Simon fired at the center of the door, rending a hole in it the size of a basketball. Nothing moved in the hall. He waited, wincing at the ongoing alarm, then moved a step toward the door, pistol outstretched.
One bullet.
He listened for any movement, but his ears were a mess, still ringing and confused from the gunfire, and now the alarm. Had he hit him? The better question was how could he have missed?
A step closer. Eyes trained on the door and the hallway beyond.
Was the man dead? Where were the embassy guards? The man couldn’t have shot them all.
Simon’s phone buzzed. He slid it from his pocket. Unknown Caller, read the screen. “Yeah?”
“Give me what I want. Throw it through the door. Even you shouldn’t be able to miss that.”
“Who’s this?”
“You know who.”
“Why did you kill Tan?”
“The flash drive, please, Mr. Simon Riske, owner of European Automotive Repair and Restoration, Kimber Road, SW18, London. We know everything about you: where you live, what you do…besides chasing around the world hoping in vain to help an old friend. How’s Harry Mason? Does he really think Arsenal is going to win the FA Cup? And poor Lucy Brown, still in hospital. Surrey Medical Clinic is the official name, no? Room 327 of the urgent care ward.”
The words chilled Simon to the marrow. Point taken. But now was not the time to be rattled. He had questions of his own. “The naval attaché, Llado. Was he your man?”
“We have people everywhere. Thailand. England. You name it. All I want is the flash drive with the information Mr. De Bourbon stole and our business is concluded. I’m sorry your friend is dead, but it was his own fault. You know that as well as I.”
“You’re South African?”
“And German, if you’re curious. Sprechen Sie Deutsch, Herr Riske? I understand you speak several languages. A man of the world. Not bad for a kid off the streets of Marseille. Quite the success story. This one, though, is beyond you, my friend. I imagine you are out of ammunition or you would have continued firing. You had me dead to rights. It’s those SIGs. Bit of a hair trigger; tend to fire low. What do you say? Let’s get this taken care of before the police get here. Then we can both walk out of here alive. Komm schon, Kumpel.”
Come on, buddy.
“You’re right,” said Simon. “The SIG does fire low, but then I’m not much of a gun guy. Listen, I’m feeling a little lonely in here. Why don’t you come in and I’ll give you the flash drive, man to man? If you have a minute, we can look at some of these paintings together. I mean, since we’re friends.”
From the broken window, Simon made out the wail of police sirens. Many of them. If he wasn’t mistaken, he heard the thrum of a helicopter hovering overhead as well.
“Please, Simon, I hear them, too. No more time to waste. The flash drive.”
“I just realized I don’t know your name. You have me there.”
“I’m called…Shaka.”
A shadow moved in the hall. A footfall. Simon dove to the ground as gunfire ripped through the door, obliterating it, tearing into the wall behind him. Glass sprayed. Paintings crashed to the floor. The blond man peered through the door, or what was left of it, then put his weight against the base and slid the cabinet backward as if it weighed nothing at all.
Simon took careful aim. Ten steps separated them.
Dead to rights, my friend.
He squeezed the trigger.
Misfire.
Simon dropped the pistol as Shaka barged through the door. The man pointed his gun at Simon. He fired. Nothing. Empty. Unbothered, he slid the pistol into the waist of his pants. He wore a black polo shirt and tan slacks. For the first time, Simon took notice of his size, his muscularity. He wasn’t sure which were larger, his arms or his legs. And his neck. It would take an executioner three swings of his ax to get through it.
Simon jumped to his feet. He picked up a cannon ball and threw it at him, striking the man—Shaka—squarely in the chest. The ball bounced off without effect. No underhand toss either. The man unsheathed a knife from a calf strap, the blade protruding between his middle and ring finger. A gutting knife designed for hand-to-hand combat. Simon knew at once that the man had considerable practice with it.
Fighting was not an option. At best, he would escape alive, but injured. More likely, he’d be killed, and worse, give up the flash drive. So far, five men—at least—had died for its contents. The key to why, and who was responsible, could be found in its contents, in the files Rafa had stolen from PetroSaud. Like it or not, Simon had to keep them safe. He owed his friend that much.
And so, escape.
Chapter 26
Bangkok
Simon ran to the broken window, diving through headfirst, landing on the gravel-topped roof covering the veranda, turning a somersault. Two steps took him to the edge. Crouching, he took hold of the gutter and dropped over the side. The gutter held. He released his grip and fell to the grass several feet below. Up and running. A straight line across the lawn. A glance over his shoulder. Shaka following, twenty paces behind.
Simon hit the fence at full stride, one foot propelling him higher, arm outstretched, hand grasping the top. No barbed wire, but curved stanchions with sharpened tips to keep intruders out. He threw a leg over and slid his torso along the rounded irons. He had nothing to grab on to, nothing to slow his fall. He plunged ten feet to the sidewalk, landing awkwardly, toppling to his side, cheek striking the pavement. Dazed, he stood, noting a drizzle of blood. His shirt was ripped. A gash from the window.
Vehicles zoomed past, right to left, a one-way street. He ran counter to the flow, arms pumping, snaking through the dense foot traffic. No looking behind him. A break in the cars. He cut across the street, dashing beneath a highway overpass. A different world here. Shade. Layers of darkness. The air cooler, a welcome breeze. Pop-up stalls selling lunch and cold drinks.
He slowed, clothing drenched, panting. He searched for the best route, not knowing where he was, where to go. Straight, he decided, wanting to remain in the shade for as long as possible.
The blow knocked him through the air. Shaka landed on top of him, his momentum causing both men to roll. Stunned, adrenaline firing, Simon made it to his feet first. He kicked his attacker viciously, a wild shot to the neck, the blow crushing his larynx. On all fours, Shaka gripped his ruined throat. Simon kicked him again, squarely in the jaw. Shaka fell onto his side, a skein of blood dangling from his mouth, a terrible noise coming from his lips.
Simon took off, following an abandoned railway track running beneath the highway. A hundred yards along, the track ended. A fence blocked his path. To his left a broad alley. Tenements on both sides, rising several stories. Air conditioners perched outside windows. Clothes hung to dry from laundry lines. And lined up, as if one to each dwelling, an endless row of motorbikes. Vespas, Hondas, Yamahas. The common transport of Bangkok’s teeming millions.
He entered the alley, eyes on the locks attached to each bike, searching for a certain model. There. A U-lock. He took a pen from his pocket and unscrewed it, dropping the ink cartridge on the ground. Keeping only the uppermost half of the pen, he inserted the open end into the circular lock and turned it one way, then the other, applying pressure. The lock opened.
The bike was a Honda 125, several years old, in good condition. He crouched low and pulled a random wire from the motorbike next to it. Using his teeth, he shortened the wire to the length of a toothbrush, then exposed the copper filaments at each end, taking care to curl them neatly. Next, he found the Honda’s ignition cable and unplugged the socket. Fashioning the wire into a U-shape, he inserted the exposed ends into each of the socket’s connecting leads. Having bypassed the key contact, he thumbed the ignition key and the motorcycle’s engine turned over.
He backed up the bike as Shaka appeared at the mouth of the alley. Another biker turned in and slowed to pass him. Shaka looked at Simon and, without hesitation, took hold
of the biker’s shoulders and threw him to the ground, jumping on the bike in his place.
Simon gunned the Honda, turning right at the far end of the alley and accelerating into three lanes of smoothly flowing traffic. He passed through an intersection and saw he was driving on Sathorn Road. The road grew broader still, four lanes in either direction, skyscrapers lined up like sentries on either side of the boulevard. Signs on the buildings advertised the world’s largest banks and insurance companies. He drove as fast as the bike allowed, carving his own lane through the slower moving automobiles. Ahead, an intersection. Four lanes coming from each direction. He kept his wrist cocked, refusing to slow as, all around him, cars came to a halt. The light turned red a full second before he passed beneath it. Cars darted forth left and right, cutting off his path. He dodged one way, then another. Horns blared. Like that, he was through.
A look over his shoulder. No sign of his pursuer. He was clear. He slowed, moved into the right lane. Then, a squeal of brakes. A cacophony of horns. Shaka emerged from the cross traffic, off-balance, one foot dragging on the pavement.
Simon veered onto a side street. Two lanes, commercial buildings, restaurants, foliage springing up between the structures. Palms, casuarinas. Traffic in front of him came to an abrupt halt. He slid past one car and another. The road narrowed. The space between cars going in opposite directions lessened to a foot, less even, drivers playing a kind of hide-and-seek as they made their way along what essentially was a one-way street. Simon stopped repeatedly, shouting for a path to open. He could feel Shaka closing the distance between them. A glance behind him. Two cars back.
A memory from his past.
Simon, fourteen years old, on his Vespa. A broiling summer day on the narrow streets of Marseille. Cars parked cheek by jowl, one after another, every space taken. A dare. No way you can…
Mounting a Citroën parked along the Rue de Fleury, he maneuvered his bike over the top of the car—trunk, roof, hood, punch the gas—onto the next car and the next…making it ten cars before jumping back to the sidewalk.
But that was twenty-five years ago.
What choice did he have?
Simon revved the engine, pulled up the handlebars, and jumped the bike onto the trunk of the car stopped in front of him—a gold BMW, dealer plates, straight off the lot—up and over the roof, onto the hood, accelerate, and jump to the next car. Wash. Rinse. Repeat. Two cars. Three. He rode standing up, fighting for balance, wishing he had more power, not once looking behind him. A last car and he was at the front of the line. Back on the street, horns letting him know what they thought of his performance.
Simon turned onto a wide boulevard, accelerating for all the bike was worth. A look over his shoulder. Shaka remained far behind, locked in traffic, unable to follow. One trick he didn’t have up his sleeve.
In minutes, Simon was on the highway, following signs to the river. He crossed the Chao Phraya, tossing his phone into the water—Follow that, asshole!—and headed west out of the city, toward Ratchaburi, the countryside.
Free.
For now.
Chapter 27
Singapore
In the trade, it was called an “ambush.” Simply put, it meant approaching a subject without his or her prior knowledge and asking them pointed questions about their involvement in a crime, scandal, incident, fill in the blank—whatever story the journalist was covering. One saw it most often on television, the intrepid investigative journalist staking out a suspected criminal, waiting for him to leave the safety of his home or office, then pouncing, lights blazing, camera crew in tow, microphone at the ready.
“Sir, can you comment on…?” “When did you know about…?” “Did you have anything to do with…?”
But London Li was a print journalist working for a respected publication. When she had questions, she called the subject, identified herself, and politely asked away. If she wanted an interview, she arranged it days or even weeks ahead of time. There were rules to follow. Professional etiquette was to be respected. London didn’t do ambushes.
Until today.
Leaving the hotel, she took up position in the doorway of a leather goods store diagonally across the street from PetroSaud. The position was ideal, as she could look through the shop’s window and view who was entering and exiting the building without being noticed herself. She held her phone at the ready, camera app activated and set to video. It was only a matter of waiting for her quarry to emerge.
Several times the guards turned their attention to the lobby. Convinced Minister Sukarno was on her way, she nearly dashed across the street, instinct stopping her at the last instant. One time it was a UPS man. The next, an elderly executive in the care of his nurse.
After forty minutes, a limousine pulled up in front of the building. London recognized it as the vehicle that had deposited Nadya Sukarno earlier. She left the storefront as the Indonesian minister of finance waltzed out the revolving glass door. London removed her hat and sunglasses and closed the last few steps in a rush.
“Minister Sukarno,” London said, then giving her name and affiliation. “How long have you been stealing from your own sovereign wealth fund by investing in nonexistent oil leases created by PetroSaud and pocketing the proceeds?”
She held her phone high, sure she was capturing the woman’s face.
“Out of my way,” said Sukarno. “I’m not speaking to reporters.”
London repeated the question. Then: “Why are you visiting Petro—?”
Before she could finish, a guard wrapped a hand around her wrist and forced the phone to her side. London protested, stating she was a journalist. The guard’s response was to use his free hand to wrestle the phone from her grip. London resisted, having the presence of mind to keep up her line of questioning. “Why are you devoting so much of the fund to oil properties? Do you have an account with the Bank of Liechtenstein?”
Nadya Sukarno froze, a deer in the headlights.
It was then that a second security guard tackled London to the pavement. She fell awkwardly, turning her ankle, and, in the fall, relinquished her grasp on the phone. She heard, not saw, the door of the limo slam, the vehicle pull away from the curb at speed.
She pushed herself up slowly, gingerly assessing her ankle. The guard did not help her to her feet. With a victorious smile, he returned her phone. She noted that he had erased the footage of the confrontation. As far as all were concerned, the incident had not taken place.
But London didn’t need the video to confirm that something spectacular had happened. Grimacing, she made her way up the street with a pronounced limp. She had gotten far more than she’d bargained for. The ambush was an unmitigated success, ankle or no.
Indonesian minister of finance Nadya Sukarno had confessed to her crimes. It was all there on her face. Plain as day.
Guilty.
Chapter 28
Ratchaburi Province, Thailand
Beneath a leaden sky, Simon continued across the flats of Ratchaburi Province. Buildings lined the highway. Warehouses, car dealerships, garages, supermarkets, brand-new mini-malls next to worn-out mom-and-pop stores, and every few miles a KFC and a Subway. Behind the structures stretched open fields, some planted with rice, others fallow.
He kept one eye on the road, the other behind him. Each mile from Bangkok was a mile farther from danger. He knew better than to add “and closer to safety.” Two hours and a hundred miles later, he allowed himself to believe that he was alone. Shaka was gone.
He steered the bike off the highway and onto a parallel feeder road. His first stop was at a convenience store to buy an ice-cold Coca-Cola and a burner phone. He paused long enough to drink the soda, unpack the phone, and slip it into his pocket. Afterward, he continued until seeing a sign that read GAMING CENTER FORTNITE, MINECRAFT, CALL OF DUTY / INTERNET. The building was sparkling new, two stories, all tinted glass. Inside, row upon row of tables occupied a cavernous, dimly lit room, nearly every space taken by a young man, consol
e in hand, hypnotized by the video game on his laptop. A sea of zombies. Giant screens in each corner of the room broadcast the play.
Simon asked if he could access the Internet. For a fee of one hundred baht an hour, he was handed a laptop with a card listing instructions. He paid and found an empty spot at the rear of the room. No one averted their eyes from their screen as the tall farang joined their ranks. Fortnite was important business.
After logging on, he pulled up the website for the Bangkok Post, Thailand’s paper of record. The bloodbath at the Spanish embassy was headline news. The story read:
At least nine persons were killed today during a diplomatic exchange when a gunman opened fire inside the embassy. Among the dead are Colonel Albert Tan, chief of the Royal Thai Police, Spanish ambassador Felipe López-Calderón, Spanish naval attaché Captain Juan Llado, Spanish national Rafael de Bourbon, and an American, George Adamson. Police are searching for a survivor and possible suspect, an American national recorded as present at the time of the attack. The man’s name is being withheld currently.
Simon felt sick to his stomach. Dead. All of them. He took the four not listed to be Tan’s adjutants and Warden Charlie.
He removed the flash drive from his pocket, powered up the burner, and placed a call to England. He wanted answers.
“Vikram, it’s Simon Riske.”
“Why are you calling from a Thai number?” asked Vikram Singh. “I only answered because I thought it might be my cousin. Did you happen to see him?”
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