“My nephew,” said Steve. “From the local monastery. I called him as soon as I saw you there in the floodgates. To be honest, I thought you were certainly dead. I hoped he might help your spirit find its way to the next plane.”
The monk bowed his head, greeting each man in turn. Their reverence was apparent. Finally, he came to Simon, who was standing like the others. He took Simon’s hands as the other men spoke to him, no doubt offering a summary of the story he had just told them, some believing him, others not so sure.
“His name is Chamron,” said Steve. “He is pleased to meet you and apologizes that his English is poor. However, if you speak Tibetan…”
Simon said that he did not. The monk smiled. Touché.
“Chamron will tend to you,” said Steve.
Simon did not believe he had a choice in the matter. It was not a question of his health, but of some kind of psychic appraisal.
The monk turned his attention to him, still clutching his hands. “Is okay?”
Simon said, “Yes.”
Chamron looked into his eyes and whispered for the others to be silent. He began to chant, a monotone, loud and repetitive. The atmosphere in the room grew still. Simon felt a sense of lightness and well-being come over him. He could not understand the words but acknowledged some type of bond being formed, a bridge between them, as if this man were privy to his thoughts and, more, to his soul.
The light in the room seemed to change, as if a sheer had been drawn across the windows. Simon felt himself relax and be at peace. Yes, he answered, you know me now.
The chanting ceased. The monk released Simon’s hands. At once, Simon felt a current leave him, was aware of his body again, of his fatigue and discomfort.
The monk spoke softly to Steve, who translated.
“Chamron says that once you were a bad man. You were far from the healing spirit. The gods were not happy. They punish you. They put you in a dark place for long time. You came close to other side, close to the final darkness, one foot over, to leaving this plane. But you changed your ways. Inside…in your heart…you desired to be good, to do what is right. For you, this is still not always easy. You struggle.”
Simon looked at Chamron. “When I was young, I did bad things, but no more. How do you know this?”
“Your friend.”
“My friend?”
The monk’s eyes closed as he answered. “He says that you must continue to struggle. The path is long. You are not there yet. This world needs you. Does this make sense to you?”
Simon saw that Chamron had opened his eyes and was gazing at him. “How do you know this about me?”
“He tell me,” said Chamron, speaking himself.
“Who told you?”
“Your friend.” Chamron raised a hand to indicate the world beyond them. “He is looking after you. Even now, he sees us. He make sure your head above water last night, no? He tell Steve to look for you.”
“Did he say his name?”
“No name.”
Simon nodded. Of course there was no name. There couldn’t be. The monk couldn’t possibly know about him. About Simon’s time in prison. His time in the dark place.
“No name,” said the monk once more, “but you…you call him”—here he paused, as if struggling to pronounce a difficult word; then he mouthed three syllables—“mo-see-nor.”
Simon left fifteen minutes later. The car he drove belonged to Steve. The phone in his pocket belonged to Steve’s secretary. An impromptu collection had netted ten thousand baht. All were to be returned or repaid at his earliest convenience. All except the blessing the monk, Chamron, had bestowed upon him. That was Simon’s to keep forever.
Chapter 32
Rome
Luca Borgia gazed out of the window of the Mercedes saloon, bile rising in his gorge as the car turned on the Via del Colosseo and drove past the Colosseum. Traffic was worse than he remembered, and it was not yet tourist season. He knew the reason, at least one of them. It was right there in front of him, bold as day.
Near the Forum, an encampment of Africans and Arabs occupied a stretch of sidewalk and spilled onto the street. There were a hundred of them, at least, dark-skinned, shabbily dressed, loitering in and about a tent village. A souk in Rome.
A bunch had gathered around a fire burning in a garbage can, all seething glares and silent threats, roasting who knew what. A gang of miscreants if ever there was one. Even with the windows up, the foul smells penetrated the car.
Borgia knew all too well about the “Jungle” outside Calais where migrants had built a crude frontier town while hoping to cross the Channel and take up residence in England, and about the squatters in Paris who’d taken over entire neighborhoods. There had been riots in Germany. In Germany…where the government had practically laid out a red carpet for them, white-glove treatment and all. “Excuse me, Farouk, would you like one lump or two?”
Now, with detention camps filled to bursting in the south of the country, it had come to Rome. By “it” he meant the specter of unchecked immigration, though “specter” was a poor word to describe the chaotic free-for-all overwhelming his country’s borders. “Catastrophe” was more like it.
He looked away. Italy had enough problems with Italians, he thought with a laugh. The last thing the country needed was more fodder for the unemployment lines and welfare rolls. More empty hands, open mouths, and idle minds. His concerns, though, went beyond the economy. He could not stand by idly and see his country’s rich patrimony destroyed.
And here…in Rome, the eternal city.
Borgia curled his fists. Rome, home to Caesar and Cicero, Michelangelo and Masaccio, Cavour and Victor Emmanuel, first king of a united Italy. The cradle of Christianity…of Western art, culture, literature…if anyone cared a whit about those things any longer. Dante would have something to say about all this. He knew a thing or two about damnation and the journey to the gates of hell.
The Mercedes came to a halt at the entry to the Hassler. He climbed out and told the driver to be ready in an hour. He buttoned his jacket, gazing down at the Spanish Steps, the Fontana della Barcaccia, over the tiled rooftops. He imagined a minaret towering alongside Saint Peter’s.
Never.
“Luca!”
Borgia turned to see a stocky, bearded man, in a poorly fitting suit, hand raised in greeting.
“Ah, Bruno, am I late?”
“It is I,” said Bruno Melzi, Italy’s minister of the interior and leader of the Italian right-wing Forza Nuova party.
The men entered the hotel salon and found a table in the far corner where they could speak freely. A waiter arrived and they ordered espresso and cornetti.
“It is out of control,” said Borgia, dispensing with the usual pleasantries. “I tell you I almost took action myself. Bruno, what has become of our country?”
“You passed the encampment by the Forum,” said Melzi, who had been a professor of engineering before entering politics.
“On our sidewalks. I saw a flag. A crescent and star.”
“You are surprised? What have I been preaching about all these years?”
“They are defecating on our sidewalks. Shitting on our historic streets. It’s gone too far.”
“We are doing what we can,” said Melzi. As interior minister, his mandate included not only policing but also sanitation. “It is a problem. We have nowhere to house them. The camps are full, and they escape anyhow. Still, they keep coming. Like cockroaches.”
The waiter arrived, a Somali to judge by his elegant features. Working here in the Hassler, Rome’s finest hotel.
Borgia placed a calming hand on Melzi’s arm. “Please, Bruno, they are not cockroaches. They are human beings, too. I can only imagine the conditions they are fleeing. The cost, the peril, to come all this way. I salute their bravery.”
“Of course, Luca. I was only saying…”
Borgia dropped a cube of sugar into his espresso. “I have every respect for their culture, as we all
must, but in its rightful place. We do not share similar values.”
Melzi huffed in agreement. “Most certainly not.”
“They come to our open society, take advantage of our inclusive laws, our generosity and charity and goodwill toward all men, and what do they do? They establish their own rules, their own laws, which are neither open nor inclusive. Worse, they spread their restrictive, discriminatory dogmas to our own people. Do I have to mention how they treat their women?”
“Not to me.”
“Like dogs. Using them only to procreate, and that they do in abundance. Like…like…”
“Rabbits.”
“Indeed!” said Borgia, now that the melanzane was out of earshot. “Sometimes I feel as if we are surrendering to them, not just the immigrants but to all of them: the academics, the media, the communists, the entire left-leaning political mess of the eurozone. Can’t they see what they are allowing to happen right under our very own noses? The destruction of the world’s greatest culture, the abdication of Western democracy, the infiltration of a lesser religion, one that seeks only to dominate all others. Christ, our savior, preached that we must turn the other cheek, to be tolerant, that our first duty is to love all mankind. Their prophet preaches to blow us all to kingdom come.” He mimicked pressing his thumb on a detonator switch. “Allahu Akbar! God is great! If this continues, there will be none of us left. Soon we will be forced to call our land ‘Eurabia.’ Think of it. Eurabia.”
“We cannot allow it,” said Melzi.
“I will not allow it.” Borgia finished his espresso as a familiar figure appeared in the doorway. “Ah, here is our guest.”
A short, fit man dressed in the crisp uniform of the Italian paratroops crossed the salon, cap held under his arm. General Massimo Sabbatini commanded the 9th Paratroopers Assault Regiment, also called the Col Moschin, Italy’s most elite special forces. He was an athlete to look at. Borgia had read something about him running a twenty-four-hour race in the Swiss Alps, covering a hundred kilometers or more. He read that commitment in his taut, tanned face as the general held out a hand.
Sabbatini sat perched on the edge of his seat, bristling with energy. “So,” he said, “it is finally time. How I have been waiting.”
“Soon, Massimo, soon,” said Borgia. “A few days yet.”
“In the nick of time,” said Sabbatini. “You’ve driven through the city. You’ve seen this crime to our country. Basta!”
“Complaining will get us nowhere. Now, gentlemen, listen closely. The shipment is arriving tomorrow in Naples. I’ll be there to pick it up.”
“Luca, please, let my men. We have experience with this.”
“No, no. I do not want the army anywhere near these types. You know them—there are bound to be last-minute difficulties.”
Sabbatini and Melzi shrugged in agreement. They knew who controlled the docks in Napoli. Unsavory types. Gangsters.
“As soon as I have the goods, I will contact you to make the transfer. Then the rest is up to you. Massimo?”
“My men are on standby. They are only awaiting my signal.”
“And Lampedusa?” asked Borgia.
The tiny island one hundred seventy-four miles south of Sicily housed the immigrant Reception Center, a processing and holding facility for refugees streaming from northern Africa. It had been built to house no more than eight hundred persons at any one time. Over one hundred thousand had poured through the facility in the last year alone.
“I have everything in place,” said Sabbatini, then sotto voce: “Don’t worry, Luca, our actions will be justified—welcomed, even—especially after what will have transpired the night before.”
“Let us not speak of that,” said Borgia. “Not yet. And you, Bruno?”
“My men control the police in Milan, Turin, and Naples. Rome is a different story, but I am hopeful that with the proper impetus, they will follow suit.”
Borgia nodded grimly. “Impetus they will have. Oh yes, they will not lack motivation. Personally, I do not see how they can sit on their hands and allow the city to be so despoiled.”
“Now they will have a reason to clean the streets,” said Melzi.
“What more can we do, gentlemen?” Borgia stood. “I am pleased that all is in readiness. Two days, then. A spark to light the fire.” He looked each man in the eye. “Prato Bornum.”
“Prato Bornum,” each responded.
Chapter 33
Pattaya, Thailand
Simon arrived at the seaside resort city of Pattaya at three p.m. Leaving the highway, he made his way toward the ocean, past shiny new hotels and soaring condos and seedy bars, past guesthouses and massage parlors and outdoor cafés and restaurants. The roads were uneven, potholed, sparkling with beach sand, kids running here and there, tangled gobs of wire looping from telephone pole to telephone pole, tin roofs, garish neon signs, and the occasional stray dog.
He knew the city by reputation only. A hotbed of sex, drugs, and vice of every imaginable variety. The world’s largest bordello. In short, a hub of organized crime, or as Ben Sterling had told him without a hint of sarcasm, “Sodom and Gomorrah with a double dash of sriracha.”
It was a sunny day, the sidewalk cafés filled with tourists drinking more than their fair share of beer, young women on their boyfriends’ laps or walking the aisles looking for a lap to sit on. Music blaring, the ’80s greatest hits to cater to the middle-aged clientele. He looked past the bustling tables and into the shadows, to the toughs loitering inside, street-smart runners ready to do their boss’s bidding. Buy this. Deliver that. Pay off this guy. Teach that one a lesson.
Without leaving his car, he knew he’d come to the right place. In Pattaya, everything was for sale.
The drive from Ratchaburi Province had passed in a whirl of activity. His first order of business upon leaving the power plant had been to contact Arjit Singh. It had been three a.m. in London, the middle of the hacker’s workday.
“What happened?” Arjit demanded. “You cut me off before I could finish. I tried to ring you back, but you didn’t answer.”
“Something came up,” said Simon. “Just tell me if you have good news or bad news.”
“Hold on a sec. First, let me know if you can get back online. I can pick up where I left off.”
“Not possible. The flash drive is gone.”
“More secret agent shit?”
“Something like that,” said Simon. “I take it then it’s bad news.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Without the drive it’s over.”
“I cracked it,” said Arjit.
“Say again?”
“Took me a while, but I got it. That’s not the problem. Your friend had a boatload of files. I was halfway through downloading them when the connection broke off.”
Relief poured over Simon. “But you got half?”
“A little more.”
Actually, half sounded marvelous. He was in no position to complain. “What are we talking about?”
“A gazillion emails, a shit ton of files and spreadsheets, and a crap load of text messages.”
“In English.”
“Five hundred thousand emails, ten thousand files and spreadsheets, and a million or so text messages. Clear enough for you?”
And that is only half? “Tell me they’re safe and sound.”
“Tucked away in the cloud under lock and key.”
“How can I access them?”
“Give me an email address,” said Arjit. “And don’t say Gmail.”
Given events, Simon had to assume that his current email had been compromised. “I need a new one. Industrial strength. Any ideas?”
“Proton. They’re Swiss. Only one thing: you have to remember your user name and password. Lose ’em and they’re gone forever.”
“I think I can manage.”
“That’s what everyone says. Give me a few minutes and I’ll get it set up.”
Simon promised to call back in
an hour, then phoned D’Artagnan Moore, who was not as pleased to be roused in the middle of the night.
“I need you to send me some money.”
“Mind telling me where you are?”
“Thailand. Heading to Pattaya.”
“God help you.”
“It’s work.”
“Something I should know about?”
“Definitely not,” said Simon. “Where’s my fee?”
“Pending.”
“You said that last time. The painting’s either authentic or it’s not.”
“There’s an issue about the canvas. One test says it’s one hundred twenty years old, another three hundred.”
“So it’s a fake painted before Monet was born?”
“I’m sure things will resolve themselves in your favor. Everyone has to prove their worth. Damn experts. How much do you want?”
“Twenty grand. Dollars. Oh, and one more thing. I don’t have an ID with me, no passport, nothing. And I may be wanted by the national police.”
“That incident in the embassy…that’s not you?”
Simon didn’t respond. He heard an oath. Then: “Go to a branch of the Royal Bank of Thailand. They are our correspondent. Ask for the manager. Use the name Guy Fawkes.”
“You’re serious?”
“You’re not the first person I’ve had to send money to under suspicious circumstances. Tell them your birthday is November fifth.”
“Of course it is,” said Simon. “Guy Fawkes Day.”
“Not bad for a Yank. I’ll take care of the rest.” D’Art paused. Then a command: “And, Simon, look after yourself.”
A last call. “Hello, Ben. Sorry to wake you. I need a small favor. Maybe you can help.”
“Shoot.”
Simon made his request. Ben Sterling’s answer surprised him.
After parking, Simon walked up the main drag, relieved to see that his fellow expats were as poorly dressed as he. He wasn’t sure if he should look for the seediest establishment or the classiest. He spotted a place with a catchy name and a big footprint: Awake Till Dawn. With that much real estate, the owner was sure to be plugged in.
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