“He hired me. Ran the Geneva office. My boss, I guess. He signed my contract.”
“Was he the person you were ‘negotiating’ with?”
Rafa hesitated. “He gave me his word. I trusted him.”
Trust. A liability in any industry. “Bad news,” said Simon. “Malloy was killed in a climbing accident in the Swiss Alps the day before yesterday.”
A look passed between them. Rafa shuddered, a man sentenced to a similar fate. “I did it for Delphine,” he said. “She deserves better.”
Simon was not there to pass judgment on his friend’s actions. He’d come to secure his release, and now, it appeared, to make certain he returned to his home and family alive. He wondered if Dickie had foreseen this development. If by “proxy,” he’d meant bodyguard. Of course he had. Dickie was a smart one, worldly wise if nothing else.
“Do you have what they want?”
Rafa nodded.
Simon knew better than to ask about what he’d stolen. Whatever it was, its value had been established beyond dispute. Paul Malloy’s death was no accident. Colonel Tan, head of the Royal Thai Police, did not fly to a resort island to supervise the arrest of a foreigner accused of a white-collar crime. Nor did he cut short board meetings to oversee the prisoner’s visits. This was about more than the theft of confidential information or a case of corporate extortion.
Simon switched to Spanish. The room was bugged. Their conversation was being recorded. Maybe Warden Charlie had a Spanish speaker on staff, maybe not. Better not to make it easy for them.
They talked for a while, barely a whisper, as much slang as they could manage. When Rafa switched to Italian, Simon followed suit, and then to German. The benefits of a European childhood. Slowly, the story came out. Rafa’s precarious involvement with PetroSaud. Worse than Simon expected.
And so Simon asked: Where was the stolen information?
Rafa had a trick. He’d softly rap his knuckles on the table to emphasize a certain word or phrase. They’d practiced this years ago at bars and clubs in London, up-and-comers on the make, full of themselves, two young Turks angling for romance. Who gets which girl, who picks up the tab, and, just as often, when to duck out.
Bibliotheca. Monte Cristo. Chao Phraya. Delphine. Key.
Simon carved these words into his memory. And many more.
Even as they spoke, Simon tried not to think of Delphine, of what could have been, the decision Dickie Blackmon had forced him to make. Exposure, the loss of his job, and more. Too much, it turned out.
Thirty minutes later, Simon had an idea where Rafa had hidden the stolen information, as well as how to arrange the handoff and get Rafa out of the country safely.
Almost a plan.
Adamson handed Simon a folder with three copies of the plea agreement the moment he reentered the warden’s office.
“Not yet,” said Simon. “We have terms of our own.”
Colonel Tan sat at the warden’s desk. He had removed his hat and was smoking a cigarette. He was a handsome man—large eyes, straight nose, a military man’s chin—except for his lips, a razor slash the color of raw liver. His underlings stood to either side of the desk, arms crossed, making no secret of their hostility. Behold the enemy.
Tan placed his cigarette in an ashtray. “You are in no position to make demands.”
“No? Then why did you come here this evening?”
Tan rose halfway out of his chair, a finger pointed at Adamson. “I told them not to allow him to speak to the prisoner.” His gaze shifted to Simon. “If it were up to me, I’d keep your friend locked up until his trial, and when he was convicted, see to it that he spent his time in a place far worse than this. Believe me, there are plenty in my country.”
“You don’t want a trial,” said Simon. “You—and them—want the problem to go away. You want Mr. De Bourbon to disappear.” Like Malloy. “I’m here to help you get your wish. It’s what I do.”
“Your problems have only just begun,” said Tan. “You’re in my country. You’ll follow my rules.”
“Please, Colonel Tan,” said Adamson. “Mr. Riske means no disrespect. Let’s at least listen to his proposal.”
Tan nodded grudgingly, reprieve granted.
“First,” said Simon, “Mr. De Bourbon gets moved to the other camp, given a shower, fresh clothing, and a decent meal. Mr. Adamson will stay here this evening to make sure it happens. Thank you, Mr. Adamson. Second, upon presentation of proof that he possesses the materials in question, the sum of one million dollars will be transferred to an account of our choosing. Details to follow. Third, he will be allowed to sell his hotel on Ko Phi Phi to the bidder of his choosing. Fourth, the agreement will be revised so that Mr. De Bourbon will not be charged with any crime under Thai law. It will be a civil agreement resolving a business dispute between Colonel Tan, on behalf of PetroSaud—or a person of your choosing—and Mr. De Bourbon. Finally, subject to their agreement, Mr. De Bourbon will be turned over to the custody of the Spanish embassy in Bangkok. It is there that he will hand over the materials in question and sign all paperwork. Once inside the embassy, he will be a free man with full diplomatic status and permitted to travel to the country of his choosing.”
“Never,” said Tan, heatedly. “You will not dictate terms, Mr. Mechanic. You are not fixing a car. Besides, you’re forgetting something.”
“Am I?”
“You’ve only addressed half the problem. Yes, we demand that Mr. De Bourbon return the information he stole, but there’s more to it than that. Mr. De Bourbon threatened to share the information.” Tan consulted his phone, holding it a distance away so he could better read the text. “I quote from an email your friend wrote to his superior, Mr. Malloy. ‘If this gets out, you guys are dead. I’ll show the world what you really are. A bunch of fakes. I’ll make sure it gets to every newspaper. And you know what reporters like to do. They like to dig. Believe me, I know just the person.’” Tan lowered the phone. “So?”
Adamson said: “There’s no indication Mr. De Bourbon followed through with his threat. It was just that. Bluster.”
Again Tan: “Mr. De Bourbon will remain exactly where he is until he is ready to cooperate with us fully. If he did carry through with his threat, and we find out first, the agreement is off. I give you my word he’ll rot in one of my jails for the rest of his life.”
Simon said nothing. He knew when he was beaten.
He rose and left the room.
Game to Colonel Albert Tan.
Chapter 19
Bangkok
Simon arrived at the JW Marriott hotel at nine o’clock. After his visit to the prison, the lobby was a sanctuary, an oasis of marble, lacquer, and florals. Adamson accompanied him to the front desk. He had not come to make sure that Simon’s check-in went smoothly. His hungry, vulpine features had locked into a kind of fixed growl. He was not accustomed to clients questioning his advice, not at a thousand dollars an hour, or, for that matter, his integrity.
“You’re walking a fine line, Riske,” he’d said as they climbed into the Mercedes upon leaving the prison.
“Back at ya.” Simon slammed the door, allowing Adamson to get settled. “Tell me something. Just whose side are you on?”
“You don’t get it. Things work differently here. More liquid. More supple.”
“So I’ve heard. ‘Written in pencil, not ink.’”
“Exactly. They don’t need to be entirely adversarial.”
“Versus semi-adversarial? Tell me how that works exactly. Is it like being slapped instead of being slugged? Or is it more like consensual rape? You tell me.”
“Don’t be glib.” Adamson shifted in his seat, intent on explaining what he meant. “Both sides can win. It’s just a question of altering your perspective, of tempering expectation. We give them what they want. They give us what we want.”
“Someone forgot to tell that to Paul Malloy.”
“The man fell off the side of a mountain. Jesus Christ, Riske, it was
an accident.”
“You don’t believe that.”
Adamson was wise enough not to argue the point. He adopted a new tack. “Rafael de Bourbon is our concern, not Paul Malloy. Colonel Tan is a force in this country. He can be our best friend or our worst enemy.”
“Tan’s just doing what he’s told. I’m more interested in who he’s working for. Whoever ‘them’ is.”
“He is representing PetroSaud.”
“Is he?” Simon was happy not to be privy to the byzantine machinations and divided loyalties of Adamson’s firm. A cover letter to the plea agreement written on the law firm’s stationery listed the cities where it maintained offices. You could hop, skip, and jump from one to the next and make it all the way around the globe without getting your toes wet. Including two offices in Saudi Arabia, in Jeddah and Riyadh. That struck Simon as overkill in a country that size, its wealth notwithstanding.
All along he’d felt like there was a third party in the negotiations. Rafa, Tan, and another, for the moment, unnamed.
Adamson didn’t say another word the rest of the way.
As Simon took the room key and walked to the elevator, the attorney trailed at his side.
“So, what’s your plan?” he asked.
“I’m going to get my friend out of jail,” said Simon.
“And you’re going to follow Tan’s advice.”
“Do I have a choice?”
The elevator arrived. Simon stepped inside. Adamson made to join, but Simon threw out a hand. Enough. “Good night,” he said. “We’ll talk in the morning.”
“And?” demanded the lawyer. “What are you going to do? Do you know where it is? What did he tell you? Riske? Riske!”
Simon unpacked, setting his clothes in neat piles on the bed. He’d been up over a day and he had a long way to go yet before he’d be crawling beneath the sheets. He saw a text on his phone. Dickie Blackmon. What the hell’s going on over there?
No need to respond. Simon was sure Adamson had filled Dickie in. Or maybe Colonel Tan had done it himself, he mused venomously. Wheels within wheels.
Delete.
He walked to the window, gazing out over the city. Lights. Everywhere lights. A flashing neon sign circled a decorative column atop a skyscraper a mile away. The sign alternated between the Thai flag—red and white and blue stripes—and the message “Long live the King.”
“Things work differently here,” Adamson had said.
Correction, thought Simon, taking in the glittering skyline. Things worked exactly as they did everywhere else in the world.
He opened his laptop and looked up PetroSaud. The company’s website described it as a privately owned oil exploration and production company. A list of PetroSaud executives included its managing partner, Tarek Al-Obeidi, a name Adamson had mentioned in the car. The rest of the top brass was the usual mix of Saudi nationals and their extravagantly paid minions. There was no mention of the ill-fated Malloy.
Simon showered, the hot jets relaxing his tired muscles, wishing he could stay there for an hour. He had no choice but to do as Tan advised. He had to give them back the material Rafa had stolen. He knew where it was, more or less, saved to a flash drive and hidden for safekeeping.
There was, however, a complication. PetroSaud had hired a cybersecurity firm to find what Rafa had stolen. Simon had employed similar firms. It was only a matter of time before they compiled a record of every keystroke Rafa had ever typed while an employee. Simon estimated another forty-eight hours before they had in their possession every email he’d sent, every spreadsheet he’d downloaded, and any document he’d read, commented on, or created. In the digital universe, every keystroke was immortal.
And something else.
Simon knew a little fact that Tan didn’t. Rafa had made good on his threat to Paul Malloy and sent the information to a journalist. Not all of it. A smattering. Enough to entice a reporter to look further. Simon knew of the reporter and her work. Rafa had chosen well. Tan wouldn’t take the news sitting down.
It was a race against time, the fuse lit, burning, as fuses do, too quickly.
The flash drive for Rafa’s life.
Simon dressed in dark pants and a black polo shirt, trading his loafers for a pair of crepe-soled shoes. He thought about room service—always slow—and instead scrounged in the minibar for his dinner, devouring a candy bar, some potato chips, before finding a banana and a mango in the fruit bowl. Still chewing, he accessed his map and typed in his destination. Four miles to the river, the Chao Phraya. Twenty minutes by car. More than an hour on foot.
First a call to the front desk.
“This is Mr. Riske, 1624. Could you send someone up to show me how to work the bedside control panel? I’m an idiot when it comes to these things. I just need to close the curtains.”
“Right away, sir.”
Two minutes. A knock at the door. Simon followed the hotelier around the room as she showed him how to adjust the temperature, turn on and off the lights, and, finally, how to close the drapes.
A one-hundred-baht tip. Three dollars. A polite bow, hands clasped in Thai fashion. “Khop khun.” Thank you.
“Good night.”
Simon counted to sixty, then left the room, walking in the opposite direction from the elevator bank and stopping at a set of double doors marked PRIVATE. Using the card key he’d lifted from the hotelier, he opened the door. Inside: an industrial washing machine, clothing hampers, trays of room service food, a housemaid eating a snack of oranges and crackers.
Simon nodded hello, putting his fingers to his lips—it was their secret—and summoned the service elevator. He had not failed to notice the silver BMW sliding into the hotel drive or the half-dozen men loitering in the lobby, all cut from the same cloth—dark suits, youngish, military haircuts—none wearing the silver pin sported by hotel employees. He’d have to have a word with Colonel Tan about his men’s tradecraft.
He took the elevator to the first underground floor and found himself at the employee entrance, the walls bare concrete, rows of lockers, staff coming and going. Halfway across the area, he turned off Vikram Singh’s software and removed the earpiece. He’d had enough of hearing how dark, hairy, and ugly he was. He passed through a set of steel doors into the parking garage. Up a ramp and he was outside. Into the night.
On the corner there was a gas station with a 7-Eleven. Beyond that, a busy intersection, traffic as congested at ten o’clock as at rush hour. To his right a cramped two-lane road, fair game for cars and pedestrians, bars and restaurants on both sides, neon galore. One of those streets in a city famous for them.
He set out, took one step, and turned his ankle in a hole in the sidewalk. He hopped up and down, wincing, but there was no damage. He told himself to be more careful. He looked up to see the silver BMW parked at the gas pump, the driver out of the car, turning to look at him. No more than ten feet separated the two.
Simon walked past him—no chance the driver knew what he looked like, not now, not when Simon was dressed differently—and crossed the street, swallowed by the foot traffic. He continued down Sukhumvit Road, one of the city’s main commercial thoroughfares. A sidelong glance. A reflection in a tailor shop’s window. The driver was following on foot, a stone’s throw back, phone to his ear. Calling reinforcements. Simon hated being wrong.
He picked up the pace, longer strides but not rushing. Bangkok wasn’t so different from London. People of every nationality passed him by. Arabs, Africans, Chinese, Indians, and far too many drunken Europeans. He resisted the invitations of several ladies, and several more who might not be. Land of Smiles.
The night was warm, 85 degrees, the heat a velvet shawl, sweat already rolling down his spine. He came to the stairs leading to the Skytrain. A blind woman sat nearby singing along to a recorded Thai folk song. An old man missing his feet lay next to her, cup raised. Simon gave each a banknote, catching sight of his pursuers, the driver now joined by another. If this went on much longer, Simon was
likely to get an inflated opinion of himself.
Enough, he decided. He had places to go, people to see.
Simon looked to his left and dashed into the street, dodging cars, running down the center of the road. A check over his shoulder. He made it to the far sidewalk. No horns sounded. No drivers raised an angry hand in his direction.
He doubled back toward the hotel, catching his foot on another upturned slab of concrete. He fell forward, a hand arresting his fall. What was it with the sidewalks? He came to an intersection, a flood of pedestrians waiting to cross, blocking his way. He went around them, turning up the street, aware he was going in the opposite direction he needed to be. At least he could move faster.
The signs changed from English to Arabic. Pharmacies, nail salons, tailors, all open for business. Men in kaftans and dishdashas, women in black burkas, covered head to toe. An alley opened to his right. He ducked into it. Smoke. Coal-fired braziers. The acrid scent of roasting lamb. Tinny music blared from a storefront. The Cairo hit parade. He ventured a look behind him. A man on his tiptoes, searching. Their eyes met. Too late, Simon jumped back.
Who were these guys?
He was standing at the entrance to some kind of club: dark interior, crimson lights. Men sat around low tables smoking hookahs, the scent piquant and alluring, not just tobacco.
“Is there a rear exit?” he asked the doorman in his prison-yard Arabic.
The doorman shook his head, unimpressed. Not for you.
Simon thrust a thousand-baht note into his palm. Thirty dollars.
The doorman motioned him to follow.
They passed through a heavy curtain, then up a flight of stairs, the smell of incense and patchouli sweet and thick. Up again to the second floor, then along a dimly lit hallway, doors open to either side, dark-eyed women lounging on cushions. Come in. Let me entertain you.
“You want?” asked the doorman.
Simon shook his head. “Exit.”
The doorman stood aside, duty fulfilled, and pointed to a flight of stairs, a barred door barely visible at the top. Simon ran up the stairs, giving the door a shove with his shoulder. He stepped onto a fire escape, rusted and unsteady, swaying under his weight. He turned and reached for the door as it slammed shut. He tried the handle. Locked.
The Palace Page 11