“Why are you doing all the calling? Isn’t Victoria at home?”
“Mr. Shang, isn’t Victoria in England?”
Alamak. He had completely forgotten that his niece—Su Yi’s daughter, who lived at Tyersall Park—was at this moment at his house in Surrey, no doubt embroiled in some inane gossipfest with his wife and daughter.
“How about Felicity? Didn’t she come over?” Alfred inquired about Su Yi’s eldest daughter, whose house was nearby on Nassim Road.
“Mrs. Leong could not be reached tonight. Her maid said she was in church, and she always turns off her mobile phone when she’s in the house of God.”
Bloody useless, all of them! “Well, did you call an ambulance?”
“No, she didn’t want an ambulance. Vikram drove her to the hospital in the Daimler, accompanied by her lady’s maids and two Gurkhas. But before she left, she said you would know how to contact Professor Oon.”
“Okay, okay. I’ll take care of it,” Alfred said in a huff, hanging up the phone.
Everyone at the table was staring at him expectantly.
“Oh my, that did sound rather serious,” the duke said, pursing his lips worriedly.
“I’ll just be a moment…please carry on,” Alfred said, getting up from his chair. The bodyguards trailed after him as he strode through the restaurant and out the door to the garden.
Alfred hit another number on his speed dial: PROF OON HOME.
A woman picked up the phone.
“Is this Olivia? Alfred Shang here.”
“Oh, Alfred! Are you looking for Francis?”
“Yes. I’m told he’s in Australia?” Why the bloody hell did they have this doctor on a million-dollar retainer if he was never available?
“He just left an hour ago for Sydney. He’s doing a triple bypass tomorrow on that actor who won an Oscar for—”
“So he’s on a plane right now?” Alfred cut her off.
“Yes, but he’ll be arriving in a few hours if you need to—”
“Just give me his flight number,” Alfred snapped. He turned to one of his bodyguards and asked, “Who has the Singapore phone? Somebody get Istana*3 on the line right now.”
Turning to another bodyguard, he said, “And please order me another of those lobster quesadillas.”
PROBLEM NO. 3
Your airplane is forced to land before you can finish drinking your Dom Pérignon.
EAST JAVA, INDONESIA
The silk sheets had just been turned down in the first-class suites, the enormous double-decked Airbus A380-800 had reached a comfortable cruising altitude of thirty-eight thousand feet, and most of the passengers were comfortably ensconced in their seats, scanning through the latest movie offerings. Moments later, the pilots of Singapore Airlines Flight 231 bound for Sydney received the most unusual instructions from Jakarta air traffic control as they flew over Indonesian airspace:
AIR TRAFFIC CONTROLLER: singapore two thirty one super jakarta.
PILOT: singapore two thirty one super go ahead.
ATC: I have been instructed to have you turn around immediately and return to Singapore Changi Airport.
PILOT: Jakarta, you want us to return to Singapore Changi?
ATC: Yes. Turn the plane around and return immediately to Singapore. I have the amended route advise ready to copy.
PILOT: Jakarta, what is the reason for the course change?
ATC: I don’t have that information, but this is a direct order from the Directorate General of Civil Aviation.
The pilots looked at each other in disbelief. “Should we really be doing this?” the captain wondered aloud. “We’ll have to dump a quarter-million liters of fuel before we can land!”
Just then, the aircraft’s selective-calling radio system lit up with an incoming message. The co-pilot read the message quickly and gave the captain an incredulous look. “Wah lan! It’s from the minister of fricking defense! He says to get back to Singapore pronto!”
When the airplane made an unexpected landing at Changi Airport just three hours after it had departed, the passengers were disoriented and startled by the strange turn of events. An announcement was made over the intercom: “Ladies and gentlemen, due to an unexpected event, we have made an emergency diversion back to Singapore. Please remain in your seats with your seat belts fastened, as our flight to Sydney will resume immediately after refueling.”
Two men in discreet dark suits came aboard and approached the man seated in suite 3A—Professor Francis Oon, Singapore’s leading cardiologist. “Professor Oon? I’m Lieutenant Ryan Chen from SID.*4 Please come with us.”
“We’re leaving the plane?” Professor Oon asked, utterly baffled. One minute he was in the middle of watching Gone Girl, and the next minute the plane had landed back in Singapore. He hadn’t even recovered from the film’s jaw-dropping plot twist.
Lieutenant Chen nodded curtly. “Yes. Please gather up all your belongings—you won’t be returning to this flight.”
“But…but…what did I do?” Professor Oon asked, suddenly feeling uneasy.
“Don’t worry, you didn’t do anything. But we need to get you off this plane now.”
“Am I the only one leaving?”
“Yes, you are. We are escorting you directly to Mount Elizabeth Hospital. You have been requested to attend to a VVIP patient.”
At that moment, Professor Oon knew something must have happened to Shang Su Yi. Only the Shangs had the kind of influence to turn around a Singapore Airlines flight with four hundred forty passengers onboard.
* * *
*1 A slight exaggeration, but this island—known affectionately as “Briland” to the locals—is home to twelve billionaires (at last count, and depending on who’s counting).
*2 Cantonese for “elder sister,” often used as a term of familiarity for household help in the way that “boy” is sometimes used, as in Sonny Boy or Johnny Boy.
*3 Malay for “palace.” In this instance, Alfred is referring to Istana in Singapore, the official residence of the president.
*4 The Security and Intelligence Division, Singapore’s equivalent of America’s CIA or Britain’s MI5, is so secretive that most people don’t even know it exists. But yes, that man eating fish ball on a stick outside NTUC FairPrice could be the Singaporean James Bond, and you wouldn’t even know it.
PART ONE
The only thing I like about rich people is their money.
—NANCY ASTOR, VISCOUNTESS ASTOR
CHAPTER ONE
DAVOS, SWITZERLAND
Edison Cheng stared up at the soaring honeycomb-structured ceiling in the vast white auditorium, feeling on top of the world. I’m here. I’m finally here! After years of Olympic-level networking, Eddie had at long last made it—he had been invited to attend the annual meeting of the World Economic Forum in Davos. Strictly by invitation only,*1 this prestigious event was the most elite schmoozefest on the planet.
Every January, the world’s most important heads of state, politicians, philanthropists, CEOs, tech leaders, thought leaders, social activists, social entrepreneurs, and, of course, movie stars*2 would descend upon this secluded ski resort high in the Swiss Alps in their private jets, check in to their luxurious hotels, put on their $5,000 ski jackets and ski boots, and engage in meaningful dialogues about such urgent issues as global warming and rising inequality.