“Do you have what they want?”
Rafa nodded.
Simon knew better than to ask about what he’d stolen. Whatever it was, its value had been established beyond dispute. Paul Malloy’s death was no accident. Colonel Tan, head of the Royal Thai Police, did not fly to a resort island to supervise the arrest of a foreigner accused of a white-collar crime. Nor did he cut short board meetings to oversee the prisoner’s visits. This was about more than the theft of confidential information or a case of corporate extortion.
Simon switched to Spanish. The room was bugged. Their conversation was being recorded. Maybe Warden Charlie had a Spanish speaker on staff, maybe not. Better not to make it easy for them.
They talked for a while, barely a whisper, as much slang as they could manage. When Rafa switched to Italian, Simon followed suit, and then to German. The benefits of a European childhood. Slowly, the story came out. Rafa’s precarious involvement with PetroSaud. Worse than Simon expected.
And so Simon asked: Where was the stolen information?
Rafa had a trick. He’d softly rap his knuckles on the table to emphasize a certain word or phrase. They’d practiced this years ago at bars and clubs in London, up-and-comers on the make, full of themselves, two young Turks angling for romance. Who gets which girl, who picks up the tab, and, just as often, when to duck out.
Bibliotheca. Monte Cristo. Chao Phraya. Delphine. Key.
Simon carved these words into his memory. And many more.
Even as they spoke, Simon tried not to think of Delphine, of what could have been, the decision Dickie Blackmon had forced him to make. Exposure, the loss of his job, and more. Too much, it turned out.
Thirty minutes later, Simon had an idea where Rafa had hidden the stolen information, as well as how to arrange the handoff and get Rafa out of the country safely.
Almost a plan.
Adamson handed Simon a folder with three copies of the plea agreement the moment he reentered the warden’s office.
“Not yet,” said Simon. “We have terms of our own.”
Colonel Tan sat at the warden’s desk. He had removed his hat and was smoking a cigarette. He was a handsome man—large eyes, straight nose, a military man’s chin—except for his lips, a razor slash the color of raw liver. His underlings stood to either side of the desk, arms crossed, making no secret of their hostility. Behold the enemy.
Tan placed his cigarette in an ashtray. “You are in no position to make demands.”
“No? Then why did you come here this evening?”
Tan rose halfway out of his chair, a finger pointed at Adamson. “I told them not to allow him to speak to the prisoner.” His gaze shifted to Simon. “If it were up to me, I’d keep your friend locked up until his trial, and when he was convicted, see to it that he spent his time in a place far worse than this. Believe me, there are plenty in my country.”
“You don’t want a trial,” said Simon. “You—andthem—want the problem to go away. You want Mr. De Bourbon to disappear.”Like Malloy.“I’m here to help you get your wish. It’s what I do.”
“Your problems have only just begun,” said Tan. “You’re in my country. You’ll follow my rules.”
“Please, Colonel Tan,” said Adamson. “Mr. Riske means no disrespect. Let’s at least listen to his proposal.”
Tan nodded grudgingly, reprieve granted.
“First,” said Simon, “Mr. De Bourbon gets moved to the other camp, given a shower, fresh clothing, and a decent meal. Mr. Adamson will stay here this evening to make sure it happens. Thank you, Mr. Adamson. Second, upon presentation of proof that he possesses the materials in question, the sum of one million dollars will be transferred to an account of our choosing. Details to follow. Third, he will be allowed to sell his hotel on Ko Phi Phi to the bidder of his choosing. Fourth, the agreement will be revised so that Mr. De Bourbon will not be charged with any crime under Thai law. It will be a civil agreement resolving a business dispute between Colonel Tan, on behalf of PetroSaud—or a person of your choosing—and Mr. De Bourbon. Finally, subject to their agreement, Mr. De Bourbon will be turned over to the custody of the Spanish embassy in Bangkok. It is there that he will hand over the materials in question and sign all paperwork. Once inside the embassy, he will be a free man with full diplomatic status and permitted to travel to the country of his choosing.”
“Never,” said Tan, heatedly. “You will not dictate terms, Mr. Mechanic. You are not fixing a car. Besides, you’re forgetting something.”
“Am I?”
“You’ve only addressed half the problem. Yes, we demand that Mr. De Bourbon return the information he stole, but there’s more to it than that. Mr. De Bourbon threatened to share the information.” Tan consulted his phone, holding it a distance away so he could better read the text. “I quote from an email your friend wrote to his superior, Mr. Malloy. ‘If this gets out, you guys are dead. I’ll show the world what you really are. A bunch of fakes. I’ll make sure it gets to every newspaper. And you know what reporters like to do. They like to dig. Believe me, I know just the person.’” Tan lowered the phone. “So?”
Adamson said: “There’s no indication Mr. De Bourbon followed through with his threat. It was just that. Bluster.”
Again Tan: “Mr. De Bourbon will remain exactly where he is until he is ready to cooperate with us fully. If he did carry through with his threat, and we find out first, the agreement is off. I give you my word he’ll rot in one of my jails for the rest of his life.”
Simon said nothing. He knew when he was beaten.
He rose and left the room.
