“Why do you know so much about Thailand?”
“My cousin owns a tailoring shop in Bangkok. His name is Bobby Gulati. The store is called Raja’s. Look him up if you need a new suit.”
“This isn’t that kind of a trip.” Simon slipped the ring off his finger and replaced it on the tray. “You were saying something about ‘bad news.’”
“While small in size, these toys were quite expensive to procure and program at such short notice.”
“Don’t tell me,” said Simon.
Vikram Singh said a figure in Punjabi. Helen Mirren spoke the sum in Simon’s ear. “Bastard,” he muttered.
Singh smiled archly. “Someone’s got to pay for Arjit’s education. University in the States is damned expensive. Oh, and one more thing.”
“I’m all ears.”
“Cash only.”
Chapter 14
Singapore
Years of daily practice in hopes of one day walking onto a stage in Vienna or Berlin or New York and sitting down at a concert Steinway, nodding to the conductor, her posture immaculate, slowly raising her hands above the ivory keys, had made London Li a creature of habit. She rose every morning at 5:30, made herself a cup of coffee, drank exactly half, laced up her running shoes, fed her cat, and left her apartment on Fort Road for a jog around Katong Park—2.3 miles, 4,700 steps, give or take. After her run, meditation, a shower, and only then, breakfast. Two pieces of dry toast, a banana, and the second half of her coffee.
She adhered to the schedule every day of the year. Rain or shine. Sick or well. On the road or at home. No excuses.
But not today.
This morning London rose earlier than usual, at five a.m. on the dot. Still in her pajamas (Hello Kitty—yes, she was a fan), she went straight to her desk, sat down, and opened her laptop. No run. No meditation. No shower.
Something better.
A story.
An email was open on the screen.
High-ranking executives at the Geneva-based advisory firm PetroSaud conspired with managers of an Asian sovereign wealth fund to defraud investors of billions of dollars. Instead of placing the fund’s assets in listed investments, PetroSaud funneled billions to accounts in offshore banks controlled by the fund’s managers (including government ministers) while charging excessive commissions.
Signed,
R
“R,” her unreliable man of mystery, last reported MIA.
Why had he missed their meeting? A change of heart? An unseen inconvenience? Or something else? Something sinister.
Attached to his email were three files.
The first was a copy of a bank transfer to PetroSaud’s account at one of the big Swiss banks in the amount of seven hundred million dollars. The sender’s name was partially blacked out, or redacted. Only the words “D._____, Director of Investment Corporation of_____” were visible. In the section marked “Comments,” it read, “Purchase of Parcel 254A-D, Ras-al-Aliya, Saudi Arabia, Royal Saudi Oil Authority. Oil and Mineral Rights Exclusive.”
The second file showed the copy of another bank transfer, this one from the same PetroSaud account at the big Swiss bank, also in the amount of seven hundred million dollars, made that same day to a numbered account at the Bank of Liechtenstein.
The third file was a copy of the account documents for said numbered account at the Bank of Liechtenstein naming the account holder as the Private International Investment Holdings Corp., domiciled in the Netherlands Antilles and listing among its directors “____, director of the Investment Corporation of____” and “____, finance minister of_____.” The missing words or names, again, redacted.
London didn’t need a road map. The money transferred to PetroSaud from the Investment Corporation of [country unknown] had not been used to purchase the oil lease in Saudi Arabia but instead had been sent to an account controlled by the person or persons who ran the Investment Corporation of [country unknown], one of whom was also the finance minister of that country.
As R had stated in his letter, executives at PetroSaud had worked with the managers of a sovereign wealth fund to defraud it of seven hundred million dollars.
London printed the files and laid them on her desk. Her head began to throb, demanding its daily dose of caffeine. She rose and walked to the kitchen—ten steps—and put a pod in her Keurig. Her apartment was small, but it was her own. Nine hundred square feet. One bedroom, one and a half baths, the “half” so tiny it made a coffin feel spacious, and an alcove she used as an office. The price was two million Singapore dollars. She would be paying off her mortgage until her grandchildren graduated from high school. On the plus side, she did have a view of the sea, if, that is, she walked to the far end of her terrace, stood on her tiptoes, and craned her neck.
