Beloved Enemy (9 page)

She let out a scream as Rolan lunged at her with such force that he overturned the wheelchair. The two orderlies, having been alerted by his shout, were already running toward her. Rolan’s heels were beating a military tattoo against the floor. His yells had become unintelligible. Then one of the orderlies grabbed her, dragging her out of range, while the other produced a syringe, which he plunged into the side of Rolan’s neck.

“NO NO NO!” Rolan shouted. “MERCY! HAVE MERCY!”

As his eyes rolled up in his head, Annika was hustled from the solarium. Out in the corridor, Dr. Karalian came at a run.

“I heard, Annika,” he said, as he neared. “I’m so sorry.”

Annika scarcely heard him. She was weeping so hard she was forced to gasp for breath.

“Let her go,” Dr. Karalian said to the orderly, who nodded, turned, and returned to help his partner right the overturned wheelchair. Kicking the door to the solarium closed, Karalian held Annika gently by her shoulders, walking her slowly toward his office.

Annika’s head was muzzy. That all too familiar feeling of unreality had returned, bringing with it a sticky gush of sorrow, guilt, and rage. Part of her was aware of the doctor talking softly to her, but her mind was resounding with Rolan’s desperate, heartrending cry:
“Mercy! Have mercy!”

S
EVEN

T
HE
I
NTER
G
LOBAL
Logistics plane came down through a twilight sky blurred by steel-colored rain, landing in Berlin without incident. But by the time it had taxied to a stop and begun to unload, the rain had turned into sleet.

The captain, who was known as Tweet, said, “This is the last stop of our current run, Jack, but since you’ve told me you have another destination in mind, we’ll fly you there as soon as we’ve unloaded, fueled up, and run all our checks.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“Hey, I can’t tell you how many favors I owe Ben King.” He swiveled to his navigator, “Right, Hitch?”

Hitch nodded. He was a rangy blond with an easy, open face, and a ready smile. “It sure is.”

Tweet rose, stretched, and yawned hugely. In contrast to his navigator, he was dark-haired, with long arms, a bulge at his waist, and an avowed weakness for Dunkin’ Donuts and Big Macs. “See?”

Jack rose as well, stretching his legs. “I meant I don’t want to get you guys in trouble.”

Tweet spread his hands. “How’re we going to get in trouble? Nobody knows you’re here, and nobody will, right, Hitch?”

“Fuckin’ A,” Hitch said, giving a thumbs-up. “I’d die first.”

“No, really, guys, seriously.”

“We
are
being serious,” Hitch said.

Tweet laughed. “As serious as we ever get.”

“Listen, Jack, these milk runs are as boring as shit.” Hitch picked up a clipboard, began filling out the first of what looked like multiple forms. “And when they’re not boring, they’re fucking tedious.” He brandished the clipboard. “Ferrying you to Bangkok is gonna make our week.” He grunted. “Hell, it’ll make our whole damn month.”

“Settle back, pard,” Tweet said. “An hour or so and we’ll be airborne again.”

“You’ll have to make out a flight plan.”

Hitch hooked a thumb in Jack’s direction. “Listen to him. A pilot already.”

“Leave the flight plan filing to us, okay, Jack?”

Tweet sat back down and began to talk rapidly into his headset, presumably to someone in the control tower. After a minute of trying to translate the jargon on the fly, Jack stopped listening and got himself some food from the small locker built into the side of the cockpit. In the past seven-plus hours, he’d had enough Dunkin’ Donuts to last him several lifetimes.

“Flip over one of those roast beef sandwiches,” Tweet said as Hitch rose and went out of the cockpit. “And a Coke.”

Jack tossed him the wax-paper-wrapped sandwich, but handed him the Coke. He had noted during the flight that these flyboys stocked only bottles of Coke manufactured in Mexico, where they used sugar instead of high-fructose corn syrup as a sweetener. Much to his surprise, the flavor was completely different from the domestic version.

He chose a turkey and swiss, and the two men ate in companionable silence until Tweet said, “Pardon my mouth, but d’you know what the fuck you’re doing?”

“To be honest,” Jack said around a bite, “I don’t know.”

“Then why—?”

“I have no choice.”

“We all have a—”

“A friend of mine was killed. I’ve got to find out who did it.”

“Bad shit.” Tweet shook his head. “Well, for Christ’s sake, don’t get lost in Bangkok.”

*   *   *

Hitch locked himself in the tiny toilet, unzipped his trousers, and enjoyed a good, long pee, all the while whistling “Zip-A-Dee-Do-Dah” and imagining a parade of his favorite Disney cartoon characters. When he was finished, he slipped out his mobile and punched in a number. He whistled a different tune, as if by doing so he could conjure up the flying monkeys from
The Wizard of Oz
.

“Yes?” the female voice said in his ear.

“We’re in Berlin.”

“He’s with you?”

“Safe and sound, like I said.”

“Has he deplaned?”

“Uh-uh. We’ve volunteered to continue on.”

“That won’t be a problem for you?”

“Nah. We have the locals greased—have done for years, it was seen to. No worries there.”

“Has he told you where he wants you to take him?”

“Bangkok.”

“Then he knows about Legere.”

“It would seem so.” Hitch picked at a piece of lint on his trouser leg. “And that Connaston was killed.”

“Good. Keep him safe until you arrive in Bangkok.”

Hitch stared at himself in the mirror. “And then?”

“Then,” the voice at the other end said, “he’s on his own.”

*   *   *

Stepping out of the airport terminal into the Bangkok morning, Redbird felt as if he had fallen into a vat of chicken soup. The air was so thick, so dense with petroleum particulates that he unconsciously leaned forward, as if he were moving along the bottom of the sea.

He saw Dandy right away and headed toward her silver BMW motorcycle. Her left hand was curled around the handlebar and she held her gleaming helmet crooked like a baby in her right arm. She had cut her impossibly thick ribbon of hair short, so that it now bobbed at the length of her sharp chin. Her long almond eyes, which always seemed to be laughing, tracked him across the apron until he climbed on right behind her. As he picked his helmet off the saddle behind her, she settled hers over her head.

“When are they gonna figure out how to air-condition these things?” he said.

She laughed, stamped the engine on, and, as he wrapped his arms around her diminutive waist, buzzed away from the busy curb, threading her way between two cabs, painted yellow and green like forest parrots.

As usual, the highway was a seven-lane parking lot, bright with pink and orange cars, red and blue buses, and cyclists weaving between lanes. The vehicles were indistinct, wavery, and the air stank of diesel fumes. The heat was unbearable.

Over eleven million people lived in Bangkok and almost seven million vehicles drove its limited streets every day. It was a wonder that anyone could get to their destination. On the other hand, there were natives like Dandy who knew how to negotiate even the most flagrant of traffic jams. Dandy had grown up on a motorcycle, driven first by her father, then her various older brothers. She was ten the first time she drove on her own. Twelve years later, she was an old hand, as expert as anyone in maneuvering around the city at skull-cracking speeds.

Twenty-five minutes after she had picked up Redbird, they arrived at his safe house, which she maintained when he was out of town. He had similar safe houses in many other cities; all of them proved useful and were often worth their weight in gold. The place was small but bright, a corner apartment on the top floor of a modern building overlooking the Chao Phraya, removed from the city’s oppressive, never-ending traffic. On the river’s far bank was an ancient temple, gongs sounding at all hours of the day and night. Such was life in Bangkok.

Redbird turned the air-conditioning to low, crossed the room, and opened the French doors. Stepping out onto the narrow terrace, he breathed in the thick soupy air. On the river below him, boats and sampans drifted by, past the glittering tiers of the temple. He returned inside.

Looking around the room, he took in the black-lacquered walls and ceiling, the mosaic tile floor, the long cane sofa, and two chairs.

“Bag?”

Dandy, who had stepped into the small kitchen and was already preparing tea, pointed underneath the sofa, where an old-fashioned doctor’s satchel sat, waiting. Redbird nodded, went over, fetched it, and pulled it open. Inside were the tools of his trade: two different caliber handguns, noise suppressors, ammo, three kinds of knives, small packets of C-4, timing devices, and wires, as well as a skeletal assault rifle handmade to his specifications by a German technician, broken down into three convenient sections.

By the time he had checked all the weapons and ammo, Dandy appeared with a Chinese tea service on a lacquered tray, which she set on a low table lacquered in the Chinese style, at which they sat cross-legged, opposite each other.

Redbird watched her appreciatively as her long, delicate fingers went through the calming ritual of brewing and pouring the tea. He hadn’t seen her in eight months. She looked the same to him, but he knew she couldn’t be. Time stood still for him each time he returned here, but for her each day, each night had to be lived. She had experienced events, people, movies, and sex of which he had no idea. Her days and nights were a blank to him. It was no wonder he felt like a stranger every time he came back. And each time he saw her anew, a wave of tenderness washed over him that he’d never felt for anyone before or since. Her significance for him lay somewhere between that of a sister and a daughter. He would protect her with his own life, if need be. He had tried to protect her father once, to no avail. But together, he and Dandy had exacted her revenge, an act that had bonded them for life. There wasn’t anything Dandy would not do for him, an obligation she had taken on willingly. And because he had not asked it of her, she drew both strength and confidence from it.

Not a word was spoken until they had savored their first sip. They smiled at each other. Her name wasn’t Dandy, of course—that’s what Redbird called her because her Thai name was so long and, even for him, unwieldy to pronounce. She didn’t seem to mind.

“My contacts tell me that the target, Pyotr Legere, has not returned to Moscow. In fact, he’s off the grid altogether.”

“Gone to ground.”

Redbird nodded, turned his mobile so Dandy could see the photo of Legere that Dickinson had provided. “Look familiar?”

She shook her head. “But Chati might know.”

Chaat Pradchaphet was a minor underlord in Bangkok’s criminal underbelly. Despite his relatively low status, he seemed to know everything and everyone of interest in and around the city. Therefore, unlike others in his profession, his principal work was selling information. The answer to why he didn’t use this information for his own advancement was simple: he was lazy. Chati preferred to work less, rather than more. Stress did not suit his sybaritic lifestyle.

“All right. Dinner at Chati’s then.” Chaat ran his business out of a restaurant in the Sukhumvit Soi area. The place was very upscale,
hi-so
in Thai slang. That was good for Redbird; Chati was in residence, day and night, squeezed into a chair at his private table next to the open kitchen.

As was her wont, Dandy sat on the closed toilet seat in the bathroom while Redbird showered. There was nothing sexual in this, but another form of intimacy that both craved. Redbird had no family to speak of, and as for Dandy, being the black sheep of the family, breaking off and going her own way, her brothers and their respective families had become distant. Frankly, Redbird and Dandy preferred each other’s company, even when they weren’t talking.

Dandy smoked a clove cigarette, drawing the aromatic smoke into her lungs and slowly letting it drift out through her mouth and nostrils, her head tilted back to reveal her throat and long neck. Years ago, when this strange ritual began, Dandy had wanted to scrub him down, but Redbird soon put a stop to that. That the offer was cultural rather than sexual made no difference. She took this rebuff with her usual equanimity. Redbird had only seen her cry once, when she had killed the man who had murdered her father, and then, as he cradled her, it seemed as if she would never stop. Since that time, she had developed a terrible calm Redbird found both fascinating and admirable. It was that calm that drew them even closer.

“You come here at the worst times.” Her voice wasn’t loud, but rather strong, carrying over the sound of the running water.

“Worst?” Redbird said from behind the translucent shower curtain.

Dandy took another drag of her cigarette. “The weather.”

“Except for the rains, the weather is always the same here.”

Dandy laughed, smoking like an engine. “Hot, hotter, hottest.”

“Well, that’s true.”

Having rinsed off, Redbird turned off the water and pulled back the curtain. Dandy had an enormous bath towel ready, spreading it as she rose, preparing to wrap it around his shoulders. Before she did, though, her fingertip ran lightly over the scars on the back of his right shoulder.

“Do they hurt?”

“Not for some time.”

“I mean inside.”

“Towel.”

She wrapped him as securely as a mother swaddles her child. Their relationship ran both ways.

“I know you won’t talk about it,” Dandy said, “but sometimes I need to.”

Redbird had been wounded severely during their joint mission of revenge. He had presented himself as a target so that Dandy could creep up from behind and blow the murderer’s head to smithereens. She had done it, Redbird had swept her off her feet and, though he had been shot three times, had carried her away from the scene of their crime. Between the adrenaline and the endorphins thundering through him, his shoulder had remained numb until an hour later, after her crying jag, when she had taken him to her cousin, a surgeon of some renown. He had gone into shock and was laid on the surgeon’s operating table. At her cousin’s direction, Dandy had covered him with blankets, and then, a syringe sliding into his vein, he had lost consciousness.