Singapore Sling Shot - Andrew Grant [112]
On that basis, I figured that the insider wouldn’t necessarily have bothered with an elaborate scheme to cover up the plot. Time would surely tell on that one. My arrival here would probably shock the traitor, more so if he or she knew the real reason for my presence.
The fact that I looked like something from a horror movie hopefully would lull the Judas into thinking I was simply here to recuperate.
Introductions over, I settled into my room. I had only been in my luxurious suite for a few minutes when there was a knock at the door. It was K. He handed me a Browning Hi-Power, a shoulder holster, two extra loaded magazines and a silencer.
“A welcome gift,” he said with a grin as he went out, closing the door behind him. I balanced the automatic in my hand and checked it. The weapon was clean and any excess oil had been wiped off. The magazine was fully charged and there was a round in the breech. The safety was on. No doubt K had prepared it. Only a pro left a round under the hammer and he only did that when he presented a weapon to another pro.
I genuinely liked K, and until events of the last few days, I had trusted him completely. I certainly hoped it wouldn’t be him that I had to kill, perhaps with the very weapon he had just given me. I unloaded the piece and stripped it down. The firing pin hadn’t been removed or filed down. That’s the oldest trick in the book of dirty tricks. Everything looks absolutely fine until one goes to use the weapon and finds it has no teeth.
I used the shower. There was a full cabinet of every type of toiletry known to mankind, including a tanning agent, or rather a type of staining lotion. I used thin strips of plaster to cover my wounds and applied the solution as directed.
Ten minutes later, my glow-in-the-dark head was an almost match for my real tan. I wiped some of the solution across my upper lip. The result wasn’t perfect, but it would do. I now didn’t look like a freshly bald man who had just shaved off his moustache. I certainly didn’t look like David Crewe, and that was fine.
I was just finishing my makeup session when I noticed that the bathroom had two telephones. There was one beside the twin vanity and another between the toilet and the bidet. Overkill perhaps, but it started a train of thought. It was something I should have worked out sooner, but I was still a little slow in the brain department.
Obviously, most modern digital telephone systems retain call records as a matter of course, and that was the initial key to finding out who the traitor was. I quickly dressed and went hunting for Sami’s office. I had complete access to the joint. Sami had made that perfectly clear to everyone. K was stationed in the foyer watching a CCTV monitor. The images flicked between garage, elevator and fire escape. There was an MP5 sitting on the table beside the monitor. I asked where Sami’s study was. K pointed to a set of double doors set off to one side. I went and opened them and stepped into Sami-land.
Sami’s obsession with wood is one thing. His other passion is artwork, and stepping into his magnificent study was like walking into an art gallery. There were paintings on the wall I had seen in books and magazines; paintings that, in any other situation, I would have said were copies. There were pieces of sculpture in marble, bronze, maybe silver and gold even, and in various woods. They stood on pedestals and several of the larger ones were free-standing on the highly polished wooden floor. I wasn’t up on sculpture, but these looked impressive.
More impressive was the Samurai warrior that stood to the right of the massive mahogany desk. I’d seen its twin in Sami’s Bangkok mansion. It was a very scary, lifelike figure. The lacquered wood and leather armour was black and gold, as was the full-face helmet. The gauntlets of both hands were around the long handle of a magnificent katana. The shimmering blade of the sword formed an arc above and behind the warrior.