The fourth watcher

He lifts his face to the rain, lets it needle his eyelids and cheeks. “I’m here.”

“Hate,” Ming Li says. She pinches his arm and gives the pinch a twist. “What you need is hate. Hate will keep you moving.”

“I’ve got enough hate for that,” Rafferty says.

“Good. Hang on to it. Feed it. Hate got us out of China. It’ll get your wife and little girl back.”

“And Arthit’s wife,” Rafferty says raggedly. “Noi. He’ll want. . he’ll want her near him.”

“He’ll have her,” Ming Li says. She lets go of his arm and steps back, searching his face. “By the time he opens his eyes, he’ll have her.”

Rafferty wraps his arms around her and hauls her so close that he can feel her spine pop. She stiffens, and then her arms go around him and they stand there, hugging each other, as the rain pours down on them. Ming Li says, “It’s all right, older brother,” and something dark blooms in Rafferty’s chest, spreads long, soft wings, and then seems to vaporize and disappear, escaping into the night on an endless breath.

“Okay,” he says, releasing her. Her gaze locks with his, and the muscles beneath her eyes tighten in recognition. She takes a step away, turns her head to look at him again.

“Let’s move,” he says. “We’ve got people to kill.”

The plainclothes cop’s tuk-tuk, which Leung has borrowed without asking, makes an uneven popping sound, one of its cylinders misfiring occasionally, as it threads through the rain-slowed traffic on Silom. The water falls in sheets, the windshield wipers sluggish with the sheer weight of it. Rafferty and Ming Li sit side by side in the back. Ming Li holds on her lap the canvas bag full of older, well-used money, and Rafferty squeezes the big suitcase between his knees.

Rafferty has no way of knowing how long they’ve been traveling: It could have been ten minutes or ten hours. He seems to have been journeying through some internal space, the space between thoughts. The space between gunshots. He feels vast and icily empty inside, but he is intensely aware of the mass of his body as it presses against the seat, of the touch of Ming Li’s thigh against his, of the cold wetness on his skin. The hardness of the suitcase, the contents of which Arthit may have died for.

“We’re almost there,” Ming Li says.

Rafferty shakes himself, the way he sometimes does when he wakes from a dream gone wrong. A dream Rose would want to hear every detail of, looking for the scraps of meaning that might help them avert disaster. The movement brings him back to himself, in a tuk-tuk, on a wet night, next to his new sister, in a world where disaster has already struck. He leans down to peer beneath the tuk- tuk’s sloping roof. “Twice around,” he says. “I need to see if we’ve got watchers.”

“No one following!” Leung shouts over his shoulder.

“That’s not going to help if they’re already here. Do the block twice, like I said.”

“What now?” Ming Li says as Leung makes the turn.

“What now? Damned if I know.” His eyes are on the sidewalks. “But I think you should drop me and then get back to Frank. Talk it over with him, see what you come up with. What I’ve got barely qualifies as an idea.”

“Fine,” Ming Li says. “We’ll call you in a couple of hours.”

“Chu’s not going to give me any more time. Whatever the hell we’re doing, we need to be ready.”

“We’ve been ready for years,” Ming Li says. “Now we’re down to details.”

Rafferty says, “Frank did a good job with you.”

“He did some of it,” Ming Li says, watching the other sidewalk. “Some of it is talent.”

The money he grabbed from the closet and packed into the suitcase is stiff as starch, the greens and browns too green and brown, the whites too white, the paper too clean. It stacks in perfect rectangular towers, each bill flat enough to have been ironed.

In a quantity this large, it wouldn’t fool a blind man.

On the other hand, the money jammed into the canvas bag is soft, worn, dog-eared, soiled from use. The oil and grime from a thousand hands have given it a smudged patina like a layer of dirt on an old painting. It’s seen wallets, purses, bar spills, hot coffee, knife fights, crowded cash drawers. It smells of sweat and dirt and face powder. It has notes written on it: phone numbers, prayers, aimless chains of obscenity. It’s been exchanged for drinks, drugs, food, a dry room, a doctor’s care, sex, a lover’s gift, perhaps a murder or two. Hearts have been drawn here and there, stick figures, arrows, candles, teardrops, interlinking squares, the marginalia of idle minds.

In short, Rafferty thinks, it’s money. The stuff in the suitcase is printing.

The new bills in the suitcase are what the Korean was circulating. The bills in the canvas bag were taken from the banks by the tellers and then passed on in those manila envelopes.

Rafferty keeps seeing Arthit’s face, the colorlessness of Arthit’s face.

Halfway through a distracted count, he heaves a stack of bills across the room. They separate and flutter to the floor, covering the carpet and the coffee table. A wad with a rubber band around it lands on the hassock. He stares at it. It’s real money, taken from the envelopes the Korean grabbed from the tellers, and the rubber band compresses it in the center, leaving the ends loose and soft. It looks almost. . fluffy.

The paper-banded stacks of counterfeit look like bricks.

He thinks, Fluffy.

The word galvanizes him. This is something he believes he knows how to do. And then, in an instant, he sees the rest of it, or at least a possible sequence, as though, during the hour or more of paralysis, it’s been quietly assembling itself, waiting for him to notice. For a moment he sits perfectly still, staring at the money and seeing none of it, trying to sequence the stepping-stones that might lead them out of this cataclysm. Looking for the surprise, the wrong turn, the ankle breaker, the gate that won’t open, the twig that will snap in the night, the stone that’s poised over a hole a hundred feet deep.

He knows he can’t see it all. So small steps first. Things he knows how to do.

He goes to the kitchen and checks the cabinet beneath the sink, where they keep the laundry supplies. Straightening up, he realizes that the sound he just heard was his own laughter. He leaves the cabinet yawning open and goes to the living-room desk, where he takes Rose’s phone book out of the drawer she uses. He finds the numbers he wants and makes four short calls.

When he leaves the apartment, he leaves the door ajar. His helpers may arrive before he returns.

39

He Wasn’t Much, but He Had a Name

Rafferty covers the peephole with his thumb and then knocks again.

The door opens only two or three inches, and the chain is secured, but Rafferty’s kick yanks the entire assembly out of the wooden doorframe, and the door snaps back, cracking Elson on the forehead. Rafferty catches it on the rebound and pushes it open, and Elson retreats automatically, one hand pressed to his head. Rafferty follows him in and closes the door with his foot.

“My turn to visit,” he says. “Nice pj’s.”

Elson’s face is naked, defenseless, and even narrower without the rimless glasses. He hasn’t shaved since morning, and he is a man who should shave twice a day. The stubble holds shadows, accentuating the high, nervous bone structure of his face. He wears loose white pajamas in what appears to be light cotton, patterned with little blue clocks, a theme that is repeated on the buttons. He rubs his forehead and checks his fingers for blood. With the hand still in front of him, he says, “You’re looking at jail.”

“I’m looking at you,” Rafferty says. “I’m looking at someone who hasn’t done one thing right since he arrived in Bangkok. You’ve stumbled around like someone using a map that was printed on April Fools’ Day. You’ll be lucky if you don’t wind up on library patrol.”

Elson glances toward the low dresser, where his holstered gun sits next to his computer, and says, “Get out