He walked to the window, gazing out over the city. Lights. Everywhere lights. A flashing neon sign circled a decorative column atop a skyscraper a mile away. The sign alternated between the Thai flag—red and white and blue stripes—and the message “Long live the King.”
“Things work differently here,”Adamson had said.
Correction, thought Simon, taking in the glittering skyline. Things worked exactly as they did everywhere else in the world.
He opened his laptop and looked up PetroSaud. The company’s website described it as a privately owned oil exploration and production company. A list of PetroSaud executives included its managing partner, Tarek Al-Obeidi, a name Adamson had mentioned in the car. The rest of the top brass was the usual mix of Saudi nationals and their extravagantly paid minions. There was no mention of the ill-fated Malloy.
Simon showered, the hot jets relaxing his tired muscles, wishing he could stay there for an hour. He had no choice but to do as Tan advised. He had to give them back the material Rafa had stolen. He knew where it was, more or less, saved to a flash drive and hidden for safekeeping.
There was, however, a complication. PetroSaud had hired a cybersecurity firm to find what Rafa had stolen. Simon had employed similar firms. It was only a matter of time before they compiled a record of every keystroke Rafa had ever typed while an employee. Simon estimated another forty-eight hours before they had in their possession every email he’d sent, every spreadsheet he’d downloaded, and any document he’d read, commented on, or created. In the digital universe, every keystroke was immortal.
And something else.
Simon knew a little fact that Tan didn’t. Rafa had made good on his threat to Paul Malloy and sent the information to a journalist. Not all of it. A smattering. Enough to entice a reporter to look further. Simon knew of the reporter and her work. Rafa had chosen well. Tan wouldn’t take the news sitting down.
It was a race against time, the fuse lit, burning, as fuses do, too quickly.
The flash drive for Rafa’s life.
Simon dressed in dark pants and a black polo shirt, trading his loafers for a pair of crepe-soled shoes. He thought about room service—always slow—and instead scrounged in the minibar for his dinner, devouring a candy bar, some potato chips, before finding a banana and a mango in the fruit bowl. Still chewing, he accessed his map and typed in his destination. Four miles to the river, the Chao Phraya. Twenty minutes by car. More than an hour on foot.
First a call to the front desk.
“This is Mr. Riske, 1624. Could you send someone up to show me how to work the bedside control panel? I’m an idiot when it comes to these things. I just need to close the curtains.”
“Right away, sir.”
Two minutes. A knock at the door. Simon followed the hotelier around the room as she showed him how to adjust the temperature, turn on and off the lights, and, finally, how to close the drapes.
A one-hundred-baht tip. Three dollars. A polite bow, hands clasped in Thai fashion.“Khop khun.”Thank you.
“Good night.”
Simon counted to sixty, then left the room, walking in the opposite direction from the elevator bank and stopping at a set of double doors markedPRIVATE. Using the card key he’d lifted from the hotelier, he opened the door. Inside: an industrial washing machine, clothing hampers, trays of room service food, a housemaid eating a snack of oranges and crackers.
Simon nodded hello, putting his fingers to his lips—it was their secret—and summoned the service elevator. He had not failed to notice the silver BMW sliding into the hotel drive or the half-dozen men loitering in the lobby, all cut from the same cloth—dark suits, youngish, military haircuts—none wearing the silver pin sported by hotel employees. He’d have to have a word with Colonel Tan about his men’s tradecraft.
He took the elevator to the first underground floor and found himself at the employee entrance, the walls bare concrete, rows of lockers, staff coming and going. Halfway across the area, he turned off Vikram Singh’s software and removed the earpiece. He’d had enough of hearing how dark, hairy, and ugly he was. He passed through a set of steel doors into the parking garage. Up a ramp and he was outside. Into the night.
On the corner there was a gas station with a 7-Eleven. Beyond that, a busy intersection, traffic as congested at ten o’clock as at rush hour. To his right a cramped two-lane road, fair game for cars and pedestrians, bars and restaurants on both sides, neon galore. One of those streets in a city famous for them.
He set out, took one step, and turned his ankle in a hole in the sidewalk. He hopped up and down, wincing, but there was no damage. He told himself to be more careful. He looked up to see the silver BMW parked at the gas pump, the driver out of the car, turning to look at him. No more than ten feet separated the two.
Simon walked past him—no chance the driver knew what he looked like, not now, not when Simon was dressed differently—and crossed the street, swallowed by the foot traffic. He continued down Sukhumvit Road, one of the city’s main commercial thoroughfares. A sidelong glance. A reflection in a tailor shop’s window. The driver was following on foot, a stone’s throw back, phone to his ear. Calling reinforcements. Simon hated being wrong.
He picked up the pace, longer strides but not rushing. Bangkok wasn’t so different from London. People of every nationality passed him by. Arabs, Africans, Chinese, Indians, and far too many drunken Europeans. He resisted the invitations of several ladies, and several more who might not be. Land of Smiles.
The night was warm, 85 degrees, the heat a velvet shawl, sweat already rolling down his spine. He came to the stairs leading to the Skytrain. A blind woman sat nearby singing along to a recorded Thai folk song. An old man missing his feet lay next to her, cup raised. Simon gave each a banknote, catching sight of his pursuers, the driver now joined by another. If this went on much longer, Simon was likely to get an inflated opinion of himself.
Enough, he decided. He had places to go, people to see.
Simon looked to his left and dashed into the street, dodging cars, running down the center of the road. A check over his shoulder. He made it to the far sidewalk. No horns sounded. No drivers raised an angry hand in his direction.
He doubled back toward the hotel, catching his foot on another upturned slab of concrete. He fell forward, a hand arresting his fall. What was it with the sidewalks? He came to an intersection, a flood of pedestrians waiting to cross, blocking his way. He went around them, turning up the street, aware he was going in the opposite direction he needed to be. At least he could move faster.
The signs changed from English to Arabic. Pharmacies, nail salons, tailors, all open for business. Men in kaftans and dishdashas, women in black burkas, covered head to toe. An alley opened to his right. He ducked into it. Smoke. Coal-fired braziers. The acrid scent of roasting lamb. Tinny music blared from a storefront. The Cairo hit parade. He ventured a look behind him. A man on his tiptoes, searching. Their eyes met. Too late, Simon jumped back.
Who were these guys?
