18. The World Tilts

The Istana, the official home of Singapore's president, had been draped for the gala that evening in long red and white banners, the country's national colors, and soldiers in matching uniforms stood in two lines leading from the golden gates to the marble steps leading up to the building's grand entrance. The colors contrasted boldly with the lush green foliage that framed the palace at every corner. Lining the top of the steps were members of the national guard, rifles hoisted against their shoulders.

Gavi walked in silence next to Winter. The fight they'd had the night before was fresh in Winter's mind, but the mission was still on, and that meant he still had a part to play with her at his side. He didn't look at her, though, and she didn't look at him. They walked without touching hands, pretending to admire the decorations in the palace.

Winter's custom suit stood out against the bursts of color. It only made him feel more exposed, as if he might see a target on the fabric at any moment. Behind him, Sydney kept a reasonable distance, looking more severe today in her bodyguard's suit, her hair pulled tightly back with a long pin tucked through it. Her gaze was trained on a corner or a hall or a cluster of people, never on him. But he couldn't help lingering on her, and now, as she passed between a red, flowering vine and was momentarily shrouded in crimson, he imagined it as a scarlet dress trailing behind her. It didn't matter what she was wearing, really. There were hundreds of guests here draped in luxury, but none of them stood out to him like she did.

He turned away and took a deep breath. Maybe it was for the best that their mission would end today. He could go home, Gavi could go her separate way, and he and Sydney wouldn't have to deal with the messiness they had unearthed between them.

The thought still left a pang in his heart.

Servers in flowing robes bustled in and out of the reception hall, offering the entering guests platters of ice-cold fruits and champagne. Winter took glasses of champagne for him and Gavi, then handed one to her as politely as he could muster.

"Thanks," she muttered.

He didn't reply. Instead, his eyes darted beyond the reception hall to the long entryway past the main doorway, where security gathered thick.

They were everywhere he looked—police in suits and sunglasses, talking quietly to each other on their earpieces, their eyes jumping to each guest in suspicion before they bowed politely and looked away. He wondered if any of them were the CIA agents in disguise that Tems had mentioned. He wondered if Niall was on the grounds, if he had already parked his car in preparation for helping them get to the airfield and waiting plane.

It seemed hard to believe that any assassination could be attempted in a place like this. But as they headed into the main hall, Tems came into view, his face an unwelcome reminder of all the things that had to go right in order for them to call this mission a success.

He was dressed tonight like the US president's entourage, his black suit blending him in with the rest of the bodyguards and assistants. As they approached, Tems smiled.

"Mr. Young!" he said with a smile. "Everyone in my family is a fan of yours. What a pleasure to see you tonight."

The sight of him made Winter's stomach lurch in anticipation of their plan. He chanced a glance at Sydney. Tems had ignored her completely, of course, and she'd done the same. Her lips were tight, her calm expression veiling tension in her step. Her eyes flickered to him, and at his gaze, her lips pressed tighter.

She looked away as they glided past Tems. As Sydney passed him, though, Winter saw him slide something small into the pocket of her suit. She didn't pause at all, but her hand went into her pocket to check that she had received it.

Of course Winter knew what Tems was doing—handing her a ticket that they would need when Winter made his move. But the jealousy rose hot and swift in his chest all the same. The memory of Sydney's vulnerable gaze from the night before flooded his thoughts, and Winter swallowed hard, forcing himself to keep the smile on his face and follow the stream of guests farther into the palace.

"Hey," Gavi said in a low voice as they reached the end of the hall, stopping in front of the coat check desk. "I don't want us to spend the entire night lingering on this whole mess about your father. I'm sorry. I really, truly am. I never should have agreed to it."

He sighed, his eyes fixed on the main atrium that they now entered. "Let's just walk together and pretend like we're cordial, all right?"

Gavi straightened and frowned. "So all the headlines tomorrow are gossiping about how miserable we looked?"

"It'd be nice if there were no headlines at all, because no one cares."

Gavi sighed. When he looked at her, she seemed sober, her face unusually serious. "Look, Winter," she said quietly. "I don't know how to apologize for last night."

"For starters," he said coldly, "you could stop working with my dad."

"I've stopped. I promise."

"I don't believe you."

"Winter, please." She struggled for words for a moment. "I know I owe you a favor after all that. Maybe a lot of favors. I'm sorry. Can't we talk about it?"

He sighed. "You know, it's always a game with you."

Her expression darkened. "I'm not playing right now."

He turned away from her. "I just want this day to end," he said. "So we can go our separate ways. Let's leave it at that."

Gavi fell into a sullen silence as they headed into the banquet hall.

Round tables dotted the space, around which milled an assortment of guests, some of whom Winter recognized. There were presidents and foreign dignitaries, ambassadors wearing sashes in their nation's colors and celebrities sporting pins of their country's flags.

Winter searched for Rosen. The US president hadn't arrived yet.

"Laugh with me," he murmured to Gavi as they went.

Gavi, to her credit, transformed from her irritated, sullen state into a smiling girl with sparkling eyes. She giggled at him, one of her gloved hands coming up to cover her mouth.

Winter sensed Sydney turning to look at them—but when he glanced at her, she was focused on the banquet tables again.

They made their way amicably through the crowd before they finally reached one of the tables in the center of the room. There, they sat together at their place settings. As Gavi turned away to talk to one of their tablemates, an editor from a prominent French magazine, Winter looked around the room, searching for the people they were here to see. His heart pounded steadily against his ribs, and he could hear a roar in his ears, as if his body were bracing itself for impact.

A soft nudge from Sydney's boot under the table made him turn his head toward her. She turned her head slightly to her right as she sipped her water.

There. He could see Minister Seah standing a few feet from his banquet table, laughing at something that the ambassador from Argentina was saying. A short distance away, flanked by two bodyguards, President Rosen chatted casually with several other heads of state.

A tingle of anticipation ran down his spine. The president had shown up, and Winter needed to make his move soon.

Sydney leaned toward Winter, as if they were deep in conversation. As she did, she pulled out what Tems had given her. It was a small red ticket, and on it was written a number.

4262

The ticket was printed twice, as if the attendant had failed to rip it in two. Sydney made a show of frowning visibly, then leaned toward his ear. If anyone was watching them, they'd just think it was an error on a ticket. "The valet code for Seah's hat and umbrella," she replied.

Winter nodded, a knot forming in his throat. It was his cue; he would use the code to approach Seah and get him to follow Winter to where Tems had CIA agents lying in wait to arrest him.

Sydney met his eyes. The awkwardness between them faded, and for a moment, they looked at each other meaningfully. "Ready?" she said.

Winter didn't answer, but he gave a nearly imperceptible nod, then touched her hand briefly before sitting straight and glancing around the chamber. At his side, Gavi paused in her conversation with the editor to look up at him.

"Don't stare, keep moving," Sydney murmured to Winter, her eyes downcast as she took one more sip of her water. "Now that Seah's here, the clock's ticking."

He did as Sydney said, his eyes skimming right past where the president now stopped to smile and shake hands with the Singaporean prime minister. He was about to take his seat. Beside him, Seah had already settled into his own chair.

Just like a performance,Winter recited to himself. Then they rose from their table in unison, Sydney falling into step right behind him as his bodyguard, and headed down the hall.

As they arrived back at the coat check, the clerk saw Winter, and the light of recognition went off in her eyes. Winter saw her lips quiver slightly as she smiled, then offered him a polite nod.

"Back again, Mr. Young?" she said.

He smiled at her, his nerves now hidden behind a veil of charisma. Beside him, Sydney put her hands together and waited quietly. "I'm heading out onto the deck for the sunset," he told the clerk conspiratorially, rubbing one of his sleeves for emphasis. "Thought I'd get my hat back."

She nodded in hurried agreement. "Code, sir?"

"Forty-two sixty-two," he said, handing her the ticket from Sydney.

She took it, then hurried off to the back room. A moment later, she returned with the deep blue top hat that belonged to Seah.

Winter's heart hammered in his chest, but on the surface, he gave her a thoughtful frown. "Ah," he said. "I don't think that's mine."

Her eager face transformed into one of mortification. She looked at the hat again, as if willing it to change. "Oh! I'm terribly sorry about the mix-up. The correct ticket must have been handed to another patron."

"It's okay," Winter said, holding his hand out for the hat. "I recognize it—it belongs to Mr. Seah. He probably has my ticket."

"I'm so sorry," the clerk said again, her cheeks flushed. She handed the hat to Winter, and Winter flipped it around his hand with a flourish before grabbing it.

"No worries," he said, winking at her. "I saw him in the dining hall."

Then he turned and went back the way he came. Sydney walked beside him, her position tight now against him. Her sleeve brushed against his purposefully, as if she were offering him encouragement.

So far, so good,he thought.

As he headed back into the dining hall, he saw that the president was now seated at his table. Odd. The president should have moved out of the dining hall by now. From the corner of his eye, he could see Sydney's slight frown too as she noticed the same thing.

Winter let his eyes rove around the room, as if he weren't sure where Seah was, until settling on where the man was ordering a drink at the bar.

"Mr. Seah?" Winter said as he approached him.

The man turned calmly to him, but something stiff about his movements and the brief widening of his eyes told Winter that he'd probably been startled by the approach. He quickly masked it with a smile, his eyes darting from Winter to Sydney. "Mr. Young!" he exclaimed, holding a hand out in greeting. "I thought I saw you coming in. What a wonderful concert you put on yesterday."

Will I survive you?Winter thought grimly, but he flashed an easy smile and shook his hand warmly. As he did, he saw Seah's eyes jump to the hat in his hand.

"Always glad to have impressed a fan," Winter replied with a wink. Then he gestured at the hat and gave Seah an apologetic look. "I'm so sorry to bother you right before the dinner starts, but I think the attendant may have mixed up our tickets. Is this yours?"

He nodded and took the hat. "That's the one."

"I thought I recognized it from when you headed inside," Winter said. "Would you mind if we…?" He nodded back toward the coat check hall.

Seah glanced once at the bartender, who held up his finished drink to let him know he'd save it for him. There was the slightest hint of hesitation, and Winter noticed the man's eyes dart briefly to his table, where the president sat. "No worries," he finally said. Then he headed for the corridor with Winter at his side.

"I didn't know the sun set so early here," Winter remarked, trying to keep Seah distracted with small talk as they went.

Winter noticed how the man's eyes skipped around the hall, searching. "Everyone thinks that," Seah answered. "As if the heat means sunshine around the clock, eh?"

Now every muscle in his body seemed tense. Winter's own gaze hopped to the end of the corridor, where Tems should be readying the agents to pounce.

"One can hope," Winter said with a light shrug, and Seah laughed.

But as they reached the coat check, Seah seemed to hesitate. He nodded at the clerk and brushed a nervous hand across his forehead. "It seems like we've switched tickets," he said, fumbling around in his pocket for a ticket. "And I don't know where mine's gone. I got this one."

The clerk took his hat and went to the back room to retrieve Winter's. As she did, Seah gave Winter an uncomfortable smile, one that Winter returned.

The plot was closing now. Winter could see the time ticking away on the man's face, could see that with every passing second, his nerves tightened a little more, knowing that Winter was cutting into his plan's time.

Hurry up, Tems,Winter thought.

The clerk didn't re-emerge. Seah shuffled from foot to foot, let out a frustrated laugh, and nodded at Winter. "Their valet service leaves something to be desired, doesn't it?" he muttered.

Winter chuckled in agreement. But he knew that it must mean that Tems had successfully made contact with the clerk. The Americans would be out in the hall soon.

Suddenly, at the last minute, Seah began walking abruptly down the corridor, away from the dining hall.

Beside him, Sydney tensed. Go, her body language seemed to say.

"Mr. Seah?" Winter said, and fell quickly into step behind him. The man was trying to make a getaway.

Seah didn't answer. Instead, he broke into a run. He had sniffed out the trap.

Now, Tems!Winter wanted to scream. What are you waiting for?

"Mr. Seah, wait!" he called out.

The man ignored him and rounded a corner. For an instant, Winter thought the trap would fail—he was about to escape. Thoughts flashed through his mind. What if he tackled Seah? Would that blow their cover?

Just when he was about to lunge—

They turned the corner and stuttered to a halt.

Half a dozen CIA agents—some dressed in black, others in gala clothes as attendees—were blocking the hall right before the main entrance, guns drawn and pointed straight at Seah.

"Hands up!" one of them snapped.

Seah turned around, eyes wild, and bolted back down the corridor, straight at Winter.

Sydney moved on instinct, blocking the man's sprint. With a snarl, he lunged at her in a desperate attempt to get her out of the way. Sydney's defense lessons flashed through Winter's mind—in an instant, he was at her side, his arms going up to defend her.

But the agents were on the man before he could make his attack. Seah had only a second to look Winter in the eye, bewildered, before he went down, shoved to the marble floor by two agents. The man let out a choked sob as one of the agents pressed his knee harshly into his back.

Winter could feel the rush of adrenaline surging in his limbs, leaving him shaking. He looked up to see Tems standing nearby now—where had he come from? His eyes turned to meet Winter's.

Winter felt a torrent of relief flood his veins and an overwhelming desire to collapse. It was over.

As the agents hauled Seah to his feet and clipped handcuffs on his wrists and ankles, Tems flashed Winter a smile. It was there and gone in a second, so as not to tie Winter to them—but in it was all the ease that Winter had suddenly felt.

Ethan Seah was under arrest. The president was safe back in the dining hall.

But when Winter looked over at Sydney, she seemed bothered, something clouding her face instead of the relief that he expected to see.

"What is it?" he said.

"Something's not right," she replied.

He had no idea what she meant. But they had no time to stop and think now. As the agents surrounded Seah, Tems hurried over to them both. "We need to get out of here," he whispered to Sydney. "Got a flight to catch."

But Sydney had already turned her back and was rushing toward the dining hall.

Winter exchanged a confused look with Tems, but neither of them hesitated in following in her wake.

She knows something,Winter thought, and she has no time to tell us.

They passed the hall they were supposed to use to exit the building. Where the hell was Sydney taking them? They had exactly thirty minutes to reach the airfield and get back on the plane.

Right as they turned into the dining hall, Winter felt Sydney touch his sleeve. "No," she gasped out.

He glanced wildly around, looking for the source of her reaction.

His eyes went to where President Rosen was still seated. That was when the feeling of triumph vanished from Winter's chest.

As he looked, he saw the president suddenly freeze, as if he'd seen something.

Beside Winter, Tems jerked forward, as if to make a move.

But it was too late. At that moment, there was a sharp, unmistakable pop.

The president flinched. Winter saw crimson stain the man's jacket. Screams went up near him.

Then President Rosen collapsed, red blossoming on his chest.