The fourth watcher

trade.”

Some sort of response seems called for. Rafferty says, “Gadzooks.”

“Prescription drugs, cigarettes-your girlfriend smokes, right?”

“Like Pittsburgh.”

“Marlboros?”

Rafferty nods.

“Well, your girlfriend’s cigarettes come straight from Kim Jong Il. In 1995, agents intercepted a boat on its way from Taiwan to North Korea carrying cigarette papers with the Marlboro logo. Wrap them around some junk tobacco, and there were so many papers they’d have brought one billion dollars on the street. That’s billion with a b. Nine-tenths of the Marlboros in Southeast Asia are forgeries, courtesy of Office 39, which reports directly to the little guy with the Eraserhead haircut.”

“Another reason for her to quit.”

“But your Mr. Elson doesn’t care about cigarettes, or fake Viagra, or AIDS drugs that don’t actually do anything. He cares about money, American money. The same printing plant in Pyongyang that makes the extra- fancy thousand-baht bills makes American fifties and hundreds that are so good they’re called ‘supernotes.’” Prettyman shakes his head in what might be admiration. His eyes briefly border on expressive. “You have to give them credit. These things are so perfect the Seekies had to blow them up to about twenty feet long and project them on a floor in Washington to find the telltales. They even got the ink right. You heard of color-shifting ink?”

“Is this going to cost me extra?”

“Look at it from different angles, it’s different colors. Green and black, mostly. We use it on the new bills now, because it was supposed to be impossible to counterfeit. Well, it isn’t. And the paper is the same, with a cloth fiber content of three-quarters cotton and one-quarter linen.”

“I thought the paper was a secret, like the formula for Coca-Cola.”

“The Norkies were bleaching one-dollar bills for a while but they finally figured the hell with it, that was too expensive, and analyzed the paper six ways from Sunday. Then they started making it on their own. They’re printing this stuff like mail from Ed McMahon. Why do you think American money’s gotten so fancy all of a sudden? Office 39, that’s why. And don’t bother getting used to the new bills, because they’ll have to change again in a few years.”

Rafferty glances at his watch. “So Elson is in Bangkok because the same North Koreans who are making the American play money are also making the Thai stuff.”

“And because they pass a lot of the American counterfeits here.”

“In Bangkok? Why?”

“About the only thing they haven’t figured out is how to get tons of the stuff into the States. About three hundred thousand dollars showed up in Newark on a boat from China a year or so ago, and another seven hundred thousand got snagged in Long Beach. Peanuts, probably just trial runs. So they pass them here, or in the United Kingdom and a bunch of other countries, anywhere they can get them in by the boatload.”

“Still,” Rafferty says, “how many billion U.S. bucks are in circulation? This has got to be like putting a drop of iodine in a swimming pool.”

“People in the Bush administration referred to it as an act of war.”

“To the Bush administration, double-parking is an act of war.”

“Elson’s a Seekie,” Prettyman says. “The guys in the Service are the president’s men, remember? They tend to take the executive branch’s perspective pretty seriously. Also, here’s a chance for them to make headlines. I mean, how often does someone take a shot at the president? You can put on those suits and plug in that earpiece and scan the crowd for your whole career without ever feeling like anything except a civil servant whose feet hurt. But lookie here, a chance to put an end to an act of war.” He fingers the goatee experimentally. “So I’m telling you, don’t get in Elson’s way. He’s gonna run over you like a cement truck hitting a feather. And the Thais won’t lift a finger.”

“I think it’ll be okay. The bills came from a bank. Elson will talk to Rose’s partner, and she’ll clear the whole thing up.”

“You’d better hope so. Speaking of money.” He rolls the tube of paper back and forth beneath his palms.

“Got it,” Rafferty says. He pulls out a wad of money with a rubber band around it. “Two consultations, and what you told me you were paying your guys.” He reaches into his pocket for more. “And the twelve-five.”

“Speaking of my guys,” Prettyman says, taking the money, “they pretty much had you for breakfast yesterday.”

“You heard about that.”

“I didn’t need to hear about it. I can smell it.” He flips through the bills. “No thousands, right?”

“You’re kidding.”

“Uh-uh.” He peels off two thousand-baht bills and hands them back. “Give me five-hundreds. Last thing I need is the Seekies.”

As Rafferty makes the change, Prettyman surveys the room again. It follows the basic scheme: a square bar in the center, surrounding a raised and mirrored stage on which several scantily clad young women sleepwalk each night, more or less rhythmically. The sole distinguishing feature is at the far end of the room: three curtained booths where customers can retire with the sleepwalker of their choice for the house specialty, which requires the sleepwalker to service the seated patron for however long it takes heaven to arrive. This is exactly the kind of bar from which Rose rescued Fon.

“Thinking about an upgrade,” Prettyman says.

“Hard to imagine,” Rafferty says. “The booths are an interesting touch. Curtains and everything. Very upscale.”

“Thanks. But, you know, times change. I think maybe new lights and speakers, maybe a mirror on the stage floor. Old guys get stiff necks trying to look up all the time.”

“Next thing you know, you’ll be serving fruit shakes.”

Prettyman regards the room for another moment, eyes half narrowed to make it look better, then seems to come to a decision. “Tell me what you think of this,” he says, unfolding the paper and turning it so it faces Rafferty. It is a chalk drawing that depicts a neon sign, obviously in the design stage, with penciled measurements in meters scribbled here and there. Most of the space is taken up by a large crimson word in balloon type.

“ ‘Gulp’?” Rafferty says, reading.

“Too subtle?” Prettyman asks. He is frowning down at the page.

“It’s too a lot of things, Arnold, but subtle is not one of them. What’s wrong with ‘Charming’? That’s been the name of this place for years.”

“Fails the basic criteria of business communication,” Prettyman says.

It sounds like he’s reciting something somebody said to him. “Doesn’t tell you anything. Not memorable, not distinctive.”

“But Gulp? As in, ‘Whaddaya say, guys, let’s go down to Gulp?’ Or, ‘No problem, honey, I stopped off at Gulp?’ I don’t know, Arnold.”

Prettyman looks disconcerted. “I was thinking about calling it ‘Lewinsky’s,’ ” he says, “but somebody’s already using it.”

“It’s dated,” Rafferty says, just to mollify him. “Gulp is. . um, timeless.” He looks down at the paper again. “But what’s with the bird?”

Prettyman studies the picture. A blue, somewhat lopsided bird with its wings outstretched hovers above the G in “Gulp.” “Nobody gets it,” he says with some bitterness.

“At least I’ve got company.” Rafferty checks his watch once more.

“You in a hurry?” Prettyman rolls up the paper with uncharacteristic vehemence.

“Come on, Arnold. Tell me about the bird. For once in your life, hand out some free information.”

“It’s a swallow,” Prettyman says shortly.

“I take it all back,” Rafferty says, rising. “You are subtle.”