“But the movie,The Raft of the Medusa,is about the plight of refugees. I mean, ten out of five hundred survive. Pretty tough deal. Without having seen it, I’m going to say it’s a sympathetic depiction of their plight.”
“Yes.”
“Well, if Nadya Sukarno is a majority shareholder in Black Marble and she bankrolled her nephew, presumably she knew what the film was about.”
“Presumably.”
“Why would she allow him to make a movie that espouses everything that Prato Bornum is against?” Simon waited for an answer. None came. “I don’t get it.”
But in his mind an idea had taken root. It was all interconnected. Borgia, Lester, Sukarno, Prato Bornum, and Samson Sun. All of it of a piece.
“This weekend,”Lester had said.
But what? Where? When? How?
An announcement played over the public address system. “Lufthansa flight 564 to Nice is now departing out of Terminal A, gate 67. Passengers are requested to take the escalator to the lower level and await the bus for transport to the aircraft.”
London picked up her bag.
“Wait,” said Simon, placing a hand on her arm. “Terminal A is for commuter flights. Regional jets. Turboprops.”
“So?”
“We’re on an A320.”
“It’s a gate change. Everyone’s going.”
The couple he’d noticed earlier had stood and were gathering their belongings. A few others trickled out, following the signs to the escalators.
“Do you see anything?” asked London. “Is it him?”
Simon pulled up the Flight Tracker app on his phone and tapped in the flight number. A list appeared showing data for the past ten days: departure times, aircrafts, gates. “Lufthansa flight 564, an A320 out of Terminal B. Every day.” He lowered the phone. “We’re blown.”
“What do you mean?”
“They know we’re here. Someone’s waiting for us at the new gate.”
“Shaka?”
“Him. Someone like him.Them.”
“But how?”
“Your passport, maybe. Flight manifests. Did you tell anyone we were coming?”
“Just Mandy.”
“Mandy? When?”
“Last night. When you called your office, I phoned to tell her where we were going. She’s my editor. It’s what we do.”
“Call her,” said Simon. “Now. But calmly. No stress.”
London called Mandy Blume’s cell. It rolled to voice mail immediately. She shook her head.
“Call the office,” said Simon. “It’s one in the afternoon in Singapore. She should be there.”
London dialed theFT’s main number, identified herself, and requested to speak to Mandy. A moment passed and she signaled that Blume was coming on the line. Simon stepped closer. London held the phone so he could hear. “Mandy…Oh, Anson, hello. I’m calling for Mandy.”
