He tried to remember the last time he’d spoken with Jonathan Quinn. It had been a while. Once the Office was disbanded, Peter had no longer been in a position to need the cleaner’s talent for disposing of unwanted bodies.
While he waited for Quinn to call him back, he logged on to his secure computer, and started putting feelers out to some of the sources he had in Asia, seeing if anyone might have unknowingly worked with Mila.
At a quarter after four, his phone rang. Only Misty and Quinn had the number, so he snatched it up without looking at the display.
“Yes?” he said.
“You called?” Not Misty.
“Quinn?”
“Hello, Peter.”
Not Quinn, either.
CHAPTER 3
BANGKOK, THAILAND
Browsers and shoppers and people who had nothing better to do crowded the sidewalk, checking out the stalls and tables selling charms and tokens and Buddhas by the bucketful. Though their number included more than a few tourists, most were Thai. The sellers who offered the best wares drew the largest crowds, sometimes making the sidewalk impassible for a minute or two.
On the street itself, cars were caught in a logjam, their pace even slower than that of the pedestrians-a few feet forward, stop, wait, a few feet more.
One of the taxis veered toward the curb. Before it had even stopped, the rear door swung open, and a farang — a foreigner-climbed out. Dressed in jeans and a black T-shirt, he looked like just another Westerner out exploring the sights of the Land of Smiles. But he hadn’t come to Thailand for the culture. He was there for only one purpose.
Those on the sidewalk seemed to sense the difference in him. It wasn’t fear he invoked, but something closer to determination, a sense of mission, causing Thais and tourists alike to move to the side so that his path was unimpeded.
The clouds that had been gathering above Bangkok all morning had finally blanketed the sky, and the distant rumble of thunder warned of a change ahead. Many of the street vendors began to double-check the canopies and umbrellas that covered their goods, and those who didn’t have protection began packing up.
The smell arrived first. Rain on asphalt, perhaps a few blocks away. Then the initial drops began to fall. It started as a smattering, nothing more than a tease, but within seconds became a downpour, skipping all steps in between.
Tourists caught in the open rushed for cover, while the locals, who lived with the rain every day, went on with business as usual. The man in the black T-shirt continued walking as if the sun were still shining, and gave the rain no acknowledgment whatsoever.
It wasn’t long before he came to the point where the road took a sharp turn to the right. Instead of continuing with it, he went left into a short extension of the asphalt filled with food carts, where cars were no longer welcome. Dozens of tables were set up under umbrellas and tarps, crowded with people enjoying meals and staying dry.
Vendors called out to the man, trying to entice him to stop. Each time he put his hands together in front of his chest and bowed his head slightly in a Thai wai, thanking them for the offer but never once slowing his pace.
At the back end of the food area was a permanent structure. Inside were more stalls, a mixture of food and T-shirt vendors and souvenir shops. This was where the majority of the farang tourists had taken refuge.
The man walked all the way through the building and out the other end, onto a covered ramp that led down to a dock. Beyond was the wide and mighty Chao Phraya, the river that sliced the city in half. Its brown water was littered with green patches of vegetation floating rapidly southward toward the Gulf of Thailand. Long boats and barges and small river ferries, unconcerned about the rain, continued to move up and down it.
On the covered part of the dock, several people waited for one of the ferries to arrive. The man could see it approaching from the north. Like the others that traveled between the piers, it was long and low to the water, with rows of seats along each edge, like a canopy-covered airliner missing the top half of its tube.
The man walked all the way down to the dock, and took a position several feet from the others. He carefully scanned the river, noting at a subconscious level where each vessel was.
With a series of whistles from a man at the back of the boat, the ferry eased against the dock, then the motor was thrown into reverse to hold it in place. The whistler jumped off, and tied the vessel to the pier. As soon as he was out of the way, half a dozen passengers piled off, then those who had been waiting climbed aboard.
The only one who hadn’t moved was the man in the black T-shirt. The whistler gave him a questioning look, wondering whether he was going to get on, but the man on the dock shook his head. Seconds later, with another whistle, the ferry took off.
As the man scanned the river, he resisted the urge to bend his leg. He knew the cramp he felt in his right calf was all in his imagination. He didn’t have a right calf, only a high-tech prosthetic attached to the few inches that remained of his leg below his knee. The phantom pains and discomforts were more an annoyance now than anything. He’d taught himself how to deal with them, and knew how to push them from his mind. After a moment, the cramp went away.
From the south, the high-pitched sound of a motor rose above the other noises on the river. Not a longboat, not even a ferry. It was a powerboat that looked like it would be more at home on a lake in the States than here on the Chao Phraya. It was racing down the center of the river. Then, as it drew closer, it veered toward the dock, where its wake rushed toward the longboats tied up nearby, rocking them against the docks and causing more than a few angry shouts.
Not exactly subtle, the man thought.
It had almost reached the dock when it powered down and let the river’s current bring it to a stop. There were two men on board. One hopped off the back and looped a rope around the end of a pillar.
The second remained at the controls. He looked over at the waiting man and smiled. “I believe you hired boat for day, yes?”
The expected question.
“That’s right. You came recommended.” The expected answer.
Once the man in the black T-shirt climbed aboard, the guy who’d roped off the boat untied it and jumped into the back.
“Can go under,” the pilot said, pointing at the door to the lower cabin. “No rain, and have beer and food if you want. Can sleep also. Will take us a couple hours, I think.”
“I’m fine here,” his new passenger replied.
The pilot shrugged. “Up to you.” The smile came out again. “Welcome aboard, Mr. Quinn.”
“Thank you,” Nate said.
The river took them north out of the city, and away from the rain. After about an hour, they reached Ayutthaya-the capital of Siam in centuries past-and skirted around its southern edge until it bent northwest into the countryside.
Small villages and farms surrounded the river, quickly turning the craziness of Bangkok-and, to a lesser extent, Ayutthaya-into a distant memory.
After a while, the pilot said, “Not long now.”
Nate nodded, his gaze fixed on the river ahead. Not for the first time, he played through his mind some of the possible scenarios of what was about to happen. This kind of thinking had been part of his early training when he was an apprentice cleaner to Jonathan Quinn.
It had been an invaluable tool. In a world where their job was to make bodies disappear, the ability to be flexible and immediately react to any situation was often the difference between success and becoming one of the bodies.
The problem with his upcoming meeting was that he’d already thought of at least a dozen ways it could go, and was sure there were at least a dozen others he hadn’t even considered.