Final Answers (23 page)

I
’m not sure how long I’ve been walking along the waterfront, across the countless footbridges that span the canals, past the landings where longboats and snub-nosed ferries glide to brief stops.

Probably close to an hour.

It took that long for my brain to recover from the shock and start functioning again. As soon as it did, I realized that Surigao didn’t say anything about being wounded when he called Carla at the hotel. He was frightened, not injured. No, the message was very clear:
They almost got me.
Which means it happened after that. In Chinatown. The car I thought I heard driving off must’ve been Ajacier’s men. Despite my caution, they somehow followed us from the hotel. Carla didn’t signal Surigao. He didn’t see me or sense my presence, he saw the car approaching, saw Ajacier’s hit men. I couldn’t. I was crouching inside the car. My back was to the street. Come to think of it, so was Carla’s. It all happened so fast it didn’t dawn on me until now that the bullet struck the back of her head. It couldn’t have been a stray round from Surigao’s gun. Chances are he never fired a shot. Ajacier’s men shot both of them. That’s why Surigao didn’t try to finish me off. That’s why he ran.

This is very bad news. I wouldn’t know Ajacier if I tripped over him on the street, but I’ve no doubt he knows me, and now he knows I’m in Bangkok, knows I’m still alive.

I’ve lost my advantage.

I’m going to have to be much more careful.

It takes me about ten seconds to start wondering why? And ten
more to realize that caution can have it’s downside, that defensive thinking would be a mistake. I should know better than to fall into that trap. How many times had I heard it in-country? Either you’re hunting them or they’re hunting you. This is no time to change tactics. Just targets. And I think I know how: Ajacier’s in Bangkok. According to the IRL report, he has a piece of Thonburi Studios. Maybe he has an office there, too.

I make a beeline for a vendor hawking his wares at a nearby ferry stop. “Where’s the nearest public phone?”

He doesn’t speak any English, but a customer does. He’s a slight, sprightly fellow who, like everyone else in Bangkok, listens to my question and prefaces his answer with a sympathetic smile. He shakes his head no. “Sorry. Cannot find in Bangkok.”

“Are you saying there aren’t any?”

He smiles again and nods. “Less than numbers on one hand. And those always broken. You try hotels. Or telephone company on New Road.”

I was planning to call Thonburi Film Studios to find out whether or not Ajacier is there. I hail a taxi instead. The driver knows where it’s located. As it turns out, he speaks some English and explains that any driver would know the studio. Filmmaking is big business in Bangkok. There are five major studios, evidenced by the massive billboards that advertise new releases.

The one at the entrance to Thonburi Studios is three stories high. It depicts a handsome Asian man in a tuxedo surrounded, James Bond fashion, by sexy Asian women in skintight dresses. Unlike Hollywood studios, this isn’t a gated and fenced fortress. It’s a modern office tower with direct access from the street. I leave the taxi, hurry into the lobby, and go straight to the directory. Listed under A is Ajacier, P., Franco-Asian Cinema 7th Floor.

The elevator leaves me in a reception area. These are sleek, high-tech offices, much like my own. The walls are lined with framed movie posters. I tell the receptionist I’m there to see Mr. Ajacier. I imagine I look somewhat disheveled, because she sweeps her eyes over me disapprovingly before asking, “Is he expecting you?”

“No, we’re old friends. I happened to be in town and thought I’d say hello.”

“I’m sorry. He just went into a meeting,” she replies, her eyes drifting to a glass-walled room just off the reception area.

Through the narrow blinds, I can see perhaps a dozen men seated around a large conference table.

“If you’ll give me your name, I’ll be happy to tell Mr. Ajacier you were here.”

“Thanks. I’ll tell him myself.”

I whirl and head for the conference room.

“Sir? Sir, you can’t go in there,” she calls out, coming from behind her desk to intercept me.

I blow past her without stopping, throw open the door, and stride boldly into the room, startling the group of businessmen. All heads snap in my direction. One of them is my man, but which one?

“Mr. Ajacier?” I call out.

All heads turn to a man seated on the far side of the table. He recoils slightly, then stands and measures me with wary, pale blue eyes. He’s in his late fifties. Tall and well tailored, with a swarthy Corsican complexion. But his face is narrow, his features angular and refined.

“What is this? Who are you?”

“The name’s Morgan.” I reply evenly, fighting the surge of adrenaline.

Ajacier’s surprise turns quickly to recognition. He stiffens with fear, wondering, I imagine, if I’m going too pull a gun and blow him away right there.

“But I didn’t have to tell you that. You know who I am, Mr. Ajacier. And now I know who you are.”

His eyes flick nervously to the others. “I’m afraid you’ve mistaken me for someone else.”

“Afraid? Of what? That I’ll embarrass you in front of your friends? In case you gentlemen are wondering, this isn’t a movie we’re talking about. He sent a real killer after me.”

Ajacier sets his jaw and glares at me. “I think you’ve gone far enough, Mr. Morgan.”

I’m holding his look, when several uniformed security guards enter the conference room.

“Show this gentleman out,” he says, relieved.

One of the guards takes hold of my arm. I pull free and leave the room, the guards close behind. They escort me into the elevator, down to the lobby, and out to the street.

That was sweet. Really sweet. I haven’t felt this good in months.
I hurry off in search of a taxi, thinking about Surigao. He’s probably in an emergency room somewhere. But there are undoubtedly countless hospitals in Bangkok, not to mention private physicians. It would be an impossible task to canvass them. Besides, there’s an even chance he’s lying dead in some rancid alley. I put my money on the latter and take a taxi to the Oriental Hotel.

Built more than a decade before the turn of the century, it’s an elegantly restored mix of Art Nouveau decor and Old Viennese architecture where literary lions Somerset Maugham and Joseph Conrad, after whom suites have been named, often stayed.

Off to one side of the lobby, a string quartet in black tie is playing a piece, which, as usually happens, I recognize but can’t name. I hurry past them, drawing veiled stares from some of the other guests. I’m wondering why, when I happen to catch sight of this rather unkempt fellow in a mirror. His hair is mussed and matted. His clothes look like he’s slept in them—they’re soiled, sweat-stained, and, on closer inspection, bloodstained.

Chrissakes. It’s me.

This happened many times in Vietnam, and now it comes back in a chilling rush. After months in the jungle, I’d end up in Saigon or Manila on R and R, pass a mirror in my hotel room, and think there was someone else in there with me. It was strange how little the image I had of myself had to do with reality.

I didn’t draw any stares then. That’s how GIs were supposed to look. Not the case in the classy Oriental. I detour to a men’s room off the lobby and spend a few minutes improving my appearance, then proceed to the infamous outdoor bar, where the literati often held court. Towering glass doors lead to a terrace that overlooks the Chao Phraya River, where traffic plying the brackish waters moves at a lazy, late-afternoon pace.

I spot Kate sitting at one of the tables reading a newspaper. She senses my approach and looks up.

“Hi, how’d it go?” she asks brightly.

“It’s a long story,” I reply, falling into a chair next to her. “I’m exhausted. I need to crash for a while. You get us checked in?”

“No. The rooms weren’t ready. They said any time after three.”

I glance to my watch. “What are we waiting for?”

“Vann Nath.”

“Who?”

“The businessman I told you about.”

“The one who works with the refugees?”

“Yes. I dropped the bags in the lobby and cabbed it to his office. He was out, but when I got back, there was a message that he’d meet me here. I’ve been waiting almost an hour. I guess he—” She pauses suddenly, and scowls. “Boy, you look awful.”

“Thanks. You should see the other guy.”

“Does that mean the Surigaos were still at the hotel?”

I nod solemnly, my gut constricting.

“And?”

I hesitate briefly, then, in a taut whisper, reply, “Carla’s dead. I think he is too.”

Kate leans back in the chair and glares at me accusingly.

“No, I didn’t kill them. It was Surigao’s buddies. Sounds like they said, ‘Good work, Sean. Come live a life of luxury in Bangkok.’ I figure Ajacier was planning to kill him all along. Carla got caught in the cross fire.”

Kate nods thoughtfully. “So, now Ajacier knows you’re not dead.”

“Sure does.”

“You don’t seem very concerned.”

“I’m not.”

Her eyes widen curiously.

“I remembered in this game you’re either the hunter or the prey. So I tracked him down and scared the shit out of him.”

“I take it all back.”

“Three Our Fathers, Three Hail Marys, take two aspirin, and call me in the morning.”

“Pardon me?”

“You have to be Catholic.”

She smiles, then her eyes brighten at something she sees behind me. “There he is. Vann?” she calls out, waving and getting to her feet. “Vann? Over here.”

I look over my shoulder to see a handsome man in a business suit coming toward us. He’s unusually tall for an Asian, in his late forties, with an aristocratic bearing accented by a dramatic streak of gray where his hair is sharply parted.

“Kate,” he calls out effusively as she hurries to him with open arms. “I can’t believe you’re here.”

“Neither can I,” she replies, hugging him.

He removes his sunglasses and steps away to look at her. “You
look wonderful. As beautiful as ever.” His accent is slight. His manner almost courtly.

“Better put those back on,” she jokes. Then she turns to me and introduces us, discretely explaining I’m a friend on a similar mission.

“Well, if I can be of any service,” Vann Nath offers as we take seats at the table.

“Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”

“My apologies for being so late,” he says, turning to Kate with a smile, “But this might just be worth waiting for.”

“You have something?”

“Remember, Kate, I said might.”

“Oh, my God, tell me,” she says, taking his hand and squeezing it excitedly.

“After you called from Hawaii, I remembered there were several people I’d helped relocate in recent years who’d been with the Pathet Lao. They were reluctant conscripts, so to speak. Journalists and photographers pressed into service to implement propaganda compaigns. They wrote press releases, took pictures of downed American aircraft and prisoners, that sort of thing. I reviewed my records and discovered one of these men had been stationed in the area where your husband was lost.”

“He has information about John?”

“He claims to. I gave him his name, and the new information you’d given me.” He pauses and shakes his head with dismay. “I still can’t believe they never told you he’d survived.”

Kate shrugs resignedly. “They had their reasons.”

“Anyway, the man called back that same afternoon and said he found something in his files.”

“He say what?”

“Oh, no. He’s keeping his cards very close to his chest. You know how this game is played.”

“All too well. How much will you need?”

“It’s hard to say. Let’s see how it goes, Kate. You can reimburse me later.”

“When can we talk to him?”

“Tonight. Be at this club at eight-thirty.” Vann Nath takes a business card from his wallet and jots down the information on the back.

I sense a waiter hovering over us. “Excuse me?” I ask, “Would (either of you like something?”

“Thank you, Mr. Morgan. Perhaps another time,” Vann Nath replies, getting to his feet. “As usual, I’m running late. Very nice to meet you.”

“Same here.”

“You know, Kate,” he says, his voice taking on a more serious tone, “things haven’t changed very much when it comes to information on MIAs.”

“I understand.”

“Good. I just want to make sure you don’t commit your heart to this.”

“Thanks.”

He hugs her, then turns and hurries off.

She watches him go. A tear rolls down her cheek.

“You okay?”

“Yes, I’m fine. Just a lot of old feelings all of a sudden.”

“We could both use some rest.”

She nods, rubs a sleeve across her eyes, and starts across the terrace.

We’re entering the lobby when I unthinkingly reach into my coat pocket. It’s empty. A chill goes through me. Confronting Ajacier in a room full of businessmen, unarmed, was one thing. I was in control. The element of surprise was mine. But his thugs could be standing next to me right now, and I wouldn’t know it. It’s a sobering thought, and I’m feeling vulnerable. I hang back, looking about warily as Kate approaches the check-in desk and gives the room clerk our names.

He’s a haughty fellow who frowns when he finds them in his computer registry. “You’ll be staying in five twenty-seven,” he says in a British accent. “Your luggage has already been placed in the room.”

“And Mr. Morgan?”

“I’m sure you’ll find his there as well, madam.”

He raps his bell sharply and turns to a rack of pigeonholes to fetch the key.

“They booked us into a double,” Kate says to me with a scowl, then, as the room clerk turns to an approaching bellman, she calls out, “Excuse me? Excuse me, I think there’s been a mistake.”

The clerk pauses in midstep and whirls toward her challengingly. “Pardon me, madam?”

“I said, there’s been a mistake,” Kate replies, her tone sharpening to match his. “I didn’t book a double. I booked two singles.”

The clerk’s brow furrows skeptically. He turns to his computer while the bellman stands by. “Why, yes, madam, so you did. I’m so sorry,” he says, studying the screen, not sorry at all. “Yes, I still have several singles available, which I’m sure will be quite satisfactory. Unfortunately, the housekeepers are terribly behind today. I’m afraid neither room is prepared.”