strides but not rushing. Bangkok wasn’t so different from London. People of every nationality passed him by. Arabs, Africans, Chinese, Indians, and far too many drunken Europeans. He resisted the invitations of several ladies, and several more who might not be. Land of Smiles.
The night was warm, 85 degrees, the heat a velvet shawl, sweat already rolling down his spine. He came to the stairs leading to the Skytrain. A blind woman sat nearby singing along to a recorded Thai folk song. An old man missing his feet lay next to her, cup raised. Simon gave each a banknote, catching sight of his pursuers, the driver now joined by another. If this went on much longer, Simon was likely to get an inflated opinion of himself.
Enough, he decided. He had places to go, people to see.
Simon looked to his left and dashed into the street, dodging cars, running down the center of the road. A check over his shoulder. He made it to the far sidewalk. No horns sounded. No drivers raised an angry hand in his direction.
He doubled back toward the hotel, catching his foot on another upturned slab of concrete. He fell forward, a hand arresting his fall. What was it with the sidewalks? He came to an intersection, a flood of pedestrians waiting to cross, blocking his way. He went around them, turning up the street, aware he was going in the opposite direction he needed to be. At least he could move faster.
The signs changed from English to Arabic. Pharmacies, nail salons, tailors, all open for business. Men in kaftans and dishdashas, women in black burkas, covered head to toe. An alley opened to his right. He ducked into it. Smoke. Coal-fired braziers. The acrid scent of roasting lamb. Tinny music blared from a storefront. The Cairo hit parade. He ventured a look behind him. A man on his tiptoes, searching. Their eyes met. Too late, Simon jumped back.
Who were these guys?
He was standing at the entrance to some kind of club: dark interior, crimson lights. Men sat around low tables smoking hookahs, the scent piquant and alluring, not just tobacco.
“Is there a rear exit?” he asked the doorman in his prison-yard Arabic.
The doorman shook his head, unimpressed. Not for you.
Simon thrust a thousand-baht note into his palm. Thirty dollars.
The doorman motioned him to follow.
They passed through a heavy curtain, then up a flight of stairs, the smell of incense and patchouli sweet and thick. Up again to the second floor, then along a dimly lit hallway, doors open to either side, dark-eyed women lounging on cushions. Come in. Let me entertain you.
“You want?” asked the doorman.
Simon shook his head. “Exit.”
The doorman stood aside, duty fulfilled, and pointed to a flight of stairs, a barred door barely visible at the top. Simon ran up the stairs, giving the door a shove with his shoulder. He stepped onto a fire escape, rusted and unsteady, swaying under his weight. He turned and reached for the door as it slammed shut. He tried the handle. Locked.
He ran down a flight, both hands on the railings, metal groaning. Dead end. No ladder. No more stairs. A fifteen-foot drop to the alley. He retraced his steps, continuing up several flights to the roof.
It was a world unto itself. A tended garden, chickens in a coop, an Exercycle. He heard a door slam somewhere below him, the rickety fire escape groan. He ran to the edge of the building. A seven-foot drop to the next rooftop, the buildings cheek by jowl. He jumped and landed heavily, wiping his hands as he stood. Up again, running to the next building and the next, aware of a figure giving pursuit, thinking Colonel Tan had better give his men a raise.
He arrived at the last building on the block. One foot on the parapet, he gazed over the edge. Four stories to the ground. Across the street, a forty-story apartment building. He turned, searching the rooftop. There, hiding in the rear corner, a makeshift hovel, planks, tin roof, lights burning behind flimsy drapes. He pulled aside the curtain and entered. A man and woman sat cross-legged on a Persian rug, bowls of noodles in their laps, watching television. They gazed at him, neither evincing much surprise.
“Downstairs?” said Simon, winded, hands on his hips.
The man pointed at a door across the room.
“Thank you.”
As he reached the bottom of the stairwell, he heard a door slam several floors up, another set of footsteps.