Adamson studied Simon. “How…what…you speak Thai?”
Simon looked out the window and silently thanked Vikram Singh.
The downpour ended as abruptly as it had begun. The sky cleared. The car slowed, then came to a halt. Cars ahead. Cars behind. Everywhere cars, none of them moving.
“Traffic bad in Bangkok,” said the driver, as if boasting of one of the city’s finest accomplishments.
Twenty minutes later, they left the highway and continued on surface streets, the traffic heavy here, too, motorbikes zipping past on either side. Their route took them through a dilapidated commercial area, almost a shanty town, palms, acacias, and jasmine growing among 7-Elevens and KFCs and open-front stores of every variety, wooden stalls, tin roofs, alleys leading to dark recesses.
They turned onto a multilane road and cleared a guardhouse. Another mile. A sign:BANGKOK REMAND PRISON.
As they passed through the gates, Simon checked behind them. The silver BMW had pulled to the side of the road a hundred yards behind them. But it wasn’t the BMW that bothered him. It was the other car following them that had him worried: a beat-up white Nissan with a tall antenna and a blond-haired driver. The Nissan was no longer in sight, but Simon hadn’t expected to see it. Whoever the blond-haired man was, he was good. Very good.
Iron Ben Sterling had been right.
Den of vipers indeed.
Chapter 18
Bangkok
Its official name was the Bangkok Remand Prison, and a handmade wooden sign posted at its entrance stated that it had been in existence since 1890. It did not look like a prison, thought Simon as he crossed the parking lot. Two long, low-slung, single-story buildings, painted a bright white with green shingle roofs separated by an asphalt path, plenty of greenery—shrubs, flowers, an abundance of vines. More like a private school or an old-time summer camp. If, that is, you didn’t notice the fence topped with razor wire or the guards at every corner carrying machine guns. A reform school, then, Simon decided, for very naughty students.
Adamson charged ahead as if expecting to face an angry mob or a crush of reporters. They were met, instead, by a short, barrel-chested man in a white shirt and gray slacks offering a beatific smile along with an outstretched hand. He ignored Adamson and greeted Simon warmly, introducing himself as the warden of the Remand Prison, and after giving his Thai name, insisted Simon call him “Charlie.”
The prison was divided into two camps, explained Warden Charlie as they walked to his office. One camp reflected the country’s Buddhist heritage. It espoused compassion, forgiveness, and the belief that all of us are God’s creatures worthy of his love. There, the prisoners were housed in clean, air-conditioned dormitories, offered classes in useful skills, like carpentry, electronics, and farming, and fed in a cafeteria run by fellow inmates, who did the shopping and prepared all meals. It was not, Warden Charlie concluded, an unpleasant environment to spend a lengthy incarceration.
The other camp was hewn from a different tree, he continued, guiding them through an armed checkpoint, double security gates, more razor wire, toward a second grouping of buildings: cinder block, wire-mesh windows, tin roofs. This camp did not espouse forgiveness or compassion, he explained, his saintly bearing replaced by a more earthly demeanor. Nor did it believe in redemption or love of any kind. This camp believed in pain, suffering, and the unremitting flagellation of the human spirit.
“No air-conditioning,” said Warden Charlie as his phone rang. One look at the screen and he came to attention. Shoulders back. Chin up. A sharp glance over Simon’s shoulder. A nervous smile. A hand to pat down his hair.
Simon turned to see a wave of khaki approaching, four men led by a tall, bull-shouldered officer, peaked cap, mirrored sunglasses. Colonel Albert Tan was in the house.
Tan zeroed in on Simon like a hawk coming in for the kill, stopping a breath from his chest. Off came the sunglasses. A lightning appraisal, his prey found wanting.
“I am Albert Tan,” he said, a handshake to rival Ben Sterling’s.
Simon introduced himself, holding the grip, giving every bit as good as he got.
“Who are you?” asked Tan, releasing him.
“An old friend of Mr. De Bourbon’s.”
“Are all your friends thieves and criminals?”
“Only my good ones.”
Tan smiled wanly, hands on his hips. He’d let Simon get away with that kind of impertinencefor now. His uniform sported more ribbons than a Russian field marshal: ten rows topped with a paratrooper’s jump badge and a pilot’s wings. Had Simon missed Thailand’s involvement in any shooting wars? Tan’s gold Rolex Daytona, however, was strictly civilian issue and, to Simon’s eye, the real thing.
“What do you do, Mr. Riske?” demanded Tan.
“I own an automotive restoration shop in London. We specialize in Italian sports cars. Ferraris. Lamborghinis.”
“You are a mechanic?”
“I employ mechanics.”
“Why does Mr. De Bourbon think you have any expertise in legal matters?”
