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BANGKOK’S Don Muang Airport.
As Max headed down the steps and into the Thai night, the humidity hit him first—sticky, like small droplets of syrup hanging in the air. It was late now, almost eleven p.m., and Max felt revved up. He wanted to act fast.
The plane from Tokyo to Bangkok had been a carbon copy of the one he had taken from New York to Tokyo. Same size, same seating configuration, same interior design, same distortion over the loudspeaker so that he could not tell when the captain was speaking Japanese and when he was speaking English. He had been a bit surprised to see how few passengers were seated in economy class. In fact, he had counted the seats: 100 in economy class, 128 in business class, 32 in first class. The first-class area was incredible. The spacious recliners reminded Max of his father’s favorite TV chair in the family den, complete with leg rests. Dom Pérignon and beluga caviar were being served. Each passenger wore a Japanese happi coat. Very nice. Of course, when you are paying approximately $5,000 for a round-trip flight from New York to Bangkok you’d better be getting very nice.
Max was traveling economy class, which cost nearly $1,500, a sum total greater than Max’s entire financial portfolio. Since there had been no time to appropriate the funds from the police department, Max had gone to Lenny. Lenny made pretty good money—very good, in fact. He was, after all, one of New York’s top criminal lawyers. Ironic really. Max’s mother had always wanted him to become a handsome lawyer; instead, he was living with one.
Not exactly what his mom had had in mind.
Though seated in the back of the plane, Max had wandered around during the billion hours he was in the air. He always got a kick out of the curtains pulled between the classes, turning an airplane into a microcosm of modern society. I paid less than you, ergo I am pond scum, not fit to look at you or breathe your air. And just for laughs, try to use the bathroom in the first-class section when you are traveling economy class. The stewardesses attack like Muslim extremists. The reading lights were another problem. How come they were never aimed right? The beam was always too far to the left or to the right or too far in front of you or too far back so that it worked like a spotlight aimed at the top of your head. And who invented that medieval torture device known as the movie headset? They felt like someone was jamming pointed ice tongs through your eardrums.
Once inside the terminal Max spotted a sign with his name on it. He approached the man holding it. The man was tall for an Asian, over six feet, and very thin. He stood perfectly still, only his eyes moving, as if he wanted to conserve his strength.
“Colonel?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Max Bernstein.”
The Thai colonel looked at him. “You are a police lieutenant?”
Max nodded.
“Pardon my surprise, but I was expecting someone older.”
Max started to pull at his mustache. He stopped when he realized that he had shaved it off. “That’s why I normally have a mustache. Makes me look older.”
“Pardon me?”
“Never mind. Where can we talk?”
“Come. I have a car waiting outside.”
“Where is Frank Reed?”
“Mr. Reed is waiting for us in the car. We can talk on the ride.”
The colonel led the way, walking effortlessly and without any wasted motion. He opened the car door and they both got in the backseat. Like the police vehicles in New York, the air-conditioning was not working. Max wasted no time. “You’re Frank Reed?”
“Yep.” The man stuck out his hand. “Call me Frankie.”
Max shook the hand as briefly as possible and continued. “Mr. Reed, I need you to give me an exact layout of the area where Michael Silverman is being held.”
“Nothing to it. You really a New York cop?”
“Yes.”
“You look like a school kid.”
“I joined the force when I was four. Tell me about the upstairs area.”
“Well, Silverman is being kept on the second floor,” Frankie began. “There must be about a dozen rooms up there. Looks like a sleazy motel or something. He was in a room in the left-hand corner at the end of the hall. There was a ‘Do Not Enter’ sign on the door. I couldn’t believe my fuckin’ eyes. I opened the door and wham! There he was. Super-strange, you know? I saw Silverman play at the Garden last year against the Bulls. Fantastic—”
“Can you draw it for me?”
“A ‘Do Not Enter’ sign? Sure thing.”
“No, a map of the floor.”
“Oh, yeah, sure.”
“And you said he was chained to the floor?”
“Looked that way,” he replied. “I only got a brief look—”
“Lieutenant,” Colonel Thaakavechikan interrupted, “do you have something in mind?”
Max nodded, his fingers twisting braids in his hair. “George Camron is familiar with most of your good people, correct?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t think he is familiar with me. Just in case, I shaved off my mustache on the plane.”
“I see.”
“I want to go in myself.”
“When?”
“As soon as Camron leaves the bar. Michael is very ill. We have to get him out right away.”
The colonel nodded. “Tell me what you have in mind.”
DR. Eric Blake checked his appearance in the mirror. As always, everything was in place. When people were asked to describe him, they rarely used terms like handsome or ugly or even nondescript. They usually said neat. Tidy. Immaculate. Every hair in place, shoelaces tied, every button buttoned. Eric’s shirttail never hung out, his socks always matched, his face was always clean-shaven. Even now Eric looked cool, unemotional, detached. But inside, under the fastidious grooming—well, that was another matter.
His head ached horribly. The pressure mounted until he was sure something was going to burst through his forehead. Suddenly, everything was falling apart and Eric was not sure what to do.
Do whatever is necessary . . .
He walked purposefully toward the lab room. Harvey, he knew, was downstairs, injecting Kiel Davis with SR1. Then Harv had rounds. He would not be on the third floor for some time now.
It was safe.
Eric crossed the room and unlocked his private file. Once again he slipped open the bottom drawer and withdrew the blood samples. He carefully lifted them free and placed them on the table. Then he examined them.
Nothing yet.
He sighed. Well, that was to be expected. The results would not be in for a little while yet. Thinking he could see something now had been little more than wishful thinking on his part. He would just have to be patient.
