The Scottish Banker of Surabaya - By Ian Hamilton Page 0,121

side — the Indonesians and the Canadians — they are all right with it?”

“Yes. They didn’t think it was necessary, but I persisted.”

“I wish you had not.”

“I did and I’m going. I’ve booked a morning flight out on Cathay Pacific and a return flight early the following morning. I intend to be on both.”

“I am going to send Perkasa.”

“Uncle, please. He has no role in this now. His presence will only raise questions that none of us want to answer.”

“You need to keep in touch with me. If things go badly and the Indonesians become difficult, then we will need him. He has contacts that reach deep into that government.”

“I’ll keep in touch.”

Uncle paused. “There is, I admit, one good thing about your being there.”

“And that is?”

“You will know for sure that they get the Italians.”

“Yes, I thought of that too,” she said.

It was just past ten o’clock when she reached the lounge. She found a Balzac chair off by itself in a corner and phoned Ryan Poirier. “It’s Jennie Kwong. I’m at the airport in Hong Kong. My flight is on time.”

“Thanks for the update. I leave Jakarta at noon. Our Indonesian friends left an hour ago. Overall, it’s been a good morning.”

“How so?”

“We ran a very discreet check on your Italians, Foti and Chorico.”

“Who is ‘we’?” Ava interrupted.

“My local very official and close-mouthed contacts. According to them, the two men arrived in Indonesia about six years ago, so your banker’s timeline is credible. They’ve been renewing visas every six months since then. They list Reggio di Calabria as home.”

“Why would they do that?”

“I guess they figured no one in Indonesia would see any significance in it.”

“True enough, until now.”

“And then we nailed down your Brava Italia jet. It’s been going back and forth between Surabaya and various European airports for about the same time, infrequently at first — I guess they were trying to make sure there weren’t any flaws in their system — and then gradually increasing. In the past few months they’ve been landing once a week, on Tuesdays, as you said.”

“What times does it land?” she said, annoyed that Poirier was making it seem as if nothing she had said the night before could be trusted.

“Anywhere between seven and nine.”

“Is there a flight plan registered for tonight?”

“Not yet.”

“Shouldn’t there be?”

“Yes, but the Indonesians aren’t fussed about it yet. Surabaya isn’t exactly a hub for private jets, so incoming flights don’t have to reserve landing times quite so far ahead.”

“Do they use the same hangar every time?”

“Evidently they do, according to our sources.”

“Mr. Poirier, I know you said your inquiries were discreet. Are you sure your sources are?”

“I trust the man I’m dealing with. There’s nothing else you need to know or be concerned about.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Our associates will be staying in a barracks close to the airport until we have some indication when the plane will land. When I get in, I’m going to join them there. You should call me after you arrive and have cleared Customs and Immigration.”

“Fine.”

“Jennie, in case I didn’t make it clear — I probably seemed less than ebullient about your coming here — I just want you to know that I think you’re doing exactly the right thing.”

You mean exactly the only thing, Ava thought. “Thanks for that. I’ll see you sometime this afternoon,” she said.

She rested her head against the back of the chair and opened the email on her iPhone. Maria had written, When will you be home? and nothing else. It filled Ava with guilt. She didn’t reply.

Her mother had also written. Her message heading was “BITCH.” Theresa Ng called me again tonight, and this time all she did was complain about the way you work, and then she suggested that maybe you weren’t working on the case at all. She said she thinks you might have pretended to take it on to get me off your back. She says we have put her in a difficult position with all of the Vietnamese. I don’t know where you are with the job, but wherever it is, feel free to stop. I’m sorry I involved you. I will never ask you to do anything like this again. Love, Mummy

A bit late for that, Ava thought, not answering that email either.

She went to the newspaper rack and came back with the Wall Street Journal and the South China Morning Post. She tried to lose herself in the economic death spiral of Europe, managing to pass enough time that