by HN Wake
She clicked over to her computer and pulled up an internal site with a database labeled, ‘Politically Exposed Persons (PEP).’ She ran a quick search through the one million names in the database for “Hiew” but came up empty. No one in their immediate family fit the Financial Action Task Force on Money Laundering’s definition of PEP—an individual with prominent public functions such as Heads of state or government, senior politicians.
She opened an internet search and explored the chief executive of Sarawak Province in Malaysia. He was quite a character. There were numerous articles on his flamboyant nature and his extraordinary wealth. He had been married for over twenty-five years and had five children and ten grandchildren. He lived in the capital of the province, Kuching. He owned ten houses in Kuching alone.
She flipped back to the PEP database and ran the chief executive’s name. He was listed.
There had to be a connect between the chief executive and the Hiew family.
She continued to scroll through the internet looking for a connection. She read an article about one of the Hiew’s son’s weddings at a palace in Brunei and a honeymoon on the Nile. The son had purchased the Nile barge and had it refurbished to include a dipping pool, a marble inlaid bathroom, and an eighteen carat gold lacquered bed. She read about Robert Kok Hiew’s racing obsession. He followed the Formula 1 around the world and sponsored at least two teams in any given year.
Twenty minutes later, she found what she was looking for. Robert Kok Hiew had a male cousin that had attended Harvard in the 1970s. His name was Albert Yew. A photo from the Brunei wedding showed Albert Yew with his arm around Robert Kok Hiew smiling into the camera.
Albert Yew was a senior advisor to the Sarawak chief executive.
Legion Bank required strict scrutiny on PEPs when considering on-boarding them as clients. This could slow down the Alghaba deal considerably.
Meredith picked up the phone and called upstairs.
“Stuart Fairbanks office,” his secretary answered.
“It’s Meredith. Is he in?”
“Just a moment.”
Stuart picked up, “Meredith. What can I do you for?”
“I’m reviewing Alghaba.”
“Out of Malaysia. Timber. Yes?”
“We’ve got a PEP issue here. The Alghaba Hiew family is closely linked to the provincial chief executive. This politician oversees the timber concessions for the…”
“Let me stop you there, Meredith. The provincial chief executive is PEP. Not the Hiew family. We have business with the Hiews--across our units.”
“Yes. But this corporate investment we’re looking into for Nazir, it’s complicated.”
“Why don’t we see what your due diligence finds out? You’ve got that young gal out there now, right?”
“Excuse me? Mac?”
“Yes, let’s see what she comes back with before we throw up hurdles for Nazir to jump through.”
“But Stuart, we have to stay clean on this stuff. You know that. If there are risks here, we have to look at them.”
“Meredith, do you always play by the rules?”
She paused. Had his voice dropped slightly? Was that a rhetorical question or a real question? She said slowly, “Stuart, that’s my job. I review risk. Anything else would be unethical and potentially criminal.”
He laughed her off. “It was just a joke, relax.”
It didn’t feel like a joke, she thought.
“Thanks, Meredith, keep up the good work.” He hung up.
19
In the rainforest, Sarawak Province, Malaysia
The rainforest crowded in, a pulsing tangle of birth, growth, reproduction, and death.
Emerald leaves sprouted upwards, stretching for the sun. Colossal palm fronds curved over patches of miniature forests, leaves straining for a trickle of rain. At intervals, the sun cut through the laced canopy to wash across deep shadows.
A warthog lumbered in the underbrush next to an undulating column of ants marching along a branch. A gossamer spore floated past on a slight, damp breeze. A dragonfly the size of a baseball darted on fluttering wings.
Ripened, gem-colored flowers attracted insects with redolent, sticky perfumes. An earthen odor of decomposition wafted from the dark, thick undergrowth.
The cacophonous blend of sounds was intense; birds cawed as they flapped through branches high above; monkeys screeched from low perches—their eyes bright; and a cloud of gnats buzzed in the crook of a palm. The unruly chorus settled like a deep hum in her chest as Mac carefully tread heavy boots on the damp, spongy soil. A vine brushed her shoulder and the tendrils of a fern tickled her hand. Near her ankle, a toad bellowed: she paused to search for it among the wet moss.
She wondered what extraordinary things lurked in the verdant foliage. A cobweb thick with carcasses? A butterfly emerging from its cocoon? A monstrous snake sliding along oily skin? She tried to count the number of different birdsong but got lost after twenty.
Up ahead, Azly smoothly swung a machete across the path, back and forth, carving out their way. He was at ease, this was his second home.
She picked up a long branch and stripped the leaves and small branches. Swinging it with her slow, careful pace, she dug the tip into the black mulch and leaned into it. But with only few strides, it became heavy and cumbersome so she dropped it. Neither Azly or Johnson had seen her failed attempt to blend in.
They reached a gorge spanning a fifty-foot drop. Below, a green stream trickled over moss-blanketed rocks. Someone had rigged a bamboo bridge using four horizontal logs supported by a variety of vertical poles. The bridge looked simultaneously ancient and new.
Placing one foot in front of the other, Azly nimbly crossed over. Johnson proceeded carefully then turned to reach out for Mac. She took her time, amazed that the skinny structure was so strong and tensile.
Five miles on, a roar slowly swelled from the jungle, building with every step. Vegetation gave way to a clearing and a small lake at the bottom of a four story waterfall. A fine, white mist shrouded a jumble of rocks where the falls crashed in a thunderous rumble. The vibration pulsed in her chest.
They rested for a moment then pushed on.
Droplets formed across her brow. The sweat dripped from her armpits and below her breasts, soaking her waistband. She wiped down her face with the bottom of her shirt, the small act sending a chill along her torso. She watched enviously as Johnson used his bandana to regularly wipe his face and neck.
The slow tempo of their hiking and the hum of the rainforest lulled her back into daydreams. She imagined prehistoric times, crashing meteors, ice ages, and life crawling out of a swamp. That original swamp must have receded, leaving behind this vast land to be overtaken by vegetation.
She imagined the times before the Agency when there weren’t emails or burner phones, a time before operations, missions, and instructions. A time before pools of blood on white tiles.
What had Josh thought of as he trespassed this path with the medical student? Had he been hypnotized like her by its purity? Had he longed for a time when life was easier, when living a lie hadn’t consumed him? Had he known what to expect at the end of the trek? Did he know what he would find about Alghaba?
I’m coming Josh. We’re getting closer.
20
In the rainforest, Sarawak Province, Malaysia
They stepped from the rainforest’s darkness and into a bright, forty-by-forty foot clearing ringed by five dilapidated wooden houses that teetered high on frail stilts. Each house was a single room with four stitched bamboo walls. Two of the roofs were matted palm leaves. The other three were made of rusted corrugated tin. The clearing was beaten, squalid.
Chickens in pens cackled at the arrival of the newcomers. The surface of a raised platform was darkened with dried blood—a butcher block. She blinked, turned away quickly.
Two starved and mange-ridden dogs raced to meet them, licking their hands, and delivering a cloud of tiny flies. Up ahead, the resid
ents made their way out of the houses and across the yard. Twenty Penan of all ages smiled and waved to Azly. They were in varying states of dress. The younger ones wore T-shirts and shorts, the older men wore pants, and the women in batik skirts. They all shared the look of abject, crushing poverty.
Azly waved and moved forward with a huge smile on his face. These were his friends; he was their advocate. They circled round him, slapping his back, and shaking his hand. He reached down and chucked the chins of the smaller children. The dogs barked, happy the newcomers’ arrival was well-received.
Introductions were made in Bahasa Malaysia and hands were shaken. The women smiled at Mac, touched her arm to make her feel comfortable.
An older man, clearly the chief—and the only one wearing the native loincloth—approached them from the largest house. A striking bowl cut hair balanced on the top of his head above a soft leather-skinned face. His smile was deeply creviced, his eyes craggy with wrinkles. He was at ease and natural in the middle of nature.
The ground around the chief’s building was swept clean, the traces of the broom’s strands streaked the dirt. The group crowded up the rickety ramp to the chief’s house and sat in a large circle on the stiff, worn rattan floor cover. Sunlight filtered through gaps in the walls. Around them, noises sounded off: birds whooped and whistled, bugs buzzed, a dog barked in the yard. The room smelled of smoke in the heat. Old but clean bedrolls had been stowed near the back wall. There were no other possessions.
In the center of the circle, the chief nodded for the meeting to begin. Everyone stilled.
Looking to Azly for translation, Johnson began the meeting. “My honors to you, Headman. We thank you for visiting with us today. I have brought my colleague from Hong Kong. She is a reporter. She is interested in your latest news. Her name is Vivian Maier.”
The name felt out of place and awkward. Johnson had been right. The use of an alias felt deceptive in the purity of this environment.
The chief looked at Mac with a calm, clear smile. She had no doubt this man had known poverty, but he had not been plagued by the modern world’s issues of shame or guilt. He had never grappled with questions of work-life balance or a hectic schedule conflict. Here, he had food, water, a roof over his head. His authenticity made her feel fraudulent.
Johnson said softly, “She wants to hear your story.”
As he collected his thoughts, the chief’s smile faded and his eyes turned sad. Azly translated for him, “We have been part of this forest for as long as anyone here living today can remember. We remember being children, playing among the roots, casting for fish in the river, looking for snakes to tease, keeping monkeys as pets, harvesting medicines, hunting for food. I remember being young and learning from my elders about the ways of the forest--about how to keep your family safe and fed. We heard stories from our ancestors about their ancestors and so on down the line.”
The chief spoke with skinny, weathered hands, waving them left and right. “In my lifetime, some of our younger people have grown and moved to the cities. This made us sad. But we accepted this was their wish, their desire. And we supported them. They supported us. They come to visit and bring things from the city. They bring soap and toothpaste and brushes and medicine. They bring ointments. They bring things we cannot get from the forest. This is the way of the world. We have learned this. Some of our children go to school. One of our children is in university in the city. We are proud. We wish to stay here, but we are proud for our children to belong to the wider world.”
He paused. Around him heads nodded.
“But then,” he continued, “the companies invaded. We heard them coming at first from far away. We would go to see what was the noise. We would follow the sound over the trees. We would go to see what this was. And we see their trucks and their saws and their camps. Our relatives who live down the mountain began moving. They had to move ahead of the machines, up the mountains. They warned us. They said the companies and their men were coming.”
Around the hut, the people were silent. The noise from the forest was far away, muted.
“Now our river smells and is colored a strange color. Our sacred sites down the mountain are gone. Many of our relatives down there are gone, to the city. I don’t know where. The animals are moving higher up the mountain afraid of the loggers.
“No one comes to tell us what is happening. Not one person has come. We know what is happening. The companies are taking our land, our home. Without permission. They steal. As if it is their own. As if they own it.” The chief paused and blinked. There was no hope in the speech. Only defeat. Around him, the group was frozen and sad. He continued, “Their workers, from the camps, they beat our boys to stay away. They rape our girls. We are powerless. They send paper but they do nothing.”
Azly reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a Ziploc bag with a folded piece of paper. The group watched as he unfolded the paper and handed it to Mac. “This was sent to Alghaba workers six months ago.”
The paper was on Alghaba letterhead. A logo of a huge tree with wide branches and wide roots in green adorns the top of the sheet. He translated into English for her, “Staff of Alghaba Ltd are forbidden to visit any local villages or transport any persons living locally. Staff found to be in violation will be fired without compensation”
Mac looked up at the chief. “So the company knows of the rapes?”
“Of course,” he replied. “The companies know of everything that is happening here. They send letters, but do nothing.”
“Who signed that?” she asked Azly.
“The General Manager of Alghaba. He lives in Miri. He knows. As the chief says, they all know. But as the Chief said, in reality, they do nothing.”
The chief continued, “The companies just come and take. They say this is their forest. But how can it be their forest? We do not understand this.” He reached out and put his hand on Azly’s arm. “We send our young people to work with Azly. To learn what is happening to our forest. They guide us. We have chosen non-violence. This is our way. We set up blockades in the roads that the companies build. The companies come and take down the blockades. So we set them up again. We will continue to defend our homes. What else can we do?”
Azly talked to the chief, explaining something he wanted to tell Mac.
The chief encouraged him to go ahead.
Azly explained, “In 1999 we filed a complaint with the government on behalf of these residents. It was official, in the courts. We used the term ‘customary land rights.’ But the courts don’t listen. The government doesn’t listen. We have also fought to get voting rights for the Penan here. But the government won’t give them ID cards so they have no real political voice. UMNO has been in power since independence—almost fifty years. They have tight grip. They don’t allow voices.”
The chief held out his hands, indicating an end to his story and asked Mac, “Can you help us?”
A lump caught in her throat. She was here to find Josh Halloway. Not to help these people.
Johnson watched with an inscrutable stare.
She said, “I have come to find the truth.”
The chief waited for Azly’s translation and was quick to respond. “But will you help us?”
Her primary goal was to find Josh. The cover for the bank—the due diligence on Alghaba—was secondary. There was no way she could help these poor people. She swallowed and replied, “I can only tell the story. I do not have much power.”
The chief understood and the disappointment was clear on his face. “Please do what you can. Tell our story with truth.”
“I will,” she lied.
She took out her Agency Blackberry and pulled up a picture of the medical student Dominick French. She handed it to the Chief. “Do you recognize this man?”
“He was here. Back days, nights. Maybe two weeks?”
Dominick had been up here, investigating Alghaba. Mac asked, “By himself?”
“No.”
She pulled up a p
hoto of Josh. “Did he come with this man?”
The chief recognized Josh. “Yes.”
Her heart raced. Josh and Dominick had both been here. Josh, I’m coming. “What did they want?” she asked the chief.
Johnson’s stare turned hard.
Azly translated, “They came to talk to us, the same as you. Then one of our young men took them on.” He nodded toward the distance, further up the mountain.
“Where?” she asked.
He made a slicing move with his hand. “Where the company has torn down the forest.”
“Alghaba?” she asked.
“Of course.” The chief said something to a woman behind him who then left. They waited in silence until she returned with a young man in a red T-shirt. The chief spoke quickly to the red T-shirt who nodded.
The red T-shirt spoke in flawless English, “Yes, I took them to the site.”
It had to be the answer. Whatever they saw at the site, it had to be the reason Dominick was killed and Josh was missing. Mac asked, “What did they do at the site?”
“They looked at it. They used some handheld computers and took notes. My best guess is GPS, but they didn’t tell me.”
Mac pulled out the grey, handheld GPS from the US Embassy in KL. “Did it look like this?”
“Exactly like that.”
“Can you show us where you took them?”
“Of course.”
21
Hong Kong
Meredith Coldwell picked up her office phone on the first ring. “Meredith Coldwell.”
“It’s Nazir. I just heard from Alghaba that someone is hiking around up in their territory. Some white woman.”
Nazir Ramli, the country CEO of Malaysia, was ill-tempered and had a streak for exceptionally bad language.