Beloved Enemy (12 page)

“Gotcha,” Deckard said, breaking the connection.

Nona waited until the photo and what intel Deckard had on Connaston arrived in her electronic mailbox, then immediately forwarded it to Jack. Then she slid her iPad under the driver’s seat, got out, and picked her way through the heaving throng to where Commissioner Dye stood, waiting implacably for her.

*   *   *

Armed with the photo Nona had sent to his Samsung, Jack visited the six massage parlors. It took him an hour to discover that no one would admit to knowing, or even having seen, Connaston. He didn’t necessarily believe them, but there was little he could do, beyond the offer of American dollars, to get them to change their minds.

He was half a block away from the sixth establishment, the Unlimited Happy Spa, a two-floor business like all the rest, where legitimate massages were performed on street level, while upstairs entirely different services were performed in cramped, airless cubicles, stinking of sweat and bleach, when he heard his name being called.

Pausing, he turned to see one of the younger girls, not more than a wisp, insinuating herself through the throng of pedestrians, sausage grillers, juice vendors, and fresh fruit sellers. Her eyes were big, her expression anxious as she made her way toward him.

“Yes?” Jack said.

A motorcycle taxi, going the wrong way, almost ran her down from behind, but she sidestepped it without a second thought.

“Let’s go inside,” she said, in her high, piping voice. “Please.”

She led him into a music shop, festooned with shiny CD covers and bootleg DVDs of current American films, juddering with terrible Thai techno music.

Under cover of looking through bins of vintage and new vinyl albums, she said, “I am in desperate need of money.”

She was one of the legion of workers who had shaken their head when he had presented Connaston’s photo. Her name was Dao.

“If you help me,” Jack said, “I’ll help you.”

She nodded but said nothing. Her eyes darted about the shop while she worried her lower lip with tiny white teeth. Jack also checked their surroundings, especially the people who had come in after them, but he did not recognize anyone from the massage parlors.

Growing concerned about her obvious skittishness, Jack said, “You know this man Leroy Connaston?”

“No, but I know someone who does.” Her fingers trembled atop the cardboard LP covers as she shuffled them back and forth. “She was on duty the night that man was in. He asks for her especially.”

“So he comes in often?”

“In spurts.” She shrugged. “I don’t think he lives here. There are long months when he isn’t seen. Then Jaidee is very sad, because the English
farang
pays her above the requested rate, and she can put rice on the table every night for her whole family.”

“Did I see Jaidee when I was at Unlimited Happy Spa?”

Dao shook her head. “This is her night off. But I have called her. She has agreed to see you.”

Jack’s pulse quickened. “When?”

“In three hours.” Noting Jack’s expression, Dao added, “She’s got to take her daughter to her mother’s on the other side of the city.”

Jack nodded. She paused long enough for him to understand her underlying motivation. Drawing out some American dollars, he gave her two twenties and a ten. The blood drained from her face so quickly, he thought she was going to pass out, and he grasped her elbow as she staggered against the plywood bins.

“This is so much!”

“It’s all right, Dao,” he said gently. “Tell me now where to meet Jaidee.”

*   *   *

The rider came toward them out of the gloaming, his horse high-stepping through the coarse, unmowed grass. Behind him, the last of the cattle was being herded in from the far grazing fields.

Redbird, comfortable in his Western saddle, said to Dandy, “What is it with Thais and cowboys?”

Dandy, beside him on her black mare, laughed. “Did you ever see
Tears of the Black Tiger
?”

Redbird remembered it: a crazy spaghetti western that had achieved the highest cult status in Thailand.

“Before
Tears
,” Dandy went on, “we had no idea what an American cowboy was. Now we can’t get enough of the experience.”

They were at Shinawatra, a working cattle ranch less than a hundred miles outside Bangkok. This was where Chati had sent them. According to him, one of the ranch hands had information regarding Pyotr Legere and Leroy Connaston.

Rangsan Wattanapanit came up to them. He was tall and thin, his skin very dark. He was dressed in boots, jeans, a red-checked Western shirt with arrow slash pockets, and a Stetson hat. A calico neckerchief was tied at his throat. He watched them, his crossed wrists placed atop the pommel of his saddle.

“Chati sent us,” Dandy said, after the moment of mutual sizing up had taken place.

“He called,” Wattanapanit said in a laconic drawl, as if he’d seen too many Gary Cooper movies. “You want to know about the
farang
who was shot to death.”

“Possibly. I’m more interested in the man he was meeting.”

“Why?”

“Forget why,” Redbird said.

“I don’t forget anything.” Wattanapanit turned his head and spat onto the ground. “Least of all why one
farang
is looking for another
farang
.”

Redbird felt the adrenaline surge through him, fueling the muscles of his arms and legs. Then he felt Dandy’s long, slim hand slide over the back of his right hand, and he smiled. He could take this arrogant Thai cowboy out within three seconds, but Dandy’s hand signal was right on the money: What would be the point? Besides, while in Bangkok it was best to be guided by her unerring instincts.

“So.” Wattanapanit’s horse snorted, pawing the ground as if it was impatient to be off. He patted its neck affectionately. “I would think,
farang
, that you would be more interested in Connaston than Legere.”

Redbird’s eyes narrowed, studying the cowboy hard, to make certain he wasn’t being made the butt of some obscure Thai joke. “And why would that be?”

Wattanapanit looked smug. “I have heard—and very lately—that another
farang
is asking questions about Connaston.”

“Another foreigner?” Redbird was nonplused. “Do you have a name?”

The cowboy shifted in his saddle. “He goes by the name of Edward Griffiths—at least that’s what he told the staff at Unlimited Happy Spa.”

“Let me get this straight,” Redbird said. “Griffiths was asking about Connaston at a massage parlor?”

“He seemed already to know that the
farang
Connaston frequented one of the parlors off Phaholyothin Road.”

Redbird wondered not only who Edward Griffiths was but why he was interested in Connaston and whether his interest had anything to do with Pyotr Legere. The connection seemed a foregone conclusion. He wondered if Edward Griffiths might in fact be Jack McClure.

“Okay, but Chati said you had information about Legere. Is that true?”

“Oh, yes.” Wattanapanit nodded. “Legere is a terrorist.”

Redbird steadied his horse beneath him. “And you know this how?”

The cowboy raised a forefinger. “Now, now, what good would I be if I divulged my sources? No one would ever trust me again.”

Redbird saw Dandy shake her head minutely. She knew him much too well. Briefly, he wondered whether there would come a time when that intimate knowledge would become a liability he could no longer afford.

They were alone in the fields. It was almost dark now. In the distance, bonfires were being lit, but all the guests had gone in to change for dinner.

“Then what can you tell me?” Redbird said at last, carefully keeping the exasperation out of his voice.

“Legere’s legitimate business is a front,” the cowboy said, “but it’s useful inasmuch as it allows him to transship whatever he’s selling inside his books.”

Redbird gave a skeptical snort. “What the hell could he be selling that could fit inside a book?”

“Microchips.”

Wattanapanit seemed so self-satisfied that Redbird dug his heels into his horse’s flanks, simultaneously moving himself away from Dandy and toward the cowboy. When he was abreast of Wattanapanit, he reined in. They were so close their knees pressed together.

Redbird leaned over, his face close to the cowboy’s, and said softly, “Listen, you little shit, if you continue to fuck around with me, I’ll make sure your asshole swallows your head whole.”

Wattanapanit reared back slightly. “I’m telling you the truth. Legere is a middleman. These microchips are controllers, for the most part, of advanced weapons systems.”

“Whose systems?”

“American, I’m told.”

“Legere is a terrorist, you said.”

“A cyberterrorist,” the cowboy said. All smugness had vanished from both his face and his manner. It was clear that he was taking Redbird’s threat seriously.

“Who is Legere selling these stolen microchips to?”

“The highest bidder, but his favored client—the one he goes to first—is a man known as the Syrian. Have you heard of him?”

Redbird hadn’t, but he wasn’t about to admit his ignorance to the Thai, whose voice box he still felt like crushing between his thumb and fingers. “Legere and the Syrian have a special relationship?”

“That’s right,” the cowboy nodded. “They have for some time.”

“Do you know where Legere is now?”

“He must still be here in Bangkok. If he’d tried to leave I’d know.”

“Are the feds after him?”

“The what?”

“The state police.”

“Special Branch,” Dandy said, urging her mare nearer to the two men.

“For some reason, Special Branch seem particularly interested.”

Redbird grunted in acknowledgment. “So Legere’s gone to ground. Still, someone must know where he is.”

“Well, there might be someone,” Wattanapanit said. “A girl from the Unlimited Happy Spa named Jaidee. She used to service the
farang
Connaston.”

“Do you know where can I find this Jaidee?”

“I always know where to find her,” the cowboy said, pulling out his mobile. “Jaidee’s my sister.”

*   *   *

By the time Annika returned to the waiting car, she was sure that the Syrian hadn’t stayed put. For one thing, there was the same blue-gray gravel dust on his boots that were on hers. For another, she had received a text from Dr. Karalian asking her if she knew someone named Mr. Cardozian, who had just visited him, claiming to be her friend.

She smiled at the Syrian as she ducked into the backseat, leaning over to kiss him.

“Miss me?” she whispered.

“Always.”

Then he leaned forward slightly, breaking the closeness between them. “Take us home,” he ordered Fareed, who doubled as his bodyguard and driver.

She closed her eyes against the abyss of the present, a black pit she had been trying to fill ever since her father had ripped her from her mother’s arms, ever since her mother had died, alone, of a broken heart. She realized with an internal lurch that this was precisely how she imagined she would die: alone, of a broken heart. More often now she seemed to experience the world through a sheet of glass—seeing but not feeling. An iceberg encased her heart. And when she and Iraj made love, she found herself far away, on a bleak shore, walking into mist that blotted out all sensation as well as all memory.

The Syrian sat back, stared out the window as they left the Altindere valley. “How did Dr. Karalian take the news of your grandfather’s death?”

“Not well.” Annika cut a glance in his direction.

“Curious that I never heard of Karalian,” Iraj Namazi said in an offhanded tone.

Annika tensed, knowing his question was anything but offhanded. “My grandfather had many friends—people in his life you never heard of.”

“Apparently so.” Namazi shrugged. “It’s just that this place—” he gestured vaguely at the Assumption of Mary Clinic, fast disappearing behind them “—is so out of the way.” He paused, as if considering his next words. “It seems odd.”

“What does?”

Namazi turned his head, his eyes fixed on hers. “Tell me, how did your grandfather meet Dr. Karalian?”

“I have no idea,” Annika said, not missing a beat. “But I imagine it was through their mutual love of chess.”

He nodded absently. “It’s time we got back to business.”

“My grandfather’s business, you mean.”

He stared at her, his eyes like glowing coals. “One of these days,” he said, “you must explain to me what you mean.”

“I can explain it right now.” Having regained control of the conversation, Annika settled herself more comfortably beside him. “My grandfather parceled out information in discrete bits. No one person ever got more than a single piece of the puzzle.”

“The puzzle.”

“His legacy, Iraj. That would lead to the endgame.”

“I know a piece of it,” he said.

“And so do I.” Annika monitored his face, ready to analyze the minutest change. “But between us, we only have one half of the design.”

“Half should be enough—”

“But it isn’t, Iraj. Do you know where he hid the legacy?” She lit a cigarette with a small gold lighter. On the exhale, she said, “I don’t.”

The Syrian pursed his lips. “He told you what his legacy was?”

“Again?”

“Again.”

She closed her eyes for a moment. It was like dealing with a child who, night after night, refused to go to sleep without hearing his favorite story. “Money. I imagine quite a lot of it,” she said after taking time to calm herself.

“But that’s not all,” Iraj said. “Not the best of it.” His greedy eyes were alight.

“The best of it,” she said, “are dossiers on various sins and misdeeds of the top people in business, finance, military, and government across the globe.”

“Influence,” Iraj said, getting as worked up as if she had set her mouth on him. “An endless supply of influence, to get us what we want.”

“My grandfather’s legacy. Hidden somewhere.”

“Do you know the names of the other two people,
chérie
?” When he smiled, his teeth looked like the blades of a guillotine. “Because if you don’t, you’re of little use to me.”