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.
“I’ve never been.”
“Wonderful country, don’t get me wrong. Lovely people. Beautiful beaches. Fascinating history. ‘Land of Smiles.’ And the king will tan your hide if you say otherwise.” Sterling laughed, a riotous thunderclap. “In name, Thailand is still a monarchy. The Thais love their king. Not allowed to say a bad thing about him. Something called lèse-majesté. Few years back, an Australian newshound sent his friends a pic he’d gotten ahold of showing the king cavorting in a swimming pool with a karaoke girl, both of them naked, of course. Having a frolic. Pic was twenty years old. No big deal. That’s what the Aussie thought. Twenty-four hours later, he found himself on an airplane, declared persona non grata. Never allowed to return. He got off easy. King sent his wife to an ‘attitude adjustment’ camp for two years. Kids, too.”
“Sounds harsh.”
“The king is still new to the throne. He’s a fighter pilot. Smart as a whip but has a bit of an inferiority complex. His father was the most popular monarch in the country’s history. On the throne for seventy years. New one needs to make his mark.”
“But does he have real power?”
“To an extent. By law, the country is a parliamentary democracy with a constitution and everything. Problem is they keep electing one party more corrupt than the next. Every ten years the military stages a coup to set things right. Of course, they’re as bent as the day is long, too. Somehow the whole thing works. Country’s prosperous. Bangkok’s a boomtown. Two million residents when I first visited in ’75. Nearly eleven million today and growing like gangbusters. But nothing, I repeat, nothing, gets done without a tip of your hat and a wave of your hand. Grease makes the wheels go round.”
“Money.”
“Graft, honest or otherwise. There isn’t anything that can’t be bought…including, apparently, the freedom of your friend, Rafael de Bourbon. I made some calls after we spoke last night. I still have friends over there.”
“And?”
“Den of vipers.”
“Pardon me?”
“That’s what you’re stepping into. I don’t know what your chum did, whether it really was blackmail, extortion, or corporate theft, but he’s managed to make a lot of people upset. Word to the wise. Do not mess with Colonel Tan.”
“I looked him up. Career army. Paratrooper. Served as defense attaché to the Thai embassy in Rome and Istanbul. Currently, head of the Royal Thai Police.”
“You’re not going to find what you need to know about Albert Tan on the Internet. Tan is the ultimate inside man. Married to the daughter of the biggest sugar baron in the country. Worth billions. Brother’s head of the ruling party. More billions. Cousin owns Mekong Distillery, largest spirits producer in Thailand, Laos, and Vietnam. Lots more billions. Pounds, not baht. Tan is the man you go to when you want to get things done at the highest level. Whatever De Bourbon did, it must be bloody important if Tan himself flew to Ko Phi Phi to make the arrest.”
Simon took this in. “My friend worked for a company named PetroSaud. You can guess by the name it’s in the oil business, representing the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia. Offices in Geneva, Singapore, and Jeddah. But, Ben, why did the Thai police arrest him for stealing information from a Saudi company?”
“Simple. On behalf of one of the countries where the company has offices.”
“Long arms,” said Simon.
“With very sharp claws,” said Ben Sterling. “Careful, Simon. Den of vipers.”
A waiter arrived with their curries.
“Ah,” said Sterling as his plate was set before him. “Heaven.”
Chapter 13
London
It was more than an hour’s drive west to Southall. Simon passed the gurdwara temple and turned onto a quiet side street. By a miracle, he located a vacant space that was almost legal. He entered a gate at number 34 Carrington Mews and continued to the back of the house, where he knocked at the rear door. He was never sure why Dr. Vikram Singh insisted he go to the back. He’d been doing business with the electrical engineer for years, and frankly, he was beginning to have a complex about it.
A tall young man wearing a Caltech hoodie answered the door. “Hey.”