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.”
But instead of running, she came closer, as if drawn to the spectacle, oblivious to the fact that her life was in peril.
“Go!”
The crowd parted. There were no cries; there was just an orderly retreat from the altercation, whatever its cause. Singaporeans were restrained in all things. All except an elderly hawker who, having decided that Shaka was the troublemaker, advanced on him, loosing a torrent of Chinese invective. Simon lunged at the old man, driving him away. Too late. Shaka staggered forward blindly, his right hand swinging in a wide arc, landing on the old man’s neck. The hawker fell back, a welt on his skin. He cried out in pain, but the protest died in his throat. His mouth opened wider. He collapsed to his knees.
An arm’s length away, Simon sprayed the Mace once more into Shaka’s face, a five-second blast, the South African recoiling, hands flailing, calling out, “Riske. You’re dead.”
Simon hit him in the jaw, an uppercut with everything he had, momentum carrying him off the balls of his feet. Shaka fell to the ground. Simon landed on his chest, knee to the sternum, driving the wind from him. He had liberated a further item from the Singaporean cop—handcuffs—and he threw one on Shaka’s wrist, clamping it as tightly as he could—payback for the brutal knots that had bound his hands and feet two nights earlier. The other cuff he attached to the leg of a dining table planted in the pavement.
The hawker fell against Simon, then slid to the ground. Foam issued from his mouth. His body spasmed. He lay still, eyes wide. There was no mistaking the scent of bitter almonds.
Simon took a handful of Shaka’s hair. “Guess I can hold my breath longer than you thought,” he said. He slammed his skull against the pavement, once, twice. Shaka fell unconscious.
Simon got to his feet, face flushed, dizzy with rage. He took London Li by the arm and started toward the south entrance to the market. “Don’t you check your messages?”
She fought to free herself. “What just happened? The old man…he’s dead.” A confused look, turning to consternation, then anger. “Who are you, anyway?”
“I’m the one who told your boss that you were in danger.”
Finally, she yanked her arm free. “Mandy?”
Simon nodded. “That man back there…it was you he was after.”
“My God. It’s true. What you said.”
“Yes,” said Simon. “It is.” They reached the main road. “Which way?”
“Where are we going?”
“Somewhere far from here. We need to talk.”
London Li started to the left, then stopped abruptly. “You didn’t tell me your name.”
“Simon Riske. With an e.”
Chapter 45
Herzliya, Israel
Are you seeing this?”
Danni Pine stared, transfixed, at the screen high on the wall of the Café Bohème in Herzliya where a cable news channel broadcast images of the Spanish embassy in Bangkok. A procession of gurneys leaving a side entrance. A line of ambulances. Horrified onlookers. A cordon of police officers. Then photographs of the victims. The sound was off, but it made no difference.
Her father, retired General Zev Franck, founder of the SON Group, looked over his shoulder and stared at the screen for a few seconds, long enough to digest what was going on and decide he didn’t need to see any more. He was a trim man, seventy years