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In Good Company by Arthur Wellesley
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In Good Company Chapter 1: All Good Things...
Date: 25 May 2007, 2:28 am
Langley, Virginia
April 8th, 2048, 9:15 AM (local time)
"Satellite intel confirms initial reports. It's not a defeat—it's a Goddamn rout."
"Jesus Christ," bureau chief Michael Pennant breathed. He opened his mouth to continue, but there was nothing to say. It was a crippling disaster, in a stroke negating years of tireless work, billions of dollars, and the optimistic, almost desperate hopes of the entire intelligence community.
His companion, Director of Intelligence Stanley Friedman, continued with a hollow voice. "Dhaka still stands, but the lines have disintegrated. The war is over. Bangladesh is lost."
"Have the Joint Chiefs been told?"
"Not by us, but I'm sure they know by now. Man upstairs will be calling soon, no doubt."
Pennant gazed up at the cold blue light of the fluorescent bulb humming quietly above until its intensity overcame him. He ran his hands down his smoothly shaven face and across his finely pressed shirt—thinking as he did so that while he had conducted his mundane morning ritual the centerpiece of his contribution to the Agency had undone itself.
The door to the briefing room opened and a woman carrying a laptop at her side walked briskly in. She was small, blond, and middle aged, with piercing blue eyes that brought the room's inhabitants immediately to life.
"Director," Friedman greeted her, somewhat surprised.
"Gentleman," Samantha Dowell acknowledged, cutting immediately through the formalities. "I have become aware this morning of a circulating rumor which has caused me a great deal of concern. I trust it is unfounded?" Her voice did not contain a great deal of optimism.
For a moment, both were silent. Eventually, Pennant shrugged. "I'm afraid they're true, ma'am."
The Director of Operations set her laptop on the conference table without opening it. She began to slowly circle the room. "How did this happen?" she asked, sounding, more than anything, irritated.
"The Burmese launched a major offensive about twelve hours ago," Friedman told her. "Once they got through, the line just broke. The Bengalese committed nearly everything they had to the front. What reserves are left are retreating as fast as they can, dumping weapons, supplies… everything." He shook his head. "No one saw this coming. The Burmese are… tough buggers."
"Well supplied, at any rate," Dowell growled.
"If India had committed, we wouldn't be in this mess," Pennant spoke up angrily.
"India's involvement would have prompted a war with China," Friedman countered with equal vigor. "In any case, the Bengalese didn't want a Hindu army in their country."
"Yea? How about asking them now."
Dowell slammed her hand upon the table. "Enough. Leave revisionism to the historians."
"How should we proceed?" Friedman asked her.
"Obviously, we'll have to formally brief the White House. Before we do, though, I want to have something to give them besides a mea culpa. All the Congressional Committees that want a piece of us will be clamoring at the gates after this little catastrophe."
Pennant winced at this, but spoke his piece unabated. "We know the Chinese will take advantage of these events to the fullest. They fuelled this proxy war with considerable zeal. They seem to be intent on further isolating Thailand."
"Word from all bureaus suggest the Chinese have long sought to solidify their hegemony over the region by incorporating Thailand into their sphere of influence," Friedman agreed. "With the fall of Bangladesh, it will look ripe for the taking."
"Do we have any specific intel on this threat?" Dowel asked.
"No ma'am."
"Then we need some." She turned to face the Bureau Chief. "Pennant: who's your best man in Thailand?"
Bangkok, Thailand
April 8th, 2048, 9:20 PM (local time)
Evening brought little respite to the oppressive heat of Thailand's capital, though Agent David Taylor was at least thankful for the sun's passage. It was the humidity that made it so unbearable, an invisible, suffocating gauze that was drawn constantly across the mouth and nose. A thick, almost tangible layer of smog that forever enshrouded the city combined to make the conditions almost unlivable. The locals seemed used to it and his colleagues seemed too enamored by the beauty of their surroundings to mind, but Taylor could only dream of a winter on the plains and pray for a change of station.
Sitting across from him was his subordinate, Miguel Guerrero, gently fanning himself with one section of the New York Times while reading another. On the cover of his makeshift fan was news of ethnic cleansing in Ethiopia, though Guerrero was reading the sports highlights. They saw more than enough of real life on the job.
For his part, Taylor could do little to entertain himself. Besides his physical discomfort—periodically pulling his sweat drenched pants from the surface of his chair—he was nervous about the operation. In a country that was conceivably teeming with Chinese Ministry of State Security Agents, they had uncovered but one tenuous thread to lead to any of them. An employee at Government House had recently offered inside information on the back channels and her frequent travels to the city's slums and side streets suggested that she had found a customer. Unfortunately, there was no guarantee that the buyers were MSS or representatives of any government at all. More likely the culprits were mere criminals, gunrunners and drug lords who thrived in great numbers in the depression that had crippled Southeast Asia for the last decade.
This, however, was not what troubled him most about the operation. The mark herself was an enigma; she was as slippery as an eel, shaking their tail more than once by dint of what he had come to judge as counter-espionage training. She appeared to be Thai, but her background check was spotty at best, full of inexplicable holes and false credentials. It was possible that she was herself an MSS plant, but the brass had ordered them to keep their distance until they could ascertain something concrete.
The hotel receptionist kept looking over at them, which did little to alleviate his uneasiness. When the man turned to talk with a guest, Taylor pulled his concealed mike surreptitiously closer. "Any change?" he asked quietly.
"The ground floor light is still on," his man upstairs reported. "Can't make out any movement."
"Acknowledged," he replied just before the receptionist threw him another hostile glare.
He turned around to peer out the window, studying the scene outside. It could have been any street in Bangkok: low lying tenements and barred up shops set against the glittering background of the city center—a ubiquitous juxtaposition in Thailand. Directly across from the hotel was a private flat where their mark was meeting with her contacts. The contacts were different each time, usually Chinese nationals, always proxies. It seemed thoroughly professional, which gave him hope that this was indeed the real deal, but there was as yet no evidence that this was anything but common malfeasance. The Thai government was notoriously venal.
A gentle vibration in his pocket stirred him from his contemplation. Pulling out his cell phone, he checked the caller ID and raised his eyebrows in surprise. "It's Langley," he said, almost to himself.
Guerrero looked up with narrowed eyes. "What could they want?"
He finally answered, bringing the phone to his ear. This should be good, he thought. "Yes?"
"Agent Taylor?" The voice was female.
"Yes ma'am. May I ask who I'm speaking to?"
"Agent, this is Samantha Dowell."
Taylor silently mouthed the word "Shit" to his companion. "How may I help you, Director?" Guerrero dropped his newspaper and leaned closer in.
"What's the word in Thailand on the war?"
There was no need to specify which. "The local news is reporting a major battle at the front," he said. He stood up to walk to the bathroom, out of earshot of the increasingly curious receptionist, leaving a frustrated Guerrero behind. "There is some talk that the Burmese have made a push towards Dhaka."
"It's worse than you know. The Bengalese army has disintegrated—there's nothing left. Dhaka is being shelled as we speak. War's over, Taylor."
For a moment, he was speechless. It seemed far too sudden for a reversal of such magnitude. "What position does that put us in now?"
"As I'm sure you realize, this is a worst case scenario for Thailand. We've known for some time now that the Chinese would look to Thailand if Bangladesh fell to complete their dominion over Southeast Asia. We still have no specific intel on the nature of the threat, however."
It did not seem like a deliberate shot at him or his team, but he felt stung nonetheless. "What would you like us to do, ma'am?"
"I understand you are following a promising lead."
"Yes ma'am," he said, dissembling his own misgivings. "We're tracking her right now."
There was a pause. "Now? Right now?"
"She's meeting clients with suspected MSS ties as we speak."
Another pause. "I want you to pick her up ASAP," she ordered eventually. "And whoever she's meeting with."
"Ma'am, we've yet to confirm anything concrete on this woman. It's possible that intervention at this point would compromise the operation."
"Agent, there's a lot of pressure at home for solid intelligence." Code for political meddling. "It's a risk we're going to have to take."
"Yes ma'am. We'll contact you when we have her."
"Very good, agent." She hung up.
Taylor left the bathroom to rejoin his colleague, who stood up as he approached. "What was all that about?"
"Orders straight from the top, Miguel," he said, taking his seat as if he had no worry. "We're bringing her in tonight. Time to finally find out who in hell this woman is."
It was not long before his surveillance team announced movement. "The light just turned off, sir," his man reported. "I think she's coming out now."
"Understood. Stay in position to pick up her contact." He turned to Guerrero. "Time to go."
They exited the hotel and lingered on the concrete patio, their eyes on the door across the street. Taylor immediately felt himself sweat again in the balmy heat, but in the excitement of action he did not greatly mind. He was nervous that all his efforts would soon lie in tatters, but the impending satisfaction of his curiosity brought him some measure of comfort.
Taylor scanned the opposite side of the street and soon found what he was looking for: a dark blue sedan parked about halfway down the block with two shadows barely discernible behind the windshield. "Red, I want you to stay about fifty meters behind us while we track the target," he said into his mike.
"We're not picking her up right away, sir?" the agent asked, sounding confused.
"Negative. There are too many people about, it could get too messy. We'll follow her to her apartment, take her there."
"Acknowledged."
Guerrero took a step closer to him. "Are you sure that's a good idea, sir? She's lost us before."
"Then we'll just have to be careful, agent."
Across the street their mark, whose face had become so familiar to all of them in the past weeks, finally emerged from the flat and began walking west; thankfully, in the direction of her home. "It's go-time, guys," Taylor said into his mike.
He and Guerrero began their pursuit, keeping a comfortable distance and about a dozen people between them and their target. She moved quickly, forcing them to push past many in the crowd to keep pace. It was a staple tactic of counter-espionage: a cursory glance behind her could quickly identify those struggling to follow. She did not turn, however, and Taylor could only hope her haste was for another reason. He ordered Guerrero to cross and follow parallel to their mark.
It did not take long for their surroundings to morph into the opposite side of Bangkok. Taylor was always shocked by the lack of transition between abject poverty and the bounties of capitalism that Thailand had so eagerly and successfully embraced. Having walked no more than three blocks from the hotel, they had left behind the squat concrete slums and were now amidst one of the city's many steel and glass corridors—endless stretches of offices, condos, and skyscrapers that soared almost beyond sight. The depression had not affected Thailand half so much as its neighbors; in fact, Western interests had brought the country to new heights of prosperity. Indeed, the scene could have been from any American city: suspended high above were luminous billboards advertising Coca-Cola, Microsoft, Mercedes-Benz. Even many of the faces that passed by were foreign, great masses of refugees, investors, and those simply looking for opportunity in the burgeoning new economy. In one of history's great ironies, Thailand, the only country in Southeast Asia to avoid colonization, was the now the West's last bastion in the region.
The change in scenery presented an increasing challenge to Taylor and his companion. The crowds began to thicken and he intermittently lost sight of his target. "You got eyes on her, Blue?" he asked Guerrero as she was obscured once more by bobbing heads and lumbering bodies.
Guerrero, looking briefly across the street, said, "She's about thirty feet in front of you."
Worry began to seep into his mind. It was difficult to tell if she was actually heading back to her apartment. Her routes were circuitous and forever changing, and often she would not even end up back at her home. He began to wonder if sacrificing speed for discretion had been the right choice.
A piercing wail suddenly blasted from above. The effect on the throngs was as a pebble in the pond; a brief ripple soon overcome by sheer mass. People reversed directions almost mechanically and were soon flowing in a single direction, all with such smoothness as to think sirens were not blaring over their heads.
Taylor swore into his com. "It's a Goddamn bombing drill!" The Thai government, understandably nervous about its proximity to China in view of its Western slant, had instituted a program of irregularly scheduled bombing drills to prepare its people for what was viewed to be an inevitable confrontation. "Blue, do you have a visual on the target?" he yelled above the cacophony of the sirens.
A brief pause. "Negative, sir." People were pouring out of shops, restaurants, and hotel lobbies to join the flood of humanity. The crowd became, in an instant, an impenetrable mass of bodies.
"I can't get to her," he yelled, trying without success to push through the throng. Several people around him stared at him curiously as he screamed seemingly to himself. "Red, move ahead to the terminal ahead of us." The city's subway stations doubled as its bomb shelters, and the one down the block was hopefully the destination of their mark.
Taylor continued desperately to get ahead of the crowd, but it was impossible. People were packed tightly on the sidewalk, shuffling slowly ahead with admirable determination. There was a great deal of quiet complaining amongst them, many decrying the uselessness of this increasingly frequent exercise, others frustrated at the interruption of their evening. It was all good natured grumbling, however, even humorous; there was no genuine dissent or attempt at disruption. It was generally accepted as a part of life, even approved as a measure of preparedness. Even now, Taylor could not help but appreciate the mentality of those on the precipice, of those to whom constant danger was normality.
Just as he was prepared to accept defeat, his earpiece crackled to life. "We got her, Silver," Red called in. "By the subway entrance."
He silently breathed a sigh of relief. "Come around and pick me up," he ordered. "Blue; sit tight."
The street was still congested with vehicles trying to find parking, but with nimble driving Red soon had the car on the curb next to him. He fought his way towards it, elbowing several people out of the way, and for the first time came face to face with the woman he had tracked tirelessly for over three weeks. He got in the back, sandwiching her between himself and an agent at the opposite end. "Hello," he greeted her with a smile. She did not reciprocate.
"You're Americans, aren't you," she asked instead.
"Red, get us off the road," he commanded the driver, ignoring their guest. Thai police patrolled the streets after the drill to ensure compliance. If they were discovered in such a state by local police there would be uncomfortable questions.
"You people are CIA, aren't you?" she pressed. Her English was impeccable.
Taylor looked at her inquisitively. "That's quite a conclusion to jump to." He studied her face carefully now that he was finally close to her. She was young, perhaps in her late twenties. Her features were very fine; her skin was smooth and tanned and complimented very well her straight black hair. Prominent cheekbones highlighted her most remarkable feature: deep, charcoal eyes that gazed back at him without fear.
"I knew someone had been tracking me," she told him. "Now I know who."
His driver had managed to get off the main street and was now driving fast down a nearly empty side street. Only a few laggards were still on the sidewalks, moving hurriedly to the nearest station. Well behind them a patrol car was urging people to hurry.
"And just who are you," he asked her with genuine interest.
"I'm NIA."
He smirked. "Is that right?"
"You don't believe me."
"No."
She shook her head impatiently. "Who else would I be?"
Taylor found himself unable to look away from her eyes. In them he saw no deception, only a plea for understanding. At this point she had little to gain from lying when the truth was now just a phone call away. And he had to admit, the idea that they'd been tracking an agent of Thailand's National Intelligence Agency was intriguing.
"Black," he addressed the agent at the other end, "send her photo to our friends at NIA and ask them to confirm. Tell them we have her in custody."
The car turned up a ramp to a parking garage, coming to a stop in the middle of the near vacant lot, out of sight from the street below. The driver got out to patrol the area.
"Let's say you are who you claim to be," Taylor allowed after a pause. "What have you been doing?"
"I was a plant inside Government House," she began quickly, her nerves at last showing through her flurry of words. "I was given a feasible cover and some time to establish credibility. Eventually I put some inside information on the table to see who would bite."
He felt his nerves rise almost as much as her own. "Someone did."
"Yes. I was contacted by The Ministry about two days later."
Taylor allowed himself a moment to enjoy the feeling of vindication. "You met with an MSS agent?"
"Only once, the first time. I got a call on my home phone instructing me to meet him at a hotel room in Yan Nawa."
They had never tracked her to the Yan Nawa district; her primary meet must have been before they had learned of her actions. "What did he want?"
"Just what I offered. They wanted border information, patrol schedules. They were especially interested in port security."
"That's hardly actionable."
"True, they didn't give me anything. My people tracked them after our meeting, though, and intercepted a phone call made to the Chinese Consulate. He discussed our meeting and inquired about a money transfer from a Vietnamese company. It was assumed this was connected with our meet."
"A Vietnamese company?"
She nodded. "Lang Son Utilities was its name. We tracked it down, found out it was a private firm—which is of course illegal for a utilities company in Vietnam. And surprise, it was owned by Chinese investors."
"A front company."
"Yes. We tried to determine the origins or destination of the transfer, but Lang Son Utilities is no longer in existence—it just vanished."
"What have you been doing since?"
"Meeting with their functionaries, feeding them red herrings. I tried to elicit more, but they never knew anything and I could never reestablish contact with the agent. The op was about the be shut down."
"Is that all?" he asked her.
"Yes." She bore deeply into his eyes, as if trying to impress the veracity of all she had said upon him.
At length, the agent across from him hung up his phone after a brief exchange. "NIA confirms her as one of their own," he told Taylor.
"Jesus Christ," he exclaimed quietly, though after their conversation he was not truly surprised. He slowly shook his head and frustration crawled into his voice. "You know, we asked NIA about you. They told us they didn't have anything to give us."
"We are yet a sovereign country," she said fiercely. "We don't answer to you anymore than to the Chinese."
"You don't have the resources to follow up on a lead like that," he returned irritably. "Help us help you."
He climbed out of the car. The sirens had stopped and he could hear people yelling in the streets below. The patrolling agent gave him a cursory nod, signaling all was well. He called Langley and was quickly put through to Dowell.
"Agent Taylor," she said in greeting. "How goes the operation?"
"We have her in custody, ma'am."
"Good. Bring her in for questioning."
"Actually, she was quite cooperative. She provided us with intel on the scene."
"Is that right?" she asked, sounding slightly amused. "You find it credible?"
"I believe so, ma'am. She's an NIA agent."
For a moment there was silence, then he thought he heard faint shuffling in the background. "Confirmed?" she said at last.
"Yes."
"Actionable?"
"Hard to say."
"Alright, agent," she began with a sigh, "bring her in and debrief her. And do it quickly—NIA will be blustering for their agent back soon."
"Yes ma'am."
"I'll be in touch." She hung up.
Taylor was about to call his man back to the car, but reconsidered. "Hold for a second, Red," he instructed over the com. He walked briskly to the edge of the car park to the far side of a pillar, out of sight. Grasping the steel balustrade, he wrung it tightly in his hands to stop their shaking. Adrenaline still coursed through his veins even as his mind told him it was over; he felt his heart beat painfully in his chest. He delighted in being consumed by it.
He looked down at the scene below: it was a well appointed boulevard, a line of Oriental lamps dangling above plush cafes and small boutiques. They were all brightly lit, empty, and locked. People were slowly drifting back to the streets even though the drill had not entirely ended, emerging from underground to continue their lives. Shopkeepers returned to their businesses, lovers to their restaurants. As if nothing had happened.
"I'll be in touch," she had said. He wondered what she had meant.
In Good Company: Chapter 2: The Fine Country
Date: 8 June 2007, 2:29 am
Singapore
April 10th, 2048, 8:40 AM (local time)
David Taylor had never before made it to Singapore in his wide travels, though he was glad to have finally come. Glad, at least, to be away from Bangkok.
The city, known commonly and somewhat ironically as the Fine Country, was smaller than the Thai capital but denser and cleaner. The heat was perhaps even more intense here, but gone was the lingering cloud of putrid air that made one conscious of every breath.
He was surprised at the quality of his quarters. The Company had provided for him a luxurious hotel room on the southern coast of the island, a vast improvement from his previous residence: a shared apartment in a Bangkok tenement. The room was well appointed and commodious, consisting of a pleasant common area, brightened by spotless floor-to-ceiling windows; a marble clad bathroom with every imaginable toiletry; and a bedroom sporting an impressive balcony.
It was on the balcony he presently stood, enjoying the view from a great height. He leaned on the railing before him, feeling the warm air wash over his face—a warmth he could enjoy. Ahead was the ruffled blue expanse of the Singapore Strait, sparkling with dazzling intensity in the morning's light. The Strait was replete with traffic, an interminable line of container ships entering and leaving port; billions of dollars of goods and materials floating quietly before his eyes. Dark lines etched faintly on the horizon marked outlying islands of Indonesia, many miles distant. The day was exceptionally clear.
A small turn of his head to the left brought the heart of Singapore's lucrative economy into sight: the tangled maze of skyscrapers that composed the Downtown Core. Though much of the coast had been made into a wall of steel and concrete, the downtown area rivaled Midtown New York in vertical pre-eminence. With its vast reserves, varied interests, and close Western ties, Singapore had barely felt the effects of the Depression and was now hard at work profiting from it.
He turned from the view to sit upon the edge of his bed. Though it was not his habit to question good fortune, he was nonetheless perplexed as to why he had been sent to this place. He had no sooner been informed of the transfer by his station chief than he was leaving Bangkok on an Agency plane. It had been a rushed and unpleasant journey without much time for sleep, and his tired body was beginning to feel the effects of the impromptu flight. That it had something to do with the operation in Thailand he had no doubt, though he could only guess at specifics.
Slowly he lifted himself from the bed and shuffled into the bathroom. The radio was still on from his shower sometime before, tuned to a local broadcast of the BBC. A panel was discussing the civil war in Pakistan and whether or not the West should get involved. That would only inflame the situation, one man commented. Doesn't anybody remember Iraq? another asked more passionately. Are we to sit back and watch Communism consume the whole world? a woman countered fiercely. It was a fine bout of platitudes.
He splashed some cool water on his face to reinvigorate himself. When he turned off the water, he realized his phone was ringing. He returned quickly into the bedroom.
Taylor picked up his phone from atop his suitcase. "Yes?"
"How does Singapore find you, Agent?" It was Dowell.
"Somewhat confused, Director."
"You're little friend in Thailand proved to be quite valuable," she said with some measure of mirth. "Her intel on the money transfer turned out to be legitimate. Christ knows what good it will do, but we need a lead—badly."
"The money came here?" he asked.
"It was sent through here, anyway. NSA was able to isolate the transfer of some eight billion dollars from Lang Son Utilities to United Overseas Bank in Singapore three weeks ago."
"Well, that explains the why."
"You're wondering why we sent you."
"Yes."
"You requested a change of station, I believe."
"So this is just Agency benevolence, is it?" he asked caustically.
She laughed. "Well, Taylor, you're already appraised of the situation, and we want to keep this op in the smallest circle possible. Apparently you're adequately knowledgeable in several East Asian languages and have spent time in Thailand and Korea. You seemed appropriate."
"You're making me blush, Director."
"Good to hear."
"So how am I to proceed?"
"The money was sent in US currency, which means it is likely destined for somewhere outside the region," she explained. "United Overseas Bank is an information security fortress; NSA can't even begin to penetrate it. We need to find out where that money went, but the trail dead-ends in Singapore."
"You need a physical presence inside the bank."
"Right. Fortunately, we've had a man inside UOB for some time now."
"What do you need me for, then?" he asked.
"He's a local asset."
"I see." Assets recruited from the indigenous populace were not trusted with sensitive information. MSS had shown a remarkable talent for identifying and turning the Agency's contacts.
"All the equipment you'll need has been provided for you in your field kit. You'll have to gain access the bank's mainframe and download the information on your PDA."
"And this contact will get me to where I need to go."
"Well, let's hope. He has your number and will set up a meet sometime today. You'll know him as Mr. Kim."
"Alright, then."
"Good luck, Agent," she said in parting.
"And to you, Director."
Singapore
April 10th, 2048, 12:20 PM (local time)
Taylor was surprised by how green Singapore was. Even in the Downtown Core, through which he now walked, featured strips of grass and immaculately tended gardens running parallel to the broad Raffles thoroughfare. Tropical plants and marble fountains adorned the Italian-style piazzas of many of the offices, set amidst colorful stones depicting Oriental patterns. It was an exotic mixture of Mediterranean and Asian styles that complimented the crisp cleanliness of the streets.
The fastidiousness of the city bordered on the obscene. Present on nearly every corner were two gaudily uniformed police officers, scanning the crowd with admirable vigilance. Beneath every parking sign was a stern warning of a substantial fine for littering. Public maintenance crews were visible everywhere, tending to gardens and sweeping the curb for leaves and other detritus that washed down with the frequent rain in Singapore. The overall effect was pleasant to the senses, but it had more the atmosphere of a Capitalist theme park than a real city.
He entered a prominent hotel and headed towards the restaurant at the rear of the lobby, not slowing to admire his opulent surroundings. A pretty young hostess stopped him at the entrance. "Table for one, sir?" she asked.
"I'm meeting someone. He's already here," he added quickly.
"Go ahead," she said as another group came up behind him.
The restaurant was high class, all dark wood and dark stone. The lighting was low, casting shadows across golden statues and dramatic tapestries. An army of waiters fluttered back and forth, incommensurate to the handful of customers who dined in such a subdued manner Taylor thought he had entered a place of worship.
He emerged through a pair of open French doors onto a sprawling wooden deck. It extended well out into the placid Singapore River, providing a lovely backdrop for a great deal more people than were eating within. Spotless white tablecloths fluttered gently in the warm breeze, though silverware enshrouded in elegantly folded napkins kept everything in place.
Taylor focused on a man dining alone near the back and began to approach him. The man noticed him before he had reached him. "Ah, glad to see you found me," he said with a smile.
"You must be Mr. Kim," Taylor said, extending his hand.
Kim took it. "Which would make you Mr. Butler."
He sat down opposite his contact. "I guess so."
Taylor studied the man he was to put a great deal of faith in. Kim was short and looked like he had once been solidly built, though the nature of his work had shifted his girth to his gut and beneath his chin. He had thinning hair and face that looked given to laughter. Before him was a plate of what looked like an assortment of meats with noodles and rice.
"Would you like something?" Kim asked.
"That's alright."
"They have Western food here, if that's what you prefer."
"I'm fine, really." He glanced at his watch.
Kim noticed and waved his chopsticks dismissively. "We have some time to kill, my friend. The IT guys leave for lunch at one for about an hour. Besides, I don't often get out for my noon break," he added, happily engulfing a mouthful of food.
"I see." A waiter came over to fill Taylor's glass with ice water, which he hastily took. He waved off a proffered menu.
"So you're coming to us from outside, I understand," he ventured. He was quick to placate Taylor's glare. "Don't worry, your superior told me a little about you. I simply wondered if this was your first visit to Singapore."
"It is."
"You came at a fortunate time, Mr. Butler. It's been raining all week, just cleared up yesterday. The fog lends the city its own kind of beauty, but it really ought to be seen in the sun. It truly is a fine country."
"It's very agreeable."
Kim did not seem to be discouraged by his curtness. "It wasn't always quite like this. It's actually changed a lot in just the past decade I've been here. All those sweepers and whatnot you see about—the government's been hiring them by the thousands these last few years. They're hesitant about accepting immigrants, but they're eager to employ. The city's been awash in cash since the Depression."
"That seems contrary to their nature."
"I'll share with you the worst kept secret in Singapore: the Depression is the best thing that ever happened to this little country. Organized crime has exploded in Southeast Asia—cartels, syndicates, old mafias, new mafias—and all of them put their money in here. There are more banks per square inch here than anywhere in the world, and they're all full of blood money. Discretion is Singapore's number one export."
"One wonders if that sort of thing will come to your shores."
"We have almost as many cops as we do bankers here. We have the highest per capita execution rate in the world. No, we leave our corruption to our elected officials, so long as it makes us rich."
Taylor chuckled despite himself. "That's quite an outlook."
Kim seemed gratified to have coaxed some mirth from his sullen companion. "I'm not ashamed to have it. I do quite well for myself here." He leaned in closer, as if he were about to share a great personal truth. "I'm from Korea. I studied at Cambridge, mastered in finance at Harvard. When I got back to Seoul and the Depression hit, I was working as a fucking bus driver." He shook his head emphatically. "I worked too hard to just accept that."
"I wouldn't think of judging you."
"A man in your line of work rarely does."
Taylor narrowed his eyes. "I don't take your meaning."
"It's not just criminals who bring their money here. Your little tiff with the Chinese generates plenty of its own revenue. Real wars are bankrolled by the bigger fish, and it's all above board. Wars like yours are quiet and in the shadows, easier to profit from."
"You deal with MSS?"
"There's no better way to finance clandestine operations abroad than through Singapore. Let me tell you something." Kim dropped his chopsticks and gestured around at the skyscrapers that enveloped them. "All this shit, it's as much for show as for practicality. Did you know the government subsidizes any new building over two hundred and fifty meters, and that companies who occupy such buildings are eligible for special tax incentives? Why? Because you people love it."
A waiter collected Kim's empty plate and asked him if he would care for some dessert. He looked tempted, but glancing at his watch he opted for the bill instead. Turing back to Taylor, he asked, "What was I saying?"
"You were talking about how wide-eyed I was over tall buildings," he reminded him.
Kim raised his hands in remembrance. "That's right. The skyscrapers, the neurotic sanitation, it's all just ostentatious adornment, and the West eats it up. Something about us is romantic to you people, a brazen little free market economy in the middle of a giant snake pit. It's a David and Goliath, Athens and Persia type of appeal, I think. We're on CNN more than Thailand is, for God's sake—at least they're genuine in their pro-American slant, if less efficacious. We simply cater to Western sensibilities while whoring ourselves to the PRC. Prevents those bastards up north from quietly annexing us like they did the rest of Southeast Asia."
"You're a cynical son of a bitch, Kim."
He shrugged and smiled. "I try." He slipped on a pair of glasses to read the newly arrived check, continuing to chat as he did so. "It's all bullshit anyway, of course. China's probably more capitalist than you people are. They espouse socialism like the Marxists of old, and all the third world communists support them as their champion, not seeming to mind that they have a greater disparity in wealth than the Great Satan. The Chinese probably forced this Asian Depression to cultivate communist sympathy in the region."
"You really believe that?" Taylor asked. It was a common speculation.
"They certainly had the power to at least encourage it. By the end of the thirties the Party was in control of almost all the markets in Southeast Asia. It's possible they could have intentionally crashed them. That's a hard thing to prove nowadays, but it is clear that the Chinese were quick to fund their neighbors' insurgencies. Now it's spreading like wildfire." He laughed. "You have your work cut out for you, my friend."
The check paid, Taylor stood up. "Shall we leave?"
Kim seemed disappointed by his promptness, but slowly rose to meet him. "Let's go."
Taylor had met many men like Kim, an ilk characterized by a garrulous manner and an absolute faith in every of the numerous words that passed their lips. Neither succinctness nor apathy provided relief for the besieged; whether this was due to narcissism or genuine ignorance, Taylor could never tell. The effect, however, was the same regardless, and it was not a trait desirable in an asset in whom discretion was required.
"Why do collaborate with the Agency?" he couldn't resist asking as they left the restaurant. "What's in it for you?"
"Besides a desire to make the world a better place?"
He ignored the facetious remark. "What do they pay you?"
"A pittance compared to my salary at the bank," he replied with an air of condescension. "I'd refuse it but for fear of insulting your employers. No, money isn't my motivation, but the connections I enjoy. We can't walk the sharp edge of the knife here forever without eventually falling off. Did you know that over two thirds of Singapore's water supply is piped in from Malaysia? Beijing makes one phone call and we're on our knees in a day. The time will come when it all goes to shit, and when it does I want to be on the first helicopter out of here."
"Or MSS will discover your activities," Taylor pointed out.
Kim waved his hand and scowled. "I'm not worried. I cover my tracks well."
Given his easy candor, Taylor was not so sure.
On their walk to the United Overseas Bank, Kim began to talk of more trivial matters, including his personal life, to which Taylor offered few and short answers. He was grateful for the change, able now to concentrate on the task ahead rather than his companion's frivolous prattling. If all went according to plan, the transfer of data would be quick and relatively easy, though the margin for error was appreciably large. Thus far, Kim had done little to inspire any great confidence in him.
When they reached UOB Plaza, Kim abruptly shifted focus to the matter at hand. "Here's how this will work," he said, his tone becoming serious. "The Agency told me you need to get something off our mainframe. They refuse to tell me what, only that I'm to get you there. Now, my colleagues are under the impression that I was meeting a client for lunch, which they will assume you to be. I'll take you on a tour of the building, which is not uncommon—especially with our American clients. However, I have no reason to take you to the mainframe, and it's strictly off limits to non-employees. The door is locked by a keypad; security is notified whenever it is accessed. With maintenance off duty, the room should be empty. I can't guarantee you more than a minute or two before we can expect company."
"I'll be quick," he promised. "What will happen when they discover us in the processing room?"
"I'm well established at UOB, one of their better rainmakers. Hopefully I've built up enough credit that an incident like this will be excused." He stopped for a moment and turned Taylor towards him. "I'm taking quite a risk here. I'd take it as a kindness if you'd put in a good word to your employers."
Taylor smiled. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves."
UOB Plaza consisted of a pair of looming towers, though they entered the taller of the two. The lobby was a predictable affair, a sterile expanse of green marble and oak desks, behind which sat an endless array of receptionists. More significant was the veritable legion of armed security guards and purposely visible security cameras. Taylor wouldn't be surprised if they were both summarily arrested upon their discovery in the processing room.
Kim approached a small, elderly man, looking quite absurd behind a massive, semi-circular desk. He immediately began to engage the man in Mandarin. Taylor's grasp of the language was imperfect and the two men spoke quickly and casually, though he gathered that Kim identified him as a potential client and was requesting a pass. Taylor was beckoned forward to sign in, the old man eyeing him warily as he did so. He said something to Kim he did not understand, but the reply was perfectly clear:
"You know Americans these days." The answer seemed to satisfy the man.
They proceeded into an elevator beyond the desk, the doors closing with a thud behind them. Kim at last deemed the time right to fall silent, though as the lift slowed he said shortly, "Now's the time to pray."
"I don't pray," he returned.
They entered a long, wide corridor lined with glass-walled offices and lit with an abundance of natural light. Further along the walls became conspicuously solid, transparent sliding doors replaced with thick wooden ones. Kim stopped at one and, looking hastily in both directions, entered in the code on a keypad.
With a hiss the door opened and the two slipped in, closing it swiftly behind them. Kim led the way to a small console set amidst hulking processors running the height of the room. He quickly typed in the password to access the records and stepped away. Taylor set immediately to work, linking the console to his PDA.
"Stay by the door and don't move," he ordered Kim irritably when he remained by his side.
"Clock's ticking," Kim reminded him, slow to move away.
When his trying companion had shuffled out of sight, he began to search through the financial records. Billions of dollars moved through the bank each day in the form of thousands of transactions; just the day's records so far stretched on interminably. He narrowed the search to the day of the transfer from Lang Son Utilities. He looked at his watch—over a minute had passed since his entry. He prepared to copy the entire day's log. Time had run too short to find the specific entry, though he hoped there was enough left to download all the data.
The transfer was fast, but the seconds continued to tick inexorably by. The duration of their excursion soon passed the two minute mark, but only half the data had been copied. Kim began to get agitated.
"Time's up, Agent," he said.
"Hold on." Sixty percent.
"Now," he urged.
Taylor pulled it at eighty-five percent and shoved the PDA in his pocket. When he rejoined Kim near the entrance, the door swung open and two guards stepped in, both double taking upon seeing them. Kim at once greeted them genially, bewildering them with a rapid flood of Mandarin. One of the guards, the older of the two, tried to brush past this spate of cordiality, gesturing to Taylor and telling him that he would have to report the infraction. Kim laughed at this, placing his hand on the man's broad shoulders and leading both of them gently from the room. He plunged into a lengthy explanation, employing his verbose manner to great effect. The exasperated guard finally held up a hand, saying simply that he would expect a favor for his circumspection. Kim said he would be only too happy to oblige.
"Now, Mr. Butler," he said, returning to Taylor and to English. "Please, let's retire to my office."
They proceeded to Kim's plush office about two dozen floors down. He immediately shut the door upon entering, retrieved a bottle of scotch from his desk, and poured himself a drink.
"It is quite a feeling, isn't it?" he asked with a nervous laugh, downing a shot of the amber liquid.
"It never goes away," Taylor acknowledged, refusing a glass of his own.
Kim dropped pretense and took a swig straight from the bottle. "One could get addicted to it. A hell of a way to make a living, yours is." He took a seat at his desk and invited Taylor to do the same. "To make your presence seem legitimate, you'll have to stay here a while."
Taylor frowned, but conceded and sat in the thick leather sofa set against the wall. "I confess I didn't understand much of what you said up there. What did you tell him?"
Kim offered him a devious smile, the alcohol restoring some of his confidence. "I said you worked for IBM and were curious about our setup here."
"Very nice, Mr. Kim," he exclaimed with an appreciative laugh.
Taylor scanned the data he had collected from the mainframe as Kim embarked on another rambling monologue. He felt sure the record for the transaction he was looking for was contained in the eighty-five percent of the log he was able to procure, though his heart raced faster every moment he did not see it. When at last he discovered the target of his efforts, a feeling of absolute relief flooded warmly over him. He felt the tightness ease in his chest and limbs, thankful that the luck endowed to him in his work was not of the kind he was otherwise accustomed to.
His companion, meanwhile, was becoming less coherent and more bombastic with each further indulgence. He spoke wistfully of his days in America and how he dearly wished to return, but that the money in Singapore disagreed with his desire. Eventually he confessed his lifelong fascination with the world of espionage and the gratification he felt when he was recruited by the Agency.
"I always thought I'd be the consummate spy," he said. "Really, it's a lot like banking, and I'm a damn good banker."
Taylor stood up, judging the time adequate for pretence. "Well, I'd better be off," he interrupted. He offered his hand to Kim, who shook it limply. "I'll sing your praises to the director."
"Oh, yes," he said, seeming nonplussed. "Thank you. Good working with you."
He left the office, returning to the lobby in the elevator with two women who conversed softly in a language he didn't recognize. He was grateful to emerge into the warm afternoon air, having felt trapped in the building for a far longer time than he had actually been in. On the street outside an irate man was being handed a ticket by a stalwart officer, who wordlessly pointed to the "no littering" sign above his head. A piece of trash blew serenely along the curb but was quickly recovered by a patrolling sweeper.
Taylor would be sorry to leave the Fine Country.
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