“You’re going, too?”
“Maybe I’ll get a seat next to Lester. We’ll have plenty of time to get to know each other better. You know how it is when you’re flying. People say almost anything to another passenger.”
“Don’t you think Lester is going to tell Borgia what happened?”
“You mean about me breaking his fingers? I hope so. It might stop Borgia from doing whatever it is he has planned.”
“Do you believe that?”
Simon laughed bitterly. “Not for a second.”
The porter blew his whistle. A taxi pulled forward, a silver Mercedes.
“Go ahead,” said Simon. “Take this one.”
London looked at him askew. “I’m going with you.”
“As much as I’d like the company, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“And I’m supposed to care?”
“Pardon me? A few hours ago you came this close to lying on the pavement dead of cyanide poisoning. You’re staying here, where you’ll be safe.”
“Pardon me? It was me Rafael de Bourbon contacted to look into PetroSaud in the first place. My involvement in all this predates yours. And by the way, who do you think you are to tell me anything about how I should live my life?”
“Look Ms. Li…London…I don’t care what you do, one way or the other. I do care that you stay alive, if only to break this story. Rafa deserves that.”
“Do you have any idea how patronizing you sound? As if I need a man to keep me safe.”
“Man, woman, as long as it’s someone who can see a threat coming.”
“The man who tried to kill me—”
“Shaka. He’s a professional assassin. And yes, that’s for real.”
“Shaka. He is in jail. We don’t have to worry about him any longer.”
“We don’t know that for certain.”
“He was handcuffed to the ground. There were witnesses. This is Singapore. Not Thailand or Malaysia or any of those places where laws can be bent to suit the richest party.”
“And your point?”
“Our officials are not corrupt. I thought about what you said earlier, about Lester having friends in high places. It doesn’t wash. Not here. The police will keep Shaka in custody until he stands trial.”
The porter stepped forward and opened the rear door. “Please, madam, sir.”
By now, there was a queue behind them.
“Thank you,” said London.
“After you.”
Without warning, a thunderclap.
Closer and louder than any Simon had ever heard. A shock wave passed through him. A blizzard of glass peppered his face. Metal shrieked. Tires exploded. Screams.
Inexplicably, Simon was on his behind, half sitting, half lying on the pavement, London next to him, both of them dazed but unhurt. Slowly, he gathered himself, the tremendous boom fading, the very air itself vibrating.
