Chapter XIII
Lim told me the rest of it. After Angelo Sacchetti came back from the dead, via Cebu City and Hong Kong, he gave what amounted to a marathon party that lasted for almost a month. It went on night and day in his fashionable apartment, an open house for friends who brought friends who, in turn, brought their friends and eventually Sacchetti met the persons that he wanted to meet, the minor politicians who might be bought and the hard cases who were not at all averse to expanding their activities if there were prospect of a tidy profit. Sacchetti simply showed them how to make it faster.
He also made a few enemies along the way, but opposition melted after two of his more intransigent opponents were found, floating face-down in the Singapore River. The secret societies, badly fragmented, backed Sacchetti as long as he didn’t interfere with their indent graft and as long as they received a cut from the proceeds. The only real opposition was the Singapore government and Sacchetti fixed that by marrying the youngest daughter of Toh Kin Pui, a politician who had a large and extremely left-wing following, and who just happened to be down on his luck at the time.
“Mr. Toh now espouses his rather China-oriented political philosophy from the back seat of a handsome Rolls-Royce which his son-in-law gave him for his birthday,” Lim said. “Although we can’t prove it, we strongly suspect that a percentage of Mr. Sacchetti’s profits are being channeled into his father-in-law’s political war chest. By now, I rather think that the chest is almost full.”
“What will he do with it — buy votes?”
Lim shook his head. “No, there’s no election for another four years and the Prime Minister’s party now controls every seat in Parliament — fifty-one out of fifty-one, a most regrettable situation.”
“Why?”
“You need some opposition, you know. Otherwise your own politicians will have nothing to rail against. Suppose, for example, that your Democrats suddenly won every seat in your Congress.”
“They’d fight with each other,” I said.
“Exactly. That’s why Toh is useful to the government. He provides a target, a whipping boy, and Lord knows one is needed.”
“But he has no real power?” I said.
“Yes, Mr. Cauthorne, he has power. With the money he now controls he can launch a full-scale race riot whenever he chooses. That’s the threat that Angelo Sacchetti’s father-in-law holds over our government, and it’s a gravely serious one. We simply cannot afford another riot at this time.”
“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.