Read The Orpheus Deception Online
Authors: David Stone
The Orpheus Deception (33 page)
“I suspect it. If he did, then he is working for Gospic. Which means Gospic knows you went to Singapore and had this man follow you. This means he still intends to kill you. You understand?”
“Fair enough. I still intend to kill him.”
“I will save you that trouble. I have already begun. We penetrated his encrypted phone lines in Kotor. We have seized all his assets in Italy. We are rolling up all his people in Venice. By the end of the week, I expect to have his bank accounts located and frozen. Galan has contacts in Zurich and the Isle of Man. Gospic has attempted to assassinate an Italian aristocrat. This assassination, I believe, was motivated by fanatical Muslim hatred of the West. Or, at least, I have decided to think so. I have filed the petition with our Intelligence office to have him listed as a terrorist, which means this is not a law enforcement matter but a matter of our nation’s security. So there are no rules. Carlo has sent the picture. Do you have it?”
“Just a minute. I have to get on the Web. Hold on . . .”
Silence at Brancati’s end. It was morning in Singapore, which meant it would be the middle of the previous night in Venice. And Alessio Brancati was in his office, hunting Branco Gospic.
Vendetta
was an Italian word. He downloaded an e-mail attachment marked [email protected] In a moment, he was looking at a lean, wolfish-looking young man, very tan, absurdly handsome in a hard-cut, slightly Hispanic way, with long, shiny black hair and pale blue-green eyes. He knew him. He had seen him yesterday afternoon, under the portico of the Intercontinental Hotel, in a well-cut navy blue suit; athletic, trim, with a direct, challenging gaze. Mandy had seen him, too, and had then looked over her sunglasses at Dalton and said, “Oh my.”
Vendetta
was an Italian word. He downloaded an e-mail attachment marked [email protected] In a moment, he was looking at a lean, wolfish-looking young man, very tan, absurdly handsome in a hard-cut, slightly Hispanic way, with long, shiny black hair and pale blue-green eyes. He knew him. He had seen him yesterday afternoon, under the portico of the Intercontinental Hotel, in a well-cut navy blue suit; athletic, trim, with a direct, challenging gaze. Mandy had seen him, too, and had then looked over her sunglasses at Dalton and said, “Oh my.”
“I’ve got it, Alessio. He’s here. I saw him yesterday, at the hotel.”
“Then be careful.”
“I will. Thank you. If anything changes with Cora, will you let me know? At once? Whenever?”
“I will.
Ciao,
my friend.”
Ciao,
my friend.”
Dalton closed the call but kept Kiki Lujac’s picture on the screen for long enough to burn it into his memory. Then he flipped the phone shut. Mr. Kwan rematerialized at his side and continued as if there had been no interruption.
“It is day outside, Mr. Dalton. You may wish to shade your eyes.”
Dalton nodded, and Kwan pressed the latch. The door opened onto a wide wooden deck surrounding a huge pool shaped like a lagoon, ringed with palms that swayed in a hot salt wind off the ocean. In the hazy blue distance lay the misted hills and white-sand shoreline of Malaysia and, to the right, the low green island of Pulau Ubin. The roof of the club was on a level with a few distant apartment towers but had a generally unbroken view across much of northeastern Singapore and the island park of Pulau Ubin. Far in the west, the rising sun was setting the towers and spires of downtown Singapore on fire. The light was brutal, hard white and piercing, after the darkness of the hotel interior. Yesterday there had been clouds, the harbingers of the monsoons, but today there was no shade anywhere. Dalton’s hangover came back in a sickening wave. Kwan led him across the teak pool decking toward the pool house, a kind of screened lanai fronting a low, rambling wooden structure thatched in dry palm fronds. The building was surrounded by bougainvillea and jasmine and climbing vines. A very pretty young Filipina woman, trim and nicely rounded in green scrubs but wearing those god-awful yellow Crocs, was waiting for them by the screen door that led into the pool house. She was smoking a cigarette and watching them with wary attention as they came up.
“Mr. Kwan.”
“Miss Lopez. May I introduce Mr. Micah Dalton.”
She inhaled the cigarette, blew the smoke out, unsmiling.
She did not offer her hand.
“You’re Agency?”
“Yes. Are you?”
“I do freelance medical escort. For you and the Brits and the Aussies. The times are nasty. They keep me busy. Are you here to see Mr. Fyke?”
“He is,” said Mr. Kwan.
Miss Lopez gave Dalton a long once-over.
“Are you a tough guy, Mr. Dalton?”
“Do I have to be?”
She smiled then, a revelation of strong white teeth wonderfully in contrast with her coffee-and-cream complexion. She drew on the cigarette again, exhaled the smoke, her face tightening up again after the warmth of that brief smile. Dalton decided to have a cigarette. She lit a turquoise one for him without comment. They stood together in silence for a time.
“Just as long as you’re not a screamer,” she said. “I hate screamers.”
“I HAVE HIM,
sweetie,” said Lujac, watching as a tall, supple Chinese man who reminded him of an antelope led Dalton across to what had to be the pool house. “You were right.”
sweetie,” said Lujac, watching as a tall, supple Chinese man who reminded him of an antelope led Dalton across to what had to be the pool house. “You were right.”
Corporal Ahmed said nothing.
He was sitting on the hot-pink vinyl sofa of a vacant apartment on the top floor of a white stucco, Florida-style vacation property called the Changi-Lah Hotel and Suites. The room had gotten the full
Miami Vice
treatment, painted in bilious lime and tedious teal, tricked out in faux palms and, as Lujac had called it when they came in, rickety-ratty-rattan, with faded posters of South Beach hotels all over the walls to remind the inmates of how much nicer the real thing was than this sleazebag, low-rent version, which was all they could afford because, if they were really players, they’d be in South Beach and not Changi Village. Lujac liked the sleazy grunge of the place, but he
loved
the view, five hundred yards straight across the dense forest canopy to the rooftop pool of the Hendon Hills Golf and Country Club. He watched through the tripod-mounted binoculars, as Dalton and the tall Chinese man stood talking to a young Filipina girl in hospital scrubs. Dalton looked tired, rumpled. Hungover.
Miami Vice
treatment, painted in bilious lime and tedious teal, tricked out in faux palms and, as Lujac had called it when they came in, rickety-ratty-rattan, with faded posters of South Beach hotels all over the walls to remind the inmates of how much nicer the real thing was than this sleazebag, low-rent version, which was all they could afford because, if they were really players, they’d be in South Beach and not Changi Village. Lujac liked the sleazy grunge of the place, but he
loved
the view, five hundred yards straight across the dense forest canopy to the rooftop pool of the Hendon Hills Golf and Country Club. He watched through the tripod-mounted binoculars, as Dalton and the tall Chinese man stood talking to a young Filipina girl in hospital scrubs. Dalton looked tired, rumpled. Hungover.
But, God, he was still gorgeous,
thought Lujac. Maybe even more beautiful because he looked so damn weary. So exquisitely
jaded.
Dalton had something of the look of that leathery fellow who played guitar for the Rolling Stones. Dalton had something in his hand, a small turquoise tube. He took a lighter from the Filipina nurse and touched it to the tip of this turquoise thing. It was a cigarette!
thought Lujac. Maybe even more beautiful because he looked so damn weary. So exquisitely
jaded.
Dalton had something of the look of that leathery fellow who played guitar for the Rolling Stones. Dalton had something in his hand, a small turquoise tube. He took a lighter from the Filipina nurse and touched it to the tip of this turquoise thing. It was a cigarette!
Lujac was delighted. A
turquoise
cigarette, with a gold filter. One of those Balkan Sobranie Cocktail thingies. If Dalton wasn’t gay, he damn well
should
have been. What a waste.
turquoise
cigarette, with a gold filter. One of those Balkan Sobranie Cocktail thingies. If Dalton wasn’t gay, he damn well
should
have been. What a waste.
“Ahmed, how did you find out about this place?”
Corporal Ahmed, who was in Hell, mumbled something vague. Lujac put the glasses down and gave him a hard look.
“Can’t hear you, Corporal Ahmed. Can’t hear you.”
“They move him from Changi yesterday afternoon. Ong make the arrangement. The club was closed for reno, so we just take over the whole thing.”
“Did they tell you who the patient was?”
“It the drunk guy who sank that oil tanker. The
Mingo Dubai.”
Mingo Dubai.”
“What’s his name?”
Corporal Ahmed looked sickly.
“Are you sickly, Corporal Ahmed?”
“I don’t feel so good.”
He was still in the clothes he should have been wearing when Lujac kicked in the door of the room at the Fragrance Hotel. Traces of poor little Bobby Noordin’s blood spray had dried black and sticky on Corporal Ahmed’s hair, matting it down in tiny clumps and lumps. He needed a shave and a shower. He was supposed to be on duty at the Ministry at noon today. Lujac didn’t think he was going to make it.
“Sweetie. I asked you what his name was?”
“He English. Fitch. Brendan Fitch.”
“Brendan Fitch?”
Lujac turned around and got the glasses up in time to see Dalton and the Chinese antelope disappear into the darkness of the pool house.
“Corporal Ahmed. What business does our guy have with some poor fucking sailor named Brendan Fitch?”
“Ong says he not really a sailor. And Fitch not his real name.”
“What’s his real name?”
“Fyke. Raymond Fyke. He supposed to be kind of spy.”
“How’d they find that out?”
“They did things to him.”
“Things?
How delicious. What kind of things?”
How delicious. What kind of things?”
Corporal Ahmed got even more sickly. Maybe he was afraid he’d give this psycho killer nut bar some fresh ideas.
“I asked you a question, honey bunny.”
“Bad things.”
“Goes without saying. What bad things?”
Corporal Ahmed told him. Lujac winced.
“Yow! That’ll leave a mark.”
He watched the rooftop of the country club for a time. Corporal Ahmed sank lower and lower into the couch, his cheeks hollow and his eyes sunken. Lujac was looking at the pool but not seeing it. He was thinking about Branco Gospic, and what the late, lamented, and dearly departed Saskia had been able to tell him about Gospic’s plans. Between shrieks.
She knew that Gospic had sent Emil Tarc to Singapore a couple of months ago. And Gospic had confirmed his interest in Singapore by sending Lujac to follow Dalton. And Tarc? Tarc the madman? Tarc the enforcer? Where was Tarc? And what was Tarc doing wherever he was? What did it have to do with this sailor? If it had
anything
to do with this sailor. A tanker had gone down. The
Mingo Dubai.
Was Gospic involved in the sinking of this tanker? If so, why? For what gain?
anything
to do with this sailor. A tanker had gone down. The
Mingo Dubai.
Was Gospic involved in the sinking of this tanker? If so, why? For what gain?
And what was in all of this that might be good for the Lovely and Talented Kiki Lujac? Lujac watched the rooftop for a while longer, long enough to get the idea that Dalton wasn’t coming back out anytime soon.
“Corporal Ahmed.”
“Yeah.”
“Tell me more about this ship. The
Mingo Dubai?”
Mingo Dubai?”
“It just a tanker. Sank in a big storm.”
“When?”
Ahmed shrugged, his mind inward, seeing ruin and prison and the cane and a lifetime of unspeakable sexual degradation behind the hanging blankets in Cluster C at Changi. Later events showed Corporal Ahmed that this vision of his future was overly optimistic.
Lujac’s razor voice sliced through the fog.
“Ahmed? Don’t piss me off.”
“Not sure. Maybe three weeks ago? Maybe four.”
“What kind of ship was it?”
“Old. Like a scow. Only big. Five hundred feet. Registered in Belize. The owners already got a claim in, for the sinking. They say this English sailor, he the first mate. He drunk, left the wheel in a big storm. Sank the ship when the waves come over the side of it. Now he tell a story about how it was pirates. Nobody believe him. But they find something in him—in his body—that made Minister Chong think he is a spy. So they put him in Cluster C and let the bad boys go loose on him.”
“What did they find? In his body?”
Ahmed shrugged again. Ahmed’s shrugs were getting on Lujac’s nerves. Something would have to be done about Ahmed, but Lujac hadn’t decided what that something would be.
“Like a tube. Electric. It say where you are, where you go.”
“A GPS locator?”
Another
fucking
shrug.
fucking
shrug.
Try not to frighten him, Kiki. Be patient.
“Okay, a GPS locator. And they went to work on him because of it?”
“Yeah. At first, he don’t say anything. Then they use some drugs and later they get the tools out. He say he was a spy, okay, but not anymore. Chong don’t believe him, say to really hurt him bad. So they do. After that, he stop saying anything. Just take whatever they do. No more words.”
“Okay. He said the ship had been taken by pirates? How did they do it? I mean, how did he
say
they did it?”
say
they did it?”
“He say they come in a fast motorboat. Alongside.”
“Okay. Anything else? This is a big tanker, right? Five hundred feet, that’s a lot of tanker. How did they get up the sides?”
Ahmed looked up at Lujac, his face sagging.
He looked ancient.
“He talking nonsense.”
“What nonsense did he talk?”
“He say they do it with magic.”
“Magic? He said they did it with
magic?
What kind of magic?”
magic?
What kind of magic?”
“I don’t know. Sergeant Ong only know this from the one of the guards who beat him.”
“What—listen to me, honey bunny—what
exactly
did the man say to the guard? What did Ong tell you he said? Get the words as right as you can. Think really hard.”
exactly
did the man say to the guard? What did Ong tell you he said? Get the words as right as you can. Think really hard.”
Ahmed gave the matter some prolonged thought. Watching him do it was painful for Lujac, who wanted to help him with the work but knew that once he got going on the kid he wouldn’t stop until he killed him.
“The guard say the guy blame magic for the pirates getting on board.”
Magic? It made no sense. What the hell kind of . . . ?
“Did you ever see a list of the sailors on this boat?”
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