On this day in May, Samson Min Chung Sun was thirty-one years old, stood five feet six inches tall, more fat than thin, horribly myopic, allergic to exercise, and congenitally ambitious. He was born on the island of Sumatra, largest of the Indonesian archipelago, to a wealthy family of planters—palm oil magnates—the youngest and sole male of six children. His father had been sent to boarding school in England at the age of seven, and so was Samson, first to Fettes in Scotland, then to Harrow, the school for British elites that before him had educated seven British prime ministers, including Winston Churchill and Lord Palmerston, as well as the poet Lord Byron, and, more recently, and of far more interest to Sun, the singer James Blunt and the actor Benedict Cumberbatch.
He was an unexceptional student, a non-athlete, not a luminary in any of Harrow’s clubs or societies, not a thespian, a debater, or a chorister. And yet, Samson Sun was a presence. The rotund Asian with the Mona Lisa smile and the funny spectacles. Everyone knew him, though few could remember why. He was simply there, always with money in his pocket to make whatever occasion it might be a little better. More champagne. More pot. More anything. Over the years, he became a kind of barometer. If Sun was present, sure enough you were in the right place. If he wasn’t, you’d better think twice. By some strange, unexplained process of human alchemy, he’d taken a drab hunk of Indonesian clay and fashioned himself into cosmopolitan gold.
From Harrow, he went on to Oxford, though no one understood how he could have scored well enough on his A levels or obtained the necessary recommendations from his masters. He lasted two years before his shortcomings were discovered. His dons at New College—or was it Balliol (he forgot himself sometimes)—were not amenable to offers of cashmere sweaters or cases of Cristal Champagne or weekends at Le Bristol in Paris. He was sent down.
A headache, he was fond of saying. Nothing more.
As was his skill, he turned the setback to his advantage, landing a job at a small merchant bank in the City. After that, details became nebulous. A year in Geneva. A year in Barcelona. A year in the Middle East followed by a sudden return to Jakarta. Then his path went dark altogether, until he surfaced in Hollywood with his screenplay about theMedusato be produced and piles of money to make it happen.
When asked about those missing years, Sun smiled his inscrutable smile, ordered another bottle of the finest Champagne, and kept his mouth shut. Sometimes mystery was better than a thousand words.
Stewing, he opened the French doors and stepped onto the flagstone terrace. It was a gray, drizzly morning, and cold. He’d bought the villa in Mougins, tucked away in the hills above Cannes, expressly for the festival. The yacht was for pleasure. The villa was for business. The next week promised to be a flurry of luncheons, interviews, press junkets, parties, and meetings, meetings, meetings. The lifeblood of the entertainment industry. He intended to be a presence on the Croisette.
Across the Bay of Cannes, he could see theYasminaat anchor. And beyond it, the Mediterranean. Somewhere out there, far over the horizon, was Libya. A distance of eight hundred miles. It didn’t sound so far, but if you were on a rickety fishing boat crammed with hundreds of other desperate souls, most of whom couldn’t swim, it might as well be the moon.
Sun knew all about the Mediterranean and the tide of refugees willing to risk their lives, the lives of their loved ones, their “everything” to reach a better life. He couldn’t help but become an expert producing a film on the subject. The movie,The Raft of the Medusa,took as its subject the final voyage of the fishing vesselMedusa,which sank in the Mediterranean with five hundred men, women, and children aboard, only ten surviving a three-week ordeal afloat, clinging to a raft fashioned from the wreckage.
A reporter forThe Guardianof London had chronicled the ordeal. A friend of a friend had brought the story to Sun’s attention. Knowing he was angling to get into the motion picture industry, she had suggested he make it into a film. She’d even written a screenplay. The timing couldn’t have been better. The refugee crisis in Syria was a cause célèbre. Another film, also about ships and featuring Africans in starring roles, had been a box-office hit a year or two earlier. Newly wealthy with unlimited funds at his disposal, Sun had taken this as his cue.
Three years later, he was here with a film.
Sun finished his tea, showered and dressed for the day. He had a lunch at the Carlton with a reporter fromLe Monde,followed by a meeting with a Scandinavian distributor, a dapper Icelandic man with a name he couldn’t pronounce.
A look in the mirror before he departed. Ivory suit. White shirt. Black necktie. And, of course, his eyeglasses: black, round, and thick, inherited from General Tojo, Philip Johnson, I. M. Pei, and now to claim as his own: Samson Min Chung Sun.Who is this interesting chap staring back at me?
As his fellow Harrovian Winston Churchill might have described him, Sun was a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma.
He wouldn’t have it any other way.
Chapter 17
Bangkok
Ablack Mercedes-Benz sedan waited outside the international arrivals hall of Bangkok Suvarnabhumi Airport. A chauffeur in livery stood beside it, holding a sign with his name.SIRMON RISK.
“That’s me,” said Simon. “I think.”
“Welcome to Thailand, sir. First time?”
“Yes.”
“Very hot. May hottest month.”
“You’re not kidding.” Simon had been outside less than a minute and already the heat weighed on him, the air humid and oppressive, smelling of jet fuel, woodsmoke, and a thousand foreign spices. He told the driver he’d keep his bag and allowed him to open the passenger door. A wave of air-conditioning greeted him as he slid into the back seat. A man sat next to the opposite door. Dark suit. Necktie. Neatly combed hair. A hyena’s smile. Hundred to one a lawyer.
“Adamson,” said the man. “George Adamson. Welcome to Thailand, Mr. Riske.”
Surprise number one: Dickie Blackmon hadn’t mentioned he was sending someone to meet him. Just as well. Simon was eager to hit the ground running. The men exchanged pleasantries as the car entered the freeway and headed into the city. A business card was proffered stating that Mr. George Adamson was a partner in the firm of Dewey, Cheatem, and Howe. Of course, that wasn’t the name. Simon recognized the firm nonetheless. A multinational power player with offices in capitals around the world.
As a rule, Simon liked British lawyers and disliked French ones. He had less experience with American attorneys. Adamson appeared lean and eager, addicted to his stair-stepper and egg-white omelettes, more or less his own age, a man on the make. Only thing missing was a choke collar to rein him in when he got a little too ambitious. Securing Rafael de Bourbon’s release might well be his ticket to the big time. Partners did not meet clients at the airport.
“Not sure if Mr. Blackmon gave you all the details when you last spoke, but here’s the lay of the land. Over the last twenty-four hours, PetroSaud has turned over abundant evidence incriminating your friend Mr. De Bourbon in the crimes of which he stands accused. Emails, texts, recordings of phone calls between Mr. De Bourbon and Paul Malloy.”
“Who’s that?”
“Malloy was De Bourbon’s superior at PetroSaud. He’s the man De Bourbon was extorting.”
“That was fast.”
