Winner Kills All

by RJ Bailey

  Well, it was a dumb way to approach a fully loaded and cocked PPO, I wanted to say, but didn’t.

  ‘What’s Obsidian doing in this part of the world?’ I knew the company, of course, but they usually stuck to contracts in the US, the Middle East, some of the ’Stans and South Africa.

  ‘Expanding,’ he said. ‘Singapore is the head field office for Southeast Asia. We have offices in Bangkok, some of the larger Thai islands, Hong Kong and Kuala Lumpur.’

  Offices might mean anything from one lonely guy and a phone, up to the sort of mirrored tower blocks that surrounded us.

  Now I remembered what Obsidian was up to. A downpage article in one of the security magazines saying it was recruiting Mandarin speakers, not a skill common among PPOs. ‘But the ultimate aim is China?’

  He laughed. ‘One day, maybe.’

  Obsidian Solutions were in the crisis-management business, and China had a whole new raft of entrepreneur billionaires. The sort of people who, one day, would have crises that needed managing, even if they didn’t know it yet. As yet, outfits like Obsidian weren’t welcome in mainland China. But Hong Kong was a useful foothold.

  ‘So, how much do you know?’ I asked.

  ‘About you?’

  ‘About what I am up against.’

  ‘I have a rough idea.’

  I smoothed off some of the information. I told him about the two fights with Bojan at the Russian’s house in Hampstead; how he ended up with a knife in him that should have meant he bled to death; how he was intent on finding Jess before I did and selling her to some of the arseholes who were out there doing whatever gets arseholes off.

  ‘That’s fucked up,’ Segal said. ‘I’m sorry. About your daughter.’

  ‘Yeah.’ I handed him the coffee. It was late afternoon and I felt my stomach rumble. I was forgetting to eat, which was stupid. I also fancied a drink. Even more stupid.

  ‘What happened?’ I asked, pointing at my own cheekbone. ‘To the face.’

  His ‘party piece’ was to remove an upper half-denture. What came with it appeared to be one side of his face. As he’d removed it, his eye had dropped and his cheek caved in. ‘It’s called an obturator. Meant to be temporary. They are printing a 3-D version and I’ll get a permanent titanium one.’

  ‘That’s not what I asked.’

  He gave a little smile as he sipped his drink. I could see now that not all the muscles in his face worked correctly. Hence the tendency to sneer.

  ‘Sniper round. In through the zygomatic arch. Bounced around a bit, punctured the sinuses, took out the palate and some teeth and other bits and pieces, came out under here.’ He indicated beneath his jawbone.

  The coffee soured in my mouth. ‘Jesus. Where were you?’

  He raised an eyebrow to let me know I shouldn’t ask and he wasn’t going to answer anyway.

  ‘But that was the end of your Mossad career?’

  That smirk again. ‘What Mossad career?’

  ‘OK, have it your own way. You hungry?’ I asked as my stomach made a plughole gurgle.

  ‘I guess.’

  I picked up the cordless phone, found the room-service menu and handed it to him. He put the coffee down and opened it up.

  It was then I hit him with my elbow on that zygomatic arch of his.

  I felt bad. It must have been like a grenade going off in his head, judging by the noise he made. I followed it up with a blow behind the ear using the handset.

  Segal had a thick neck and he didn’t go down. But he had lost a bit of fight, and I managed to retrieve the cable tie I had extracted from my luggage when inspecting it for signs of disturbance, and tighten it around his wrists.

  He used a double-fisted swing to catch my face and my vision swam. I stabbed with my stiff fingers into his solar plexus as hard as I could. It was pretty hard and the air exploded out of him.

  I managed to get a loop of my trusty silver gaffer tape around his feet and I finished the job with various cords from the phone, kettle and TV. By the time I was done, he was hog-tied to the leg of the bed.

  ‘What . . . what the fuck are you playing at? Is this how you treat your friends?’

  ‘You’re not my friend.’

  ‘The Colonel is.’

  I shook my head. ‘The Colonel doesn’t really have friends. Neither do you. Just clients. And right now, I don’t know who your client is. I’m going to have to gag you.’

  ‘I can’t breathe through my nose,’ he said, panic in his voice.

  I taped his arms to his side and shoved a pair of tights in his mouth. ‘Good a time as any to learn. I won’t be long, then we can talk some more. For the moment, I can’t have anyone looking over my shoulder. It’s nothing personal, OK?’

  He tried to say something and I pulled the tights out. ‘You fuckin’—’ I put the tights back in. He went to bite me.

  ‘Do that again and I’ll pull the rest of your teeth out.’

  I found a sewing kit in a drawer and punched holes in a length of tape with the seam ripper. I took out the tights and placed the perforated tape across his mouth.

  All heart, that’s me.

  But he’d still have to breathe through his nose some.

  Then I went to call the only person I knew I could trust absolutely.

  Orchard Tower was a short walk from my hotel. It was apparently known as ‘Four Floors of Whores’, although that was only true at night when the bars opened. During the day, there were also nail bars – real ones, not like in Geylang – tailors and cobblers and watch repairers doing business.

  There was also, according to my phone, an internet café.

  How such a quaint institution could survive when the whole population was mainlining into the internet 24/7 baffled me.

  The puzzle deepened as I entered. There were eight cubicles, each with a computer terminal and an assortment of printers and copiers, and a guy behind the desk wearing headphones. No customers. A state of affairs that, judging by the dust on some of the keyboards, was not uncommon.

  He removed his headphones long enough to give me a log-in code and take my money, and then he went back to his Thai heavy metal, which was fine by me.

  It would be close to midnight at home, but I knew Freddie wouldn’t mind. I opened up my Skype account and dialled her. I had to assume some of my electronic life was secure. This was a crazed Serbian I was up against, not the FBI. But you did just turn over an ex-Mossad guy. He’ll have friends in low places . . . Yeah, but he wasn’t going anywhere for the minute. Although, I hoped I hadn’t suffocated him.

  Freddie appeared dressed in a baggy T-shirt with faded writing on it and a face scrubbed of make-up, obviously ready for bed. ‘You OK, Buster?’ she asked.

  ‘I might be. You alone?’

  ‘He ate, shot and left. It’s all you want in a man.’

  It was only the ‘left’ part that interested me. ‘How are the injuries?’

  She held up a still-plastered wrist – at least now she could waggle her fingers – then leaned back and swung a leg on the desk. It landed with a thump that rocked the computer and sent her image haywire for a second. It looked like she was wearing a ski boot. ‘It makes the reverse cowboy tricky.’

  ‘I’m sure. Bingo?’

  She gave a lazy smile, pleased with herself. ‘Bingo.’

  ‘How? And what?’

  ‘The how is Woking, like I thought . . .’

  ‘Come on, Freddie, don’t be coy.’

  She held up her phone, close to the computer’s camera. I could see a head and shoulders on the screen. It was someone I had dreamed about giving a good kicking to. And not only in my dreams.

  It was Laura, the au pair who had helped engineer the whole kidnap of Jess with my ex-husband.

  I couldn’t speak for a second or two and I wasn’t sure whether I was going to laugh or burst out sobbing. Eventually, I managed to squeak: ‘You found Laura?’

  ‘She once said that her dad ran a cab firm in Woking. You remember? So, I
reckoned that might have been the truth. Well, back then there were lots of cab firms in Woking. Until Uber came along. Now, it’s really easy to narrow it down. But you don’t want to talk about Uber to Dad, let me tell you.’

  ‘You found her father?’

  ‘And told him I was an old travelling companion heading back out and would like to hook up with her back in Asia.’

  ‘And he told you where she is?’

  ‘Where she isn’t. She’s not in Asia.’

  ‘Fuck.’

  ‘She’s in London. Doing a masters in psychology.’

  ‘So you took that picture?’

  ‘Better. I have video.’

  ‘Of Laura?’

  ‘Yes. To you.’

  ‘Wow,’ was all I managed over building excitement.

  ‘She says she’s sorry.’

  ‘Fuck her. Did you call the police?’

  ‘No, I didn’t. I wanted her to talk. Shall I play you the video?’

  ‘Is that all she does? Apologise?’

  ‘More or less.’

  ‘So where are Matt and Jess?’ Christ, if they were back home . . .

  ‘Still out there. Laura left him. Apparently, he couldn’t keep his eyes off other women.’

  That sounded familiar. ‘It’s not his eyes they need to worry about. Where is he, Fred?’

  ‘Not in Singapore.’

  I groaned.

  ‘Never?’

  ‘Laura says not that she knows of. Said a man like Matt would never fit in a place like that. You’ve been played, Sam.’

  ‘I figured as much. Bojan. Maybe the girl, too. They set me up so I’d be arrested in Singapore for possession of drugs. I think they figured the media furore might flush out Matt and Jess.’

  ‘And I thought you were fucked up.’

  ‘Yeah. Only my suspicious mind saved me.’

  ‘We can’t go without suspicious minds,’ she said.

  ‘If I am in the wrong place, then where is she, Freddie? Where’s Jess?’

  ‘You’re not going to do anything stupid?’

  ‘What, more stupid than I’ve been already?’

  ‘You played out the leads as they came, Sam. That’s all. I think you went too far with the funeral pyre. That was fucked up. I’m worried you are going to overstep the mark again. I think you should come home and regroup. Please. You look like shit.’

  I growled at her. ‘If I have to come home to find out where she is, it won’t be to regroup, Fred.’

  She shook her head as if I were a petulant child. Perhaps I was.

  She held up a piece of paper to the camera. She had written the location down. It took me a while to read it. I realised tears had fogged my vision. ‘I’d best book a flight.’

  In the end, she played me the video. Laura was contrite, but it didn’t assuage my anger at her one iota. She had contrived, with the man she now knew to be a dog’s ball sack, to poison my daughter’s mind; to turn her against me and let her be taken out of the country. It didn’t help that Freddie finished up with this: ‘The thing is, she’s really well. So Laura claims. Jess is really happy, Sam.’

  No, the fuck, she isn’t. I didn’t want to hear that. I wanted to hear she was missing me; was waiting for the day I’d walk in and take her home. How could she be happy? The lying cow.

  I did some searches on the internet and then told the desk guy I wanted to buy the hard drive. He looked perplexed. I offered him more than the piece of shit computer was worth and he dismantled it and handed me the drive. Once I was certain I wasn’t being tagged, I walked through the crowds and the muggy air to Fort Canning Park and dumped it in the lake.

  Back at the hotel, I asked the concierge to search for flights to Hong Kong at around eight or nine o’clock that evening and went back up to the room.

  I shouldn’t have been surprised, but Nate Segal, the ex-Mossad man, was gone.

  THIRTY-ONE

  You’re going mad, woman. What if that Obsidian guy was on the level?

  What if he wasn’t?

  I think you could have given him the chance.

  And wait until it was too late?

  He was from the Colonel.

  Who knows the Colonel’s motivation? Maybe he blames me for his son’s death.

  Unlikely.

  And anyway, all that lot, your Obsidians and the Colonel, they work for whoever pays the most. Guys for hire. What if he got a better offer? From Bojan?

  You overreacted.

  I’m trying to find my fuckin’ daughter. I suppose I had promised myself I’d be professional, calm, detached.

  I lied.

  My inner voice wasn’t entirely wrong. I shouldn’t have taken Segal down quite so viciously. Moderation had been called for, but I seemed to have lost that setting. I could go from zero to extreme in less than a second. And now I had another guy I’d pissed off out on the streets.

  The announcement snapped me back into the world, which was yet another airport.

  ‘Passengers flying to Hong Kong on Cathay Pacific flight 636 . . .’

  My flight. I was already at the gate, ready to clock my fellow passengers as they arrived. I had checked in a bag – unusual for me, as I like to move quickly on the other side – and had a small carry-on. I was dressed in light colours for a change: cream cotton trousers, flat shoes and a sleeveless blouse with a blue linen jacket over the top. I had make-up on; had taken some time with my eye concealer. I still looked drawn and tired in the mirror, but I was halfway to being scrubbed-up nice.

  And mentally? How’s that looking, girl?

  Fuck you.

  The holding pen quickly filled up with a mix of business people catching the last flight home, backpackers and regular holidaymakers. I scanned faces, looked at luggage and watched body language. Nobody so much as glanced my way. But then, the good ones wouldn’t be so obvious.

  You’re losing it, you know that? Paranoid.

  Now that one, that guy with the grown-out military buzz cut and white shirt and chinos – maybe him. He looked like a younger version of Mr Mossad. Probably still had all his own teeth, though.

  He didn’t catch my eye, but sat where he had a good view of me if need be. I stood, went over to the vending machine, got myself a bottle of water and sat back down. Either he was very good or he genuinely wasn’t interested in me. It was annoying that I couldn’t tell.

  An announcement I didn’t understand was followed by some of the more smartly dressed passengers striding forward to have their passports checked.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, we invite those travelling in our First and Business cabins . . .’

  Not me, then. Back of the bus. As the line shortened, they invited Premium Economy passengers to board. Finally, Economy. I watched Mr Buzz Cut. He knew it was pointless rushing through, that you just have to stand in line in the jetway as the passengers bottlenecked.

  At least, I hoped that was why he was holding back.

  It was down to just three of us now and I was beginning to think that maybe the bearded bloke in the checked shirt was the one. In the end, they both got up and approached the boarding counter. At which point, I stood and briskly walked four gates down and strolled through to my flight to Bangkok, the one I had booked online after talking to Freddie.

  It was due to leave ten minutes after the Cathay, so I was cutting it fine. Not that the Hong Kong flight would be on time, not when it was discovered it had a passenger no-show and a suitcase somewhere in the hold belonging to her. Not particularly nice, I know, but checking in luggage is one way of demonstrating to any observer that you are serious about getting on that flight.

  And, no, the booking system isn’t sophisticated enough – yet – to pick up when someone has made two separate bookings on different airlines using the same passport.

  Coming soon, apparently.

  They should get a move on. You really can’t trust people.

  I breezed through onto the Thai Airways flight as the next-to-last passenger, in fron
t of a large American woman who was bellowing down the phone, giving instructions to her son who, I gathered, would be waiting for her at the other end. Nobody else followed me through.

  Bingo indeed.

  It was early morning by the time I made it to Koh Samui, via Bangkok. The island had one of the cutest airports I had ever seen, like a Disney version of a Thai village. But I was too exhausted to take it in. It didn’t help that a sack of eels had burst in my stomach. I knew, could feel, that I was getting nearer to Jess. I hadn’t felt it in Bali or in Singapore, but now, on this holiday island, my skin had a life of its own, stretching and itching and squirming.

  While I had been on the plane, Freddie had been busy. As I cleared customs, there was a driver waiting for me; a young woman, holding up a card with ‘Dust Buster Ltd’ written on it. Better than holding up a sign with my name across it.

  I went over and said I was from the company, and she replied: ‘My name is Hom. Excuse me, but I need to know what a Hesco is.’

  ‘Blast wall,’ I said without thinking, as Freddie knew I would. Hesco barriers were used around Forward Operating Bases in Iraq and Afghanistan. The very name made me shudder. I could smell the vile dust – a mix of sand and shit – that blew through the camps, as fine as ash, insinuating its way into every crevice. It would never leave me.

  When I answered correctly, she bowed and tried to take my case. I kept hold of it. She was half my size and as willowy as a twig; there was no way I was going to follow behind while she carried my luggage.

  ‘I need a coffee,’ I said. Which was true enough, but I had other reasons for delaying our exit. Never rush out of airports or train stations. They are expecting that. Take your time, look around. Nine times out of ten any tag team will slip up and show themselves if you do something to confound them. Like dawdle.

  So, we sat at one of the few tables at a stall selling drinks and snacks, and watched the concourse slowly empty.

  I asked Hom about herself. She was not from the island, but the mainland at Surat Thani, where her family still lived in a traditional village with her younger siblings. Her father had cancer and she was working as a guide to pay for his treatment. She made it sound as if she had prostituted herself and admitted she was disillusioned with tourists.