The Palace

by Reich, Christopher

  Another memory of Delphine. The opposing bookend, not the beginning but the end.

  A long weekend in Paris. Late March. The first leaves had sprouted on the London plane trees lining the Champs-Élysées. Painterly clouds scudded fast and low across the sky, brushing the top of Les Invalides, cloaking the Eiffel Tower. The Seine ran full with spring melt, its waters a milky green and rough, riding high on its banks. In the Tuileries, the first tables had been set out. A hopeful ice cream vendor awaited the first customers of the year.

  So Paris, as always.

  It had been a weekend to celebrate. Simon had finished his training at the bank. Delphine, four years younger, had taken a new post at Chatham House, working as a research assistant helping craft papers that would shape European policy. More important, it was their first anniversary as a couple, if they were keeping track, which neither was, or so they claimed.

  Simon had spent time at the Sciences Po studying mathematics and knew the city well. Where to get a cheap ballon de rouge that wouldn’t kill a man and where he could eat like a prince for ten euros and like a king for fifteen, where he could dance all night for next to nothing and where he could find a wonderful crêpe suzette at dawn.

  Delphine also knew Paris well, if from a different economic vantage point. She’d come often to shop and dine and visit museums and dance at the trendiest clubs. It was she who insisted they try the tasting menu at L’Arpège and the pressed duck at La Tour d’Argent. Mais, il faut! She bought him a cashmere sweater at Balibaris and tickets to La Comédie-Française (Simon’s first play in any language). Of course, they went to Castel’s afterward.

  They made love in the morning, after lunch, before going out in the evening, as a prelude to sleep. He had only himself to give. He held back nothing.

  On Sundays, they visited the Louvre. He thought of it as “his museum.” As a student, he’d whiled away long, rainy winter afternoons there, a baguette smuggled inside his raincoat. What cheaper entertainment? His destination never altered. The Pavilion Denon. The paintings of the Renaissance weren’t for him. Neither the Baroque. He preferred the large-scale historical works of Delacroix and David and Ingres. Works like Oath of the Horatii, and Liberty Leading the People. And his favorite, the larger than life Coronation of Napoleon. Delphine laughed at his taste. “Pedestrian.” “Juvenile.” “Cartoonish.” The words bounced off Simon like water off a duck’s back. Emperor Napoleon gave him a wink and let him know that he was the one with good taste.

  And then, later that afternoon, crossing the Jardin du Luxembourg, an incident, in and of itself, as Parisian as buying an éclair at Stohrer. A Roma woman, a gypsy, approached the lovers, a baby in tow, her hand extended. A beggar. Delphine smiled, immediately amenable. Simon knew better. “No,” he said. “Not today.”

  The Roma was insistent. Refusing to be put off, she came closer, crowding them, the baby crying now, as if on cue.

  “Please,” said Delphine. “It’s all right.”

  Simon relented, handing the Roma a two-euro piece. Delphine nodded her approval. Thus preoccupied, neither saw the second Roma approach from behind. A man, and sly. Simon saw him only as he withdrew Delphine’s pocketbook from her Hermès bag. He caught the man by the arm. There was a struggle. The tussle ended badly for the Roma, who retreated without the pocketbook, his wrist fractured. The entire incident was over in a minute.

  But the day was spoiled. Delphine was unable to let it go, upset that their rêverie had been broken. She looked at Simon differently. Why wasn’t he as bothered as she? And where had he learned to break a man’s wrist as if it were a matchstick?

  The call from Dickie Blackmon had come the next day. “I know all about you. I won’t hesitate to tell others. Stop seeing my daughter or else.”

  Simon swept the memories aside. The past brought nothing but pain, too often in the form of truth. He’d convinced himself that his feelings for Delphine had died long ago, or at least withered absent nurture. Ten minutes in her presence and his defenses—so painstakingly constructed, so artfully reinforced, so skillfully maintained—had crumbled. One look was enough. In that look, the knowledge of all that once was and could never be. Heartbreak. Why was he surprised that he was not immune? Fool.

  A laugh. Rich, well deserved. Ah, life! Move on.

  And now, to be a friend. The chance to repay a debt. No fees, no clients, no middlemen. Simply to be of service, to give of himself. For once, an honest reason to travel halfway around the world.

  Or was it?

  Was Delphine the real reason he’d come? A last chance to prove himself the better man?

  He dismissed the thought. Only actions mattered. He was here.

  Simon veered left onto Yaowarat Road, into Chinatown. Smoked ducks hung upside down on curing hooks, tables pushed onto the streets crowded with customers slurping soups and banging tea cups, and always the motorbikes zipping past too close for comfort. He was looking for an old, immense banyan tree that dominated an intersection. He had turned off his phone, that much more difficult to follow him. He spotted the tree—one couldn’t miss it—the roots as pronounced as canyons, the intertwined branches spreading across the street, blocking out the night sky, an impenetrable canopy.

  He searched for a Cuban-looking doorman, saw none. He continued to the end of the block and retraced his steps, uncomfortable now, conspicuous. He slowed, the smell of cigar smoke sharp in his nostrils. He was in the right place. Or was he?

  He ducked into a convenience store—two counters, fluorescent lights, selling water, chips, candy, and a variety of pharmaceuticals. He asked for Little Havana. The clerk pointed out the door, motioning emphatically, barking out instructions. Simon stepped outside, took a few steps, angry at himself, still unable to find the club.

  The next instant an enormous black man was standing beside him. A head taller, dressed in a dark suit, shoulders to rival Atlas. How long had he been studying Simon?

  “Raúl?”

  The man nodded, stepped across the street, and pointed to a phone booth. It was from another time and another country, an anachronism—collapsible doors, rotary dial, waiting for Clark Kent, or, in this case, Simon Riske. He’d looked at it several times, failed to remark that it belonged in New York City or Chicago, not Bangkok.

  Hiding in plain sight.

  “1-9-5-8,” said Raúl.

  Simon understood at once. The final year of the revolution. December 31st. Batista out. Castro in. He entered the booth, Raúl holding the door, picked up the phone, and dialed the four digits. The opposite wall slid to one side.

  One step and he was transported to Cuba back in the day. It was a high-ceilinged space, with an endless wooden bar, a mirror behind it, “El Floridita” painted in festive script—Hemingway’s spot—rows of spirits, glasses on shelves. Wicker fans turned slowly overhead. A guitar quartet played from a balcony. “Desafinado.” Couples danced.

  The host was Brazilian, wearing a guayabera shirt. Simon explained that he was a friend of Mr. De Bourbon and that he’d come to collect something from his locker. He showed the key and asked him to call Delphine if he had any questions.

  The host—a hard man beneath his Latin charm—appraised Simon. “The lockers are upstairs. To the right. I’m pleased to offer you a drink on the house.”

  “Another time,” said Simon, then climbed a winding flight of stairs to the second floor. Darker here, leather armchairs grouped around low tables. Men, women too, smoking cigars, spirits glimmering in crystal highball glasses.

  The members’ lockers were tucked away in a dimly lit alcove, names engraved on gold plates. He found Rafa’s in short order. The key fit. Three bottles inside. Rum, cognac, and marc—peasants’ brandy. Simon ran a hand over the surfaces, then along the walls. Nothing. He examined each bottle against the amber light, saw nothing floating inside. One by one, he unscrewed the caps, checked. A flash drive, smaller than any Simon had seen, was hidden inside the bottle of marc. He used his thumbnail to free it. The siz
e of a stamp and wrapped in plastic.

  What, he wondered, had Rafa stolen that had placed his life in jeopardy and already cost another man his?

  Simon slipped the drive into his pocket. It wasn’t just a question of delivering it to Tan. He needed to find out its contents. He was no longer an innocent bystander but an involved party. Did Malloy deserve justice any less because Simon hadn’t known him? He remembered Tan’s withering glare, the promise to balance the scales of a punishment yet to come. Simon was in this, too, now.

  But he wasn’t the only one Rafa had drawn in.

  Standing there in the alcove, smoke curling beneath the ceiling, Simon thought about the journalist Rafa had contacted. London Li. He knew her name, every banker did. An investigative reporter whose stories appeared in the Financial Times. Not someone you would want writing about you.

  He would have to contact her. And say what? A warning, that was all. “Be careful.” “Watch your back.” And what about Malloy? Should he mention him? He decided against it. Up to her to find out. She’d been given PetroSaud’s name. It was all there.

  Still, he was worried that to a reporter of her caliber the warning might have the opposite effect: A tap to the flanks. A goad instead of a caveat. Maybe. Maybe not. That part was beyond him.

  He closed the locker and returned downstairs.

  “Is there another way out?” he asked, palming the host a thousand baht.

  Grease, Iron Ben had said, makes the wheels go round.

  The host led him through the kitchen. A door to the back alley stood ajar. Simon dodged the staff and stepped outside. A rat scurried past, followed by several more. A few feet away, a raccoon stood on its hind legs, rooting in a garbage can. A dishwasher crouched on his haunches beside it, smoking. He gazed at Simon, blew out a cloud of smoke, then looked away.

  Simon made his way back to Charoen Krung Road. His hotel lay a few miles east, toward the center of town. He had his phone, his wallet, his passport, everything he needed. He felt the small drive in his pocket. Almost everything.

  He paused at a street corner, weighing his options. His absence would have been reported hours ago. He was officially MIA. He imagined Tan’s outburst upon learning that his men had lost him and smiled. Good, he thought. He wanted Tan on edge, playing off his back foot. Simon’s ability to move freely was an advantage, maybe his only one. Returning to the hotel was out of the question. His room there was nothing more than a gilded tiger trap.

  He walked toward the river and came upon a bustling night market, row upon row of stalls selling clothing, shoes, toys, and copy watches beneath a patchwork tin roof, and at the far back corner, electronics. He showed a vendor the flash drive and his phone. The vendor wrinkled his nose, then rooted beneath his stall. A cry of victory. He stood, handing Simon an iOS–flash drive adapter. One end plugged into his phone, the other docked with the flash drive.

  “Two thousand baht.”

  “Five hundred,” said Simon.

  “One thousand.”

  Simon peeled off a bill.

  “Khop khun.” The vendor clasped his hand in prayer and bowed. Smiling, he dropped a garland of flower petals around the neck of a Buddha standing watch on a table behind him. Simon had overpaid.

  He continued down the aisle, finding a stand that sold mobile phones. He purchased three burners, the cheapest available, phones he could use once and discard.

  He left the market, the river a block ahead, waves brushing against the shore. He turned down a shabby alley. Halfway along, a hand-painted sign hung from a bamboo pole. “The Orchid. Room 300 Baht.” He didn’t think this establishment was listed on TripAdvisor.

  Simon ascended a flight of stairs wedged in between two shuttered stalls. There was no door, just a counter on the first-floor landing. Beneath a flickering bulb, the night clerk slept in his chair. Simon cleared his throat. The clerk opened one eye. “Five hundred baht,” he said. Sixteen dollars. Nearly twice the advertised rate. Simon must be getting the presidential suite.

  He placed a bill on the counter and received a key in return. “Down there,” said the clerk, motioning vaguely toward an unlit corridor. Simon’s room was the last on the right. The door was unlocked. A torrent of frigid air. Paradise. He turned on the light. A smile of surprise. The room was the size of a jail cell—a single bed, a chair, a sink, and a toilet—but spic-and-span, smelling of lemon floor cleaner and disinfectant. Two towels were folded neatly on the bed along with a mint on the pillow. The Four Seasons take note.

  He locked the door and jammed his chair beneath the doorknob. It worked in the movies, right? He washed his face and undressed. Fatigue fell upon him like a hammer. He sat on the edge of the bed, eyes heavy. No sleep. Not yet.

  Wearily, he removed the iOS adapter from its packaging. He plugged one end into his phone and attached Rafa’s flash drive to the other. An icon appeared named “PetroSaud Confidential.” A box opened beneath demanding a password.

  Simon tried several. Rafa’s birthday, Delphine’s birthday, variations thereof. No joy. He turned the phone off.

  He took a burner out of its box and texted Adamson. Mission successful. Set up exchange.

  An answer came back immediately. Where the hell are you? Tan furious.

  The phone buzzed in his hand. Simon denied the call. Another text followed. Did you get it? Call me. Urgent.

  TTYL, Simon texted. He turned off the phone, dug out the SIM card, and with difficulty snapped it in two, before flushing the pieces down the toilet.

  He broke out phone number two and texted Delphine. Success. All good. Get out of the country as soon as possible.

  He waited a minute or two, but no reply was forthcoming. He had one last call to make. He dialed the country code 44 for England. A crusty voice answered on the fourth ring. “Hello.”

  “Harry, it’s me.”

  “Evening, lad, or is it morning? Either way, you’re up late.”

  He heard a commentator in the background. Soccer. What else? “What game are you watching?”

  “A replay of the Gunners’ last. FA Cup this weekend. I’m getting ready.”

  “You going?”

  “Are you kidding? Tickets are five hundred quid to begin. I can see it better at the pub.”

  “How’s Lucy?”

  A pause. Harry Mason cleared his throat.

  “Harry?”

  “There was some kind of setback. A neuro-something-er-ather…Sorry, lad, don’t know what it’s called. The doctor said there was some bleeding on the brain. But she said they’d caught it early and that I shouldn’t worry.”

  “Did the doctor say anything else?”

  “Only that she’s resting comfortably.”

  Simon rubbed a hand across his forehead. “Poor kid.”

  “Nothing you can do, lad. It’s in the Lord’s hands. I’ll call if anything changes.”

  Simon turned off the phone and disposed of the SIM card in a like manner. It was three a.m. He doused the lights and lay down. He looked up at the ceiling and whatever was beyond it. “Please,” he said. “Take care of her.”

  Finally, he closed his eyes.

  What choice did man have but to believe?

  Chapter 22

  Bangkok

  Pleasant dreams, Mr. Riske.”

  The man named Kruger turned from the darkened window on the first floor of the ramshackle tenement and retraced his steps to Charoen Krung Road, heading back to a group of street vendors he’d passed earlier. Fish, eels, meatballs. He stopped in front of a large wok, oil bubbling, a vendor scooping out the deep-fried chicken feet and chicken heads with a woven ladle. He breathed in the sharp, salty scents. The smells of his childhood.

  “One,” he said, a finger raised.

  The vendor prepared a plate of three feet and three heads. Kruger paid him and moved down the street, finding a quieter spot to eat. Not bad, he thought, chewing the feet off a wooden skewer. “Walkie-Talkie,” they called the dish in his native South Africa. There, in
the slums of Jo’burg, chefs prepared the dish two ways: breaded and fried or braised over hot coals. Add a little sweet chili sauce and there was nothing better.

  Kruger tossed the paper plate into the trash, crouching to pick up a few cups and bottles that had missed the target. He detested litter.

  His given name was Solomon Kruger Mkwezi. He was thirty-eight years old, the illicit offspring of a South African father, a supervisor at the De Beers mine in Kimberley, a member of the Xhosa tribe, as black as the coal seam he’d worked his entire life, and a German mother, the mine’s director of finance, blond, blue-eyed, and built like the mighty Valkyries who adorned the prows of old-time sailing ships. “Illicit” because at the time of his birth in South Africa it was illegal for a black man and a white woman to have sexual relations. Apartheid was the law of the land. “Apartheid,” the Afrikaans word meaning “apartness,” a system of institutionalized segregation based on the principles of white supremacy. Being born was the first criminal act Solomon Kruger committed.

  Until the age of ten, he lived with his father in a company town for miners outside the fences. Forbidden to go to the school for children of mine employees—white children—he attended local schools. Dirt floors. Thatched roofs. A blackboard. He was the only student with mixed blood. His straw-colored hair made him stick out more than his toffee-colored skin and pale blue eyes. His schoolmates made fun of his straight nose and his thin lips, teasing him mercilessly, beating him, calling him “Wite,” the white one. Hatred ran both ways.

  He learned to fight at a young age. At first, he lost. Then, as he grew, no more. His father called him “Shaka,” after the invincible Zulu chief, a symbol of pride for all black South Africans. His father taught him to box, to grapple. He gave him a set of weights and each morning supervised his training, doing calisthenics alongside him. “You are Shaka. You are a warrior.”

  And then, tragedy. A cave-in at the mine. His father buried alive alongside forty others at the bottom of an open pit a thousand feet deep. Shaka considered his nickname his father’s lasting gift. With no family in the village, he was sent to live with his mother. It was 1992. Mandela had returned from exile. De Klerk had yielded power to the African National Congress. Apartheid was rescinded. But attitudes long ingrained were not easily dispelled. A mixed-race boy was not welcome, law or no law. Under pressure, his mother resigned her post and with her son returned to her home.