by Mike Maden
Paul frowned. “He told you about his past?”
“Didn’t have to. He was born and bred to clandestine service. It’s practically a family business. But a man like Rhodes has a hard time with authority, unless he’s the one in charge.”
Paul smiled but didn’t comment. He picked up his silverware again and went after his potatoes.
Jack pushed a little deeper. “Were you and Rhodes close back in the day?”
“Not really. I was downstairs, he was upstairs, both literally and metaphorically. Ivy League and all of that.”
“I know the type.” Jack attended Georgetown University, a first-rate academic institution, and his dad was a Boston College grad. Jack was grateful for his education. He didn’t care that he didn’t have the Ivy League connections. Like the Jesuits taught him, it was character—not pedigree—that determined one’s destiny.
“I met your dad once,” Paul said.
“Really?”
Paul continued. “A few months ago, Gerry asked me to drop off some paperwork at his place out in the country. I had to wait on his front porch with the Secret Service detail because your dad was inside. But when Gerry came out, he invited me in for a beer. He grabbed one for me from the fridge and told me to follow him into the den, where your dad was. We all just sat around and drank a beer together, and talked about college football for a few minutes. Nice guy. Not stuck-up like most politicians.”
“I’m a fan, too.”
Paul finished the last bite of buttery eggs, licked the fork, and set it down on the tray.
“So, I have to confess. I wasn’t completely honest with you back in Gerry’s office yesterday.”
“How so?”
“When I said I knew you by reputation, that was true enough. But I also know you through Susan Styles.”
Jack struggled to remember the name. “Sorry, drawing a blank.”
“She’s an executive assistant in my department. Older woman, heavyset, plain. A real hard worker and smart, but not the kind of woman a man pays much attention to. Anyway, she told me the whole story.”
Now Jack was squirming. Had he done something wrong to this woman?
“It was raining cats and dogs one night and she was driving way too fast when her tire blew. She almost lost control but managed to pull over on the side of the road, shaking like a leaf. Just as she threw on her emergency lights, an SUV pulled up in her rearview mirror. The guy jumped out, got soaking wet, and asked her if she was hurt. She said she wasn’t, then he offered to change her tire. She didn’t have Triple A and she didn’t know how to do it herself. So the guy changed her tire. He was muddy and drenched when he finally got done. She offered him twenty dollars for his trouble and he refused it. Even insisted on following her home to make sure she got there okay. When she pulled up in her driveway he honked the horn and waved good-bye. Who does that kind of thing anymore?”
Jack shrugged, a little embarrassed. “It was no big deal. Just a tire.”
“So when I said you did good work back in Gerry’s office, I was really talking about the tire.”
Jack smiled, accepting the half-compliment. “Did you finish catching up on your other work?”
“Not yet. In fact, I need to get back to it.”
As soon as their trays were carried away, Paul broke out his laptop and dove into his spreadsheets. Jack opened up his, too, connected to the onboard Wi-Fi, and started doing research on the Dalfan corporation. He wanted to hit the ground running.
An hour before they landed, the flight attendant passed out customs declarations cards. Jack glanced at it. Standard stuff.
Except for the big bold red letters in an extra-large font at the bottom of the card:
WARNING
DEATH FOR DRUG TRAFFICKERS
UNDER SINGAPORE LAW
15
CHANGI AIRPORT
SINGAPORE
Voted the world’s best airport year after year by Skytrax, Changi didn’t disappoint in either beauty or efficiency. Jack would have enjoyed checking out the butterfly garden or the rooftop sunflowers, but the two of them had customs to get through and baggage claim before meeting up with the car service that would shuttle them to their hotel.
Having nothing to declare, Paul and Jack proceeded swiftly through the green corridor at customs, then headed for the Terminal 3 baggage area. Jack was stunned by the architecture in the wide and open space. The gray-and-white stone floors were patterned like an IBM punch card, complementing the cantilevered panels that opened in the high ceiling like silver windows. But the cold modernity was offset by soaring walls covered in a green hanging garden and stately palm trees planted in the floor. It felt more like a space station biodome than an airport terminal.
The added bonus was that their luggage was already rumbling along on the wide rubber plates of the conveyor belt.
“How is that even possible? I’m usually waiting for my luggage longer than the flight lasts, back in the States,” Jack said.
Paul stood with his rent-free luggage cart—unheard-of in American airports. “I read online that they used to have a rule at Changi Airport—no longer than twelve minutes for the first bag on the airplane to reach the belt. I guess it’s still in effect.”
“If Singapore runs the rest of their country like their airport, they’ll soon run the world.”
They gathered up their bags and headed for the exit, where they saw a cluster of black-suited limousine drivers holding placards and tablets in a wide variety of languages and scripts. But it was a woman about Jack’s age that caught his eye. She wore an open-collared white shirt, a powder-gray suit jacket and slacks, and a near frown on her beautiful but serious face. No jewelry. Obviously Asian, but taller than most, and also mixed race. Stunning.
Standing to her side and slightly behind her was an Asian man about as wide as Jack but not as tall, in a pair of slacks, a polo shirt, and a tight-fitting sport coat, the seams strained by a muscled torso. Jack guessed the square-jawed security man was Korean. His dark eyes bored into Jack’s.
The woman stepped forward, extending her hand. “You must be Jack Ryan.”
Jack took her firm grip. “And you’re Lian Fairchild, head of Dalfan security.”
She tried to hide her surprise. “You did your homework.”
“It was a long flight and I had good Wi-Fi.”
She extended her hand to Paul. “Mr. Brown, I hope you had a pleasant trip.”
“Very much so, thank you.”
“This is Park, one of my senior security staff.”
Park nodded curtly.
“What branch of service?” Jack asked, curious if the stone-faced hulk would answer.
“Marine Corps,” Park said. “Republic of Korea.”
No one to screw around with, Jack noted.
Lian pointed toward the exit. “We should get going. Traffic is heavy this time of day.”
—
A few minutes later they loaded into a black luxury Range Rover and navigated the heavy airport traffic. The windshield wipers slapped away a light rain. Paul was visibly nervous about the fact they were driving on the wrong—English—side of the road but didn’t say anything.
So close to Malaysia and Indonesia, Jack was half expecting a Third World megacity, overcrowded and dysfunctional, until he did his research on the plane. From the highway he could see the ultramodern, Western-style metropolis and its towering skyline. Most of the cars around them in the bumper-to-bumper traffic were late-model vehicles, many of them bearing luxury name plates like Lexus and Mercedes. He could’ve been on a freeway in Los Angeles or New York, except the cars and roads in both of those places were in far worse condition.
“I hope you don’t mind, but we’ve changed your plans,” Lian said from the front seat.
“We’re not heading for the hotel?” Paul asked.
&nb
sp; “You won’t be staying at a hotel. I’ve made better arrangements for you.”
“That’s very generous of you, but it’s not necessary,” Jack said. What he really wanted was to fall into a bed after a shower and a shave, or at least a change of clothes, before meeting the CEO of Dalfan Technologies.
“Of course it isn’t necessary, but it’s my father’s wish.”
Jack and Paul exchanged a look, surprised by the hostility in her voice.
“I hope the two of you are not too tired from your journey. My father wishes to meet with both of you this evening.”
“We’re happy to meet him. That’s why we’re here,” Jack said.
“Good. I trust it won’t be too unpleasant.”
—
Twenty-five minutes later they found themselves just west of the Singapore Botanic Gardens, in one of the oldest and wealthiest neighborhoods in the island nation-state.
The two-lane road was lined with dense foliage and trees on both sides. Steel gates broke up the tree line occasionally, and through them Jack spotted large, modern homes nestled far back from the road. The area reminded him of the one-percent zip codes in Washington, D.C., and elsewhere around the country he’d had the pleasure of visiting.
Two guards stood discreetly in the shadows of a broad entryway. The fortified gate slowly opened for the Range Rover as the guards waved them through. The Range Rover’s tires burbled on the driveway’s cobblestones as it rolled up the slight incline toward the mansion, nestled inside an expansive, well-manicured lawn. Off to the side of the house stood a tall, sprawling tree like an oak with long, sturdy branches and a thick trunk.
“What kind of tree is that?” Paul asked. “Must be seventy feet tall.”
“It’s called a penaga laut. That one is over one hundred years old. My father has been extremely careful to preserve it. He says that tree is as much a part of our family as he is.”
“Beautiful specimen.”
“My father’s modest home,” Lian said. “I hope you don’t mind, but we’ve prepared a small reception for you.”
“Modest?” Jack said. “It’s spectacular.”
The red-tiled roof contrasted brilliantly with the white two-story structure. It was obviously old construction, though renovated, and similar to several elegant bungalows they had passed earlier.
“Thank you. But it’s not quite as large or famous as the house your father lives in, I’m afraid.”
“My dad’s place is bigger, but it’s older and it’s just a loaner,” he said.
Jack couldn’t tell if there was a smile on her face in the passing shadows, and the tone in her voice didn’t provide any clues, either. She might have been paying him a compliment—or mocking him. Maybe both.
“My father’s house is the last privately owned bungalow of its kind on the island. There are only about one hundred left. The rest are owned by the government and leased out, mostly to wealthy British expats longing for an authentic colonial experience.”
The Range Rover rolled to a gentle stop in front of the mansion. Two men in casual uniforms scrambled down from the porch to open the doors, while a third, taller than the other two, called out.
“Mr. Ryan, Mr. Brown, welcome to Singapore!”
Lian, Paul, and Jack approached him. It was still warm outside and slightly humid after the rain, but pleasant.
“Dr. Fairchild, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” Jack said. The man was just a few inches shorter than Jack, but he was broad in the shoulders and lean for his age, which Jack guessed to be in his late fifties, judging by the flecks of gray in his hair and the lines on his face. Like his daughter, he was a mixed-race Asian, though his Caucasian features were more pronounced than hers.
“Please, call me Gordon, both of you.” They shook hands. Dr. Fairchild’s smile was wide and infectious. Lian slipped under her father’s arm and he gave her a hug and a kiss on the head. “You’ve met my daughter, obviously. Pardon a father’s pride.”
“How long have you been head of security?” Jack asked.
“Only two years.”
“My daughter’s being modest. She served ably under her predecessor for three years and before that was a sergeant in the Special Tactics and Rescue Unit with the Singapore Police Force.”
“That’s quite an accomplishment.”
A sleek Protonic Red BMW i8 roared through the gates. Every head turned.
Dr. Fairchild was clearly annoyed at the spectacle but tried to hide it behind a forced smile. “Come in, please. I know how tired you both are after that long journey. I’ve made it too many times myself. We have dinner prepared for you.”
“That’s very kind of you, sir,” Paul said.
“It’s a humble meal, but I hope it will satisfy.”
The i8 screeched to a halt behind the Range Rover and the gull-wing doors lifted. The driver leaped out and dashed over to the porch. “Sorry I’m late, Father. A small emergency at the office.”
Dr. Fairchild’s smile disappeared. He began to say something but held his tongue. “Gentlemen, this is my son, Yong Fairchild, the chief financial officer of Dalfan Technologies. Yong, this is Paul Brown and Jack Ryan from Hendley Associates.”
Yong was taller than his father and as handsome as his sister was beautiful. Broad-shouldered and narrow-waisted, the CFO carried himself like a fighter. Like his sister, he owned a firm grip and smiled as he looked Jack straight in the eye.
“We’ve been looking forward to your arrival,” Yong said. “I hope the two of you will forgive my lateness.”
“We just arrived. It’s not a problem at all,” Jack said.
Dr. Fairchild pointed toward the front door. “Now that we’re all finally here, we should eat.”
—
Dr. Fairchild took the tall leather chair at the end of the expansive table, flanked on either side by his son and daughter. Jack sat next to Yong and Paul next to Lian. Two Indonesians, a husband and wife, began the service by bringing in the dishes as a third servant poured ice water into crystal glassware. The dining room, like the rest of the house, was modern with traditional touches, featuring dark wood timbers and white walls. The architecture and furnishings felt both tropical and colonial but not garishly so. It was an homage to history and the local culture, and impeccably stylish.
Dr. Fairchild raised a glass. “To our honored guests, and to our two countries. Peace and prosperity for us all.”
“Thank you,” Jack said. Paul agreed.
They feasted like kings on melon-and-mango salad, chili crabs, xiao long bao, pork rib soup, curry rice, tandoori chicken, and other exotic delectables, each dish a reflection of the wildly diverse cultures that inhabited Singapore—British, Malaysian, Chinese, Indian, and Indonesian. In a nod to his proud English heritage, Dr. Fairchild served frosty porters and Tanqueray gin.
Dr. Fairchild began the evening’s conversation formally, lightly touching on global economic conditions, the Federal Reserve’s latest meeting, the Bank of Japan, and other financially oriented subjects—something he knew Jack and Paul were familiar with. Lian and Yong offered few questions and even fewer opinions, allowing their father to drive the discussion. Jack felt like it was a warm-up to a sparring match.
As the meal progressed and the liquor began to take hold, Dr. Fairchild opened up the conversation.
“How well do you know the history of Singapore, gentlemen?”
“Only what I read coming over,” Jack said. “It’s an amazing place.”
“If you want to know the history of the island, just look at my family.” He beamed with pride, lifting his hands like a blessing pope.
“Let’s take our dessert and coffee in the library,” Dr. Fairchild suggested. “Or do any of you take tea?”
“Tea would be fine, thank you,” Paul said. “Chamomile, if you have it.”
“Certa
inly.”
Dr. Fairchild stood and led the group into a two-story library with floor-to-ceiling mahogany bookcases. Jack stopped in front of one unit and scanned it. The shelves in front of him were full of history texts and war biographies. Other shelves featured science, engineering, and technical works. Around the room on display tables or on shelves Jack spotted black-and-white photographs of English soldiers from the two world wars as well as the Korean War.
Jack stepped over to a display case featuring a well-worn Webley revolver—standard issue in the British Army for decades. Prominently featured high on the far wall in a display case was a captured Imperial Japanese Army battle flag, bullet-ridden and burned on the edges. Jack was something of a World War II buff, his grandfather having served in the 101st Airborne at the Battle of the Bulge.
“You have an amazing collection of books,” Paul said.
Dr. Fairchild shook his head with mock embarrassment. “You should see my Kindle! It’s even worse. Father was an avid reader. I’m afraid I picked up the habit myself.”
Jack and the others took their seats on plush leather couches and rattan chairs as the servers brought hot coffee and tea services along with plates and bowls of exotic desserts, setting them on the low tables in front of them.
“These are two popular local desserts, durian mousse with gula melaka and pandan chiffon cake. I hope they’re not too sweet,” Dr. Fairchild said, sipping a cup of strong black coffee.
Jack was already overstuffed but didn’t feel comfortable refusing the colorful offerings. He tried both. The pandan cake was moist and delicious. It tasted like hazelnut, one of his favorites. But he wasn’t as crazy about the durian mousse, with its strange textures and odd flavors—almost like buttermilk and almonds. The coffee was a smooth, dark-roasted Sumatran. He’d never tasted better.
“I mentioned before that if you want to know the history of Singapore you need only know about the history of my own humble family. My father was a lieutenant with the British Army, Malaya Command, stationed at Fort Singapore with the 30th Fortress Company, Royal Engineers, when the Japanese invaded. When the British Army surrendered, my father disappeared into the rainforest, eventually joining up with a Malaysian rebel unit where he met my mother. In between blowing up bridges and shooting Japanese, they fell in love. They married after the war.”