by Greg Dinallo
Kate comes hurrying across the expanse of marble from one of the seating areas. “You okay?”
“Yes and no. It’s a long story,” I reply, taking a moment to cover the broad strokes. “I haven’t the foggiest idea what I’m going to do now.”
“Maybe I can help,” she says, with that ‘I know something you don’t’ smile.
“What’s that mean?”
“Got something for you.” She takes a fistful of pink telephone messages from her bag, and hands them to me. There must be at least a half dozen.
“Where’d you get these?”
“The Oriental. It occurred to me the rest of the world thinks we’re staying there,” she replies as I sift through them. Several are from my office, one from Janie, a couple from Laura. “There’s one you might want to pay special attention to.”
My eyes snap open in astonishment as she says it. I’m staring at a message to call Mr. Surigao. There’s a phone number and, below it, the word urgent, which is underlined. The son of a bitch isn’t decomposing in some rancid alley after all. I’m baffled.
“Why the hell is he calling me? And how did he know where we were staying?”
“Well, there are only a handful of major hotels. He probably just went down the list until he hit the Oriental. The phone booths are in that corridor over there,” she prompts knowingly.
I use my eyes to warn her. “No way. Not from here,” I whisper.
She nods, and leads the way from the lobby to an embassy parking area. For someone who sleeps with his car phone, the lack of public booths in this city is becoming a major pain in the ass. We set off on the scooter in search of the nearest hotel. A short distance down Wireless Road, we come upon the Hilton in a park adjacent to a canal. There’s a row of booths in a lounge area off to one side of the lobby.
I anxiously thumb a coin into the slot, dial the number, and listen to that jarring, buzzerlike ring.
“Swadee?” A man’s voice answers gruffly.
“I’m calling for Mr. Surigao.”
“Who? Who I can tell?”
“My name’s Morgan. He left a message at my hotel.”
I hear the phone being set down and the sounds of someone walking, followed by a short, muffled conversation, and then . . .
“Morgan?” It’s Surigao. I recognize the voice immediately. “What took you so long?”
“I just got your message. What’s on your mind?”
“Money. I want to make a deal.”
“With me?”
“Yes. I have information to sell.”
That sure explains a few things. If the DEA won’t play ball, maybe I will. I’m more than intrigued. “What kind of information?”
“Something that’ll blow the lid off this thing.”
“Why not go to the authorities?” I wonder, knowing he’d expect me to ask.
“I did, dammit,” he replies, an edge creeping into his voice. “I don’t have time to play their games or yours. People are trying to kill me. I have to get out of here. I need money, and I need it fast.”
“How do I know you have anything of value?”
“Look, my people owed me a lot of money. They—”
“You mean Ajacier?”
“Right. He told me to go to hell. I threatened to take this stuff to the DEA. That’s when he tried to cancel my ticket.”
“I wish he had.”
“You want to deal or not?”
“Not until you tell me why you’ve been trying to cancel mine.”
“That’s what you’re buying, Morgan,” he counters with a sarcastic snort. “That’s what you’re buying.”
I swallow hard, taking a moment to collect myself. “How much do you want?”
“Fifty thousand.”
“What? You can’t be serious.”
“In U.S. currency and I need it today.”
“I don’t have access to that kind of money.”
“Wire it from your company.”
“Not that simple. My business isn’t my personal slush fund. Even if it was, it’s three in the morning in L.A. The banks won’t open for six hours. By then the banks here’ll be long closed. It’ll take at least a couple of days to wire anything.”
“I’m getting out of here tonight.”
“Change your plans.”
“I can’t. Forget it. That’s not a possibility. Can you get twenty-five?”
“Not a chance.”
“You better think of something fast if you want this, Morgan.” My mind races in search of an answer. I finally zero in on a vacation Nancy and I took several years ago. We were in an art gallery in Rome. She fell in love with a painting. The one that now hangs next to the piano. It was $8,500. The dealer wouldn’t take plastic and we didn’t have a checkbook with us. I ended up taking a hefty cash advance on a credit card.
“Okay, I’ve got an idea that might work.”
“Today.”
“Yes, it’ll take a couple of hours.”
“That’s more like it. There’s a small dock at the end of Saengkee Road.”
“Yangking?”
“No,” he replies, repeating it and spelling it out. “It’s in the Trokchan District about a mile south of the Oriental. A water taxi will be there at six o’clock to pick you up. The driver’ll wait fifteen minutes.”
“I’ll be there.”
He hangs up.
The dial tone is buzzing in my ear. I’m not sure what I’m feeling, but I know that contrary to what Tickner said, I do have a choice. And I just made it.
“Well?” Kate prompts as I leave the booth.
“I’ve got till six o’clock to come up with twenty-five thousand bucks.”
“Twenty-five thousand? What for?”
“Surigao wants to sell information.”
“You sure it isn’t a trap? I mean, he could be setting out to finish what he started.”
“No, he’s desperate. He wants out. He’s the one taking the chance. I know I won’t kill him. But he doesn’t.” I pause, entertaining a thought that occurs to me. “Maybe I still will.”
“With what?”
I hold up my hands. “How about these? Wouldn’t be the first time. Needless to say, I’m not real thrilled about going unarmed. You get a chance to check in with Vann Nath?”
“Yes, I called his office. He was out. There wasn’t any message. What are you going to do?”
“You know where the American Express office is?”
“I don’t think there is one.”
“That doesn’t sound right. You sure?”
“Come to think of it, I vaguely recall they have a representative someplace.” She returns to the phone booths and starts thumbing through the Bangkok City Book. “Here it is. It’s in the Sea Tours office at the Siam Intercontinental.”
We leave the Hilton and head west on Phloenchit through heavy midday traffic on the scooter. About twenty minutes later, I spot the Intercontinental’s roof swooping skyward, amid acres of tropical foliage. The Sea Tours office is on Level Four in the shopping arcade. I plunk a Platinum American Express Card in front of the agent and tell her I want a twenty-five-thousand-dollar cash advance.
“Twenty-five thousand,” she repeats awestruck.
“Can I get that much?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. . . . Morgan,” she replies, glancing to the card for my name. “There’s a ten-thousand-dollar limit on advances.”
“Ten?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How many advances can I get?”
“Just one, I’m afraid.”
I scowl, exasperated.
Kate leans her head to mine and whispers, “If I were in Surigao’s shoes and someone offered me ten thousand bucks, I’d take it.”
So would I. She’s right.
After verifying my identity, the woman explains I can draw against an established line of credit, or via personal check, which would be faster.
I make out the check.
She takes it to her supervi
sor.
“I was afraid of this,” she says when she returns. “We don’t have that much cash on hand. You see, this isn’t a full service office, and—”
“Can you get it?”
“Of course. We can give you half now, which, at today’s rate, works out to one hundred twenty-five thousands bahts, and the remainder tomorrow.”
“Bahts?”
“Yes, sir. We can only give you local currency.”
“I can’t use bahts. I said dollars. I’m sorry if I didn’t make that clear. It has to be United States currency. And I have to have it today.”
“I’m afraid that isn’t possible.”
“Look. This is an emergency. You have to—”
“Did you say emergency, sir?”
“Why? Does that make a difference?”
“Absolutely. It means we can request World Wide Personal Assist get involved. They’re a special unit that services Platinum Card holders in such matters: emergency medical evacuation, disaster relief, aid to travelers stranded by political events, getting dinner reservations at four-star restaurants. We even—”
“Please, just make the arrangements, okay?”
She forces a smile, dials the phone, and starts talking in Thai. I’ve no idea what’s transpiring, but Kate does. I’m watching her face, my hopes rising and falling with every change of expression. Finally, she squeezes my hand reassuringly. “It sounds like a courier’s going to pick up the money at their bank and bring it here before the end of the business day.”
The woman finishes her call and confirms it. The end of the business day is four o’clock. That’s plenty of time. I’m relieved and impressed. Since the advent of mileage cards, I rarely use American Express. I’ve even considered cancelling it. Now, as the man says, I’m glad I didn’t leave home without it.
My eyes are glued to my watch. Fifteen minutes, a half hour, then an hour go by. Four o’clock comes and goes. I’m beside myself. I insist the woman call the bank. They assure her the courier is on his way. She assumes he’s caught in traffic, which is very heavy at this hour. It’s 5:20 when a scooter glides up to the entrance. The courier explains he stopped to wager on the kite fights and lost track of time.
“Kite fights?” I exclaim, as I scribble my signature across the advance forms.
While the woman puts the currency in a manila envelope, Kate explains that they’re an annual battle of the sexes. Sleek male kites resembling jet fighters attempt to bring down their well-rounded female counterparts with a hooked prong. It involves heavy betting and is taken very seriously.
Money in hand, we dash to the scooter and head across town in heavy traffic toward the Chao Phraya River. Kate weaves between the gridlocked vehicles, swerving up on sidewalks and taking back-alley shortcuts through the darkening waterfront streets.
It’s 6:10 when we turn into Saengkee Road, which follows the bends of a canal to a small landing. A water taxi waits rocking in the swells. Kate leans on the scooter’s horn to announce our arrival. The driver responds with several urgent waves of his arm.
“See you back at the hotel,” I say, climbing off the scooter the instant it comes to a stop.
“Wait,” Kate says. She takes something from her purse and puts it in my hand. It’s a black plastic canister about five inches long, and resembles a huge butane cigarette lighter.
“Mace?”
“I live and work in our nation’s capital, our nation’s murder capital. Just aim and fire.”
“Thanks.”
“Take care of yourself.”
I run to the water taxi. The instant I’m aboard, the driver hits the throttle, heading south into the river. I’ve no idea where we’re going, which makes me uneasy. My eyes begin picking up streaks of red and green in the darkness. Port and starboard running lights. There are boats everywhere. Any one of them could be following us.
A half hour later, the towering cranes of oceangoing freighters I loom in the distance. We’re entering Khlong Toey, Bangkok’s deep-water port. Long lines of rice barges wait to unload the cargo beneath their corrugated metal roofs, which give them the look of floating Quonset huts.
Finally the driver begins angling toward one of the big piers, where a freighter sits low in the water, straining at its hausers. Smoke wafts from the single stack as the crew scurries about in the harsh glare of work lights, making ready to put to sea.
Beyond the freighter at the far end of the pier, rows of single-story rusting metal buildings sit above the river on stilts. From the looks of it, this desolate, dreary facility must be some kind of a hostel or rooming house for itinerant seamen. The driver cuts the engine and guides the water taxi to a stop against one of the floating docks.
I make him understand that I won’t be long and he should wait to take me back. Then I climb onto the dock, searching the darkness for Surigao as I make my way along the rickety walkways that extend from the buildings and connect the boat slips. I’m heading for a gangway that leads up to the main pier when a voice calls out.
“Morgan?”
I turn to see a man exiting one of the ramshackle structures. Light from a window washes over his face as he comes toward me. He’s an Asian with a shaved head and thin moustache. He takes several more steps before I realize it’s Surigao. His wound couldn’t have been very serious, because one hand holds a small travel bag, the other a pistol.
“You won’t need that,” I say, my voice breaking at being face-to-face with Nancy’s killer.
He studies me, deciding, then nods and slips the gun into his pocket. We stand there staring at each other. My heart is racing, surging with emotion. All I can see is Nancy lying on the stainless steel table at the morgue. I vowed that’s not how I’d remember her, but I can’t help it now. Surigao knows what I’m thinking. He sees the hatred in my eyes.
“I tried to dissuade you,” he finally says grimly. “You should’ve let it go.”
“I did, dammit. Soon as I found out about the guy who stole my tags.”
“Pettibone.”
“Yes, I thought he’d died in combat. I couldn’t believe I’d been breaking my ass to put some slimebag’s name on the wall. It was over, Surigao. I mean over. Then you killed my wife. You bastard.”
“It was a mistake.”
“That doesn’t change anything.”
“You evened the score.”
“Bullshit. That was Ajacier and you know it.”
“That doesn’t change anything either.” He stiffens and bites a lip to maintain his composure. I notice his eyes have become watery. Is it real? Is he acting? Is he this good? “Carla wasn’t involved. She didn’t know.”
“She knew my name.”
He nods grudgingly and removes a white business envelope from his pocket. “It’s all in here.”
The shriek of the freighter’s whistle startles us. Surigao glances anxiously over his shoulder as a cloud of smoke belches skyward from the ship’s stack. “Time to go,” he grunts, gesturing to the envelope tucked under my arm. “That it?”
I nod, trying to suppress my apprehension. “Ten thousand.”
“Ten?” he explains as if insulted.
“That’s all I could get.”
He eyes me suspiciously, then with a grudging nod says, “I’ll take it.”
We exchange envelopes, opening them simultaneously. He smiles thinly at the sight of the U.S. currency, stuffs it into his bag, and turns toward the gangway that leads up to the pier.
“Hold it,” I say, stepping in front of him. I’m about to remove the contents of the envelope he gave me when the roar of a motor rises. I glimpse the wake of a boat cutting through the water. It’s coming right toward us, coming fast. I can make out a figure standing in the bow silhouetted against the distant lights of the city. Suddenly the darkness comes alive with the blue-orange flashes I and ear-splitting chatter of machine-gun fire.
Surigao gets off several shots from his pistol and runs toward the gangway. I sprint across the landing toward the wa
ter taxi, stuffing the envelope into my pocket. But the driver panics and walls the throttle before I get there. I dive into the water without breaking stride and surface to see Surigao sprinting up the gang-way. He’s nearing the pier when the bullets tear into his body, spinning him around. He stumbles down the gangway as the gunman continues raking him with fire. The impact knocks him into the water.
The shooting stops.
Surigao is floating facedown in a widening pool of blood while the envelope with my ten thousand dollars drifts off to be netted by some lucky fisherman.
I’m treading water, keeping an eye on the boat and quietly backing my way toward the main pier, when the beam from a search-light sweeps toward me. Suddenly, the boat’s engine comes to life, the stern digs into the water, the bow swings round, and the gunman opens fire. I dive beneath the surface and start swimming toward the pier. The water is vile-tasting and nearly pitch black, but I can glimpse the splash of bullets above me. Spent rounds go spiraling past harmlessly.
I’m pulling my way through the water frantically, fighting the weight of my clothes, when I flashback to Vietnam, to the day I spent trapped by a VC patrol in a rice paddy in the Mekong Delta. They hunted me for hours. Up and down the neatly planted rows, poking, prodding, firing into the water at the slightest rustle. Each time they neared, I’d submerge and claw my way along the muddy bottom, my lungs screaming for air like they are now.
I continue swimming underwater until I brush up against a cluster of pilings that support the pier. They’re easily twelve to fifteen inches in diameter. I move behind them, putting the mass of wood between me and the gunman, then surface, gasping the air. The boat cruises past a short distance away, the shooter crouching in the bow, squinting into the darkness in search of me. He finally fires an indiscriminate burst, spraying the area beneath the pier. I cower behind the pilings as chunks of wood dart through the air. He fires several more bursts before moving off. I wait until the sound of the engine fades, then begin making my way along the line of pilings toward shore. I’m halfway there when I come upon a rusting ladder and start climbing.