“Properly skeptical,” said Simon. “Whatever is going on is bigger than us…the law-abiding public. Bigger than a scheme to rip off lots of money. If Tan, chief of the Royal Thai Police, was involved, why not the commissioner of the Singapore police? Or the head of the army? The prime minister?”
“We’re talking thirty billion dollars,” said London. “How much bigger do things have to get?”
“I can’t say. But when an assassin lectures me on ideas like purity and piety and preservation, my ears prick up. Those are dog whistles for extremism.”
“You’re reaching, Mr. Riske,” said Mandy Blume. “We’re journalists. We prefer to let facts speak for themselves.”
“You’re probably right,” said Simon, not liking her high-and-mighty act. He knew plenty of bent journalists, too. “I’m just a guy who fixes cars for a living.”
“There you are, then,” said Mandy. “You said it, not me. Let’s stick to what we know and can prove.”
But London held him with her eyes. Two hours ago she’d escaped being killed by the narrowest of margins. She no longer possessed the luxury of relying solely on the facts. Facts offered scant protection against a global conspiracy that had put her squarely in its sights.
“Go on,” said London. “You have more to say.”
“May I use your computer?” he asked.
“Desktop is in the study,” said Mandy.
The three moved into the Blumes’ study. Dark, wood-paneled, leather-bound volumes lining the shelves—they hadn’t changed rooms but continents. The air-conditioning blasted so hard, Simon shivered. He slid the keyboard closer and accessed his new email account, bringing up the last message from Arjit Singh, which included an attachment titled “PRF,” for “PetroSaud recovered files.”
“So far you’ve seen only the files Rafa sent London. As I said, there are a few more.”
“How many?” asked London.
“Total? A million. Give or take.” Simon saw a look pass between the two women, equal parts disbelief, astonishment, and joy. The Holy Grail. “Emails, texts, spreadsheets, banking instructions, the works,” he continued. “Rafa downloaded them from the company server his last day of work four years ago.”
“A million?” said Mandy. “This is all happening a bit too quickly for this old broad. I need a ciggie.”
“And you’re certain they are authentic?” asked London.
“As certain as I can be. Have a look.”
“Oh, we will,” said Mandy, taking a filtered cigarette from a box on the desk and hoisting a heavy silver lighter.
“My first concern is whether you can use them in court,” said Simon.
“If the documents are real, they are admissible,” said London. “It doesn’t matter how we came upon them, whether we found them lying on the street or were handed them on a silver platter. We’re not dealing with privileged information…you know, communications between a lawyer and client, that kind of thing. Otherwise we’re in the clear. When all is said and done, Mr. De Bourbon will be regarded as a whistleblower. I hope that is some consolation to his family.”
Simon nodded, thinking of Delphine. Cold comfort. “What I’ve seen of the files validates what you know about the Indonesian and Malaysian funds. It looks like those were the first ones that involved PetroSaud. We can come back to those later. Now we need to concentrate on the other thing.”
“The dog whistle,” said Mandy, caustically.
“I think they call it ‘Prato Bornum.’”
“Prato what?” said Mandy.
“Sounds Latin,” said London.
“In fact, it’s the medieval name for Zermatt, Switzerland,” said Simon. “You know, where the Matterhorn is. ‘Prato’ means source, or a wellspring. ‘Bornum’ means ‘the place where it begins.’ Put them together and you have ‘Here, where the spring originates.’ The ‘spring’ refers to the river that flows through the town of Zermatt down to the Rhône Valley.”
“The place where the spring originates.” London considered this. “A place of purity, preservation, and piety. I think I’m getting the drift.”
“So am I,” said Mandy. “And I don’t like it one bit.” She drew from her cigarette. “Apologies, Simon, if I was a bit snide. Comes with the territory. Trust is a four-letter word.”
“Apparently, there is some kind of spiritual affiliation with the spot,” Simon continued. “A sacred link to the past.”
“And how did you figure this out?” asked London.
“To an extent, luck. As I was looking through the files, I saw the initials ‘PB’ and the words ‘Prato Bornum’ in a few places. In one, Hadrian Lester tells Tarek Al-Obeidi, PetroSaud’s managing partner, that a portion of the money used to buy the false oil leases had to be sent to an account at the Bank of Liechtenstein and flagged ‘Prato Bornum.’ I thought it sounded odd, so I did a word search. After that, it was a question of putting two and two together. Like I said, the files are four years old. That’s about the time PetroSaud got involved with the Indonesian sovereign wealth fund.”
“Future Indonesia,” said London.
Simon read from the screen. “Here’s another from Lester. ‘Tarek, it is essential our team is on board with larger objectives, PB, and do not balk at payment.’ And another: ‘T, spoke with NS. She’s a firm believer in the cause. Provided all her account information at BOL. She will wire funds from her cut.’”
“‘NS’ must be Nadya Sukarno,” said London.
“Seems you were right about her being guilty as sin,” said Mandy. “But what’s the cause?”
Simon went on: “There are numerous mentions of Prato Bornum, but the one I found the most interesting is a note sent to Al-Obeidi from an email handle, ‘Aquila’—that’s Italian for ‘eagle.’” Simon brought up the flagged message. “‘See you at meeting of principals at the Crillon in Paris. Prato Bornum, Luca.’”
“‘Meeting of principals,’” said London. “Fund managers?”
“Or believers in the cause,” said Simon. “Like Nadya Sukarno.”
“The cause of purity, piety, and preservation.”
“So then,” said Mandy, waving her cigarette, “who the hell is Luca the eagle?”
“That’s the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question,” said Simon. “That’s the second time I’d heard the name. Like I said, Colonel Tan took a call from a man named Luca immediately before he reneged on the deal to free Rafa. Tan spoke Italian with him. My guess is that Luca had managed to get his hands on the information Rafa had stolen and no longer required his cooperation to get it back. He was expendable. When I asked Shaka about Luca, he became upset, telling me I wasn’t fit to utter his name. It’s clear that ‘Luca the eagle’ is the man in charge.” Simon stood from the desk, crossing his arms. “Something else Shaka said bothers me. When I asked him what he and Luca, and those behind this, were going to do about purity, piety, and preservation, he told me that I and the rest of the world would find out next week.”
“Next week?” said London, writing feverishly on her notepad.
“Was he boasting? You know…puffing out his chest?” said Mandy.
“In my view, he was referencing a threat.”
“Did he say anything specific?”
“Not about that. He just told me to take a deep breath and threw me in the river.”
Mandy touched his arm. “Lucky dear.”
Simon thought of the monk, his words about a guardian angel looking after him. “Very lucky.”
“I don’t suppose you can let us make a copy of the files,” said London.
“They’re yours.” He regarded Mandy. “There is something you can help me with.”
“I knew this was coming,” said Mandy, then with abundant gratitude: “Of course I’ll help. I’m all ears, Mr. Riske.”
“I want to talk to Hadrian Lester. Now. While he’s off-balance and before he can lawyer up. Do you know where he is?”
“No, but I know someone who does.” Mandy stamped ou
t her cigarette and picked up her phone. “Michael,” she said when her husband had answered. “Need a favor. Don’t ask any questions. You have two minutes to tell me where I can find Hadrian Lester.”
Mandy hung up. She gave London a nudge, head inclined toward Simon. “He certainly sounds like he knows what he’s talking about. Bit of a ruffian, though. Not bad looking if you go in for that type.” Her eyes painted Simon up and down, saying that she, Mandy Blume, very much went in for that type.
“Sorry,” said Simon. “I didn’t have time to stop at my tailor.”
“I’ll give you some of Michael’s things. He’s a bit bigger around the waist, smaller other places, otherwise they should do nicely.”
The phone buzzed and Mandy snatched it to her ear. “Thank you, darling,” she said. “Won’t ask again.” She ended the call. “As of ten minutes ago, Hadrian Lester, vice chairman of HW, can be found at the SKAI Bar on the seventy-fifth floor of the Stamford Swissôtel presiding over a cocktail party to announce HW’s newest piece of business. It’s another sovereign wealth fund. Guess what? Future Indonesia 3.”
Chapter 47
Singapore
Situated at the southernmost tip of the Malay Peninsula, straddling the equator, the South China Sea to one side, Indonesia and Indian Ocean to the other, Singapore has for centuries been a crossroads of trade and commerce. Arabs came from Jeddah, Indians from Delhi, Chinese from Canton, and Malays from the jungles to the north. Two hundred years ago, the British arrived to add a few drops of Western blood to the mix. More than any other country, Singapore was founded on the precepts of peaceful coexistence. All peoples and all religions were to be treated with equanimity and respect. If its residents shared a common deity, its name was prosperity.
So it was that in a ten-square-block perimeter one could find an authentic Chinatown, an Indian market that might be mistaken for its cousin in Mumbai, and an Arabian souk seemingly transplanted from old Mecca.
Near the souk, the Islamiya Fashion Boutique on Arabiya Street has offered the finest in Arabian menswear to a discerning clientele for over one hundred years. Its current proprietor, Faisal Faisali, a native Saudi, took ownership of the store in 1965, the year Singapore declared its independence from Malaysia. His timing was fortuitous. As the years passed, not only did Singapore grow wealthier, so did the countries of the Arabian Peninsula. Oil made the Arabs rich. Trade, the Singaporeans. There was a demand for new and fancier clothing. After all, what good was being rich if you were not able to show those around you?
Faisali’s offerings grew in style, color, and fabric. Traditional cottons were supplanted by fine Egyptian weaves and even finer Chinese silks. The standard men’s garment—the dishdasha, or thobe—became more decorative, with gold piping and filigree, ivory buttons, and cuffed hems. The keffiyeh, or ghutra, as it was called in Saudi Arabia, the square piece of cotton worn on the head and secured by the agal, also saw a flowering in design. Red, white, black, red checked, green checked, on and on.
If Faisali had to keep a larger stock, so be it. Sales from his three-hundred-square-foot store multiplied tenfold over the years and, along with prudent investments in real estate, had made him a wealthy man. No match for the sheikhs from the oil-rich kingdoms, but a millionaire many times over. Not bad for a street merchant’s son who had grown up selling dried almonds in Jeddah.
So it was with a feeling of abundant goodwill that he greeted the couple who stormed into his establishment at twenty minutes past six in the evening. The man was American, of average height and evident vigor with broad shoulders and eyes the color of bottle glass. The woman was Eurasian, quite beautiful, if excessively businesslike, but weren’t they all?
“How may I help you?” Faisali asked in his most refined English.
The man responded not in English, or French (another language Faisali spoke with fluency), but in his own Arabic. And not any Arabic, but the Arabic of the street. One might even say of the lower classes. In no uncertain terms, he described the articles of clothing required for him and for her, and that he wanted them as quickly as possible. To underscore his demands, he placed a fat stack of currency on the counter.
Faisali eyed the wad of bills and clapped his hands for his assistants to join them and get busy. He liked a man who knew what he wanted.
“But of course, Sheikh,” said Faisali, after he had slipped the currency into the deepest pocket of his dishdasha. “It is my pleasure.”
Chapter 48
Singapore
Not another cocktail party.
Hadrian Lester pasted on his most patient smile as he circled the SKAI Bar near the top of the Stamford Swissôtel. He said hello to all the usual suspects, making note of the VPs who had arrived early to get a head start on the weekend’s festivities. Demerits for all. The gathering was being held to celebrate the kickoff for HW’s third Indonesian sovereign wealth fund, appropriately titled “Future Indonesia 3.” He spotted Wing Lo, the deputy chief of compliance, holding court by the bar outside, or rather he spotted Wing Lo’s newest wristwatch, one of those million-dollar monstrosities tennis players and race-car drivers were wearing these days. He’d have to have a talk with Lo about toning things down. He was a salaried employee, not even a partner.
It was a beautiful spring evening. A few clouds here and there. A gentle breeze smelling of plumeria even seventy-five floors up. The view was unsurpassed, the city core to one side, the ocean to the other, limitless really. He walked to the railing. Directly below, some nine hundred feet, was St. Andrew’s Road and the Padang, the grass fields where old man Raffles himself had played his polo. He took a step back, stomach reeling. It was a long way down.
Hadrian greeted Sir Ian, the firm’s Scottish chairman, recently arrived from New York. Had he come to congratulate him or did he smell fire? A few feet away, a smashing brunette wearing a gold sheath of a cocktail dress gave him a wink. Helluva rack, too, if he might say.
“Hello, there,” he said, sauntering up next to her. “What’s a nice girl like you doing in a shithole like this?”
She put her lips to his ear. “Hoping to take home a tall, dark, handsome stranger and do very nasty things to him. Know anyone?”
“Just the bloke,” he said. “Standing right in front of you. Mind if I give the goods a check?”
Without permission, he gave the woman’s buttocks a firm squeeze. “Stop it,” said his wife, Beatrice, feigning alarm. “People will talk.”
“Let them. I hope about something other than finance for once.” He kissed her. “Buona sera, Contessa. You look absolutely incantevole.”
Hadrian got them each a flute of champagne. Moët & Chandon Brut. Save the DP for when the fund closed. He’d prefer something stronger, an entire bottle of Johnnie Walker came to mind, but it didn’t do to drink at these events. He gave his phone a quick look. Still no word from Kruger. He’d been tempted to hustle over to Tanjong market himself to learn what happened, but he was far too busy to leave the office. The process of minting money was a twenty-four-hours-a-day job. Besides, no news was good news, wasn’t it?
“Listen, dearest, be a sweetheart and give Sir Ian’s balls a little tickle. He’s absolutely in love with you. Buff up the company stock, as it were. Maybe he can help me put a ‘sir’ in front of my name one of these days. ‘Sir Hadrian.’ I like the ring of it.”
Beatrice Lester moved off and engaged Sir Ian in conversation.
Hadrian surveyed the setup. They’d put a table in one corner stacked high with prospectuses and manned by a new hire from Kenya by way of the London School of Economics—with a serious set of tribal tom-toms. Some idiot had insisted on making a banner that read FUTURE INDONESIA 3 in a font more appropriate to an action movie than a six-billion-dollar investment vehicle. Still, he really shouldn’t be too upset. The firm would bonus him twenty mil up-front, with the real action coming on the side. A hundred-mil commish from Nadya and something similar from the firm he and Tarek had set up in Zurich to peddle investments i
n rare earth minerals. They were done with oil leases.
It was then he saw the sheikh. Royalty, at first glance. The elegant white thobe, virginal ghutra, black-twine agal. Three-day beard. Sunglasses. And sandals to prove he was keeping one foot in the desert with his ancestors. That sealed it. A Qatari.
Hadrian could spot a prince at five hundred paces, tell you the branch of his family at a hundred, and give you his net worth at fifty. This was one of the new breed, which meant any man under sixty. Educated, cosmopolitan, probably an expert at one thing or another: drove fast cars, climbed tall mountains, collected signed first editions, though by the look of him, this one was a sportsman. None of that indolent Arab posture for him. The “Saudi slouch,” Lester called it.
The sheikh had his wife with him, or one of them, clad head to toe in a black abaya and niqab, not even her eyes visible, and standing a respectful step behind him. Might as well be the Middle Ages. Barbarians, thought Hadrian, but who was he to judge?
He approached the sheikh, introducing himself in the little Arabic he knew. “Peace be unto you, and welcome.”
The sheikh responded likewise, his Arabic rough and guttural, a peddler’s tongue, which marked him as one of the obscenely rich.
“Tamani Al-Thani,” he said, before switching to English, thank heavens. “What does a man have to do to get a drink around here?”
An Al-Thani. Good God. The Qatari royal family. He’d nailed it. The Al-Thanis made the Al-Sauds look like paupers by comparison. Controlled nine percent of the entire English equities market. Owned half of London, including Harrods, the former U.S. Embassy in Sloane Square, and the Park Lane Hilton. Oil reserves of twenty-five billion barrels. And loads of natural gas. It was his lucky day.
Lester escorted him to the bar. “What may I offer you, Sheikh?”
“Jack Daniel’s. On the rocks.” Tamani Al-Thani lifted his drink. “Where the hell’s Tarek? He told me I had to come to this thing.”
Perfect English, but of course. Probably went to Andover or Deerfield, one of the elite academies where the richest one percent sent their offspring to inoculate them against the lower classes.
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