THURSDAY'S ORCHID

by Mitchell, Robert

  His message to Singapore had been contained in a fax, which appeared on its face to be dealing with negotiations concerning the possible export of Australian vegetables or something of the sort – all comprised in carefully couched wording.

  I was met at Changi International Airport by a well-dressed young Chinese. He looked about seventeen, but turned out to be twenty-five. His command of English would have surprised me, if I hadn’t been expecting it. The Singapore Chinese deal in the international marketplace. To do that with any degree of success, knowledge of many languages is a necessity.

  We didn’t go into the city, but drove north across the island to Ponggol. I hadn’t been out to that area before. In fact, I hadn’t been out of the city itself on my previous visits. The journey was short, about eleven or twelve kilometres. My driver gave a running commentary as we drove along; pointing out new factories, wartime battlefields and numerous other tourist highlights.

  The driver never asked my business, and didn’t venture any suggestions. If he had received the correct instructions, he wouldn’t even mention the reason for my trip to Singapore. I kept close-mouthed during the journey. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust him. Chinese are supposed to be honourable when it comes to business dealings – as in most things; but it pays to be careful. I tend to make a practice of keeping my mouth shut, except when it’s absolutely necessary to do otherwise.

  I didn’t know anything about this group, except for what Nick had told me. He had stressed that his enquiries hadn’t revealed anything to make us wary, but that wasn’t to say that we shouldn’t continue to exercise caution. As far as he could ascertain, this was to be the first of what could be a long series of transactions. If the deal came off there would be big profits for everybody; so there wasn’t likely to be any rocking of the boat from their end.

  We rolled smoothly over the crest of a hill and there, perhaps half a kilometre away, lay the coast, and just in from the coast, not more than a stone’s throw from the water, stood a huge magnificent mansion. I had thought that Nick’s house was big, but this put his to shame. As we swept closer I could see that the area covered by the ground floor was as big as Nick’s, but this great house stood three stories high. And around the other side, towards the sea, there was a further level: dug into the side of the slope, comprising garages, boat house and storage areas.

  The whole compound was sited on a promontory jutting out into the Johor Strait towards Malaysia, the gateway to Burma and Thailand. A speedboat could be across the water to Malaysia in minutes and the occupants lost to all pursuers. I was beginning to feel more respect for our Asian partner.

  Our approach was barred by a tall chain-mesh fence, about two metres high, topped with barbed wire. Every ten metres or so a small sign bearing a skull and crossbones was fixed to the mesh, carrying a warning in about six languages of a high-voltage current. There was a smaller fence just inside the first, and obviously not wired. The smaller fence puzzled me. I tapped the driver on the shoulder. “Why the second fence?”

  “To keep the dogs from being electrocuted, sir. We let the Dobermanns run loose at night.”

  We rolled to a stop at the gate and it swung open fifteen seconds later. The driver hadn’t pressed any controls in the car, nor had he blown the horn. And then I spotted the television cameras tracking us as we drove through the gateway. The first two were mounted one on either side of the opening, high enough so they could pan the entire interior of the car as we travelled towards the house. The third was straight ahead, mounted on a cross-beam, and considerably heavier than the other two. I could only guess at what else it might contain.

  The house itself was surrounded by a stone wall, about two metres high – no doubt to keep the dogs from the guests; and I was willing to bet that the wall was also loaded with sensors and other electronic wizardry. I hoped that I should never be so wealthy nor so vulnerable as to need such protection.

  Close up, the house seemed even larger than it had from the crest of the hill. Built of small dark bricks, it must have cost a fortune. At a guess I would have put it at between forty and forty-five years old and no doubt constructed from post-war profits. The wire fence was a more recent addition.

  We drove along the gravel drive to the large portico and came to a gentle halt, the expensive crunch of tyres on gravel dying into silence. I looked over to see another Chinaman, immaculately dressed in a lightweight suit, white shirt and dark tie, standing before the marble steps, and then stepping forward as the engine was switched off. My heavy suit and the creases it had gathered during the hours in the aircraft was beginning to look out of place for the business I had come to conclude. He opened the door and smiled.

  Was this the man who would change my entire life, this manicured smile bending down through the open door? Was this the man in whom we were going to put so much trust?

  Five

  “Welcome to Singapore, Mr. Rider.” The words were said with grace, but there was no warmth behind the smile.

  I looked up into those cool impersonal eyes, wondering what was going on in the oriental mind behind them, and stepped out of the car.

  “Thank you, Mr. Cheh,” I said, and then, laying it on thick: “You have a beautiful place here.”

  He took a pace back and clasped both hands together at the front of his chest. “I’m sorry, Mr. Rider. Perhaps I have misled you. I am not Cheh Wah Tek. I am Sang, Mr. Cheh’s personal secretary.” He gave a slight bow, a lock of thick dark hair falling across his forehead. “Mr. Cheh is waiting inside. Would you please come this way.” His outstretched hand, white shirt cuff protruding, indicated the doorway. “Your luggage will be attended to.”

  He smiled again, an empty smile, and I followed his slim figure into the house, through a pair of great carved doors and into an entry hall that must have risen two storeys high, like some baronial manor house.

  This time it was Cheh Wah Tek who stood there to greet me. There was no doubting the aura of power.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Rider,” he said, bending slightly at the waist, and then moving forward with outstretched hand. “Welcome to my house.”

  I was expecting somebody in his mid-forties, well built. Cheh Wah Tek came almost as a complete surprise. He seemed to be about sixty-five years of age, but could have been fifteen years older for all I could tell. His hair had thinned with the years, and turned to silver. The beard was a wisp of white; short and straggly.

  But the strength of his hand was amazing for one of such a slight build. He only came up to my chin. His face was creased and lined like any one of a thousand patriarchs monitoring the various shops and stalls in the city; but this was no mere shopkeeper. His eyes were alive and the face strong. There was no sign of weakness. It was plain to see that he was in charge. And he meant what he said. I was welcome.

  “Good afternoon, sir,” I replied. “Thank you for your warm welcome.” He wasn’t the only one who could be polite. “You have a very beautiful home. The setting is magnificent. You are a fortunate man.”

  He bowed again in that time-honoured way of the oriental.

  “Thank you, Mr. Rider. Yes, indeed. I am fortunate to have been gifted with the talent to make the best of what luck came my way, and also with the ability to turn the fruits of that talent into even more luck.” He gave a half smile, turned and motioned to the archway behind him. “Come inside. You must be tired after your long journey.”

  I was. Sydney to Singapore is not the problem. It’s the flight from Adelaide to Sydney and then the long wait for the connecting aircraft that knocks you about.

  “But I am forgetting myself, Mr. Rider. Perhaps you would like to freshen up first.” I nodded my agreement. “Very good. Sang will show you to your rooms. When you are ready perhaps you may care to join me in the lounge for a drink. There is no hurry.”

  It was a statement and not a question. He was used to getting his own way, but he was polite with it. I told him that it would be my pleasure.

  “Fine, Mr.
Rider. I look forward to it.”

  I followed Sang up the grand staircase – rising from the centre of the great hall and then splitting into two separate narrower flights, one leading to the left and the other to the right. The steps only led to the second floor; or rather to a balcony that ran three parts of the way around the sides of the hall. I couldn’t see any staircase leading to the top floor. I asked Sang about this.

  “Ah yes, sir. The top floor is entirely shut off from the rest of the house. It contains Mr. Cheh’s private apartments. You may have noticed the small set of doors immediately to the right as you entered the hall. Those are the doors to the elevator. There is also a stairway behind a further set of doors to the left; however they are locked, as is the elevator.”

  He wasn’t saying any more.

  I later learned that Cheh was security mad. The lift controls would only operate if his hand was placed against an electronic screen on the control panel, which registered his palm print. The stairwell was blocked by two huge steel doors, one at the top and another at the bottom; both operated by a similar device.

  My rooms were immaculate, a suite that would have put any five-star hotel to shame; the furnishings exquisite; silks and satins. As soon as Sang had closed the door behind him I walked over and took a closer look at the furniture. Every piece was either a genuine antique or a superb copy. I couldn’t tell the difference. The Chinese craftsmen had surpassed themselves, both in beauty and in workmanship. The sitting room exuded richness, but in no way was it overdone. Perhaps what impressed me most of all was the large picture-window looking out to the shoreline, across the Strait of Johore to Malaysia no more than two kilometres away.

  There were several lacquered cabinets placed around the room. One contained a large selection of spirits and a small bar-fridge filled with beer, soft drinks and fruit juices. Another cabinet cleverly concealed a television set and video unit, as well as a large stock of tapes; the latest movie releases.

  The bedroom embraced an enormous bed – larger than king-size, and another television set, and sound equipment for those who just wanted soft music. Then there was the bathroom; gold-plated taps; a faucet in the shape of the horn of plenty, again in gold. Everything about the suite was massive, like the rest of the house. I wondered if I would ever get to see the top floor. If this was the guest quarters, I could only imagine the opulence above me.

  I showered, luxuriating in the spaciousness of the separate shower recess: six golden lotus flowers, all pouring forth faintly scented water. I had avoided the temptation of the huge bath. Sleep would have come far too easily.

  Knowing by now that my suit would not come up to those downstairs, I took the opposite course and changed into a pair of lightweight slacks and a cotton shirt, throwing on a jacket for the sake of formality.

  Sang was waiting outside the door, hands clasped behind his back, seeming as though he had just happened along. I wondered how long he had been standing out there; or whether they had been keeping me under observation through some hidden camera.

  We descended the grand staircase and crossed over to the lounge: a large room, but with windows set high in the wall; none of them coming to within two metres of the floor. With five-metre ceilings, they didn’t look out of place. Cheh stood by the fireplace, a fireplace big enough to roast an ox, but unused in this warm climate. Rugs were everywhere: Persian or Afghan, I wouldn’t know – but probably the former. The furniture was modern, with the look of expensive comfort. “Ah, Mr. Rider,” he said smiling. “That is much better. You look most refreshed.” He beckoned to me, pointing to the sofa opposite the one into which he was now lowering himself. “Come and sit down.”

  I followed his invitation.

  “Make yourself comfortable, Mr. Rider. Good. What would you like to drink? We have most things. Sang is quite adept at mixing cocktails, if you would prefer one.”

  “If it’s alright with you, Mr. Cheh,” I replied. “I’ll just have a glass of orange juice.” This was serious business, and not the time for alcohol. He nodded his acquiescence as I added: “Although I’d like to join you in something stronger later on, if you don’t mind.”

  “Very good, Mr. Rider. But please call me Tek.”

  I nodded and asked him to call me, Jeff.

  “Very good,” he continued. “Shall we commence our discussions? I am most interested to hear how these bales of wool are going to solve our problem.”

  Sang was still standing to my right, waiting for further instructions. He had already fetched our juice, and a large bowl of ice cubes. Tek turned to him, spoke several words in Chinese, and Sang departed – closing the doors behind him.

  We spent the next hour or so going over the plan that Nick and I had put together. I explained how we were going to pack the bags of marijuana into the bales of wool; and how the smell of lanolin would hide any possible aroma from sniffer dogs. He was amused. He agreed that it would be necessary for him to set up a dummy corporation to handle the purchase and importation of the wool.

  It chanced that one of his many businesses dealt with the manufacture of various fabrics and he could redirect the wool to that factory once the marijuana had been removed from the bales. This was good news, for it meant that we didn’t have to worry about finding a buyer for the wool. But I suspected that he would probably re-export most of the grass to different parts of the East – possibly after processing some of it into Buddha sticks – and it would go out the same way in which it had come in: surrounded by fine Australian wool.

  Tek spoke of renting a factory separate from his other premises to handle the unpacking and distribution of the two commodities; the legitimate one to his fabrics factory and the grass to wherever he decided. That was his story. I didn’t want to know. My main interest was the delivery of the cargo. Disposal of the wool – at cost price or as near to it as possible – was a secondary consideration.

  He wanted to discuss the price of the wool later. There were matters to check, he said, no doubt wanting to see what his customers for the grass would pay for it first; so we concentrated our discussion on the marijuana, its transportation and its ultimate delivery.

  He listened intently as I went over every stage of the plan in fine detail. Finally he nodded agreement. I breathed a sigh of relief and started to long for that glass of something stronger.

  The last point for discussion – the most important as far as I was concerned – was payment for the marijuana. He agreed that as soon as the shipment had been passed by customs and delivered to his warehouse – and a sample bale or two had been opened and checked – we would receive one half of the total price, based on our calculation of the total weight. The price per kilo had been agreed between Nick and Tek a month or so earlier.

  The money would be in the form of bearer bonds drawn on a Swiss bank. Such bonds don’t disclose the name of the holder, nor that of the previous holder, and there was no way that they could be traced back to Tek, nor to anyone else for that matter. The bank would convert them into cash upon presentation.

  Payment would be the delicate moment of the whole operation. If he didn’t hand over the bonds, or if they were forged, then Nick and I would be lost. He would have the merchandise as well as the wool; and there would be nothing we could do about it – apart from tipping off the Singapore Police. Even that wouldn’t give any satisfaction, as the whole shipment would have already been moved to some unknown location.

  We had to rely on his integrity, which is something that doesn’t always exist in our line of business. Being Chinese was something in their favour, but not a lot. All we could depend upon was the fact that if he crossed us on this one, it would be the last time he could go through Australia. Nick would make certain of that.

  If we got the first payment without any hitch, then the second installment would be more certain. It was to be paid in the same manner, once all the grass had been unpacked and the weight confirmed.

  And then all I had to do was make certain that nobody tri
ed to hijack the bonds, for without a name to them, the holder was the owner and nobody could prove otherwise. I insisted that they be handed over inside a bank in Singapore, an agent for our bank in Basle. Tek wasn’t happy, but he agreed. He wanted to pass them across out of sight of the public, but I wanted them put straight into the bank’s custody for transmission to Switzerland. The bank’s security measures were far better than any I could ever hope to devise.

  Tek made a few phone calls, just out of my hearing, and in a language that I couldn’t understand. He intimated that he was checking on the current price of wool – and the profit margin that importers usually worked on. It took him no more than ten minutes to get the details he was after. His second call disclosed, and confirmed my earlier findings, that the size of the anticipated shipment was quite normal for Singapore.

  I was certain from the few words I had picked up that he already had that information, and had really been speaking to his ultimate buyers about something entirely different.

  “Well,” he said, moving back from the phone and helping himself to another glass of the fresh orange juice. We had gone through a lot of that juice in a couple of hours. “I am prepared to offer you and Nick a ten percent profit on the wool, including freight and insurance. You will pay the cost of repacking in Australia, of course.” He swirled the ice around in his glass and continued. “I believe that is a fair enough price. Perhaps a little under what you might expect to receive on the open market, but then, we are not dealing on the open market, are we.”

  The businessman had come to the fore. I wondered how long it had taken him and Nick to arrive at the final price for the marijuana. He sat with that mysterious half-smile on his face and waited for my answer. I would have hated to play poker with him. It was impossible to sense whether he could be pushed further or whether he had reached his limit. I wasn’t game enough to hazard a guess.