direct your call?”

  “Yeah, listen,” said Simon. “There is an explosive device in your office. You have five minutes until it goes off. Consider this fair warning. Bang!”

  He ended the call. Eventually it would be tracked back to him, but the phone was a burner and he hadn’t left his name on any of the messages for London Li. Anyway, he didn’t care about “eventually.” He crossed the street and took up position where he could see into the ground floor of the tower. Almost immediately he noted a flurry of activity. Guards opened all sets of doors, locking them in place. Emergency lights in each corner flashed blue and white. Workers began streaming out of the building and congregating in the entry plaza, first in a trickle, then quickly, a torrent.

  Simon had studied photographs of London Li he’d pulled off the net. She was a striking woman, Eurasian, maybe thirty years old, her most recognizable feature her toffee-colored hair. By now, nearly two hundred people were milling about the plaza. She was not among them.

  He brought up a list of the FT management. If London were actively working the story—and all evidence pointed to the fact that she was—she would certainly have discussed it with a managing editor. There were two: Anson Ho and Mandy Blume. He looked at their pictures.

  He saw Blume at once, standing at a far corner of the plaza, nearest the walkway leading into the building. She was a blond, elegantly bedraggled woman who reminded him of an aging rocker…if, that is, the rocker had traded her denims and lace for a cream-colored skirt and snazzy blouse. He made eye contact with the woman as he approached, taking her by the arm and leading her away from the others.

  “Excuse me,” said the woman. “Just what in the—”

  “Where is London Li?”

  “Wait.” An effort to free her arm, to no avail. “Who are you?”

  “A friend. Someone who wants to make sure that she’s safe. My name is Simon Riske. Has she told you about PetroSaud? Has she mentioned the name Hadrian Lester?”

  “Riske…Are you R?”

  “R is dead. His name was Rafael de Bourbon. He was killed in the embassy shooting in Bangkok two days ago. I was there. Rafa—Mr. De Bourbon—had agreed to turn over information he’d taken from PetroSaud in exchange for his freedom and—”

  “Why would he do that? I’m not following you—Mr. Riske, is it?”

  Simon fought down his desire to hurry, to blast through the story. It was imperative she understand what London had gotten herself into. “PetroSaud owed Rafa a five-mi
llion-Swiss-franc bonus. When they didn’t pay, he threatened to make public what he knew about them—information he’d gathered while an employee of theirs four years back. The stuff you guys are figuring out about Indonesia and Malaysia and Brunei.”

  Mandy Blume’s face darkened. “How do you know we’re looking into those countries?”

  “Let me go on.” Simon was not about to admit he’d entered London Li’s apartment. “PetroSaud didn’t bite. They had Rafa arrested and jailed in Thailand. Just before, he sent London Li a note giving her clues as to what went down. Rafa was killed because of what he knew. So was a man named Malloy, who was his boss. I have proof that the killer is here in Singapore…right now.” He leveled his gaze at the woman. “He’s here to take care of London Li.”

  “‘Take care of’?”

  “Kill her.”

  Blume was having none of it. “It was you who called in the bomb threat?”

  “I couldn’t get upstairs. She isn’t answering her phone or responding to my emails. Do you know where she is?”

  “Yes, but I won’t tell you.”

  Simon took her by the arms. “Look at me. I have the files Rafa took from PetroSaud. Thousands of them. Emails, texts. This story is bigger than any of us think. It goes beyond defrauding the funds of billions. Ms. Blume…Mandy…you have to trust me. I’m an investigator, too. A different kind, but we’re after the same things, you and me. I have every reason to believe an attempt will be made on London Li’s life today…at any minute. This is happening now. Call her. Tell her to find a policeman and stay close to him. If she can’t, she needs to come here.”

  Mandy Blume stared at him, disbelief and fear softening to acceptance. “I don’t know if she’ll answer. She’s meeting someone. It’s about this.”

  “Who? Where?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “What is it that you don’t understand?” demanded Simon. “London Li’s life is at stake.”

  “You better not be lying to me, you son of a bitch.” Mandy Blume shot him a withering glance. “She’s meeting with Hadrian Lester. Tanjong market. Four o’clock.”

  “It’s a setup. Lester is part of it. At the top, I think. No way he’d talk to a reporter. He knows everything that’s going on. Call her.”

  Blume put her phone to her ear, shaking her head a moment later to indicate that there was no answer. “London, this is Mandy. Call me as soon as you get this. I know this may sound crazy, but you need to get somewhere safe. Find a policeman and stay with him. Just do it. You’re in a great deal of danger. Hadrian Lester is not coming. Call me.”

  “Where is Tanjong market?” asked Simon, feeling the seconds running out, desperate to act…to do something, anything.

  “Three blocks that way. Shall I call the police?”

  “Yes…no…do what you want. I have to run.”

  Chapter 44

  Singapore

  London Li arrived at the southeast entrance to the Tanjong market precisely at four p.m. She rarely came to this spot during the week and was surprised to find it every bit as busy as on the weekend. Mostly tourists, she noted, meandering here and there, slowing at every stall, enjoying the colorful sights and enticing smells. This wasn’t an ambush. It was an interview, strictly on the record, and she’d prepared accordingly. She’d committed to memory details of every fund HW had managed over the past five years. Amounts, dates, principals. And the flip side as well. Where and how the fund managers had invested the billions raised, especially when the investments involved PetroSaud.

  She had been reminded that sovereign wealth funds derived the largest part of their funding from the country’s own surpluses: gains from foreign currency transactions, unspent taxes (as rare as the concept may seem), and bond issues. It was the fund manager’s duty to invest the proceeds to benefit the shareholders—in this case, the country’s own citizens. Norway, to take an example, ran a fund valued at over one trillion U.S. dollars, or two hundred thousand dollars per citizen. The idea, then, that Hadrian Lester had used his position and influence to funnel billions of dollars into PetroSaud’s phony oil leases enraged her. He wasn’t stealing from the rich and giving to the poor. He was stuffing his grubby hands into the pockets of every taxpaying citizen and snatching their hard-earned money for his own personal gain. It was abhorrent.

  For the moment, however, London had only supposition. Photos taken at celebratory dinners did not constitute hard evidence. R’s stolen information, while admissible in court, simply wasn’t enough. She had a big fat handful of speculation, as substantial as fairy dust. It was a conspiracy theory that any defense lawyer worth his salt could deconstruct with his hands tied behind his back. It was her job, then, to convince Hadrian Lester that she had more than fairy dust, more than a theory, that she already possessed evidence that would undeniably implicate Lester and HW, and thus convince him to tell her the truth.

  No small task.

  She wandered through the market, eyes peeled for the tall, dark-haired banker. The time was five minutes past four. Though the market was not exceptionally large, maybe a hundred paces end to end, it was a hectic, bustling sieve. In her excitement at landing the interview, she’d failed to specify an exact location. How silly it would be if she somehow missed him. It was always the reporter’s fault.

  London felt someone bump into her and stumbled. She turned rapidly, ready to savage the offender. “Excuse me,” she said with malice.

  A wizened amah smiled apologetically, taking her grandson in hand, scolding him. London smiled belatedly, waving at the little boy. You need to calm down, she told herself.

  Her phone buzzed and she saw that she’d received a voice mail from Mandy. What now? She looked everywhere for Hadrian Lester. How difficult could it be to locate a six-foot-three-inch gwai lo banker in a dark suit? She decided that it was best to wait in one place and let him come to her.

  Her phone buzzed.

  Mandy. Again.

  London brought up the voice mail and read a transcription of the first message. “…this may sound crazy…you need to get somewhere safe. Find a policeman…You’re in a great deal of danger. Hadrian Lester is not coming.”

  Lester wasn’t coming? How did Mandy know? Had he called her?

  Only then did London digest the rest of the message. The important part. “You’re in a great deal of danger…find a policeman.” The words didn’t go with the Mandy she knew. Not one bit. Mandy was the last person to be afraid of anything, the rebel who proudly spit in the eye of authority.

  But this wasn’t about Mandy. It was about her.

  “…in a great deal of danger…”

  A bolt of fear, as cold as ice, ran the length of her spine. She had no idea what the message could be referring to, but whatever it was, it had shaken Mandy. London appraised her surroundings with a new wariness. Nothing had changed. She sensed no evil vibe. Everything appeared normal. The little boy who’d bumped into her stood a few feet away, gazing at her. She tried but couldn’t muster a smile.

  She recalled the anonymous email warning her to be careful. “Others are aware of your interest…”

  She started up the pavement, heading north, hoping to see a policeman, finding it hard to remember the last time she’d seen a uniformed cop on the streets. She threaded her way through the stalls, her steps assuming a hasty rhythm, something inside her…something she had no control over…urging her to hurry, to get clear of the market.

  Ahead, a woman cried out. A commotion. A ruffle in the crowd.

  London froze, not knowing if she should go forward or back.

  She was dressed in black jeans and a tan stretch T-shirt, her hair pulled back into a ponytail. The glasses had almost thrown him off: large black frames that gave her a professorial look. Then again, Lester had said she’d be coming from her offices at the Financial Times.

  Shaka left his position behind the busy food stall and moved slowly up the row of stands behind London Li. Next to him, a family of Americans had g
athered around a chef making noodles from scratch. Shaka paused beside them, pretending to look on as the chef spun the mass of dough between his fingers, stretching it and dividing it, twirling it in the air until he’d created a latticework of slim noodles that stretched from arm to arm.

  From the corner of his eye, he saw the reporter check her phone. Her bearing changed in an instant. Her motions grew jerky, head turning this way and that, eyes flitting here, there, everywhere. Whatever she’d read or seen on her phone, it had rattled her. She left the spot where she’d been standing for the past few minutes and started toward him. With one stride, he could reach her. He could snap her neck and be five steps away before she dropped to the ground.

  Do it, he told himself, fingers tingling. Now. Be done with it.

  The woman looked directly at him, then spun and walked in the opposite direction.

  Shaka gave pursuit. His right hand dropped into his pocket, fingers closing around the mosquito. He slipped the device from his pocket, thumb cocking the hammer. Deftly, he nicked the cap of the cyanide cartridge and pressed it into the barrel.

  He lengthened his stride, closing the distance between them. His eyes searched for the best spot to hit her. The base of the neck? Maybe higher up, near the jawline? Or the forearm? He couldn’t risk penetrating her clothing, for even a small amount of the toxin might be lost on the fabric.

  He drew closer, close enough to see how the strands of her hair were different colors, to note the fine texture of her skin. She was a beautiful woman. A shame.

  He noted a commotion at the entry to the market. A ripple in the current of shoppers. He saw a uniform, now two, and cupped the mosquito in his palm. Then relief. Not police officers. Bus drivers, coffee cups in hand.

  Shaka smiled to himself. A last step, close enough to smell her perfume, to see the downy hairs running along the nape of her finely shaped neck. He reached out a hand. There, he decided, just below her perfectly shaped mole…