“File it under ‘small world.’ He invited me to the premiere of his first movie the final night of the Cannes Film Festival.”
“Do you remember what it was called?”
“The Raft of the Medusa.”
“Like the painting?”
“You know that one?”
London gave him a look. Who didn’t know that one?
Simon was thinking back to the afternoon in the Louvre, admiring the painting, an enormous canvas, the figures depicted larger than life, and Delphine saying it was too gruesome, which of course made him want to study it longer. “Apparently, the movie is about a boat that went down in the Mediterranean five years back.”
“TheMedusa. It was a big story. Five hundred refugees drowned. Only ten survived after a harrowing ordeal. I’m not surprised they turned it into a movie.”
They boarded the aircraft and took their seats on the upper deck. No sign of Sukarno. Business class not quite up to her standards. Why should it be when you can afford ten thousand dollars a seat?
After stowing their bags, London consulted her phone again, looking up all mentions of the film. There was a transcript of an interview with Samson Sun and the cast, most of whom played themselves. Simon recalled seeing them on the boat, seated at Sun’s table.
Chapter 58
Singapore
The luxury towers at 22 Drake Court, Sentosa Island, stood on a rise at the end of a long drive, surrounded by dense forest on every side. Shaka crouched among the trees, draped in shadow, waiting for a car to approach the gated entry. Besides the gates, there were walls to keep intruders out. He could scale them easily enough. But a place like this had cameras, trained security. He needed a better way to get inside. Headlights approached. The sound of a well-tuned motor. Shaka felt his heart beat faster. “Come on.”
Someone had told Simon Riske about London Li’s rendezvous with Hadrian Lester. It couldn’t have been the journalist herself or Riske would have warned her not to go. Therefore, it was someone else. Someone close to her. Someone at work. Most likely her boss. It took Shaka all of ten minutes to find theFT’s webpage and learn the name of its two managing editors: Anson Ho and Mandy Blume. He checked publicly listed property records and found addresses for both of them. He looked for pictures of them. Ho was Asian, light-skinned, probably fifty. Blume was European, blond, rough around the edges. Then—Bang!—he saw it. A photograph of Mr. and Mrs. Michael Blume taken at a black-tie dinner given by Harrington-Weiss. He had no doubt who Simon Riske had spoken with.
The car slowed, dimming its high beams. A BMW. Four doors. The gate began to open. The car came to a halt.
Shaka dashed from the shadows, assaulting the car as if it were an enemy vehicle, throwing his elbow through the driver’s window, needing a second blow before the safety glass crumbled and fell away. He thrust his knife into the man’s chest, once, twice, three times. With his free hand, he opened the door and folded the driver, dead or close to it, headfirst into the footwell of the passenger seat, the car still in gear, beginning to pull forward. He slid into the driver’s seat and closed the door.
The gate stood open. He continued up a long curving road, then to the left into the covered garage. No keys at Drake Court. Magnetic keycards.
He parked the car, then took the elevator to the forty-second floor. The doors were stronger here. He partially covered the peephole with a corner of his thumb and knocked.
“Coming.” Then: “Who is it?”
“Simon Riske.”
The door opened. The blond woman held a phone to her ear, saying, “Simon? But I thought you were—” the words catching in her throat.
“Hello, Mandy. We need to talk.”
Chapter 59
Paris
Mattias rolled into Paris early Friday evening. A pewter sky hovered low, the streets slick after a spring downpour. They’d come from the east, across the German plain, over the Rhine, through Saarbrücken, then into France. Omar, the driver, had found asylum in Sweden like him. Hassan, whom they’d picked up at the refugee center in Ingolstadt, had been denied entry to Europe after the tragedy. His path had led him to Syria, Greece, then northward up the Balkan Peninsula—Macedonia, Albania, Croatia—and finally, after seven months, Germany.
To look at, the three were brothers. All came from North Africa. Mattias and Omar from Tunisia, Hassan from Mauritania. Their features were markedly European—straight noses, prominent cheekbones, slim, well-defined lips. Their eyes, though brown, were light. It was the color of their skin that marked them as foreigners.
Mattias called out instructions as they drove. Straight on the Boulevard Macdonald. Left on Rue d’Aubervilliers. He had never been to Paris, and though he knew it as a great world capital, he was unimpressed. To him, it was an endless parade of soot-stained concrete, abominable traffic, and hostile faces.
“Porte de la Chapelle,” said Omar, banging his hand on the wheel. “How hard can it be to find?” Traffic slowed and he laid on the horn, to no effect. In his former life, he’d been a taxi driver, an excellent one in his own estimation.
“Right at this street,” said Mattias, motioning for Omar to turn. “And here, right again.” It was at Porte de la Chappelle on the northern rim of Paris that the immigrants had taken up lodging.
Omar spun the wheel. The car disappeared into the shadow of the Périphérique, the elevated eight-lane highway that circled the city perimeter. They rounded a corner. In an instant, they’d reached their destination.
