“Wait.” An effort to free her arm, to no avail. “Who are you?”
“A friend. Someone who wants to make sure that she’s safe. My name is Simon Riske. Has she told you about PetroSaud? Has she mentioned the name Hadrian Lester?”
“Riske…Are you R?”
“R is dead. His name was Rafael de Bourbon. He was killed in the embassy shooting in Bangkok two days ago. I was there. Rafa—Mr. De Bourbon—had agreed to turn over information he’d taken from PetroSaud in exchange for his freedom and—”
“Why would he do that? I’m not following you—Mr.Riske,is it?”
Simon fought down his desire to hurry, to blast through the story. It was imperative she understand what London had gotten herself into. “PetroSaud owed Rafa a five-million-Swiss-franc bonus. When they didn’t pay, he threatened to make public what he knew about them—information he’d gathered while an employee of theirs four years back. The stuff you guys are figuring out about Indonesia and Malaysia and Brunei.”
Mandy Blume’s face darkened. “How do you know we’re looking into those countries?”
“Let me go on.” Simon was not about to admit he’d entered London Li’s apartment. “PetroSaud didn’t bite. They had Rafa arrested and jailed in Thailand. Just before, he sent London Li a note giving her clues as to what went down. Rafa was killed because of what he knew. So was a man named Malloy, who was his boss. I have proof that the killer is here in Singapore…right now.” He leveled his gaze at the woman. “He’s here to take care of London Li.”
“‘Take care of’?”
“Kill her.”
Blume was having none of it. “It was you who called in the bomb threat?”
“I couldn’t get upstairs. She isn’t answering her phone or responding to my emails. Do you know where she is?”
“Yes, but I won’t tell you.”
Simon took her by the arms. “Look at me. I have the files Rafa took from PetroSaud. Thousands of them. Emails, texts. This story is bigger than any of us think. It goes beyond defrauding the funds of billions. Ms. Blume…Mandy…you have to trust me. I’m an investigator, too. A different kind, but we’re after the same things, you and me. I have every reason to believe an attempt will be made on London Li’s life today…at any minute. This is happening now. Call her. Tell her to find a policeman and stay close to him. If she can’t, she needs to come here.”
Mandy Blume stared at him, disbelief and fear softening to acceptance. “I don’t know if she’ll answer. She’s meeting someone. It’s about this.”
“Who? Where?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“What is it that you don’t understand?” demanded Simon. “London Li’s life is at stake.”
“You better not be lying to me, you son of a bitch.” Mandy Blume shot him a withering glance. “She’s meeting with Hadrian Lester. Tanjong market. Four o’clock.”
“It’s a setup. Lester is part of it. At the top, I think. No way he’d talk to a reporter. He knows everything that’s going on. Call her.”
Blume put her phone to her ear, shaking her head a moment later to indicate that there was no answer. “London, this is Mandy. Call me as soon as you get this. I know this may sound crazy, but you need to get somewhere safe. Find a policeman and stay with him. Just do it. You’re in a great deal of danger. Hadrian Lester is not coming. Call me.”
“Where is Tanjong market?” asked Simon, feeling the seconds running out, desperate to act…to do something, anything.
“Three blocks that way. Shall I call the police?”
“Yes…no…do what you want. I have to run.”
Chapter 44
Singapore
London Li arrived at the southeast entrance to the Tanjong market precisely at four p.m. She rarely came to this spot during the week and was surprised to find it every bit as busy as on the weekend. Mostly tourists, she noted, meandering here and there, slowing at every stall, enjoying the colorful sights and enticing smells. This wasn’t an ambush. It was an interview, strictly on the record, and she’d prepared accordingly. She’d committed to memory details of every fund HW had managed over the past five years. Amounts, dates, principals. And the flip side as well. Where and how the fund managers had invested the billions raised, especially when the investments involved PetroSaud.
She had been reminded that sovereign wealth funds derived the largest part of their funding from the country’s own surpluses: gains from foreign currency transactions, unspent taxes (as rare as the concept may seem), and bond issues. It was the fund manager’s duty to invest the proceeds to benefit the shareholders—in this case, the country’s own citizens. Norway, to take an example, ran a fund valued at over one trillion U.S. dollars, or two hundred thousand dollars per citizen. The idea, then, that Hadrian Lester had used his position and influence to funnel billions of dollars into PetroSaud’s phony oil leases enraged her. He wasn’t stealing from the rich and giving to the poor. He was stuffing his grubby hands into the pockets of every taxpaying citizen and snatching their hard-earned money for his own personal gain. It was abhorrent.
For the moment, however, London had only supposition. Photos taken at celebratory dinners did not constitute hard evidence. R’s stolen information, while admissible in court, simply wasn’t enough. She had a big fat handful of speculation, as substantial as fairy dust. It was a conspiracy theory that any defense lawyer worth his salt could deconstruct with his hands tied behind his back. It was her job, then, to convince Hadrian Lester that she had more than fairy dust, more than a theory, that she already possessed evidence that would undeniably implicate Lester and HW, and thus convince him to tell her the truth.
No small task.
