“Seems you were right about her being guilty as sin,” said Mandy. “But what’s the cause?”
Simon went on: “There are numerous mentions of Prato Bornum, but the one I found the most interesting is a note sent to Al-Obeidi from an email handle, ‘Aquila’—that’s Italian for ‘eagle.’” Simon brought up the flagged message. “‘See you at meeting of principals at the Crillon in Paris. Prato Bornum, Luca.’”
“‘Meeting of principals,’” said London. “Fund managers?”
“Or believers in the cause,” said Simon. “Like Nadya Sukarno.”
“The cause of purity, piety, and preservation.”
“So then,” said Mandy, waving her cigarette, “who the hell is Luca the eagle?”
“That’s the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question,” said Simon. “That’s the second time I’d heard the name. Like I said, Colonel Tan took a call from a man named Luca immediately before he reneged on the deal to free Rafa. Tan spoke Italian with him. My guess is that Luca had managed to get his hands on the information Rafa had stolen and no longer required his cooperation to get it back. He was expendable. When I asked Shaka about Luca, he became upset, telling me I wasn’t fit to utter his name. It’s clear that ‘Luca the eagle’ is the man in charge.” Simon stood from the desk, crossing his arms. “Something else Shaka said bothers me. When I asked him what he and Luca, and those behind this, were going to do about purity, piety, and preservation, he told me that I and the rest of the world would find out next week.”
“Next week?” said London, writing feverishly on her notepad.
“Was he boasting? You know…puffing out his chest?” said Mandy.
“In my view, he was referencing a threat.”
“Did he say anything specific?”
“Not about that. He just told me to take a deep breath and threw me in the river.”
Mandy touched his arm. “Lucky dear.”
Simon thought of the monk, his words about a guardian angel looking after him. “Very lucky.”
“I don’t suppose you can let us make a copy of the files,” said London.
“They’re yours.” He regarded Mandy. “There is something you can help me with.”
“I knew this was coming,” said Mandy, then with abundant gratitude: “Of course I’ll help. I’m all ears, Mr. Riske.”
“I want to talk to Hadrian Lester. Now. While he’s off-balance and before he can lawyer up. Do you know where he is?”
“No, but I know someone who does.” Mandy stamped out her cigarette and picked up her phone. “Michael,” she said when her husband had answered. “Need a favor. Don’t ask any questions. You have two minutes to tell me where I can find Hadrian Lester.”
Mandy hung up. She gave London a nudge, head inclined toward Simon. “He certainly sounds like he knows what he’s talking about. Bit of a ruffian, though. Not bad looking if you go in for that type.” Her eyes painted Simon up and down, saying that she, Mandy Blume, very much went in for that type.
“Sorry,” said Simon. “I didn’t have time to stop at my tailor.”
“I’ll give you some of Michael’s things. He’s a bit bigger around the waist, smaller other places, otherwise they should do nicely.”
The phone buzzed and Mandy snatched it to her ear. “Thank you, darling,” she said. “Won’t ask again.” She ended the call. “As of ten minutes ago, Hadrian Lester, vice chairman of HW, can be found at the SKAI Bar on the seventy-fifth floor of the Stamford Swissôtel presiding over a cocktail party to announce HW’s newest piece of business. It’s another sovereign wealth fund. Guess what? Future Indonesia 3.”
Chapter 47
Singapore
Situated at the southernmost tip of the Malay Peninsula, straddling the equator, the South China Sea to one side, Indonesia and Indian Ocean to the other, Singapore has for centuries been a crossroads of trade and commerce. Arabs came from Jeddah, Indians from Delhi, Chinese from Canton, and Malays from the jungles to the north. Two hundred years ago, the British arrived to add a few drops of Western blood to the mix. More than any other country, Singapore was founded on the precepts of peaceful coexistence. All peoples and all religions were to be treated with equanimity and respect. If its residents shared a common deity, its name was prosperity.
So it was that in a ten-square-block perimeter one could find an authentic Chinatown, an Indian market that might be mistaken for its cousin in Mumbai, and an Arabian souk seemingly transplanted from old Mecca.
Near the souk, the Islamiya Fashion Boutique on Arabiya Street has