Final Answers

by Greg Dinallo

  “Okay, Khlong Thorn’s coming up. Nice and slow.”

  I lean more to the center, positioning my head in the space between the front seats, which gives me a view of the street through the windshield. The patch of light turns out to be a public square just beyond the intersection where a street market has been set up.

  As we approach, I vaguely make out a figure standing in the doorway of a building on the near corner of the square. I can see it’s a man. He reacts to the approaching car, but remains pressed into the shadows until it gets closer. Then, seeming to recognize Carla, he starts walking toward the street, looking about warily. His dark hair is combed straight back, his face is narrow and deeply tanned, aviator sunglasses bridge his fine Irish nose. It’s him. It’s Captain Sullivan. It’s the guy in the metallic blue car, the guy in the hotel room, the guy in the colonel’s snapshot all rolled into one.

  “Remember, don’t do anything foolish.” I push the gun into Carla’s side and duck behind the passenger seat, pressing myself into the corner it forms with the door. I’d feel a hell of a lot more secure at night. But the high headrest gives me sufficient cover and, as I anticipated, Surigao’s attention isn’t focused on the car. It’s on the street, on the market and the alleys, the places where a threat might surface.

  The car rolls to a stop.

  There’s a short silence. Then the sound of fast-moving footsteps gradually rises. Seconds later a shadow falls across the seats.

  Carla looks to her left, expectantly.

  I’m waiting for the click of the door latch. That’s my cue. My heart is pounding, mouth turning to cotton, palms becoming clammy. Perspiration rolls down my face. The humidity and heat are almost as unbearable as the anxiety.

  Several seconds pass.

  Several more.

  Carla’s just sitting there.

  Still nothing. Dammit. It’s been too long. Something’s wrong. She’s either managed to signal him, or I was wrong and Surigao spotted me. I can’t wait any longer. I surface with the Beretta in my hand.

  Surigao is right there, right outside the car, pulling a revolver from inside his jacket. It can’t be more than a couple of feet from my head. I’m looking right down the barrel. But Surigao’s attention seems to be elsewhere. He hasn’t seen me. Then all of a sudden he does and recoils in shock. His reaction leaves little doubt he thought I was dead. We’re face-to-face. Only the window separates us. Damn. I don’t want to kill him. I want him alive. I want answers. But it’s kill or be killed now. His eyes widen with terror. I’m squeezing the trigger when Carla realizes what’s happening and floors the gas pedal. The tires spin wildly, emitting a piercing screech. The sudden acceleration knocks me backward, throwing the Beretta off line. The bullet punches a tiny hole in the car’s headlining right above me. I hear the sharp crack of gunshots as Surigao opens fire simultaneously. Three, four, five deafening pops. The side and rear windows shatter, showering me with glass as the rounds whizz overhead.

  Somewhere in the middle of it all, Carla yelps, then lurches backward and falls between the front seats. Her head comes to rest right in front of me. Blood seeps from beneath it, pooling on the floor. Her perfect face is unmarked, her perfect eyes are staring up at me blank and unmoving.

  The car begins swerving right, then left, throwing me from side to side as it careens out of control. I’m wondering whether or not I’ve been shot too. There’s no pain and no blood, but I’ve seen plenty of men die without much of either.

  I manage to reach across Carla’s body from the backseat, grab the shift lever, and slam it from Drive straight through Reverse into Park. The transmission emits a grinding scream in protest.

  The car dives to a stop.

  I’m tossed forward. My shoulders slam into the back of the seats, keeping me from being propelled headlong into the dash. I clamber across the seat and slip out the door on the driver’s side in a crouch, hugging the rear fender, keeping the car between me and Surigao, fully expecting him to be emptying his pistol in my direction. But I don’t hear any more gunfire, only what sounds like a car driving off.

  Wisps of pungent smoke are still curling from the wheel well next to me. A bluish haze hangs in thin layers overhead. The sudden acceleration burned a lot of rubber but the car covered little ground. I’m no more than twenty or thirty feet from the intersection. Surigao had plenty of time to advance and fire. But he didn’t. I don’t see him. I don’t hear him either. Where the hell is he? Behind me? Moving up on the opposite side of the car?

  I drop to the ground with the pistol. I’m flat on my belly, looking between the bottom of the car and the pavement for Surigao’s shoes. Instead I see a tiny figure in the distance, running toward the street market. It’s him. He’s threading his way between a small number of shoppers who heard the gunfire and are hurrying, curiously, toward the street.

  I get to my feet and pursue. I’m running at full tilt ?????, wondering why Surigao’s fleeing, wondering why he didn’t continue firing. He had the strategic advantage. Had me pinned down. I don’t get it.

  I come through the space between the buildings into the square. The aisles that separate the market’s rickety stalls are teeming with locals and tourists buying everything from exotic herbs to bogus antiques. Most either didn’t hear, or chose to ignore, the shooting.

  Surigao’s gone, swallowed up by the crowd.

  I’m standing there drenched in sweat, gasping for breath, scanning the shoppers to no avail. Then I notice a commotion up ahead and spot him pushing people aside, stumbling forward. The market has slowed him down. He’s much closer than I thought. But I can’t risk a shot with all these bystanders. I wade into the crowd, knifing sideways between the marketgoers. Some angrily stand their ground. Others glare. A few shove back.

  “My wallet!” I shout, taking an elbow in the ribs. “Stop that guy. He’s got my wallet!”

  My plea falls on deaf ears, but finally several people step aside, allowing me to break into the clear. I start sprinting down one of the aisles after Surigao. Suddenly there’s a flash of colorful fabric. A man backs into my path from one of the stalls. I try to avoid him but can’t. The collision sends me sprawling. I instinctively use my hands to break my fall, losing my grip on the pistol. It goes skittering across the pavement. I can see it up ahead in a forest of legs and tramping feet. I’m crawling toward it when someone hurrying through the crowd kicks it in stride. Damn. It’s gone. The pistol’s gone. Out of sight.

  Someone takes hold of my arm and begins helping me to my feet. It’s a heavyset man in a flower-print shirt, camera around his neck, gadget bag over his shoulder. His soft, friendly face is taut with concern. “Hey, gosh, I’m really sorry. You okay?”

  I ignore him, scanning the crowd frantically, and finally spot Surigao heading into an alley on the far side of the market.

  “Gosh, I didn’t see you coming there,” the big fellow goes on. “I sure hope you’re not hurt or anything?”

  “No, no, I’m fine. No problem,” I say, trying to get past him.

  “You sure, now?” he asks sincerely, his huge girth blocking my way.

  “Yeah, yeah. Guy lifted my wallet. Gotta go.” I finally get around him and head after Surigao unarmed, knowing I’ll never catch up to him if I take the time to look for the pistol.

  The alley is narrow, unpaved, and piled with trash. I weave between the mountains of plastic bags and dented pails, ending up in a courtyard. Alleys branch off in every direction. Surigao’s nowhere to be seen, but I hear the rhythmic clack of shoes running on concrete. The sound is echoing off the walls, which makes it virtually impossible to determine where it’s coming from. Several seconds pass before I notice that only one of the alleys is paved, and make a beeline for it. At first it looks like a cul de sac, but soon I can see it abuts a cross alley at the far end. I pause at the last building, creep up to the corner, and peer around it cautiously.

  Straight ahead is a high retaining wall.

  To the right a facade of stee
l shutter doors.

  To the left a long staircase leads up to what looks like a promenade.

  Surigao is frantically taking the steps two at a time. He’s only got a few to go. I’ve barely started after him when he reaches the top and disappears from view. I charge after him, stumbling several times. The sound of a boat horn rises as I come off the stairs onto a walkway that parallels the river. Surigao is up ahead running along the worn timbers. He turns on the move and fires a wild shot. Then another.

  How many bullets does he have in that thing? It’s a revolver. Six shots. But that was at least seven, if not eight, counting the ones he fired at the car. It has to be the last one.

  He seems to be losing steam. No more than forty yards separate us now. I once ran it in five flat when I was in college. Nothing for the record books. But it’s taking me twice as long now. Too many T-bones and not enough reps on the rowing machine. My legs are killing me, lungs screaming for mercy, heart on the verge of arrest, but I’m closing the gap.

  Surigao angles to his left and heads down a short dock that juts into the river. Several cars are coming toward us. Cars? There’s a ferry slip at the far end, and the ferry’s in. The dockman is closing the gate behind the last vehicle and a few pedestrians who have just boarded. Surigao dashes past the ticket booth; then, almost colliding with the dockman, he grabs the top of the gate and dives over it onto the deck of the departing vessel. He lands hard, lies there for a moment, then gradually struggles to his feet, holding his side in pain.

  I run up to the gate and grasp it, poised to vault after him, but the ferry is too far from the dock. I’d never make it. I stand there glaring at Surigao with hatred as it glides off into the river.

  Nancy’s killer is gone. He’ll have no trouble vanishing in this teeming city. I’ll never find him. Bystanders or no, I should’ve shot him in the street market when I had the chance. I’m staring numbly at the ferry’s graceful wake when I feel something sticky and wet on my hand. I let go of the railing. My palm is bright red with blood—Surigao’s blood.

  He’s wounded.

  I didn’t shoot him.

  But someone else sure as hell did.

  26

  I’m not sure how long I’ve been walking along the waterfront, across the countless footbridges that span the canals, past the landings where longboats and snub-nosed ferries glide to brief stops.

  Probably close to an hour.

  It took that long for my brain to recover from the shock and start functioning again. As soon as it did, I realized that Surigao didn’t say anything about being wounded when he called Carla at the hotel. He was frightened, not injured. No, the message was very clear: They almost got me. Which means it happened after that. In Chinatown. The car I thought I heard driving off must’ve been Ajacier’s men. Despite my caution, they somehow followed us from the hotel. Carla didn’t signal Surigao. He didn’t see me or sense my presence, he saw the car approaching, saw Ajacier’s hit men. I couldn’t. I was crouching inside the car. My back was to the street. Come to think of it, so was Carla’s. It all happened so fast it didn’t dawn on me until now that the bullet struck the back of her head. It couldn’t have been a stray round from Surigao’s gun. Chances are he never fired a shot. Ajacier’s men shot both of them. That’s why Surigao didn’t try to finish me off. That’s why he ran.

  This is very bad news. I wouldn’t know Ajacier if I tripped over him on the street, but I’ve no doubt he knows me, and now he knows I’m in Bangkok, knows I’m still alive.

  I’ve lost my advantage.

  I’m going to have to be much more careful.

  It takes me about ten seconds to start wondering why? And ten more to realize that caution can have it’s downside, that defensive thinking would be a mistake. I should know better than to fall into that trap. How many times had I heard it in-country? Either you’re hunting them or they’re hunting you. This is no time to change tactics. Just targets. And I think I know how: Ajacier’s in Bangkok. According to the IRL report, he has a piece of Thonburi Studios. Maybe he has an office there, too.

  I make a beeline for a vendor hawking his wares at a nearby ferry stop. “Where’s the nearest public phone?”

  He doesn’t speak any English, but a customer does. He’s a slight, sprightly fellow who, like everyone else in Bangkok, listens to my question and prefaces his answer with a sympathetic smile. He shakes his head no. “Sorry. Cannot find in Bangkok.”

  “Are you saying there aren’t any?”

  He smiles again and nods. “Less than numbers on one hand. And those always broken. You try hotels. Or telephone company on New Road.”

  I was planning to call Thonburi Film Studios to find out whether or not Ajacier is there. I hail a taxi instead. The driver knows where it’s located. As it turns out, he speaks some English and explains that any driver would know the studio. Filmmaking is big business in Bangkok. There are five major studios, evidenced by the massive billboards that advertise new releases.

  The one at the entrance to Thonburi Studios is three stories high. It depicts a handsome Asian man in a tuxedo surrounded, James Bond fashion, by sexy Asian women in skintight dresses. Unlike Hollywood studios, this isn’t a gated and fenced fortress. It’s a modern office tower with direct access from the street. I leave the taxi, hurry into the lobby, and go straight to the directory. Listed under A is Ajacier, P., Franco-Asian Cinema 7th Floor.

  The elevator leaves me in a reception area. These are sleek, high-tech offices, much like my own. The walls are lined with framed movie posters. I tell the receptionist I’m there to see Mr. Ajacier. I imagine I look somewhat disheveled, because she sweeps her eyes over me disapprovingly before asking, “Is he expecting you?”

  “No, we’re old friends. I happened to be in town and thought I’d say hello.”

  “I’m sorry. He just went into a meeting,” she replies, her eyes drifting to a glass-walled room just off the reception area.

  Through the narrow blinds, I can see perhaps a dozen men seated around a large conference table.

  “If you’ll give me your name, I’ll be happy to tell Mr. Ajacier you were here.”

  “Thanks. I’ll tell him myself.”

  I whirl and head for the conference room.

  “Sir? Sir, you can’t go in there,” she calls out, coming from behind her desk to intercept me.

  I blow past her without stopping, throw open the door, and stride boldly into the room, startling the group of businessmen. All heads snap in my direction. One of them is my man, but which one?

  “Mr. Ajacier?” I call out.

  All heads turn to a man seated on the far side of the table. He recoils slightly, then stands and measures me with wary, pale blue eyes. He’s in his late fifties. Tall and well tailored, with a swarthy Corsican complexion. But his face is narrow, his features angular and refined.

  “What is this? Who are you?”

  “The name’s Morgan.” I reply evenly, fighting the surge of adrenaline.

  Ajacier’s surprise turns quickly to recognition. He stiffens with fear, wondering, I imagine, if I’m going too pull a gun and blow him away right there.

  “But I didn’t have to tell you that. You know who I am, Mr. Ajacier. And now I know who you are.”

  His eyes flick nervously to the others. “I’m afraid you’ve mistaken me for someone else.”

  “Afraid? Of what? That I’ll embarrass you in front of your friends? In case you gentlemen are wondering, this isn’t a movie we’re talking about. He sent a real killer after me.”

  Ajacier sets his jaw and glares at me. “I think you’ve gone far enough, Mr. Morgan.”

  I’m holding his look, when several uniformed security guards enter the conference room.

  “Show this gentleman out,” he says, relieved.

  One of the guards takes hold of my arm. I pull free and leave the room, the guards close behind. They escort me into the elevator, down to the lobby, and out to the street.

  That was sweet. Rea
lly sweet. I haven’t felt this good in months. I hurry off in search of a taxi, thinking about Surigao. He’s probably in an emergency room somewhere. But there are undoubtedly countless hospitals in Bangkok, not to mention private physicians. It would be an impossible task to canvass them. Besides, there’s an even chance he’s lying dead in some rancid alley. I put my money on the latter and take a taxi to the Oriental Hotel.

  Built more than a decade before the turn of the century, it’s an elegantly restored mix of Art Nouveau decor and Old Viennese architecture where literary lions Somerset Maugham and Joseph Conrad, after whom suites have been named, often stayed.

  Off to one side of the lobby, a string quartet in black tie is playing a piece, which, as usually happens, I recognize but can’t name. I hurry past them, drawing veiled stares from some of the other guests. I’m wondering why, when I happen to catch sight of this rather unkempt fellow in a mirror. His hair is mussed and matted. His clothes look like he’s slept in them—they’re soiled, sweat-stained, and, on closer inspection, bloodstained.

  Chrissakes. It’s me.

  This happened many times in Vietnam, and now it comes back in a chilling rush. After months in the jungle, I’d end up in Saigon or Manila on R and R, pass a mirror in my hotel room, and think there was someone else in there with me. It was strange how little the image I had of myself had to do with reality.

  I didn’t draw any stares then. That’s how GIs were supposed to look. Not the case in the classy Oriental. I detour to a men’s room off the lobby and spend a few minutes improving my appearance, then proceed to the infamous outdoor bar, where the literati often held court. Towering glass doors lead to a terrace that overlooks the Chao Phraya River, where traffic plying the brackish waters moves at a lazy, late-afternoon pace.

  I spot Kate sitting at one of the tables reading a newspaper. She senses my approach and looks up.

  “Hi, how’d it go?” she asks brightly.

  “It’s a long story,” I reply, falling into a chair next to her. “I’m exhausted. I need to crash for a while. You get us checked in?”