6
Singapore
The port of Singapore was one of the busiest in the
world, its sprawling docks occupying several square miles of the
island state’s limited land. Tens of thousands of shipping
containers were stacked throughout the great concrete expanse, huge
long-legged gantry cranes trundling back and forth from the moored
globetrotting megaships in an intricate computer-directed ballet,
gripping the steel boxes in their cable-mounted ‘spreader’
mechanisms.
On the port’s
fringes, the walls of containers gave way to warehouses and
offices. One in particular was the subject of Eddie’s attention as
he waited with Kit and several officers from Singapore’s police and
customs forces, sheltered from the rain beneath an awning. Across a
wide road leading deeper into the metal maze was a two-storey cabin
with a sign reading S Q West
Import-Export, the upper floor’s windows illuminated behind
Venetian blinds. ‘He’s working late,’ he said, looking at his
watch. It was after nine p.m.
‘Many nights, Mr West
doesn’t leave until almost midnight - and some nights he doesn’t
leave at all,’ said Go Ayu. The Singapore Police Force staff
sergeant was in her early thirties, of mixed Japanese and Thai
descent, prim and formal in her dark blue uniform despite the
humidity and the rain.
‘Can’t have much of a
social life, then.’
‘He has enough to
keep good friends with some of Singapore’s most important people.
He is a very well-connected man.’
‘Connected enough to
keep him out of trouble?’ Kit asked.
‘Yes,’ said Rosman
Jefri, one of the customs agents. ‘Three years ago, Mr West was
suspected of involvement in smuggling. His office and home were
raided, but nothing was found – and he sued the government. Not
only did he win, but the officer in charge was
demoted.’
‘But now Interpol is
involved, it will be harder for West to get his friends to apply
pressure,’ said Ayu. ‘And it gives us another advantage. We have
thought about trying to entrap him by asking him to transport an
illegal cargo, but he is a clever man and will spot undercover
agents.’
Eddie cocked his
head, puzzled. ‘Wouldn’t that get chucked right out of
court?’
‘Entrapment is legal
here,’ Kit explained. ‘So if a stranger asks if you want to buy
drugs . . . don’t.’
‘Good job I forgot my
crack pipe. So, if we use someone from outside Singapore, you
reckon that’ll make West more likely to do something
dodgy?’
Rosman nodded. ‘If he
agrees to an illegal act, that gives us the pretext we need to
arrest him and seize his records.’
‘Before he can
destroy them, we hope,’ added Ayu.
‘I think we can make
sure of that,’ said Eddie.
‘You keep saying
“we”, Eddie,’ objected Kit. ‘I will be
going to see West – alone. I appreciate your working with Sergeant
Go to move everything along, but you’re a civilian, not a police
officer. This is up to me now.’
‘What, with that
cover story you came up with? It’s too obvious – he’ll be
suspicious right from the off.’ He rubbed the lapel of Kit’s pale
blue suit jacket; it was obvious from its fit alone that it was not
an expensively tailored garment. ‘No offence, but you’re dressed
like a cop.’
Kit looked offended.
‘Then give me your jacket. No policeman
I know would wear anything like that!’
‘Ooh, listen to Derek
bloody Zoolander ’ere!’ said Eddie, pretending to be outraged. ‘All
right, swap.’ He took off his leather jacket and traded it for
Kit’s. ‘Still think it’s a bad idea for you to go in on your own,
though.’ He turned to Ayu. ‘Does West have any history of
violence?’
‘Not Mr West
himself,’ she said. ‘But he employs security guards . . . and some
of them have violent backgrounds.’
Eddie looked at the
cabin. Figures moved behind the slats; West had company. ‘So, Kit,
your plan is to go alone into the office of a dodgy bloke with
nasty bodyguards and try to entrap him. Yeah, that’s
sensible.’
‘We are right
outside,’ Rosman pointed out.
‘Not close enough if
things turn bad in a hurry – and you can’t see much through those
blinds. Ayu, he needs support, and you know it. Let me go as well –
if he’s the client, I can be his bodyguard.’
‘Eddie, you are not
going with me,’ insisted Kit.
He didn’t listen.
‘Come on, Ayu. It’s your turf, not Interpol’s.’ With meaning, he
added: ‘A favour for a favour.’
Ayu was conflicted,
her eyes flicking between Eddie and Kit. ‘It . . . would make sense
for Mr Jindal to have backup,’ she finally said. ‘And since Mr West
would spot any of our own men . . . ’
‘There we go,’ said
Eddie, grinning at Kit. ‘I’ll watch your back.’
The Indian was
displeased, but grudgingly nodded. ‘Okay. But Eddie, leave all the
talking to me, yes? Just stand behind me and look
menacing.’
Another grin. ‘I
think I can manage that.’
Five minutes later,
having tested the tiny microphone concealed under Kit’s clothing,
the two men set off for the cabin, shielded from the rain beneath
umbrellas. ‘I still think this is a mistake,’ Kit grumbled. ‘How
did you get Ayu to agree? Why does she owe you a
favour?’
‘I helped her out of
a tight spot about six years back,’ said Eddie. ‘She went after
some drug dealers without backup. Not a smart move.’
‘Well, no. They would
have been desperate – Singapore has the death penalty for drug
smuggling.’
‘Turned out to be
redundant for this lot after I finished with’em.’ They crossed the
road. ‘Still not sure about your cover story, though. It’s all a
bit too convenient, your supposed mutual friend just happening to
be unavailable right now because he got arrested.’
‘It’s the best we
have. But it’s time for you to be quiet. I’m sure even you can
manage that for five minutes.’
‘Cheeky bugger,’ said
Eddie as Kit pushed the buzzer.
A light came on
behind the door, which opened to reveal a thick-necked Malay man.
He regarded them suspiciously. ‘Yeah? What you want?’
Kit opened his mouth
to speak, but Eddie beat him to it. ‘Good evening!’ he boomed,
doing his best Roger Moore impression. ‘I’m here to see Mr West.’
The man stared at him; he continued irritably, ‘Come on, it’s a
bloody monsoon out here. Let us in!’
The man frowned. ‘Who
are you?’
‘Smythe’s the name,
James St John Smythe. Now chop-chop, I’ve come a long way. There’s
a lot of money at stake, so don’t keep me waiting.’
The mention of money
did the trick, and the man waved them inside. ‘Your name again? Mr
. . . Smith?’
‘Smythe,’ proclaimed Eddie. ‘With a y and an e. Now,
where is he?’ A flight of stairs led to the top floor. ‘Up there?
Marvellous. Lead on, there’s a good chap.’
The man ascended the
stairs, gesturing for them to follow. ‘What are you doing?’ Kit hissed through his teeth.
‘I told you, you’re
too obviously a cop,’ Eddie whispered back. ‘But he’ll never
suspect a posh Englishman.’
‘Wait – that was
meant to be posh?’ said Kit in disbelief.
‘Why, what did you
think it sounded like?’
‘Like you had
something stuck up your nose!’
Eddie huffed as they
reached the top of the stairs. ‘What do you know? Anyway, we’re
here.’ The man opened a door. ‘Thank you,’ he said, reverting to
his affected accent and selfconsciously trying not to sound too
nasal.
Tinny jazz music from
a CD player reached them as they entered the office. Racks of
floor-to-ceiling shelving containing hundreds of box files ran
along the rear wall. Another Malay man, even more hulking than the
first, sat at a desk piled with documents. He looked up
suspiciously.
The room’s far end
was incongruously homely, a hefty antique desk of lacquered teak
positioned almost like a barricade to cut its occupier off from the
rest of the workspace. As well as a pair of telephones and several
trays of papers, the desk was home to not one but two computers: a
modern black and chrome laptop and, less impressively, an extremely
outdated PC, its beige casing discoloured with nicotine. A faded
picture of what Eddie assumed was Singapore some decades ago hung
on the wall, an only slightly less old portrait of the Queen of
England beside another door.
The man behind the
desk was obese, a triple chin cupping a sun-reddened face. Despite
the whirring desk fan fluttering the strands of his comb-over, he
was glistening with sweat, in large part because he was wearing a
three-piece tweed suit and a cravat. Eddie guessed him to be in his
early sixties. His underling spoke in Malay, getting a fluent reply
in the same language, then the fat man switched to English to
address the new arrivals. ‘And what can I do for you gentlemen?’ He
too had a plummy accent, but unlike Eddie’s attempt it sounded
genuine. ‘I don’t often take meetings after normal business hours,
but since the weather is so ghastly it would be rude to turn you
away.’
‘I’m delighted to
hear it,’ Eddie replied. ‘My name is Smythe, James St John Smythe.
This is my associate, Mr Jindal.’
‘Stamford West.
Please, sit.’
‘Thank you.’ Eddie
took a place on a folding chair facing West, Kit beside him. The
man who had shown them in, he noticed in his peripheral vision,
remained standing with his arms folded, one hand slipped slightly
inside his jacket to give him easy access to whatever weapon was
concealed there. ‘Now, I know these are unusual circumstances, but
I wish to engage your business.’
‘I see.’ West’s eyes
were piggy, but also sharp and intelligent, already suspicious.
‘And how did you come to hear about me?’
‘We have a mutual
friend, Kazim bin Shukri.’
‘Ah. And how is old
Kazim?’
‘Having a spot of
bother with the customs folk in South Africa, poor
chap.’
‘Inconvenient,’ said
West, the first syllable barely audible.
Eddie didn’t rise to
the bait, pretending not to have noticed the vague accusation. ‘For
me, definitely – he owed me ten thousand dollars at
backgammon.’
‘Oh, another player?’
said West. ‘I do enjoy a match, although Kazim is too good for my
liking. Where did you play?’
Bin Shukri’s regular
gambling haunt was an item that had come up during Kit’s cover
briefing . . . and its name had slipped Eddie’s mind. ‘That little
place in Macao,’ he said, remembering one scrap of information and
struggling to recall the rest. He could tell that Kit was desperate
to mouth the name, but with West watching them both intently the
prompt would be spotted instantly. ‘Some flower, what’s its name?
The, ah, the Red Lotus, that’s the one. Nice place. Good
martinis.’
He had no idea if the
Red Lotus even had a bar, but West appeared satisfied – for the
moment. ‘You had better luck than I did playing against him there,
Mr Smythe. Now, what’s this business of yours?’
Again, a cover story
had been worked out, but to Eddie’s mind it was too contrived for
West to accept. Instead, he took something he had heard about from
Nina as a starting point . . . with his own embellishments. ‘Well,
old chap, I’m sure you’ve heard about the archaeological dig the
Chinese have been doing at the tomb of the First Emperor, at
Xi’an.’
‘Hard not to in these
parts,’ said West, with a faint chuckle that set his chins
rippling.
‘Quite so. They’ve
been picking at the tomb for a while to excavate the outer chambers
– they’re afraid to go too deep inside because they think it’s
cursed, can you believe it? Anyway, they’ve brought out various
artefacts, all of which are obviously extremely valuable. I have,
shall we say, come into ownership of one of them.’
The corpulent man
appeared surprised. ‘I wasn’t aware that the Chinese government was
selling them.’
Eddie smiled. ‘Nor
are they. One of the archaeologists had built up quite a gambling
debt in Macao.’
‘Interesting. What is
the artefact?’
‘A jade pagoda.’ He
held one hand above the other, eighteen inches apart. ‘About yea
high. Quite exquisite. Problem is, I need to get it out of China.
They’re rather keen to recover it.’
‘I can imagine.’ West
leaned back in his chair. ‘And you think I can somehow help you
with this?’
‘You came highly
recommended as someone who can transport goods . . . while avoiding
official checks.’
‘I would point out
that smuggling is illegal.’
‘I’m aware of that.
But can you help anyway?’
A long silence. Kit
shifted in his seat, the intense interest of a cop staring down a
suspect plain on his face. Eddie pretended to stretch, nudging him
to break his concentration. ‘I obviously can’t agree to be part of
anything illegal,’ said West at last. ‘And for all I know, you
might be working for the Singapore police, trying to entrap
me.’
Kit tensed again, but
Eddie held out his arms with an expansive gesture. ‘Oh, come now.
Do I really sound Singaporean?’
‘I’m not sure
what you sound like, Mr Smythe.’ Now it
was Eddie’s turn to stiffen. Had West realised the deception – or
had he known all along and simply been toying with them? ‘But . . .
I must admit, your story is unlikely enough to be true. No
policeman I’ve ever met had that vivid an
imagination.’
‘They are a
block-headed bunch, aren’t they?’ Eddie said. Kit laughed
flatly.
West leaned forward
and worked his laptop. ‘This artefact of yours, where is it
now?’
‘Hong
Kong.’
‘And where are you
planning to take it?’ He was still being slippery, Eddie realised;
not saying anything that could be taken as agreement to
participate.
‘England.’
‘A tad vague. Where
in England?’
‘Near Tenterden, in
Kent. Blackwood Hall, my estate.’ It had actually been the estate
of Sophia’s father, where Eddie received an extremely chilly
welcome the one and only time he was invited there in the company
of his first wife.
West was impressed.
‘Really? Did you know Lord Blackwood?’ he asked as he continued
tapping at the keyboard.
‘Only slightly.
Bought the estate from his, er, estate after he died. Got it for a
song – he was massively in debt, don’t you know.’
‘So I heard. I assume
you want the item shipped as soon as possible.’
‘The sooner the
better.’
West nodded, then
swivelled his bulk round to face the second, older computer. He
pushed a button, and with a bleep and a shrill whine of fans it
started up. Eddie could just about see the screen from where he was
sitting: green text on a black background. He also noticed that a
modern memory card reader had been connected via a black box to one
of its rear ports. ‘Rather an old machine,’ said Eddie. He nodded
towards the laptop. ‘Why not use that one?’
‘For security. Older
hardware has its advantages,’ said West. He bent down with a grunt
to collect something out of sight behind the desk. ‘For one, it has
no Internet connection, so it’s immune to viruses and spyware. For
another, the hard drive doesn’t act as a cache.’
Eddie gave Kit a
puzzled look. ‘He means it doesn’t keep a copy of your open files
in virtual memory,’ the younger man explained.
‘Quite so,’ said
West, levering himself upright. In one hand he had a small
transparent case, which he popped open to reveal a MicroSD memory
card, a sliver of black plastic the size of a thumbnail. ‘You can
be betrayed by your own computer, you know – its hard drive is full
of invisible copies of your files that any half-competent
technician can recover.’ He slotted the little card into the
reader, then typed commands. Columns of green text scrolled up the
screen. ‘This may be slow and outdated, but it can still run a
spreadsheet.’
Eddie and Kit
exchanged glances. West obviously kept the sole records of his
illegal operations on the memory card. If they could take it from
him, they might find the information they were after.
But the fat man
wasn’t likely to give it up without a fight, even if he wouldn’t be
the one to throw the punches. The goon who let them in had taken up
a more alert stance, and the second man had left his desk and was
lurking behind the two visitors. In the time it would take the cops
outside to reach the office, the card could be hidden, even
destroyed.
And now West’s
expression had changed. It wasn’t outright suspicion, but caution,
a feeling that he needed one more test to be passed before being
fully satisfied. ‘It must have been very gratifying to beat a
player as good as Kazim,’ he said. ‘Especially for such high
stakes. How many times did you redouble?’
Eddie had no idea
what West meant. His entire knowledge of backgammon came from one
scene in the James Bond movie Octopussy, and since both players had been cheating
that wasn’t a great deal of help. He assumed it was some kind of
bet, like raising in poker, but what would be a believable
answer?
And what if the
question was a trick? Maybe redoubling, whatever that was, wasn’t
allowed at the Red Lotus . . .
West expected an
answer, though. So did his men, the two Malays tensing as the
silence drew out.
He would have to
bluff. ‘Oh, I don’t really remember. The whole evening went by in a
bit of a haze!’
The overweight man
stared at him . . . then his eyes flicked up to his men in an
obvious sign of warning. Shit! He had failed the test; however hazy
the evening, he would have been expected to remember if the Red
Lotus allowed redoubling – and it was now clear that it
didn’t.
West pulled the card
from the reader and sat back. ‘You know, Mr Smythe, I’m afraid I
won’t be able to help with your shipping needs after all. I don’t
want to be involved in anything illegal. Terribly sorry. Now, it’s
rather late, so my associates will escort you out.’
Reluctantly, Eddie
and Kit stood, the Interpol agent shooting the Englishman an angry
look. Eddie couldn’t blame him. The fish had shunned the bait, and
without West’s entrapment the listening Singaporeans had no pretext
on which to raid the office.
Unless they responded
to some other incident . . .
The two Malays
ushered Kit and Eddie to the door. Eddie glanced back. West was
returning the memory card to its case, pudgy fingers fumbling with
the tiny plastic sliver. They passed a window—
‘Oi!’ Eddie suddenly
yelled, bogus accent gone as he whirled to face one of his escorts.
‘Get your fucking hands off me!’
The man froze,
startled . . .
And Eddie hurled him
bodily through the window.