He breaks off as Arthit touches his knee and lifts his eyebrows at the driver, whose eyes keep going to the rearview mirror.
“And that information…um, confounded Dr. Ravi’s expectations, and all of a sudden his political allegiances shifted. I mean, drastically. Whether he knew about the fire or not, he suddenly realizes that the archangel is in bed with the archfiend. So Dr. Ravi decides to use his privileged position to work against you-know-who’s ever getting elected to anything, and here comes the last thing on earth he wants to see: some hack writer, and a farang to boot, all set to crank out a biography of the no-longer-great man.”
“Why would he think the book would be sympathetic?”
“My fault. I kicked him out of the office before I told Pan about the threats from the other side, before we came to our understanding. When the door opens, half an hour later, Pan and I are getting along great, so great that I’ve been invited to the malaria thing, and then Pan’s lending my wife diamonds worth millions, and I’m apparently allowed to drop by whenever I want. So sure, Dr. Ravi figures the book will be a whitewash, a fan letter. I’m going to turn Pan into Gandhi.”
Arthit scratches his head. “So it was Dr. Ravi who warned you not to write the book.”
“Yeah. I don’t think he was actually going to carry out the threats. He thought I’d scare off easily, and I would have if it hadn’t been for Ton. But he got some people who are really serious about their politics to keep an eye on me, and when he told them to discourage me for a second or third time, they went a little overboard.”
Arthit glances at the bandaged hand. “I’d say so.”
“I’d like to keep listening,” the driver says, “but we’re almost there. It’s the next right.”
49
Boo rolls over four or five times, as fast as he can-sky, driveway, sky, driveway-heading for the weeds, putting distance between himself and the…the whatever it was. He reaches the edge of the drive and worms his way into the weeds, pulling himself along on his elbows, just as a brilliant light pours out of the window on the left. The light is pointed directly at Boo. He knows he’s been spotted, and he’s on the verge of getting to his knees so he can run, but the light slowly slides past him. He’s just realizing that they didn’t see him after all when the light picks out an old gray dog, sitting in the center of the driveway, scratching its ear.
“A dog,” somebody inside says.
The light, Boo can see now, is the one Dr. Ravi was assembling. He’s standing in the window, holding the pipe so he can turn the light right and left without burning his hands on the fixture. The dog gets up slowly, obviously stiff in the joints, gives its ribs a halfhearted scratch with a back paw, looks at Boo, and wags its tail. Then it starts to amble toward him.
“Where’s it going?” a different voice-Pan-asks.
Boo is frantically trying to wave the dog off. A little creakily, the dog goes down on its front legs, paws wide, ready to play.
“Maybe there’s somebody there,” Dr. Ravi says.
“Gun,” Pan says. He is still out of sight.
“It’s probably some kid. Who’s going to show up with a dog?”
“Gun,” Pan snaps.
Dr. Ravi lets go of the light, and it ends up pointing at the spot where Boo left Tee. Boo peers through the weeds, trying to see something, anything-the pale oval of a face, the gleam of eyes. But there’s nothing. So the good news is that they don’t see Tee. The bad news is that the dog is headed straight for Boo.
Pan’s silhouette looms in the doorway, throwing a shadow twenty feet long. He holds the gun in both hands, barrel up, a stance that looks professional. Boo pulls himself farther into the weeds, and the dog trots happily along behind him. Bringing the gun down in front of him, Pan starts in the dog’s direction.
“Khun Pan,” Dr. Ravi calls as headlights sweep across the sagging gate. “Somebody’s coming.”
IN THE YELLOW cones of light, Rafferty sees kids scattering into the dark. “Well,” he says to Arthit, “at least they’re doing what they’re supposed to do.”
Arthit says, “Pull past the gate, maybe ten, fifteen meters. Stop in the middle of the road. I don’t want to climb out into all that fucking plant life.”
“The big man’s afraid of bugs,” the driver says, but he does as he’s told. “Here?”
“Fine.” Rafferty opens his door. “That’s thirty-three hundred on the meter, plus another five thousand for speed. What the hell, call it ten thousand.” He drops the money over the back of the seat.
The driver grabs the bills as though he’s afraid Rafferty will regain his sanity. “Want me to wait?”
“No. Just go.” To Kosit, Rafferty says, “Close the door softly. There’s one chance in a thousand they didn’t see or hear us.”
“Amateur night,” Arthit grumps, climbing out. He eases his door closed and taps the window, signaling the driver to go, but Rafferty pulls his door open again.
“Listen,” he says to the driver. “Pull a little farther past and then turn around and drive out, slowly, like you’re looking for something. Got it?”
“For ten thousand? I’ll drive out sideways.”
“Just do it like I said. Like you made a wrong turn and you’re heading out again.”
“Fine.”
Rafferty closes the door again, and the three of them watch the driver make a three-point turn and creep back the way he came. They stand silently for a long moment, and finally Kosit says, “Think that’ll fool anybody?”
“Oh, who knows? Better than nothing.”
“Hurry,” Arthit whispers, grabbing Rafferty’s arm. He pulls them into the hedge that lines the factory wall. A moment later they see Pan come through the gate. He’s carrying a gun.
All three of them hold their breath.
Pan comes into the middle of the road, looking up and down, and turns to follow the taxi’s taillights as it makes the left at the end of the block. Then, gun still extended, he goes back through the gate.
“Remember,” Rafferty whispers. “He’s not just a fat rich guy with a gun. He did a lot of enforcement work.”
“In the file that got vaporized,” Arthit says, “he was figured for three killings.”
THE DOG HAS given up on Boo and returned to the driveway, which is still warm from the sun. It sits down as though it owns the place and watches Pan approach.
Halfway to the dog, Pan stops as suddenly as though he’s been frozen in place. He remains there, motionless, while Boo, watching, counts silently past fifty. Pan is waiting to hear something, waiting for someone to shift or fidget, waiting for anything that seems wrong. Without moving anything but his head, he slowly surveys the front of the factory and then, very deliberately, turns in a complete circle. Then he waits again, holding the gun two-handed, pointing at the sky.
Dr. Ravi appears in the door of the factory, and Boo sees Pan’s shoulders relax, and the man starts to walk toward the door. He makes a detour to scratch the dog’s head and ears, and when he’s done, the dog stands and follows him into the factory.
“Let’s get this finished,” Pan says.
Boo rises, taking advantage of the fact that they both have their backs turned. He works his way farther left, his eyes fixed on the barred window. Five or six weedy meters from it, he lines up a clear view and settles in to watch.
Inside, bright light sweeps blackened walls. Dr. Ravi carries one of the tripod assemblies to the far wall and points it at the end of the room to the left, which is out of Boo’s line of sight. Shortly afterward Pan shuffles past again, pushing another black object, sagging and half melted. Boo can almost identify the shape it used to have, but not quite. Still, he knows that he recognizes it.