The Scottish Banker of Surabaya

( 45 )

It wasn’t until she was in line at passport control at HKIA that she felt a stab of doubt about her Hong Kong–issued Jennie Kwong passport. She had renewed it without any bother two years before but hadn’t used it in more than a year, and she had never used it to enter or leave Hong Kong. This time she had no choice. Ryan Poirier had her flight schedule, and she wasn’t taking any chances that he would check the manifest and not find Jennie Kwong on it.

There were twenty people ahead of her but the line moved quickly, the customs officer barely glancing up as he scanned passport bar codes and stamped documents. When it was her turn, he looked at the passport photo and then stared at her. She felt discomfort but held his gaze. Five minutes later she had cleared security and was walking to the Cathay Pacific business-class lounge. As she neared it, her phone rang and she saw Uncle’s number. She let it ring out. He was worrying, and she had enough worries of her own.

She had called Uncle late the night before to tell him the Canadians had bought into their deal and that the Indonesian government was willing to take the lead role. Their conversation went well enough until she told him she had decided to fly to Surabaya the next morning. She did not mention Ryan Poirier’s demand.

“I do not think you should go,” he said instantly.

“We have money coming in on that plane. Someone from our end needs to make sure it’s counted properly and signed for. A few days from now, when the Canadians have their information, I don’t want to get into arguments about how much money actually arrived and how much we’re to receive.”

“I would rather trust them than have you go back there.”

“Uncle, I also feel I have an obligation. I’ve initiated this entire series of events. The Canadian government on two levels has responded in a supportive and responsible way. I feel that the least I can do is be there.”

“And if the plane does not arrive?”

“Or if it arrives and is full of Italian silk scarves . . . ? Well, I’ll look stupid.”

“Or worse.”

“Uncle, I wouldn’t feel right doing this any other way.”

“The other side — the Indonesians and the Canadians — they are all right with it?”

“Yes. They didn’t think it was necessary, but I persisted.”

“I wish you had not.”

“I did and I’m going. I’ve booked a morning flight out on Cathay Pacific and a return flight early the following morning. I intend to be on both.”

“I am going to send Perkasa.”

“Uncle, please. He has no role in this now. His presence will only raise questions that none of us want to answer.”

“You need to keep in touch with me. If things go badly and the Indonesians become difficult, then we will need him. He has contacts that reach deep into that government.”

“I’ll keep in touch.”

Uncle paused. “There is, I admit, one good thing about your being there.”

“And that is?”

“You will know for sure that they get the Italians.”

“Yes, I thought of that too,” she said.

It was just past ten o’clock when she reached the lounge. She found a Balzac chair off by itself in a corner and phoned Ryan Poirier. “It’s Jennie Kwong. I’m at the airport in Hong Kong. My flight is on time.”

“Thanks for the update. I leave Jakarta at noon. Our Indonesian friends left an hour ago. Overall, it’s been a good morning.”

“How so?”

“We ran a very discreet check on your Italians, Foti and Chorico.”

“Who is ‘we’?” Ava interrupted.

“My local very official and close-mouthed contacts. According to them, the two men arrived in Indonesia about six years ago, so your banker’s timeline is credible. They’ve been renewing visas every six months since then. They list Reggio di Calabria as home.”

“Why would they do that?”

“I guess they figured no one in Indonesia would see any significance in it.”

“True enough, until now.”

“And then we nailed down your Brava Italia jet. It’s been going back and forth between Surabaya and various European airports for about the same time, infrequently at first — I guess they were trying to make sure there weren’t any flaws in their system — and then gradually increasing. In the past few months they’ve been landing once a week, on Tuesdays, as you said.”

“What times does it land?” she said, annoyed that Poirier was making it seem as if nothing she had said the night before could be trusted.

“Anywhere between seven and nine.”

“Is there a flight plan registered for tonight?”

“Not yet.”

“Shouldn’t there be?”

“Yes, but the Indonesians aren’t fussed about it yet. Surabaya isn’t exactly a hub for private jets, so incoming flights don’t have to reserve landing times quite so far ahead.”

“Do they use the same hangar every time?”

“Evidently they do, according to our sources.”

“Mr. Poirier, I know you said your inquiries were discreet. Are you sure your sources are?”

“I trust the man I’m dealing with. There’s nothing else you need to know or be concerned about.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Our associates will be staying in a barracks close to the airport until we have some indication when the plane will land. When I get in, I’m going to join them there. You should call me after you arrive and have cleared Customs and Immigration.”

“Fine.”

“Jennie, in case I didn’t make it clear — I probably seemed less than ebullient about your coming here — I just want you to know that I think you’re doing exactly the right thing.”

You mean exactly the only thing, Ava thought. “Thanks for that. I’ll see you sometime this afternoon,” she said.

She rested her head against the back of the chair and opened the email on her iPhone. Maria had written, When will you be home? and nothing else. It filled Ava with guilt. She didn’t reply.

Her mother had also written. Her message heading was “BITCH.” Theresa Ng called me again tonight, and this time all she did was complain about the way you work, and then she suggested that maybe you weren’t working on the case at all. She said she thinks you might have pretended to take it on to get me off your back. She says we have put her in a difficult position with all of the Vietnamese. I don’t know where you are with the job, but wherever it is, feel free to stop. I’m sorry I involved you. I will never ask you to do anything like this again. Love, Mummy

A bit late for that, Ava thought, not answering that email either.

She went to the newspaper rack and came back with the Wall Street Journal and the South China Morning Post. She tried to lose herself in the economic death spiral of Europe, managing to pass enough time that the announcement to go to the gate came before she reached the editorial page in the Post. She left the lounge carrying her bag. In it she had her computer, her phone, a small toilet kit, and one change of clothes that she hoped she wouldn’t have to use. She had no idea how long it would take from the time they seized the plane to counting the money that would be on it. Hours, she presumed. If it went on long enough, she could forego a hotel, staying at the airport to catch her plane back to Hong Kong.

The CX flight was already boarding when she got to the gate: a long line of Bali-bound tourists waiting to board the economy section. There was no one in line for business class, and Ava was swiftly ushered to her seat. As she settled into it, the realization that she was actually returning to Surabaya took hold. I hope this isn’t a mistake, she thought. Please don’t let this be a mistake.

She searched the in-flight entertainment list to find something that would distract her. She was hoping to find a Gong Li film but saw there was a Maggie Cheung movie. Cheung was her mother’s favourite actress. And as with Anita Mui, her mother’s favourite Cantonese singer, Jennie bore a physical resemblance to her — lean and languid, with a long face and large eyes filled with emotion. Maggie Cheung Man Yuk had Shanghai roots like Jennie, and she spoke English, Mandarin, Cantonese, Shanghainese, and French with almost equal ease. She was a great actress, a star of close to seventy films, with a particular ability to convey vulnerability and heartbreak. Even if there hadn’t been a physical resemblance, Ava now wondered if her mother would still have identified with Man Yuk because her movie loves were often unrequited.

Ava started to watch a film in which Cheung played a drug addict in an unstoppable downward spiral, but the futility was too sad to bear. In its place she found a replay of that year’s Miss Hong Kong contest. The final group of contestants included a woman from Vancouver and another from Toronto. The woman from Toronto played the cello; Ava rooted for her even though she had no idea how well she was actually playing.

The plane landed five minutes early, but the extra time was immediately swallowed up by a long line of arrivals waiting to buy visas. Ava got in behind some Australians who, thankfully, were so merry that the thirty-minute wait passed quite quickly. At quarter to four she cleared Customs, bypassed Baggage Claim, and walked into the main terminal.

She turned on her phone and called Poirier. His cell rang four times and then went dead. Shit, she thought. She was about to redial when her phone sounded.

“Hello, I’m in the terminal,” she said.

“What?”

The voice sounded familiar, though she couldn’t put a name to it. “Who is this?”

“It’s John Masterson.”

“Oh, hi.”

“Is this Ava Lee?”

“Yes, John, this is me.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m back in Hong Kong.”

“Do you have time to talk?”

“Yes.”

“Ava, have you heard from Andy Cameron?”

“No, why would I?”

“No special reason.”

“Then why do you ask?”

“Because I received a very strange phone call earlier today from a man who claims to be his associate.”

“What was his name?”

“Foti, Emilio Foti.”

“What did this Emilio Foti want?”

“He was looking for Cameron and thought I might know where he was.”

“Why should he think you would know?”

“He said Cameron left the bank on Friday and they haven’t heard from him since. His calendar showed that he was having dinner with us that night.”

“Didn’t he have a golf tournament on the weekend?”

“Yes, but evidently he played on Saturday and then didn’t show up for the Sunday match.”

“Foti told you that?”

“Yes.”

“What else did he say?”

“He asked me if Andy had mentioned going to Singapore on business. I told him Andy never discussed his business plans — or his personal plans, for that matter — with me.”

“Why would he think Andy went to Singapore?”

“That’s where Andy’s housekeeper said he had gone.”

“Well, she would know more than anyone, don’t you think? Maybe Andy flew there for a dirty weekend and decided to stay for a few extra days.”

“That’s unlikely, knowing Singapore, and knowing that Andy can get all the dirt he needs here.”

“Well, it isn’t our problem, is it.”

“No, not at all. But I have to say this Foti guy was quite persistent. He asked me all kinds of questions about what I do, and then he grilled me about you.”

“How did he know about me?”

“You were in the calendar.”

“What did you tell him?”

“Nothing, other than that you were a Hong Kong accountant looking for a bank for a client.”

“John, I’m sure you’ve heard from Fay that my after-dinner drink with Andy didn’t turn out so well.”

“She did hint that he was typically boorish.”

“Yes, he was, and I was quite firm in my rejection. He left the hotel in a huff. I never want to speak to him again. In fact, I never want to hear his name mentioned again.”

“I get the picture,” Masterson said.

“Good. Now I’m sure you’ve heard the last of Foti, but in case he does call again, I would appreciate it if you kept my name entirely out of the conversation.”

“There’s really no reason for me to hear from him.”

“Of course not,” Ava said. “John, I have to go now. Please pass along my warmest wishes to Fay.”

“Will do, and make sure you call us next time you’re here.”

Ava ended the call and glanced around the terminal. No one seemed to be paying her undue attention. Don’t start getting paranoid, she told herself.

She tried Poirier’s phone again. This time it went directly to voicemail. Where the hell was he?

She was standing in the middle of the floor, and suddenly she felt very visible. There was a row of benches along a wall and she headed for them. She sat down with her phone face-up on her lap. There was nothing she could do but wait. She was certain Poirier would call. And after that talk with John Masterson, she was equally certain that coming back to Surabaya was the best thing she could possibly have done.

The Italians were on the hunt for Andy Cameron, and she knew they wouldn’t stop at one chat with Masterson. It sounded to her as if they were focused on Surabaya, or at least as focused on it as they were on Singapore. One thing would not lead inevitably to another unless the pursuers were suspicious, smart, and totally committed to finding him. And she had no doubt these men were. It was all about time; her sense that events needed to be propelled as quickly as possible was proving right. Every day that went by added to the risk that the Italians would stumble onto something or someone. Taking them out of play this way and this quickly had been a correct call. That alone would be worth the return trip.

But what if Foti and Chorico had called in outside help? If Ava were in their place, she wouldn’t have done that immediately. They were Cameron’s caretakers, and for six years the relationship had worked. They had no real reason to suspect that things had suddenly disintegrated. Cameron was missing, not locked up in a police cell, not dead. They would spend at least a day or two — and that’s all it had been — trying to sort out the disappearance themselves before reaching out for help. He had been lost on their watch. Why would they make themselves look stupid or incompetent? They would want to exhaust all the local possibilities before panicking. Or so Ava thought. So Ava hoped.

Her phone rang, startling her. The incoming number was blocked. “Yes,” she said.

“This is Ryan Poirier. I got your message. Sorry I couldn’t pick up earlier.”

“Where are you?”

“Five minutes from the airport. I’m on my way to meet you.”

“I’m sitting inside the terminal on a bench. Obviously I’m Chinese, and I’m wearing black linen slacks with a white shirt and my hair is tied back.”

“I have red hair. I don’t think you need to know anything else.”

“No,” Ava said, laughing. “I’ll see you.”

“You’re ready to go, right?”

“Of course.”

From the bench she could see two of the three entrances to the terminal. He walked through the middle one. Poirier was not only instantly recognizable to her but drew stares from most of the Asians nearby, people whose only concept of natural hair colour was shades of black. He was smaller than she had expected — about five foot nine, she guessed — with a slim build. Too small to be a Mountie, Ava thought as she eyed his designer jeans and bright green short-sleeved silk shirt. And too hip.

She stood and waved in his direction. He saw her, nodded, and walked towards her, his eyes flickering around the terminal. His hair was indeed red, parted down the middle and grazing the tops of his ears. He looked young from a distance, but as he drew closer she saw that the skin around his eyes and mouth was etched with lines. He was fifty, she guessed, maybe even older.

“You’re obviously Jennie,” he said, holding out his hand.

She looked into a pair of the brightest blue eyes she had ever seen. “Hello, Ryan.”

“Can I see your passport?”

Ava hesitated and then realized he was serious. She took it from her bag and handed it to him.

He held the page with her picture up to an overhead light and then twisted the passport so he could examine the seams. “It seems fine,” he said.

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

He held out the passport. As she took it, he held on and pulled her gently towards him. “We need to go. Things are moving much faster than we expected.”

“What —”

“I’ll explain as we walk,” he said briskly, though he didn’t say a word until they exited the terminal. “That’s our vehicle,” he said, pointing to a grey Daihatsu van with tinted windows that was parked at the curb.

The back door opened as they drew near. Poirier stood aside to let her climb in. There were two soldiers sitting in the front, staring straight ahead. “We’re going to the barracks,” he said to her.

“What’s going on?”

“The plane will be landing in about an hour and a half.”

“You finally got a flight plan?”

“They radioed for permission to land only twenty minutes ago.”

“How did you find out?”

“You sound suspicious.”

“I’m just concerned about leaks.”

“So are we. The captain stationed two men in the control tower as soon as he got here. No one has been allowed to leave. Every single communication has been monitored.”

“Now what?”

“That depends on what you want.”

“What do you mean?”

“You can wait at the barracks until the plane lands and we seize it.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to be at the hangar with Captain Aries.”

“Then that’s where I want to be.”

“It isn’t necessary. You’ve already played your part just by being here in Surabaya.”

“I want to be at the hangar.”