at his disposal, Sun had taken this as his cue.
Three years later, he was here with a film.
Sun finished his tea, showered and dressed for the day. He had a lunch at the Carlton with a reporter from Le Monde, followed by a meeting with a Scandinavian distributor, a dapper Icelandic man with a name he couldn’t pronounce.
A look in the mirror before he departed. Ivory suit. White shirt. Black necktie. And, of course, his eyeglasses: black, round, and thick, inherited from General Tojo, Philip Johnson, I. M. Pei, and now to claim as his own: Samson Min Chung Sun. Who is this interesting chap staring back at me?
As his fellow Harrovian Winston Churchill might have described him, Sun was a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma.
He wouldn’t have it any other way.
Chapter 17
Bangkok
A black Mercedes-Benz sedan waited outside the international arrivals hall of Bangkok Suvarnabhumi Airport. A chauffeur in livery stood beside it, holding a sign with his name. SIRMON RISK.
“That’s me,” said Simon. “I think.”
“Welcome to Thailand, sir. First time?”
“Yes.”
“Very hot. May hottest month.”
“You’re not kidding.” Simon had been outside less than a minute and already the heat weighed on him, the air humid and oppressive, smelling of jet fuel, woodsmoke, and a thousand foreign spices. He told the driver he’d keep his bag and allowed him to open the passenger door. A wave of air-conditioning greeted him as he slid into the back seat. A man sat next to the opposite door. Dark suit. Necktie. Neatly combed hair. A hyena’s smile. Hundred to one a lawyer.
“Adamson,” said the man. “George Adamson. Welcome to Thailand, Mr. Riske.”
Surprise number one: Dickie Blackmon hadn’t mentioned he was sending someone to meet him. Just as well. Simon was eager to hit the ground running. The men exchanged pleasantries as the car entered the freeway and headed into the city. A business card was proffered stating that Mr. George Adamson was a partner in the firm of Dewey, Cheatem, and Howe. Of course, that wasn’t the name. Simon recognized the firm nonetheless. A multinational power player with offices in capitals around the world.
As a rule, Simon liked British lawyers and disliked French ones. He had less experience with American attorneys. Adamson appeared lean and eager, addicted to his stair-stepper and egg-white omelettes, more or less his own age, a man on the make. Only thing missing was a choke collar to rein him in when he got a little too ambitious. Securing Rafael de Bourbon’s release might well be his ticket to the big time. Partners did not meet clients at the airport.
“Not sure if Mr. Blackmon gave you all the details when you last spoke, but here’s the lay of the land. Over the last twenty-four hours, PetroSaud has turned over abundant evidence incriminating your friend Mr. De Bourbon in the crimes of which he stands accused. Emails, texts, recordings of phone calls between Mr. De Bourbon and Paul Malloy.”
“Who’s that?”
“Malloy was De Bourbon’s superior at PetroSaud. He’s the man De Bourbon was extorting.”
“That was fast.”
“They’ve been keeping an eye on De Bourbon for a while,” said Adamson. “PetroSaud has gone a step further. They’ve engaged a cybersecurity firm to dig up records of De Bourbon’s having stolen confidential information. Your friend is guilty. No question.”
“Is it illegal if he accessed the information while an employee?”
“No. But it is illegal to take the information from the premises. And it is illegal to threaten to make it public if he isn’t paid what he believes is owed him.”
“How much are we talking about?”
“Five million Swiss francs. Deferred bonus.”
“I’d be upset, too.”
“Mr. De Bourbon’s personal grievance is beside the point. There are other means of remedy than corporate theft and extortion.”
“And now PetroSaud wants the information back.”
“Precisely.”
“Any idea what he stole?”
“That’s not our concern. Our concern is getting Mr. De Bourbon out of jail and back to his wife so he can get on with his life.”
“Who are we dealing with? You said his name was Paul Malloy.”
“The principal managing partner of PetroSaud is Tarek Al-Obeidi, a Saudi national, though we haven’t heard from him. Right now the point man is Colonel Albert Tan.”
Simon remembered the bio of Tan, which “Iron Ben” Sterling had provided. “Why is Tan involved in a garden-variety case of corporate blackmail? I see this kind of thing a dozen times a year in the UK. Disgruntled employee threatens to reveal company secrets, divulge recipe for the proprietary secret sauce. I don’t recall the director of MI5