“Arrivederci,”said Borgia.“Grazie tanto.”
“Arrivederci.”
Chapter 42
Singapore
Shaka arrived at Tanjong Pagar market at three o’clock. He strolled past the stalls and vendors and hawkers, just another tourist. He’d traded his dark suit for khaki shorts and a T-shirt, a baseball cap covering his hair. He ignored the glances thrown his way, both admiring and apprehensive. Sun’s out, guns out. Deal with it.
The market was one city block in length, a pedestrian-only thoroughfare crowded with stands selling food, electronics, clothing, you name it. It was a lively spot, colorful banners fluttering in a soft breeze, lights strung overhead, and chock-full of visitors, their sights and senses drawn in all directions. In every way, the market was perfect for his work.
He made a circuit of the block twice, familiarizing himself with its layout. Should London Li come directly from her office, she would approach from the southeast. He found an ideal vantage point tucked behind a stall preparing fried squid—plenty of activity here, steam spiraling into the air, excited voices, woks shaken and drained with flair. Far too much going on for the eye to pick out a lone man keeping watch for his prey.
It went without saying that come four p.m. Hadrian Lester wouldn’t be anywhere near the Tanjong market. It wouldn’t do for the vice chairman of one of the world’s most important banks to be in the vicinity when a prominent journalist dropped dead on the pavement.
Shaka felt the mosquito pressing against his leg. The device resembled a staple gun, but finer boned and fashioned from high-tensile titanium. Originally, Siemens, the German industrial conglomerate, had designed it to inoculate livestock. Years later, the device was appropriated by his country’s intelligence services and modified for other, less bucolic, uses, namely to track adversaries and, when necessary, to kill them. His other pocket carried a pellet filled with a lethal dose of potassium cyanide, contained safely in a stainless-steel caplet. The job called for a “wet insert,” meaning he would have to load the pellet into the mosquito immediately before use.
Cyanide acted as an oxygen suppressor, blocking the cells’ ability to absorb the molecules from the bloodstream. Within seconds of ingestion, the victim would feel light-headed, disoriented, then lose control over her muscles and collapse. Unconsciousness and death followed quickly. Sixty seconds at the most.
Shaka sat down on a bench behind the stall to wait. One last task to attend to, then back to Europe. He had booked himself a seat on the midnight Swiss Air Lines flight to Rome via Zurich. All in all, a productive trip, the redundancies in Bangkok notwithstanding.
He checked his watch. Thirty minutes yet. He looked at the picture of London Li on his phone. A half-breed like him. Sexy as hell. All he had to do was keep an eye out for a woman with hair the color of warm caramel.
It shouldn’t be too hard.
Chapter 43
Singapore
No, sir, once again, I cannot tell you if Ms. Li is in the building. She is not answering her phone. You’re welcome to call the main number and leave another message. I understand that it is a matter of some urgency. If you’d like, I’d be happy to call again on your behalf in a quarter hour. Until then, you may take a seat in our lounge.”
Beside himself, Simon walked to the seating area in the lobby of the Mapletree Anson tower, home to the offices of theFinancial Times.“A matter of some urgency.”Yes, thought Simon, you could call it that.A trained assassin twice as strong as Superman is looking for one of your journalists and he isn’t hoping to fill her in about life on the planet Krypton.
He sat down, eyes taking in every corner of the lobby. No amount of cajoling or persuasion was going to get him past the reception. He watched a procession of employees enter, each in turn running an ID badge over the turnstile. The guards, he noted, were keeping an eye on him. Even if he could steal a badge, he’d have to find another way in.
A clock high on the wall read 3:45.
He checked his phone. Still no response from London Li to his email or his voice messages. Most likely, the email had never made it to her inbox, had been filtered out for one reason or another and sent to a file reserved for spam or junk. As for his voice messages, either she hadn’t checked them or she thought he was unhinged. If he received a message from an anonymous woman telling him to stop looking into an important matter and immediately seek protection, he would delete it without thinking twice.If you’re going to tell me my life’s in danger, you’d better have the courtesy to leave your name.
Simon gave a last look around the building and stood. This wasn’t going anywhere. There was only one thing to do. If Mohammed couldn’t go to the mountain, he would bring the mountain to him.
Once outside, he walked around the corner and called theFT’s main number.
“Financial TimesAsia. How may I direct your call?”
“Yeah, listen,” said Simon. “There is an explosive device in your office. You have five minutes until it goes off. Consider this fair warning. Bang!”
He ended the call. Eventually it would be tracked back to him, but the phone was a burner and he hadn’t left his name on any of the messages for London Li. Anyway, he didn’t care about “eventually.” He crossed the street and took up position where he could see into the ground floor of the tower. Almost immediately he noted a flurry of activity. Guards opened all sets of doors, locking them in place. Emergency lights in each corner flashed blue and white. Workers began streaming out of the building and congregating in the entry plaza, first in a trickle, then quickly, a torrent.
Simon had studied photographs of London Li he’d pulled off the net. She was a striking woman, Eurasian, maybe thirty years old, her most recognizable feature her toffee-colored hair. By now, nearly two hundred people were milling about the plaza. She was not among them.
He brought up a list of theFTmanagement. If London were actively working the story—and all evidence pointed to the fact that she was—she would certainly have discussed it with a managing editor. There were two: Anson Ho and Mandy Blume. He looked at their pictures.
He saw Blume at once, standing at a far corner of the plaza, nearest the walkway leading into the building. She was a blond, elegantly bedraggled woman who reminded him of an aging rocker…if, that is, the rocker had traded her denims and lace for a cream-colored skirt and snazzy blouse. He made eye contact with the woman as he approached, taking her by the arm and leading her away from the others.
“Excuse me,” said the woman. “Just what in the—”
“Where is London Li?”
