The fourth watcher

“Family?” Arthit asks.

“Oh,” Peachy says. “That.” Her lower lip does a watery little ripple. “We, I mean, I- Well, not really, you know, I mean. .” She undoes a button with shaky fingers and does it up again. “I spend a lot of time in the office.”

“Okay,” Arthit says uncomfortably. “Sorry. So when you left on Friday-”

“Last night,” Peachy says, and Rafferty suddenly sits up. All this started only last night? The proposal to Rose, Agent Elson, his father, the money? All since last night?

“When you left the office last night,” Arthit says. “Was everything normal? I mean, was the place the way you usually leave it?”

“Sure,” Peachy says.

“And did you lock the door?”

“I always lock the door.” The questions seem to be calming her.

“This morning, when you went in- Wait, what time did you arrive?”

“About eleven.” The hand goes up again, but this time it pats the hair instead of ravaging it.

“At eleven, then. Was the door still locked?”

“Yes. I had to use both keys to get in.”

“And you double-locked it when you left.”

Rafferty sits there, admiring Arthit at work.

Peachy’s eyes go unfocused, as though she is doing addition in her head. “I think so. I usually do. But sometimes I forget.”

Arthit has been sneaking a hit of beer while Peachy thinks, and now he lowers the bottle. “Who else has a key?”

“Um. .” Peachy says. A blush mounts her cheeks. Her eyes rove the room like someone looking for an exit. She passes her index finger over her front teeth and inspects it, scanning for lipstick. Then she says, “Who else has. .”

“I do,” Rose says.

“Yes,” Peachy says, looking relieved. “Rose. Rose does.”

“Nobody else.”

“The landlord,” Rose says.

“Who’s the landlord?” Arthit asks.

“Somkid Paramet,” Peachy says, naming one of the richest men in Bangkok. “He owns the whole block.”

“Scratch the landlord,” Rafferty says.

Arthit tugs at the crease in his trousers and stares longingly at the bottle of beer in his hand. “When does the cleaning crew come in?”

“Never,” Rose says. “Peachy and I clean the place on Mondays. We go in early.”

“Rose does most of the cleaning,” Peachy says apologetically. “When I was growing up, I never learned how to clean properly. And my husband, my former husband’s family, they. .”

Arthit’s eyes flick to Rafferty, who finds something interesting to study on the carpet. Rose admires the ceiling. Peachy’s genteel upbringing has been a frequent topic of conversation among them. “And when you went in this morning, everything was still in place?”

“Except for that.” Peachy indicates the paper bag without looking at it.

“Right, right. Except for that.” Arthit sits back and stares out through the sliding glass door at the lights of Bangkok. The bottle of beer dangles from his hand, forgotten for the moment. “Well,” he says to Rafferty, without turning, “isn’t this interesting?”

“It’s fucking riveting.” Even in her distraught state, Peachy stiffens at the word. “Here’s the thing, Arthit,” Rafferty says. “It’s Saturday.”

“Thank you,” Arthit says, inclining his head. “I always like to be reminded what day it is.”

“They didn’t know she’d go in.”

“Ah,” Arthit says. He shifts himself around and stares at the wall above Rafferty’s head. “That’s right, isn’t it?”

“What’s right?” Rose asks.

“Whoever put that money there,” Arthit says, “doesn’t know it’s been found.”

“Monday,” Rafferty says. “They think it’ll be found on Monday.”

“It’s not much, is it?” Arthit says.

“What’s not much?” Rose asks with an edge in her voice.

“One day,” Rafferty says. “Before whatever is supposed to happen actually happens. We have one day to try to screw it up.”

“It’s a little better than that,” Arthit says. He hoists the beer and swallows. “We also have tonight.”

19

Simoleons

The bar is fashionably dim. The same authority that decrees that casinos should be bright apparently mandates that bars should be dim. This one is dim enough that the street out

side, visible through the open door, is a source of light even at a few minutes before midnight.

“Walk back the cat,” Arthit says. He seems to be talking to his reflection, partially visible behind the row of bottles, most of which, in defiance of their fancy labels, contain cheap generic whiskey.

Rafferty has switched to club soda, much to the amusement of the female bartender. “That’s a striking image,” he says. “What the hell does it mean?”

Arthit puts down his second glass of so-called Johnnie Walker Black on the rocks. Like many Asians, he lacks an enzyme that metabolizes alcohol, and his face is a shade of crimson that would fascinate a cardiologist. “You obviously don’t read much espionage fiction.”

“I don’t read much of anything that was written after 1900. If you want to be dazzled, ask me about Anthony Trollope.”

“I always loved that name.” Arthit raps his wedding ring on the edge of his glass. Rafferty wonders if he is checking to make sure he can still hear. “ ‘Walking back the cat’ is a technique for unraveling an operation.” He lifts the glass and drinks. “First, of course, you have to assume it’s an operation.”

Rafferty glances around. As far as he can determine through the gloom, the other six customers seem to be absorbed in their own conversations. “It’s certainly something,” he says. “Even in counterfeit money, thirty thousand bucks is a lot of simoleons.”

“ ‘Simoleons’? Anthony Trollope used the term ‘simoleons’?”

“Not often,” Rafferty concedes.

“Here’s how many simoleons it actually is,” Arthit says. “Let’s say you’re a customer of whoever is making these things-”

“The North Koreans, Arnold Prettyman says.”

“Arnold? You’re talking to Arnold again? It’s a good thing you’re not on parole.”

“One takes information where one can get it.”

“Well, Arnold’s right. So. Let’s say you want to get your hands on some of these things. You can buy a North Korean hundred-dollar bill-in bulk, of course-for anywhere from sixty to seventy-five dollars, depending on market forces.”

“For example.”

Arthit tilts his head to the left. “How badly the North Koreans need cash. How much trouble they’re having getting the things into circulation. Fluctuations in the price of plutonium. How low Kim Jong Il’s cognac reserves are.” He raps the glass again, and this time the bartender looks over at him. Arthit raises a finger and points it, pistol style, at Rafferty’s soda glass, which contains nothing but a straw and a slice of lime. “So figure it out. Take a middle value, say seventy dollars to the hundred. Seven hundred to the thousand.”