“Her boyfriend might have come home and caught her.”
Michael thought he must have misunderstood. “Her boyfriend?”
“Yeah. The guy Miss Parker was livin’ with there.”
The words hit Michael in the stomach like a sledgehammer. He lost control of himself. He grabbed Walter Kawolski by the lapels and jerked him to his feet. “You stupid cocksucker! I asked you if—what was his name?”
The little man was terrified. “I don’t know, Mr. Moretti. I swear to God, I don’t know!”
Michael shoved him away. He picked up the newspaper and pushed it under Walter Kawolski’s nose.
Kawolski looked at Adam Warner’s photograph and said excitedly, “That’s him! That’s her boyfriend.”
And Michael felt the world crashing down around him. Jennifer had lied to him all this time; she had betrayed him with Adam Warner! The two of them had been sneaking behind his back, conspiring against him, making a fool of him. She had put horns on him.
The ancient juices of vengeance stirred strongly within Michael Moretti, and he knew he was going to kill them both.
54
Jennifer flew from New York to London to Singapore, with a two-hour stopover in Bahrain. The almost-new airport at the oil emirate was already a slum, filled with men, women and children in native garb, sleeping on the floors and on benches. In front of the airport liquor store was a printed warning that anyone drinking in a public place was subject to imprisonment. The atmosphere was hostile, and Jennifer was glad when her flight was called.
The 747 jet landed at Changi Airport in Singapore at four-forty in the afternoon. It was a brand new airport, fourteen miles from the center of the city, replacing the old International Airport, and as the plane taxied down the runway Jennifer could see signs of construction still going on.
The Customs building was large and airy and modern, with rows of luggage carts for the convenience of passengers. The Customs officers were efficient and polite, and in fifteen minutes Jennifer was finished and headed for the taxi stand.
Outside the entrance, a heavy middle-aged Chinese man approached her. “Miss Jennifer Parker?”
“Yes.”
“I am Chou Ling.” Moretti’s contact in Singapore. “I have a limousine waiting.”
Chou Ling supervised the storing of Jennifer’s luggage in the trunk of the limousine, and a few minutes later they were headed toward the city.
“Did you have a pleasant flight?” Chou Ling asked.
“Yes, thank you.” But Jennifer’s mind was on Stefan Bjork.
As though reading her thoughts, Chou Ling nodded to a building ahead of them. “That is Changi Prison. Bjork is in there.”
Jennifer turned to look. Changi Prison was a large building off the highway, surrounded by a green fence and electrified barbed wire. There were watchtowers at each corner, manned by armed guards, and the entrance was blocked by a second barbed wire fence and, beyond that, more guards at the gate.
“During the war,” Chou Ling informed Jennifer, “all British personnel on the island were interned there.”
“When will I be able to get to see Bjork?”
Chou Ling replied delicately, “It is a very sensitive situation, Miss Parker. The government is most adamant about drug use. Even first offenders are dealt with ruthlessly. People who deal in drugs…” Chou Ling shrugged expressively. “Singapore is controlled by a few powerful families. The Shaw family, C. K. Tang, Tan Chin Tuan and Lee Kuan Yew, the Prime Minister. These families control the finance and commerce of Singapore. They do not wish drugs here.”
“We must have some friends here with influence.”
“There is a police inspector, David Touh—a most reasonable man.”
Jennifer wondered how much “reasonable” cost, but she did not ask. There would be time enough for that later. She sat back and studied the scenery. They were passing through the suburbs of Singapore now, and the overwhelming impression was of greenery and flowers blooming everywhere. On both sides of MacPherson Road were modern shopping complexes alongside ancient shrines and pagodas. Some of the people walking along the streets wore ancient costumes and turbans, while others were smartly dressed in the latest western styles. The city seemed a colorful mixture of an ancient culture and a modern metropolis. The shopping centers looked new and everything was spotlessly clean. Jennifer commented on that.
Chou Ling smiled. “There is a simple explanation. There is a five-hundred-dollar fine for littering, and it is strictly enforced.”
The car turned on to Stevens Road, and on a hill above them Jennifer saw a lovely white building completely surrounded by trees and flowers.
“That is the Shangri-La, your hotel.”
The lobby was enormous, white and immaculately clean, with marble pillars and glass everywhere.
While Jennifer was checking in, Chou Ling said, “Inspector Touh will be in touch with you.” He handed Jennifer a card. “You can always reach me at this number.”
A smiling bellman took Jennifer’s luggage and led her through an atrium to the elevator. There was an enormous garden under a waterfall, and a swimming pool. The Shangri-La was the most breathtaking hotel Jennifer had ever seen. Her suite on the second floor consisted of a large living room and bedroom, and a terrace overlooking a colorful sea of white and red anthuriums, purple bougainvillea and coconut palms. It’s like being in the middle of a Gauguin, Jennifer thought.
A breeze was blowing. It was the kind of day Joshua loved. Can we go sailing this afternoon, Mom? Stop doing that, Jennifer told herself.
She walked over to the telephone. “I would like to place a call to the United States. New York City. Person-to-person to Mr. Michael Moretti.” She gave the telephone number.
The operator said, “I’m so sorry. All the circuits are busy. Please try again later.”
“Thank you.”
Downstairs, the operator looked for approval to the man standing next to the switchboard.
He nodded. “Good,” he said. “Very good.”
The call from Inspector Touh came an hour after Jennifer checked into the hotel.
“Miss Jennifer Parker?”
“Speaking.”
“This is Inspector David Touh.” He had a soft, indefinable accent.
“Yes, Inspector. I’ve been expecting your call. I’m anxious to arrange—”
The inspector interrupted. “I wonder if I might have the pleasure of your company at dinner this evening.”
A warning. He was probably afraid of the phone being bugged.
“I would be delighted.”
The Great Shanghai was an enormous, noisy restaurant filled, for the most part, with natives who were loudly eating and talking. There was a three-piece band on a platform, and an attractive girl in a cheongsam was singing popular American songs.
The maître d’ said to Jennifer, “A table for one?”
“I’m meeting someone. Inspector Touh.”
The maître d’s face broke into a smile. “The inspector is waiting for you. This way, please.” He led Jennifer to a table at the front of the room, next to the bandstand.
Inspector David Touh was a tall, thin, attractive man in his early forties, with delicate features and dark, liquid eyes. He was beautifully and almost formally dressed in a dark suit.
He held Jennifer’s chair for her, then sat down. The band was playing a deafening rock song.
Inspector Touh leaned across to Jennifer and said, “May I order a drink for you?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“You must try a chendol.”
“A—what?”
“It is made with coconut milk, coconut sugar and little pieces of gelatin. You will like it.”
The inspector glanced up and a waitress was at his side instantly. The inspector ordered the two drinks and dim sum, Chinese appetizers. “I hope you do not mind if I order your dinner for you?”