Росс Томас - The Singapore Wink

“You had one some time ago, as I recall.”

“Two. Back in 1964.” Lim shook his head and turned to stare at the ships in the harbor again. “We in Singapore like to pride ourselves on our multi-racial harmony. We like to think that despite the preponderance of Chinese we are Singaporeans first, and that all of us — Chinese, Malay, Indian, Pakistani, Eurasian and what have you — can live in harmony and peace. This is what we like to think, but in 1964 we had race riots — bad ones. The first started in July and another in September and thirty-five persons were killed, hundreds injured, and the property damage was enormous. The first riot began over a small incident: there was a Malay religious parade and a Malay spectator got into a fight with a Chinese policeman. In September, a Chinese trishaw operator was murdered. But I suppose I don’t have to tell you how race riots start, Mr. Cauthorne. Your country has had its share.”

“More than our share.”

Lim spun around from his study of the harbor. “Then you realize what a powerful weapon the threat of a riot can be.”

“A form of blackmail, isn’t it?”

“One could call it that, I think. But the price we pay is far cheaper than a riot.”

“Couldn’t you get the U.S. Embassy to revoke his passport?”

“Sacchettti’s?”

“Yes.”

Lim shook his head again and closed the file on his desk. “Passports or citizenship don’t mean very much to men like Angelo Sacchetti. If your government were to revoke it, he would acquire a new one the next day from another government that is in the business of selling them. I can name you four or five who would be most eager to supply him with any credentials that he might need. You see, Mr. Cauthorne, for a person without money, citizenship is most important. But for a person with virtually unlimited funds, and who is inclined to live outside or above the law, one country is very much like another. Although again I have no proof, I seriously doubt that Mr. Sacchetti ever intends to return to the United States. But I’ve talked enough. Now tell me, what is your interest in him? Your real interest, I mean.”

“I thought I had killed him,” I said. “It bothered me. It still does.”

Lim looked at me searchingly and then smiled. It was a tight, thin smile, not his usual happy grin. “It’s really a pity that you didn’t. It would have saved everyone a great deal of bother.”

“Everyone but me,” I said.

“When did you learn that he was still alive?”

“Only a few days ago.”

“Really?” Lim sounded surprised. “It’s strange that your State Department didn’t notify you.”

“Not so strange, considering our State Department.”

This time Lim smiled happily. “I hesitate to confess that I agree with you. But apparently you wish to find Sacchetti and see for yourself that he is alive and well.”

“Just that he’s alive,” I said. “Do you have an idea where I can find him?”

Lim reached into his desk and brought out a pair of powerful-looking binoculars. “I can do better than that; I can show you where he lives — at least most of the time.”

He rose and moved to the window where he gazed down at the harbor through the binoculars. I joined him and he pointed with his forefinger. “The rather large, white one with the raked stack.”

He handed me the binoculars and I looked. It was a white yacht, not more than 150 feet long, that probably cost no more than a million or so. But then I hadn’t priced 150-foot yachts lately. It rode nicely at anchor in the basin, and I could see some figures moving around its main deck, but the binoculars weren’t strong enough for me to tell whether they were crew or passengers. I handed the glasses back to Lim.

“Nice,” I said.

“Yes, isn’t it? It formerly belonged to the Sultan of Brunei. Sacchetti bought it for a song, I understand.”

“How much does a song bring in North Borneo?” I said.

“Around two million Singapore dollars. I believe it cost four originally.”

“The Sultan hard up?”

“His oil reserves are playing out and I understand that he needed some ready cash.”

“Mr. Lim,” I said, extending my hand, “you have been most helpful. Thank you.”

“Not at all, Mr. Cauthorne,” he said as we shook hands. “Just one thing. As head of Singapore’s Secret Service—” This time he did giggle. “I really should ask you what your plans are as far as Mr. Sacchetti is concerned. Just a matter of form, you understand.”

I looked out at the yacht again. “I suppose I’ll go calling.”

“Would you like one of my staff to accompany you? When I say staff, please don’t misunderstand. I have three good men and when they are not busy with their counter-espionage duties — if you’ll pardon the term — and that’s most of the time, they work here in the office. One is office manager, and the other two are accountants.”

“I don’t think so,” I said. “But I appreciate the offer.”

“The reason I made it is that Sacchetti’s open house has long been over. He’s not at all as social as he once was and I understand that unexpected callers are turned away, often in the most abrupt manner. On the other hand, a more or less official visit...” Lim made a slight gesture as his sentence trailed off.

“I understand what you’re saying. But I’m sure Angelo will see an old friend — especially an old friend who once helped him die for a while.”

I was looking for a cab in Raffles Place, not too far from Change Alley, a kind of a joyous Thieves Market, when a four- or five-year-old Chevelle sedan that looked like a cab pulled over towards me. The driver slowed to three or four miles an hour and the passenger in the back seat rolled down a window. The closed car indicated air conditioning and I was just getting ready to say how happy I would be to share it with him when I saw the revolver pointing at me. A voice behind me said, “Watch it, buddy!” but he needn’t have bothered. I was already dropping and the shove that I got may have helped. I hit on my right shoulder with my hands breaking the fall and my chin tucked down into my chest. I landed hard, but that was all right. I had landed hard lots of times before when the star was too hungover to try it. The revolver went off and something seemed to smack into the pavement beside me, but it may have been my imagination. I continued the roll and came up on my feet. There weren’t any more shots and the cab, with the window rolled back up, was busy losing itself in the thick traffic. I brushed myself off while the pedestrians flowed around me on the sidewalk with only an occasional curious glance. No one said anything; no one yelled for the police; no one wanted to know whether I’d torn my slacks. But then they may have thought that the shot was a firecracker. Firecrackers go off night and day in Singapore and the citizens there, like every place else in the world, put a very high premium on personal involvement.

“You did that real nice,” a voice said behind me. It was the same voice that had told me to watch it. I turned and saw a compact, deeply sunburned man who could have been either thirty-five or fifty-five. He wore a faded khaki shirt with officer epaulets, white duck trousers that were held up by a wide leather belt with a brass buckle, and grimy white tennis shoes, the kind that come up to the ankles.

“You give me the shove?” I said.

“You didn’t really need it.”

“I’m not so sure. An inch or two either way could have made a difference.”

The man jammed his hands in his trouser pockets and squinted his green eyes up at the sun. “I was just heading across the square for a beer. You look as if you could use one.”

“You’re probably right.”