The Palace

by Reich, Christopher

  A reporter for The Guardian of London had chronicled the ordeal. A friend of a friend had brought the story to Sun’s attention. Knowing he was angling to get into the motion picture industry, she had suggested he make it into a film. She’d even written a screenplay. The timing couldn’t have been better. The refugee crisis in Syria was a cause célèbre. Another film, also about ships and featuring Africans in starring roles, had been a box-office hit a year or two earlier. Newly wealthy with unlimited funds at his disposal, Sun had taken this as his cue.

  Three years later, he was here with a film.

  Sun finished his tea, showered and dressed for the day. He had a lunch at the Carlton with a reporter from Le Monde, followed by a meeting with a Scandinavian distributor, a dapper Icelandic man with a name he couldn’t pronounce.

  A look in the mirror before he departed. Ivory suit. White shirt. Black necktie. And, of course, his eyeglasses: black, round, and thick, inherited from General Tojo, Philip Johnson, I. M. Pei, and now to claim as his own: Samson Min Chung Sun. Who is this interesting chap staring back at me?

  As his fellow Harrovian Winston Churchill might have described him, Sun was a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma.

  He wouldn’t have it any other way.

  Chapter 17

  Bangkok

  A black Mercedes-Benz sedan waited outside the international arrivals hall of Bangkok Suvarnabhumi Airport. A chauffeur in livery stood beside it, holding a sign with his name. SIRMON RISK.

  “That’s me,” said Simon. “I think.”

  “Welcome to Thailand, sir. First time?”

  “Yes.”

  “Very hot. May hottest month.”

  “You’re not kidding.” Simon had been outside less than a minute and already the heat weighed on him, the air humid and oppressive, smelling of jet fuel, woodsmoke, and a thousand foreign spices. He told the driver he’d keep his bag and allowed him to open the passenger door. A wave of air-conditioning greeted him as he slid into the back seat. A man sat next to the opposite door. Dark suit. Necktie. Neatly combed hair. A hyena’s smile. Hundred to one a lawyer.

  “Adamson,” said the man. “George Adamson. Welcome to Thailand, Mr. Riske.”

  Surprise number one: Dickie Blackmon hadn’t mentioned he was sending someone to meet him. Just as well. Simon was eager to hit the ground running. The men exchanged pleasantries as the car entered the freeway and headed into the city. A business card was proffered stating that Mr. George Adamson was a partner in the firm of Dewey, Cheatem, and Howe. Of course, that wasn’t the name. Simon recognized the firm nonetheless. A multinational power player with offices in capitals around the world.

  As a rule, Simon liked British lawyers and disliked French ones. He had less experience with American attorneys. Adamson appeared lean and eager, addicted to his stair-stepper and egg-white omelettes, more or less his own age, a man on the make. Only thing missing was a choke collar to rein him in when he got a little too ambitious. Securing Rafael de Bourbon’s release might well be his ticket to the big time. Partners did not meet clients at the airport.

  “Not sure if Mr. Blackmon gave you all the details when you last spoke, but here’s the lay of the land. Over the last twenty-four hours, PetroSaud has turned over abundant evidence incriminating your friend Mr. De Bourbon in the crimes of which he stands accused. Emails, texts, recordings of phone calls between Mr. De Bourbon and Paul Malloy.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Malloy was De Bourbon’s superior at PetroSaud. He’s the man De Bourbon was extorting.”

  “That was fast.”

  “They’ve been keeping an eye on De Bourbon for a while,” said Adamson. “PetroSaud has gone a step further. They’ve engaged a cybersecurity firm to dig up records of De Bourbon’s having stolen confidential information. Your friend is guilty. No question.”

  “Is it illegal if he accessed the information while an employee?”

  “No. But it is illegal to take the information from the premises. And it is illegal to threaten to make it public if he isn’t paid what he believes is owed him.”

  “How much are we talking about?”

  “Five million Swiss francs. Deferred bonus.”

  “I’d be upset, too.”

  “Mr. De Bourbon’s personal grievance is beside the point. There are other means of remedy than corporate theft and extortion.”

  “And now PetroSaud wants the information back.”

  “Precisely.”

  “Any idea what he stole?”

  “That’s not our concern. Our concern is getting Mr. De Bourbon out of jail and back to his wife so he can get on with his life.”

  “Who are we dealing with? You said his name was Paul Malloy.”

  “The principal managing partner of PetroSaud is Tarek Al-Obeidi, a Saudi national, though we haven’t heard from him. Right now the point man is Colonel Albert Tan.”

  Simon remembered the bio of Tan, which “Iron Ben” Sterling had provided. “Why is Tan involved in a garden-variety case of corporate blackmail? I see this kind of thing a dozen times a year in the UK. Disgruntled employee threatens to reveal company secrets, divulge recipe for the proprietary secret sauce. I don’t recall the director of MI5 ever becoming personally involved.”

  Adamson shifted in his seat, avoiding Simon’s gaze. He’d been in the game long enough to know how to keep secrets. Simon believed he was keeping one now.

  “What else do you know about PetroSaud?” said Simon.

  “Founded by Al-Obeidi and a group of international financiers a dozen years ago with the goal of selling off leases of undeveloped parts of the country.”

  “To?”

  “Oil companies, of course. Sovereign wealth funds. Larger family offices. Minimum investment a hundred million dollars. Rafael de Bourbon was one of their top salesmen.”

  Simon knew how the game worked. Salesmen like Rafa worked on commission. One percent on a one-hundred-million-dollar investment was a healthy sum. “So why did he leave?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Uh, nothing.” Simon realized he’d been talking to himself. “How is Rafa doing?”

  “Not well,” said Adamson. “Conditions are taxing.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “I doubt that,” said Adamson, as if he’d done time in a Thai jail himself and was the tougher for it. He pursed his lips, irritated. “Still, it’s his own fault.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “I negotiated an agreement that would pay Mr. De Bourbon one million dollars and see him freed immediately and deported from the country upon turning over the information he stole from PetroSaud. All there in writing. He could have signed and walked out of the jail a free man.”

  “He turned down a million dollars?”

  “He insisted on your counsel in the matter first.”

  “Who’s offering him the money?”

  “Who do you think?”

  Simon considered this, not just why Rafa turned down the offer but why PetroSaud had made it. He gazed at the urban sprawl. There were skyscrapers everywhere, seemingly placed at random spots. Alone, in groups of four or five, and in the distance, a conglomeration—downtown Bangkok. Construction cranes sprouted like mushrooms. Ben Sterling was right. The place was booming.

  He passed a large sign forbidding the tattooing of the image of Buddha. Heavy black clouds gathered on the horizon. He looked in the rearview mirror. The silver BMW that had followed them since leaving the airport remained two cars behind.

  Their driver pulled into the fast lane and they came up alongside a truck with a caged-in flatbed. About twenty young women stood inside the cage, shorts and T-shirts, tank tops, flimsy blouses, each with one hand chained to a pole running along the top of the cage. Painted on the front door was a shield with ROYAL THAI POLICE, IMMIGRATION BUREAU on it.

  “What did they do?” Simon asked Adamson.

  But it was the driver who answered, a look to his right before glancing at Simon.
“They are illegals. Rohingya. Muslims. Doesn’t matter. They go.”

  “Where to?”

  “Border. Myanmar. Laos. Cambodia.”

  “And then?”

  The driver shrugged. “No more in Thailand. Better for everybody.”

  It began to rain, fat drops splatting the window. Simon looked at the women quickly becoming drenched. One girl met his gaze. She was younger than the others. Sixteen at most with long hair framing a pretty face. He read nothing in her eyes. This was the world and her place in it. Then the real rain began, a downpour. Within seconds, visibility was cut to inches. It was as if she had disappeared.

  Simon returned his attention to Adamson. “What does Mr. Malloy have to say about all of this? He’s the one who made the agreement with Rafa in the first place, isn’t he? I imagine he’s the one who supplied the incriminating information.”

  “Malloy is unavailable.”

  “Why is that?”

  “He’s no longer in the picture.”

  “Meaning?”

  Adamson grimaced, avoiding Simon’s gaze. “According to reports in the Swiss news, he was killed two days ago in a climbing accident in the Alps.”

  “Two days ago?”

  Adamson nodded.

  “An accident?”

  No response. Simon could hear the lawyer’s acid reflux shift into high gear.

  “And you were planning on telling me when?”

  “As I said, Colonel Tan is our point man.”

  “Change of plan,” said Simon, tapping the driver on the shoulder. “Take me to the jail. I want to see Rafa immediately.”

  “Not possible,” protested Adamson. “We haven’t arranged a visit. They’re expecting us tomorrow.”

  “Make it happen.”

  “Things don’t work that way here, Mr. Riske.”

  “Tell Colonel Tan I may be able to convince Rafa to take the deal. That’s what everyone wants, isn’t it?”

  Adamson studied Simon—Yes, thought Simon, he wants this deal, too—then placed a call. A heated conversation ensued. Simon was interested to learn Adamson spoke fluent Thai. No worries. Helen Mirren translated flawlessly. Adamson hung up, cheeks flushed. “One hour. But he’s not happy about it.”

  “I’ll be sure to thank Colonel Tan personally, if he manages to make it to the prison after his board meeting. Mekong Distillery…that’s his brother-in-law’s company, right?”

  Adamson studied Simon. “How…what…you speak Thai?”

  Simon looked out the window and silently thanked Vikram Singh.

  The downpour ended as abruptly as it had begun. The sky cleared. The car slowed, then came to a halt. Cars ahead. Cars behind. Everywhere cars, none of them moving.

  “Traffic bad in Bangkok,” said the driver, as if boasting of one of the city’s finest accomplishments.

  Twenty minutes later, they left the highway and continued on surface streets, the traffic heavy here, too, motorbikes zipping past on either side. Their route took them through a dilapidated commercial area, almost a shanty town, palms, acacias, and jasmine growing among 7-Elevens and KFCs and open-front stores of every variety, wooden stalls, tin roofs, alleys leading to dark recesses.

  They turned onto a multilane road and cleared a guardhouse. Another mile. A sign: BANGKOK REMAND PRISON.

  As they passed through the gates, Simon checked behind them. The silver BMW had pulled to the side of the road a hundred yards behind them. But it wasn’t the BMW that bothered him. It was the other car following them that had him worried: a beat-up white Nissan with a tall antenna and a blond-haired driver. The Nissan was no longer in sight, but Simon hadn’t expected to see it. Whoever the blond-haired man was, he was good. Very good.

  Iron Ben Sterling had been right.

  Den of vipers indeed.

  Chapter 18

  Bangkok

  Its official name was the Bangkok Remand Prison, and a handmade wooden sign posted at its entrance stated that it had been in existence since 1890. It did not look like a prison, thought Simon as he crossed the parking lot. Two long, low-slung, single-story buildings, painted a bright white with green shingle roofs separated by an asphalt path, plenty of greenery—shrubs, flowers, an abundance of vines. More like a private school or an old-time summer camp. If, that is, you didn’t notice the fence topped with razor wire or the guards at every corner carrying machine guns. A reform school, then, Simon decided, for very naughty students.

  Adamson charged ahead as if expecting to face an angry mob or a crush of reporters. They were met, instead, by a short, barrel-chested man in a white shirt and gray slacks offering a beatific smile along with an outstretched hand. He ignored Adamson and greeted Simon warmly, introducing himself as the warden of the Remand Prison, and after giving his Thai name, insisted Simon call him “Charlie.”

  The prison was divided into two camps, explained Warden Charlie as they walked to his office. One camp reflected the country’s Buddhist heritage. It espoused compassion, forgiveness, and the belief that all of us are God’s creatures worthy of his love. There, the prisoners were housed in clean, air-conditioned dormitories, offered classes in useful skills, like carpentry, electronics, and farming, and fed in a cafeteria run by fellow inmates, who did the shopping and prepared all meals. It was not, Warden Charlie concluded, an unpleasant environment to spend a lengthy incarceration.

  The other camp was hewn from a different tree, he continued, guiding them through an armed checkpoint, double security gates, more razor wire, toward a second grouping of buildings: cinder block, wire-mesh windows, tin roofs. This camp did not espouse forgiveness or compassion, he explained, his saintly bearing replaced by a more earthly demeanor. Nor did it believe in redemption or love of any kind. This camp believed in pain, suffering, and the unremitting flagellation of the human spirit.

  “No air-conditioning,” said Warden Charlie as his phone rang. One look at the screen and he came to attention. Shoulders back. Chin up. A sharp glance over Simon’s shoulder. A nervous smile. A hand to pat down his hair.

  Simon turned to see a wave of khaki approaching, four men led by a tall, bull-shouldered officer, peaked cap, mirrored sunglasses. Colonel Albert Tan was in the house.

  Tan zeroed in on Simon like a hawk coming in for the kill, stopping a breath from his chest. Off came the sunglasses. A lightning appraisal, his prey found wanting.

  “I am Albert Tan,” he said, a handshake to rival Ben Sterling’s.

  Simon introduced himself, holding the grip, giving every bit as good as he got.

  “Who are you?” asked Tan, releasing him.

  “An old friend of Mr. De Bourbon’s.”

  “Are all your friends thieves and criminals?”

  “Only my good ones.”

  Tan smiled wanly, hands on his hips. He’d let Simon get away with that kind of impertinence for now. His uniform sported more ribbons than a Russian field marshal: ten rows topped with a paratrooper’s jump badge and a pilot’s wings. Had Simon missed Thailand’s involvement in any shooting wars? Tan’s gold Rolex Daytona, however, was strictly civilian issue and, to Simon’s eye, the real thing.

  “What do you do, Mr. Riske?” demanded Tan.

  “I own an automotive restoration shop in London. We specialize in Italian sports cars. Ferraris. Lamborghinis.”

  “You are a mechanic?”

  “I employ mechanics.”

  “Why does Mr. De Bourbon think you have any expertise in legal matters?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You’re not an attorney?”

  “Mr. Adamson is his attorney.”

  “And you are?”

  “As I said, a friend.”

  Tan considered this. No one put one over on him. Then: “You’ve read the plea agreement. I expect you to advise your friend to sign it and to return the materials he has stolen.”

  “That would be my advice.”

  “Good. Let’s get this matter concluded.”

  “You know, Rafa, I alw
ays imagined I’d run into you at the Dorchester.”

  “I swore I saw you once at Heathrow, Terminal 5. I was headed to Geneva. You were having a pint at one of the bars.”

  “You didn’t stop to say hello?”

  Weak smiles, but neither could laugh. Simon shook his head, eyes on his friend, letting him know that all was forgiven.

  The room was a ten-by-ten concrete box, a fluorescent bulb hanging from the ceiling, two chairs, one battered wooden table. An armed guard stood in the corner. Simon was shocked at his friend’s appearance. Cheeks sunken, eyes vacant, clothing stained with sweat, filthy. If this was what happened after four days, Rafa wouldn’t last the full week.

  “Dickie told me about your hotel,” said Simon.

  “It’s nice.” A glimmer behind the exhausted eyes. Rafa had always been a dreamer, eyes to the stars. “We’re booked for six months.”

  “Tell you what. Let’s get you out of here and you can comp me a suite.”

  “Deal.” Rafa put his elbows on the table, head forward. “Have you seen Delphine? I’m worried about her. She’s terribly frightened.”

  “Not yet. I came straight from the airport.”

  “Go see her. Tell her I’m all right?”

  “Count on it.” Simon covered Rafa’s hand with his own to let him know he meant it. “Even more important, then, that we move quickly.”

  Rafa nodded.

  Simon said that he’d read the proposed agreement and that everyone—Dickie, Adamson, and, according to the attorney, Delphine—wished for him to sign it, accept the million dollars, and turn over the information he’d taken from PetroSaud. “They want this nightmare to be over.”

  “What do you think?”

  Simon mulled his response. “I think you were right to be careful,” he said, letting the words sink in. “Tell me about your relationship with Paul Malloy.”