And go where?
The answers to all his questions lay on Rafa’s flash drive.
I won’t let you down, my friend. I owe you.
“Riske.”
Simon turned his head. He’d been daydreaming. Had someone said his name? He checked the screen. Still nothing from Arjit.
“Riske.”
Again. Clearer this time. A man’s voice. A foreign accent. Dutch? No, South African.
He felt a presence behind him. A wind at his ear. He spun to look.
A blow.
Darkness.
Chapter 29
Singapore
The Goodwood Park Hotel was long one of Singapore’s best-kept secrets. Built in the late 1800s, the hotel sat above Orchard Road tucked in its own lush enclave, a world away from the bustling commercial district outside its gates. To look at, it was a planter’s country estate with broad sweeping wings extending from an elegant main entry topped with a Victorian tower. The picture of British colonialism.
Benson Chow arrived just ahead of London’s Uber and was standing next to his Bentley convertible, wearing a pink open-collared shirt and a sweater draped over his shoulders in the English fashion.
London exited the compact car and crossed the driveway, her limp impossible to overlook.
“What happened?” said Benson, hurrying over.
“I took a fall,” said London with a smile to make light of her injury.
“Tennis?”
“Not exactly. Let’s wait until we have a drink. The story goes better with vodka.”
“You should have told me,” said Benson. “I would have picked you up. I don’t mind crossing the bridge.”
London ignored the slight, saying she had been working until the last minute. He gave her a kiss on each cheek and they walked into the lobby and then downstairs to the Gordon Grill.
The restaurant was like Benson: classy, traditional, but without much pizzazz. It was the kind of place, she thought, you took your fiancé’s parents to impress them.
Benson signaled a waiter and ordered two martinis. “Grey Goose, very dry and very cold, olives.”
“Three olives,” said London. “Stuffed with blue cheese, if you have them. What the hell.”
Benson eyed her with concern. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
London put a hand on his and nodded. Benson relaxed. They exchanged pleasantries while waiting for their drinks. Work for the government was exciting enough, he said, though not especially remunerative. The economy was doing so well, throwing off such monumental surpluses, it felt as if they had too much money and not enough projects to invest it in. “After all, how many U.S. treasuries can we buy?”
Benson found the line hilarious.
London laughed with him. She’d dressed in a jade cocktail dress that made the most of her European curves, spent thirty minutes on her hair, and even dashed on a little makeup. It was a ruse, her version of a honey trap, though there wouldn’t be any honey. She needed his help and, like any investigative reporter worth her salt, was going to use her every ploy to get it. She might be an award-winning journalist, but this was Asia. The #MeToo movement wouldn’t get here for another few years.
The waiter set their cocktails on the table and took three excruciating minutes to discuss the evening’s specials. London had already decided. The Gordon Grill was known for their steaks, and after the events of the day, she was in a carnivorous mood. The waiter departed. Benson raised his glass. “To you, my dear. May I say you look ravishing?”
London inclined her head, won over. In truth, she was thinking,Who still talks that way in the twenty-first century?He sounded like Lord Grantham speaking to his wife at Downton Abbey.
