Miracle Cure (28 page)

Blood sprayed in different directions. Michael's eyes widened and then closed, his body falling slack.

"Try something like that again," George said, "and it will be Sara who pays the price. Understand?"

Michael could barely nod before he passed out.

Cassandra looked at her sister. Sara's bright green eyes seemed to have sunk deeper into her skull. Dark circles surrounded them.

The beaming look of life had been replaced by a bleak look of incomprehension and shock. Three days had passed since she had been knocked unconscious in Michael's room three days of depression, sadness, fear, and confusion. But now it was as though those emotions had hardened into something more concrete. During the last three days Sara's hurt had transformed itself into something more powerful, something more... useful.

Anger. No, rage.

"Hi ya, baby sis."

Cassandra's smile was broad, too broad. It looked fake and Sara knew it.

"What's wrong?"

"Wrong?"

"Just come out and say it."

The smile fled Cassandra's face, leaving behind no traces it had ever been there. Her expression was hard, serious. She sat down on the bed next to Sara and took her hand.

Sara looked down at their hands and then up into her sister's eyes.

"What is it?" she asked gently.

"I know I haven't been the best sister in the world," Cassandra said.

"Neither have I."

"But I love you."

Sara tightened her grip on Cassandra's cold hand.

"I love you too," she said.

Tears began to slide down Cassandra's cheek.

"I think Dad is mixed up in this whole Gay Slasher thing."

Sara felt her body stiffen.

"What?"

Cassandra nodded.

"I think he's involved in some kind of plot to destroy the clinic."

"What are you talking about?"

"I overheard him arguing with Reverend Sanders in his study the morning after the charity ball."

"But Dad said he didn't know him." "I know. Harvey told me that. So I became suspicious. I went through his desk when he wasn't around. There were letters saying that the funds Dad wanted for the new wing at the Cancer

Center were going to Sidney Pavilion instead. One was from a guy named Markey "

"Dr. Raymond Markey?"

"That's him. Assistant Secretary of something."

"Health and Human Services."

"Right."

Sara tried to swallow, but her mouth had suddenly dried up.

"But that doesn't mean he's involved with Sanders." "That's what I thought... until the morning Michael was kidnapped. When Dad kept trying to make sure I would be out of the house that morning, I became suspicious. So I hid in his closet. Reverend Sanders came by again."

Sara sat up and stared directly into her sister's eyes.

"Tell me everything they said, Cassandra. Everything."

Bangkok at night.

The Thai locals approached every white-faced person who walked down Patpong, whispering promises of sexual fulfillment that would have made a porn star blush. But no one approached George. One or two of the Thais knew him personally; some had met him on occasion; many knew his name; all feared going anywhere near him.

Despite the enormous crush of people the locals parted when George walked by, letting him pass, fighting to get out of his way.

It was past midnight already, but Patpong was just beginning to stretch out its arms and prepare for the evening that lay ahead.

George brushed past a group of Japanese businessmen who were negotiating rates and terms with a local pimp as if they were sitting in a Tokyo conference room.

When George reached Rama IV Road, he hailed a tuk-tuk, the native taxi of Thailand. A cross between a car and a scooter.

The tuk- tuk had its good points it was small, quick, used up next to no fuel, and was open air. It also got crushed in an accident, had no headroom, and was open air.

The driver gave George the customary Thai greeting. He clasped his hands in a praying position, bent his head forward until his nose touched his fingertips, and said, "Sawasdee, hip."

George returned the greeting, though not bending nearly as far as the driver.

"Sawasdee."

"Where to?"

"Wats," George barked.

The driver smiled and nodded. George climbed into the bright blue tuk-tuk. The driver continued to smile. Typical Thai, George mused.

Thailand, Land of Smiles. Everybody smiling. They might be griping, whoring, thieving, murdering, but they always smiled.

George liked that.

They stopped at a traffic light on Silom Road. A voice shouted.

"Hey, mate!"

George glanced to his right.

"Yeah, that's right, mate," a red-faced, inebriated Australian shouted, pointing at George, "I'm talking to you." The Aussie looked to be about fifty years old. There were six prostitutes jammed into a taxi with him young Thai girls no more than thirteen, fourteen tops, giggling and rubbing the man with fast, vigorous hands.

George's face registered disgust.

"What do you want?"

"Well, mate, it's like this, right. Seems I bit off a bit more than I can chew here, you see. Wanted to know if you wanted to go halfsies."

"Halfsies?"

"You take three and I'll take three unless we want to do an eight-person thing. Kind of a lick-em and luv-em orgy. Might be up for that."

"Degenerate," George spat.

"Hey, that's not a nice thing to say," the Aussie slurred.

"Specially as I don't know what it means."

The man laughed hysterically at this. The young women (kids really) joined him. The Aussie laughed harder, spurred on by the realization that the girls found him so amusing. The girls, George knew, did not understand a word of English, with the exception of some sexual terminology.

"Go to hell," George called back.

The light turned green and the tuk-tuk moved onto Charoen Road. It noisily began its journey along the Chao Phraya River.

In Thai, wat meant temple or monastery, and Bangkok had over four hundred temples of breathtaking beauty. Color was the key word in Thai architecture. Red, yellow, green, blue, and most especially gold all reflecting the bright sun in an amazing kaleidoscope of nature and man.

There was Wat Po, which housed the Reclining Buddha a statue so immense it stretched across an area larger than half a football field. Another enormous Buddha image, cast in well over five tons of solid gold, sat upon the alter of Wat Traimit, and Wat Arum, the Temple of Dawn, appeared to be suspended above the Chao Phraya River as though held there by the gods, its towering spires reaching up and scratching the very heavens with pointy claws.

But Bangkok's most spectacular temple was known to the Thai people simply as Wats, though it was far more than just a temple.

Tourists knew it as the Grand Palace, though it was far more than that too. The Grand Royal Complex might be a better name.

Everything King Rama I, ruler of the Chakri Dynasty, could have wanted was housed within the walls which enclosed his palace, including one of the most sacred images in all of Buddhism the Emerald Buddha. In this bastion of awe-inspiring color and beauty, the Emerald Buddha stood out only for its rather startling un impressiveness The statue was only a few feet high, was made of jade, and showed no real signs of unusually brilliant handwork.

You could buy an exact reproduction for a few baht in any Thai trinket store.

"We're here, boss."

"Swing around to the other side."

"Okay, boss."

At night, spotlights illuminated the many spires and pagodas of the Grand Palace, creating an impression both bright and haunting. In a word: mysterious. Like the most seductive woman, Bangkok hinted at unparalleled delights while always keeping part of itself covered, hidden from view, a secret.

"Stop here."

"Yes, boss."

The tuk- tuk chugged to a halt. George paid the driver and crossed over toward the Chao Phraya River. He walked along the river's edge, watching the wooden rice barges drift lazily by as though they had no particular destination in mind, the drivers still wearing their enormous straw hats though the blazing sun had settled in the west hours ago. The Chao Phraya was more than a river to Bangkok. It was her lifeblood. The waterway was used for transportation, for floating food markets, for bathing.

Families had lived for centuries in huts that were more in the river than on it.

Through the darkness a long narrow sampan glided silently to the shore.

The boat closer to a canoe really was being steered from the back by a skinny boy. An elderly man with only one arm and a wisp of a mustache sat in the front.

"George?" the man whispered.

Right on time as always. George climbed aboard the sampan, sat and clasped his hands together. He bowed respectfully.

"Sawasdee, kap."

"Sawasdee, hip."

"How is business, Surakarn?" "Brisk," the old man said.

"But, alas, we have had to close down our profitable Malaysian operation. Too much heat from the state police. They are not, I'm afraid, as receptive to gifts as they used to be."

"So I've heard." George looked at Surakarn's weatherbeaten face, his skin brittle like dry brown leaves. The former Thai boxing champion must be nearing seventy now, George thought, and worth countless millions of dollars. Yet Surakarn did not slow down, nor, it seemed, did he do anything with his vast wealth.

He still lived on a modest hut along the Chao Phraya, though he had long ago allowed creature comforts to enter his dwelling.

From the outside the hut looked like something from a Vietnam War documentary; inside were two big-screen televisions, VCRs, a GE refrigerator, a dishwasher, a washer and dryer, a microwave, central air-conditioning, the works.

Surakarn smiled.

"You've been away for a long time, old friend."

"Too long," George replied.

Surakarn waved his one arm toward the boy, and the sampan began its slow journey down the Chao Phraya. Surakarn's other arm had been sliced off in Chiang Rai almost twenty-five years before by a fellow competitor in the smuggling industry named Rangood. Rangood, however, had made the mistake of allowing Surakarn to live. After he captured his nemesis, Surakarn tortured him mercilessly in ways that were beyond imagination. Rangood begged Surakarn to kill him, but Surakarn would listen only to his shouts of agony, not his words. By the time Rangood's heart gave out several weeks later, his mind had long since snapped.

Surakarn was as trustworthy as they came, but George did not tell even him about Silverman's kidnapping. This was too big, too risky, to trust anyone. George had decided not to solicit the help of the usual local cut-throats he worked with, despite what he had written in the note to Michael. He had even gone so far as to put a mask on Michael's face when he sneaked him into the Eager Beaver.

The Chao Phraya area was quiet this evening. The gentle splashing sounds from an occasional boat enhanced the feeling of calm, of solitude. There was no mist in the air, only the stifling humidity, and yet there always seemed to be a fog rolling across the city, as though mist and fog could be detected by some sense other than sight and smell.

"Nothing changes here," George said.

Surakarn nodded.

"Bangkok is a constant."

"I need to use the safe phone."

"Of course." Surakarn pointed to a radio with a microphone.

"The radio leads to a cellular phone aboard one of my vessels near Hong Kong."

"I see."

"You asked to make a call that could not be traced. This is it."

Surakarn moved toward the far end of the boat.

"You need not fear. I will not listen."

George checked his watch. He called in the number to the captain of the drug boat in Hong Kong, who proceeded to hook him up with the United States. No matter what Surakarn claimed, the call was still, after all, traceable. The authorities could, in theory at least, figure out the call was made from a cellular phone (no doubt a stolen one) in Hong Kong. But to find out who made the call and then to find out that there was a radio hook-up to Bangkok, well, that would be nearly impossible. Worst case scenario: it would take weeks.

A few moments later George heard the voice.

"Hello."

"Perfect," George said.

"You're right on time."

"I can barely hear you," the voice said.

"Don't worry about it. We won't be on long."

"Is he all right?"

"Kne. We're having a ball together. Did you transfer the money?"

"Yes."

"All of it."

"Every last penny," the voice replied.

"How did you get it?"

"That's not your concern."

"I'll check my account tomorrow morning just to be sure. If it is not all there, my house guest will be missing a few fingers by tomorrow afternoon."

"It's all there." The voice faltered for a moment and then said, "Why did you have to kill the nurse?"

"Excuse me?"

"The nurse. Why did you have to kill her?"

"She saw me."

"But you're supposed to be an expert. How could you let that happen?"

The words stung because George knew that they were true.

He had miscalculated. That was rare. And very bothersome.

"It was just a freak thing."

"Listen to me closely: I don't want any 'freak thing7 to happen to Michael Silver "

"Don't use names, imbecile! Someone could be listening."

"What oh, sorry."

The voice was extra-taut tonight, George thought, like somebody wound so tightly he would either snap or stretch into something unrecognizable. George had not liked it when the voice was nervous.

Now he feared that his employer was beginning to lose control completely.

That was not good. It was, in fact, very bad.

"I guess I should be thankful," the voice continued.

"At least you didn't kill Sa uh, his wife."

"I was able to sneak up behind her," George replied evenly.

"She never got the chance to see me."

"Otherwise?"

"Otherwise she would be lying on a cold slab too."