Singapore Sling Shot - Andrew Grant [8]
“Fuck!” I muttered laying the paper down. The stewardess was hovering. She pretended she hadn’t heard me swear. She instead asked me if I wanted a drink. I wanted one, but it was 09:30 and judging from what I’d just read, I was going to need to keep a clear head. I declined and ordered breakfast instead. I’d have gone first class on this flight if I’d had the option, but there was no availability, so here I was slumming it in business. My how times have changed. Once it was steerage. Now here I was complaining because I didn’t have the option of first class. At least I had salmon with eggs Benedict. Not a bad breakfast at all! Thank you, Sir Bernard!
At Changi, I cleared the formalities and grabbed a cab for the Carlton. I’ve been to Singapore many times over the years, so it holds few mysteries for me. What I had to watch out for was that I’d rarely been there as Daniel Swann. Singapore immigration probably had a dozen versions of me on record, so it was important I do nothing to cause the authorities to want to have a closer look at me. The passport, incidentally, was a real one. It was just that Ed Davidson wasn’t.
Compliments of The Firm, I had departed with a whole bunch of genuine identities, most of them not recorded on any official file. I can thank my former boss, the crafty Sir Bernard Sinclair, for that. He never let his left hand know what the right was doing and cunning was his middle name. In the end his own deviousness worked to my advantage and very much to his disadvantage and, ultimately, his messy death. Being a turncoat spymaster can be a tricky occupation at times, it seems.
I’d actually stayed at the Carlton in one of my many incarnations on a previous visit. The hotel is handy to everything and not too ostentatious. It’s the sort of place that has a lot of tourists going through it rather than business people. From my observations, those on business with a company credit card on tap are inclined to go a little more upmarket. Whatever, the place suited me just fine.
No one greeted me by any name I had used previously. That was a positive start at least. My reservation was in the name of Edward Davidson of Perth. So Ed Davidson, Australian tourist, I was. For the moment at least.
Sami hadn’t gone overboard on the accommodations. The room was large and comfortable. There was a sizeable bathroom. A bottle of JD was sitting on a side table awaiting me. There was also a small package wrapped in plain brown paper. The name Mr E Davidson was on the label. I tipped the porter after he did the usual flutter around. When he left I slipped the door security latch across and broke the seal on the bottle of bourbon.
It was 13.30 and the sun was definitely over the yardarm. I opened the package and found a pre-paid phone and a thick wad of big Singapore bills. There was a plain white card with a number on it. The number had a prefix of 66 2. Bangkok. I flicked the phone on and it found SingTel in seconds. I tapped out the number on the card. I only had a few seconds to wait.
“Daniel!”
“Daniel in da’ house,” I replied with my best Ali G impression. Sami managed a chuckle. “I read it,” I added. “Some heavy shit going down.”
“That’s an understatement,” Sami replied grimly. “In a nutshell, Stanley was taken out because he refused a deal regarding his share of the Intella Island development. My share, Daniel,” Sami added bitterly. “I’ll explain in full when I get there. In the meantime play at being a tourist. I have to go. I’ll call you later and tell you what I need you to do. And thanks, old friend!”
“No need,” I replied. We cut the connection at the same instant.
Intella Island was the talk of Asia. It was the development of the century, according to the various business publications I had come across.
The Intella Island project frequently appeared on Asian current affairs and news programmes with an elaborate and very realistic large-scale model as the main image. There were 3-D graphic presentations on a dedicated website and artist’s impressions of the finished development