of white shirts fill the street, and more keep coming. The uniformed river is unending.
"They have to be pulling troops in from the countryside. There's no way this many white shirts work in the city."
"They're the Ministry's front line, for the burnings," Carlyle says. "For when cibiscosis or poultry flu gets out of hand." He starts to point then drops his hand, not wanting to draw attention them. Nods instead. "See the badge? The tiger and the torch? They're practically a suicide division. That's where the Tiger of Bangkok got his start."
Anderson nods grimly. It's one thing to complain about the white shirts, to joke about their stupidity and hunger for bribes. It's another to watch them march by in shining ranks. The ground shakes with tramping feet. Dust rises. The street reverberates with their increasing number. Anderson has an almost uncontrollable urge to flee. They are predators. He is prey. He wonders if Peters and Lei had even this much warning before Finland went wrong.
"You have a gun?" he asks Carlyle.
Carlyle shakes his head. "More trouble than they're worth."
Anderson scans the street for Lao Gu. "My rickshaw man's gone missing."
"Goddamn yellow cards." Carlyle laughs quietly. "Always got their fingers to the wind. I'll bet there's not a yellow card in the city who's not in hiding right now."
Anderson grips Carlyle's elbow. "Come on. Try not to draw attention to yourself."
"Where we going?"
"To put our own fingers to the wind. See what's happening."
Anderson leads him down a side street, aiming for the main freight khlong, the canal that leads to the sea. Almost immediately, they run into a cordon of white shirts. The guards lift their spring rifles and wave Anderson and Carlyle away.
"I think they're securing the whole district," Anderson says. "The locks. The factories. "
"Quarantine?"
"They'd have masks if they were here to burn."
"A coup then? Another December 12?"
Anderson glances at Carlyle. "A bit ahead of schedule for that, aren't you?"
Carlyle eyes the white shirts. "Maybe General Pracha has gotten the jump on us."
Anderson tugs him in the opposite direction. "Come on. We'll go to my factory. Maybe Hock Seng knows something."
All along the street, white shirts are busily rousting people from their shops, encouraging them to close their doors. The last of the shop keepers are shoving wooden panels into sockets and sealing their storefronts. Another company of white shirts marches by.
Anderson and Carlyle arrive at the SpringLife factory in time to see megodonts streaming out of the main gates. Anderson snags one of the megodont men. The mahout switches his beast to halt and regards Anderson as the megodont snorts and shuffles its feet impatiently. Line workers stream around their obstruction.
"Where's Hock Seng?" Anderson asks. "Yellow Card Boss. Where?"
The man shakes his head. More workers are hurrying out.
"Did the white shirts come here?" he asks.
The man says something too fast for Anderson to pick up. Carlyle translates. "He says the white shirts are coming for revenge. Coming to get back their face."
The man motions emphatically and Anderson steps out of the way.
Across the street, the Chaozhou factory is also evacuating its workers. None of the street's storefronts are open now. Food carts have all been dragged indoors or wheeled away in fright. Every door on the street is shut. A few Thais peer out from high windows but the street itself contains only disbursing workers and marching white shirts. The last of the SpringLife workers hurry past, none of them looking at Carlyle or Lake as they flee.
"Worse by the minute," Carlyle mutters. His face has gone pale under his tropical tan.
A new wave of white shirts rounds the corner, six wide, a snake extending down the length of the street.
Anderson's skin prickles at the sight of the closed shop fronts. It's as if everyone is preparing for a typhoon. "Let's make like the natives and get inside." He grabs one of the heavy iron gates and hauls against it. "Help me."
It takes them both to drag the gates closed and set the crossbars. Anderson slaps locks into place and leans against hot iron, panting. Carlyle studies the bars. "Does this mean we're safe? Or trapped?"
"We're not in Khlong Prem Prison yet. So let's assume we're winning."
But inwardly, Anderson wonders. There are too many variables in play, and it makes him nervous. He remembers a time in Missouri when the Grahamites rioted. There had been tension, some small speeches, and then it had simply erupted in field burning. No one had seen the violence coming. Not a