‘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 offence, 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 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 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 . . . and 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 a
ppeared 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 artefacts, 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 artefact?’
‘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 realised 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 block-headed bunch, aren’t they?’ Eddie said. Kit laughed flatly.
West leaned forward and worked his laptop. ‘This artefact of yours, where is it now?’
‘Hong Kong.’
‘And where are you planning to take it?’ He was still being slippery, Eddie realised; 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 swivelled his bulk round 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 towards 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?
And what if the question was a trick? Maybe redoubling, whatever that was, wasn’t allowed at the Red Lotus . . .
West expected an answer, though. So did his men, the two Malays tensing as the silence drew out.
He would have to bluff. ‘Oh, I don’t really remember. The whole evening went by in a bit of a haze!’
The overweight man stared at him . . . then his eyes flicked up to his men in an obvious sign of warning. Shit! He had failed the test; however hazy the evening, he would have been expected to remember if the Red Lotus allowed redoubling – and it was now clear that it didn’t.
West pulled the card from the reader and sat back. ‘You know, Mr Smythe, I’m afraid I won’t be able to help with your shipping needs after all. I don’t want to be involved in anything illegal. Terribly sorry. Now, it’s rather late, so my associates will escort you out.’
Reluctantly, Eddie and Kit stood, the Interpol agent shooting the Englishman an angry look. Eddie couldn’t blame him. The fish had shunned the bait, and without West’s entrapment the listening Singaporeans had no pretext on which to raid the office.
Unless they responded to some other incident . . .
The two Malays ushered Kit and Eddie to the door. Eddie glanced back. West was returning the memory card to its case, pudgy fingers fumbling with the tiny plastic sliver. They passed a window—
‘Oi!’ Eddie suddenly yelled, bogus accent gone as he whirled to face one of his escorts. ‘Get your fucking hands off me!’
The man froze, startled . . .
And Eddie hurled him bodily through the window.
7
The Malay screamed as he plummeted to the concrete amongst shattered glass and the clattering slats of the blind. He landed with a heavy thump, bruised but alive.
Eddie spun to face the other man – and took a hard punch that sent him crashing against a desk, scattering papers. Kit hit the goon in the jaw, knocking him back, but the thick-necked man straightened immed
iately and lunged at him.
Recovering, Eddie saw West grab a black object. Fear surged through him – a gun! – but it was just a walkie-talkie. Like a walking walrus, the obese man lumbered for the other door.
The Malay swung Kit round, slamming him into Eddie just as the Englishman started after West. Both men tumbled to the floor. The bodyguard tried to stamp on Kit’s head, but the Indian jerked away in time to avoid all but a glancing blow to the side of his face.
Eddie used a chair to haul himself to his feet, then swept it up and smashed it against the bodyguard’s skull. The man cried out, reeling. Eddie tried to swing again, but the piece of cheap office furniture fell apart in his hands, leaving him holding only the backrest. He threw it at the man’s face, then kneed the staggering figure in the groin.