Black (24 page)

Monique glared at him, jaw muscles flexed.

“I'll take your silence as a chorus of agreement. Let's go.”

He shoved the door open and waved her out.

“Top floor?” he asked Kara.

“Top floor. I don't know if I can do this, Tom.”

“You're not doing this. I am. I'm the one having the dreams. I'm the one who knows what he shouldn't know. I'm the one who has no choice but to talk some sense into this spoiled brat.”

“You don't have to yell.”

A car nosed into the lot.

“Sorry. Okay, into the elevator.” He pressed the button for the fifth floor and breathed some relief when the doors slid shut.

“What is it with you French, anyway? Is it always business before saving the world?”

“This from the man with the gun in my back?” Monique asked. “Besides, as you can see, I don't live in France. Their politics are disagreeable to my father and me.”

“They are?” She didn't respond. Tom wasn't sure why he found the revelation surprising. Her perfume filled the small car quickly. A musky, flowery scent.

“If you cooperate, you'll be out of here in half an hour.”

She didn't respond to that either.

No surprise, the rooms weren't as palatial as unsuspecting travelers might have been led to believe. Orange carpet turned brown. Flowered bedcovers on two double beds. A wicker dresser, crusted with enough dirt to wear out a power washer. The television worked, but only in green and without sound.

Tom directed Monique to take the room's only chair, a flimsy wood job, into the far corner and sit still. He put the gun on the dresser beside him and turned to his sister.

“Okay. I need you to sneak out of this dump, find the police, and demand to talk to Jacques de Raison. Tell the police that you escaped. Tell them I'm a wacko or something. I need you clear of this, you understand?”

“Smartest
thing I've heard all morning.” She looked at Monique. “What do I tell her father?”

“You tell him what we know. And if he doesn't agree to stop or recall the shipment, you tell him that I said I'm going to start shooting.”

Tom faced Monique. “Only pinkies, of course. I don't like making threats, but you understand the situation.”

“Yes. I understand perfectly. You've gone completely mad.”

He nodded. “You see, that's why we need this backup plan, Kara. If she doesn't come around, maybe her father will. More important, it gets you off the hook. Make sure it's clear that I'm threatening his daughter, not you.”

“And where do I tell them you are?”

“Tell them you jumped out of the car. You don't have a clue where we are.”

“That's a lie.”

“There's a lot at stake. Lies will be forgiven at this point.”

“I hope you know what you're doing. How will I know what's going on?”

“Through Jacques. I'm sure he'll take a call from his daughter in the event we need to make contact. If you need to reach me, call, but make sure it's safe.”

She walked over to the bedstand, lifted the phone receiver to her ear, and set it down, evidently satisfied that it had a dial tone. She'd lived in Southeast Asia too long to trust any such thing to chance.

Kara stepped forward and gave Tom a hug. “This is nuts.”

“I love you, sis.”

“Love you, too, brother.” She pulled back, gave Monique a last look, and headed for the door.

“Good luck wooing that one,” she said and closed the door softly behind her.

“Yes, good luck wooing this one,” Monique said. “The unabashed American male flexing his muscles. Is that what this is?”

Tom picked up the gun, leaned on the dresser, and looked at his hostage. There was only one way to do this. He had to tell her everything. At least now she had to listen.

“Farthest thing from my mind, trust me. The fact of the matter is, I really did cross the ocean to talk to you, and I really am risking my neck to do so. Why would I risk so much to talk to a rude French woman, you ask? Because unless I'm sadly mistaken, you may be the only person alive who can work with me to stop a terrible thing from happening. Contrary to the overall impression I may have given you, I really am a very decent guy. And under all your fierce determination, I think you're probably a very decent girl. I just want to talk, and I just want you to listen. I'm very tired and I'm at my wit's end, so I hope you don't make this more difficult than it has to be. Is that too much to ask?”

“No. But if you expect me to burn the thousands of stockholders who've stuck out their necks for this company, you'll be disappointed. I won't spread a malicious rumor just because you say you'll shoot my pinkie toes off if I don't .If I were to guess, You've been hired by one of our competitors. This is some ridiculous plot to hurt Raison Pharmaceutical. What on earth would convince you that this makes any sense?”

Tom stood, walked to the window, peered out. The street bustled with thousands of Thailand's finest, oblivious to the drama unfolding five stories above their heads.

“A dream,” he said. He faced her. “A dream that is real.”

Carlos Missirian waited patiently in the Mercedes across the street from the Paradise Hotel. In a few hours it would be dark. He would make his move then.

A satay vendor wheeled his cart past the car. Carlos pressed a button on the door and watched the tinted window slide down. Hot air rolled into the cool car. He held out two five-baht coins. The vendor hurried over with a small tray of meat sticks, took the coins, and handed him the satays. Carlos rolled the window up and pulled a small slice of warm, spicy meat from the stick using his teeth. The taste was inspiring.

His father had often told him that good plans are useless without proper execution. And proper execution depended on good timing more than any other factor. How many terrorist plots had failed miserably because of bad timing? Most.

He'd been caught off guard by the appearance of the American at the press conference. Thomas Hunter, a desperate-looking maniac who had watched the proceedings from a seat two rows in front of his own. It had been his own intention to approach the Raison woman after the conference and suggest an interview using false credentials he'd scavenged from an Associated Press contact. Failing that, he would have taken more direct measures, but he'd long ago learned that the best plan is usually the most obvious one.

He'd taken several steps toward the podium when the American had barged up front and pulled off his incredible stunt. What more obvious way to deal with an adversary than to march up, steal a weapon, and kidnap her in broad daylight in front of half the world's press corps? Surprisingly, the plot had worked. Even more surprisingly, they had gotten away. If Carlos hadn't habitually positioned his own car for a quick exit, they might have escaped him as well.

The fact that the American had gone to such lengths carried its own meaning. It meant that the CDC hadn't paid him any attention. This was good. It meant that the American had a very, very high level of confidence in this so-called dream of his. This was also good. It meant that the American intended to force Raison Pharmaceutical into pulling the drug. This wasn't so good.

But that would soon change.

He'd followed the green Toyota here, to the Paradise Hotel. The news was turning the kidnapping into a major story. Word had already reached the American wires. The police scanners in Bangkok were busy coordinating a frenzied search, but no one had a clue where the crazed American had vanished to.

Except Carlos, of course.

He placed the satays between his teeth and slid another piece off the stick. The American was doing his job for him. He had nicely isolated Monique de Raison in a hotel room. Thomas's blonde cohort had left on foot an hour ago. This bothered Carlos some, but the other two were still inside. He was sure of it. From his position he had a full view of every exit except an emergency exit in the alley, which he'd found and subsequently disabled.

The situation had fallen perfectly into his hands. How convenient that he could deal with them both at the same time. It was now simply a matter of timing.

Carlos looked in the rearview mirror, brushed a speck of dirt from the scar on his cheek, and leaned back with a long, satisfied breath.

Timing.

Monique watched Thomas pace and wondered if there was any way, however unlikely, that the tale he'd spun over the past two hours was anything more than absolute nonsense. There always was that possibility, of course. She'd given herself to the pursuit of impossible new drugs precisely because she didn't believe in impossibilities unless they were proved mathematically. Technically speaking, his story could be true.

But then, technically speaking, his story was hogwash, as the Americans liked to say.

For the past five minutes he'd been silent, pacing with the gun dangling from his fingers. She wondered if he'd ever used a gun before. At first she had assumed so, judging by the way he handled it. But now, after listening to him, she wondered.

The air-conditioning unit rattled noisily but produced nothing more than hot air. They were both drenched in sweat. She had removed her jacket over an hour ago.

If she weren't so furious with the man for all this nonsense,
she might pity him. Honestly, she pitied him anyway. He was completely sincere, which meant he had to be wrong in the head. Maybe insane. Which meant that, although he gave no signal that he was capable of shooting her toes off, he might very well be the kind who suddenly snapped and decapitated his victim or some other such terrible thing.

She had to find a way to break through to whatever reason he might have.

Monique took a deep breath of the stuffy air. “Thomas, can we talk on my level for a moment?”

“What do you think I've been trying to do for the past two hours?”

“You've been talking on your level. It may all make perfect sense to you, but not to me. We're not accomplishing a thing, hidden away in this suffocating room. The vaccine is most likely in flight by now, and within forty-eight hours it will be in the hands of a hundred hospitals around the world. If you're right, we're only wasting time by sitting here.”

“You're saying that you'll recall the shipments?”

She had considered lying to him a hundred times, but her indignation prevented her from doing so. He wouldn't believe her anyway.

“Would you believe me if I said yes?” she asked.

“I'd believe you if we made the call together. A call to the
New York
Times
from Monique de Raison would go a long way.”

She sighed. “You know I can't do that.” They were getting nowhere. She had to earn his trust. Negotiate a settlement to this standoff.

“But if I truly did believe you, I would. You do understand my predicament, don't you?”

He didn't answer, which was answer enough. She pressed forward.

“You know, I grew up on a vineyard in the south of France. Much cooler than here, I'm glad to say.” She smiled. For his sake. “We came from a poor family, my mother and I. She was a servant in our vineyards. Did you know that my family used to make wine, not drugs?”

He just stared at her.

She continued. “I never knew my biological father; he left when I was only three. Jacques was one of the Raison sons. He fell in love with my mother when I was ten. My mother died when I was twelve. That was fourteen years ago. We've come a long way since then, Father and I. Did you know that I studied at UCLA Medical School?”

“Why are you telling me all of this?”

“I'm making conversation.”

“We don't have time for conversation,” Tom said. “Haven't you been listening to me?”

She answered as calmly as possible. “Yes. I have. But you haven't been speaking on my level. Remember? I'm telling you who I am so that you can address me as a real, living person, a woman who is confused and a bit frightened by all your antics.”