by David Stone
“You were in Italy?” said Dalton.
She shook her head. “No. I was transferring. From London.”
She paused then, putting an emphasis on the name, but neither Dalton nor Mandy rose to it.
“Yes. From London. Although you are both residents of London, I see you came on board at Milan?”
“Yes,” said Mandy, offering nothing in addition.
“You had business in Italy?”
“No,” said Mandy. “Just seeing a friend. I don’t mean to seem abrupt, Minister, but may I ask you to tell us what matter was so urgent that you needed to see us here this afternoon?”
“Yes. When I travel as an official of the government of Singapore, naturally there is a security element. My work at the Home Ministry is complex. A great deal of travel is required.”
“May I ask you,” said Dalton, “exactly what your position is here at the Ministry?”
“Oh yes. I am in charge of domestic security.”
Sister branch to the SID.
“I see. Rather like the FBI in America.”
She lowered her eyes.
“Nothing so grand. Singapore is a small nation. I attend to a number of issues and operate a small staff of no more than five hundred people. Nothing like America’s FBI or Miss Pownall’s MI5. Quite modest. However, as you can imagine, when I travel, some precautions are taken. We look at possible dangers posed by over-flights, communications safety. Passenger manifests. That kind of thing. Quite routine.”
Passenger manifests.
“So, you were aware that we were on board?” said Mandy.
“Oh yes. Of course, there was no concern. Your credentials are posted on your firm’s website. They were vetted as a matter of course. Everything checked out. But an irregularity emerged subsequently that did cause us some concern. You’re aware of our Intourist system?”
“Yes,” said Dalton. “Everyone who enters Singapore, on business or as a tourist, is registered with Intourist. Many countries do the same.”
Minister Dak inclined her head, obviously not pleased to have her narrative interrupted. Something glittered in her shining black eyes.
“Yes. We maintain a record of incoming passport numbers, visa requests, travel plans and destinations. Hotel registries, naturally. At approximately four in the morning, our time, our Intourist database was unlawfully entered—I believe the word is hacked—and certain data were queried directly. We—our technicians—were able to determine that the breach was short and posed no threat to myself or any of our officials, although my presence on our Thai flight from Milan was part of the data obtained by this breach. We determined that I was not a target, and the plane was not diverted. No, the target of this entry seems to be the two of you.”
Mandy stiffened in her chair. Dalton leaned forward.
“We were? Miss Pownall and I?”
“Yes. Quite. The information obtained included your passport numbers and your visa details. It also included your registration at the Intercontinental and the time of your arrival. You were the only two people from this flight who had reservations at the Intercontinental. By a process of elimination, extrapolating from the search string, we were able to establish to our satisfaction that the reason for this illegal entry was to obtain information about you and no one else.”
“Who would wish to know such a thing?” asked Mandy, her voice a little tighter than it should have been but well within the range of an outraged civilian. Minister Dak nodded in agreement.
“That was our view as well.”
“Were you able to identify the intruder?” asked Dalton.
“Not completely. The attack was quite skillful, I am told, and originated in the United States.”
“The U.S.?” asked Dalton, now a little rattled.
“Yes. The northeastern portion, we believe. Now, what we are interested in very much is your reaction to this event. Can you tell us why any persons would go to such trouble to discover the itinerary of two business travelers? I must confess, the event has caused something of a stir inside the Ministry, and we are quite concerned to understand the significance. Which now brings us to our most unusual request to have you visit us here. Have you any idea why you have been queried in this manner?”
Mandy said nothing. This was Dalton’s game.
“Not off the top of my head, Minister. But it’s happened to the bank before. Proprietary information is always of use to competing houses. Burke and Single goes to quite a bit of trouble to protect its interests. Occasionally, determined adversaries get through our systems. To tell you the truth, it’s sort of routine in the business. Large amounts of money are in play. Mergers are being considered. Inferences can be drawn even from the movement of our people around the world. And Singapore is a major financial hub, so our arrival here would be of interest to many other investment houses.”
“You find this explanation sufficient?”
“I find it plausible.”
“You are not concerned for your safety?”
Dalton and Mandy exchanged glances.
“Not really. But if you do find out precisely who pierced your databank, we’d be very happy to have you share the information with us.”
“May I ask what is your business in Singapore?”
“We’re here to meet with some officials of the Hongkong and Shanghai Banking Corporation.”
“Who? Precisely?”
“Mr. Lam, their London operational liaison, and Mr. Hap Ki, their chief Compliance Officer.”
She nodded, tapping the names into her Lenovo and striking a key. She waited a moment, her sharp, ageless face lit up by the flickering screen. She narrowed her eyes as something appeared on her screen and then looked back at them.
“We’re intrigued, Mr. Dalton, by your background. Specifically, by how little of it there is to be known. We have spent some time this morning trying to get a clearer picture of you and so far we have not been very . . . lucky. Can you explain the lack of ordinary biographical information?”
Dalton hardened up and cooled out fast.
“With respect, Minister Dak, as a citizen of the U.K. and a representative of a respected financial institution, I must admit to you that sitting still for a question like that is not in my nature. If you have some specific reason for—”
She closed the lid of the laptop with a snap and turned her gaze upon Mandy Pownall, who returned it with every appearance of cold reserve.
“I wonder, Miss Pownall, if you would mind showing me some identification?”
“You have our passports at the hotel desk.”
“Yes. Just a formality. Anything you can show me?”
Mandy sighed, opened her bag, and ruffled around in the interior.
“Excuse me,” said the Minister. “What is that?”
Mandy looked confused.
“What is what?”
“The box. May I see it?”
Mandy looked down at the black lacquer box with the jade inlay.
“Of course,” she said, handing it across to the woman. “It’s from Sergeant Ong. A gift . . .”
Dalton’s belly began to tighten as he watched the Minister open the box and extract a long, thin tube, made of green jade, inlaid with delicate golden flames. It was about nine inches long; a cigarette holder. Dak lifted it into the light from the window beside her, turning it carefully. Dalton had all his suspicions confirmed when she raised it to her nose and inhaled. Her face changed. She kept her gaze downward, carefully returning the cigarette holder to the case and then snapping it shut. Hard. The closing crack was very loud in the silent room.
“You’re aware,” she said, locking Mandy in a hard glare, “of our official disapproval of all forms of drug use.”
“Oh please,” said Mandy, flaring but still controlled, purring in a sardonic Knightsbridge drawl. “I expected rather better of the Asiatic mind.”
“You are in possession of a device that could be drug paraphernalia. If we can detect traces of a narcot
ic substance in this, you’ll be charged with possession. We are not English anymore. The New Singapore does not tolerate these vulgar European depravities, Miss Pownall.”
Mandy’s response would have come as no surprise to anyone who knew her, but it seemed to rattle Minister Dak.
“Bugger the depravities, you poxy old crone. You know bloody well I got this outside your door, from the odious Sergeant Ong. Amateur bloody theatrics. I suppose the whole silly thing at the airport was staged just to set me up for an apology and a gift. My God, woman! You’re Chinese. You ought to be able to do inscrutable better than anyone.”
Dak, whose face had gone white except for two roseate patches, one on each cheekbone, sat upright in her chair and said, “You cannot address a minister of the government in that manner. You will answer—”
Mandy stood up, every inch the British noble.
“Micah. The door.”
Minister Dak got to her feet as well, struggling for composure.
“No. I must ask you to wait while I consult with my staff.”
“Are we being detained?” asked Mandy.
Dak had herself under control now, and her tone was silk over steel.
“No. Of course not. But if you will indulge me, the matter requires some consideration. I must take some advice.”
“How long?”
“Minutes only. Please wait.”
She rounded the desk in a stiff-legged walk, passing unfazed between them. The doors opened to reveal two uniformed police officers standing outside and then closed again, leaving them alone in the ticking stillness of the room. Dalton stepped across quietly and gently tried the doorknob and then he shook his head. Mandy, her face now quite white, sat down hard in her chair. Dalton made an inclusive gesture taking in the room—surveillance, mikes, cameras— to which Mandy responded with a weary nod.
“Bloody awful Singapore,” she said. “It’s always the same.”
Since speech was impossible, and there was no way out, they both sat quietly in their chairs and radiated righteous indignation to the four walls and the hidden cameras. The palm fan swished through the dead air. The station clock clicked. And clacked. Mandy’s right foot began to tremble and her lips were white. The fact that the drug charge was laughable on the face of it might have meant something in England. Not in the East. What a fool she had been to accept anything. The gift might as well have been six seeds of the pomegranate because she was now doomed to the underworld. She glanced at Dalton and saw that he was watching her with a look of growing concern. Her wide eyes grew moist and she swallowed, her ivory throat working. Changi Prison.
“Here,” said Dalton, getting up and crossing to the desk, where he retrieved the unopened copy of the Straits Times, “improve yourself.”
She took it with a hand that had an almost imperceptible tremble.
“Thank you, Micah.”
“Mandy, I have a question.”
She waited, a warning in her eyes.
“Who booked us on that Thai flight?”
“Why?”
“We usually fly British Airways. Why Thai?”
She looked puzzled, considering it.
“That’s right. We do. I never gave it much thought. I suppose Thai was the first flight out of Milan.”
“British Airways flies out of Milan too. We—our firm—have a standing account with British Air.”
“I know. Tony Crane puts the flights on his Amex card and then he bills the company.”
“Why?”
“He gets the air miles and the points. He’s a bit of a miser. His family lost a lot of money after the Great War. He’s a bit tight.”
“Who booked us on Thai, then?”
“The booking came out of Tony’s office. His girl, I guess.”
“So, Tony booked it, then.”
“Or had it booked.”
“Odd?”
She stared up at him for a time.
“Yes. It’s odd. A coincidence?”
Dalton said nothing. Mandy studied his face for a while, frowning slightly, her expression inward, and then looked at the station clock.
“How long, do you think?”
She was looking up at him and the fear in her face cut into Dalton. He returned the look, willing her to understand him:
You must not break.
“She said minutes. Lovely woman, isn’t she?”
Mandy rolled her eyes, said nothing, opening the paper with an angry rustle. She crossed her legs and settled back into the chair. Dalton began to wander around the room, as if admiring the décor, very aware of the microsurette in his forearm, thinking about the infamous SID interrogation protocols and how quickly things can go to hell in the spy business. He turned as he heard Mandy’s sharp intake of breath.
She was looking up at him, shocked, white-faced.
“What?”
She handed him the paper, discreetly touching his lips with the tip of her finger, and then pointing to an item in the International section:
SHOOTINGS IN FLORENCE
Three people were killed and two more injured in a shooting at the University of Florence today when an apparent kidnapping attempt was resisted by armed bodyguards. The gunfire took place in the crowded atrium of the Uffizi library. Officials say several shots were exchanged between a single gunman and police officers at the scene. The man was shot several times and taken into custody. He is reported to be in critical condition at the Civic Hospital. Three victims died at the scene and one victim is undergoing emergency surgery. Her condition is listed as grave. Officials are not releasing the names of the victims pending notification of next of kin. The shooter was later identified by local carabinieri as Slawa Radko Borins, a native of Kosovo. Reasons for the shooting are unknown at this time.
REUTERS INTERNATIONAL
Dalton, who got it the first time, read the item three times, controlling any visible reaction, trying to squeeze from the item details that were simply not there. Then he pulled out his cell phone and was not surprised to see the NO SERVICE icon. The room was shielded, of course. He put the phone away and glanced at the landline sitting on the desk. No. Any call was impossible. It would raise questions that could not be reasonably explained. His face, however, was a death mask, a rock face, a killing face, the same one he had shown to Mandy back in that private room in Florian’s, a vertiginous glimpse into the other Dalton, the one only a very few unlucky people had ever seen. Mandy watched him in horror for a moment and then recovered.
“Too bad, isn’t it?” she said, in a reasonably normal voice. “Imagine. In Florence.”
“Yes,” said Dalton, folding the paper neatly, his hands shaking only a little, setting it back down by Dak’s laptop, his throat tight, and a cold fire spreading through his belly.
“Yes it is. In Florence. A damn shame.”
16
The Celebes Sea
The gleaming new tanker lay on her spring lines, near but not tightly tethered to the repair docks, rocking steadily in the tidal estuary, her shining navy blue hull set off by two scarlet bands just above the waterline. The bridge, glittering white and glowing in the dappled sidelong light of an afternoon sun that streamed through the dense jungle around her, had a brand-new flag flying from the mast. It rippled in the sea wind, and the sound of it flowing and snapping came down to the pilothouse door, where Vigo Majiic stood, watching Emil Tarc wandering through the mechanical perfection of the new control systems; a million dollars’ worth of brand-new radar, satellite communications rig, GPS-connected autopilot, state-of-the-art steering electronics, a polished stainless steel wheel with chromed spokes, new glass all around, and a deck of glowing teak boards. The bridge smelled of fresh paint, ozone, and a trace of Russian cigarette smoke. Beyond the tinted glass of the bridge, the tanker’s deck stretched out before them, a five-hundred-foot-long reach of matte-graysteel marked by the black rectangles of the tanker’s fifteen holding tanks, each capable of carrying sixty thousand pounds of liquid cargo. At the b
ow, where the Hindu cook had been slaughtered, there was only a spotless curve of new steel plating and a white-painted rail, beyond which the housings for the bow anchors—also glimmering white—rose and fell gently as the boat lay at the wharf, just under the leading edge of the camouflage canopy. All the scaffolding had been taken down, all the machinery of repair off-loaded onto the dry dock, and no sign now remained of the ruin that the ship had once been. She had been reborn into a new life on the sea.
She no longer was the Mingo Dubai.
The papers had been prepared long ago, and the legend created, that would see her safely through the ten thousand miles of crowded shipping lanes and heavily patrolled waters that lay in front of her now. On her huge white stack, a logo had been painted—a massive blue circle containing a large golden star—and it caught the sunlight and flashed out like fire as it moved with the hull. The crew, a carefully chosen group of Bulgarians under the control of a disgraced Bulgarian Marine officer known only as Jakki, had choppered in from Sulawesi two days before. They had seen to the engine room and the operational equipment. Supplies were on board, and she had been ballasted and fueled, enough for the next part of her journey, which would bring her across the Indian Ocean to the Suez Canal, to Port Said on the Mediterranean, where the cargo that would define her true purpose was already waiting. The gun locker now held fifteen brand-new M249 SAWs, along with crates of 7.62 rounds. Her turbines were idling, and the deep vibration of her engines moved through the hull like a heartbeat that Vigo Majiic could feel through the soles of his boots, feel in the wooden frame of the pilothouse door. Tarc, coming to a halt in the middle of the bridge house, looked at Majiic, a sardonic smile twisting his face:
“See, Vigo . . . it is ready.”
Majiic nodded and turned to gesture at what lay behind them, a few hundred feet down the estuary, out under the bright sun, cloud shadows playing across the open water.
“Yes. And so is Bittagar.”
Tarc came to the door and looked down the river. A huge timber boom had been dragged across the open narrows, secured by massive chains. Behind the boom, and stretching right across the harbor, lay a huge ragtag flotilla of praus, cutters, barges, towkangs, bumboats, and Zodiacs, each one filled with heavily armed men. On a central barge, in the middle of the channel, Bittagar’s man Gango and several of his personal followers were standing around a large angular object covered with a ragged tarpaulin.
