Killing Rain (21 page)

She was surprised that his ties went back so far. “You . . . worked with them?”

He nodded. “Targeting Hussein’s mobile SCUD missile launchers. I don’t know what else they were up to. They certainly didn’t tell us about it.”

She considered. “They told you they were going into the CIA?”

He shrugged. “You know. Nudge, nudge, wink, wink. But Hilger’s behavior with Lavi confirms it, not that any confirmation was necessary. We’ve got electronic intercepts. Hilger has a CIA cryptonym: ‘Top Dog.’ You want to know the crypt they gave Lavi?”

She nodded.

“ ‘Jew-boy,’ ” he said.

“Wow.”

He shrugged again. “That’s how we know.”

“Do we know what those men were doing with Lavi in Manila?”

“We don’t. We didn’t know they were going to be there, obviously, or we would have warned Rain off.”

“What do you think the Agency was getting from Lavi?”

“I don’t know. Whatever it was, they weren’t sharing it with us. If they were, we might have decided Lavi was more useful alive than dead, at least for a while. As it is, the government just wants people like Lavi . . .” He waved a hand as though throwing something away, disposing of it.

“So someone else can take his place,” she said, with a genuinely sad smile.

“You know how it is. Disrupt and deprive is the name of the game. Taking out Lavi will disrupt networks that rely on him. And deprive them of his expertise.”

She nodded. Now was the moment to return the conversation to its more personal flavor. She would oblige him, but not in the way he was hoping.

“Remember that time in Vienna?” she asked, looking at him.

He returned her look but didn’t answer. She knew he wanted to say “yes” to get her to continue, but that he was afraid that uttering the word would be to confess to something he didn’t want to acknowledge.

“It’s not that I didn’t want to. But I can’t. With colleagues, I have to have distance. Otherwise I would lose my mind. Can you understand?”

He nodded uncomfortably. What else could he do?

“I admire you for what you do,” she went on. “I know it must be difficult. I just . . . just wanted to tell you that.”

The subtext was, there are so many other things I would like to say. Feeling admired, even desired, couldn’t help but soften him. Or fail to distract him from the more substantive inquiries she had just made.

“It’s okay,” he said, and gave her a fleeting and hesitant smile.

She had gotten him to agree that nothing was going to happen this time. And to hope, by implication, that there might be a time in the future.

She gave him a smile of her own. Men were so easy.

B
ACK IN BANGKOK
, Dox and I checked into the Grand Hyatt Erawan on Ratchadamri. It wasn’t as discreet a hotel as the Sukhothai, but I’m not usually comfortable using the same place twice in a row. What it lacked in low-key charm, though, the Erawan made up for operationally: it offered multiple entrances and exits on two floors and a significant security infrastructure in the form of guards and cameras. Ordinarily, surveillance and security are a hindrance to me and I try to avoid them. But this time, I wanted to be someplace that would offer obstacles to anyone who might think to visit me unexpectedly. Not that anyone knew where I was, but I always sleep better with multiple layers in place. And if one of those layers takes the form of 300-thread count cotton sheets . . . well, there aren’t so many perks to this profession. I take them when I can.

There was nothing to do now but wait, and I let Dox talk me into another evening on the town. I had enjoyed our meal together a few nights before, enjoyed it much more than the usual solitary night in a hotel room, and he didn’t have too hard a time persuading me. This time, though, I got to choose the venue.

I headed down to the lobby to meet him at eight o’clock as we had agreed. He was early again, and again looked very much the local expat in an untucked, short-sleeved, cream-colored linen shirt and jeans. He seemed to be absorbed in a book. As I got closer I noticed the title:
Beyond Good and Evil.

“You’re reading Nietzsche?” I asked, incredulous.

He looked at me. “Well, sure, why not?”

I struggled for a moment, concerned that whatever I said next would be insulting. “Well, it’s just . . .”

He smiled. “I know, I know, everybody thinks a southern boy can’t be intellectual. Well, my father worked for a big pharmaceutical company, and I grew up in Germany, where he was posted. I studied old Friedrich in school, and I liked him. All that stuff about the will to power and all. When I read it now, it comforts me.”

“Who’da thunk it,” I said, imitating his twang.

He laughed. “Hey, how did you even recognize what I was reading, cowboy? That’s more than I would have expected.”

I shrugged. “When I was a kid, I always seemed to be on the wrong side of one gang or another. I found the best place to hide was the library. They never thought to look for me there. Eventually I got bored and started reading the books. I never stopped.”

“Never stopped getting on the wrong side of gangs?”

I laughed. “It seems that way, doesn’t it. Never stopped reading, is what I meant.”

“So that’s where you get some of those big words you like to use. I found myself wondering from time to time. Plus you never
seem put off by my own extensive vocabulary. Even a word like ‘perineum,’ it seems like second nature to you.”

“It’s good of you to say.”

He closed the book and stood up. “Well, where are we off to tonight? Discotheque? Massage parlor?”

“I was thinking more along the lines of taking in a fight at Lumpini, then maybe a bar. An adult bar.”

“Sure, I love to see a little Thai boxing. Not sure about the adult bar, though. . . . Is it like an adult video? I like those a lot.”

“You might be disappointed, then. But you should still give it a try.”

He grinned. “ ’Course I’ll give it a try. Hell, I’m a tri-sexual, partner, I’ll try anything once.”

We took the stairs to the basement, then exited through the Amarin Plaza shopping mall. Out on the street, Dox started to flag down a cab.

“Wait,” I said. “Let’s move around a little first.”

“Move around . . . Look, man, is that really necessary? We did a route on the way to the hotel earlier. We know we’re clean.”

“Just because you were clean before doesn’t mean you’re clean now. You took a shower yesterday, right? Does that mean you don’t need one today?”

“Yeah, but . . .”

“There are ways to track someone other than physically following them. Think about what Delilah said. We’ve got some motivated people looking for us. Let’s not make it easy for them.”

He sighed. “All right, all right. I just don’t want to miss the fights, is all.”

We walked to Chit Lom station and took the sky train one stop to Phloen Chit. We waited on the platform until all the passengers had cleared, then got back on and rode back to Siam. We
took the elevator down to the street level, then ducked across one of the sois to Henri Dunant, where we caught a cab.

Dox looked at his watch. “Satisfied now? We’re going to miss half the fights.”

“The good fights start at nine.”

He looked at me. “You know Thailand better than you’ve been letting on, partner?”

I shrugged. “I’ve spent some time here. Not lately, though, and not like you.”

“You’re a mysterious man, Mr. Rain.”

I winced slightly at the mention of my name. All right, I know I’m paranoid, as Harry used to tell me: the name wouldn’t mean a thing to the cabdriver, who had picked us up utterly at random and who doubtless spoke no English regardless. But what was the upside of using a name? If your paranoia doesn’t cost you anything, I figure, why not indulge it? It’s worked for me so far.

But I let it go. I was learning that with Dox, as perhaps in all things, I had to pick my battles.

The cab ride to Lumpini stadium took ten minutes. We bought ringside seats for fifteen hundred baht apiece and went inside.

Muay Thai,
or Thai boxing, is Thailand’s indigenous form of pugilism. The contestants wear gloves, and in this and a few other respects the art is superficially similar to Western boxing. But Thai boxers also legally and enthusiastically fight with their feet, knees, elbows, and heads, even from grappling tie-ups that Western referees would immediately separate. The feel of a match is different, too, with none of the trash-talking that has come to dominate so many American sports. Instead, Thai boxers warm up together in the ring, largely ignoring each other as they perform the
wai khru
dances by which they pay homage to their teachers, and they fight to music, a blood-maddening mix of clarinet, drums, and cymbals. During my years in Japan I
worked with an ex-fighter who had come to the Kodokan to study judo. We taught each other many things, and I came away with a lot of respect for the ferocity and effectiveness of this fighting system.

The stadium was purely functional: three tiers of seats, pitted concrete floors, stark incandescent lights shining murderously into the ring. The air reeked of accumulated years of sweat and liniment. The second tier of seats was the most crowded, and the most uniformly Thai, as this was where the hard-core betting went on, and each solid shin kick or roundhouse was greeted from that section with a chorus of cries that had as much to do with commerce as with bloodlust.

We caught the last three fights of the evening. As always I was impressed with the skill and heart these men brought to the ring, and this time I found myself a little envious, too. When I was their age I had been at least that quick, and my speed had pulled me through any number of unpleasant close encounters. But my reflexes, though still good, and despite a careful diet, supplement, and exercise regimen, weren’t the same anymore. I touched the knife in my pocket, and thought,
Well, that’s what toys are for. Along with evolving tactics.

Dox was characteristically boisterous, hollering enthusiastically during the fights and even getting up to offer some congratulations in Thai to the winners as they left the ring. I would have preferred it if he had been able to keep a lower profile, but I recognized that this would be impossible for him. I reminded myself that, if I wanted this fledgling partnership to go anywhere, I would have to try to accept Dox more or less as he was.

When the last match had ended, we headed outside. Dox said, “Well, the night is young. Are we going to hit that ‘adult bar’?”

I nodded. “Yeah, if you’re not too tired.”

He grinned. “I’m good if you are. Let’s get a cab.”

He saw my expression and said, “Oh, man, not again . . .”

“Just down the street. We’ll walk along Lumpini Park. We can get a cab from there. It’ll be easier, there are fewer people.”

“Along Lumpini Park? There won’t be any people.”

“Well, that’s even better. No competition at all.”

He sighed and nodded, and I realized with an odd sense of gratitude that he was doing the same sort of “if I want this thing to work” calculus that I was.

We walked, then found a cab. It took only a few minutes to get to the place I had in mind: Brown Sugar, Bangkok’s best jazz club.

The club was on Soi Sarasin, opposite the northwest corner of giant Lumpini Park. It announced its presence quietly and with confidence: a simple green awning with white lettering that proclaimed “Brown Sugar—The Finest Jazz Restaurant.” A redbrick façade and a lacquered wooden doorway, the door propped open, inviting. A window with rows of glass shelving displaying odds and ends—a ceramic bourbon decanter sporting a map of Kentucky, an antique martini mixer, a collection of tiny glass bottles, twin coffee canisters, a demitasse, ceramic soldiers in Napoleonic garb. A few wooden tables and chairs along the sidewalk in front, illuminated only by whatever light escaped from the club inside.

I was gratified to find the place still thriving. It was bracketed to the right by an alley and to the left by a cluster of neon-lit bars with names like Bar D and The Room and Café Noir. Unlike Brown Sugar, which had a classic—some might say rundown—feel to it, the others all looked new. I had a feeling that none of the upstarts would be here a year from now. Brown Sugar might be older, but it had what it takes to go the distance.

We got out of the cab, crossed the street, and went inside. A sign by the door said the band playing was called Anodard. Anodard turned out to be two guitars, sax, keyboards, drums, and a pretty female vocalist. They were doing a nice cover of Brenda Russell’s “Baby Eyes,” and the main room, a cramped,
low-ceilinged space that could hold probably thirty people on a good night, was about three-quarters full. The décor was exactly as it should be: dim lighting, a bare ceiling, worn tables and floor, fading jazz memorabilia on the walls. I hoped no one would ever think to give the place a face-lift. We took a table on the right side of the bar, with a view of the band. Brown Sugar’s only real failing is its unimaginative selection of single malts, but I made do with a Glenlivet eighteen-year-old. Dox ordered a Stoli rocks. We settled back, sipped our drinks, and listened to the music. It turned out to be more pop than jazz, but Anodard was good and that was the main thing.