I soon discovered that this was easily the most appropriate mood to be in when first laying eyes on Dov Eshkol. We spotted our man right after he got through Subang customs, and although we had all studied pictures of him in various guises and pored carefully over a list of his vital statistics, the bearded, wild-eyed Eshkol gave the impression of being far bigger and more deranged than any of us had expected. Dressed, as Jonah had predicted he would be, in the uniform of a world relief organization (Doctors Without Borders), Eshkol strode through the crowds of weeping Muslims and Hindus who were waiting for other passengers on his plane, as well as the many military personnel in the airport, as if he were untouchable— which he was, of course, proving to be. None of us wondered at his not being stopped for questioning — the watch for him here could not have been vigorous, for what kind of fugitive would seek asylum in a war zone? — and before long we were inside a beat-up, stinking old Lexus taxi, following Eshkol's similar conveyance into the city.
Our destination, it soon became clear, was the battered Islamic-style tower called the Dayabumi Complex, where Eshkol apparently had an appointment. As we drove, our taxi driver began to complain about the questionable ethics of following another cab in a manner that indicated he wanted more money; and listening to him rattle on I found myself once again thinking of Max and laughing quietly as I thought of how summarily he would have dealt with the grousing little man at the wheel. I wondered, too, what he would have made of my recent adventures; but I didn't much care for the answers that I soon gave myself. Although I had no doubt that Max would have greatly appreciated Larissa and abusively condemned Dov Eshkol, the Malaysian situation, and many other things I'd come across and through, I couldn't imagine him actually approving of our current job. I tried to tell myself that such an attitude would have been a product of Max's endless cynicism, of his unwillingness — hardened by years on the New York police force — to believe that anyone actually had a lofty or principled motive for doing anything. Yet this self-serving disparagement of my dead friend's philosophy and motivations only disturbed me further, and by the time we pulled up in front of the Dayabumi Complex I found that it was necessary to force his image from my mind altogether.
We scarcely had time to enter the Dayabumi Complex before we saw Eshkol going back out, now in the company of a man who seemed, from his dress and features, to be a Muslim Malaysian. Most of the country's Hindu and Buddhist minorities, originally of Indian and Chinese origin, had sided with the Allies during the war as retribution for years of mistreatment at the hands of the primarily Muslim government. Eshkol's choice of companion, therefore, was at least a fair indication that he did indeed intend to make a run for the loyalist-controlled mountains. When we returned to the crowded plaza outside the building, we waited until we saw Eshkol and his guide disappear in an old Japanese four-by-four up the Karak Highway toward the mile-high peak beyond the front lines that was the site of the Genting Highlands resort. Larissa then signaled her brother, and we all made quickly for a dark, fairly deserted area beyond the National Mosque to rendezvous with our ship, aboard which Eli was already keeping careful satellite track of Eshkol's vehicle.
We conducted our slow pursuit in a somewhat somber mood. Ahead of us lay what was arguably the greatest center of illegal trade and unbridled hedonism on the planet, a place that could not have had a more fitting title than the "Las Vegas of Malaysia"; but before we reached it still more horror lay in wait for us. We found Eshkol's car and its driver at the start of the eleven-mile, bomb-pitted thoroughfare that led to the resort from the main highway: the unidentified Muslim man, having guided Eshkol through the Allied checkpoints below, had been rewarded with a savage slash to the throat, after which Eshkol had apparently continued his passage on foot. He was evidently determined to leave no witnesses behind, a conclusion from which I actually drew encouragement: it at least indicated that he intended to survive whatever event he was planning, which ruled out a suicide bombing, still the only truly foolproof method of committing a terrorist act.
Had I adequately considered the second possibility inherent in his actions — that he simply enjoyed killing when he could — I would have heeded the voice that I had attributed to poor Max, and urged my comrades to turn back.
CHAPTER 36
Long before the outbreak of the Malaysian war, the group of large white hotels centered around an expansive casino known as the Genting Highlands Resort had established itself as the most luxurious and popular gambling venue in all of Southeast Asia. Over time recreational attractions other than the casino were built at the resort in an attempt to create the illusion of a family vacation spot; but this veil never really achieved opacity, and the gaming tables remained the obvious attraction, as evidenced by the fact that they were mobbed twenty-four hours a day. And though several of the hotels had been damaged during the war and an understandable bite had been taken out of Malaysian tourism, many determined sporting souls continued to make the pilgrimage to the Highlands from abroad. Together with the non-Muslim members of the Malaysian army garrison (Muslims being forbidden to enter the casino), these loyal patrons kept the action at the tables going strong, simultaneously supporting those ancillary industries — prostitution, liquor, drug dealing, and thievery — that generally spring up in places where people exhibit an irrational determination to be separated from their money.
But by 2023 such comparatively ordinary, even quaint pursuits were no longer the biggest businesses in the Genting Highlands, as became clear from the moment Slayton, Larissa, Tarbell, and I were dropped off atop the old Theme Park Hotel, which had been repeatedly bombed during the war and had finally been abandoned. The Highlands' rubble-strewn yet undauntedly merry streets were buzzing with commerce that I can only describe as a kind of doomsday bazaar. Stands of weapons, some of them quite advanced, stood in concrete basins that had once been fountains, their sellers hawking them aggressively to bands of Malaysian soldiers, as well as to visiting dealers and terrorists. Seeing that we were foreigners, tradespeople continually approached our party to find out if we wished to purchase and take home any "servants" — a clear euphemism for what amounted to slaves — while subtler men and women engaged us in quiet conversations concerning any and every imaginable piece of high-tech equipment. Great crowds cheered, drank, smoked, fired off guns as well as fireworks, and had at each other sexually on top of anything that seemed marginally less garbage-strewn than the ground. Through all of these activities the artillery batteries that ringed the resort kept up an incessant fire on Kuala Lumpur, while a giant portable radar dish swept the skies for any sign of Allied planes. It was an utterly stupefying scene, all the more so because of its underlying cause: the rest of the world's simple desire to keep breathing.
The extent of the confusion in the resort did not concern us unduly as we made our way into it, for though we had temporarily lost visual contact with Eshkol, we knew enough about how and why he'd come to the Genting Highlands to be relatively sure that we would be able to relocate him. After making inquiries concerning the purchase of weapons-grade plutonium — inquiries that didn't seem to alarm or surprise the dealers we approached in the slightest — we were told that such transactions were the strict province of General Tunku Said, whose headquarters were in a bowling alley adjacent to the casino, a place that resembled, from the outside, what it had effectively become: a windowless concrete bomb shelter. Said, who had apparently assumed warlord powers over the area since the escalation of the war, also oversaw the casino's business; but it was from the sale of the very rarest types of merchandise that he made his truly serious profits. Larissa had, of course, brought along her handheld rail gun, and after a quick conference we decided among ourselves to demonstrate it for Said in the hope that his desire to acquire such valuable technology would persuade him to share any information he had about Eshkol.