“This is it,” Ash said.
Outside, in the alleyway, the man who had followed them all the way from the hotel made a note of the building. Then he took out a cell phone and dialed a number.
At the same time, he walked quietly away, and by the time he had been connected, he had disappeared into the crowd.
8
F I R S T C O N T A C T
“ S U P P O S E T H E Y D O N ’ T come . . . ,” Alex said.
“They’ll come.”
“How much longer do you think we’re going to have to wait?”
They had been living in Chinatown for three days, and Alex was feeling hot, frustrated . . . and bored. Ash wouldn’t let him have a newspaper or a book in English.
There was always the chance that he might be caught reading it by someone entering the room. Nor was he able to see very much of Bangkok. There was no way of knowing when the snakehead might show up, and they couldn’t risk being out.
But Alex had been allowed to spend a couple of hours each morning wandering on his own through the streets.
It amused him that nobody treated him like a tourist—
indeed, tourists stepped aside to avoid him. Mrs. Webber had done her job well. He looked like a street urchin from somewhere far away, and after more than sixty hours without a shower or a bath, without even changing his clothes, he imagined he could be smelled long before he could be seen.
Slowly he managed to come to grips with the city, the way the shops and the houses, the sidewalks and the
streets all tumbled into one another, the clammy heat, the never-ending noise and movement. There seemed to be a surprise around every corner. A cripple with withered legs, scuttling past on his hands like a giant spider. A temple sprouting out of nowhere like an exotic flower. Bald monks in their bright orange robes, moving in a crowd.
He also learned a little more about Ash.
Ash slept badly. He had given Alex the bed and taken the mattress for himself, but sometimes in the night he would begin muttering and then jerk awake. Then he would clasp his hand to his stomach and Alex knew that he was remembering the time he had been stabbed and that it was hurting him even now.
“Why did you become a spy?” Alex asked one morning.
“It seemed like a good idea at the time,” Ash growled.
He hated being asked questions and seldom gave straightforward answers. But that morning he was in a better mood. “I was approached while I was in the army.”
“By Alan Blunt?”
“No. He was there when I joined—but he wasn’t in the top spot. I was recruited the year after your dad. I’ll tell you why he joined, if you like.”
“Why?”
“He was a patriot.” Ash grimaced. “He really thought he had a duty to serve his queen and country.”
“Don’t you?”
“I did . . . once.”
102
S N A K E H E A D
“So what happened? What made you change your mind?”
“It was a long time ago.” Ash had a way of cutting off a conversation if he didn’t want to say more. Alex had come to learn that when that happened, there was no point in trying to go on. Ash could wrap silence around him like a coat. It was infuriating, but Alex knew he would just have to wait. Ash would talk in his own time.
And then, on the fourth day, the snakehead came.
Alex had just gotten back with food from the local market when he heard the stamp of feet on the concrete steps. Ash threw him a look of warning and swung himself off the bed just as the door crashed open and one of the ugliest men Alex had ever seen walked into the room.
He was short, even for a Thai, wearing a suit that looked as if it had shrunk in the wash to fit him. He was bald and unshaven, so that both the top and bottom of his head were covered in a thin black stubble. On the other hand, he didn’t seem to have any eyebrows—as if his skin were too thick and pockmarked to grow through. His mouth was impossibly wide, like an open wound, with as many gaps as teeth. Worst of all, he had no ears. Alex could see the discolored lumps of flesh that remained.
The rest had at some time been cut off.
This had to be Mr. Anan Sukit. There was a second Thai man with him, dressed in a white T-shirt and jeans, carrying a camera—a clunky wooden box that could have come out of an antique shop. A third man followed. He
looked similar to Ash—presumably an Afghan brought along to translate.
