by Greg Dinallo
The hotel is a white, modern, twenty-five-story pagoda topped by a golden spire and overlooks a canal—just like the woman said. The cab is still rolling to a stop when I pop the door.
“Meet you in the bar of the Oriental about three?” Kate calls after me as I get out, feeling my jacket for the pistol.
“Do my damnedest.”
“Take care.”
The lobby’s opulent decor goes past in a glittery blur as I hurry to the front desk, where the smartly uniformed staff appears to have surprisingly broad ethnic diversity.
“May I help you, sir?” an attractive blond desk clerk asks in a sharp Australian twang.
“Yes, I have a business meeting with one of your guests,” I reply in an authoritative tone. “A Mr. Surigao? I seem to have misplaced the room number.”
“I’ll check it for you, sir.” She smiles and steps to her computer.
My heart’s pounding like crazy now. The thought of their being gone, of my having come all this way only to come up empty, is more than I can bear.
“Here we are, sir,” she says brightly. “Fourteen twenty-three.”
“Fourteen twenty-three,” I repeat coolly, though I really want to shout, “Yeah, they’re still here!” Okay Morgan, I say to myself as I move off. Slow it down and think. I reckon that what I do next will depend on whether or not they’re in the room, and if so, who’s in the room: both of them, him, her? I cross the lobby toward a bank of house phones, working out what I’m going to say should someone answer, then I dial 1423. It rings and rings. Five, six, seven times. I’m about to hang up.
“Yes?” a woman finally says. She sounds rushed, a little out of breath.
“Mr. Surigao please?”
“He’s not here right now. Who’s calling?”
I recognize the Filipino accent. It’s Carla Surigao. No mistake this time. “This is the concierge, madam,” I reply, trying to sound officious. “We have a package for him. Would it be convenient to have someone bring it up now?”
“Of course. Thank you.”
I hang up and head for the elevator. It’s mirrored, ornately detailed, and painfully slow. I get off on 14 and walk down a long corridor, observing that the doors to the guest rooms lack security peepholes. I reach for the Beretta, flicking off the safety and cocking the hammer without removing it from my pocket, then I knock on 1423.
A few seconds later, I hear the rustle of someone approaching. The deadbolt retracts, and the knob turns. Carla’s made the obvious assumption. As the door starts to open, I catch a glimpse of her in a mirror on the entry wall. She’s wearing a black silk robe and looks like she’s just gotten out of the shower. I’m poised to confront her with the gun and force my way into the room, but, as the door swings fully open, she turns her back to me, preoccupied with a comb she’s pulling through her wet hair, and leads the way inside.
“You can put it over there on the . . .” She pauses on hearing the door close and lock behind her, then turns curiously, recoiling when she sees me. A rapist? A burglar? She’s wiry and quick, and before I have a chance to assure her she isn’t in any danger, she pushes a room service cart in my path and heads for a door on the far side of the room. I sidestep the cart and pursue her into the bathroom before she can close the door. She lunges for a phone on the makeup table. I pull the Beretta and level it at her.
“Hang it up,” I order sharply. “Do it. Now.”
She freezes at the sight of the pistol, her perfect Asian eyes widening with fear.
I grab the phone cord and yank it from the wall.
She shudders and backs into a corner, terrified.
“Take it easy, Carla. I’m not here to hurt you. I just want to talk.”
She flinches when she hears her name.
“Yes, I know who you are. Believe me, you’re not in any danger. There’s no need to be frightened. You understand?”
She nods, unconvinced.
“Okay, let’s go back inside.”
Her eyes are riveted to the pistol as we return to the room and I direct her to an armchair. She backs her way into it, clutching at the robe to prevent it from opening.
I keep the gun trained on her and look around. It’s an elegant room with a small sitting alcove, views of the city, and oriental-style furniture. I notice her handbag on an antique writing desk. I go through it, making sure it doesn’t contain a weapon, then turn over the bed pillows, and look inside the nightstand drawer with the same result.
“I think I liked your condo in Hawaii better,” I say, purposely baiting her.
Carla’s eyes narrow with curiosity. “Who are you?” she asks in a trembling voice.
“My name’s Morgan. A. Calvert Morgan.”
Now they flicker in recognition.
“I thought it might ring a bell.”
“What do you want?”
“Revenge.”
She looks puzzled.
“Your husband killed my wife.”
“Sean?”
“Yes, Sean,” I reply indignantly. “Come on, you know what happened. He screwed up. He thought he was killing me.”
She shakes her head as if mystified.
“Where is he?”
“He went out.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know.”
“Try again.”
“I don’t. He didn’t tell me.”
“When’s he coming back? She shrugs.
I slide a chair off to one side of the room and sit down with the pistol in my fist. This is a strategic position that puts me between Carla and the door. More important, someone entering the room can’t see me, but I can see them in the mirror opposite the entry. “Okay, I’ll wait.”
Carla fidgets nervously, then starts to shiver and pulls her knees up under her chin, arms wrapped around her legs, wet hair hanging straight to her shoulders, looking a lot like the Vietnamese rufugees who lined the roadsides during monsoon season.
“Cold?”
She nods.
“You can get dressed if you like.”
Her eyes narrow warily.
I have the feeling she thinks I’m being lewd and suggesting she disrobe in front of me. “Change in the bathroom. Just leave the door open.”
At this, she unknots her tiny frame, springs from the chair, and takes several quick steps to a dresser. I’m on my feet and right next to her as she pulls articles of clothing from the drawers. Then she scoops up her purse and heads for the bathroom.
A short while later she emerges in an exercise suit, settles on a sofa, and lights a cigarette.
Several minutes pass in silence.
“As long as we’re sitting here, staring at each other,” I finally say, “would you mind telling me why your husband was so interested in me?”
“I have no idea.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
She shrugs and drags on the cigarette, appearing to have regained some of her composure. “Believe what you like, Mr. Morgan. Whatever my husband did, it was his business. He kept it to himself.”
“Come on, Carla, you were involved up to your ass, and you know it.”
She stands and turns her back to me, staring out the window. I grasp her arm and spin her around. Our faces are inches apart. Her breath smells of tobacco. Her eyes burn with disdain.
“Look, I’m trying to be a gentleman about this. But I’m running out of patience. Now, why me?”
“I said I don’t know. Whatever it was, it’s over.”
“What do you mean?”
“His work is finished.”
“What work? What’s finished?”
“I don’t know. All I can tell you is we came to Bangkok to get paid and start a new life.”
“Not if I can help it.”
She glares at me with hatred now. “Why did you have to come here? Why couldn’t you just leave us alone?!”
I stare at her unmoved.
She stands her ground for a moment, then averts her eyes as something da
wns on her. “You’re going to kill him, aren’t you?”
I glance to the pistol then back to her with a malevolent smirk. “I’ve thought about it every day since I found out he killed my wife. She was a decent, generous person. We were together for a long time and I loved her very much. I can’t tell you how much. To be brutally frank, every bone in my body wants to kill him. I want to see him suffer a slow, painful death.” I pause, and glance to the pistol again, letting her live with the idea for a while before adding, “But I’d be no better than he is, if I did.”
Her chin lifts curiously.
“I’ll get my satisfaction from catching him. A judge and jury can decide what happens after that.”
She nods warily, stubs out the cigarette, and lights another. “You’ve called the police?”
“No. I’m turning him over to the DEA. Unless he does something stupid and forces me to kill him. I’ll shoot him right here if I have to, believe me.”
That was one of the decisions I made during the flight. I want nothing to do with the local police. Chances are they’re corrupt. They might even be on Surigao’s payroll. Even if they’re not, I don’t know anything about Thai law, and I’m taking no chances they might let him go on some legal technicality. No, when Surigao walks through that door, I’ll put the pistol to his head, and call the DEA at the Embassy. If he isn’t already on their wanted list, their agents can verify he’s a fugitive with the colonel and the Los Angeles police, then come get him. I’m going over the moves when the phone rings, a loud, harsh buzzing that cuts right through me.
Carla goes toward the desk to answer it.
“Wait,” I say sharply, intercepting her as I cross to the nightstand where there’s an extension. “Play it straight, like you’re alone. You understand?”
She nods.
“Okay, now.”
We lift the phones simultaneously on what must be the sixth or seventh ring. I’ve got my palm over the mouthpiece.
“Yes?” she answers.
“It’s me. Where the hell were you?” It’s a man’s voice. A familiar voice. Captain Sullivan’s voice to me. It trembles with desperation, not anger.
Carla glances at me with panicked eyes.
I point to the bathroom and mouth the word shower.
“Carla?” Surigao snarls. “Dammit, Carla, you there?”
“Yes, Sean. Yes. I’m sorry. I just got out of the shower. What is it? You sound—”
“Bastards double-crossed me.”
“What?”
“It was a setup. Ajacier never showed. These guys were going to kill me. I saw it coming and got away.”
“Oh, God,” she gasps. “Oh God. Sean—”
“Come on, Carla, this is no time to panic. They’re still out there looking for me.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m not sure. I’m thinking, maybe I can make a deal with the other side. Rent a car. Pick me up on the northeast corner of Khlong Thom and Yaowarat. That’s in Chinatown.”
She grabs a pencil and scribbles hastily on a pad.
“Got it?”
“Yes, Khlong Thom and Yaowarat.”
“Hurry. Soon as you can. Make sure you aren’t followed.” The line goes dead.
“Sean? Sean are you all right?” She listens to the dial tone for a moment, then hangs up shaken, mouth agape. “Bastards,” she curses to no one in particular. “He never should’ve trusted them. He did what they asked. Now when it’s time to pay . . .” She bites it off in disgust.
“Sounds like old Sean’s got himself into a real tight spot.”
“It’s not fair.”
“You’re breaking my heart, Carla.”
She wrings her hands in frustration, convinced, as I intended, that I’m going to keep her from going to her husband’s assistance.
I let her anxiety build, as I think it through. From the sound of it, Ajacier’s in Bangkok too. If I play it right, chances are I can nail both of them. But Surigao’s still my primary target. It’s only a matter of time now. Not only do I know where he is, and what he wants, but I also control whom he trusts.
“Please,” Carla says, becoming frantic. “Please, you have to let me help him.”
“No, I don’t,” I reply in as callous a tone as I can muster.
She glares at me with hatred.
“But I might.”
“Depending on what?”
“You. I asked you a question before. I didn’t get an answer. I want it now—Why me?”
“I don’t have the answer.”
“Come on, dammit. You tipped Sean off to my case at the CIL. You just didn’t pick my name out of a fucking hat. Why me?!”
“No, I didn’t pick your name out of a fucking hat, Mr. Morgan,” she finally replies bitterly. “There were some names that I—that I watched for.”
“Why?”
“Because Sean asked me to. That’s all I know.”
“That’s very unfortunate for Sean.”
“I’d tell you if I could. Believe me, I really would.” She pauses briefly, hoping for a response.
I stare at her in silence.
“Please, Mr. Morgan,” she goes on, a desperate timbre in her voice. “You know what you were saying before about you and your wife? Well, Sean and I have been together a long time too. More than fifteen years. He has his faults, but he also has some very good qualities. Please, whatever you think of him, whatever he did to you, he’s my husband and I love him. I really do.”
Her eyes fill with tears. She looks helpless, really decent and sincere, just like Kate said, and I find myself believing her, admiring her, admiring her loyalty and spunk.
“You can’t stop me,” she goes on. “You can’t. You’ll have to kill me first.” She whirls, grabs her purse, and bolts for the door. I lunge as she passes me and catch hold of her arm. She squirms trying to twist free. “Let go,” she protests, her high cheekbones reddening with defiance. “I’ve got to help him. I’ve got to!”
“No, Carla,” I say coolly, playing the card I’ve been quietly holding. “If you really want to save his life, you’ve got to help me.”
25
Make a left over that little bridge.”
Carla’s driving.
I’m navigating with the map.
Bangkok is a confusing city. Built on a swamp, its streets meander and crisscross like the streams they once were, devoid of any alphabetical or numerical order, and interrupted by canals that turn many of them into cul de sacs. To make matters worse, the steering wheel’s on the right side of the car and they drive on the left side of the road like in Britain.
We’re on Charoen Krung Road, the main boulevard that parallels the river, approaching the bridge. The car is almost too wide for the narrow span that arches across the Phadung Canal to the south-eastern tip of Chinatown. The agent at the rental desk in the lobby of the Dusit Thani Hotel strongly recommended we take a compact, but I insisted on a full-size sedan instead. I have my reasons.
“I’ll need your driver’s license, a major credit card, and an international driver’s license,” the agent said, explaining the latter was an absolute necessity in Thailand—no IDL, no car. I vaguely recalled reading about that in the travel guide, but it wasn’t a problem. The Surigaos had done their homework and Carla had one.
The landscape undergoes a sudden and dramatic change as we come off the bridge into the Sampheng District. Shabby and densely packed, the centuries-old enclave sits in a bend on the east bank of the Chao Phraya River. Like the rest of Bangkok, the facade of almost every building is covered with signs, but the playful brushstrokes of the Chinese alphabet are in marked contrast to the angular and severely disciplined Thai characters. We turn right into Song-Sawat Road and begin making our way through the narrow streets.
“This is Yaowarat coming up. Pull over.”
“You want me to park here?”
“Yes. Before the intersection. Just do it. Remember, your husband’s well-being depends on you
r cooperating.”
Carla winces and angles to the curb.
Another car drives past just as she stops. There are two men inside. Surigao warned Carla about being followed, and both of us have been on the lookout, but I didn’t notice this one until now.
“Was that car tailing us?”
“I don’t think so.”
“It look familiar?” Carla shakes no.
“What about the two guys?”
“I really didn’t get a good look at them.”
The other car crosses Yaowarat, keeps going straight ahead, and is soon out of sight. This is no time for excessive caution. Nancy’s killer is waiting around the corner, just a couple of blocks away. I’m not turning back now.
I climb between the seats into the rear of the sedan. “I’m going to be down here where Sean can’t see me,” I explain, taking up a position on the floor behind the passenger seat. “You’ll drive up and stop. He’ll get in next to you. I’ll put my gun to the back of his head and explain his options. He won’t like them, but I have a feeling he’ll do the smart thing. Feel free to encourage him. After he calms down, you’ll drive us to the U.S. Embassy. It’s not very far. I’ll give you directions. You understand?”
She nods.
“I mean it, Carla.” I take the Beretta from my pocket. “Don’t give me a reason to kill him.”
Her eyes dart to the pistol. She nods again.
“Or you, for that matter.”
“Yes. Yes,” she says, her teeth tugging at her lower lip, her accent intensifying. “God. I’m so nervous.”
“Good. After what Sean told you, he has every reason to expect you to be nervous. Don’t try to hide it. Let’s go. Make a left.”
Carla pulls away from the curb and turns into Yaowarat, a deso- late street dotted with potholes and lined with steel-shuttered loading docks. The tightly packed buildings block out most of the light, plunging the canyons between them into shadowy darkness. We proceed west for several blocks toward a patch of daylight in the distance, passing a lone pedestrian and a couple of mongrel dogs scavenging for food.