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.
__________
T
HE 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.
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
I
N 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 Södermalm, 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 café 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.