With a bow and ribbon on top,added Simon,and a commendation to your firm for a job well done.“Say, Adamson, you don’t have a man following me?”
“We don’t do that kind of thing, Riske.”
“Sure you do,” said Simon. “It’s important. I need to know.”
“No. We most certainly do not.”
Simon believed him.
That was three hours ago.
From his vantage point, Simon had a clear view of the ornate black iron gates guarding the embassy entrance. Situated on several acres of open land, the embassy was an oasis amidst a concrete desert. Simon had walked past twice earlier. He’d glimpsed a rolling lawn, a tennis court, and a small lake. Set back at the end of a curving drive was a large colonial-style building with a broad veranda and two wings flanking a central residence. It was hard to see much through the fence surrounding the property.
International law declared the embassy to be Spanish territory. Setting foot on the grounds was no different from visiting Barcelona or Madrid. Once inside the gates, he was subject to the laws of Spain. That simple. But Simon knew he’d do well to keep in mind Dickie Blackmon’s words: laws in Thailand were written in pencil, not ink. Five’ll get you ten Colonel Albert Tan kept a Pink Pearl eraser on his belt right next to his pistol.
A check of the time. Eleven fifty-eight.
Simon clutched the flash drive in his pocket. He only hoped it wasn’t too late, that unseen forces hadn’t also come into possession of Rafa’s purloined booty. Either way, he had no choice but to go ahead.
Eleven fifty-nine.
Time to motor.
“Here he is. The man of the hour.”
Colonel Albert Tan stood in the center of the Spanish ambassador’s office, resplendent in his khaki uniform, ribbons in the finest order, aviator sunglasses hanging from his breast pocket.
Simon crossed the room and shook Tan’s hand, wishing him a good morning…or was it good afternoon? The Spanish ambassador, Felipe López-Calderón, stepped forward to introduce himself and the tall, handsome man at his side, Captain Llado, his naval attaché. Colonel Tan didn’t bother introducing the three uniformed men standing behind him, hands clasped behind their backs at parade rest. Simon didn’t count Rafa as present.
The office was a sprawling, high-ceilinged room, dominated on one side by a heavy wooden desk flanked by the Spanish and Thai flags. A picture window behind it looked onto a manicured lawn. And on the other side of the room, a seating area fit for the king himself. In between were miles of gold carpeting.
“We are happy to be of assistance to Señor De Bourbon and our friends with the Thai government,” said López-Calderón, a trim, distinguished man of sixty with a salt-and-pepper goatee.
“I told you to be here early,” said George Adamson, through gritted teeth, as he shook Simon’s hand.
“What, no hello or thank you?” said Simon.
“Don’t press your luck,” whispered Adamson. “Tan’s in a foul mood. He’s out for bear.”
Simon returned his attention to the Thai military officer. “And Mr. De Bourbon?”
“On his way,” said Tan. “First, may I ask if you have what we requested?”
“I do.”
“So you weren’t out all night sampling our fine city’s nightlife? You had me wondering.” Tan laughed, offering a few words in Thai to his associates, who smiled dutifully.
Helen Mirren translated the words no less dutifully. “A fan of ladyboys, no doubt.”
Simon responded politely. “Maybe you and I can go out together. After all is said and done. Do you like Italian, or…no, I think you prefer Greek. Am I right?”
The smile left Tan’s face. He extended a hand, palm up. “If you please.”
Simon took the flash drive from his pocket and made to hand it to Tan, stopping at the last moment. He met Tan’s eye. “Where is my friend?”
Tan muttered a command. One of his officers spoke into his phone. A door at the side of the room opened. Warden Charlie entered, Rafa beside him, dressed in his prison attire, unwashed and unkempt, hands cuffed.
“Release him,” said Simon, “now.”
