The Root of Money

4

4American covert agencies publicly referred to Ahmad Haqq bin Osman with the benign designation as a “person of interest.” In actuality, they regarded him as an accomplice to a number of terrorist organizations and drug cartels, assisting them with the clandestine movement of money. Despite Osman’s imperative for his activities to remain undetected, he sat in front of a large floor to ceiling window in Kuala Lumpur’s Mandarin Hotel’s Oriental Club that provided a breathtaking view of the Petronas Twin Towers that until recently were the tallest manmade structures on the planet.

Osman’s appearance suggested a frail man, barely one hundred and twenty five pounds. Those that knew him understood he was not to be underestimated in any respect. The trail of bodies he was responsible for was proof of the fallacy of the expression “dead men tell no tales.” Osman leaned forward to stir a tumbler of ice water perched on a rich mahogany table.

“Has Matu lost his way again?” he asked a large bodyguard standing beside him.

The man, a Samoan named Afu, reached beneath his long leather coat to adjust a short barreled automatic weapon slung over his shoulder. “He probably locked himself in the bathroom again, Raja.” The appellation was a term of respect normally reserved for those who were actually descendants of Malaysian royalty.

Osman regarded another menacing figure across the room who was dressed identically to his hulking colleague and brother whose attention had been drawn to the far side of the Club where Matu, a man larger than the siblings, was walking awkwardly fast. A laptop computer was almost invisible in his massive hand before he placed it on the table in front of his leader.

Osman twirled a neatly trimmed handlebar moustache below his generous nose while he waited for the screen he needed to appear. Looking over his shoulder, he repositioned himself so his back no longer faced the large window and selected a graphic icon of a globe sitting on a bejeweled saddle mounted on the back of an elephant, the logo of International Asia Bank. After logging into the online banking page, Osman navigated to a business account he had fabricated to facilitate anonymous movement of money and verified receipt of transfers from banks in Prague, Osaka and Ankara.

His movements were being followed by Swan, an extraordinarily attractive Burmese woman sitting at the corner of the lounge’s long bar. Her large, dark almond-shaped eyes were carved above high sculpted cheek bones, accentuating her perfect olive skin. Having skillfully deflected offers of drink, food and conversation, she excused herself from a persistent admirer, stood and straightened her tailored black skirt suit. Her glance summoned the bartender who quickly filled a tumbler with ice water that she accepted with a smile. Osman’s men watched her amble to his table and put the beverage on a coaster in front of him. Matu stole a closer look at her as Osman pulled the drink toward him.

“You know what to do,” Osman said.

“Yes, Bapa.” Swan spun on her heels and walked toward the exit leading to the hotel lobby.

Osman insisted she call him Bapa though they were not related by blood, the name reinforcing a deception he invented for himself from which he garnered a measure of solace. His feelings for Swan were complex, not unlike a serial killer toward their own family, a screen intended to hide his true nature and purpose. A decade ago Osman rescued Swan from a metal container transporting girls no older than sixteen to endpoints where they would be subjected to all manners of abuse. Swan was thirteen and Osman, owed a fee by a trafficker, agreed to accept her as payment. He arranged for Swan to be educated in history, economics, languages and an array of arts, in addition to special skills that would enhance her ability to assist his ventures. At times, her presence as his “daughter” permitted him to blend into situations where he might otherwise be precariously conspicuous. Her mastery of languages and ability to manipulate others, particularly by taking advantage of their base desires, served Osman well.

Nearly every pair of eyes in the lounge was fixed on Swan. Her beauty is a double edged sword, Osman thought. When she passed out of sight he stood and walked to a bank of elevators, his guards flanking him.

“Anyone for tennis?” Osman asked as a chime signaled an elevator’s arrival.

Swan strolled through the lobby, her heels creating tempo on the marble floor. Despite her desire to exit unobserved, she was aware of men and women coveting her, from her smooth ebony hair to the high-heeled metronomes on her feet. She inhaled the power of her sexuality, thinking about the day, half her lifetime ago, when a small dark man extended his arm to guide her from the suffocating heat of a cramped container. Although he saved her from horrors she could not imagine, Swan frequently wondered if she would have fared better if she had been left with the other girls.

A driver opened the door of a silver Mercedes waiting in front of the hotel, letting Swan glide into the backseat. Her thoughts turned to her assignment. It would be a short drive to the bank and she must execute Osman’s instructions perfectly.