condensation at the bottom of his own glass, and begins to draw a series of wet loops, like a stretched spring. Ming Li watches his finger move, as intently as if he were writing a secret language only they can read, and Rafferty briefly wonders whether it is. Frank’s hand is trembling, and he pulls it back and puts it in his lap.
Not surprisingly, given the hour, they are the only people in the restaurant, which is just off Khao San, a few blocks from the guesthouse. Fon and Lek are waiting in the car, chattering nervously. When the five of them came in, the waitress, who had been bent over a brightly colored book called
“Poke,” Frank says. He is drawing loops again, and he waits until Rafferty looks over at him. “I’m sorry.”
“I should be apologizing to you,” Rafferty says. “You were right. If I hadn’t brought Arnold into this, you’d probably be gone by now.”
“I didn’t mean that,” Frank says, the words so soft that Rafferty’s not sure he understood them. A series of grunts from the television is followed by a stitchery of gunfire from an automatic. No one bothers to look. “I meant for everything.”
Ming Li has fixed an urgent stare on Poke, but Rafferty can’t find a reply. Something Rose said goes through his mind, something about his having all those words in his head, but none of the ones he really needs.
“Just. . you know,” Frank says. “Whatever happens, I wanted to say that.”
Rafferty says, “Thank you.”
“Is this going to work?” Ming Li demands.
“I don’t know.” Rafferty picks up his own iced coffee and drains it. It’s awful, but he needs the caffeine. “What I do know is that we have to try. I owe it to Arthit, I owe it to Rose and Miaow, and I guess I owe it to you. Chu’s not going to quit. If you got up right now and walked out of here, he’d find you and it would all start over again.”
“You’re right,” Frank says. “Chu’s never given up on anything in his life.”
“What haven’t we thought of?” Ming Li asks.
“A hundred things,” Rafferty says. “What if he just shoots us all as we come in? What if there are a dozen guys we don’t know about? What if the place is booby-trapped?”
“He won’t shoot us when we come in, and there won’t be a booby trap,” Frank says. “He won’t do anything until he knows we’ve got everything he wants. He probably won’t do anything until it’s all in his hands. Chu is a lot of things, but he’s not impulsive. It’s taken him years to build all this-the rubies, the documents, the American identity. He needs this exit more than he needs anything else in the world. So as much as he wants to kill me, he’ll wait. He’ll wait until he’s got everything.”
“And then,” Ming Li says, “he’ll put your head on a spike.”
A bleating sound cuts through the mayhem on the television, and Pradya opens his phone. He says something, hangs up, and leans over to Leung. Leung gets up and comes over to their table.
“Klong Toey,” he says.
“He wants to kill Frank, and you’re just handing him over,” Ming Li says. She puts both hands on Rafferty’s arm. “He’s your father, and you’re giving him away.”
Rafferty gets up. “We’re going to see if we can’t make it a loan.”
43
They’re barely inside the warehouse complex when Rafferty gets the first indication that things are going wrong. “Keep coming,” Chu says into the phone. Blooming in the rain-dimmed headlights, directly in front of them,
is a long wall of corrugated steel with an enormous red 3 on it. “We’re at three,” Rafferty repeats. “Yes, I heard you. Keep coming. Turn between two and one. I’m
here.” “Fine,” Rafferty says. “Coming.” He leans forward, says to Leung,
who is at the wheel, “Stop beside number two.” “Two?” Leung doesn’t sound surprised, but it’s close. Rafferty presses his thumb over the phone’s mouthpiece to mute it
and says to Pradya, “You said three.” “Maybe he moved them,” says the fat cop from the backseat. Something about his tone accelerates Rafferty’s pulse. He settles back against the upholstery, taking long, slow breaths and looking at alternatives. There aren’t many, and he wishes he could be
alone for a minute or two. They are packed so close together he feels like his thoughts are audible. The car, which had looked big enough when it was empty, smells of anxiety and wet cloth. They’ve had to open all the windows a few inches to keep them from steaming up. Frank and Ming Li share the front seat with Leung, and Rafferty is bookended by Fon and Lek. Beyond Lek, jammed up against the door, is the fat cop Pradya, his empty gun in his lap. Lek is muttering resentfully as she works her jeans down over her thighs, lifting herself from the seat to get them below her knees. Pradya is watching with more than professional interest.
Kosit is a minute or two away in his own car, with Elson beside him.
“We’re at two,” Leung announces, slowing.
“Turn the car around,” Rafferty says. “I want it pointed at the exit.” He hands Pradya the magazine for his automatic and says, “You can load it now.” Then he reaches across Fon, yanks the door handle, and climbs over her into a world of wind and wet. As he starts to close the door, he feels Fon’s hand on his arm.
“It’ll be fine,” she says.
He gives her a nod, suddenly on the edge of tears, and closes the door. Lifting his face to the rain, he opens his eyes wide, letting the fall of water wash them clean. He returns the cell phone to his ear and says, “We’re here.”
Chu says, “I’m waiting.” Rafferty touches the Glock nestled into the small of his back and walks to the corner of the building.
The alleyway between the warehouses is wide enough for two trucks to pass each other, and about 120 feet long. Bars of yellow light stripe the asphalt as far as Rafferty can see through the rain, reflecting the bulbs set every ten or fifteen feet beneath the overhangs of the warehouse roofs. Rafferty has expected to be ankle-deep in water, but the entire area slopes down very slightly toward the river. Except for the occasional black puddle, which could be anywhere from an inch to a foot deep, there is almost no water underfoot.
Rafferty is trying to figure out whether the absence of water is good or bad when the rain eases for a moment, and he sees Chu, gleaming at him in a black rubber slicker that hangs almost to his feet. He is about sixty feet away. Chu lifts an arm and waves like someone in a home movie-
“Come on along,” Chu says into the phone. “I want to get a look at you.”
“This phone’s going to short out,” Rafferty says, moving forward. “It’s too wet. I’m turning it off now.”
“Up to you.”
Rafferty’s thumb finds the “disconnect” button and then, very quickly, he highlights the next number he will need. He slips the phone into a small Ziploc bag and puts it in his shirt pocket, buttons facing out. Instinctively he finds the “dial” button with his thumb. Then he does it again, walking all the time. He is about to do it yet again when Chu’s form begins to solidify in front of him. Rafferty drops his hands to his sides and flexes his fingers repeatedly like a pianist about to tackle something difficult. They feel as stiff as sticks.
Ten feet away he stops and waits. Chu waves him closer, Asian style, palm and fingers down, but Rafferty shakes his head. A moment passes. Rafferty can feel something extending between him and Chu, something taut that pulsates like a high-voltage wire. Chu mutters irritably and trudges forward. Once Chu is moving, Rafferty continues toward him.
Chu is frailer than Rafferty imagined, and older. Somehow he had continued to see the Colonel Chu his father had described from all those years ago in Wang’s room, not this papery retiree. The sudden image of Wang, stripped and shivering, being offered to dogs and horses, ignites a hot surge of fury. Rafferty damps it down as fast
