Final Answers (22 page)

I stare at her unmoved.

She stands her ground for a moment, then averts her eyes as something dawns on her. “You’re going to kill him, aren’t you?”

I glance to the pistol then back to her with a malevolent smirk. “I’ve thought about it every day since I found out he killed my wife. She was a decent, generous person. We were together for a long time and I loved her very much. I can’t tell you how much. To be brutally frank, every bone in my body wants to kill him. I want to see him suffer a slow, painful death.” I pause, and glance to the pistol again, letting her live with the idea for a while before adding, “But I’d be no better than he is, if I did.”

Her chin lifts curiously.

“I’ll get my satisfaction from catching him. A judge and jury can decide what happens after that.”

She nods warily, stubs out the cigarette, and lights another. “You’ve called the police?”

“No. I’m turning him over to the DEA. Unless he does something stupid and forces me to kill him. I’ll shoot him right here if I have to, believe me.”

That was one of the decisions I made during the flight. I want nothing to do with the local police. Chances are they’re corrupt. They might even be on Surigao’s payroll. Even if they’re not, I don’t know anything about Thai law, and I’m taking no chances they might let him go on some legal technicality. No, when Surigao walks through that door, I’ll put the pistol to his head, and call the DEA at the Embassy. If he isn’t already on their wanted list, their agents can verify he’s a fugitive with the colonel and the Los Angeles police, then come get him. I’m going over the moves when the phone rings, a loud, harsh buzzing that cuts right through me.

Carla goes toward the desk to answer it.

“Wait,” I say sharply, intercepting her as I cross to the nightstand where there’s an extension. “Play it straight, like you’re alone. You understand?”

She nods.

“Okay, now.”

We lift the phones simultaneously on what must be the sixth or seventh ring. I’ve got my palm over the mouthpiece.

“Yes?” she answers.

“It’s me. Where the hell were you?” It’s a man’s voice. A familiar voice. Captain Sullivan’s voice to me. It trembles with desperation, not anger.

Carla glances at me with panicked eyes.

I point to the bathroom and mouth the word shower.

“Carla?” Surigao snarls. “Dammit, Carla, you there?”

“Yes, Sean. Yes. I’m sorry. I just got out of the shower. What is it? You sound—”

“Bastards double-crossed me.”

“What?”

“It was a setup. Ajacier never showed. These guys were going to kill me. I saw it coming and got away.”

“Oh, God,” she gasps. “Oh God. Sean—”

“Come on, Carla, this is no time to panic. They’re still out there looking for me.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m not sure. I’m thinking, maybe I can make a deal with the other side. Rent a car. Pick me up on the northeast corner of Khlong Thom and Yaowarat. That’s in Chinatown.”

She grabs a pencil and scribbles hastily on a pad.

“Got it?”

“Yes, Khlong Thom and Yaowarat.”

“Hurry. Soon as you can. Make sure you aren’t followed.” The line goes dead.

“Sean? Sean are you all right?” She listens to the dial tone for a moment, then hangs up shaken, mouth agape. “Bastards,” she curses to no one in particular. “He never should’ve trusted them. He did what they asked. Now when it’s time to pay . . .” She bites it off in disgust.

“Sounds like old Sean’s got himself into a real tight spot.”

“It’s not fair.”

“You’re breaking my heart, Carla.”

She wrings her hands in frustration, convinced, as I intended, that I’m going to keep her from going to her husband’s assistance.

I let her anxiety build, as I think it through. From the sound of it,
Ajacier’s in Bangkok too. If I play it right, chances are I can nail both of them. But Surigao’s still my primary target. It’s only a matter of time now. Not only do I know where he is, and what he wants, but I also control whom he trusts.

“Please,” Carla says, becoming frantic. “Please, you have to let me help him.”

“No, I don’t,” I reply in as callous a tone as I can muster.

She glares at me with hatred.

“But I might.”

“Depending on what?”

“You. I asked you a question before. I didn’t get an answer. I want it now—Why me?”

“I don’t have the answer.”

“Come on, dammit. You tipped Sean off to my case at the CIL. You just didn’t pick my name out of a fucking hat. Why me?!”

“No, I didn’t pick your name out of a fucking hat, Mr. Morgan,” she finally replies bitterly. “There were some names that I—that I watched for.”

“Why?”

“Because Sean asked me to. That’s all I know.”

“That’s very unfortunate for Sean.”

“I’d tell you if I could. Believe me, I really would.” She pauses briefly, hoping for a response.

I stare at her in silence.

“Please, Mr. Morgan,” she goes on, a desperate timbre in her voice. “You know what you were saying before about you and your wife? Well, Sean and I have been together a long time too. More than fifteen years. He has his faults, but he also has some very good qualities. Please, whatever you think of him, whatever he did to you, he’s my husband and I love him. I really do.”

Her eyes fill with tears. She looks helpless, really decent and sincere, just like Kate said, and I find myself believing her, admiring her, admiring her loyalty and spunk.

“You can’t stop me,” she goes on. “You can’t. You’ll have to kill me first.” She whirls, grabs her purse, and bolts for the door. I lunge as she passes me and catch hold of her arm. She squirms trying to twist free. “Let go,” she protests, her high cheekbones reddening with defiance. “I’ve got to help him. I’ve got to!”

“No, Carla,” I say coolly, playing the card I’ve been quietly holding. “If you really want to save his life, you’ve got to help me.”

M
ake a left over that little bridge.”

Carla’s driving.

I’m navigating with the map.

Bangkok is a confusing city. Built on a swamp, its streets meander and crisscross like the streams they once were, devoid of any alphabetical or numerical order, and interrupted by canals that turn many of them into cul de sacs. To make matters worse, the steering wheel’s on the right side of the car and they drive on the left side of the road like in Britain.

We’re on Charoen Krung Road, the main boulevard that parallels the river, approaching the bridge. The car is almost too wide for the narrow span that arches across the Phadung Canal to the south-eastern tip of Chinatown. The agent at the rental desk in the lobby of the Dusit Thani Hotel strongly recommended we take a compact, but I insisted on a full-size sedan instead. I have my reasons.

“I’ll need your driver’s license, a major credit card, and an international driver’s license,” the agent said, explaining the latter was an absolute necessity in Thailand—no IDL, no car. I vaguely recalled reading about that in the travel guide, but it wasn’t a problem. The Surigaos had done their homework and Carla had one.

The landscape undergoes a sudden and dramatic change as we come off the bridge into the Sampheng District. Shabby and densely packed, the centuries-old enclave sits in a bend on the east bank of the Chao Phraya River. Like the rest of Bangkok, the facade of almost every building is covered with signs, but the playful
brushstrokes of the Chinese alphabet are in marked contrast to the angular and severely disciplined Thai characters. We turn right into Song-Sawat Road and begin making our way through the narrow streets.

“This is Yaowarat coming up. Pull over.”

“You want me to park here?”

“Yes. Before the intersection. Just do it. Remember, your husband’s well-being depends on your cooperating.”

Carla winces and angles to the curb.

Another car drives past just as she stops. There are two men inside. Surigao warned Carla about being followed, and both of us have been on the lookout, but I didn’t notice this one until now.

“Was that car tailing us?”

“I don’t think so.”

“It look familiar?” Carla shakes no.

“What about the two guys?”

“I really didn’t get a good look at them.”

The other car crosses Yaowarat, keeps going straight ahead, and is soon out of sight. This is no time for excessive caution. Nancy’s killer is waiting around the corner, just a couple of blocks away. I’m not turning back now.

I climb between the seats into the rear of the sedan. “I’m going to be down here where Sean can’t see me,” I explain, taking up a position on the floor behind the passenger seat. “You’ll drive up and stop. He’ll get in next to you. I’ll put my gun to the back of his head and explain his options. He won’t like them, but I have a feeling he’ll do the smart thing. Feel free to encourage him. After he calms down, you’ll drive us to the U.S. Embassy. It’s not very far. I’ll give you directions. You understand?”

She nods.

“I mean it, Carla.” I take the Beretta from my pocket. “Don’t give me a reason to kill him.”

Her eyes dart to the pistol. She nods again.

“Or you, for that matter.”

“Yes. Yes,” she says, her teeth tugging at her lower lip, her accent intensifying. “God. I’m so nervous.”

“Good. After what Sean told you, he has every reason to expect you to be nervous. Don’t try to hide it. Let’s go. Make a left.”

Carla pulls away from the curb and turns into Yaowarat, a deso-
late street dotted with potholes and lined with steel-shuttered loading docks. The tightly packed buildings block out most of the light, plunging the canyons between them into shadowy darkness. We proceed west for several blocks toward a patch of daylight in the distance, passing a lone pedestrian and a couple of mongrel dogs scavenging for food.

“Okay, Khlong Thorn’s coming up. Nice and slow.”

I lean more to the center, positioning my head in the space between the front seats, which gives me a view of the street through the windshield. The patch of light turns out to be a public square just beyond the intersection where a street market has been set up.

As we approach, I vaguely make out a figure standing in the doorway of a building on the near corner of the square. I can see it’s a man. He reacts to the approaching car, but remains pressed into the shadows until it gets closer. Then, seeming to recognize Carla, he starts walking toward the street, looking about warily. His dark hair is combed straight back, his face is narrow and deeply tanned, aviator sunglasses bridge his fine Irish nose. It’s him. It’s Captain Sullivan. It’s the guy in the metallic blue car, the guy in the hotel room, the guy in the colonel’s snapshot all rolled into one.

“Remember, don’t do anything foolish.” I push the gun into Carla’s side and duck behind the passenger seat, pressing myself into the corner it forms with the door. I’d feel a hell of a lot more secure at night. But the high headrest gives me sufficient cover and, as I anticipated, Surigao’s attention isn’t focused on the car. It’s on the street, on the market and the alleys, the places where a threat might surface.

The car rolls to a stop.

There’s a short silence. Then the sound of fast-moving footsteps gradually rises. Seconds later a shadow falls across the seats.

Carla looks to her left, expectantly.

I’m waiting for the click of the door latch. That’s my cue. My heart is pounding, mouth turning to cotton, palms becoming clammy. Perspiration rolls down my face. The humidity and heat are almost as unbearable as the anxiety.

Several seconds pass.

Several more.

Carla’s just sitting there.

Still nothing. Dammit. It’s been too long. Something’s wrong.
She’s either managed to signal him, or I was wrong and Surigao spotted me. I can’t wait any longer. I surface with the Beretta in my hand.

Surigao is right there, right outside the car, pulling a revolver from inside his jacket. It can’t be more than a couple of feet from my head. I’m looking right down the barrel. But Surigao’s attention seems to be elsewhere. He hasn’t seen me. Then all of a sudden he does and recoils in shock. His reaction leaves little doubt he thought I was dead. We’re face-to-face. Only the window separates us. Damn. I don’t want to kill him. I want him alive. I want answers. But it’s kill or be killed now. His eyes widen with terror. I’m squeezing the trigger when Carla realizes what’s happening and floors the gas pedal. The tires spin wildly, emitting a piercing screech. The sudden acceleration knocks me backward, throwing the Beretta off line. The bullet punches a tiny hole in the car’s headlining right above me. I hear the sharp crack of gunshots as Surigao opens fire simultaneously. Three, four, five deafening pops. The side and rear windows shatter, showering me with glass as the rounds whizz overhead.

Somewhere in the middle of it all, Carla yelps, then lurches backward and falls between the front seats. Her head comes to rest right in front of me. Blood seeps from beneath it, pooling on the floor. Her perfect face is unmarked, her perfect eyes are staring up at me blank and unmoving.

The car begins swerving right, then left, throwing me from side to side as it careens out of control. I’m wondering whether or not I’ve been shot too. There’s no pain and no blood, but I’ve seen plenty of men die without much of either.

I manage to reach across Carla’s body from the backseat, grab the shift lever, and slam it from Drive straight through Reverse into Park. The transmission emits a grinding scream in protest.

The car dives to a stop.

I’m tossed forward. My shoulders slam into the back of the seats, keeping me from being propelled headlong into the dash. I clamber across the seat and slip out the door on the driver’s side in a crouch, hugging the rear fender, keeping the car between me and Surigao, fully expecting him to be emptying his pistol in my direction. But I don’t hear any more gunfire, only what sounds like a car driving off.

Wisps of pungent smoke are still curling from the wheel well
next to me. A bluish haze hangs in thin layers overhead. The sudden acceleration burned a lot of rubber but the car covered little ground. I’m no more than twenty or thirty feet from the intersection. Surigao had plenty of time to advance and fire. But he didn’t. I don’t see him. I don’t hear him either. Where the hell is he? Behind me? Moving up on the opposite side of the car?

I drop to the ground with the pistol. I’m flat on my belly, looking between the bottom of the car and the pavement for Surigao’s shoes. Instead I see a tiny figure in the distance, running toward the street market. It’s him. He’s threading his way between a small number of shoppers who heard the gunfire and are hurrying, curiously, toward the street.

I get to my feet and pursue. I’m running at full tilt ?????, wondering why Surigao’s fleeing, wondering why he didn’t continue firing. He had the strategic advantage. Had me pinned down. I don’t get it.

I come through the space between the buildings into the square. The aisles that separate the market’s rickety stalls are teeming with locals and tourists buying everything from exotic herbs to bogus antiques. Most either didn’t hear, or chose to ignore, the shooting.

Surigao’s gone, swallowed up by the crowd.

I’m standing there drenched in sweat, gasping for breath, scanning the shoppers to no avail. Then I notice a commotion up ahead and spot him pushing people aside, stumbling forward. The market has slowed him down. He’s much closer than I thought. But I can’t risk a shot with all these bystanders. I wade into the crowd, knifing sideways between the marketgoers. Some angrily stand their ground. Others glare. A few shove back.

“My wallet!” I shout, taking an elbow in the ribs. “Stop that guy. He’s got my wallet!”

My plea falls on deaf ears, but finally several people step aside, allowing me to break into the clear. I start sprinting down one of the aisles after Surigao. Suddenly there’s a flash of colorful fabric. A man backs into my path from one of the stalls. I try to avoid him but can’t. The collision sends me sprawling. I instinctively use my hands to break my fall, losing my grip on the pistol. It goes skittering across the pavement. I can see it up ahead in a forest of legs and tramping feet. I’m crawling toward it when someone hurrying through the crowd kicks it in stride. Damn. It’s gone. The pistol’s gone. Out of sight.

Someone takes hold of my arm and begins helping me to my feet. It’s a heavyset man in a flower-print shirt, camera around his neck, gadget bag over his shoulder. His soft, friendly face is taut with concern. “Hey, gosh, I’m really sorry. You okay?”

I ignore him, scanning the crowd frantically, and finally spot Surigao heading into an alley on the far side of the market.

“Gosh, I didn’t see you coming there,” the big fellow goes on. “I sure hope you’re not hurt or anything?”

“No, no, I’m fine. No problem,” I say, trying to get past him.

“You sure, now?” he asks sincerely, his huge girth blocking my way.

“Yeah, yeah. Guy lifted my wallet. Gotta go.” I finally get around him and head after Surigao unarmed, knowing I’ll never catch up to him if I take the time to look for the pistol.

The alley is narrow, unpaved, and piled with trash. I weave between the mountains of plastic bags and dented pails, ending up in a courtyard. Alleys branch off in every direction. Surigao’s nowhere to be seen, but I hear the rhythmic clack of shoes running on concrete. The sound is echoing off the walls, which makes it virtually impossible to determine where it’s coming from. Several seconds pass before I notice that only one of the alleys is paved, and make a beeline for it. At first it looks like a cul de sac, but soon I can see it abuts a cross alley at the far end. I pause at the last building, creep up to the corner, and peer around it cautiously.

Straight ahead is a high retaining wall.

To the right a facade of steel shutter doors.

To the left a long staircase leads up to what looks like a promenade.

Surigao is frantically taking the steps two at a time. He’s only got a few to go. I’ve barely started after him when he reaches the top and disappears from view. I charge after him, stumbling several times. The sound of a boat horn rises as I come off the stairs onto a walkway that parallels the river. Surigao is up ahead running along the worn timbers. He turns on the move and fires a wild shot. Then another.

How many bullets does he have in that thing? It’s a revolver. Six shots. But that was at least seven, if not eight, counting the ones he fired at the car. It has to be the last one.

He seems to be losing steam. No more than forty yards separate us now. I once ran it in five flat when I was in college. Nothing
for the record books. But it’s taking me twice as long now. Too many T-bones and not enough reps on the rowing machine. My legs are killing me, lungs screaming for mercy, heart on the verge of arrest, but I’m closing the gap.

Surigao angles to his left and heads down a short dock that juts into the river. Several cars are coming toward us. Cars? There’s a ferry slip at the far end, and the ferry’s in. The dockman is closing the gate behind the last vehicle and a few pedestrians who have just boarded. Surigao dashes past the ticket booth; then, almost colliding with the dockman, he grabs the top of the gate and dives over it onto the deck of the departing vessel. He lands hard, lies there for a moment, then gradually struggles to his feet, holding his side in pain.

I run up to the gate and grasp it, poised to vault after him, but the ferry is too far from the dock. I’d never make it. I stand there glaring at Surigao with hatred as it glides off into the river.

Nancy’s killer is gone. He’ll have no trouble vanishing in this teeming city. I’ll never find him. Bystanders or no, I should’ve shot him in the street market when I had the chance. I’m staring numbly at the ferry’s graceful wake when I feel something sticky and wet on my hand. I let go of the railing. My palm is bright red with blood—Surigao’s blood.

He’s wounded.

I didn’t shoot him.

But someone else sure as hell did.