Christine was radiant in a formal dress, looking older than a high school senior. Allie scooted closer to see, and Drake held out the snapshot.
“Oh, she’s beautiful,” Allie said.
“You have no idea. In person she lights up any room she’s in. She’s one of those special personalities. She could be anything she wanted, I always told her.” Margaret fished another photo from the wallet. “And this is Christine on her seventh birthday.” She held it out with trembling fingers and dropped it. “Oh, damn.”
Drake recovered the photograph and studied the image. Margaret gave a muffled sob and quickly recovered, brushing a tear from her face. “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice tight. “I promised myself I would be strong.”
“You’re doing fine. This has to be hard,” Allie sympathized.
“You have no idea. After Arthur and I divorced six years ago, it affected Christine more than I like to think. I can’t help but blame myself for this. Maybe if we’d stayed together, she wouldn’t have gone off in search of whatever she was looking for, would have been more at peace… she took it really hard. That was the start of her wild period. Just the usual college stuff, but she drifted away from me as she grew up, until one day she announced she was going to China. Didn’t ask. Just told me, like it was an afterthought. And now…”
Drake handed Margaret back the photos. “Mrs. Whitfield, we’re going to do everything possible to learn what happened. If your daughter’s alive, we’ll find her and get her out of there. You can count on us.”
“Blakely. Margaret Blakely now. I went back to my maiden name after the divorce.” She gave a small smile that was hard to interpret. “I’ve heard the jungle is dangerous. Everyone says it’s a snake pit,” she went on. “I’m sorry. I didn’t ask you here to watch me blubber.” She stood and moved to the wet bar, poured herself three fingers of Johnny Walker Blue, and waved the bottle at them. “You want a cocktail?”
Allie and Drake demurred. “No, thanks.”
Margaret nodded and took two healthy swallows. “I’m not a drinker, but… well, I can’t sleep, can’t eat. All I can think about is Christine…” She choked up again and finished the glass. When she turned to them, her eyes were brimming with tears. “Thank you so much for doing this. I just need to know for sure…”
“I understand. We won’t let you down.”
Uncle Pete caught their signals from his silent position by the door and gave a small nod. Allie and Drake rose. Margaret tried to smile, but the effect was brittle and her gaze unfocused.
“We’ll show ourselves out,” Allie said.
“Thank you again for coming. I… I just wanted to meet you and offer my appreciation. If there’s ever anything I can do for you, just say the word. Or if you need something here — money, whatever. You know where I am. I’ll move mountains to get what you need.”
“We appreciate it, Mrs.… Ms. Blakely. And we’ll keep that in mind,” Drake said.
The elevator ride back to the ground level was somber. The reality of the emotional toll of Christine’s disappearance had drained them. Uncle Pete was the only one who seemed unaffected, and when they were back in traffic, his attitude was as though nothing had happened.
“You want sightsee? Got time. Permit coming end day, soonest.”
“No, thanks. Back to the hotel, I think,” Drake said.
Uncle Pete gave Allie a sly look. “Maybe ping-pong show?”
“Like a match?” Allie asked, her mind elsewhere.
Uncle Pete cackled. “You look on web. Big deal here. Popular.”
Allie gave him a puzzled look, not registering his meaning.
“I don’t think we want to know,” Drake said, processing faster than Allie and cutting Uncle Pete off before he could venture further down that road.
Allie’s eyes widened and her mouth formed an O as realization of what the little Thai was alluding to dawned on her.
Drake shook his head and met Allie’s horrified stare. “Some things are best left for the documentary.”
Chapter 13
Alex and Spencer walked along the sidewalk in downtown Bangkok. Heat rose in waves around them; the air was muggy and tinged with the aroma of fried food, cigarettes, and exhaust. Pools of oily water glistened in potholes, the remnants of a morning cloudburst that had dropped a few inches of rain on the metropolis just after dawn. Street vendors hawked every manner of ware, from leather wallets and consumer electronics to illicit substances and sex shows where animals or children featured a prominent role.
They ignored all the come-ons and made their way toward the Chinese cemetery, past ornate temples layered in gold leaf and bright hues and into a residential district where every other building boasted a sign in neon red or green proclaiming the lowest prices in all Bangkok.
When Alex told Spencer the agency had secured weapons for them, Spencer had insisted on accompanying him to inspect them.
“You don’t have to. I can handle it,” Alex had said.
“No problem. If my life’s going to depend on gear, I’d rather see it with my own eyes before we buy off.”
“Suit yourself. But is it really a good idea to give civilians submachine guns? That’s an accident waiting to happen.”
“They know their way around weapons. They’ll be fine after some basic orientation.”
“If they shoot their foot off, it’s on you.”
“Appreciate the concern.”
Spencer had let Alex’s condescending tone go. He could see the agent’s point. If the situation had been reversed, Spencer would have voiced the same concerns, and he didn’t take it personally. Both were professionals, and neither was trying to make a new best friend. They had jobs to do, and might need each other to survive once in the jungle.
As they passed a restaurant filled with local diners, a comely young woman in a short red silk dress offered them a menu with a bright smile. Alex shook his head and Spencer noted his permanent scowl was back on display — like he’d just swallowed a shot of vinegar.
Three blocks down, Alex checked his smartphone and verified the address.
“It’s that orange place,” he said. They crossed the street and approached the building, which housed apartments above an antique store.
They entered the shop, and a wizened man with gray hair and steel spectacles peered up at them from his chair, which was surrounded by curios and furniture.
“Anurak?” Alex asked.
“Yes. How may I help you?” Anurak replied in good English.
“I’m looking for a baby carriage.”
“We have several.”
“Something in blue.”
The old man’s demeanor changed, and he pushed wordlessly past them to the entrance. He flipped the sign over so it read “Closed” through the glass door, and locked the deadbolt. When he returned, he was all business.
“In my warehouse,” he said, and led them through a glass-beaded curtain to the rear of the building.
A dark green duffle bag rested on a wooden crate near a water dispenser. Chests, armoires, and tables filled the large space. At the far end a refinishing and sanding area sat empty, cans of stain and varnish strewn around the floor. Anurak unzipped the bag and removed a submachine gun. He handed it to Alex, who disassembled it with practiced familiarity and inspected the parts. Anurak watched with an impassive expression and then extracted another identical weapon and gave it to Spencer, who eyed it approvingly.
“Heckler & Koch MP5SD6. Very nice. Three-round burst mode, integrated suppressor, chambered for 9mm parabellum. Thirty-round box mag. Simple, easy to use, light, compact,” Spencer said.