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 the FT’s main number.
“Financial Times Asia. 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 the FT management. 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?”
“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