into the office of a dodgy bloke with nasty bodyguards and try to entrap him. Yeah, that’s sensible.’
‘We are right outside,’ Rosman pointed out.
‘Not close enough if things turn bad in a hurry – and you can’t see much through those blinds. Ayu, he needs support, and you know it. Let me go as well – if he’s the client, I can be his bodyguard.’
‘Eddie, you are not going with me,’ insisted Kit.
He didn’t listen. ‘Come on, Ayu. It’s your turf, not Interpol’s.’ With meaning, he added: ‘A favour for a favour.’
Ayu was conflicted, her eyes flicking between Eddie and Kit. ‘It . . . would make sense for Mr Jindal to have backup,’ she finally said. ‘And since Mr West would spot any of our own men . . . ’
‘There we go,’ said Eddie, grinning at Kit. ‘I’ll watch your back.’
The Indian was displeased, but grudgingly nodded. ‘Okay. But Eddie, leave all the talking to me, yes? Just stand behind me and look menacing.’
Another grin. ‘I think I can manage that.’
Five minutes later, having tested the tiny microphone concealed under Kit’s clothing, the two men set off for the cabin, shielded from the rain beneath umbrellas. ‘I still think this is a mistake,’ Kit grumbled. ‘How did you get Ayu to agree? Why does she owe you a favour?’
‘I helped her out of a tight spot about six years back,’ said Eddie. ‘She went after some drug dealers without backup. Not a smart move.’
‘Well, no. They would have been desperate – Singapore has the death penalty for drug smuggling.’
‘Turned out to be redundant for this lot after I finished with’em.’ They crossed the road. ‘Still not sure about your cover story, though. It’s all a bit too convenient, your supposed mutual friend just happening to be unavailable right now because he got arrested.’
‘It’s the best we have. But it’s time for you to be quiet. I’m sure even you can manage that for five minutes.’
‘Cheeky bugger,’ said Eddie as Kit pushed the buzzer.
A light came on behind the door, which opened to reveal a thick-necked Malay man. He regarded them suspiciously. ‘Yeah? What you want?’
Kit opened his mouth to speak, but Eddie beat him to it. ‘Good evening!’ he boomed, doing his best Roger Moore impression. ‘I’m here to see Mr West.’ The man stared at him; he continued irritably, ‘Come on, it’s a bloody monsoon out here. Let us in!’
The man frowned. ‘Who are you?’
‘Smythe’s the name, James St John Smythe. Now chop-chop, I’ve come a long way. There’s a lot of money at stake, so don’t keep me waiting.’
The mention of money did the trick, and the man waved them inside. ‘Your name again? Mr . . . Smith?’
‘Smythe,’ proclaimed Eddie. ‘With a y and an e. Now, where is he?’ A flight of stairs led to the top floor. ‘Up there? Marvellous. Lead on, there’s a good chap.’
The man ascended the stairs, gesturing for them to follow. ‘What are you doing?’ Kit hissed through his teeth.
‘I told you, you’re too obviously a cop,’ Eddie whispered back. ‘But he’ll never suspect a posh Englishman.’
‘Wait – that was meant to be posh?’ said Kit in disbelief.
‘Why, what did you think it sounded like?’
‘Like you had something stuck up your nose!’
Eddie huffed as they reached the top of the stairs. ‘What do you know? Anyway, we’re here.’ The man opened a door. ‘Thank you,’ he said, reverting to his affected accent and selfconsciously trying not to sound too nasal.
Tinny jazz music from a CD player reached them as they entered the office. Racks of floor-to-ceiling shelving containing hundreds of box files ran along the rear wall. Another Malay man, even more hulking than the first, sat at a desk piled with documents. He looked up suspiciously.
The room’s far end was incongruously homely, a hefty antique desk of lacquered teak positioned almost like a barricade to cut its occupier off from the rest of the workspace. As well as a pair of telephones and several trays of papers, the desk was home to not one but two computers: a modern black and chrome laptop and, less impressively, an extremely outdated PC, its beige casing discoloured with nicotine. A faded picture of what Eddie assumed was Singapore some decades ago hung on the wall, an only slightly less old portrait of the Queen of England beside another door.
The man behind the desk was obese, a triple chin cupping a sun-reddened face. Despite the whirring desk fan fluttering the strands of