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.