Was Delphine the real reason he’d come? A last chance to prove himself the better man?
He dismissed the thought. Only actions mattered. He was here.
Simon veered left onto Yaowarat Road, into Chinatown. Smoked ducks hung upside down on curing hooks, tables pushed onto the streets crowded with customers slurping soups and banging tea cups, and always the motorbikes zipping past too close for comfort. He was looking for an old, immense banyan tree that dominated an intersection. He had turned off his phone, that much more difficult to follow him. He spotted the tree—one couldn’t miss it—the roots as pronounced as canyons, the intertwined branches spreading across the street, blocking out the night sky, an impenetrable canopy.
He searched for a Cuban-looking doorman, saw none. He continued to the end of the block and retraced his steps, uncomfortable now, conspicuous. He slowed, the smell of cigar smoke sharp in his nostrils. He was in the right place. Or was he?
He ducked into a convenience store—two counters, fluorescent lights, selling water, chips, candy, and a variety of pharmaceuticals. He asked for Little Havana. The clerk pointed out the door, motioning emphatically, barking out instructions. Simon stepped outside, took a few steps, angry at himself, still unable to find the club.
The next instant an enormous black man was standing beside him. A head taller, dressed in a dark suit, shoulders to rival Atlas. How long had he been studying Simon?
“Raúl?”
The man nodded, stepped across the street, and pointed to a phone booth. It was from another time and another country, an anachronism—collapsible doors, rotary dial, waiting for Clark Kent, or, in this case, Simon Riske. He’d looked at it several times, failed to remark that it belonged in New York City or Chicago, not Bangkok.
Hiding in plain sight.
“1-9-5-8,” said Raúl.
Simon understood at once. The final year of the revolution. December 31st. Batista out. Castro in. He entered the booth, Raúl holding the door, picked up the phone, and dialed the four digits. The opposite wall slid to one side.
One step and he was transported to Cuba back in the day. It was a high-ceilinged space, with an endless wooden bar, a mirror behind it, “El Floridita” painted in festive script—Hemingway’s spot—rows of spirits, glasses on shelves. Wicker fans turned slowly overhead. A guitar quartet played from a balcony. “Desafinado.” Couples danced.
The host was Brazilian, wearing a guayabera shirt. Simon explained that he was a friend of Mr. De Bourbon and that he’d come to collect something from his locker. He showed the key and asked him to call Delphine if he had any questions.
The host—a hard man beneath his Latin charm—appraised Simon. “The lockers are upstairs. To the right. I’m pleased to offer you a drink on the house.”
“Another time,” said Simon, then climbed a winding flight of stairs to the second floor. Darker here, leather armchairs grouped around low tables. Men, women too, smoking cigars, spirits glimmering in crystal highball glasses.
The members’ lockers were tucked away in a dimly lit alcove, names engraved on gold plates. He found Rafa’s in short order. The key fit. Three bottles inside. Rum, cognac, and marc—peasants’ brandy. Simon ran a hand over the surfaces, then along the walls. Nothing. He examined each bottle against the amber light, saw nothing floating inside. One by one, he unscrewed the caps, checked. A flash drive, smaller than any Simon had seen, was hidden inside the bottle of marc. He used his thumbnail to free it. The size of a stamp and wrapped in plastic.
What, he wondered, had Rafa stolen that had placed his life in jeopardy and already cost another man his?
Simon slipped the drive into his pocket. It wasn’t just a question of delivering it to Tan. He needed to find out its contents. He was no longer an innocent bystander but an involved party. Did Malloy deserve justice any less because Simon hadn’t known him? He remembered Tan’s withering glare, the promise to balance the scales of a punishment yet to come. Simon was in this, too, now.
But he wasn’t the only one Rafa had drawn in.
Standing there in the alcove, smoke curling beneath the ceiling, Simon thought about the journalist Rafa had contacted. London Li. He knew her name, every banker did. An investigative reporter whose stories appeared in theFinancial Times. Not someone you would want writing about you.
He would have to contact her.And say what?A warning, that was all.“Be careful.” “Watch your back.”And what about Malloy? Should he mention him? He decided against it. Up to her to find out. She’d been given PetroSaud’s name. It was all there.
Still, he was worried that to a reporter of her caliber the warning might have the opposite effect: A tap to the flanks. A goad instead of a caveat. Maybe. Maybe not. That part was beyond him.
He closed the locker and returned downstairs.
“Is there another way out?” he asked, palming the host a thousand baht.
Grease,Iron Ben had said,makes the wheels go round.
The host led him through the kitchen. A door to the back alley stood ajar. Simon dodged the staff and stepped outside. A rat scurried past, followed by several more. A few feet away, a raccoon stood on its hind legs, rooting in a garbage can. A dishwasher crouched on his haunches beside it, smoking. He gazed at Simon, blew out a cloud of smoke, then looked away.
Simon made his way back to Charoen Krung Road. His hotel lay a few miles east, toward the center of town. He had his phone, his wallet, his passport, everything he needed. He felt the small drive in his pocket. Almost everything.
He paused at a street corner, weighing his options. His absence would have been reported hours ago. He was officially MIA. He imagined Tan’s outburst upon learning that his men had lost him and smiled.Good,he thought. He wanted Tan on edge, playing off his back foot. Simon’s ability to move freely was an advantage, maybe his only one. Returning to the hotel was out of the question. His room there was nothing more than a gilded tiger trap.
He walked toward the river and came upon a bustling night market, row upon row of stalls selling clothing, shoes, toys, and copy watches beneath a patchwork tin roof, and at the far back corner, electronics. He showed a vendor the flash drive and his phone. The vendor wrinkled his nose, then rooted beneath his stall. A cry of victory. He stood, handing Simon an iOS–flash drive adapter. One end plugged into his phone, the other docked with the flash drive.
“Two thousand baht.”
