The Root of Money

7

7Swan looked at the time on the phone Osman had given her. She had lost track of how many phones she had been given as each mission required its own, Osman destroying them at the end of an operation. With deft movements of her thumbs Swan sent a text message to the bank manager: Five minutes. The Mercedes eased its way along Jalan Pinang, a busy street through the center of Kuala Lumpur’s business district. Five minutes had not yet passed when the car arrived at its destination. Following Osman’s instructions, Swan waited an additional five minutes before entering the bank.

“All is in readiness.” A short stocky bank manager hurried to greet her, ushering Swan to a small room adjacent to the tellers’ area. He pointed at an open metal case filled with currency pursuant to Osman’s instructions: five hundred and twenty thousand euros in wrapped stacks of ten thousand euros.

“Lovely day,” the bank manager remarked as he examined the beauty standing across the table.

As her eyes hardened, his eyes dropped. Osman told her it would not be necessary to verify the contents. The bank manager knew the consequence of error.

“I will need assistance to my car.” Her statement carried the weight of a command.

The manager happily understood their business was quickly concluded and cupped his hand around a strap of bills. Looking at Swan for her reaction, he read her body language as approval and placed it in his pocket.

“Allah Akbar,” he said enthusiastically and watched another strap of bills disappear into Swan’s pocket.

Under Swan’s supervision the manager placed the case in the Mercedes trunk, bowed at the waist and backed away.

“You may reactivate your surveillance system,” Swan said before closing the car door.

Two green asphalt tennis courts separated the Mandarin Oriental Hotel’s pool from the bustling street. Ten foot high stone walls bordering the courts provided Osman and his three men with privacy. There were only two ways to gain access to the courts: entry from the hotel’s health club that was secured by a simple turn of a lock from the outside, the other was a walkway from the street where Afa stood sentry with a 9mm Sig Sauer pistol tucked in the small of his back.

Osman waved a tennis racket back and forth, getting loose before he began volleying. On the other side of the court, Afu looked uncomfortable in blue basketball shorts and a sunny Malaysia branded tee-shirt purchased in the hotel’s gift shop. His size sixteen black Oxford shoes seemed riveted to the asphalt as Osman shot tennis balls passed him.

“Hit one back and I’ll buy you a nice bottle of Macallan!” Osman challenged, his traditional tennis whites contrasting his dark skin.

At the name of his favored Scotch whisky the immobile opponent bent his knees in anticipation of the next volley. However, before another ball could be hit, two chimes caught Osman’s attention. He turned toward Matu, the giant standing along the pool side of the court where his large light colored eyes managed to soften his round, pockmarked face. Matu read a message from Osman’s phone: Swan was on her way back.