social equivalent of death. What do you do when you’re desperate? You chase the only lead you have. The Thailand note, as thin as it is, is probably the only thread they have left that, in their minds at least, would seem to lead to Liquida.”
“Yeah, but it doesn’t,” said Britain. “They’re chasing a rainbow.”
“Well, fine, then at least they won’t get hurt,” said Thorpe. “You have to remember they don’t have access to our intelligence reports.”
“Thank God for little favors,” said Britain. “I understand everything you’re saying. I feel sorry for them. But they’re better off staying here where they’re safe. I wish they would just let us do our job. Let us find Liquida. It’s what we do.”
“They probably would,” said Thorpe, “if they had some idea how long it was going to take. But they don’t, and we can’t tell them because we don’t know. Do me a favor; check and see if our agents in Bangkok got a look inside that office.”
“Will do,” said Britain. “In the meantime, let’s hope to hell nothing happens to Madriani or his friends. We may have a lot of explaining to do if Liquida kills one of them.”
Britain was right. With the high profile that Liquida had assumed since the meeting at the White House, the theory that he might be involved, it would look very bad if the bureau were seen as trying to lure him out using three American civilians as bait.
“Make sure your agents stay on top of them when on the ground in Bangkok,” said Thorpe. “Whatever you do, DON’T lose them!”
“Understood.” Britain left the office, closing the door behind him.
Thorpe sat at his desk, the fingers of both hands teepeed under his chin as he considered the consequences of what he had done. That Liquida was stalking Madriani and his clan out of some psychotic soul-searing thirst for vengeance was clear. What was problematic for Thorpe was the fact that he had let Madriani and the others go, knowing that they were headed for Pattaya in Thailand.
What Britain saw as a long shot, Thorpe saw as a fertile fishing ground. Pattaya was a city with a reputation as a fugitive’s Mecca. Like Port Royal during the age of piracy, it was one of those places that offered instant camaraderie, often without any questions. Split-second friendships were formed over a bottle of local Thai-brewed beer and the assumption that if you were bold enough to be there, then you belonged.
The unnumbered constellation of outdoor bars and the neon confusion of Pattaya’s nightlife presented a kind of analgesic refuge for anyone on the run, whether it be from the law, life, or a nagging wife. All poisons were treated with the same remedy, and it almost always came out of the long neck of a bottle. It was precisely the kind of place where Liquida could go and feel completely at ease. The kind of community where you could relax on the beach and recover from a wicked and obvious knife wound, and no one would notice, and if they did they would never ask questions. Old bullet wounds and knife scars were so plentiful in the shirtless atmosphere of Pattaya that most people never even bothered to look.
Thorpe visited Pattaya for the first time as a young man, during Vietnam when he was in the Marine Corps. Then it was an R amp;R center, rest and recuperation from the stresses of combat. Since then the city had grown up, with high-rise thirty-story condos, glitzy restaurants, and a shopping mall that was first world. But still the city had a reputation to defend, and “wild” was its name.
If things went wrong, anyone examining Thorpe’s conduct later might easily conclude that he had been trolling for Liquida in the waters of Pattaya, and that he had used Madriani and his friends as bait.
But Thorpe had begun to realize that there was another dimension to this equation. He had observed Madriani and his movements now for more than a year, particularly as they pertained to Liquida. Madriani and Liquida seemed to be caught in a death spiral. Ever since the murder of Jenny, Sarah Madriani’s friend, the lawyer seemed to operate under the influence of some invisible force, at least as far as Liquida was concerned. Not unlike gravity, it seemed always to place Madriani in the orbit of the psychotic Mexican. This was true even at times when Liquida wasn’t stalking him. In fact, a casual observer might have viewed it as the other way around. At times it seemed as if Madriani could pick up Liquida’s scent half a world away, and home in.
If Madriani thought Liquida was in Thailand or that there might be information there that could lead to finding him, who was Thorpe to question one of the invisible forces of nature? The problem was that the lawyer and his friends were becoming increasingly careless. And with Liquida that was a quick path to the grave.
Ever since the Tuesday morning meeting at the White House, Thorpe was himself becoming increasingly anxious. He needed Madriani to sniff out Liquida or the other way around. It didn’t matter to Thorpe, as long as he had enough agents in place to prevent any harm. The critical point was he couldn’t afford to wait. From the little bit they told him, time was of the essence. He had to find Liquida, and he had to find him soon.
Chapter Fourteen
From the air, the international airport in Bangkok looks like a huge copper dragon with hackles of white scales erupting from its back. Up close it is a soaring modern complex of buildings, the fifth largest air terminal in Asia.
The concourses are long, encased in curving walls and arched ceilings. Looking down from the confines of the international arrival gallery, we can see the public areas below. The cavernous halls are festooned with shops and restaurants, and dotted with stunning artwork. There are statues of Vishnu and an entire array of giant-size figures cast in what appears to be porcelain; the entire work is half a football field in length, all painted in striking colors. It seems even more surreal because I am half asleep.
Harry, Joselyn, and I are dying on our feet, exhausted from jet lag. We do the quarter mile to immigration trudging along the hall like zombies auditioning for parts in Night of the Living Dead.
It takes a half hour to clear immigration, gather our bags at customs, and make our way out to the main terminal. There we agree on a division of labor. Harry and Joselyn head off to the window that says “Currency Exchange” to get some local cash while I make arrangements for ground transport.
It takes only a few minutes to hire a car and driver. We follow our bags as they are rolled out of the terminal and into the garage, where the pungent odor of petrol fumes mixes with hot humid air.
Harry and I take off our jackets as the luggage is loaded into the trunk of a low-slung sedan.
“I don’t think we dressed for this.” Harry wipes the perspiration from his brow using the long sleeve of his shirt. “I didn’t even bring any shorts.”
“We’re not going be here that long,” I tell him. “Hopefully we’ll be back in the States before we can adjust to the difference in time.”
“Right now I just want to be here long enough to sleep for a day or two.” Joselyn is looking as if she’s about to drop.
Outside the light is bright. Heat waves ripple the air beyond the confines of the garage. Our driver, a slight, small-boned Asian man wearing a coat and tie, is looking sufficiently cool to make me wonder if this is winter in Thailand. He looks at the paperwork given to him by the girl at the counter inside. He glances up at Harry and me, then says: “We go Pattaya?”
“Right, we go Pattaya,” says Harry. “How long?”
The guy looks at him, scrunches up his mouth a little. “Ninety minute, maybe. You sleep.” He gestures toward the car.
“Do I look that bad?”
“Naw, you’re beautiful,” says Joselyn. “Take the bamboo shoots from under your eyelids and get a few years of sleep and you’ll be fine.”
She and I collapse into the backseat while Harry sprawls in the left-hand passenger seat up front. You might swear the car was filled with laughing gas. As soon as the driver starts the engine and begins to roll, the three of us are asleep. The driver could have dragged me behind the car and I would have slept right through it. The only sensation is some vague awareness of sweeping curves and the rumble of the tires on the road at high speed. At some point I feel a series of rolling rhythmic bumps that jar my body. It feels as if the car is porpoising along the highway. But I’m too tired to wake up and complain about it.
Some time later, I don’t know how long, I become aware of voices. When I open the slits that are my eyes,
