Simon arrived at the JW Marriott hotel at nine o’clock. After his visit to the prison, the lobby was a sanctuary, an oasis of marble, lacquer, and florals. Adamson accompanied him to the front desk. He had not come to make sure that Simon’s check-in went smoothly. His hungry, vulpine features had locked into a kind of fixed growl. He was not accustomed to clients questioning his advice, not at a thousand dollars an hour, or, for that matter, his integrity.
“You’re walking a fine line, Riske,” he’d said as they climbed into the Mercedes upon leaving the prison.
“Back at ya.” Simon slammed the door, allowing Adamson to get settled. “Tell me something. Just whose side are you on?”
“You don’t get it. Things work differently here. More liquid. More supple.”
“So I’ve heard. ‘Written in pencil, not ink.’”
“Exactly. They don’t need to be entirely adversarial.”
“Versus semi-adversarial? Tell me how that works exactly. Is it like being slapped instead of being slugged? Or is it more like consensual rape? You tell me.”
“Don’t be glib.” Adamson shifted in his seat, intent on explaining what he meant. “Both sides can win. It’s just a question of altering your perspective, of tempering expectation. We give them what they want. They give us what we want.”
“Someone forgot to tell that to Paul Malloy.”
“The man fell off the side of a mountain. Jesus Christ, Riske, it was an accident.”
“You don’t believe that.”
Adamson was wise enough not to argue the point. He adopted a new tack. “Rafael de Bourbon is our concern, not Paul Malloy. Colonel Tan is a force in this country. He can be our best friend or our worst enemy.”
“Tan’s just doing what he’s told. I’m more interested in who he’s working for. Whoever ‘them’ is.”
“He is representing PetroSaud.”
“Is he?” Simon was happy not to be privy to the byzantine machinations and divided loyalties of Adamson’s firm. A cover letter to the plea agreement written on the law firm’s stationery listed the cities where it maintained offices. You could hop, skip, and jump from one to the next and make it all the way around the globe without getting your toes wet. Including two offices in Saudi Arabia, in Jeddah and Riyadh. That struck Simon as overkill in a country that size, its wealth notwithstanding.
All along he’d felt like there was a third party in the negotiations. Rafa, Tan, and another, for the moment, unnamed.
Adamson didn’t say another word the rest of the way.
As Simon took the room key and walked to the elevator, the attorney trailed at his side.
“So, what’s your plan?” he asked.
“I’m going to get my friend out of jail,” said Simon.
“And you’re going to follow Tan’s advice.”
“Do I have a choice?”
The elevator arrived. Simon stepped inside. Adamson made to join, but Simon threw out a hand. Enough. “Good night,” he said. “We’ll talk in the morning.”
“And?” demanded the lawyer. “What are you going to do? Do you know where it is? What did he tell you? Riske? Riske!”
Simon unpacked, setting his clothes in neat piles on the bed. He’d been up over a day and he had a long way to go yet before he’d be crawling beneath the sheets. He saw a text on his phone. Dickie Blackmon. What the hell’s going on over there?
No need to respond. Simon was sure Adamson had filled Dickie in. Or maybe Colonel Tan had done it himself, he mused venomously. Wheels within wheels.
Delete.
He walked to the window, gazing out over the city. Lights. Everywhere lights. A flashing neon sign circled a decorative column atop a skyscraper a mile away. The sign alternated between the Thai flag—red and white and blue stripes—and the message “Long live the King.”
“Things work differently here,” Adamson had said.
Correction, thought Simon, taking in the glittering skyline. Things worked exactly as they did everywhere else in the world.
He opened his laptop and looked up PetroSaud. The company’s website described it as a privately owned oil exploration and production company. A list of PetroSaud executives included its managing partner, Tarek Al-Obeidi, a name Adamson had mentioned in the car. The rest of the top brass was the usual mix of Saudi nationals and their extravagantly paid minions. There was no mention of the ill-fated Malloy.
Simon showered, the hot jets relaxing his tired muscles, wishing he could stay there for an hour. He had no choice but to do as Tan advised. He had to give them back