She wandered through the market, eyes peeled for the tall, dark-haired banker. The time was five minutes past four. Though the market was not exceptionally large, maybe a hundred paces end to end, it was a hectic, bustling sieve. In her excitement at landing the interview, she’d failed to specify an exact location. How silly it would be if she somehow missed him. It was always the reporter’s fault.
London felt someone bump into her and stumbled. She turned rapidly, ready to savage the offender. “Excuse me,” she said with malice.
A wizened amah smiled apologetically, taking her grandson in hand, scolding him. London smiled belatedly, waving at the little boy.You need to calm down,she told herself.
Her phone buzzed and she saw that she’d received a voice mail from Mandy.What now?She looked everywhere for Hadrian Lester. How difficult could it be to locate a six-foot-three-inchgwai lobanker in a dark suit? She decided that it was best to wait in one place and let him come to her.
Her phone buzzed.
Mandy.Again.
London brought up the voice mail and read a transcription of the first message.“…this may sound crazy…you need to get somewhere safe. Find a policeman…You’re in a great deal of danger. Hadrian Lester is not coming.”
Lester wasn’t coming? How did Mandy know? Had he called her?
Only then did London digest the rest of the message. The important part.“You’re in a great deal of danger…find a policeman.”The words didn’t go with the Mandy she knew. Not one bit. Mandy was the last person to be afraid of anything, the rebel who proudly spit in the eye of authority.
But this wasn’t about Mandy. It was about her.
“…in a great deal of danger…”
A bolt of fear, as cold as ice, ran the length of her spine. She had no idea what the message could be referring to, but whatever it was, it had shaken Mandy. London appraised her surroundings with a new wariness. Nothing had changed. She sensed no evil vibe. Everything appeared normal. The little boy who’d bumped into her stood a few feet away, gazing at her. She tried but couldn’t muster a smile.
She recalled the anonymous email warning her to be careful.“Others are aware of your interest…”
She started up the pavement, heading north, hoping to see a policeman, finding it hard to remember the last time she’d seen a uniformed cop on the streets. She threaded her way through the stalls, her steps assuming a hasty rhythm, something inside her…something she had no control over…urging her to hurry, to get clear of the market.
Ahead, a woman cried out. A commotion. A ruffle in the crowd.
London froze, not knowing if she should go forward or back.
She was dressed in black jeans and a tan stretch T-shirt, her hair pulled back into a ponytail. The glasses had almost thrown him off: large black frames that gave her a professorial look. Then again, Lester had said she’d be coming from her offices at theFinancial Times.
Shaka left his position behind the busy food stall and moved slowly up the row of stands behind London Li. Next to him, a family of Americans had gathered around a chef making noodles from scratch. Shaka paused beside them, pretending to look on as the chef spun the mass of dough between his fingers, stretching it and dividing it, twirling it in the air until he’d created a latticework of slim noodles that stretched from arm to arm.
From the corner of his eye, he saw the reporter check her phone. Her bearing changed in an instant. Her motions grew jerky, head turning this way and that, eyes flitting here, there, everywhere. Whatever she’d read or seen on her phone, it had rattled her. She left the spot where she’d been standing for the past few minutes and started toward him. With one stride, he could reach her. He could snap her neck and be five steps away before she dropped to the ground.
Do it,he told himself, fingers tingling.Now. Be done with it.
The woman looked directly at him, then spun and walked in the opposite direction.
Shaka gave pursuit. His right hand dropped into his pocket, fingers closing around the mosquito. He slipped the device from his pocket, thumb cocking the hammer. Deftly, he nicked the cap of the cyanide cartridge and pressed it into the barrel.
He lengthened his stride, closing the distance between them. His eyes searched for the best spot to hit her. The base of the neck? Maybe higher up, near the jawline? Or the forearm? He couldn’t risk penetrating her clothing, for even a small amount of the toxin might be lost on the fabric.
He drew closer, close enough to see how the strands of her hair were different colors, to note the fine texture of her skin. She was a beautiful woman. A shame.
He noted a commotion at the entry to the market. A ripple in the current of shoppers. He saw a uniform, now two, and cupped the mosquito in his palm. Then relief. Not police officers. Bus drivers, coffee cups in hand.
Shaka smiled to himself. A last step, close enough to smell her perfume, to see the downy hairs running along the nape of her finely shaped neck. He reached out a hand. There, he decided, just below her perfectly shaped mole…
“Shaka!”
Simon grabbed the man from behind and spun him around. He held a can of Mace in his hand, a silent gift from one of the police officers in Mapletree Anson plaza, and he sprayed it in Shaka’s eyes, a prolonged blast from a distance of inches. Shaka grunted, his head jerking to one side, cap falling to the ground. His right arm lashed out, and Simon saw something shiny and silver in his palm. Not a knife, but a weapon all the same. He was sure of it. He caught Shaka by the wrist, but even incapacitated he was too strong to control. Bending at the waist, Simon twisted the man’s wrist, forcing Shaka’s arm to his side. At the same time, he swept the assassin’s feet out from under him, causing him to topple onto his back. As he went down, Shaka struck out with his left hand, balled into a fist, the blow landing on Simon’s cheek, stunning him. For a moment, he relaxed his grip. Shaka shook his right hand free, rolled, was on his feet.
Steps away, London Li looked on in horror.
“Go!” shouted Simon. “Get out of here.”
