International Incident Page 16
“So what are we doing?”
“You’ll see.” He stepped up to the window and smiled at the old woman behind the counter. He said in careful Vietnamese, “Chào chị. Là Binh ở đây?”
She nodded and turned away.
“Very impressive. What did you say?” Sasha asked.
“Don’t be too impressed. I said—or at least I hope I said—‘Hello. Is Binh here?’ And that basically exhausted my vocabulary.”
“Binh? The man from the fishing boat?”
He nodded. “The seafarer relief organization got him a job here because he has family in a nearby village. He doesn’t want to go out on the hydrofoils—I guess he’s had enough boating—so he’s going to help out with maintenance, office work, whatever else they need.”
The wooden door set into the side of the hut opened, and a thin, tentative man stepped out into the courtyard. His eyes were fearful until he realized who was standing there. Then an enormous grin split his face. “Leo Nguyen!”
Sasha arched an eyebrow at the use of his father’s surname, but she didn’t comment.
Leo had tried to hire a translator for the day, but even the incomparable Julia was unable to find a fluent English speaker available on such short notice. So he was going to have to hope that his limited Vietnamese, Binh’s equally limited English, and ample use of hand gestures would see him through. He motioned to Sasha and then to himself. “My wife. Sasha.”
“Sasha,” Binh repeated with a nod. He looked back at Leo with open curiosity. His expression said, ‘Why are you here?’
Leo reached into the pocket of the seersucker jacket that Sasha had inexplicably packed for him and removed a piece of paper that had been folded into thirds. He offered it to Binh, who took it hesitantly. As Binh read the characters, comprehension and disbelief warred with one another on his face.
He looked up slowly and stared at Leo for a moment before speaking. “Is it real?”
“It’s real. Your debt to the manning agency is gone.”
Tears filled Binh’s eyes. “Thank you, Leo.” He turned to Sasha. “Thank you.”
Leo put a hand on Binh’s shoulder. “Be well, Binh.”
Binh nodded, staring down at the papers in his hand.
Sasha smiled at him. “Good luck to you.”
He looked up and returned her smile. Then he carefully folded the paper back into thirds and slipped it into his pocket.
Leo turned and walked back toward the pier. Sasha tripped along beside him in her ridiculous heels.
“You bought his freedom, didn’t you?”
“I did. Thiha Bo’s, too. That’s why I was so late getting back to the ship after Ron sprang me from the clink. I had to find the scum who ran the agencies that signed them up and then keep my temper long enough to transact business—why are you laughing?”
“Sprang you from the clink? Did he get a time machine and go back to the 1950s to get you?” she teased.
“Keep it up and I won’t take you to lunch. I hear this place has the best pho in town.”
She grew serious. “Pho? I bet it’s not as good as yours.”
He wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her close.
37
Port of Singapore, Cruise Centre
Jan’s skin crawled and itched relentlessly. He could feel cold sweat beading on his forehead under his hat. He clenched his hands into fists at his sides and dug his fingernails in his palms.
Just hang on, he told himself. Not long now. He was distressed to find that he felt such an urgent need for more heroin, so soon after his visit to Vietnam. He never indulged in Singapore. The club scene was closed off, and the more readily available sources of good heroin carried a real risk of being caught. Singapore was a hard-line, law-and-order country; the accused were usually found guilty and often executed.
He stood a bit straighter as he said his goodbyes to his departing passengers. No, there was no need to tempt fate—and the death penalty. He had resisted stronger temptations than this, almost routinely. He would adhere to his rules and would wait—he must wait—until he returned home to The Netherlands for his upcoming leave time. A long weekend in Amsterdam would set everything right again. The very thought of it soothed him.
He smiled and exchanged pleasantries with the lovely Kurcks, Oliver and Eleanor from Finland. He managed to keep the smile pasted on his face when they were followed through the line by none other than Mr. and Mrs. Connelly. He’d managed to avoid the Americans ever since the night at sea between Laem Chabang and Phu My. Having hosted them at his personal table for dinner, he felt that he’d done more than enough to extend an olive branch on behalf of Sacred Lotus. They’d caused him an unimaginable amount of anxiety and trouble during their week-long cruise. And then Mrs. Connelly had behaved like a vagrant during dinner.
He shook their hands and wished each of them a safe flight home, genuinely pleased that he’d never have to see them again.
* * *
Sasha and Connelly said their goodbyes to the Kurcks while standing in the bustling cruise center. The Finnish couple planned to spend an additional day in Singapore, despite the dearth of chewing gum. Sasha just wanted to go home, back to her babies, and her cat and dog, and her life. Connelly apparently shared her eagerness. He’d arranged for the Singapore assistant legal attaché to meet them at the airport with statements that Mel had prepared for them to review and sign.
As Sasha and Elli exchanged hugs, email addresses, and promises to visit, Oliver helped Connelly hand off their luggage to the driver of the waiting car. A moment later, they were gliding smoothly through the city’s traffic.
The driver seemed to sense that they weren’t in a talkative mood. He tuned the radio to a station playing soothing instrumental music, and Sasha rested her head against the leather bench back and closed her eyes.
“Are you okay?” Connelly whispered after a while.
She nodded yes without opening her eyes. She gathered herself and then turned to him. “I’m better than okay.” She grinned as she used one of his favorite lines.
“Good. We’ll drop off the bags, meet the legat and get the paperwork behind us, then I want to show you something.”
She arched an eyebrow at his cryptic statement, but he didn’t elaborate. A moment later, the driver eased the car to a stop. The bags were whisked away, and Connelly settled up with their driver.
Inside, she found Changi Airport just as disorienting the second time as she had when they’d arrived from the U.S. a week ago. It teemed with people. Loud speaker announcements in multiple languages vied with piped-in music and hundreds of voices raised in conversation. Connelly pointed toward a lounge and they weaved their way through the throng of travelers all surging in a single direction. It reminded Sasha of swimming against a current.
After a chorus of ‘pardons’ and ‘sorrys,’ they reached the entrance to the lounge. She scanned the room and played ‘Guess the Fed.’ The Embassy in Singapore wasn’t even trying. She nodded at a fresh-faced, square-jawed young man with a buzz cut and a black pinstriped suit so new she half-expected to see a sales tag dangling from the sleeve.
“That’s gotta be him,” she said out of the side of her mouth to Connelly. “I mean, right?”
“In the immortal words of the Magic 8-Ball, ‘signs point to yes,’” he cracked as the straight-out-of-central-casting legal attaché trotted toward them.
She swallowed a giggle.
“Mr. Connelly? Ms. McCandless-Connelly?” The man stopped in front of them and stood ramrod straight, clutching a folder in his left hand.
“That’s us. You must be Bartleby,” Connelly said, using his G-man voice.
“Yes, sir. Michael Bartleby, Singapore ALAT, sir.”
“Hi, Michael,” Sasha said cheerfully, in an effort to defuse the cloud of testosterone that threatened to choke her.
“Ma’am.” He nodded but didn’t smile.
“How do you like working as a legat?” she asked, undaunted.
“I like it very much, ma’am.” Then he softened just a touch. “Although I haven’t been in the position for very long.”
“You don’t say, Michael.” She was fairly sure she had handbags older than this kid.
“No, ma’am. I just transferred from the RSO’s office.”
“RSO?” she repeated blankly.
“That’s a new one for me,” Connelly admitted.
“Regional Security Officer,” Michael helpfully supplied. “Responsible for anti-terrorism and counter-intelligence measures. Coordinates with the Singapore police on investigative matters, especially those involving Western travelers.”
“Wait. I thought that’s what the legal attaché does?” Sasha asked.
“Affirmative, ma’am.”
She threw Connelly a baffled look.
He shrugged. “Legat is a Department of Justice position—with the Bureau. The RSO probably falls under a different authority. It’s not important,” he muttered then turned back to the kid. “So, Mr. Bartleby, you have some documents for us to review, correct?”
“Yes, sir. I secured a private room. Right this way.”
He led them to a cramped, windowless box of a room that just managed to fit a round table and four chairs. But it had a door that closed and a light that worked, so Sasha was dutifully impressed.
Michael pulled out her chair for her and then opened his folder. He handed her a printout of a statement about her incident and a ballpoint pen. A mug shot of Derek McGraw, the man who attacked her was clipped to the front of the report. Michael handed Connelly a much thicker printout and a yellow envelope, along with another pen.
She read the statement carefully. Although she trusted Mel to get the facts right, she wanted to confirm that all the details were buttoned down. Beside her Connelly bent his head over his own statement, frowning and tapping his pen against the table as he read.
“This statement is correct, but it’s incomplete,” she said to the legat.
He frowned. “Incomplete how?”
“It doesn’t mention the murder of the woman on the boat.”
“Ma’am, my understanding is that the dead woman was not an American citizen.”
“That’s my understanding, too, Michael. But the reason Mr. McGraw boarded The Water Lily and attempted to abduct me was because I witnessed her killing. That makes it relevant. It’s the motive, if you will.”
Michael Bartleby had the expression of someone who’d swallowed a golf ball. He jerked his head toward Connelly looking for help. “Sir?”
Connelly glanced up from his papers. “Mina’s murder—and your role as an eyewitness—is included in my report. It’s covered.”
She frowned. “That doesn’t make any sense. I’m the one who can testify first-hand---”
Connelly leaned over and covered her hand with his. “They don’t want to have anyone testifying if they can help it. This isn’t federal court. Or Pennsylvania criminal court, okay? They do things differently here. And, I’m going to be completely honest with you, so don’t get all pissed off—the Embassy is trying to protect you.”
She bristled, but he continued before she could interrupt him. “Not because you’re a woman. Or small. Or my wife. The Embassy is trying to protect you because you are an American citizen and that’s their job. So let them do it.”
She opened her mouth, but to her surprise no words came out. She clamped it shut so as not to look like a big, stupid fish. Then she flipped to the last page of the statement, signed and dated it, and handed it back to Michael wordlessly.
Connelly kept reading. Every couple of paragraphs, he’d mark his spot, reach into the thick yellow envelope, and pull out a labeled photograph. She craned her neck as he flipped through the photos. She caught a glimpse of a man’s bare back, covered with angry red welts and then an image of a wire cage, like a large dog crate sitting on its end. She wrinkled her forehead then realized it must have been one of the cages the captain used for prisoners. Her eyes widened at the thought of Binh, crouched and cramping, trapped in that space for hours, for days. She didn’t want to think about whose back that was or how the marks had gotten there.
“Is that where—”
Connelly turned the picture over and placed it image-side-down on the table. He stared into her eyes. “Please don’t look at these pictures. And, yes, this is me protecting you because you’re my wife. Trust me, you don’t want to see this.”
She nodded. “Sorry.”
She stared at her hands while he finished reviewing the report. He stuffed the photographs back into the envelope, signed his name, and passed everything back to Michael. Then he stood and pushed in his chair.
“Is there anything else, Mr. Bartleby?”
The legal attaché put away the reports. “No, sir. That’ll be all. And sir, ma’am, on behalf of the Director, the Bureau thanks you for your assistance in this matter. If any follow up is required or you’d like an update on the investigation, your point of contact remains ALAT Anders.”
He waited for Sasha to stand up and then walked them to the door and pointed them in the direction of the customs counter before disappearing into the sea of people.
“Well, he was fun,” Sasha said as he vanished into the crowd.
Connelly grinned. “He’s young; he’ll learn. But if I came off a little heavy handed in there, I’m sorry. I should know better.”
“You did. But it’s okay. I understand why.”
He searched her face. “You sure?”
She stretched onto the tips of her toes and kissed him. “I’m sure. Now what did you want to show me?”
He took her hand. “You’ll see.”
* * *
Connelly removed his hands from her eyes. She blinked. They were standing in the middle of a lush garden, filled with hundreds of orchids. She blinked again and looked around. They were still in the terminal. And yet they were in an actual garden.
“Are these real?”
“They’re real. There are over two dozen species.”
The flowers were grouped by color. A koi pond and a rushing waterfall completed the indoor garden. She sat down on a low rock wall and just stared at the colors. “This is amazing,” she finally said. Surreal, Vegas-like, and excessive also came to mind. But the garden was amazing. And breathtakingly gorgeous and dizzyingly fragrant.
“The orchid is the national flower of Singapore,” he told her.
“Well aren’t you just a fount of information,” she cracked, smiling.
“But that’s not why I brought you here.” He sat down next to her and draped his arm around her shoulder.
“Oh? Then why did you?”
“Because you remind me of an orchid.”
She tilted her head and waited for him to elaborate.
“People think orchids are so fragile, that they’re these fussy, hothouse flowers. And a lot of them are. But some species of orchids are incredibly hardy. They have the same delicate beauty as the rest, but they’re unbelievably strong. You couldn’t kill them if you tried. That’s the kind of orchid you are, Sasha.”
She looked at him through the tears that were filling her eyes and threatening to spill over and wrinkled her nose. “That sounds more like a weed than a flower to me.”
He laughed and kissed her forehead. “And that’s why I’m the romantic one in this relationship.”
She rested her head on his shoulder, breathed in the heady orchid perfume, and listened to the babble of the water as it coursed over the rocks.
38
Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
It was so good to be home. Leo recognized the triteness of the sentiment, but it was true all the same. Slipping back into the routines of his daily domestic life was like putting on a comfortable pair of shoes.
Judging by the way Sasha was humming as she mashed up the absolutely disgusting concoction of bananas and avocados that both Finn and Fiona appeared to love for breakfast, she felt it, too. She smiled at him from across the
kitchen.
“What’s on tap for you three today?” she asked. She placed a small stainless steel bowl in front of each of the twins, slid two spoons into two chubby fists, gave them each a peck on the cheek and a squeeze, and stepped back. She was already dressed for the office in a sheath dress and matching suit jacket. That meant he was on clean up duty. He should have draped the kitchen in tarps before she handed them their breakfast.
“We’re going to take Mocha for a long walk through Frick Park then meet Hank and whichever Bennett kids are around at the playground.”
“Sounds like fun. But no blue slide.”
“Whatever, Mom.”
“Connelly, I’m serious. It’s too steep, and they’re too little. They have years of the blue slide ahead of them. Okay?”
“Okay.”
She crossed the room and gave him a long, deep kiss. “I’m glad we’re home and all that ugliness is behind us.”
He smiled. “Me, too. Now go earn a living so you can be back in time for dinner. I’ll grill something.”
“Deal.” She slung her briefcase over her shoulder and waved goodbye.
He waited until he heard the door in the front of the house slam shut then looked at the twins’ green- and yellow-smeared faces.
“Okay, you two. This is serious business.”
They looked up at him. Fiona banged her spoon on the table.
“Nobody tell Mommy that Uncle Hank and I have been putting you on our laps and going down the blue side for, like, half your lives already. Deal?”
Finn grinned. Banana-avocado stuff oozed out of his mouth and dribbled onto his shirt.
* * *
Mocha slept, curled up in a pocket of shade under the bench where Leo and Hank sat. The dog was worn out from the trail walk through the woods. Fiona and Finn, in contrast, were tireless. They were squealing in delight as Calla and Hal, the youngest Bennetts, pushed them in the baby bucket swings.
“They’re good with the babies,” he remarked.