a creature of habit; he stays at the Water Hotel. I know you like the Mandarin, but it is miles from the Water and against traffic. They suggested the Grand Hyatt Erawan. You can walk to the other hotel from there.”
She knew the Hyatt, or rather she knew Spasso, the hotel’s nightclub — one of the classiest pick-up joints in Bangkok.
Ava opened the file. There was a photo of Antonelli clipped to a page of data. He was short, fat, and bald and had a black mole on his right cheek. “Not pretty, is he?” she said.
In the photo he was standing next to a gorgeous Thai girl. “It is Thailand. He does not have to be,” Uncle said.
She scanned the documentation. “He’s American, Atlanta-born and — raised, and evidently still married. He has three sons in their teens. The family lives in Georgia. He wires money to them every month and seems to visit three or four times a year.”
“He and Seto have been in business together for close to ten years,” Uncle said.
“And in trouble before.”
“It seems to come around every two years.”
“And they get away with it.”
“So far, but then the people they scammed before were mainly Indian and Indonesian. Some of them tried to get their money back, but it is almost impossible to do it legally when so many jurisdictions are involved.”
“How much money?”
He shook his head. “They started small and worked their way up. Andrew Tam is the biggest by far.”
She closed the file. She would read the rest on the plane.
“You’ll be met at the airport.”
“I’d rather take a taxi,” she said.
He knew she preferred working alone unless she needed a specific kind of help. “I made the arrangements,” he said.
“Cancel them, please. I still have to figure out how I’m going to handle things, and I don’t want the pressure of worrying about someone waiting around for me. Just give me a name and contact information. I’ll call when I’m ready.”
“They have the logistical material you requested.”
“I’ll call if I need it. Hopefully I won’t.”
(9)
It was a two-and-a-half-hour flight from Hong Kong to Bangkok. Ava slept for most of it. She had been to Thailand at least six times and it was by far her favourite place to crash. Whether she stayed in Bangkok, Phuket, Ko Sumoi, or Chang Mai, Thailand was always an oasis.
This was, however, her first time at the new airport, Suvarnabhumi. The old airport had always been the worst part of the trip, coming or going. Huge lineups at Immigration, slow baggage claim, waits of maybe half an hour for a taxi, and if it was raining you could be there for hours. Then a ride into the city that sapped whatever energy you had left.
So it was a bit of a shock for Ava when she breezed through the new complex. Like HKIA, Suvarnabhumi had been built and staffed to get you into the country as fast as possible. When she walked into the Arrivals hall, she almost ran straight into a sign that read uncle chow. She nodded at the young man holding it.
“ Sa wat dee ka,” he said. He wore blue jeans and a black T-shirt that showed off his muscular frame. He was about five foot nine, and his hair was so close-cropped that the stubble on his chin was almost as long. He looked tired, his eyes tinged with red and swollen underneath, making them appear smaller than those of most Thais. Still, he gave her a quick and easy smile. Despite his casual dress, Ava knew he was a cop.
“I’m Ava,” she said. “But I told Uncle that I was going to take a cab.”
“Arthon, and I never got that message.” He reached for her bags.
“No, I’ll handle it,” she said.
“Do you want the ride?”
“Why not?”
He led her outside the terminal. His car was parked in a zone clearly marked NO STOPPING / NO PARKING. On the dash was an official-looking sign with a logo and the words dtam-ruat — she knew that meant “Police.” Just behind the car, a man in uniform was putting a Denver boot on a silver Lexus. He and Arthon exchanged waves.
He seemed hesitant about which door to open. She went to the front passenger side and tossed her bag in the back. “What a difference from the old airport,” she said.
“It wasn’t so much fun when it opened. There were many birthing problems,” he said. Ava noticed a slight British inflection in his speech.
“You went to school in the U.K.?” she asked.
“Four years at Liverpool U.”
This is not your average cop, she thought. To go to university overseas meant at the very least that he came from money. He’s probably Chinese Thai, she thought. None of Uncle’s friends with whom she had worked didn’t have Chinese roots.
“Are you by any chance Chinese?” Ava asked.
“I’m Chaozhou.”
“Do you still speak Chinese?”
“No, we’re assimilated. Fourth generation now.”
Arthon pulled the car out of the airport almost directly onto an expressway. They sped into Bangkok, but then traffic slowed when they got into the city. It was always bad in the city. Seven-days-a-week bad. Twenty-four- hours-a-day bad. This despite an extensive infrastructure of expressways, sky trains, and subways.
Arthon was quiet, his eyes on the road. The only sound was a Neil Diamond CD playing on the car stereo. She was the first to speak. “What have they told you about me?” she asked.
“All I was told was to give you whatever help you needed,” Arthon said. “I read the file on your man Antonelli. He’s a bit of a pig.”
“He sure looks like one.”
“The file says he lives at the Water Hotel. You can walk there from the Hyatt Erawan. The Hyatt is on Rajdamri Road. When you come out the front door, turn right and walk about a kilometre past CentralWorld to Petchburi and go left there. The Water Hotel is only a couple of hundred metres from the intersection.”
“I think I’ve been there,” she said. “Is there a large market on the corner?”
“About four thousand booths selling every knockoff known to man. We raid it every month. Of course, we give them twenty-four hours’ notice before we do.”
“And another market where you can buy bootleg DVDs and all kinds of computer software?”
“That’s the Pantip Plaza, further down Petchburi.”
“Okay, I know the area. Now, does Antonelli have a routine?”
“According to our sources, on weekdays he comes down to the lobby lounge around 7:30 a.m.; has coffee and a biscuit, sometimes toast; works on his laptop; sometimes has a meeting. His driver and car show up around 8:30 a.m. He goes to Mahachai — that’s northwest of Bangkok, about sixty kilometres. He has an office in a seafood plant there. He works there till three or four and then heads back to Bangkok to beat the traffic. He’ll get back to the hotel by five, just in time for happy hour in Barry Bean’s Bar, which is one level below the lobby. He’ll drink margaritas until seven and then eat in the Italian restaurant upstairs.”
“So I can count on meeting him in the lobby?”
“That’s what we’re told. He’s there every morning.”
“You said that he’s a pig. What exactly did you mean?”
“So you haven’t read the file?”
“Not yet.”
He looked sideways at her as if trying to gauge her appetite for steaminess. “A short, fat, ugly American
