The Fear Artist

and a big shirt he can wear outside the trousers to hide the gun.

He takes the hair dryer to the bag again, getting it mostly dry before it starts to go toxic, then waves the dryer around inside his shoes, getting them warm and wet instead of cold and wet. In the interest of readiness, he puts on the clothes for tomorrow, stashes the gun inside his belt, and practices getting at it until he can clear the shirt most of the time, until his hip has memorized the gun’s position and his index finger has memorized the location of the trigger guard.

He takes the clothes off again and lays them on the armchair, along with the dry socks and the gun and the bullets and the fake-leather bag and the hotel’s umbrella, which he removes from the closet. He makes a semifinal pass through the room to double-check that he’s got everything, because they won’t be coming back the following night. Recognizes that most of what he’s doing is just nervousness finding an outlet and leans against the wall.

All I wanted to do, he thinks, was paint my apartment.

By now, or at the latest by tomorrow morning, Anna will have gotten word to Shen, who either does or doesn’t already know about the arrangement at the shopping mall, depending on whether Murphy saw fit to share it. It’s academic one way or the other, since Rafferty will be on the other side of Bangkok while they wait for him at the mall, but it will still be interesting to see whether the opposing team is intact.

In any case, there’s nothing he can do about it now. There’s really nothing he can do about anything now, except worry about Ming Li. Which, of course, is exactly what she told him not to do.

So he worries about Ming Li until a little after four, when he finally falls asleep.

30

I’m Not Actually One of Them

“This gun is a pig,” Ming Li says, pointing it through the glass of the passenger window. “Did you ever use a steak knife that’s got all the weight in the handle, and every time you lay it on your plate, it falls off?”

“No.” He works his way into the turn lane.

“Oh, you did so.”

“And this gun is like that, is it?”

“Yes.”

“Compared to what?”

She glances at him quickly. “To a good gun.”

“What make? What caliber?”

“A Burpmeister,” she says through her teeth. “Thirty-three-and-a-third caliber.”

“Boy, that was a gun,” he says. “How many guns have you actually fired?”

At first he thinks she won’t answer, but then she says, “Three. No, four. All three-finger specials. But I promise you, they balanced differently than this one.”

“Ever shoot one at somebody?”

“Trees,” she says. “A few bottles. But I’ll tell you something, and you can believe it or not. There are people for whom there’s a big difference between firing at a tree and firing at a person. And I’m not actually one of them.”

He makes the turn. The day is drawing to a dark, wet close, and the street has three or four inches of water in it. “Unless the person is firing back at you.”

“That’s a different issue,” she says. “That’s not getting killed. Killing is different. I’m already good at not getting killed, and I don’t believe I need practice at killing. A person is a target, same as a tree, only it moves faster.”

“Let’s hope we don’t have to find out whether that’s true.”

“You’re such a sexist,” she says. “There was a time in your life when you hadn’t killed anybody, right?”

“Obviously.”

“And then, all of a sudden, you had to, and you … you what?”

“I killed her,” he says, although he still doesn’t like to think about it.

“And you don’t think I can do the same? Why?”

“It’s not that I don’t think you can,” he says. “I just hope you won’t have to.”

“You are so lying,” she says, and the phone in Rafferty’s shirt pocket rings.

“Thai kid is waiting,” Vladimir says. “Where you are now?”

A flock of black birds breaks from the trees in front of them and swoops over the car, so low it looks as if the windshield wipers will bat one aside. “Almost there. Let the kid wait, he’s getting paid. Where is he?”

“With me. I should be in backseat. With you and Baby Spy.”

“Stay where you are. Keep the kid with you. We’re not doing anything until we hear from Janos.”

“I should be there, too,” Vladimir says. “With Janos. I should be ewerywhere.”

“You’re where I want you. Just stay there. I’ll call you if you have to move.” The phone beeps to signal an incoming call. “Stay off the phone,” Rafferty says, punching the button to bring up the new call.

“This is interesting,” Janos says.

“Please,” Rafferty says, “don’t make me ask questions.”

“I’m up on the fifth level of the mall with a cup of coffee, looking down at the business center.”

“And?”

“And maybe five minutes ago, two men showed up. About the same height and weight, short hair, big black shoes, looked like they’d be happier in uniform. So they walked together, all the way around the fourth level three times, looking in every window except the business center. They’re starting another circuit now.”

Rafferty says, “What time is it?” and both Janos and Ming Li tell him it’s six-fifteen.

“And there are three more down on the first level,” Janos says. “They wander around alone and then regroup every few minutes.”

“No Shen,” Rafferty says.

“Not yet, but these are his men.”

“No one else?”

Ming Li makes an anxious popping sound with her lips.

“No. But these guys look nervous. I’d bet money the brass is coming.”

“The moment you see Murphy,” Rafferty says, “you call me. No waiting to see what happens or what he does. ‘Murphy’s here’ will be considered a complete report, are we clear?”

“Sure.”

“I want your finger on that SEND button from now on. We need to be talking within ten seconds of your laying eyes on Murphy.”

“And Shen?”

“Take your time. Twenty seconds will be fine.”

Ming Li says, “Here’s the turn.”

They’re two blocks away from Murphy’s compound, parked under the drooping, water-heavy branches of a tree. Big, rambling houses line the street on either side, most of them behind walls, and a barrier of sandbags, about eight bags high, has been laid out along the perimeter of the road’s south side, where the lots slope gently downhill from the pavement. The most direct route from Murphy’s house to the main boulevard is behind them, so he won’t spot them driving out, although Rafferty is sure it doesn’t matter. He’s certain that Murphy’s already left.

“Two maids, two wives, and the little girl,” he says again. “One of the wives is apparently almost never home, and the other one is some kind of invalid, spends most of her time in bed. From what the maid told Vladimir’s