Chapter Two

The call reached Cyril Barat’s office in downtown Jakarta.

“Goddammit, Marcus. I’m furious.” Barat’s thin, forty-five-year-old Indonesian face twisted into a mask of brown wrinkles. At eleven o’clock in the morning, he sat at his desk in the office of Eastern Temple Coal Mining Corporation. The office, located in a steel and glass skyscraper, stood fifteen stories above the street below. He’d just learned the news about the Egyptian artifacts he’d ordered, many of them destroyed in a violent storm at sea. Needless to say, he wasn’t happy.

Barat asked, “Why didn’t you send the map via FedEx?”

“I know. Sorry about that.” Marcus Chow, a Singaporean antiquities dealer, spoke in a low, flat voice filled with indifference. “I thought it was safer to hide it in one of the urns in case the Customs Officials got suspicious of the FedEx parcel and opened or confiscated it.” His voice lowered. “Sometimes, things don’t work out the way we plan them, do they?”

“And it’s disappeared—the map—is that it?” asked Barat.

“I’m afraid so. I checked the container the artifacts were loaded into instead. It’s gone. Somebody—I don’t know who—maybe one of the deckhands, or a longshoremen working on the dock got his grubby little hands on it.”

“Well, what kind of a map was it?”

“A treasure map.” A slight chuckle. “But who knows how authentic it is.”

A pause came over the line. Then, Barat’s voice came back on.

“You sent me a treasure map in one of the urns. Now, it’s gone. I’m going to kill you, Marcus.”

Marcus Chow chuckled. “I know, I know. You’re upset now, and you should be. I should have sent it by courier, but you know me…” He snickered. “You do have insurance, though, to cover the loss. At least that’s some consolation.”

Barat hung up rudely. Irresponsible jerk. He was sick and tired of Marcus Chow. It wasn’t the first time he’d botched antiquity orders and laughed in his face. A miserable apology as he laughed even louder proved the idiot wasn’t the least bit sorry. In Barat’s world, there were no boundaries, no limitations. In his twisted, impulsive, and amoral mind, there were no restrictions on what he was capable of doing to anyone he regarded as his enemy. Marcus Chow was now his enemy.

“Enemies,” he uttered bitterly into the silence, “I know how to take care of them.”

Pulling his diary toward him, he leafed through it and made the call on a secure line inside his office. Speaking in a firm voice, Barat said, “Marcus Chow, remember him?” A pause. No reply. Barat continued. “Well, the beached whale’s come up on my list. I want something done about him.”

“Go on,” a voice said.

“I need you on a plane to Singapore this afternoon.” Barat pressed the receiver to his ear, beating back the protests. “Yes, I know about the one-hour time difference between Jakarta and Singapore. Still, that gives you plenty of time to get the job done tonight. Yes, the usual. Small arms fire is okay,” said Barat dismissively. “Go now, and get it done.” Barat filled in the details and hung up as quickly as he’d dialed the number.

Barat closed the Venetian blinds over the front window in his office until the room darkened, wanting privacy. He stepped over to the door and locked it. Sounds filtered through from the outer office—typing, phones ringing, a muffled sound of voices out there beyond the locked door. On the intercom, he buzzed his secretary and told her to hold his calls. He walked around the desk and sank down in the soft burgundy cushions of his swivel chair. In the silence and darkness, he entered another of his strange, perplexing moods.

In his mind’s eyes, he could see his past unfolding before him. Why he was rich and powerful mattered very little. While others struggled, leading lives of mediocrity, he was named one of Fortune 500’s ten most wealthy and influential men five years in a row.

As the poor of the world scraped by, he enjoyed a jet-setter’s life. He owned lavish mansions, a fleet of expensive European imports, and quaint little villas by the sea. Being Grand Magus of the Ordo Templi Orientis—Order of Oriental Templars—had paved the way to fortune and influence. As CEO of Eastern Temple Coal Mining Corporation, he called the shots. Not only had he gained power and prestige through a network of social, professional, and business associates, he’d also traveled throughout the world in a tight little circle of friends who supported the Oriental Templar’s agenda.

The clock ticked on the wall. Barat’s eyes popped open, and he beamed into the darkness. He enjoyed the short respite from his demanding schedule. There were a thousand things yet to do today. Making money was one of them.

With Cyril Barat, the means always justified the end. All things were possible. Even now, as the afternoon wore on, he envisioned the hit going down on Marcus Chow.

* * * *

At five o’clock, 550 miles northwest of Jakarta, Indonesia, the Sicilian sat inside the taxi. Large boulevards and sweeping overpasses drove deep into the heart of the city. Billboards sprang up, and tall skyscrapers preceded towering hotels that glittered like thistledown inside the car window. Further in, a blistering late afternoon sun streaked through the dark, concrete corridors of downtown Singapore. Crowds stirred on the sidewalks, signal lights changed, traffic inched along bumper-to-bumper, snorting up clouds of monoxide vapor.

The Sicilian grew tired. Deep lines cut into his dark brown face and reflected a collective agitation of bitterness and scorn. He hated last-minute phone calls ordering him onto last-minute flights to distant cities in a terse, almost disrespectful tone. Go now, and get it done. As if he was not a professional skilled in the art of murder for hire, but some sort of plantation slave instead. The Sicilian—a short, hawk-nosed man—displaced the weight of his thirty-year-old body evenly over a muscular frame. His short, thick hair crowned a head the size of a small melon and was shaved close to the scalp. Dark, remorseless eyes peered out inside a face aged with lines of boredom and regret. The Sicilian’s life had been a struggle to find the proverbial pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, but he’d never managed to find it.

Somewhere near the hotel, he let the feeling go and immediately felt better. A preset mental discipline softened the hard outer edge of his emotions, and the tension drained from his body like evaporating water. He closed his eyes and sank back in the seat. A stream of air escaped from his lungs. Gradually, his muscles relaxed, and he felt his foul mood passing.

They drove on for what seemed like another twenty minutes when the driver came to a stop. The security guard nodded then waved the taxi through into the underground garage of the Best Hotel, North Singapore. The reedy Malay cab driver opened the back door, and the Sicilian got out with his flight bag and paid the fare. The driver smiled over the generous tip, turned the car around, and headed out the exit ramp back into the street.

The Sicilian took the elevator up to the main lobby, registered for one night, and paid for everything in cash. One hour later, a tall and skinny Malay knocked on the door to his room on the first floor, just off the hotel lobby.

He opened the door and let him in. On the bed of the cramped one-room apartment, the man opened a black briefcase and brought out a nine-millimeter Beretta with suppressor and handed it over to his customer. A head nodded. A roll of cash came out. The Malay looked at the money and gushed over the amount and the generous tip. He went to say something but was cautioned to keep quiet. Moments later, the man left the room as silently as he had entered.

Inside his room on the first floor, the Sicilian cracked the door open and entered the hall. He decided to wait in the lobby, on the chance of seeing Marcus Chow going in and out of the building. A man that size had to eat, so he was optimistic about his chances of seeing him. The obese Chinese man with a pock-marked face and red, bulbous whiskey nose wouldn’t be hard to spot. He had a picture. Moving into a lounge chair with his newspaper, he sat and waited patiently.

* * * *

Marcus Chow had returned to Singapore four days before from a buying trip in Cairo. He was tired after the long excursion and decided to spend time alone, relaxing inside his apartment. Unmarried, he ordered in meals and sat around watching X-Rated movies on his wide screen video console. He enjoyed lavish dinners of pork, beef, and baked fish swimming inside rich, spicy sauces laced with red wine. Tonight, however, he decided to venture out and indulge himself in a meal of T-bone steak, mashed potatoes, and gravy. He’d decided on a western menu for a change—something to add a variety to his diet.

At 8.00 p.m., Chow left his room. He hadn’t eaten anything since early afternoon and was as hungry as a starved wolf. He thought about the meal he would order, and he began to salivate. Leaving the hotel, he walked three blocks to a restaurant and was seated at a table near a window facing the street. He liked the name—The Hungry House—because of large portions served there. It was one of his favorites.

A waiter came and took his order, brought him a beer, and he sat drinking and stared out at the street. The air was hot and humid outside. Cars raced by on the street. Ash-gray monoxide fumes billowing up into the air. Occasionally, people passed by on the sidewalk in front of the window.

The meal came, and Chow ate hungrily while people around him glanced over with smiles on their faces. One patron commented to his companion, “He eats like pigs.” His companion turned his head and snickered.

The Sicilian came in later and ordered a light dinner salad and black coffee. He glanced over the crowd, through the wall of moving waiters and the bevy of young, pretty hostesses seating customers for dinner. New customers came in, others left. In and out, back and forth, in a rush and clatter of dishes. Shouts broke out the door of the kitchen at the back of the building.

At 9.30 p.m., Chow finally pulled his big body back from the table and stood up, smacking his lips, still delighted. He paid the bill, used the bathroom, and then went outside and stood on the sidewalk. He took a few deep breaths, patted his plump stomach, and walked back toward his apartment.

The Sicilian watched him go and followed him back to the hotel. The elevator door opened, and Chow stepped inside. The doors closed, and he went up to his room on the third floor.

Stopping at the front desk, the Sicilian stared across the counter and smiled pleasantly. The scrawny Malay desk clerk stood behind the counter, smiling back at him.

“I have a favor to ask,” the Sicilian said and withdrew an envelope tucked inside his coat pocket. Inside the envelope lay a stack of bills—crisp, clean, and neatly folded bills. He opened it wider. The clerk’s eyes bulged excitedly.

“A gift for you, my friend,” he said.

Greed swelled inside the desk clerk’s eyes.

“What must I do?” he asked.

“Turn off the security camera for fifteen minutes.”

The clerk scratched his head. A frown stitched his face.

“It’s against regulations,” he said.

The Sicilian opened the envelope and fingered the bills inside. “I have SGD $1000 here.” He tapped the envelope for emphasis. “You wouldn’t want to miss out on that, now would you, my friend. His tone was as sweet as syrup…and manipulative.

A couple came up to the desk, and the clerk registered them. He’s greedy, the Sicilian thought. He has the time now to think it over, to let his greed sink in.

The couple barely moved across the lobby before the clerk’s eyes shifted from side to side nervously.

“Okay,” he whispered.

The Sicilian handed over the money and watched him go into another room off the front desk. The door was left half opened. He glimpsed the clerk standing on a stool and switching off the cameras.

Crossing the lobby, he slipped into a phone booth and placed the call by the time the clerk came out front, richer by a thousand dollars.

“Mister Chow,” the Sicilian said.

“Yes.”

“I’m a courier. You weren’t home, so I waited. I have the money from Jakarta. It’s with me now.”

“Cyril couldn’t have done a wire transfer?” Chow asked. “That’s absurd.”

“No, he wanted it done personally. He appreciates the fine work you do.”

Susceptible to flattery, Chow fell for the ruse. “He does? Oh, my,” he gushed over the phone.

“I’d like you to come down, maybe have a drink,” said the Sicilian.

A pause came down the line. “Oh…I don’t think so. I just ate. I’m flushed to the gills.” Chow replied with a burst of childish laughter.

The Sicilian’s voice raised an octave higher. “Listen, I’m on a tight schedule. I need to be in Mumbai tomorrow. You want your money, come and get it. Meet me downstairs in the lobby.”

Surprised by the sudden change in the caller’s voice, Chow grew suspicious. “How is it that he wouldn’t do a simple wire transfer? That would seem most logical.”

“I don’t know. I don’t ask questions. I suppose he wanted to make sure the money reached the right hands.”

“Okay, I’ll come down. We can have a drink in the hotel bar, but I can’t stay long.”

The Sicilian hung up and headed for the stairwell, sprinting up to the third floor landing. He’d done his homework, cased the hotel over the last few hours, and knew every inch of the building with its dark, narrow halls and single elevator. Under his dark trench coat, unzipped and allowing the loose ends to come open, the nine-millimeter Berretta with suppressor bulged in the inside pocket of his coat. A couple came up on the elevator, got off, and disappeared down the dimly lit hall. The Sicilian heard Chow’s door open and close at the other end.

Then, like a dark shadow passing over the ground, he moved toward him. “Hello, Marcus.”

At the sound of his voice, Chow jumped as he reached for the button on the elevator panel. He stepped back, a puzzled look crossing his fleshy face. “Do I know you?” Chow asked, the unsteadiness of his voice audible in the empty corridor.

“No, but I’ve brought my calling card.” The Sicilian pulled his coat open and leveled the gun on his target.

In the dim hall light, Chow’s head jerked back, and his body stiffened. His eyes bulged wide with fear. The Beretta barely moved in the Sicilian’s hand—no recoil, a seamless whisper. Pfft…Pfft…Pfft. Chow slumped over dead in the hall.

The Sicilian, straining under the dead man’s enormous weight, dragged the body into the stairwell just as the elevator door down the hall opened and closed. A light flashed on the number bar above the high-gloss brass door, and the elevator began descending.

On the first floor, a man stepped out and crossed over to the reception desk in the semi-darkness of the deserted lobby.

“Ah, Mister Seabury! What can I help you with?” asked the desk clerk.

“I forgot,” said Seabury. “I need a taxi out to the airport, early tomorrow. Six o’clock.”

“Sure, no problem.” The pudgy Malay entered the request onto the guest log and watched Seabury step back into the elevator.

The moment the door closed, from the shadows of a nearby alcove, the Sicilian moved up to the front desk.

“I’m going out,” he told the clerk. “I know you think I’m a problem asking for…”

“No, no. Not at all,” the clerk said.

“I left my Rolex inside the hotel safe in the other room. Could you get it for me?”

“No, problem,” the clerk said and stepped into the room.

Moving with the speed of a jaguar, the Sicilian scooted around the counter and followed him inside. The clerk must not have heard him enter the room. His back was turned to the safe as he spun the dial, concentrating on the numbers to open the safe. The Sicilian fired a shot through the back of his head. A pink mist sprayed out the exit wound and splattered across the open door of the safe. The dead man convulsed on the floor as the Sicilian switched on the security cameras and checked the duty roster.

Quickly, he came up with a name. Ade Chan, a young man about to go on shift at midnight. He dialed the number.

“Hello, Ade. I’m the new night manager.”

“Hmm. That’s odd,” came the voice over the line. “We never had one before.”

“Company’s changed its policy. Anyway, here’s what I need. The day clerk went home sick, and I need you to come in early.”

“I don’t report on until midnight,” Ade said.

“I know, so I’ll need you here in fifteen minutes. You live nearby, so that shouldn’t be a problem. I’ve checked your name and address on the duty roster.

The Sicilian paused and then went on. “Oh, another thing. Don’t go into the hotel safe room. The floor’s been retiled. No walking on it until the tiles set. ” He cleared his throat. “ We’ll pay double time for the inconvenience. Just put the extra hour on your timecard.”

“Oh, okay.” Ade said at the news of the extra money. “I’ll be right over.”

“Thanks, Ade. I won’t forget this when it comes time for promotions.”

The Sicilian hung up and waited for Ade to arrive. He arrived fifteen minutes later—a tall, gangling youth in his late teens. “Okay, the place is all yours,” the Sicilian said. He wore a pair of dark, horn-rimmed glasses and kept his face turned to the side, so the desk clerk would have a hard time identifying him. “I’ve got to go see the night auditor.”

He left the hotel by a side door off the lobby. Outside, he walked around to the front of the building. At this hour, the sidewalk was empty. Except for a few taxis speeding by, the street looked deserted. Thorough, professional, the Sicilian had already anticipated this moment. He’d left his flight bag in a storage locker on the edge of town.

Signaling a taxi, he jumped inside the backseat, gave the driver a destination, and the car drove off. They drove to the storage unit, and the Sicilian got out and went inside. He removed the Beretta from his trench coat, looked behind and side-to-side to make sure no one was watching. Then, in a dark, narrow corner near a ventilation duct above the row of storage lockers, he hid the Beretta. The serial number was filed off the gun, so he wasn’t worried about leaving it there.

Hurrying, he grabbed his bag and went outside to where the taxi waited. They drove in silence onto the motorway, merged with the sparse flow of late-night traffic, and sped out to the airport. The driver dropped him off, received a generous tip, and drove away. Inside the airport lobby, the Sicilian punched the number into a pay phone and reached a groggy, sleep-deprived voice on the other end. He said two words only. “Finito. Singapore.”

“Good,” Cyril Barat replied and hung up rudely in his ear.