As cynical as they come, a born doubter, the devil’s advocate’s best friend, London couldn’t help but feel a swell of pride. Fifty years ago Singapore was another Asian backwater, located at the tip of the Malay Peninsula one degree north of the equator. For centuries it had existed on fishing, the export of natural resources—rubber, teak, a little oil—and, since 1830, the largesse of the British Empire.
In 1965, after declaring its independence, things changed. Some kind of benevolent entrepreneurial spirit swept down from the heavens and, by the grace of Buddha, Allah, Shiva, Jesus Christ—all saviors welcome—blessed Singapore with an unparalleled period of prosperity. Of course, hard work had something to do with it. Long hours. The legendary Chinese work ethic. A religious devotion to saving. In one generation, the city-state went from developing to developed, the original Asian Tiger.
Turning left onto Beach Road, she walked past the Raffles Hotel and slowed to peer through the windows of its gift shop. She wasn’t interested in any souvenirs but in the reflection of the building across the street, a thirty-story steel-and-glass skyscraper that was home to the Singaporean offices of PetroSaud. Her eyes studied the entry and the three security guards flanking the revolving door. Farther along the street there were buildings just like it. Nowhere did she see another guard.
London’s phone buzzed. Benson Chow’s name appeared on the screen. She answered, walking into the lobby of the hotel, taking the stairs to the second floor.
“Benson.”
“How did you know.” A statement, not a question.
“Know what?” said London, stopping on the landing, making sure she was alone.
“The investment was seven hundred million dollars.”
“You found it.”
“Indonesia.”
“You’re certain?”
“It wasn’t the only investment they made in Saudi. They dropped two more the same year. One for a billion, another for four hundred mil.”
Indonesia was an oil-rich country and earned a large percentage of its GDP from the sale of oil. Therein lay the problem. Sovereign wealth funds were about diversification, mitigating risk. Loading up on one bet, putting all your chips on red—oil, in this case—did the opposite. Less diversification. More risk.
“Does that sound normal?”
“Not by a long shot,” said Benson Chow. “Too many eggs in one basket. A firing offense.”
“I guess a finance minister can do what he wants.”
“The prerogative of autocracy.”
London entered the Long Bar, taking a seat at the far end, where she could look out the window at the entry to the Beach Road tower. She’d slept poorly the night before, bothered by bad dreams. In the morning, she’d woken to find herself consumed by a terrible sense of foreboding. R was in danger.
“Do you know who brokered the sale?” she asked.
“You tell me.”
“Does the name PetroSaud ring a bell?”
“Like Great Tom,” said Chow, referring to the bell tower at Oxford, where they’d first met. “To the tune of two billion and change. What’s going on, Lo?”
“I’m not sure yet. But if I were you, I’d consider decreasing any exposure you might have in the Indonesian SWF.”
Chow swore under his breath. “What exactly are you saying?”
“I’ve said too much already. Anything more might put you in an unwieldy position to do your job…unless, that is, you fancy spending a year or two in Changi Prison.”
“We’re done,” said Chow.
“Ben, one last thing.”
“I’m afraid to ask.”
“A shop like PetroSaud doesn’t have only one client. A sharp tack like yourself might want to see if they were helping any other countries snap up oil leases in KSA.”
“And if I find something…”
