Qubit, page 37
36
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Southbank, Singapore • Vipul's Apartment
Tuesday, May 15th
10:00 a.m. SGT (Singapore Time)
Vipul untangled himself from the silk sheets of his bed, which still claimed the two girls he’d called over the night before. One of them rolled over as he attempted to climb over her. He grabbed the robe he’d hung on the door and slipped it on as he pushed open the large wooden doors that led out of his bedroom. He squinted as the room was momentarily flooded with light, then he closed the great doors behind him and made his way into the kitchen. Where was Anil? He needed more espresso.
He’d indulged the night before to try and relax. He’d awakened early, out of habit, and checked his messages. Detroit’s daughter had been successfully handed over. Vipul had sent a message to Detroit and then gone back to bed.
He made his way to the opposite side of the apartment where his study was. Anil was playing Mahjong solitaire at the large meeting table, which irritated Vipul for reasons he didn’t bother examining. “Get me some espresso,” Vipul commanded without looking over at him.
He sat down at his desk and tapped the keyboard, waking the display. He had a message from Detroit.
Vipul,
The Regiment Teahouse, tomorrow, 8 AM.
Lock
p.s. SPF issuing warrants for our arrests.
Preferable to CIA assassins.
Vipul stiffened. He wasn’t surprised to find that Detroit—Lock—had been working with the SPF or the CIA. Nor was he concerned about the arrest warrant, since those were a routine hazard for an organized crime family. Even the realization that the CIA might be willing to make an attempt on his life didn’t bother him; he was far more concerned about the Li Triad, who’d already managed to kill Anand. But there was something about seeing it spelled out like that, about knowing that Detroit—Lock—was playing both sides against each other. He’d underestimated him from the start.
He thought about Lock’s proposed meeting place. The Regiment Teahouse. Vipul knew it well. He’d always found it relaxing and enjoyed the irony: The Regiment had once been a military headquarters building.
It was a reasonable proposal. He’d have to run it by Sameer. Ah, to have Anand back! he thought, trying to imagine what Anand would say. Anand would tell him that it was too risky, that he was playing with fire, that it was best to hit the kill switch and head to Malacca. That taking on the CIA and the Li Triad was a war on two fronts.
Vipul leaned back in his chair and noticed a cup sitting on the desk in front of him. He looked over and saw Anil playing Mahjong. When had he delivered the espresso?
He focused again on the screen of his laptop. SPF issuing warrants for our arrests. What Anand didn’t understand—or Vipul’s imaginary version of him, anyway—was that Lock had far more to gain by joining forces with Vipul than by cooperating with the authorities.
He heard his phone ringing in the foyer. He turned and saw Anil already on his feet. The old butler was surprisingly spry when he wanted to be. Vipul got up and walked toward the foyer, meeting Anil halfway. He took the phone. “Sameer,” he said, flatly.
“We just got a tip from one of our sources within the SPF,” gushed Sameer.
“Let me guess. They have a warrant out for my arrest.”
“They—yes. How’d you know?”
“Thanks.” Vipul clicked the phone shut and stared at a framed sketch on the wall at the end of the hallway. It was an exploded view of a ship by Brunelleschi. He remembered his father talking to an oily art dealer about it when Vipul was still in grade school.
Vipul shook his head. Lock had told the truth. There really was a warrant out for Vipul’s arrest—and presumably Lock’s as well. He walked back to his desk and stared at the email displayed on the screen. It always came back to the same thing. Lock had everything to gain from their partnership. There was no reason to think the email was a setup. And even if it was a setup—perhaps the email wasn’t really even from Lock—his men would secure the location, and if there was anything suspicious, he’d call it off, hit the kill switch, and head to Malacca to retrench.
In all likelihood, Lock just needed some reassurance that his interests would be looked after. That’s why he didn’t want to meet at Vipul’s apartment. He was probably still worried that Vipul might be planning to have him killed.
Vipul smiled. Of course, he was planning to have him killed—once he’d served his purpose. He’d never really be able to trust an outsider. But that would come later. For now, as far as Vipul was concerned, they were the best of friends.
Sentosa Cove, Singapore • The Li Home
Wednesday, May 16th
2:30 a.m. SGT (Singapore Time)
Katya drove her nondescript silver Honda Civic into the Li’s cul-de-sac, her headlights redundant given the light from the elegant street lamps in front of each of the street’s luxurious homes. Circling around, she pulled up in front of the one she hoped belonged to Li Shan. She knew from her surveillance tapes that, after her father’s death, Li Shan had continued living in her late father’s estate. She knew from Ong Goh that Li Shan was rumored to be winning the power struggle between herself and her cousin for control of the Li Triad. But she also knew it didn’t particularly matter. She would still know what to do with the information that Katya planned to give her.
Katya was counting on the presence of twenty-four-hour security, and sure enough, as she pulled up, two bodyguards emerged from the house, waving her away. Instead of doing that, she got out of the car with her hands in the air. She was quite certain at least one gunman lay hidden in the shadows or within the house, aiming at her skull.
“Ma’am, we’re going to need you to park somewhere else,” said one of the men with a heavy Chinese accent.
“I was a friend of Li Mun, may his soul rest in heaven, and I have a message for Li Shan.”
This seemed to confuse the bodyguard who’d spoken to her. The second stepped forward, speaking in less accented English. “We can deliver your message.”
“I’m afraid I must give it to her personally. It’s quite urgent.”
“That isn’t possible.”
Katya walked a few steps toward the front of the car.
“Ma’am, please stay where you are.”
She stopped, hands still in the air. “I have a warning. Of a plot on her life. For obvious reasons, I cannot give this information to anyone besides herself.”
“How do you know…Li Shan?” The bodyguard seemed reluctant to even speak his boss’s name.
Katya decided to take a gamble. “I will allow you to search me,” she said imperiously. “I am coming around the car now.” She walked forward without dropping her hands and stood in front of the bodyguard.
The bodyguard took a step backward. “Ma’am, I have to ask you—”
“You idiot!” hissed Katya. “Do you think the plot to kill her is for an unarmed woman to arrive in the middle of the night and attack her while she’s surrounded by her bodyguards? Now search me, take me inside, and wake up your boss!”
The bodyguard hesitated and then motioned to his partner, who stepped forward and gave Katya a thorough pat down. “Are you having a good time?” she asked disdainfully when he reached her upper thighs.
A few minutes later she was seated on a large white couch. Two lamps lent the room an almost romantic atmosphere—except for the four bodyguards posted around her. Katya told one of them to fix her a brandy. He ignored her, and she glared at him. Ong Goh would be proud of me, she thought. In the ensuing silence, she gazed through the large sliding-glass doors at the Singapore Strait shimmering in the lamplight of a long pier. She studied the luxury yachts and sailboats. No old fishing boats here, she thought.
She sensed Li Shan’s presence before she turned and saw her enter the room. Long black hair, the wisps of which fell across her face like the remnants of a dream, a black silk kimono, and a bone structure that was both strong and gentle at the same time. Katya felt a pang of envy followed by a surge of embarrassment. She was arranging for a man to be killed, and here she was, feeling insecure about her looks.
“Do I know you?” asked Li Shan as she sat down in a large easy chair.
No, but I know you, thought Katya. “No. I knew your father, may his soul rest in heaven,” she said.
Li Shan frowned, brushing her hair from her face. Her eyes shone like embers in the soft light from the lamps. “I was told you know of a threat on my life?”
“Do you have absolute trust in these men?” Katya asked, her eyes shifting to indicate the bodyguards around them. “And I mean absolute trust.”
“I trust them with my life, as you can see.”
Katya took a deep breath. “Betrayal only takes one weak soul.”
Li Shan leaned back slightly in the easy chair. Katya had no doubt now as to who would win the power struggle. Li Shan could have easily been a movie star, and her eyes sparkled with intelligence.
Katya was silent. Finally, Li Shan stood up, walked across the the plush carpet, and sat down next to Katya, the silk of her kimono rustling softly. Katya inhaled the scent of peach blossoms. “Whisper your secret to me.”
Katya leaned forward, feeling a little dizzy. Li Shan tilted her head down and brushed her hair back so that Katya’s lips were near her ear. “Vipul Rathod will be at The Regiment Teahouse this morning at eight.”
Li Shan moved her head back abruptly and looked sharply at Katya, one eyebrow cocked. “Why would you tell me that?”
Katya stuttered momentarily and then paused. She had a ready answer, she reminded herself. There was no need to panic. “Vipul has stolen a great deal of money,” she managed to stammer, “from the people I represent.”
Li Shan nodded almost imperceptibly. “This was your business with my father, then.”
“Yes.”
“In a way, this war started with your…proposal.”
Katya cocked her head to one side, and her brow furrowed slightly. “Well…”
“Perhaps you’re working with Vipul. Probing our security measures.”
“I think you’ll find my information is accurate.”
“Perhaps we should keep you here until we know.”
Katya tensed slightly and pursed her lips, her mind racing. She sat up and took another deep breath. “Might I let a friend know I’m staying for a while?”
Jurong East, Singapore • Katya's Apartment
Wednesday, May 16th
3:00 a.m. SGT (Singapore Time)
Lock sat on the couch in the near-darkness of Katya’s living room, Katya’s laptop propped up with his knees. The laptop screen displayed an article entitled “Payoffs On Forward Contracts For Currency Exchange.” The secure cell phone that Katya had given him beeped softly. Lock set the laptop on the couch next to him and rubbed his eyes. He stood up and walked back around the couch to the kitchen, where the phone lay glowing on the counter. He picked it up and read the text, then rubbed his eyes again and reread it.
“Fuck,” he said.
He walked to the desk by the window and looked outside into the darkness. Vipul had confirmed their meeting, and Katya had volunteered to meet with the Li Triad so that he could pull an all-nighter studying how foreign exchange contracts worked. He hadn’t meant to put her in danger. But apparently he had.
Just like he’d done with Sophie. And Raj and Sanjay.
He should go to her. But what was he going to do? He didn’t have a gun, and even if he did, what were the odds of him successfully taking on a Triad gang at DEFCON 1? He didn’t even know for sure if she was still at Li Shan’s. Besides, Katya’s message hadn’t asked him to do anything.
Still, it was distracting. Giving himself a crash-course in currency trading was difficult enough as it was.
Focus.
Resuming his original position on the couch, he placed the laptop back on his knees and did a search with his Web browser. After scanning the results, he pulled up an article entitled “Albania Mulls Restructuring; Analysts Doubtful.” The words began to swim, and he felt himself drifting into sleep.
“Jesus, I need some coffee.”
The sound of his own voice reassured him somehow. He was awake, this was all really happening. He set the laptop aside, got up, and walked back into the kitchen. After opening and closing several cupboards, he realized he ought to turn on the kitchen light. Eventually, he found Katya’s French press, a grinder, and a bag of coffee.
According to Vipul’s source, the Albanian lek was expected to fall. The market was anticipating it, but Lock had learned, partly from studying Vipul’s earlier emails to his broker network, that the difference between anticipating something and knowing it could be worth several hundred billion dollars.
The sound of the beans grinding seemed deafening in contrast to the silence that had preceded it. Lock let up on the button and heard the blades slowing, clicking against partially ground beans. He looked inside the grinder. Almost done. He pressed the button again.
He thought about Katya’s text message. “Vipul, you motherfucker,” he growled as though Vipul was inside the grinder. “You’d better show.”
Jalan Rasok Drive, Singapore • Haruo's House
Wednesday, May 16th
5:00 a.m. SGT (Singapore Time)
Haruo Quartan awoke at one minute before five, as he did every morning. He sat up and stared at his alarm clock, as he did every morning. He waited for the digits to flip, as he did every morning, and then, as soon as they did, he hit the button to shut off the alarm. Sometimes he could hit it before it started beeping. This particular morning, he was about a half beep too slow.
He got up, threw on an old, ratty green bathrobe, and walked down a flight of stairs, complete with an ornate wooden bannister, into a spacious tiled kitchen, where he began boiling some hot water in a large red tea pot. As it heated, he walked down a long hallway into a large room that featured a six-foot-wide wooden desk stacked with books, newspapers, and notebooks. Behind it all sat a computer monitor. Quartan came around the desk, picked up his cell phone, and disconnected the charger. He was about to sit down, but stopped short, reading a text on his phone.
“Oh, Katya,” he lamented quietly, still standing next to his desk.
Opening the desk drawer, he removed pieces of plastic and metal one at a time, placing each in turn on the desk’s surface. He assembled them with stolid efficiency into a Glock 22, which he then placed on his desk, staring at it for a moment in the muted morning light.
He walked back into his bedroom and opened the door to his closet. Today he’d play the part of a confused tourist. That way, he could wear a jacket, which would hide the shoulder holster. He’d done it before. Worked like a charm, especially with a camera hanging from his neck. He’d have his tea and biscuits on the way over. Oh, and he’d have to check the file for the address.
He cursed himself for not simply pulling Katya from the field. Her judgment was shot. He thought she was out of the woods when she’d finally sent him the emails. And they’d been worth the wait, a veritable gold mine of evidence. Cairnes had fled, but he didn’t figure to elude the SPF for long. Katya would go home, they’d bring in Cairnes—and Vipul Rathod, with any luck—and everyone would live happily ever after.
Except that Katya had somehow ended up in the hands of the Li Triad. Haruo could only hope she wasn’t somehow still involved with Cairnes. Rogue or not, Katya was his agent, and he could hardly leave her to the wolves. It was his fault she’d snapped anyway. He’d seen the signs—he should have sent her home a week ago. Or, at the very least, on the jet the previous morning, along with the daughter.
The teapot on the stove began to whistle. Fully dressed now in a white linen suit, he poured the boiling water into a thermos and then dropped in a tea bag. He walked back into his study and placed the Glock into the shoulder holster under his jacket. He grabbed a camera that was dangling by a strap from a hat rack and looped the strap around his neck. With any luck, he wouldn’t be needing the gun any more than he needed the camera.
Queenstown, Singapore • The Regiment Tea House
Wednesday, May 16th
6:00 a.m. SGT (Singapore Time)
Tan Xui slid the stack of trays of ceramic teacups into the rectangular heating bin and slid the door shut. A dozen different aromas toyed with his senses as he wiped his brow, momentarily pushing aside the stringy bangs that framed his forehead.
“Tan Xui,” a coworker called out. “Someone is here for you. Around back.”
Tan Xui made his way through the small kitchen and out the back door into a small alley, where another coworker was stacking empty wooden crates alongside the brick wall. He looked down the alley in the other direction and saw them. His inhaled sharply and pressed his fingers into his palms, just shy of making fists. He inhaled sharply, straightened his posture, and began to walk toward them, as though a visit from his cousins at the teahouse was routine.
They were both lanky like he was, but they had filled out by now. Bo was the older one, with a thin yet imposing mustache. Tan Xui absently stroked his own feeble imitation with his fingertips. Jun had decided against a mustache entirely, preferring a disdainful sneer and designer sunglasses. Dawn has scarcely broken, thought Tan Xui, *but Jun still has his glasses on. *
“Hey,” he said, trying to sound indifferent, while suddenly wishing he had removed his white apron before coming outside.
Bo motioned him closer. “We have a job for you,” he said evenly, looking past Tan Xui.
“A job?” asked Tan Xui, swallowing hard.
“Yeah,” said Jun. “A big one, too.”
“Lots of guys would kill for a job like this,” said Bo. “But you got lucky.”
Tan Xui moistened his suddenly dry lips with his tongue.
Bo produced a plastic bag containing some gray powder. “Take this and don’t let anyone see it.”
