a toothbrush, then exposed the copper filaments at each end, taking care to curl them neatly. Next, he found the Honda’s ignition cable and unplugged the socket. Fashioning the wire into a U-shape, he inserted the exposed ends into each of the socket’s connecting leads. Having bypassed the key contact, he thumbed the ignition key and the motorcycle’s engine turned over.
He backed up the bike as Shaka appeared at the mouth of the alley. Another biker turned in and slowed to pass him. Shaka looked at Simon and, without hesitation, took hold of the biker’s shoulders and threw him to the ground, jumping on the bike in his place.
Simon gunned the Honda, turning right at the far end of the alley and accelerating into three lanes of smoothly flowing traffic. He passed through an intersection and saw he was driving on Sathorn Road. The road grew broader still, four lanes in either direction, skyscrapers lined up like sentries on either side of the boulevard. Signs on the buildings advertised the world’s largest banks and insurance companies. He drove as fast as the bike allowed, carving his own lane through the slower moving automobiles. Ahead, an intersection. Four lanes coming from each direction. He kept his wrist cocked, refusing to slow as, all around him, cars came to a halt. The light turned red a full second before he passed beneath it. Cars darted forth left and right, cutting off his path. He dodged one way, then another. Horns blared. Like that, he was through.
A look over his shoulder. No sign of his pursuer. He was clear. He slowed, moved into the right lane. Then, a squeal of brakes. A cacophony of horns. Shaka emerged from the cross traffic, off-balance, one foot dragging on the pavement.
Simon veered onto a side street. Two lanes, commercial buildings, restaurants, foliage springing up between the structures. Palms, casuarinas. Traffic in front of him came to an abrupt halt. He slid past one car and another. The road narrowed. The space between cars going in opposite directions lessened to a foot, less even, drivers playing a kind of hide-and-seek as they made their way along what essentially was a one-way street. Simon stopped repeatedly, shouting for a path to open. He could feel Shaka closing the distance between them. A glance behind him. Two cars back.
A memory from his past.
Simon, fourteen years old, on his Vespa. A broiling summer day on the narrow streets of Marseille. Cars parked cheek by jowl, one after another, every space taken. A dare. No way you can…
Mounting a Citroën parked along the Rue de Fleury, he maneuvered his bike over the top of the car—trunk, roof, hood, punch the gas—onto the next car and the next…making it ten cars before jumping back to the sidewalk.
But that was twenty-five years ago.
What choice did he have?
Simon revved the engine, pulled up the handlebars, and jumped the bike onto the trunk of the car stopped in front of him—a gold BMW, dealer plates, straight off the lot—up and over the roof, onto the hood, accelerate, and jump to the next car. Wash. Rinse. Repeat. Two cars. Three. He rode standing up, fighting for balance, wishing he had more power, not once looking behind him. A last car and he was at the front of the line. Back on the street, horns letting him know what they thought of his performance.
Simon turned onto a wide boulevard, accelerating for all the bike was worth. A look over his shoulder. Shaka remained far behind, locked in traffic, unable to follow. One trick he didn’t have up his sleeve.
In minutes, Simon was on the highway, following signs to the river. He crossed the Chao Phraya, tossing his phone into the water—Follow that, asshole!—and headed west out of the city, toward Ratchaburi, the countryside.
Free.
For now.
Chapter 27
Singapore
In the trade, it was called an “ambush.” Simply put, it meant approaching a subject without his or her prior knowledge and asking them pointed questions about their involvement in a crime, scandal, incident, fill in the blank—whatever story the journalist was covering. One saw it most often on television, the intrepid investigative journalist staking out a suspected criminal, waiting for him to leave the safety of his home or office, then pouncing, lights blazing, camera crew in tow, microphone at the ready.
“Sir, can you comment on…?” “When did you know about…?” “Did you have anything to do with…?”
But London Li was a print journalist working for a respected publication. When she had