Chow swore under his breath. “What exactly are you saying?”
“I’ve said too much already. Anything more might put you in an unwieldy position to do your job…unless, that is, you fancy spending a year or two in Changi Prison.”
“We’re done,” said Chow.
“Ben, one last thing.”
“I’m afraid to ask.”
“A shop like PetroSaud doesn’t have only one client. A sharp tack like yourself might want to see if they were helping any other countries snap up oil leases in KSA.”
“And if I find something…”
“Call me.”
“Oh…about dinner. How about—”
London didn’t hear another word. She ended the call the moment she saw a limousine pull up to the entrance of the tower across the street. A tall, statuesque woman in an orange silk dress shirt exited the back seat and turned in her direction, taking a moment to adjust her kebaya.
She recognized her at once.
Nadya Sun Sukarno. Indonesia’s minister of finance.
Chapter 25
Bangkok
Twelve o’clock. Embassy of the Kingdom of Spain.
Simon looked at Adamson’s text and put away his phone. He stood at the entrance to a city park a block from the embassy, surrounded by children and teachers and pedestrians on their way here and there. The day was hot, hotter than any he could remember, the midday sun beating down on his head like a branding iron. And humid, the moisture clinging to him like cellophane wrap.
He wore a cap and sunglasses. A surgical mask covered his nose and mouth to filter out the particulates that fouled the air. He did not look out of place. Every third person was wearing a mask today. A headline in the morning paper announced that Bangkok’s air quality ranked as third worst in the world behind only Dhaka and Delhi. “Haze,” the government called it, preferring the innocuous term to “smog.” Call it what you want, thought Simon. He could hardly make out the tops of skyscrapers a mile away.
Fifteen minutes to go.
He’d woken at the break of dawn, seized by a dread and certain thought.
He’d been followed last night.
He hadn’t seen anyone, not really. There were too many people and he had been moving too fast. Still, he knew.
Several times, as he’d hesitated at a street corner or slowed to check his directions, he’d sensed a ripple in the flow behind him. A shadow. A flicker. Something.
If he had any particular skill at this kind of thing, it came from his days on the streets of Marseille. Seventeen years old, a hood on the lookout for his next score, lifting a wallet, boosting a car, maybe rolling a tourist. But also on the lookout for the flics, who were on the lookout for him.
In the half-light of dawn, he’d closed his eyes, thinking back. There it was. A tan face. A slash of blond hair. The heavy neck and shoulders. Was it real or the figment of an anxious imagination? Even now, wide-awake, all of his senses firing, he wasn’t sure.
Still…
Simon had learned to question his instinct at his peril. If he’d felt it, it was real.
He’d been followed. A blond man, first on the way to the prison and again after he’d left Delphine’s hotel. Not a local. A professional.
If not Tan’s man, then whose?
Unable to go back to sleep, he’d showered and walked to the river, where he took breakfast at an outdoor café. A strong chai tea bucked him up enough to call George Adamson and give him a rundown of his activities the night before. The lawyer reiterated Tan’s displeasure at his disappearance but was not unhappy that Simon had retrieved the stolen information.
“And Delphine?” Simon had asked.
“Left on the seven a.m. Cathay Pacific flight to London.”
“You should have told her to go immediately after his arrest.”
“I tried. She wouldn’t listen.”
“You should have tried harder.”
“Did you look at it?” Adamson asked. “The material he stole.”
“Password protected,” said Simon. “Rafa may be dumb, but he’s not stupid.”
“All I care is that he gives Tan what he wants, takes his check, and gets the hell out of here.”
With a bow and ribbon on top, added Simon, and a commendation to your firm for a job well done. “Say, Adamson, you don’t have a man following me?”
“We don’t do that kind of thing, Riske.”
“Sure you do,” said Simon. “It’s important. I need to know.”
“No. We most certainly do not.”
Simon believed him.
That was three hours ago.
From his vantage point, Simon had a clear view of the ornate black iron gates guarding the embassy entrance. Situated on several acres of open land, the embassy was an oasis amidst a concrete desert. Simon had walked past twice earlier. He’d glimpsed a rolling lawn, a tennis court, and a small lake. Set back at the end of a curving drive was a large colonial-style building with a broad veranda and two wings flanking a central residence. It was hard to see much through the fence surrounding the property.
International law declared the embassy to be Spanish territory. Setting foot on the grounds was no different from visiting Barcelona or Madrid. Once inside the gates, he was subject to the laws of Spain. That simple. But Simon knew he’d do well to keep in mind Dickie Blackmon’s words: laws in Thailand were written in pencil, not ink. Five’ll get you ten Colonel Albert Tan kept a Pink Pearl eraser on his belt right next to his pistol.
A check of the time. Eleven fifty-eight.
Simon clutched the flash drive in his pocket. He only hoped it wasn’t too late, that unseen forces hadn’t also come into possession of Rafa’s purloined booty. Either way, he had no choice but to go ahead.
Eleven fifty-nine.
Time to motor.
“Here he is. The man of the hour.”
Colonel Albert Tan stood in the center of the Spanish ambassador’s office, resplendent in his khaki uniform, ribbons in the finest order, aviator sunglasses hanging from his breast pocket.
Simon crossed the room and shook Tan’s hand, wishing him a good morning…or was it good afternoon? The Spanish ambassador, Felipe López-Calderón, stepped forward to introduce himself and the tall, handsome man at his side, Captain Llado, his naval attaché. Colonel Tan didn’t bother introducing the three uniformed men standing behind him, hands clasped behind their backs at parade rest. Simon didn’t count Rafa as present.
The office was a sprawling, high-ceilinged room, dominated on one side by a heavy wooden desk flanked by the Spanish and Thai flags. A picture window behind it looked onto a manicured lawn. And on the other side of the room, a seating area fit for the king himself. In between were miles of gold carpeting.
“We are happy to be of assistance to Señor De Bourbon and our friends with the Thai government,” said López-Calderón, a trim, distinguished man of sixty with a salt-and-pepper goatee.
“I told you to be here early,” said George Adamson, through gritted teeth, as he shook Simon’s hand.
“What, no hello or thank you?” said Simon.
“Don’t press your luck,” whispered Adamson. “Tan’s in a foul mood. He’s out for bear.”
Simon returned his attention to the Thai military officer. “And Mr. De Bourbon?”
“On his way,” said Tan. “First, may I ask if you have what we requested?”
“I do.”
“So you weren’t out all night sampling our fine city’s nightlife? You had me wondering.” Tan laughed, offering a few words in Thai to his associates, who smiled dutifully.
Helen Mirren translated the words no less dutifully. “A fan of ladyboys, no doubt.”
Simon responded politely. “Maybe you and I can go out together. After all is said and done. Do you like Italian, or…no, I think you prefer Greek. Am I right?”
The smile left Tan’s face. He extended a hand, palm up. “If you please.”
Simon took the flash drive from his
pocket and made to hand it to Tan, stopping at the last moment. He met Tan’s eye. “Where is my friend?”
Tan muttered a command. One of his officers spoke into his phone. A door at the side of the room opened. Warden Charlie entered, Rafa beside him, dressed in his prison attire, unwashed and unkempt, hands cuffed.
“Release him,” said Simon, “now.”
“If you please,” said Ambassador López-Calderón. “Mr. De Bourbon is a guest of the Spanish government. Restraints are not needed any longer. He is a free man, is he not?”
Tan glared at Rafa. “Not yet, he isn’t.” Then a word to Warden Charlie—“Unlock the dog”—who removed the handcuffs. “I’m waiting.”
Rafa crossed the room and stood at Simon’s side. “How are you?” asked Simon.
“Ready for a beer and a shot of tequila.”
Simon patted his shoulder. “I’m sure that can be arranged. Let’s get everything taken care of first.”
“Delphine?”
“She left the country this morning. Better that way.”
“Thank you, my friend.”
Only then did Simon hand Tan the flash drive. He appeared dissatisfied at its size, somehow cheated.
Tan closed his fingers around the drive. “And now the password?”
“One moment, Colonel. There are some formalities that need attention.” Adamson rushed forward, placing two leather folders on the ambassador’s desk. With care, he opened each, setting down a fountain pen for the respective party’s signature. “Might I ask that we receive the check?” he said, brimming with goodwill. “I have the paperwork ready. Mr. De Bourbon acknowledges turning over the information taken from PetroSaud’s servers, with no admission of guilt, in return for a payment from PetroSaud of one million dollars. There’s a receipt, of course. Also attached is a promise never to speak of the matter again. It’s all there.” He held out a pen for Colonel Tan. “Mr. De Bourbon is booked on a three o’clock flight to Doha.”
“First, the password.”
“First, the check,” said Adamson, showing a little backbone.
Tan snapped his fingers. An adjutant handed the attorney an envelope. Adamson examined the contents. “Excuse me, but this check is not signed.”
“Mr. De Bourbon owes us an additional piece of information,” said Tan. “A name. A journalist, I believe. Who did you send the information to?”
Rafa looked to Simon, who nodded. Rafa had warned the journalist as best he could. There was no choice to be made.
“Okay, then,” said Rafa, but still he hesitated. “I’ll tell you.”
Tan’s phone buzzed. He looked at the screen and answered at once. “Pronto,” he said, his eyes locked on Simon. “Va bene. Si. Perfettamente. Grazie, Luca. Grazie tanto. Ciao.”
Tan motioned to his adjutants. The officers stiffened as if they’d received an electric shock. A signal, to be sure.
They knew, thought Simon. Whoever “Luca” was, he’d told Tan that they’d discovered what Rafa had stolen, and with all probability, the identity of the journalist he’d told about it. Rafa was expendable.
Tan snatched the check from Adamson’s hand. “A change of plan. Mr. De Bourbon won’t be needing this.”
“What’s going on?” demanded the attorney. “Am I missing something?” Confused, Adamson looked at Rafa, then at Simon.
“You’re going back to where you belong,” said Tan. “Count on doing twenty years.” He barked an order to Warden Charlie, who approached Rafa, opening the cuffs. “Please,” said Warden Charlie. “Your hands.”
“You can’t arrest him,” said Simon. “This is Spanish soil. He’s a Spanish citizen.”
“I must object,” said Ambassador López-Calderón. “You have no authority here. If there is an issue, please file a protest with my government. I am at your service. In the meantime, Mr. De Bourbon is under the protection of the Spanish crown.”
“You can’t do this,” added Adamson. “You have no jurisdiction here. We are not on Thai soil.”
“Rafa, stay where you are,” said Simon.
Tan ignored them, pointing at Rafa. “Do as you are told.”
The ambassador slid between Tan and Rafa, arms raised, a conciliatory gesture. “Please, gentlemen. This is not the time for an incident.”
“No incident. The man is a criminal, in Spain or in Thailand. I am a police officer.” Tan shoved the ambassador forcefully to one side and took violent hold of Rafa’s arm. The ambassador lost his balance and barreled into Simon.
Rafa fought to free his arm, only drawing Tan closer. “Get off of me. Let me go.”
“You will obey!” shouted Tan, in a state of unchecked fury.
Rafa threw an elbow, catching Tan on the chin, enraging him further.
Tan’s hand dropped to his holster, drawing his pistol. Rafa’s hand followed it. The men wrestled for control of the handgun.
Simon untangled himself from the ambassador. “Don’t! Rafa!”
Too late. Rafa was the larger man by a head and fighting as if for his life. He fell back a step, the pistol in his hand—a SIG nine millimeter—aimed at Tan’s chest.
“Put it down,” said Simon, approaching his friend, fighting to be heard over Tan’s fevered commands, the protests of his adjutants, Adamson urging everyone to “calm down,” the ambassador crying, “Por favor, por favor.”
“Rafa, listen to me.”
Rafa looked at him, then at Tan. “They can’t take me. It isn’t right.”
A gunshot rang out. Unimaginably loud. Another. Simon ducked, dropped to a knee, ears ringing.
Tan lay on the carpet. He tried to stand, then collapsed, mouth open.
“I didn’t shoot,” said Rafa, a plea, eyes wide. “I didn’t.”
Close upon his words, Rafa’s head buckled, a spray of pink—blood, brain, and bone—blinded Simon. Rafa pitched forward, a large portion of his cranium missing, dead on his feet. Simon staggered beneath his friend’s weight.
Across the room, Tan’s adjutants scrambled for cover. None carried a sidearm. The ambassador dropped to the carpet, hands covering his head. Adamson crouched near the desk, unprotected.
Simon wiped the gore from his eyes. There, at a side entrance to the office, stood a man in dark clothing, heavy around the neck and shoulders, blond hair. It was him. The man in the white Nissan. The man in Simon’s dreams. Simon met his eyes as the man spun and pointed a heavy caliber pistol at him. Another shot. The bullet striking Rafa in the back, meant to go all the way through, forcing Simon to retreat a step.
To his left, the naval attaché, Llado, had pulled a compact pistol from his blazer. He hesitated, looking directly at the blond man, unsure what to do, then finally shot at him, missed. Then return fire. Two shots. Llado dropped like a man from the gallows.
Simon let Rafa fall to the floor, crouched, and snapped up Tan’s pistol, pulled the trigger, nothing, the safety still on, thumbed it off, fired again, the bullets going wide, splintering the lintel, his ears ringing. A hornet whizzed past his ear. Close. Simon fired again. The blond man retreated from view. Simon freed the flash drive from Tan’s hand, pistol raised, fired again, and ran for the double doors. A vase exploded behind him.
He was clear, running down the corridor, rounded a corner. More gunshots, but different caliber. Embassy guards? A scream. Then automatic weapons. An Uzi, crackling like fireworks. The exchange of fire went on. A cacophony.
Simon threw open the first door he came to. A Thai woman huddled beside her desk, hand covering her mouth. She stared at Simon, at the blood painting his face, and screamed. “It’s not me,” said Simon, out of breath, not knowing how to explain. “Someone else. Call the police.”
The woman had a phone in her other hand. She nodded, indicating she’d already done so. But this was Bangkok with Bangkok traffic. Midday. It could take them ten minutes or an hour. He was on his own.
“You…you are all right?” she asked.
Simon caught a glimpse of himself in the glass of a f
rame. A horror show. He wiped his face with the tail of his shirt, saying that he was fine, then spat something hard from his mouth, not caring to consider what it might be. He dropped the magazine and counted three bullets remaining. His hand was shaking. He replaced the magazine, slamming it home with his palm, chambering a round. Better now. “Get under the desk. You’ll be safe there.”
An internal alarm sounded. A buzzer. One second on. One second off. Earsplitting. A message in Spanish. “Attention. This is an emergency. Take cover in your office.”
He left the room, a fast jog down the hall, came to the entry, a two-story gallery, paintings on the walls, a wide staircase at its center rising to an exposed walkway.
“Sir, stop! Drop your weapon!” A plainclothes security man stood by the front doors, pistol gripped by both hands, pointed at Simon.
Simon raised his hands. “I’m not the shooter. He’s behind me somewhere.”
“Put down your weapon. Now!”
Simon bent to place his pistol on the ground.
Two shots. The guard slammed against the door and slid to the floor.
Simon threw himself against the wall as a shot struck inches from his head, shards of wood and plaster peppering his face, splinters lodging in his cheek. He dropped to the floor, peered out, saw the blond man across the gallery, fired a shot, the man ducking for cover in a hallway.
Two bullets left.
He understood now. The blond man wanted the flash drive. Simon could not allow him to get it. Battle lines had been drawn.
He surveyed the large gallery. No way could he make it to the front doors and get outside.
Simon jumped to his feet and ran for the stairs, taking them two at a time. He reached the second floor, went right, checked over his shoulder. The blond man was starting up the stairs behind him, inserting a fresh magazine into his pistol. Their eyes met.
Who sent you? Why did you shoot Tan? And, who is Luca?
No time for answers.
Simon ran down the hall, doors open to either side—sitting room, guest room, guest room. He slammed closed the doors. A distraction. At the end of the hall an exhibition room. Oils of naval battles. A mannequin clothed in a military uniform. Glass display cases. He entered the room and closed the door. No lock. He scooted a low dresser in front of the door, then moved to the windows, their handles and seams frozen with paint. On a side table, small cannonballs were arranged in a pyramid beneath a painting of a sixty-four-gun ship of the line, the San Leandro. He picked up a cannon ball and underhanded it through the window, glass shattering. Behind him a violent blow against the door.
The Palace Page 15