by Powell, Mark
The phone just rang, then clicked into voice mail, ‘Hi, it’s me, Ying.
I’m at the hotel, have something for you, dare not stay in the offi ce. Call me though. Bye.’ With that, she rang off.
Having failed to reach McCabe, she got ready and headed out. On her way past the reception desk, she deposited the envelope, marked for
‘Mark McCabe, Room 315’.
McCabe and Stowe were indeed busy. They were at the British High Commission going over detailed information on Afzal Jihad, trying to fi nd any leads they could to link them to the Moon Star Holding Company and the two shipping companies. Nothing had so far turned up. McCabe’s phone was in his jacket, nicely hung over the back of a chair. He had not heard it buzz when Ying had tried to contact him.
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TWENTY-ONE
As Aziz stepped out into the busy street, he felt good; he had completed his work. All he needed now was his money and his air ticket to Dubai.
From there, he would head to the Cayman Islands. His bank account there would provide him and his family with the fi nancial freedom he had worked so hard for, despite the risks of being caught. As he waited for a taxi, he wondered what would happen to Ying.
She was a smart girl, but evidently not smart enough to discover whom his trades were benefi ting, he thought. Aziz did not, in fact, know anything about Stowe and McCabe. His lady boss had not informed him of whom they were; she reckoned it would spook him and impact his focus.
Once safe in his hotel room, he fl ipped open his bag to retrieve the CD, a CD that contained every detail of whom he worked for and where the clean money would be channelled. He knew, despite the risks involved, that this information alone would ensure his boss would be forced to meet his demands. As Aziz reached inside his bag, his hands started to frantically fumble inside for the CD case.
Shit, where was it? He suddenly sprang into a panic. Emptying his bag out fully onto the bed, his eyes confi rmed what his heart was dreading: there was no sign of it. He sat down on the edge of the bed, his head gripped in his hands, desperately trying to think where he had put it. In all the excitement of leaving, he had somehow overlooked the most important thing.
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Then it struck him, his heart sinking as he remembered he had placed it on his desk after saving the last set of information, when some fool had distracted him. Not wasting a second, he grabbed his phone and headed out. He had no choice now; he would have to risk going back to the bank to try and fi nd it. As he sprinted out of the hotel and hopped into a waiting taxi, his stomach was knotting up. He would be in very big trouble if the contents of the CD fell into the wrong hands.
As he reached the bank, he leapt out of the taxi, not even bothering to pay the fare. The driver was now yelling after him as he entered the building and headed for the lift. He had to reach his desk and fi nd the CD. As each fl oor counted up, he could feel his heart racing, his breath now heavy.
As the doors of the lift slid open, Aziz barged out past the people waiting to get in. He frantically raced to his desk. Upon reaching it, his heart sunk into his bowels: the CD was nowhere to be seen. He pulled out each drawer. Nothing!
Turning to the man at the next desk over, he asked bluntly, ‘Have you seen a CD? It was on my desk.’
Looking at Aziz, who was now drenched in sweat, the somewhat startled man replied, ‘No,’ his face confused as to why Aziz would think he would know.
‘Has anyone been to my desk since I’ve been gone?’ Aziz demanded.
The man abruptly turned again.
‘Not that I can remember. You expect me to be your damn secretary.
Now if you don’t mind, I’m busy.’ The man went back to his work.
It was then that Aziz suddenly remembered Ying and the unwelcome interest she had shown in the CD back in Dubai. He quickly considered this. It must have been her.
Her desk was just at the other side of the doors. As he burst in, his eyes scanning the room, he saw the empty seat. ‘Where is she?’ he barked at Tariq, a trader who had sat next to her, his startled face now looking up at Aziz.
‘No idea,’ he said.
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Aziz stared blankly at Tariq, then spun around fast and headed back out almost as fast as he had arrived.
Where are you girl, where the hell are you? He was now straining to focus his thoughts.
It was the only feasible explanation. Ying must have taken it, he thought.
After a few minutes pacing up and down in the offi ce, it struck him.
The hotel. She would go to the hotel. He based this on the logic that if she had the CD, she would want to hide it and the hotel was the only logical place. Given she was a visitor, that is where she would go. At least that is where he would hide it.
He went immediately down to the street and fl ung himself back into the taxi he had earlier not paid for. The driver, clearly not happy, offered in return a barrage of abuse in Hindi. But at the end of the day, money was money in any taxi driver’s language, so he settled down and headed off, forgiving Aziz his foolish act. He took him directly to the Taj Hotel. Upon reaching the hotel, Aziz paid him and went at once to the check-in desk.
‘Please, Miss, I work for Banning Capital Bank, and one of my colleagues, Miss Ying Lee, is staying here. I need to speak with her urgently.’
The young lady behind the desk informed Aziz that she would check, and make a call to her room. ‘May I have your name, sir?’
she asked
Aziz thought for a second. ‘Yes, my name is Anju. Mr Anju.’ He remembered Anju being the one who had welcomed Ying to the Mumbai offi ce, so she would recall the name.
As the receptionist dialled the room, Aziz paced up and down, frustrated at the fact he now had to wait and was not informed of her room number. Hotel security was clearly doing its job. His eyes kept on looking at the receptionist, trying to detect if she had made contact with Ying. As he saw her put down the phone, he walked up to the desk.
‘Well, was she there?’ he asked, sounding agitated.
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‘No sir, no answer. I’m sorry. But I left a message that you called.’
Damn and blast it, he thought. He would now have to call his boss and confess, then ask for help. If the CD got out, they would all be done for. His only hope was that she understood that.
He took out his mobile and dialled her number, knowing she was already in Mumbai. As she answered, Aziz drew a deep breath.
‘It is me, Aziz.’
‘Yes, what is it?’ she replied.
‘I need some help. I’m at the Taj Hotel.’
‘What exactly is the problem, Aziz?’
‘I have lost the CD. It contains the details of every trade I have made for you and the names of all of you. I think that girl from the bank, Ying, has it, and I thought she may be here at the hotel, but no sign. She is not at the offi ce either.’
‘What? You stupid fool! Have you any idea how damaging the information on that disk could be? Go back to the offi ce and see if she returns. I will have one of my men go to the hotel and wait for her. I know what she looks like, so I will instruct him.’
‘But I––’
‘Go, go, you stupid fool. I will deal with you later.’ She then hung up.
Aziz now knew he was in big trouble, but he had no choice other than to head back to the offi ce, on the slim chance Ying returned. Maybe she just popped out for shopping, he thought. Maybe she doesn’t have it. His mind was now jumping around all over the place.
He stepped outside, and again hopped into a taxi and directed the driver to take him to number 90 MG Road, and fast.
Stowe glanced at his watch; he was somewhat surprised to see how late it was. ‘Hey, McCabe—it’s 5:30 already.’
McCabe shot Stowe a glance. ‘Christ. Is it, already? I’d best get back to the offi ce and meet Ying. I’m sure she’s had enough by now.’
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Stowe and McCabe had both been studying various documents all day, all of which listed the known activists within Afzal Jihad and their known operations. Neither Aziz nor any of his past names showed up.
Neither did any reference to the mysterious lady. As such, Stowe was now convinced that McCabe’s suspicion was not correct. McCabe, on the other hand, still had an uneasy hunch; something about her, all that he had heard about her, made him very uneasy.
As McCabe reached into his jacket and took out his phone, he immediately noticed the missed call. ‘Damn it: missed a call from Ying.’
Stowe looked at him, his face concerned. ‘Did she leave a voice mail?’
McCabe had already dialled her number. Nothing. ‘Shit! Pick up, Ying.’ His tone was anxious, as it rang out for a second time. ‘Sorry, you said something?’ McCabe glanced over at Stowe.
‘Yeah, voice mail. Did she leave a message?’ McCabe dialled his voice mail immediately and noted the message-waiting message.
Stowe was drumming his fi ngers on the desk, trying not to think the worst. Most likely gone off shopping, knowing Ying, he thought.
McCabe put down his phone. ‘Well, what did she say?’ Stowe was very anxious; in fact, McCabe had not seen him like this before.
‘Get a car, we need to go. She said something about being in the hotel, not safe in the offi ce, and having something for us. That can mean only one thing: she has found something on Aziz and she feels at risk.’ McCabe was already halfway out the door as he fi nished his spiel.
The man now standing just outside the hotel entrance smoking a cigarette needed no pictures. As Ying emerged, she stood out like a rash on a baby; not too many Chinese girls looking like she did were around. He stood perfectly still. He himself would not have stood out; too many other people were also milling around. The area in front of the Taj was a highway of moving people from all walks of life.
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It was then that Ying made a bad mistake. Rather than hailing a taxi, she boldly walked off to the left of the hotel. She was in the mood for adventure, and stupidly she forgot the importance of what she was into. Her mind somehow reverted to her being on a vacation, and that meant shopping. What harm could it do? Maybe Stowe and McCabe were over-reacting about the danger. Plus, it’s money these bad guys are after, not me, she thought.
Ying had forgotten the man and the experience in the Emirates Shopping Centre. That was a mistake. As she rounded a busy corner, she could see some fabric shops across the street, their doorways festooned with brightly coloured fabrics. Silk, she thought. Her mother loved to sew. And then … Ying felt herself fade away into a deep sleep; the chloroform had done its job.
Hajj then lifted up her limp body and placed it in the rear of the black van. The people who had been busy rushing around her seemed oblivious as to what had just happened, apart from one man: Raghu, a young porter at the Taj who had spotted Ying. He was, in fact, the same porter that had helped her when she had arrived at the hotel the day before with her heavy bags. He had come off his shift and seen the entire incident as he was heading home. But not wanting to get involved, he just walked on past. He was scared by the size of the man who had grabbed Ying. More, he had a family to consider and getting into a fi ght over a stranger served no value to him. He did, however, make a mental note of the van’s registration. Something inside told him it would be wise to do so.
As the van pulled away, the busy street simply carried on; nothing, it seemed, was wrong.
For Ying, who was now out cold in the back of the van, her limp body being bounced around, her fate now lay fi rmly in the hands of those who were driving her out of town. After about 40 minutes, the van arrived at a warehouse located in the old naval dock yard. Ying was hauled out and carried inside.
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way. She had urgent business with Ying and was in a particular frame of mind, one that was prepared to do anything to get the information she required, the information Aziz had so carelessly confessed he had lost. If it leaked out, her boss and the entire cartel could be ruined.
As Ying was carried into the warehouse, slumped over the shoulder of Hajj, her head dangling, bouncing off of his back, her long black hair cascading down, she would have been totally unaware of the man who now sat slumped in the chair.
His bloody and lacerated wrists, which had been mercilessly wired to the arms of the steel chair, showed the signs of a hard struggle. The polythene bag over his head, taped around his neck, left no room for error. His last breath, which had in fact only been taken a few minutes prior to Ying’s arrival, was a useless attempt at continuing his life. His eyes were still open; they had the look of a man in terror, knowing he would die helpless and lonely. He had been forced to peer out of the bag around his head, every breath drawing him closer to his own death, only the face of his killer visible through the steamed-up bag, smiling at him whilst he suffocated to death.
Had Ying been conscious, she would have instantly recognised the man as Aziz. He never made it back to the bank. His death had been ordered by his boss, the infamous Rain Angel, a woman with a cold willingness to kill.
Ironically, her own brother-in-law had been killed in the same macabre manner only a year before, the result of Aziz informing his boss of Muhammad Nuru’s attempts to fi lter a few dollars into his own account, small beans compared with the billions Aziz had helped launder. But to Khun Surat, the ruthless Thai drug lord and long-time business partner of the Rain Angel, it was certain death for the man. The Rain Angel had remembered who ratted on her brother-in-law. Now, in a supreme irony, she had crossed crooked paths with the man responsible.
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trades and God knows what else he had stored on that CD, made her feel all the better about ending his miserable life.
An hour later, as she stepped out of her limo, her two bodyguards armed with automatic weapons escorted her into the warehouse. Upon seeing Aziz still and slumped in the chair, she smiled to herself. She could see he had died a slow and horrible death.
Then, resuming her composure, she spat out, ‘Get that bit of shit out of here and dump him somewhere.’ With that, she turned to Hajj.
‘I will call you later to see how our guest is doing.’ Her thoughts were now focused on Ying. She then turned and headed back out towards her car.
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TWENTY-TWO
A shaft of light became visible as Ying’s eyes started to acclimatise to the dark. The room in which she found herself lying was cold and damp; the smell of mould and stale air was becoming more obvious as she slowly regained consciousness. The light source, her only sense of life through the gloom, came from a slim gap down one side of a thick wooden door. Her head was muzzy and she felt drunk. After about 15
minutes, she lifted herself up. The heavy chain attached to her right ankle was not a welcome discovery. Where am I? she thought.
She tugged hard on the rusty chain, but realised it was hopeless. As she followed it back through her hands, link by link, she discovered it was fastened to a thick iron r
ing on the wall, the other end padlocked tightly around her ankle.
‘Help, is anyone there? Please help me, let me out!’ Ying cried out, her voice simply echoing around the stone room in which she was a prisoner. The cold, wet fl oor on her bare feet was not good. She immediately took off her jacket, placed it on the fl oor, and stood on it.
‘Hello! Please, let me out, let me out!’ she cried again.
After a few moments, Ying could hear heavy footsteps; they seemed to infer that someone was walking down some steps before reaching her door.
‘You shut up, else you will regret it. We come for you later.’ With that, the footsteps turned and walked off back up the steps.
‘No! Wait! Who are you?’ Ying shouted again. She then heard a quantum breach 290709.indd 192
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door slam and the thin strip of light that had been her only friend vanished. Ying then felt herself start to panic, lurching forward for the door, her arms stretched out to thump on it, but the chain around her ankle bit hard. She fell straight down, hitting the hard stone fl oor.
Her ankle now in pain, tears began to stream down her face. She was alone in the dark.
‘Please, God, help me, please, let me out of here.’ Ying’s words were now shrouded in panic, as her emotions were heading towards anger triggered by fear.
The man who had walked down to see her, Karim Mohammed el-Hajj, was a hard man with very strong extremist beliefs. He hated the West and all it stood for. Worse, he had a pronounced taste for torture and was a die-hard Afzal Jihad member who now had a job to do. He was seated at a small wooden table, fi nishing his lunch and reading a newspaper when his phone rang.
‘Hello,’ he answered in Arabic.
‘Speak English. Is the girl alive?’ said the Rain Angel.
‘Yes, she wake-up. You want me to interrogate her?’
She paused before replying. ‘No, not yet, wait until I get back. I will be there tomorrow.’ She then hung up.
Hajj casually went back to reading his newspaper, somewhat disappointed he could not get to work. It was two hours before he walked down the steps again; this time his hands were carrying a bowl of foul-smelling broth. As he reached the door at the bottom of the steps, he placed the bowl on the fl oor to one side. He then proceeded to unlock the door. As he swung it open, Ying, who was now a pathetic heap kneeling on the fl oor, looked up, her eyes blinded by the sudden injection of light that came rushing in through the door. As it hit her eyes, she instinctively placed her hands in front of her to shield them.
