The Palace Read online

  Chapter 10

  Bangkok

  The heat.

  Half conscious, knees buckling, Rafael de Bourbon slumped against the wall. Sweat streamed from his forehead. His mouth was parched, thirst so severe it blurred his vision. Only the weight of the other prisoners packed around him and the certainty of punishment, immediate and brutal, kept him standing.

  He was one of a hundred, maybe more, made to live inside the cell. There were no beds, no chairs, no toilets, only concrete. Concrete walls. Concrete floor. A faucet dribbled brown water, and, in the center of the cell, a hole. Light came from a narrow opening cut high into the wall. The air was still and heavy. After two days, the stench still sickened him.

  Rafa wiped the sweat from his brow, growing fainter still, unable to stop himself from sliding down the wall. An elbow to the ribs. A harsh admonition. A head taller than the rest, a Westerner, or farang, he was a target. Somehow he found the strength to stand. He wore the clothes he was arrested in. His shirt was torn, his shorts soiled with sweat and grime. He looked at his bare feet, filthy, bloody, a nail torn off. Three days before, he’d been walking on a white-sand beach, the warm sea washing between his toes.

  The first meeting was already hazy, a fever dream. A hint of sanity amid madness.

  The lawyer was named Adamson, an American from one of the big multinational firms. A killer—you could see it. Dressed to the nines. Enough navy-blue and starch to captain a Yankee clipper. Not a drop of sweat dampening his forehead. Adamson had come to help, to end this nightmare. The Thai government wanted the matter resolved expeditiously. Surely Rafa wanted the same thing. It was a question of cooperation. He had sounded like the soundtrack from a bad courtroom drama.

  The accused, Mr. De Bourbon, was to admit to the crimes of blackmail, extortion, theft, on and on, and agree to turn over the fruits of his larceny, namely confidential financial information and emails belonging to one PetroSaud SA, 16 Rue du Rhône, Geneva, Switzerland. In exchange for said admission and transfer of property, the accused would receive a suspended sentence of twenty-one years and be declared persona non grata in the Kingdom of Thailand, to be shipped out of the country at the earliest possible moment.

  All well and good.

  Please sign here.

  But when Rafa asked to have an attorney of his own review the papers, his request was denied. Adamson was his attorney, paid for by his wife’s family. He needed no other. And when Rafa asked to speak to a representative from the Spanish embassy, his request was again denied.

  And so Rafa suspected the papers were a ruse. He would admit to being naive. He’d believed that Paul Malloy would honor his word. Maybe Malloy needed a push, a reminder, but after all, they’d had an agreement. A handshake between gentlemen. Honor ran deep in the De Bourbon blood. Did it not in all men?

  But Rafa was not that naive.

  He knew.

  Others knew that he knew.

  And so he’d made a last request. He would not sign any papers until he spoke with a person he could trust. Only one name came to mind. A ghost from the past, hovering on the far side of another of the bridges he’d burned. No longer a friend, but a man whose honor ran as deep as his own.

  That had been twenty-four hours ago.

  Three blows against the steel door signaled mealtime. The cell came to life. Torpor turned to motion. A path was cleared. Policemen hauled a barrel inside. It contained rice and scraps of fish. A third policeman entered carrying a tray piled high with fried meatballs and satay. One by one the prisoners received their allotment.

  One of four Europeans, Rafa was made to wait until all others had been fed. A guard ladled a portion of rice into his hand. A fish tail poked through the surface. Rafa was lucky. He knew better than to wait for a second spoonful. As he moved away, a shadow filled the doorway. A Westerner in a business suit. Adamson the lawyer. And, behind him, a familiar face even without his mirrored sunglasses: Colonel Tan.

  “Bourbon,” said Colonel Tan. “Rafael de Bourbon.”

  Inside the interrogation room: air-conditioning, a can of Coca-Cola, a glass of ice, a sandwich. Rafa’s reward.

  But not yet.

  “How are you, Mr. De Bourbon?” asked Colonel Tan, sunnily.

  “Fine, thank you,” said Rafa. “How are you today, sir?”

  The Thai’s smile flickered like a candle in a breeze. His eyes shifted toward Adamson. A dossier was placed on the table. The lawyer guided it across the table. Rafa opened the cover. A court document. The same one as the day before? But, look here, something new. Attached to it, a check drawn on the Krung Thai Bank in the amount of one million U.S. dollars and made out in his name.

  “As you can see,” said Colonel Tan, “we’re reasonable men.” He had traded his brown uniform and peaked cap for sky-blue slacks, a white short-sleeved shirt, and open-toed sandals. A poorly dressed tourist in his own country. This was a new Colonel Tan, but more dangerous than ever. He was likeable. “We have no interest in seeing this matter go to court. Trials are expensive. A poor use of government resources. There is no need to adjudicate this matter. We have abundant proof of your guilt. Emails to Mr. Malloy. Texts. At this moment, a cybersecurity firm is gathering evidence of your theft. Case closed. Really, Mr. De Bourbon—may I call you Rafa?—let’s shake hands and put this behind us. Take the money. Give us what we want. Be gone. So much easier for all involved.”

  One million dollars.

  Rafa drew the papers closer. There was no point trying to read them. He could hardly say his own name let alone make sense of so much legalese. What did it matter? There was a check for one million dollars attached. He must take the money. After all, as Tan had stated, he was guilty. The evidence was incontrovertible. A trial really would be a waste of government resources. It wasn’t all he was owed, but it was enough.

  Adamson handed him a pen. Gold. Expensive. A pleasure to hold.

  “One last question,” said Tan.

  Rafa nodded. Anything at all to get out of there.

  “Where did you send the stolen information?”

  Rafa shook his head. They were mistaken. He hadn’t sent anything.

  “You threatened Mr. Malloy that you would send the papers to a certain reporter. Someone who liked to ‘dig,’ to use your words. A name, please.”

  Rafa put down the pen. No more use in lying. But how could they know?

  “Is there something wrong?” asked Colonel Tan. “We only want a name. In case such a person is foolish enough to take you seriously.”

  Adamson said nothing. He was a seasoned attorney. He knew the smell of defeat.

  Rafa looked at the can of Coca-Cola, the glass of ice, the club sandwich.

  “Not until I see Simon Riske,” he said.

  Chapter 11

  Saas-Grund, Switzerland

  The sky was as blue as a sapphire.

  Paul Malloy drew in a breath of the crystalline air and stared up at the wall of ice. Before him stood the Weissmies, a 13,000-foot peak in the canton of Valais, straddling the Swiss-Italian border. He gathered his climbing gear from the rear of his Range Rover and crossed the lot to the cable car. His guide, Rolf Brunner, waited at the Mittelstation. They enjoyed an espresso and a Gipfeli, then left the warmth and comfort of the station.

  Outside, Malloy checked his watch: 7:00 a.m.; 2 degrees Celsius, or 35 degrees Fahrenheit; 10,800 feet. He could feel the altitude already and knew he wasn’t in as good a shape as he should be. He had a four-hour climb ahead. It would be taxing, but nothing he couldn’t handle. He needed the exertion. No better way to clear his mind. He zipped up his jacket and pulled on his mittens.

  “Shall we?” said Brunner, a compact, bearded man who’d spent his life in the Alps, as experienced a climber as ever there was.

  Malloy set out, leading the way. The first hour was a hike, more or less, as they approached the north face, a concave vertical wall towering nearly three thousand feet above them. The trail grew steeper, then disappeared into a pile of s
cree and rubble. The men stopped and roped up.

  “I’ll take the first pitch,” said Malloy, ice axes in both hands, glacier glasses in place, a red cap pulled down over his ears.

  “Up, up, up,” said Rolf. Legend was he was born with crampons on his feet.

  Malloy dug his axes into the ice and began to climb, kicking the spikes on the toes of his boots into the snow. The north face of the Weissmies was more a question of conditioning than technical skill. One step after the next, setting ice screws every thirty feet. Already he felt better, lighter, shedding the emotional burden of the past weeks. Damn that Spaniard! It was all because of Rafa and his relentless campaign to recover the bonus money owed him. Four years Malloy had kept him at bay, offering excuses and explanations. The man simply would not give up. And now it had come to this. Blackmail. Extortion. A threat to reveal PetroSaud’s deepest, darkest secrets. He’d tried to warn Rafa, but the Spaniard was too proud, too stubborn, too arrogant. Now he knew, didn’t he? Maybe a stint in a Thai hellhole would finally drive some sense into him.

  Malloy stopped, fatigued, his breath labored, and waited for Brunner to catch up. Their climbs followed a strict regimen. Move for an hour. Stop. Hydrate. Snack. Check equipment. Continue.

  “Next pitch is yours,” he said, forcing a smile. God, he was weaker than he’d expected.

  Brunner gave him a pat on the back and moved up the face. Malloy waited until the first screw was set, then followed. Below him the cable car station looked like a speck. He kicked a chunk of ice free and watched it fall, bouncing off the wall once, twice, three times before disintegrating on the rocks below. He gripped the axes tightly, the muscles in his hands aching as the face grew steeper still.

  Whether Rafa was owed the money or not, Malloy could not pay him. He’d transferred the money to his own account the day Rafa resigned. Five million Swiss francs didn’t go far in today’s world, at least not the world Malloy inhabited. There was the house, the car, private schools for his daughters, an apartment for his mistress, his wife’s passion for horses, la vie équestre.

  “Lo siento, amigo,” Malloy said under his breath. “That boat sailed long ago. No màs dinero.”

  He remembered hiring Rafa. Tall, handsome, debonair, Rafael de Bourbon, the bright, shining face of the firm. PetroSaud sold oil leases in yet undeveloped lands deep inside the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia. A billion-dollar investment promised a ten percent yield in perpetuity.

  There was another side to the business. Malloy’s side. And it was even more lucrative. To the investor…and to Malloy. It was that side Rafa had foolishly threatened to expose. The Spaniard had no idea of the hornet’s nest he was disturbing.

  Malloy put Rafa out of his mind and concentrated on the climb. He caught up to Brunner and, over the next hour, led several pitches, a “pitch” being one length of rope, or approximately one hundred fifty feet. The wind had picked up, snow and rime skidding across the face, making visibility difficult. Squinting, he could just make out the summit, another five hundred feet. Thank God. He didn’t think he could make it any farther. He looked down, signaling to Brunner that they were almost there.

  It was then he saw the flash of red below them. A solo climber, no visible ropes, and moving fast. Malloy took off his gloves and dug in his pocket for a protein bar, one last shot of energy. When he looked back, the solo climber was nearly level with Rolf Brunner. The kids these days. It was all about speed, setting records. They took no time to enjoy themselves, to revel in nature and appreciate their surroundings.

  He felt a tug on the rope. A second, sharper still. And then, hidden in the howling wind, a scream.

  That kind of scream.

  Malloy pulled the glasses from his face and looked down. Rolf Brunner was no longer there. The rope whipped wildly back and forth. It had been cut. And in Rolf’s place, the climber in red.

  Malloy was tired and confused. Precious seconds passed before he was able to grasp the fact that, yes, it was the climber in red who had cut Brunner’s rope and pushed him off the face. And then, with terror, to register that the climber was following directly in his own path.

  Malloy looked up. Five hundred feet. Less even. He struggled to put on his gloves, then freed his axes and began to climb. He didn’t bother with the rope or screws. There was no time. The climber was gaining rapidly, moving more quickly than Malloy had ever seen.

  Axe. Kick. Step. Axe. Kick. Step.

  His muscles screamed. His lungs burned. Why? he asked himself, knowing full well who had sent the climber. Malloy had not only betrayed Rafa. Far worse, he had betrayed the firm. His larceny had jeopardized everything.

  Malloy could go no farther. Panting, he dug his crampons into the wall and cleared one of his axes, turning to meet the climber. The man drew closer. He wore no hat and, frighteningly, no gloves. Blond hair as thick as a whisk broom. Broad shoulders. Complexion the color of milk coffee. A last step. He came even, blue eyes as flat as ice, a hard face. Malloy swung his axe. The climber avoided it easily. Despite his terrific pace, his breath was even. Malloy swung again, his left foot losing its purchase. The climber caught his axe and wrenched it from his hand, tossing it into the void.

  “Why?” shouted Malloy, crying now. “Dammit. I’m loyal.”

  “Sorry, brother. Just the way it is.”

  The climber showed no emotion. Not anger. Not exertion. Nothing. He grabbed Malloy’s parka in one hand and yanked him off the face. For a moment, he seemed to hold Malloy, all of him, as if he were as light as a doll, then he opened his fingers and Malloy fell.

  Kruger did not watch the body fall. There was only one possible outcome and he was not a cruel man. A professional, one might say, though he knew of no others he might measure himself against.

  He gazed up. Two hundred feet to the top. Malloy had almost made it. Not that the outcome would have been any different. Kruger was not a man who permitted another to get the better of him.

  Immediately, he commenced his descent. He realized that he could no longer feel his fingers, or his hands, for that matter. He didn’t care. Where he was going, it was much warmer.

  He’d always wanted to visit Thailand.

  Chapter 12

  London

  The next day, Simon arrived at the entrance to Scotland Yard as retired commander Ben Sterling passed through the security gates.

  “Riske, that you?” he called, by way of introduction. “Looks like you had a rough night.”

  Sterling was sixty-something, a ruddy-faced bantamweight with steely gray hair, china-blue eyes, and a handshake that would crush a walnut. Hence his nickname, “Iron Ben.”

  “Tough week,” said Simon. “But I’ll get by. Good to see you.”

  “So,” said Sterling when he’d relinquished his grip. “Headed east, eh? Got any space in your suitcase for an old man?”

  “Not sure if I can fit you into my suitcase, but there’s probably room in the overhead bin. Dickie Blackmon’s flying me out first class.”

  “Of course he is, our Sir Dickie. Good to see you, too. What’s it been? A year?”

  “Two. The ivory smuggling case at Heathrow.”

  The case had involved a team of Chinese immigrants illegally importing ivory from Tanzania under false bills of lading. Simon didn’t know what had angered him more. The fact that the men had been doing it for fifteen years or that they’d managed to smuggle over ten thousand pounds of the banned material before being caught. The court delivered a sentence of five years in prison and a hundred-thousand-pound fine.

  “They’ll be in jail a while longer yet,” said Sterling, setting off at a brisk pace. “Cold comfort.”

  Simon had a different punishment in mind. It involved a tree stump and an angry elephant. Let justice be served. “I appreciate you making time on such short notice.”

  Sterling waved away the thanks. “This talk of Thailand made me hungry. Decent curry shop just up the road. Fancy a bite?”

  “Sure,” said Simon, hurrying to keep
up. “I could eat.”

  The decent curry shop turned out to be Gymkhana, one of the city’s finest. At a few minutes past twelve, they were the first to arrive. The maître d’ showed them to a table by the window. Sterling sat down with a contented sigh. He was a small man of big gestures.

  The son of a tea plantation manager, Ben Sterling had grown up in Sri Lanka and Burma. In 1972, he’d joined the Royal Hong Kong Police force and stayed until Great Britain ceded the crown colony back to the People’s Republic of China twenty-five years later, on June 30, 1997. He left the force a superintendent, his career spent combatting drug trafficking, primarily the flow of heroin from the Golden Triangle—the northern provinces of Thailand, Burma, and Laos—to Hong Kong. He spoke Cantonese like a native, and fluent Mandarin, Thai, and Tamil. If there were such a thing as a “Far East Hand,” it was Ben Sterling. Scotland Yard scooped him up in a heartbeat, and he’d been in London ever since.

  “Ceylon curry’s decent,” he said, studying the menu. “But mild. Pablum. Me, I like the hot stuff. Five alarm. Ten thousand on the Scoville scale. Like to challenge the chef to see if he can make me cry. Care to join me?”

  Simon was nursing a sore hand in addition to his bruised shoulder. He didn’t care to add a scalded tongue. “Ceylon curry,” he said the moment the server arrived.

  “Traitor,” barked Sterling.

  “I’d like to be able to taste the food when I get to Thailand.”

  “So,” said Sterling, rolling up his shirtsleeves and placing his elbows on the table, leaning in. “Dickie Blackmon’s got you going to Bangkok to pick up his son-in-law. Rum, you ask me.”

  “Dickie’s working a deal with a Colonel Albert Tan, head of the national police. There are a few road bumps. I’m supposed to smooth them out.”

  The waiter brought a basket of naan and papadum. Sterling grabbed a naan and tore it in half. “Know anything about the place?” he asked, taking a ravenous bite.