The Orpheus Deception (32 page)

Authors: David Stone

BOOK: The Orpheus Deception

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Here, Dak Chansong bowed her head slightly, and her tone took on a hieratic purr, as if she were speaking about a deity. Dalton resisted the urge to say something pert and British about “dear old Uncle Harry.”

“As well, we are concerned to preserve the excellent relations we have already established with our American friends. You are not everything you appear to be, Mr. Dalton. We are now fully apprised of your connections with American Intelligence, and we intend to honor them.”

Somebody talked,
thought Dalton. Somebody at the U.S. Embassy, which meant that Mandy had reached it safely and given them a heads-up. Something she would only have done with Deacon Cather’s permission. So, the deal to trade the Chinese techs was now in official play. Which meant Dalton’s work here in the exotic paradise of Singapore was nearly through and he could catch the next flight to Milan. Minister Dak paused to let Dalton take in the new arrangements.

“Yes. Well, in view of the humanitarian nature of your mission, the Minister Mentor has chosen not to resent the unorthodox nature of your covert arrival. We have confirmed that
your
agency—the Central Intelligence Agency—did in fact issue what you call a Detain, Sequester, Do Not Interrogate order in connection with Mr. Fyke, which was duly noted by our own Intelligence people. The confusion initially arose from Mr. Fyke’s attempt to deceive our officials. Naturally, once the identity of Mr. Fyke had been established, we were about to begin the process of notifying your agency when you yourself arrived. In such a . . . timely way.”

Dalton smiled, said nothing.

“However, there are impedimenta that must be dealt with before we can release Mr. Fyke into your custody.”

“What form would these impedimenta take, Minister?”

“Mr. Fyke was instrumental in a marine disaster which took the lives of twenty-nine men, Mr. Dalton. This disaster took place within our two-hundred-mile limit, and it is therefore our solemn responsibility to ensure that a full and frank accounting of this dereliction of duty be extracted from Mr. Fyke and a condign punishment be decided upon.”

“You want to bring Mr. Fyke before a Maritime tribunal?”

Dak closed her eyes, shook her head slightly, and then opened her eyes again, giving Dalton the full force of her official persona.

“No. We are willing to allow your country to conduct an investigation into Mr. Fyke’s culpability in the loss of the
Mingo Dubai
and to carry out whatever censure seems appropriate. However, during the period of Mr. Fyke’s residence in a secure facility—he was deemed to be a flight risk—he was, unfortunately, drawn into some sort of vulgar prison brawl in the cafeteria, during which he sustained some rather severe injuries.”

“Are you about to tell me Mr. Fyke is dead, Minister?”

“No. Not at all. But he will require some form of medical transport if you wish to arrive in America with a living man in your care. It is the Minister Mentor’s expectation that you will understand that every possible precaution was taken by our authorities to ensure Mr. Fyke’s health and happiness and safety while in our care, and that these injuries which he has suffered can in no way be considered the moral responsibility of the officials of Changi Prison. After all, such incidents are known to happen even in your wonderful American prisons, are they not?”

“They are. Sad to say. Happens every day.”

She nodded.

“As I thought. So it will be made quite clear to your government that all the correct procedures were observed and every possible care taken to protect Mr. Fyke’s rights and person? That no blame will ever be attached to
any
member or official of the Singaporean government?”

“None at all, Minister. Nor should it be. If Mr. Fyke wants to lie to authorized officials of your government during an investigation into a maritime tragedy and then get himself entangled in cafeteria knockabouts, the responsibility lies solely with him.”

“He is—the phrase?
—the author of his own misfortune,
then?”

“Nothing less.”

“We have your word?”

“You have my word.”

“Sergeant Ong informs me that you were under the impression that some sort of . . . insect that listens? What do you secret agents call it?”

“A
bug?”

The Minister bared her teeth and shook her head ruefully.

“Yes. A
bug,
was the word. Sergeant Ong said that your associate, Miss Pownall—she is well, I trust?”

“Quite well, thank you.”

“She is not with you?”

“No. She had business at the Embassy.”

“Really? Was it successfully concluded?”

“No. Turned out not to be an Embassy matter.”

“No?”

“No. All a misunderstanding. You were saying? The bug?”

“Sergeant Ong reports that she suspected that a bug of some sort had been placed in her rooms. Does she still believe such a silly thing?”

“Not at all. Turned out to be an iPod. Left behind by a previous tenant.”

“An
eye-Pod?”

“It’s a kind of music player. Tiny, no bigger than a cigarette lighter.”

“But surely not a listening device?”

“God no, ma’am. We’re terribly sorry for the fuss. Please assure Sergeant Ong that we deeply regret the mistake. And I am ashamed to admit that there was a small scuffle between myself and one of his people when he dropped by to pick me up. I overreacted just a tad, and I apologize for any inconvenience I may have caused to his young colleague.”

Even Minister Dak found the
inconvenience
line a little hard to swallow, since getting your right arm snapped nearly in two was, even by her own, liberal standards, rather more than an inconvenience. The young officer was still in surgery, a complicated and prolonged effort that
might
restore to him some limited use of his right arm. But she let the word pass with little more than a wry smile.

“I’m delighted to find you such a reasonable man, Mr. Dalton. Now that the matter of Mr. Fyke has been settled, may we move on to another, and not
entirely
separate, matter?”

“Of course.”

Here it comes.

“The Home Minister has some concerns.”

“About?”

“About what you might wish to call
equity.”

“Equity? As in financial?”

“No. As in perceptions. It is customary, in matters of interagency cooperation, that a kindness be repaid by a kindness. I’m sure you understand Minister Chong’s position? As a matter of national dignity? Of courtesy between sovereign states?”

“I believe I do.”

“So, may I assure Minister Chong—and, through him, our beloved Minister Mentor—that you have given the matter of
equity—
a term of art in this context, I admit—given the idea of
reciprocity
some prior consideration? After all, you came to Singapore hoping to secure the cooperation of the Home Ministry. I am sure that, for a man of your tact and experience, the idea of having something in hand with which to
repay
such a kindness would not have been overlooked. Merely as a courtesy?”

Dalton let the silence run until it became Chinese again.

“Yes,” he said finally, “we did give the matter some thought.”

“Wonderful,” said Minister Dak. “Capital. I knew we could rely on the word of an English gentleman. Now, would you like to see our guest?”

Dalton could not keep the surprise off his face. Minister Dak seemed happy to observe it.

“Yes. He is here. Now. We have placed the entire facility at your service. One moment.”

She moved her hand, pressed a hidden button. She rose, and Dalton followed her. The doors opened, and Mr. Kwan reappeared in the twilight. “Yes, Minister Dak.”

“Mr. Kwan. I wonder if you’d be so kind as to take Mr. Dalton here up to the pool house.”

“With pleasure, Minister,” said Kwan, looking at Dalton.

“I’ll say good morning to you now, Mr. Dalton. I trust your people will be in touch later today to discuss the . . . the courtesy?”

“They will, ma’am. I’ll call as soon as it’s morning in Virginia.”

She smiled then, a more open smile than he’d seen before.

“I take it something specific has been prepared?”

Dalton gave her the sardonic carnivore’s rictus he mistakenly believed was a boyishly charming smile.

“Yes. We have something we think you’ll appreciate.”

“Will it help us with the Chinese?”

An amazing guess? Or something else?

Dalton decided it didn’t really matter.

“Do you
need
help with the Chinese, ma’am?”

She laughed then, an open, relaxed, and generally honest laugh.

“Yes, Mr. Dalton. We do. Everybody in the world needs help with the fucking Chinese.”

Kwan was holding the door and waiting patiently. Dalton reached out, shook the Minister’s skeletal hand. She was a tough, dangerous old pro, and he decided he was glad to know her. She watched him as he walked to the door and called out to him as he was about to leave.

“Do not blame us all, Mr. Dalton.”

“Blame you, ma’am? For what?”

“For what you are about to see. It was not done in the name of Singapore. It was not done in the name of the Minister Mentor. It was Chong’s work. Chong is a pig. Be careful of Chong, Mr. Dalton. You remember the little matter of the cigarette holder with the opium traces? A
gift
from Sergeant Ong Bo?”

“I remember it vividly, ma’am.”

“It was Ong’s idea, an old police trick, but Chong allowed it. He seems determined to find a way to put you in Changi Prison, Mr. Dalton. I do not know why. But I advise you to be very careful of Chong Kew Sak.”

“I will, ma’am. Good-bye.”

“Good-bye, young man.”

Kwan led him back into the shaded, shuttered darkness of the empty clubhouse. They went down another long, dimly lit corridor lined with intricately veined teak and hardwoods, stopping at an elevator marked POOL DECK. They rode up in the gleaming brass-and-mirror car to the very top floor. Kwan led them down another corridor until they reached a large security door marked ROOFTOP POOL. Kwan stopped here, with his hand on the bar. A thin shaft of bright sunlight ran the width of the base of the door. Kwan looked at Dalton, seemed about to speak, when Dalton’s cell phone rang. Kwan bowed and withdrew to a polite distance. Dalton looked at the caller ID. It was Brancati.

“Micah, where are you?”

“I’m in Singapore. Is it Cora?”

“Her condition has improved slightly. The doctors are encouraged. But she is still in a coma. Have you finished your business there?”

“Just about.”

“Good. I have some news, about the girl on the Lido beach.”

“Yes?”

“Her name was Saskia Todorovich. She was registered as a student at the Institute in Trieste. But she is a citizen of Montenegro. Her home is Kotor. Which, as you remember, is also the home of Branco Gospic.”

“I remember.”

“I told you we were going to investigate all the private boats that were in the lagoon that day. One of them was a long white Riva, white over blue. Do you remember such a boat?”

“Yes. It was cruising back and forth by the Isola di San Michele when Cora and I were on the balcony of the Arsenal. You sent a cutter to check it out. Some sort of fashion shooter owned it?”

“Yes. The boat is called the
Subito—”

“Of course.”

Brancati laughed.

“Yes, of course. The
Subito
is registered to Kirik Lujac. Known as Kiki. He is a professional photographer. Very well known. Very rich. His background is also Montenegrin. His father is a minor member of the Montenegrin royal family. The
Subito
was located by our people two days after we found the body of the girl. It was moored in Bari, locked up and empty. We could not get permission from a judge to search the boat, but we found out that Kiki Lujac had taken a private jet out of Italy the day before. The jet is owned by a company called Minoan Airlines. Galan has traced the ownership back to a firm that has connections to Branco Gospic.”

“Let me guess. Lujac flew to Singapore.”

“Yes. But there is no record of a Kiki Lujac being registered at any hotel in Singapore.”

“He has another identity.”

“Yes. We do not know what it is. But we have a picture of him. I think you should see it.”

“Can you e-mail it to me, to this phone?”

“I can’t. But one of my men will know how.”

“You think this Lujac guy killed Saskia Todorovich?”