A few minutes later, the river bent to the right and straightened again. As it did, a temple came into view on the left bank about a quarter mile ahead. Like with all Buddhist temples in Thailand, the upside down, conical stupa-or, as the Thais called it, chedi — rose prominently in the middle of the temple grounds. This one, unlike some others he’d seen, was not covered in gold. Its pitted surface had been white once, but dirt and mold had worked their way into the nooks and cracks, dulling its long forgotten brightness.
The temple building itself was undergoing renovations. An intricate, clearly makeshift wooden scaffolding had been erected around most of the structure. A small group of men was spread out along it, working on the temple walls.
The boat’s engine began to throttle back, and the man at the wheel steered the craft toward the small pier that served the temple. Through the bushes at the edge of the bank, Nate thought he could see movement on the temple grounds. When the boat was only a hundred feet away, three monks wearing bright orange robes, their heads shaved bare, stepped onto the dock and watched them approach.
The boat’s pilot eased them forward, and with a perfect touch, brought the side of the vessel up against several old tires that buffered the dock.
“Wat Doi Thong,” he said, announcing the name of the temple. “How long do you think?”
“I don’t know,” Nate told him.
“I don’t want to spend night out here.”
“Neither do I, but you’re being paid enough, so if it happens, it happens.”
Nate stepped onto the dock.
“Mr. Quinn.”
Nate looked back. “Yes?”
“You like one of us come with you?”
“That won’t be necessary.”
The pilot seemed relieved. “Okay. No problem. We be here.”
Nate walked over to the monks and gave them a deep wai. “ Sawadee, krap. ”
The monks returned the wai and the greeting, almost as one.
“ Khun phood phasa Angrit, dai mai? ” Nate said, asking if any of them spoke English.
The middle monk seemed to think for a moment, then said slowly, “Sorry. Only Thai.”
Nate was about to call to the boat pilot and have him do some translating, when a new voice said, “I speak English.”
A man was standing on the shore just past where the dock ended. Nate was sure he hadn’t been there a moment before. He, too, was wearing a saffron robe, but unlike the other monks, he sported a goatee and had a full head of black hair that fell almost to the base of his neck. On his exposed shoulder, Nate could see a tattoo of a tiger peeking up over the top, like it was ready to pounce off the man’s back.
Nate walked toward him. “Great. I believe I was expected. My name’s-”
“I know who you are,” the man said. Surprisingly, though he looked Thai, he sounded as American as Nate did. “I’m afraid you’ve wasted the trip, though.”
Nate stopped at the edge of the dock. “He’s not here?”
“He’s made it clear he has no desire for visitors.”
“This isn’t a social call.”
“I’m sorry,” the man said, then glanced at the boat. “If you leave now, you might get back to Bangkok before it gets too late.”
Nate stepped onto the shore. “If he doesn’t want to see me, he can tell me that himself.”
A wry smile appeared on the long-haired monk’s face. “That would be defeating the purpose, don’t you think?”
“I don’t care about the purpose. I’m not leaving until I see him.”
“Then I think you should make yourself comfortable. You’re going to be waiting a long time.”
“Yeah?” Nate said, taking another step forward. “Well, I don’t have time to wait, either.”
The man laughed. “You’re playing right into the American stereotype. Always in a hurry.”
Nate walked up the short path, straight toward the monk. When he neared him, he said, “Excuse me.”
The man, still smiling, stepped to the side, but just as Nate passed him, the monk grabbed him from behind and twisted him around, intending to knock Nate to the ground.
Nate was ready for it. Since the first moment he’d seen the monk, he knew the man would not simply back down. There was a roughness to him, a spark in his eye, and a set to his stance that spoke of a life not unfamiliar with violence.
Nate shifted his weight, bringing his shoulder under the monk’s chest then heaving him upward and tossing the man to the side. Freed, he continued toward the temple.
But the monk was not through with him. Before Nate had gone ten feet, the man came at him again, slamming Nate in the back and knocking him off the path into a knee-high, white stone fence.
Off-balanced, Nate jumped as best he could over the obstruction, scraping his left shin on the top, but maintaining his footing as he landed on the other side. He whirled around, sure that the monk would come at him again.
The man hit Nate in the chest like a linebacker, and together they fell onto the ground with a thud. A dull ache throbbed for a moment in the upper left of Nate’s chest. About nine months earlier he’d been shot there. The wound had healed well, and he’d done everything he could to regain the strength he’d had before, but on occasion, the injury would still remind him of its presence.
The monk wrapped a leg over Nate’s waist, and attempted to pin the cleaner in place. With all his strength, Nate pushed the man to the side and spun after him.
“Nate! Daeng! Enough.”
Both men stopped struggling, and looked over at the man standing twenty feet away.
“Get up,” Jonathan Quinn said. “You’re making fools of yourselves.”
CHAPTER 4
STOCKHOLM, SWEDEN
In the early hours of the morning on Mila’s first day in the Swedish capital, she had set up a camera aimed at the door of an apartment building in Sodermalm, an island neighborhood just south of the center of Stockholm. Over the next two days, she’d kept track of the comings and goings, something easily done given that the building only had three units.
But it was now the third day, the day she needed to make her move. She checked the video feed on her phone again. Still quiet. The most activity had been just after seven a.m., when two people had left within a few minutes of each other, but in the four hours since nine o’clock, the door had remained closed.
“Come on, you idiot,” she whispered to herself. “You’ve got to eat sometime.”
If the man she was waiting for didn’t leave the building soon, she would have to find another place to watch from. She’d already been at the cafe longer than she should have been, having stretched her solo lunch to nearly an hour and a half. Every time her waitress walked by, the woman gave Mila a look that said, “You’re still here?”
Mila picked up her coffee cup. At most it had two sips left. She took the first, thought Screw it, and drank it all. The last thing she wanted was for people to remember her, something that was probably too late in the case of the waitress. She put enough kronor on the table to cover the check and an appropriate tip, then left.
The place she was surveilling was three blocks away, a four-story building divided into three apartments-one on the ground floor, one on the floor above it, and the third taking up the top two. That top apartment was the one she was interested in.
The man who lived there was named Mats Hagen. He was a freelance tech, who, for a sizeable fee, could obtain almost any information a client might ask for as long as it was on a computer somewhere. When Mila had known him several years earlier, he’d been fairly new to the scene. He took on work wherever he could get it, meaning he was on the road most of the time. Since then, he’d apparently established a reputation that now allowed him to do most jobs from home.
After the fiasco in Tanzania, Mila had spent a sleepless night trying to figure out what her next move should be. If only she had been able to talk to Rosen. If she was wrong, she could fade back into her assumed life. If her fears were true, she would have to do something about it. But with Rosen no longer an option, she had to find someone else she could approach.