A fit, well-dressed man entered the room. Dark suit, broad shoulders. Then he noted the three-day stubble, the green eyes he’d glimpsed behind the sunglasses.Could it be?
“Sheikh Al-Thani?”
The woman lowered the hood of her abaya. She wasn’t an Arab at all but a striking Eurasian woman. In fact, he recognized her. Lester felt his stomach drop.
“I’m sorry,” the woman said, “but he’s not really a sheikh.”
“Actually, the name is Riske. This is Ms. Li. We’re going to have a little talk.”
Chapter 49
Singapore
Simon sat perfectly still. Blood coursed through his veins as it never had, making his heart pump wildly, flushing his cheeks, bringing a terrible pressure behind his eyes. If he moved, if he lifted a finger, he would lose control.
You,he thought.You did it.
He had not been prepared for the flood of emotion unleashed by the sight of Hadrian Lester, the knowledge that he was one of the men responsible for Rafael de Bourbon’s death and the carnage in Bangkok. He’d met more than his share of white-collar criminals—they were his stock-in-trade, so to speak. A thief was a thief, whether he stole a thousand, a million, or a billion. The only thing that changed was the cut of his suit and whether he wore it on the left or the right.
But Lester was a murderer. He’d sent Shaka to kill London Li. Simon had every reason to believe that he knew about the embassy in Bangkok. Oh yes, he knew, thought Simon, having read the slew of emails between Lester and Al-Obeidi and Sukarno and all the other fund managers he was in cahoots with. Lester was the mastermind, or at least one of them. Nothing happened without his knowledge. It went without saying that he would go to any lengths to prevent the discovery of his crimes.
There he sat, close enough to grab by the throat and strangle. Simon stared at the man—smug, confident, arrogance oozing from his every pore—not knowing that his world had changed. Simon saw through Lester and imagined Rafa, looking at him in the ambassador’s office, bewildered, frightened, wondering who had shot Colonel Tan if it wasn’t him, realizing, of course, in that short, agonizing moment, that he was next, and then the gunshot, the weight of Rafa’s body falling against him, the viscera splattering Simon’s face.
The shock had been too immediate to register. Seconds later, Simon had been running for his life. But now, fifty-some hours later, it came to him. The horror. The anger. The rage.
Simon considered killing him. Not as an abstract thought.What if…?But as the next action he might take, as if hefting a stone in his palm, assaying its weight, readying to throw it. He could use the paring knife he’d found in the mini bar. He would stab him in the chest, making sure to point the blade upward to nick the heart. It would not be the first time he’d killed a man.
Twenty years ago he’d cut a man’s throat in a steaming prison shower, slit it with a razor blade clenched between his teeth. He knew what it felt like to have blood run over his hands. Then, he hadn’t had a choice; it was kill or be killed. Not for a second had he felt remorse. In fact, he hadn’t felt anything except relief—an obligation fulfilled.
It was this thought that prevented him from acting. The knowledge that he would feel no better afterward.
He felt the stone drop from his hand. Another day, perhaps.
“What do you want?” Lester was saying. “I’ve got one hundred people upstairs waiting for me. Let’s make this quick.”
“They can wait,” said Simon.
“Who did you say you were?” Lester pointed a rude finger at him, one more underling to be ordered about. “Her, I know. Oh hell. I don’t have time for this nonsense. Goodbye, then.”
Lester rose from his chair. Simon hit him in the stomach before he’d taken a step. A steam piston to the gut. Lester doubled over, the wind knocked out of him. Simon grabbed him by the collar and manhandled him back into his chair, yanking him upright.
“I said they can wait. Now sit still and pay attention like the gentleman you never were.”
“You can’t…” Lester blustered as his breath came back to him. “I’ll call the police.”
Simon slapped him across the face. “You’ll do what I tell you.”
Simon looked at London. “You need to leave now. Mr. Lester and I are going to have a private talk. Man to man.”
They’d discussed it earlier. Lester was never going to talk voluntarily. They could accuse him of all the crimes in the world. They could brandish evidence, drag up Rafa’s ghost to testify, and still Lester wouldn’t say a word. London could write her story. She could expose Lester, PetroSaud, Harrington-Weiss, and all the others. Eventually, charges would be brought. Lester would be arrested. No question. But between now and then, time would pass. Months. Maybe a year. Simon needed answers now. This minute.
On the banks of a river in southwestern Thailand, Shaka had all but admitted it. It was happening now. It was up to Simon to find out what and put a stop to it.
“I’ve changed my mind,” said London. “I just realized that he tried to have me killed. I’m staying.” She looked at Lester. “As you can see I’m alive. The man you sent after me—I believe his name is Shaka—is in police custody. I don’t need to interview you any longer. Mr. De Bourbon made sure we’d have everything we needed.”
“De Bourbon…who’s that?” said Lester, looking between his two captors. “Never heard of him. What do you want, anyway? Think I scare easy? I was in the military for ten years. Pilot. Had my share of scrapes.”
“Now you’ll have another to compare them against,” said Simon. “I’m guessing they’re going to come up shy.”
