Singapore Sling Shot (8 page)

“Bloody hell!

“Yes, Daniel. The plan is that the consortium will build the island structure and the bridge itself sans buildings. The government will build the MRT and other investors will build everything else. We will be the landlords and, of course, our rents and profit-share arrangements will be worth many billions a year. This is my retirement fund.”

“What the hell are you going to build it out of?”

“Steel and concrete, Daniel, in huge quantities. A massive collection of steel casements driven into the sea floor and drained. This will gradually create what amounts to a dry hole in the sea. When the lower level is sealed and filled with water it will add to the structural strength of the whole and everything else will be built around and over it, layer upon layer like a wedding cake. You could consider, in construction terms that it is rather like a giant oil rig.” Sami was like a kid now. His enthusiasm was almost contagious. I don't think for many years, if ever, I have seen him so animated.

“Yes, Daniel. Five years, six billion dollars and that's just the groundwork. And that brings us to the present and the man who killed Stanley.” The smile vanished. Now it was to the business in hand. The transition was instantaneous. Another layer of Sami Somsak had been revealed and just as quickly hidden again. I wondered if I would ever have a glimpse of that Sami again.

“The man who wanted Stanley's share of the pie, which in effect was my share, is Thomas Lu.”

“Who is he?”

“A nasty character. Singapore born. Mixed ancestry. Made a great deal of money through some particularly dubious means.” Sami looked at me with a half smile. This was potentially the pot calling the kettle black. He moved towards his desk, leaving much of the model of Intella Island suspended in the air behind him. The island was obviously on hold in more ways than one until other business had been dealt with.

Sami sat behind the desk while I took a chair to one side. Sami flicked a button on his laptop and turned it so I could see the screen. There was a street shot that had been taken of a man coming down a flight of broad steps. There were other people in the shot but the man in the centre of the screen was so distinctive he would have stood out in a crowded wide-angle shot. Lu was a tall, thin Chinese man with a mass of straight black hair worn thick at the back, mullet-style. He was wearing dark glasses and a dark suit. The mouth was thin-lipped, cruel even. I'd have put his age to be late fifties, early sixties, but at first glance he appeared younger.

Thomas Lu's mouth was open, frozen in mid-speak. He was perhaps abusing whoever was on the other end of the camera. His expression didn't indicate he was at all pleased with the intrusion. “Newspaper shot. He'd just lost a court case,” Sami offered by way of explanation. “He's notoriously publicity-shy.”

“You're certain it was him?”

“Absolutely. Stanley called me from hospital and left a message on my cell service. I was out on the Gulf and didn't receive the call.”

Sami sounded bitter. I knew he'd been on board his massive floating drug laboratory where, because of the extreme danger of causing an explosion, all cellphones were banned. That being the case he'd missed the opportunity to take Stanley's call and perhaps save his half-brother's life.

“If I'd answered the call I could have provided him with protection.”

“You didn't,” I responded bluntly, “and it probably wouldn't have made any difference. I bet that Lu was already at Stanley's house and had his family. They were dead whichever way it went.”

“Maybe.”

Sami didn't sound convinced. I didn't know the exact timing of events, but I guessed that with murder on his mind, Lu had made a beeline for the house on Goodwood Hill even before Stanley had been well enough to make the call to Sami. Who knows.

“So exactly what happened on the island?”

“Stanley went to a meeting Lu had arranged. He was told the other members of the Intella Island syndicate were going to be there. It wasn't their usual venue, but Stanley didn't get suspicious, which was his first mistake perhaps.” Sami shook his head, whether at his dead half-brother's moment of misjudgement or his own inability to have helped him.

“So when Stanley got to the hotel, which incidentally Thomas Lu owns, the place was deserted but for Lu and his crew. Stanley is”—Sami corrected himself again with hardly a pause—“was no fool. Lu had already offered to buy out his, or should I say my, share of the development. When Stanley saw that the others weren't there, he knew Lu was going to play hardball.” Sami took another sip of water. I ignored the bourbon in front of me. I had a feeling that I was going to need to get sharp and stay sharp for whatever was to come.

“Stanley always carried a digital recorder into his meetings as insurance. It's a small device and he kept it hidden. No one knew he had it on him. In his message he told me he knew after Lu's first approach that he needed to get hard evidence if the partners were to be convinced Lu was pulling a stunt. Without evidence, it was simply his word against Lu's and Lu has cronies in the syndicate who would stand by him.”

“Back the truck up. What stunt? What was Lu trying to achieve other than a buyout? That's just business, isn't it?”

Sami nodded. He looked tired and the oldest I had ever seen him. Sami Somsak is close to seventy. Normally he looks like a fresh-faced fifty-year-old. Now he looked his age. Grief and guilt combined are hard masters. I knew that from my own experiences.

“Sorry, I forget you weren't fully in the loop.” Sami took a sip of Evian. I continued to leave the bourbon alone and waited while my friend gathered his thoughts.

“You're right, of course. Offering to buy out a partner is just business, but in reality here's how it stacks up. There are six partners in the Intella partnership. Each of us is in for US$1 billion.” The vast amount of money should have caused some reaction in me, but I didn't say a word. Big numbers and Sami Somsak go hand in hand.

“We have all put a quarter of that into a trust fund, the balance to be paid incrementally as the project proceeds. Some months ago Lu was rumoured to be having financial difficulties and was struggling to raise the capital for his deposit. Suddenly, without warning, he made an approach to Stanley to buy out Stanley's share for a very hefty profit.” Sami paused and stared into space for a moment, watching a war bird slash across the horizon, heading east. “I guess Lu figured that of all the partners, Stanley, the quiet one, was the soft target.”

“Lu obviously doesn't know about your connection to Stanley!” I said, stating it as a fact not a question, knowing that if that connection had been common knowledge, no one in their right mind would have messed with Stanley.

“They didn't know. Very few people do and they are all pledged to silence.” Sami gave a tired smile. We both knew the penalty for breaking that silence. Loyalty was everything with my friend. To betray his trust was to ensure very quick and terrible retribution. “If Lu had known about the connection, he would have most certainly stayed away from Stanley. Again, Daniel, that was my fault.”

“It's not your fucking fault,” I snapped. “Shit happens, Sami. For God's sake, you of all people know that for a fact.”

“Yeah,” he admitted, rubbing a hand over his face. “You are, of course, right, old friend. Shit happens!”

“So where did Lu score the cash? I mean if he tried to buy Stanley out, he found big bucks somewhere?”

“A South American drug cartel, Colombians,” Sami replied. He reached out and tapped the keyboard on his laptop once more. There were three men in the full-screen coloured shot. They were a heavyset trio of Spanish extraction and all bore similar features that the inevitable dark glasses couldn't hide. They were brothers or a father and siblings. Their ages ranged from maybe mid-thirties to perhaps early sixties. The elder man had a badly pockmarked face, the middle one sported a vivid scar across his forehead. The younger of the three didn't bear any obvious scars but dark glasses or not, I could sense mad eyes staring out at the camera.

“Before you ask how I know, I have someone in Lu's camp,” Sami said in answer to my unasked question. “These gentlemen are the Mendez brothers out of Bogota. Carlo, the oldest, Marco, the middle one and Raymond. The Americans have been hitting them hard and they haven't been able to launder their billions north of Panama. They're choking on their profits and looking for investments that the Feds can't touch.”

“So Lu goes to them with a proposition and suddenly they see a big juicy pie sitting there half way around the world and they want a slice or two?” I was guessing, of course, but I figured it would be close to the mark. Sami nodded.

“They want it all, and the way they play, they'd get it in the end if they manage to secure a foothold. We don't need Lu or his money and we certainly don't want theirs. There are plenty of other investors who want in; Intella Island is the hottest property in Asia and that's not simply media hype. Lu only got invited into the syndicate because of his history with several of the others. At the end Stanley, bless his soul, knew that if he could give the others hard evidence on what Lu was planning, Lu was out and Intella was safe from the South Americans.”

“So Stanley records the offer Lu makes. He refuses and Lu tries to kill him.”

“Yes, in a nutshell. Obviously the Colombians are leaning on him really heavily. According to Stanley, he is terrified of them and sweating on it. They agreed to make up Lu's shortfall on the condition he got them a full share of the action. The rest you know. Lu unfortunately saw the recorder. Stanley managed to escape, but he is—” Sami paused and blinked—“He was a chronic asthmatic. He made it to the fort and into the Japanese surrender room and hid the recorder before he collapsed.”

The picture suddenly became crystal clear. Sami wanted me to collect the recorder from wherever Stanley had hidden it. Then when he presented the syndicate with the evidence contained on the device, Sami would have Lu thrown out of Intella, taking his South American money with him. I had no doubt that after he'd destroyed the man financially, Sami would then cause Thomas Lu to cease to exist. That was, of course, if the Colombians didn't get to him first. Those guys have a reputation for violence second to none.

“Why do you need me to get the recorder? Jo would go in for you and he's probably in better shape than me.” I was referring to Jo Ankar. If I was Sami's left-hand man and friend, Jo, a former Thai Special Forces Major, was his right hand and his brother in all but blood.

“Jo is away on other business,” Sami replied smoothly. He was wearing his inscrutable face now and I couldn't tell if he was lying or not. “But I need you back at my side, Daniel,” he added. “Hong Kong is not doing you any good. Will you do it?”

“Of course I will.”

9

I don't like funerals, but I was fortunate in that this time I didn't have to attend the huge service for Stanley's family and his faithful retainers. Sami wanted me to be the invisible man. We were not to be seen together in public and all communication was to be via the pre-paid cellphone.

So once again I was to play Ed the Tourist from Perth. Tomorrow, when the dead were buried, we would formulate the plan to retrieve Stanley's recorder. Sami hadn't yet told me exactly where it was in the surrender room. Maybe he hadn't wanted me strolling in and lifting it.

I decided to trust his judgement on this. The reality of it all is that we were in one of the most law-abiding, buttoned-up, safe, self-regulating corners on earth. People in Singapore notice things and they aren't slow about coming forward. If I lifted the recorder in daylight, setting off the alarms, I was as sure as hell going to get noticed and a camera, or series of cameras, somewhere were going to capture my image. I'd have a street life expectancy of minutes, perhaps an hour or two, before I was caught. If I was any or all parts of the Chinese-Malay-Indian mix, I might last half a day on the run. That being the reality, I knew it would be better to do my pick-up run at night and in disguise and hopefully avoid those eyes and the inevitable cameras.

Simone wasn't available to play tourist wife. She was at the funeral, as expected, so I did Ed from Perth as a solo act. I costumed up, including a broad-brimmed Akubra-type hat minus the dangling corks. Having schooled up with a guidebook, I headed for Changi Village. I had been there once in a previous life. I could have caught a bus, but playing the tourist for my character meant I didn't know the city or the MRT and bus system. I cabbed it to the village and made my way to the jetty and a bumboat.

My ultimate destination, thanks to the guidebook, was the island of Pulau Ubin, also known as Granite Island, a sort of national park just a few minutes off the mainland. The trip only took fifteen minutes. The boat had a dozen or so people on it and it cost peanuts for the ride.

The island turned out to be a pretty laid-back sort of place, if you discount the million or so fish farms moored along the shore. The village information office near the end of the jetty provided me with another schematic map. While not to scale it gave me an idea about what was more or less where.

The village had a few small stores, a seaside restaurant and a fetish for bicycles. For a couple of dollars you can rent a bike from any one of half a dozen outlets. It's a great way to get around and get yourself a sore arse in the process. I hate bicycles for just that reason.

I bought a couple of bottles of water and stowed them in my day bag. Then with my camera in hand, just like a regulation loopy, I set off to explore the island of Ubin. It was a few minutes to midday and it was both hot and humid. There was no cooling sea breeze to be found. Never mind, I wasn't there to sightsee, I needed some serious exercise.

A few of my fellow passengers from the bumboat had decided to take the cycle option. With a lot of whooping and hollering, half a dozen youngsters shot by me as I plodded on along the road, heading to what my map told me was Pekan Quarry. The map indicated camping areas and huts all over the place and five former quarry sites, now filled with water. The granite moles had been busy once upon a time.