“Five hundred,” said Simon.
“One thousand.”
Simon peeled off a bill.
“Khop khun.”The vendor clasped his hand in prayer and bowed. Smiling, he dropped a garland of flower petals around the neck of a Buddha standing watch on a table behind him. Simon had overpaid.
He continued down the aisle, finding a stand that sold mobile phones. He purchased three burners, the cheapest available, phones he could use once and discard.
He left the market, the river a block ahead, waves brushing against the shore. He turned down a shabby alley. Halfway along, a hand-painted sign hung from a bamboo pole. “The Orchid. Room 300 Baht.” He didn’t think this establishment was listed on TripAdvisor.
Simon ascended a flight of stairs wedged in between two shuttered stalls. There was no door, just a counter on the first-floor landing. Beneath a flickering bulb, the night clerk slept in his chair. Simon cleared his throat. The clerk opened one eye. “Five hundred baht,” he said. Sixteen dollars. Nearly twice the advertised rate. Simon must be getting the presidential suite.
He placed a bill on the counter and received a key in return. “Down there,” said the clerk, motioning vaguely toward an unlit corridor. Simon’s room was the last on the right. The door was unlocked. A torrent of frigid air. Paradise. He turned on the light. A smile of surprise. The room was the size of a jail cell—a single bed, a chair, a sink, and a toilet—but spic-and-span, smelling of lemon floor cleaner and disinfectant. Two towels were folded neatly on the bed along with a mint on the pillow. The Four Seasons take note.
He locked the door and jammed his chair beneath the doorknob. It worked in the movies, right? He washed his face and undressed. Fatigue fell upon him like a hammer. He sat on the edge of the bed, eyes heavy. No sleep. Not yet.
Wearily, he removed the iOS adapter from its packaging. He plugged one end into his phone and attached Rafa’s flash drive to the other. An icon appeared named “PetroSaud Confidential.” A box opened beneath demanding a password.
Simon tried several. Rafa’s birthday, Delphine’s birthday, variations thereof. No joy. He turned the phone off.
He took a burner out of its box and texted Adamson.Mission successful. Set up exchange.
An answer came back immediately.Where the hell are you? Tan furious.
The phone buzzed in his hand. Simon denied the call. Another text followed.Did you get it? Call me. Urgent.
TTYL,Simon texted. He turned off the phone, dug out the SIM card, and with difficulty snapped it in two, before flushing the pieces down the toilet.
He broke out phone number two and texted Delphine.Success. All good. Get out of the country as soon as possible.
He waited a minute or two, but no reply was forthcoming. He had one last call to make. He dialed the country code 44 for England. A crusty voice answered on the fourth ring. “Hello.”
“Harry, it’s me.”
“Evening, lad, or is it morning? Either way, you’re up late.”
He heard a commentator in the background. Soccer. What else? “What game are you watching?”
“A replay of the Gunners’ last. FA Cup this weekend. I’m getting ready.”
“You going?”
“Are you kidding? Tickets are five hundred quid to begin. I can see it better at the pub.”
“How’s Lucy?”
A pause. Harry Mason cleared his throat.
“Harry?”
“There was some kind of setback. A neuro-something-er-ather…Sorry, lad, don’t know what it’s called. The doctor said there was some bleeding on the brain. But she said they’d caught it early and that I shouldn’t worry.”
“Did the doctor say anything else?”
“Only that she’s resting comfortably.”
Simon rubbed a hand across his forehead. “Poor kid.”
