“I want to know everywhere Borgia’s been during the last month.”
“You got it.”
Danni moved closer to the two engineers. “It’s imperative we find out what Luca Borgia has planned. And when we do, we tell Simon Riske. Everything else comes to a halt. Do I make myself clear?”
The men nodded.
“Okay, then.” Danni drew a breath, charting out the next steps. “First thing, we contact that journalist and let her know that her life is still in danger.”
Chapter 56
Singapore
Lights burned inside the sixth-floor apartment at 14 Fort Road. From his position outside the building’s gates, Shaka made out shadows moving behind drawn curtains. Someone was home. Someone who believed he was still locked up and, therefore, that she was safe to pursue her investigation. He hoped that London Li had a guest. It would make things easier.
Shaka moved toward the entry. The night was hot and sticky, his shirt clinging to his back. The flags in the apartment building’s forecourt hung limply. A car emerged from the garage. The gates to the compound opened slowly. Shaka slid inside as it passed him and turned onto the street.
In the lobby, a concierge sat at the reception, hypnotized by his phone. Shaka circled the building, descending the ramp to the underground garage, walking to the elevator alcove. A key was required to summon the lift. There was no indicator to show what floor either of the two elevator cars might be on. He waited a minute, then another, growing impatient. It was late. Most residents were probably home and tucked in for the night. This was Singapore, not Jo’burg.
“This story ends now.”Borgia couldn’t have been any clearer.
Shaka tapped his foot, willing an elevator to come. Even now, London Li might be leaving her apartment, taking Riske with her.
“Screw it.”
Shaka turned and ran back up the ramp and crossed the forecourt to the lobby. The door was unlocked. He went inside. There was a waiting area to one side with a couch and a glass coffee table. The concierge glanced at him, then went back to his phone. He was young. Twenty, skinny as a rail, his collar a few sizes too large for his thin neck.
Shaka walked to the counter, smiling in greeting. He threw out an arm and wrapped his fingers around the little man’s throat, crushing his larynx as he might crush an aluminum can of soda pop, lifting the man off his feet. Angry at himself, at the concierge for doing his job, he tossed the man onto the ground, then rounded the counter and broke his neck. He couldn’t stand the writhing and wheezing. A set of keys dangled from the man’s belt. Shaka removed it.
The sixth-floor corridor was dim and deserted. As he advanced toward London Li’s apartment, motion sensors activated the lights. He put his ear to the door. Silence, then voices. Footsteps.
Shaka pulled his knife from his ankle sheath, slipping the blade between his ring and middle finger. He tried the door. Locked. There were too many keys to try one at a time without alerting the reporter. He couldn’t knock, as they would see him through the peephole.
He took a step back, recalling the apartment’s layout, rehearsing his moves. Living area, kitchen to the right, past that a bedroom, an office area, and a bathroom. He studied the doorway and lintel. Both were wood, unreinforced. He lifted his leg, drew a breath, and with all his strength, aided greatly by the knowledge that should Simon Riske or London Li get one step closer to Luca Borgia, to jeopardizing the work of Prato Bornum, he, Solomon Kruger, would be a dead man, kicked the door at a spot immediately below the handle. The frame splintered. The door flew inward.
Shaka entered the apartment. Living area: empty. Kitchen: empty. Bedroom: empty. They were in her office. Of course they were. He charged down the hall, fist cocked, angled horizontally, the fat blade facing outward.
A man came out of the bathroom. Tall, dark haired. He held a plastic bag, a cat’s paw dangling over its lip. Seeing Shaka, he froze. A handyman or janitor wearing dark coveralls. He was not Simon Riske.
Shaka peered into the office alcove to his left. Empty. The journalist was not here either. An unimaginable rage surged through him. He advanced on the man, who was shaking now, eyes blinking behind his glasses. One of his earbuds fell out. He must have been singing as he cleaned the apartment. It was his voice Shaka had heard.
“Keep things nice and neat.”
Shaka let the knife drop to his side. With his other hand, he hit the man in the jaw. He fell to the floor unconscious, the dead cat sliding out of the bag.
Sixty seconds later, Shaka was back on the street walking down Fort Road.
Where were they?
Chapter 57
Singapore
Simon walked alongside London through Terminal 2 of Singapore Changi Airport. It was nearly eleven. At the sales counter, he’d purchased two business class seats on the midnight flight to Zurich and onward to Nice. The clerk informed him with a gracious smile that he must be a lucky man. Until a minute before, the flight had been entirely sold out. They’d just that second had two cancellations.
“Imagine that,” Simon said.
He had traded Michael Blume’s ill-fitting suit for an outfit from a men’s boutique in the airport’s vast shopping emporium. Heather trousers, a navy polo shirt, and navy zip-up jacket. He carried a leather valise with toiletries, a change of socks and underwear, sunglasses, and a second outfit. He’d even found a pair of driving shoes like he wore at home.
