Rafa fought to free his arm, only drawing Tan closer. “Get off of me. Let me go.”
“You will obey!” shouted Tan, in a state of unchecked fury.
Rafa threw an elbow, catching Tan on the chin, enraging him further.
Tan’s hand dropped to his holster, drawing his pistol. Rafa’s hand followed it. The men wrestled for control of the handgun.
Simon untangled himself from the ambassador. “Don’t! Rafa!”
Too late. Rafa was the larger man by a head and fighting as if for his life. He fell back a step, the pistol in his hand—a SIG nine millimeter—aimed at Tan’s chest.
“Put it down,” said Simon, approaching his friend, fighting to be heard over Tan’s fevered commands, the protests of his adjutants, Adamson urging everyone to “calm down,” the ambassador crying,“Por favor, por favor.”
“Rafa, listen to me.”
Rafa looked at him, then at Tan. “They can’t take me. It isn’t right.”
A gunshot rang out. Unimaginably loud. Another. Simon ducked, dropped to a knee, ears ringing.
Tan lay on the carpet. He tried to stand, then collapsed, mouth open.
“I didn’t shoot,” said Rafa, a plea, eyes wide. “I didn’t.”
Close upon his words, Rafa’s head buckled, a spray of pink—blood, brain, and bone—blinded Simon. Rafa pitched forward, a large portion of his cranium missing, dead on his feet. Simon staggered beneath his friend’s weight.
Across the room, Tan’s adjutants scrambled for cover. None carried a sidearm. The ambassador dropped to the carpet, hands covering his head. Adamson crouched near the desk, unprotected.
Simon wiped the gore from his eyes. There, at a side entrance to the office, stood a man in dark clothing, heavy around the neck and shoulders, blond hair. It was him. The man in the white Nissan. The man in Simon’s dreams. Simon met his eyes as the man spun and pointed a heavy caliber pistol at him. Another shot. The bullet striking Rafa in the back, meant to go all the way through, forcing Simon to retreat a step.
To his left, the naval attaché, Llado, had pulled a compact pistol from his blazer. He hesitated, looking directly at the blond man, unsure what to do, then finally shot at him, missed. Then return fire. Two shots. Llado dropped like a man from the gallows.
Simon let Rafa fall to the floor, crouched, and snapped up Tan’s pistol, pulled the trigger, nothing, the safety still on, thumbed it off, fired again, the bullets going wide, splintering the lintel, his ears ringing. A hornet whizzed past his ear. Close. Simon fired again. The blond man retreated from view. Simon freed the flash drive from Tan’s hand, pistol raised, fired again, and ran for the double doors. A vase exploded behind him.
He was clear, running down the corridor, rounded a corner. More gunshots, but different caliber. Embassy guards? A scream. Then automatic weapons. An Uzi, crackling like fireworks. The exchange of fire went on. A cacophony.
Simon threw open the first door he came to. A Thai woman huddled beside her desk, hand covering her mouth. She stared at Simon, at the blood painting his face, and screamed. “It’s not me,” said Simon, out of breath, not knowing how to explain. “Someone else. Call the police.”
The woman had a phone in her other hand. She nodded, indicating she’d already done so. But this was Bangkok with Bangkok traffic. Midday. It could take them ten minutes or an hour. He was on his own.
“You…you are all right?” she asked.
Simon caught a glimpse of himself in the glass of a frame. A horror show. He wiped his face with the tail of his shirt, saying that he was fine, then spat something hard from his mouth, not caring to consider what it might be. He dropped the magazine and counted three bullets remaining. His hand was shaking. He replaced the magazine, slamming it home with his palm, chambering a round. Better now. “Get under the desk. You’ll be safe there.”
An internal alarm sounded. A buzzer. One second on. One second off. Earsplitting. A message in Spanish. “Attention. This is an emergency. Take cover in your office.”
He left the room, a fast jog down the hall, came to the entry, a two-story gallery, paintings on the walls, a wide staircase at its center rising to an exposed walkway.
“Sir, stop! Drop your weapon!” A plainclothes security man stood by the front doors, pistol gripped by both hands, pointed at Simon.
Simon raised his hands. “I’m not the shooter. He’s behind me somewhere.”
“Put down your weapon. Now!”
Simon bent to place his pistol on the ground.
Two shots. The guard slammed against the door and slid to the floor.
Simon threw himself against the wall as a shot struck inches from his head, shards of wood and plaster peppering his face, splinters lodging in his cheek. He dropped to the floor, peered out, saw the blond man across the gallery, fired a shot, the man ducking for cover in a hallway.
