Empire of Gold_A Novel

  “What bloody issues?” Eddie protested. “You got a bit embarrassed in front of two people, neither of who you’re ever going to see again—”

  “So you’ve decided that, have you?”

  “Why, do you want to see them again?”

  “They’re my family now, so maybe I might.”

  “Oh, might you? Just don’t expect me to go with you. Anyway, the only issue is that you’ve blown everything totally out of proportion.”

  “Oh, for—” Nina dropped heavily into her chair. “I sometimes wonder why I married you. Fine, okay, go to Singapore. Try not to get arrested for chewing gum.”

  Eddie gave her a sarcastic look. “I’ll go and pack.” He departed, leaving Nina to knead her forehead in frustration.

  Outside the UN Building, Kit made a phone call. “It’s Jindal. I’ve just left the IHA.”

  “And?” said a terse male voice.

  “It took awhile to convince Dr. Wilde that the Venezuelan connection is our best lead to the third statue, but she seems to have accepted it. And Eddie has offered to help with West.”

  “Eddie?”

  “Mr. Chase.”

  “Don’t get too involved with these people, Jindal,” came the disapproving response. “Once the Group has all three statues we will still need Dr. Wilde, but Chase is irrelevant. Just make sure you maintain your cover at Interpol until we have them.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll report again when I’ve found out if West has the information we need.”

  A sound of confirmation from the other end of the line, then the abrupt click of disconnection without a further word. Not that Kit had expected anything more. He pocketed the phone and joined the crowds walking through New York.

  SIX

  Singapore

  The port of Singapore was one of the busiest in the world, its sprawling docks occupying several square miles of the island state’s limited land. Tens of thousands of shipping containers were stacked throughout the great concrete expanse, huge long-legged gantry cranes trundling back and forth from the moored globe-trotting megaships in an intricate computer-directed ballet, gripping the steel boxes in their cable-mounted “spreader” mechanisms.

  On the port’s fringes, the walls of containers gave way to warehouses and offices. One in particular was the subject of Eddie’s attention as he waited with Kit and several officers from Singapore’s police and customs forces, sheltered from the rain beneath an awning. Across a wide road leading deeper into the metal maze was a two-story cabin with a sign reading S Q WEST IMPORT-EXPORT, the upper floor’s windows illuminated behind venetian blinds. “He’s working late,” he said, looking at his watch. It was after nine PM.

  “Many nights, Mr. West doesn’t leave until almost midnight—and some nights he doesn’t leave at all,” said Go Ayu. The Singapore Police Force staff sergeant was in her early thirties, of mixed Japanese and Thai descent, prim and formal in her dark blue uniform despite the humidity and the rain.

  “Can’t have much of a social life, then.”

  “He has enough to keep good friends with some of Singapore’s most important people. He is a very well-connected man.”

  “Connected enough to keep him out of trouble?” Kit asked.

  “Yes,” said Rosman Jefri, one of the customs agents. “Three years ago, Mr. West was suspected of involvement in smuggling. His office and home were raided, but nothing was found—and he sued the government. Not only did he win, but the officer in charge was demoted.”

  “But now that Interpol is involved, it will be harder for West to get his friends to apply pressure,” said Ayu. “And it gives us another advantage. We have thought about trying to entrap him by asking him to transport an illegal cargo, but he is a clever man and will spot undercover agents.”

  Eddie cocked his head, puzzled. “Wouldn’t that get chucked right out of court?”

  “Entrapment is legal here,” Kit explained. “So if a stranger asks if you want to buy drugs … don’t.”

  “Good job I forgot my crack pipe. So, if we use someone from outside Singapore, you reckon that’ll make West more likely to do something dodgy?”

  Rosman nodded. “If he agrees to an illegal act, that gives us the pretext we need to arrest him and seize his records.”

  “Before he can destroy them, we hope,” added Ayu.

  “I think we can make sure of that,” said Eddie.

  “You keep saying we, Eddie,” objected Kit. “I will be going to see West—alone. I appreciate your working with Sergeant Go to move everything along, but you’re a civilian, not a police officer. This is up to me now.”

  “What, with that cover story you came up with? It’s too obvious—he’ll be suspicious right from the off.” He rubbed the lapel of Kit’s pale blue suit jacket; it was obvious from its fit alone that it was not an expensively tailored garment. “No offense, but you’re dressed like a cop.”

  Kit looked offended. “Then give me your jacket. No policeman I know would wear anything like that!”

  “Ooh, listen to Derek bloody Zoolander ’ere!” said Eddie, pretending to be outraged. “All right, swap.” He took off his leather jacket and traded it for Kit’s. “Still think it’s a bad idea for you to go in on your own, though.” He turned to Ayu. “Does West have any history of violence?”

  “Not Mr. West himself,” she said. “But he employs security guards … and some of them have violent backgrounds.”

  Eddie looked at the cabin. Figures moved behind the slats; West had company. “So, Kit, your plan is to go alone 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 favor for a favor.”

  Ayu was clearly 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 favor?”

  “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? Marvelous. 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 self-consciously 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 work space. 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 discolored 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 his comb-over, he was glistening with sweat, in large part because he was wearing a three-piece tweed suit and a cravat. Eddie guessed him to be in his early sixties. His underling spoke in Malay, getting a fluent reply in the same language, then the fat man switched to English to address the new arrivals. “And what can I do for you gentlemen?” He too had a plummy accent, but unlike Eddie’s attempt it sounded genuine. “I don’t often take meetings after normal business hours, but since the weather is so ghastly it would be rude to turn you away.”

  “I’m delighted to hear it,” Eddie replied. “My name is Smythe, James St. John Smythe. This is my associate, Mr. Jindal.”

  “Stamford West. Please, sit.”

  “Thank you.” Eddie took a place on a folding chair facing West, Kit beside him. The man who had shown them in, he noticed in his peripheral vision, remained standing with his arms folded, one hand slipped slightly inside his jacket to give him easy access to whatever weapon was concealed there. “Now, I know these are unusual circumstances, but I wish to engage your business.”

  “I see.” West’s eyes were piggy, but also sharp and intelligent, already suspicious. “And how did you come to hear about me?”

  “We have a mutual friend, Kazim bin Shukri.”

  “Ah. And how is old Kazim?”

  “Having a spot of bother with the customs folk in South Africa, poor chap.”

  “Inconvenient,” said West, the first syllable barely audible.

  Eddie didn’t rise to the bait, pretending not to have noticed the vague accusation. “For me, definitely—he owed me ten thousand dollars at backgammon.”

  “Oh, another player?” said West. “I do enjoy a match, although Kazim is too good for my liking. Where did you play?”

  Bin Shukri’s regular gambling haunt was an item that had come up during Kit’s cover briefing … but its name had slipped Eddie’s mind. “That little place in Macao,” he said, remembering one scrap of information and struggling to recall the rest. He could tell that Kit was desperate to mouth the name, but with West watching them both intently the prompt would be spotted instantly. “Some flower, what’s its name? The, ah, the Red Lotus, that’s the one. Nice place. Good martinis.”

  He had no idea if the Red Lotus even had a bar, but West appeared satisfied—for the moment. “You had better luck than I did playing against him there, Mr. Smythe. Now, what’s this business of yours?”

  Again, a cover story had been worked out, but to Eddie’s mind it was too contrived for West to accept. Instead he took something he had heard about from Nina as a starting point … with his own embellishments. “Well, old chap, I’m sure you’ve heard about the archaeological dig the Chinese have been doing at the tomb of the First Emperor, at Xi’an.”

  “Hard not to in these parts,” said West, with a faint chuckle that set his chins rippling.

  “Quite so. They’ve been picking at the tomb for a while to excavate the outer chambers—they’re afraid to go too deep inside because they think it’s cursed, can you believe it? Anyway, they’ve brought out various artifacts, all of which are obviously extremely valuable. I have, shall we say, come into ownership of one of them.”

  The corpulent man appeared surprised. “I wasn’t aware that the Chinese government was selling them.”

  Eddie smiled. “Nor are they. One of the archaeologists had built up quite a gambling debt in Macao.”

  “Interesting. What is the artifact?”

  “A jade pagoda.” He held one hand above the other, eighteen inches apart. “About yea high. Quite exquisite. Problem is, I need to get it out of China. They’re rather keen to recover it.”

  “I can imagine.” West leaned back in his chair. “And you think I can somehow help you with this?”

  “You came highly recommended as someone who can transport goods … while avoiding official checks.”

  “I would point out that smuggling is illegal.”

  “I’m aware of that. But can you help anyway?”

  A long silence. Kit shifted in his seat, the intense interest of a cop staring down a suspect plain on his face. Eddie pretended to stretch, nudging him to break his concentration. “I obviously can’t agree to be part of anything illegal,” said West at last. “And for all I know, you might be working for the Singapore police, trying to entrap me.”

  Kit tensed again, but Eddie held out his arms with an expansive gesture. “Oh, come now. Do I really sound Singaporean?”

  “I’m not sure what you sound like, Mr. Smythe.” Now it was Eddie’s turn to stiffen. Had West realized the deception—or had he known all along and simply been toying with them? “But … I must admit, your story is unlikely enough to be true. No policeman I’ve ever met had that vivid an imagination.”

  “They are a blockheaded bunch, aren’t they?” Eddie said. Kit laughed flatly.

  West leaned forward and worked his laptop. “This artifact of yours, where is it now?”

  “Hong Kong.”

  “And where are you planning to take it?” He was still being slippery, Eddie realized; not saying anything that could be taken as agreement to participate.

  “England.”

  “A tad vague. Where in England?”

  “Near Tenterden, in Kent. Blackwood Hall, my estate.” It had actually been the estate of Sophia’s father, where Eddie received an extremely chilly welcome the one and only time he was invited there in the company of his first wife.

  West was impressed. “Really? Did you know Lord Blackwood?” he asked as he continued tapping at the keyboard.

  “Only slightly. Bought the estate from his, er, estate after he died. Got it for a song—he was massively in debt, don’t you know.”

  “So I heard. I assume you want the item shipped as soon as possible.”

  “The sooner the better.”

  West nodded, then swiveled his bulk around to face the second, older computer. He pushed a button, and with a bleep and a shrill whine of fans
it started up. Eddie could just about see the screen from where he was sitting: green text on a black background. He also noticed that a modern memory card reader had been connected via a black box to one of its rear ports. “Rather an old machine,” said Eddie. He nodded toward the laptop. “Why not use that one?”

  “For security. Older hardware has its advantages,” said West. He bent down with a grunt to collect something out of sight behind the desk. “For one, it has no Internet connection, so it’s immune to viruses and spyware. For another, the hard drive doesn’t act as a cache.”

  Eddie gave Kit a puzzled look. “He means it doesn’t keep a copy of your open files in virtual memory,” the younger man explained.

  “Quite so,” said West, levering himself upright. In one hand he had a small transparent case, which he popped open to reveal a MicroSD memory card, a sliver of black plastic the size of a thumbnail. “You can be betrayed by your own computer, you know—its hard drive is full of invisible copies of your files that any half-competent technician can recover.” He slotted the little card into the reader, then typed commands. Columns of green text scrolled up the screen. “This may be slow and outdated, but it can still run a spreadsheet.”

  Eddie and Kit exchanged glances. West obviously kept the sole records of his illegal operations on the memory card. If they could take it from him, they might find the information they were after.

  But the fat man wasn’t likely to give it up without a fight, even if he wouldn’t be the one to throw the punches. The goon who let them in had taken up a more alert stance, and the second man had left his desk and was lurking behind the two visitors. In the time it would take the cops outside to reach the office, the card could be hidden, even destroyed.

  And now West’s expression had changed. It wasn’t outright suspicion, but caution, a feeling that he needed one more test to be passed before being fully satisfied. “It must have been very gratifying to beat a player as good as Kazim,” he said. “Especially for such high stakes. How many times did you redouble?”

  Eddie had no idea what West meant. His entire knowledge of backgammon came from one scene in the James Bond movie Octopussy, and since both players had been cheating that wasn’t a great deal of help. He assumed it was some kind of bet, like raising in poker, but what would be a believable answer?