The Palace

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The Palace Page 12

by Reich, Christopher


  He ran down a flight, both hands on the railings, metal groaning. Dead end. No ladder. No more stairs. A fifteen-foot drop to the alley. He retraced his steps, continuing up several flights to the roof.

  It was a world unto itself. A tended garden, chickens in a coop, an Exercycle. He heard a door slam somewhere below him, the rickety fire escape groan. He ran to the edge of the building. A seven-foot drop to the next rooftop, the buildings cheek by jowl. He jumped and landed heavily, wiping his hands as he stood. Up again, running to the next building and the next, aware of a figure giving pursuit, thinking Colonel Tan had better give his men a raise.

  He arrived at the last building on the block. One foot on the parapet, he gazed over the edge. Four stories to the ground. Across the street, a forty-story apartment building. He turned, searching the rooftop. There, hiding in the rear corner, a makeshift hovel, planks, tin roof, lights burning behind flimsy drapes. He pulled aside the curtain and entered. A man and woman sat cross-legged on a Persian rug, bowls of noodles in their laps, watching television. They gazed at him, neither evincing much surprise.

  “Downstairs?” said Simon, winded, hands on his hips.

  The man pointed at a door across the room.

  “Thank you.”

  As he reached the bottom of the stairwell, he heard a door slam several floors up, another set of footsteps.

  He was done running.

  He opened the door to the street and let it close. He did not go outside. Crouching, he hid beneath the stairs. Footsteps echoed in the stairwell, closer and closer still. He could hear the man fighting for breath, as fatigued as Simon. The footfall grew louder. He caught sight of the man’s back, an arm reaching toward the door.

  Simon slid from his hiding place. Taking hold of the man with both hands, he threw him against the wall. He was young, maybe thirty. Stunned, he fell to a knee, turning to confront his aggressor. Simon hit him twice, solar plexus, chin.

  The man’s eyes rolled and he collapsed in a heap. Finished for now.

  Back outside, Simon walked from intersection to intersection, searching in vain for a street sign. A block farther on, he saw a bridge and, to one side, a string of people descending a stairwell, disappearing from view. Reaching the bridge, he joined those taking the stairs. A rush of cool air greeted him, the pleasing scent of fresh water and plumeria. He skidded on the dirt footpath running along a broad creek. A klong, one of many cutting in every direction through Bangkok. Foliage everywhere—casuarinas, bamboo, palms, a jungle in the city.

  He walked beside the water, the growl of an approaching motor drawing his attention. A longboat ferrying a dozen men and women, plenty of open seats, pulled to the riverbank.

  “Okay?” Simon asked a young man, dressed in a school uniform, meaning could he climb aboard.

  “Sure,” said the high school student. “Where would you care to go, sir?”

  “Chao Phraya. Bang Rak.”

  “Five stops.”

  Simon joined the queue.

  Chapter 20

  Bangkok

  Hello.”

  “Hello, Delphine. Do you know who this is?”

  “Yes.”

  And she knew well enough not to say his name…just in case. As for Simon, he knew well enough to call on the Oriental hotel’s landline. Who used that anymore? Certainly not friends. He had no doubt that her cellphone was compromised in one way or another.

  “Go to the lobby,” he said. “Walk out the main entrance. To your right at the far side of the drive, you’ll see a set of stairs leading to the river. It’s a nice night for a stroll. Five minutes.”

  He’d met her on a frigid December day in London eleven years earlier.

  He saw her in his mind, walking toward him through the high-ceilinged foyer of Chatham House. She was tall and blond and angular with skeptical blue eyes and a puckish grin. Her entire manner screamed that she was smarter, cleverer, and a damned sight better looking than the rest. If she’d been a man, Simon would have wanted to punch her in the nose. As it was, he wanted to do quite the other thing. What was he to do but say hello?

  “You’re not with the bank.”

  “God no,” she said with an air of real offense. “I should hope not.”

  “Are we that bad?”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “You were at the lecture. Forgive me. I’m hopeless.”

  Anything but, thought Simon.

  For the past three hours he and the two dozen other members of his intake class at the bank had sat together in an auditorium at Chatham House, 10 St. James Square, and listened to a series of speakers lecture them on ethics and global responsibility.

  “A dash of idealism before being sent out into the real world,” he said. “I just finished my first year. They move us through the different departments, give us a taste of all the bank’s activities.”

  “Oh, I know. It’s an annual affair. Bank sends a new batch every December. I wrote it, by the way. The lecture, I mean.”

  “You work here…at Chatham House?”

  “No one actually works in the building except for admin and staff. But, yes, I do work for Chatham House. Fellows do their research elsewhere and come to share it with other members, or, in this case, the lambs being led to slaughter.”

  Chatham House, officially known as the Royal Institute of International Affairs, took its offices in a bland, four-story brick building, hardly differing from those on either side, that had been home to three prime ministers: William Pitt the Elder, Edward Stanley, and William Gladstone. Its charter gave its aims as the advancement of international politics, the investigation of international questions by means of lectures and discussion, and the exchange of information, knowledge, and thought on international affairs. It was widely regarded as the finest think tank in the world.

  “If you wrote it, why didn’t you deliver the lecture?”

  A raised brow. A look that said, Seriously? You don’t think I’d fall for that. “You were supposed to have been impressed by the former chancellor of the exchequer and the head of the World Bank. Paragons of your world. I don’t think a twenty-four-year-old doctoral candidate can compete.”

  “I’m not so sure,” said Simon. “I’d listen to you.”

  “I’d make certain you did.”

  “I liked the talk. I did, really.”

  “I believed you the first time. Not sure about the second.” The smile faded, her gaze much too frank. “But will you take it to heart? Me, I live in an ivory tower. You, you’re out there in the real world. Where are you being posted, anyway?”

  “Private banking.”

  “The front lines. Face-to-face with the enemy.”

  “The enemy?”

  “The wealthiest of the wealthy. What’s the minimum deposit these days? Fifty million? A hundred? To get that kind of money, you have to have set aside your morals long ago.”

  “That’s a cynical way of looking at the world.”

  “Machiavellian is more like it, though I’d prefer plain realistic. You look like you understand what that means. Not one of those pink-cheeked cherubs from Eton or Winchester, are you?”

  “No.”

  “Don’t look it.”

  “I suppose we’re getting somewhere, then.”

  “I can’t quite see you cooped up in an office twelve hours a day.”

  “It’s not so bad.”

  “Maybe you’ll be the one who does something about it.”

  “About what?”

  “Everything. Greed. Corruption. Cronyism. The yawning chasm of income inequality that threatens to bring the world to the brink of revolution.”

  “Right now I’m just looking forward to doing my job.”

  “A company man. A factotum.”

  “You show no mercy, do you?”

  “I don’t know about that.” She stepped closer to him, so close he could smell her perfume, count the lashes above her eyes. “I’m always on the lookout for someone to bring over to my side.”

/>   Simon laughed. “A true believer.”

  She flinched, and he noted the flash in her eyes, the flush of her cheeks. “Someone had better be.”

  “Do true believers go out for drinks?”

  “Not with the enemy.”

  “Not yet, I’m not. There’s still a chance.”

  “You know…I just think there might be.”

  “I’m Simon. Simon Riske.”

  “Delphine. Delphine Blackmon.”

  She extended her hand, and he couldn’t help but notice the chic watch hanging from her wrist. A Rolex Oyster. De rigueur for every crusading do-gooder.

  Eleven years.

  A heartbeat.

  Simon watched Delphine descend the stairs and walk along the path toward the river, her face visible only intermittently, on and off like an old-time flicker as light from one lamp and then another fell upon it. She looked thinner, sharper, her hair cut shorter, blonder, dyed now. Her posture was more erect, her step too confident, trying to be something. A woman where before there’d been a girl.

  He stepped from the shadows. “Hello, Dee.”

  Delphine Blackmon halted, hand to her chest. “You startled me.”

  Simon kept an eye over her shoulder. He caught no sign of anyone following but knew better than to trust himself. He was still wondering about the white Nissan and its blond driver. “I’m sorry. Precautions.”

  “So this is what you do now?”

  “Not exactly.”

  Delphine stepped closer as if drawn against her will, a hand rising to his cheek. Abruptly, it fell to her side. Past was past. “How is he?”

  “We need to get him out,” said Simon.

  “What can I do?”

  “I’m not sure if you can do anything. Has Adamson kept you up to date?”

  “Oh yes. Mr. Adamson is thorough if nothing else. He wasn’t happy with how your meeting at the jail went this evening. He told me you were confrontational bordering on disrespectful. He said you offended Colonel Tan.”

  “He told me the same thing.”

  “You don’t like him.”

  “Let’s just say that he and I approach the table from different sides.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Simon let it hang there. She knew him well enough, how he did things. “Tell me about PetroSaud.”

  Delphine shrugged. What do wives know about their husbands’ jobs? “So long ago. Rafa turned Malloy down at first, despite the fact that he desperately needed a job. Said he didn’t like Geneva. Malloy wouldn’t take no for an answer. He hounded Rafa, offered him an apartment in Cologny, a car—a Porsche—expense account. Rafa ate at Le Relais de l’Entrecôte three times a week.”

  “Did he mention any problems? Anything that bothered him while he was there?”

  “We didn’t talk about work. I was traveling myself, research, writing. Mostly the Middle East, Africa. I had my own thing. Besides, you know how I feel about what you do.”

  “What I do?”

  “You and Rafa. Banks. Financiers. Insurance companies. Private equity. The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.”

  “I don’t think we’re as bad as all that.”

  Delphine canted her head. “Wasn’t my father one of your clients?”

  Simon nodded. They both knew he was.

  “Case closed.”

  “Your opinion of him runs contrary to the queen’s.”

  “Sir Dickie? ‘Sultan of Stratford.’” He heard a laugh, even if it wasn’t out loud. “Yours doesn’t?”

  “Bankers don’t comment on their clients.”

  “Such a convenient way to avoid examining your conscience.”

  Simon smiled, not about to be drawn into an argument, happy, though, that some things never changed, or at least some people. A last glance behind them. No one hiding in the shadows.

  Twenty yards ahead, a walkway followed the banks of the Chao Phraya—the River of Kings—the broad waterway that twisted and turned through the city, emptying into the Gulf of Thailand fifteen miles south. Hotels, apartment buildings, offices, new and old, lined either bank. At eleven o’clock, river traffic was lively, vessels moving in both directions, mostly barges ferrying supplies up-country. Even at night, he could see that the water was filthy.

  They walked shoulder to shoulder.

  “Still trying to save the world,” said Simon.

  “I gave up a long time ago. I’d settle for educating one person at a time. Ever read any of my articles?”

  Last he’d heard, Delphine was still at Chatham House, traveling the world, raising money from foundations here and there to pay for her articles about the humanitarian aid crisis.

  “No. I’m sorry.”

  “Figures. No fast cars or pretty girls in them. Probably still reading your Dumas novels. Count of Monte Cristo. The Three Musketeers. Simon, my hopeless romantic.” She looked away. “I’m trying to be mad at you.”

  “I know you are.”

  Delphine stopped, turned her powerful gaze on him. “You never told me why. You just went away. It wasn’t fair. A girl deserves to know. Oh God, listen to me. A girl. A woman deserves to know. A human being with a beating heart.”

  “Delphine,” he said firmly. They were adults. It was a long time ago. Then: My God, she still doesn’t know the truth. Well, he wasn’t going to tell her now.

  “It’s all right,” she said. “I mean, thank goodness you walked away. I’d never have been with Rafa.”

  The knife twisted in his gut just as she’d wanted.

  She started walking again. “Thank you for coming. I know you and Rafa aren’t speaking.”

  “He’s like a brother. Of course I came.”

  Delphine laughed. “You have a strange way of showing your affection. Both of you.”

  She threaded her arm through his. They continued on a short way without speaking. He felt the warmth of her body pressing against his. What had it been about her that had so captivated him? Her intelligence, her strength, her particular beauty? Or maybe her vulnerability despite the rest of it? She’d opened herself to him unconditionally, the first woman he’d truly known. And him…had he done the same? It had taken this long to answer truthfully. No, he had not.

  “Did Adamson talk to you about Paul Malloy?” he asked.

  “Just that Rafa was blackmailing him, threatening to reveal something about the company unless he paid him the bonus he was due. I take it Malloy didn’t pay.”

  Simon stopped, turning to face her, thinking maybe Adamson wasn’t so thorough after all. He told her about Malloy and the climbing accident and his opinion about it.

  Delphine clutched her arms to her chest. “This changes things.”

  Simon nodded. The look that passed between them indicated she was of a mind with him.

  “Damn him,” said Delphine, meaning, of course, Rafa. “What do you know about PetroSaud?”

  “Not enough. Look, Rafa wants to cooperate. In return for his freedom, he needs to give Colonel Tan the information he stole and was using to blackmail Paul Malloy into paying him his bonus. I think I know where he hid it. Do you know a place called Little Havana?”

  “It’s a cigar club. I hate it. Cohiba this, Montecristo that. He goes with some of his pals when he’s in town. Comes back smelling as if he’d bathed in tobacco.”

  “Something about a locker?”

  “Members keep bottles of their favorite liquor in them. Rum, cognac, whatever.”

  “Do you have the key?”

  Delphine looked at him askance. “Do you honestly think he could hold on to it?”

  “Rafa hasn’t changed.”

  “No,” said Delphine, without humor. “He hasn’t.”

  “He did it for you.”

  “That’s what he always says.”

  “Malloy owed him five million Swiss francs. Real money.”

  “Daddy has ten times that much. A hundred times.”

  “And so…” Simon opened his hands. “You married a Spaniard.”


  “The last proud man.”

  “He’d like to think so.”

  “What happens now?”

  “I go to Little Havana. Find what Rafa left there. Adamson sets up an exchange. Rafa suggested bringing in the Spanish ambassador. He’s a friend, I take it. We give Colonel Tan what he wants, then put Rafa on the next plane out of here.”

  “And our hotel on Ko Phi Phi? What about that?”

  “I’m working on it. I wouldn’t count on anything.”

  “I’m sure Daddy can do a deal. Commerce is his bailiwick.”

  “If anyone can, it’s Dickie.”

  Delphine returned to her room, waited an hour as per his instructions, and came back with the key to the locker. “Little Havana is in Chinatown. You won’t find a sign. It has a secret entrance.” She told him the name of the street and what to look for. “There will be a doorman across the street. He’s Cuban. Raúl is his name. You can’t miss him.”

  Simon thanked her and told her he would be in touch in the morning.

  “Get him out,” she said. “Don’t break my heart twice.”

  Chapter 21

  Bangkok

  Simon left the Oriental hotel and walked north along Charoen Krung Road. He was in old Bangkok, the quarter built nearly two hundred years earlier in the hook of the Chao Phraya River, home to Dutch and British trading houses, Chinese hongs, the province of thieves, grifters, smugglers, the flotsam and jetsam of every nationality that washed up at the end of the world. He passed along narrow roads and narrower alleys, rickety, tin-roofed shanties crowding in, neon lights reflecting off puddles in the road, everywhere stalls selling fried fish, chicken livers, and eels. The streets coursed with purpose, pulsing as the clock struck midnight, a constant human traffic. He charged ahead, a foreigner never more at home than when lost on foreign streets and surrounded by foreign people. He walked like a man pursued, but by what?

  A woman, of course.

 

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