The grey-haired ghoul then sat in his chair, leaned forward, and took the naked man’s testicles in his left hand, and with his right hand he held the small penknife to the side of the sack.
“You have ten seconds starting from now. Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two.”
Anthony Inman felt the small blade pressing into his scrotum. “What do you want me to do?” he yelled.
The grey-haired ghoul withdrew his hands and the knife and stood up and turned off the gas. He took another cigarette from his pocket and left the room without speaking another word.
A short man with dark hair and younger eyes sat in the chair in front of Inman. His face was hidden behind the rubber mask but Inman could see by his eyes that he was smiling.
“You wanna stay out of the frying pan you cooperate and you better hold nothing back,” he said with the twang of street New York. “I’m an expert on bank accounts and internet banking processes. Our leader who you just saw leave the room is never going to speak to you again, never another mother fuckin’ word. If he comes back it’ll be to use the knife and the frying pan so don’t try and lie to me. You will tell me about your accounts and the passwords and the security devices attached to those accounts. I will let you speak on a mobile phone to instruct a household member or a member of your office staff to retrieve the security devices and deliver them to a place of my choosing. Do you fully understand me?”
“I understand,” Anthony Inman said shakily looking down at his intact genitalia.
Approximately ten hours later Anthony Inman woke up, fully dressed on the back seat of a car parked on the side of the road not far from Bangkok’s airport. His head was full of cotton wool and his memory patchy as a result of the drugs that had been used to force him in and out of consciousness. His pockets were empty but there was a five hundred baht note sticking out of his shirt pocket. At least he had taxi money to get him home. He was a very angry and unhappy man and he felt weak and foolish. It had been an expensive afternoon.
Chapter 21
While Anthony Inman had been suffering his worst ever afternoon, his nemesis was only a few kilometres away having a quiet drink. Carl had spent a few hours in Candy’s bar being prodded and pulled in all directions by the scantily dressed girls. He felt exposed being back there but was comforted by the knowledge that George was out on the street watching all of the comings and goings on Suriwongse Road. Candy’s was busier than on his previous visit. Several barstools were occupied by early evening drinkers who had come straight from their nearby offices for fun and games before dinner, the usual crowd.
Carl finished his drink and walked to the toilet at the back of the bar. Mick Flynn grabbed him roughly as he went through the door. Mick was an extremely heavily muscled Irish building contractor with a drinking problem and permanent nosebleeds from the buckets of cocaine that he shoved up his nostrils all day and every day. He was dabbing at his nose with a blood-stained handkerchief with his left hand as he grabbed Carl’s arm in a death-grip with his right hand. His breath stank of Irish whiskey and there were minute particles of white powder above his top lip.
“What the fook are you doin’ here? I haven’t seen you in ages,” Mick shouted at Carl. His grip on Carl’s arm was too fierce for Carl’s liking. After snorting cocaine Mick had no idea of his strength.
“Just stopped off on my way home for a quick drink,” Carl told him as he used his right hand to weaken Mick’s grip on his left bicep.
“Dere’s people bin asking after you on Patpong. It’s not narcs is it?” Mick asked staring wildly. “They looked like feckin’ narcs.”
“Why would narcs be after me Mick?” Carl asked calmly.
“Because you’re a friend of mine, you eejit. They nailed me last month and I had to pay them three hundred thousand to let me go. You know what they’re like. They’ve probably already done the money and have come back for some more.”
“I’m sure they weren’t narcs Mick, so you can calm down and let go of me. I got caught screwing some rich banker’s wife and he has set the dogs on me. So they’re definitely not narcs Mick, and it’s me they’re after so you can let go of my fucking arm now.”
Mick looked around the bar and then, still standing half in and half out the door to the toilet, he said, “Orright then. Do you want a couple of lines?”
“No thanks Mick. I have all the paranoia I need at the moment thank you.”
“Please yourself,” he said and let the door go behind him as he walked happily back into the bar.
Carl caught the door and went in to use the toilet. When he finished at the urinal he went to the cracked sink and splashed cold water on his face. He stood up with water dripping off his face onto his shirt. He looked at his tired unshaven reflection in the mirror and said, “Either you are totally mad or every other fucker in Bangkok is.” Then he opened the door and walked back into the forever twilight of Candy’s bar.
Bart Barrows had come in while Carl had been in the toilet and was sitting on his own in the middle of the bar waiting for his beer to be delivered. He was studying the activities and availability of Candy’s girls like a hungry wolf. Carl moved up quietly and sat on the barstool beside him.
“Good evening Bart.”
Bart Barrows turned and saw Carl. “Back again so soon? Have you given up your high society friends and come back down to earth at last?”
“Not really Bart, I’m here because I’ve been looking for you.”
“Why would you be looking for me Carl? You spend most of your time avoiding me.”
“It’s about the people from your American office.”
“I don’t have an office, I’m retired, but you know that.” Bart was not talking like a buffoon for a change, which Carl found interesting.
“Yes you do. The huge one in Langley.”
“What kind of mushrooms have you been sprinkling on your fried rice?”
“I know you’re with the CIA Bart because a dead man told me. He knew all about you since Beirut. He was always smarter than me. I need your help for a change so the least you can do is listen,” Carl said firmly.
“Go on then.” Bart had stopped denying it at least, which was a better start than Carl had anticipated.
“I may be able to help you with some information. Anthony Inman is living in Bangkok under a Thai name and passport. He’s a criminal and a serial killer and I know where he is.”
“We know where he is Carl. His office is less than a mile from here,” Bart said unusually sympathetically.
“Why on earth wouldn’t you do something about it? He kills little girls and runs fucking guns to the Yakuza and god know what else.”
“We know about the guns but you are full of shit if you think he’s the serial killer, you would’ve been given that line of bullshit by Victor Boyle. He was always a liar. Surprised you bought it though. A little farfetched even for your infamous imagination,” Bart said gently.
“So if you know about the gun running how on earth is he still out walking the streets Bart?”
“Because as much as we despise Tony Inman, we’ve grown immeasurably fond of his associate General Amnuay and want him to be our best friend. He could be the next Chief of the Army, or don’t you read the papers?”
Carl thought for a while and then said, “Bart, confidentiality is my business and you know I can keep my mouth shut if I choose to. It comes with a price though.”
“It always does. And oh how painful is all payment.” Bart was paraphrasing Lord Byron and Carl was staring at him open mouthed. Bart and Byron was a combination that beggared belief.
“You are going to write your mobile number on a piece of paper for me and one day soon I will call you and you will answer no matter where you are or what you are doing. That is all I ask in exchange for never telling a living soul that you are CIA. Fuck me around and I’ll start putting deposits on advertising space. The mood I’m in at the moment I strongly recommend that you believe me.” Carl’s face had gone pale and his lips had become thinner.