The first official confirmation, if it could be called that, emerged from the newsroom of Lianhe Zaobao, the nation’s pre-eminent Chinese-language daily. Roseline Yong, crime beat reporter, had received the initial, tantalizing tip-off at her desk in the Toa Payoh office. This was the kind of story, the once-in-a-lifetime scoop, that fueled the adrenaline of every seasoned journalist. She immediately dropped everything and raced to the scene, a critical tactical decision.
At the cordoned-off perimeter, the Singapore Police Force, as was their immutable custom, offered nothing. A wall of blue uniforms, an absolute refusal to comment on the ongoing investigation. Roseline, staking out the periphery, gleaned only the familiar detritus of crowd speculation – unsubstantiated rumors and half-formed theories.
The police had established a formidable containment. Curious onlookers were held five hundred meters distant, behind reinforced barricades. Large canvas screens, opaque and frustrating, concealed the focal point of their work. Yet, for the gathering press contingent, the scene still offered a wealth of photographic opportunities. The flashing red and blue strobes of arriving police vehicles, the purposeful movements of Civil Defence personnel marshalling specialised equipment near the tunnel entrance – all potential front-page images. If only Roseline possessed the narrative to accompany them, a coherent story, solid and incontrovertible.
A crowd of the curious, swelling behind the police lines, fed on its own burgeoning theories. The less imaginative settled on a gas leak. Others, more given to the theatrical, conjured tales of discovered terrorist ordnance, a rumor that spread with the velocity of wildfire amongst those hungry for drama. The arrival of a convoy of drab green Singapore Armed Forces trucks deepened the mystery.
High above, from the upper floors of the Swissôtel The Stamford, a 226-meter spire overlooking the Padang, a lone Zaobao photographer, armed with a long telephoto lens, captured a series of intriguing shots: crates, unmistakably military-grade, being loaded onto the arriving SAF trucks.
But without official confirmation, Roseline remained trapped in the vacuum of speculation, unable to fill the gaping holes in her story. Was it a tragic industrial accident? A gas leak? Or perhaps, as often occurred in this rapidly developing island-nation, the unearthed remnants of old wartime ordnance? The latter, at least, would explain the sudden presence of the army.
Acting on a hunch, a subtle, almost instinctive twitch honed by years on the beat, she abandoned the scene to her junior colleagues. Her next objective: the Criminal Investigation Department (CID) headquarters on Cantonment Road. If answers were to be found, the critical interrogations, the crucial testimonies, would occur there. Like the prospectors of old, Roseline intended to strike her own gold.
She had waited for hours. The deadline for her morning edition loomed, the temptation to bite her fingernails, a nervous habit, almost overwhelming. Too many blanks remained. Rumour, she knew, was a perishable commodity, useless for definitive reportage. But if pushed, she could always place a call to the Police Commissioner, inform him of the circulating terrorist bomb speculation. That, she reasoned, would force a statement, if only to quell public disquiet. It was a long shot, born of mounting desperation.
The new Commissioner, a scholar and former police commando, recently elevated to the highest rank, was a man in his early forties, one of the youngest to hold the position. He was a decent man, she knew. This, whatever this was, would be his first true test by fire. "I hope he doesn’t get burned," she thought, a fleeting, almost detached concern.
Just after 1600 hours, she saw him. Mr. Yee Seng Ghee, the contractor from the Padang worksite. She had seen him earlier, conferring with detectives. She tailed him to his van, parked across the busy thoroughfare. As he reached for the ignition, Roseline approached.
Slowly, methodically, she began to coax. He spoke of the missing workers, his return to the site, the accidental discovery of the subterranean chamber, its astonishing contents, and the faded Japanese flag on the wall. He was clearly enjoying his ephemeral fifteen minutes of notoriety. And then, the bonus.
From the glove compartment, he produced a digital SLR camera, complete with a pop-up flash and telephoto zoom lens. "Pictures," he offered, a wide, almost childlike grin on his face. "You want to see them?"
The initial images on the small LED screen were a disappointment, underexposed, murky. "Forgot the flash," he mumbled, sheepish. Roseline, controlling a brief, involuntary giggle, watched as he scrolled. And then she saw it. Perfect illumination. The chamber and its contents resolved with startling clarity. Crates of gold bricks, intricate jewelry, gleaming idols.
She flicked through the images. The flag. "Oh wow," she breathed, the professional detachment momentarily cracking. Twenty images later, a different shot arrested her attention: the Japanese ideogram on the wall. Must get that translated, she thought. Forty-nine images in total. Roseline then took the camera, capturing several shots of the beaming contractor for her accompanying interview. In minutes, the entire cache of digital intelligence was downloaded onto her trusty Compaq CQ40 laptop.
"Did the police ask about these pictures?" she pressed, her voice controlled. "Do they know you have them?"
"No. They were very busy. They didn't ask so I didn't say. They only wanted the names of the workers and their work permits details. Miss, you think there will be a reward for all this gold?"
"I don't know," Roseline lied, her mind already racing, constructing the framework of the story that would define her career. "Perhaps you can ask the police … later when they are less busy." She waved him goodbye, found a quiet corner, and reopened her laptop. Within seconds, the high-resolution images began their transmission back to the News Centre. A call would follow in minutes, a triumphant announcement of her unparalleled scoop.
Mr. Yee, too, was a satisfied man. He had neglected to inform the police of his own clandestine descent into the chamber. The rope, left by his workers. The sheer volume of gold and jewelry. The temptation had been overwhelming. This was his reward, his private secret. The twelve gold bars and a handful of rings, now securely wrapped in a plastic bag, tucked beneath the seat of his van. He could have taken more, but twelve bars and the accompanying jewelry were the maximum he could manage while still ascending the rope unassisted.
He knew, intellectually, that he had to notify the authorities. This was too big a secret to keep. But a small, untraceable portion of the treasure? "Why should only my workers get rich?" he rationalized. "It was my site. I deserve something." The young sergeant who had interviewed him had been clearly preoccupied, focused only on obtaining the worker manifests and the precise time of the initial call. No questions regarding photographs. No questions regarding his own entry into the subterranean space. Technically, no lie had been told. Only a convenient, strategic omission.
As a contractor, Mr. Yee possessed a network of contacts: second-hand dealers, pawnshop owners. Disposing of the gold bars, one at a time, to different buyers, would be uncomplicated. "Most of it can go. A few bars, for souvenirs." He smiled, driving home, already contemplating the large diamond ring for his wife – a belated anniversary gift, from her unexpectedly generous husband.
Roseline watched, riveted, as the green progress bar on her laptop screen lengthened. The high-resolution image files, transmitting from her laptop, were slowly reconstituting themselves at the News Centre. Front page, tomorrow morning. Perhaps even a special late-night edition tonight. Her byline, prominent, the envy of her colleagues.
But even with the wealth of intelligence she had amassed in the past few minutes – information far exceeding that of any other journalist – Roseline remained unaware of a critical, evolving drama unfolding back at the Padang.
The drab green military trucks still formed an ordered line near the field. Then, the rising crescendo of sirens, distant at first, then rapidly approaching. Cameras clicked into action as the first of what would become a steady procession of ambulances, white and red, civilian and Civil Defence, materialised on the far side of Saint Andrew’s Road, bordering the Padang. Police outriders, astride their heavy motorcycles, executed swift, decisive traffic stoppages, clearing a path for the emergency vehicles to race directly to the tunnel’s obscured entrance.
The waiting crowd, frustrated, caught only fleeting glimpses of the unfolding tableau, hidden by the police’s canvas screens. But the lone press photographer, high in the Swissôtel, commanded an unobstructed panorama. He knew, with an instant, cold certainty, that the images he was capturing would be disseminated globally within hours.
He pushed his zoom to maximum extension. They were coming out. Stretcher after stretcher. Men in uniform, strapped down, oxygen masks obscuring their faces. A dozen, perhaps two, casualties, rushed into the waiting ambulances. He continued to shoot, patiently, methodically, his camera wirelessly linked to his laptop, transmitting the disturbing images back to his office. Something significant. Something terrible had just happened moments before. Still he waited, holding a steady hand as his camera hunted for more targets.
Thirty minutes later, the final three stretchers emerged. No frantic rush this time. Instead, a solemn, almost ritualistic bearing. The faces of these men were covered with white sheets. Only their mud-caked black boots remained visible, glinting dully as a steady drizzle began to fall once more.
Soon, more Civil Defence personnel arrived. This time, they wore white protective biological suits. The authorities, only now, were beginning to grasp the full, horrifying dimensions of the crisis confronting them.
Yamashita’s sword had been unsheathed. The carnage had just begun.
