The fourth watcher

waves her off. “If this Elson is who he says he is, you’re not going to get much help from my shop. Counterfeiting is a problem we actually share. The Secret Service gets carte blanche.”

“Wow,” Rafferty says. “Bilingual.”

“I don’t want to leave you out of the conversation,” Arthit says, “so let me put it another way. As far as my bosses are concerned, these guys shit silver.”

“A minute ago, when you were still speaking English, you said that was the bad news. That usually implies that there’s also good news.”

Arthit starts to put an elbow on the table and thinks better of it. “The good news is that this is a big deal. The Secret Service didn’t come to Bangkok to bust maids. They’re looking for a source, and we both know that Rose and- What’s her name?”

“Peachy.”

Arthit’s mouth tightens in distaste. “Self-named, no doubt.”

“Seems like a safe bet.”

“They’re probably not passing out millions, are they? Your Mr. Elson will backtrack it to the bank, and that’ll be it.”

“That’s pretty much what I told Rose.”

Arthit leans back in his chair and folds his hands over his belly. “Then why are you bothering me?”

“Just an excuse to get together. And I figured, this being a day of rest for ordinary mortals, that you’d be rattling around, bored senseless, and looking for something to do. Instead here you are, all suited up and spit- shined.”

“You may have heard that we’ve had a coup,” Arthit says. “When people wake up and see tanks in the streets and then learn they’ve got a new government-one they didn’t elect-the police find themselves putting in a lot of overtime. The official line is that our presence is reassuring, although you and I know that having a whole bunch of cops all over the place all of a sudden is a pretty effective implied threat.”

“If they only knew how sweet you actually are.”

“My sweetness is classified. And if it were to become public knowledge, it would no doubt be blamed on the former prime minister.” Arthit does a quick local survey to make sure no one is listening. “As part of the never- ending effort to find something else to blame on the former prime minister.”

“I’d have thought the airport would satisfy anyone.” In the wake of the coup, the sparkling new Suvarnabhumi International Airport has been found to be quite literally falling apart. “Cracked runways, no bathrooms, leaking roofs. Sagging Jetways. Should be enough corruption there to keep everybody’s pointing finger busy for a couple of years.”

“As a loyal servant of the Thai government,” Arthit says, “I prefer to think of the problem as one of misplaced optimism. We Thais have a sunny turn of mind. Who but optimists would build an airport on a piece of land called Cobra Swamp? Even if one ignores the cobras, the word ‘swamp’ should have given someone pause.”

“They probably paused long enough to buy it,” Rafferty says. “Somebody sold that land to the government. Of course, it’ll probably turn out to have been the former prime minister.”

Arthit glances at his watch. “As much as I’m enjoying sitting here in this nice, wet chair and chatting with you about the state of the nation, I’ve got things to do. But before I go, I want to make sure that you took my larger meaning, which I implied with all the Asian subtlety at my command. Do not do anything to anger Agent Elson.”

“That’s pretty much what Arnold Prettyman said.”

“Arnold’s good at survival,” Arthit says.

“How’s Fon? Is there anything I can do for her?”

“She’s fine,” Arthit says. “Nothing severe, just sitting in a cell with the two other girls who deposited Peachy’s money, talking up a storm. How do women do that? They’ve known each other for years, and sometimes two of them are talking at once. Don’t women ever run out of things to say?”

“My guess is that they’re sort of furnishing the cell,” Rafferty says. “They’re in an uncongenial environment, probably feeling threatened, so they fill it up with words and feelings until it’s more comfortable.”

“Aren’t you Mr. Sensitivity?” Arthit says. “Anyway, they’ll probably get out on Monday, when the banks open.”

“Not until then?”

“Probably not. Your Mr. Elson seems to be a bit of a hardnose.”

“That’s what worries me. Rose says he enjoys power too much.”

“Rose is a good Buddhist.” Arthit checks his watch again.

“Arthit,” Rafferty says. He pauses, looking for a way to frame it, and then plunges straight in. “Rose said yes.”

Arthit looks at him blankly. “In a vacuum? When she was by herself? Was there a question involved?”

“I asked her to marry me.” Even now he can feel his pulse accelerate.

Arthit’s smile seems to reach all the way to his hairline. “And she said yes?”

“Believe it or not.”

Arthit reaches over and pats Rafferty’s hand. “Noi will be so happy.” He gets up and pushes his chair back. “See what I mean? We Thais are optimists.”

Rafferty has been writing for fifteen minutes, working on his magazine story with a certain amount of guilty enjoyment, when the first one hits. It strikes him in the temple, hard enough to brighten the day for a heartbeat. For one absurd, soul-shriveling tenth of a second, he thinks he is dead, and in that transparent slice of time he forms two complete thoughts. The first is a question-Will I hear the shot before I die? — and the second is a statement-I will never marry Rose. And then the world does not end, and he glances down to see the small black ball that is rolling back and forth at his feet, smooth and gleaming, about the size of a large marble.

A chill at his temple brings his fingers up, and they come away wet. Whatever the fluid is, it is clear. So at least he’s not bleeding. He touches the tip of his tongue to his finger. Sweet.

The restaurant has filled now that the rain is gone, but no one seems to have noticed anything. Since the world has not ended, time continues to flow. Traffic creeps by on the boulevard uninterrupted.

Rafferty looks for the source of the missile. No eyes are turned his way, so he bends and picks up the little ball. He is holding the pit of a fresh lychee nut, from which someone has just gnawed the sugary pulp. Hard as a marble, although not exactly a lethal weapon. But what produces that kind of accuracy-some sort of blowgun?

Yeah, he is thinking, a fruit-hurling blowgun, when the second one catches him square between the eyes. He sees a burst of stars, something out of a cartoon, and then he’s blinking away tears. He looks in the direction from which the seed was blown, shot, thrown, catapulted, projected. There are no likely suspects, so he gets up and surveys the outdoor portion of the restaurant, which is now crowded almost to capacity: round white plastic tables jammed together in a space about forty feet wide and eight feet deep, from the building’s glass wall to the quaint white picket fence that borders the sidewalk. People glance over at him, but they’re all occupied, eating, talking. The sidewalk is crowded, but every sidewalk in Bangkok is crowded when the rain stops.

He sits down again, and instantly a wasp stings his cheek. This time he sees her, finishing up a follow- through that would impress Randy Johnson. The girl from the tuk-tuk. He shoves his chair back, drops some money on the table, and begins to push his way between the tables.

14

It’s Not Coming from the Direction You Expect

She is taking her time. She can afford to dawdle. She has a half-block head start.

Rafferty had to negotiate his way between the tables of the restaurant, had to explain to the woman at the front that he’d left the money on the table. He’s walking fast but not running.