“I will need a contact number,” Noortman said.
“We will call you,” Smith said.
Noortman spread his hands. “If there are difficulties-”
“Solve them,” Smith said.
Noortman inclined his head. “As you wish.”
OUTSIDE THE CAFE SMITH slammed the cell phone against a cement wall and tossed the resulting pieces into a series of trash cans they passed on their way to the street. They hailed a motorcycle taxi, whose driver chattered enthusiastically about the bombing and offered to drive them right up to the front of the Fun House, or what was left of it. Smith and Jones declined. Aggrieved but resigned at this lack of interest, the driver picked a slow but steady path through the emergency vehicles and the rubble and delivered them to the Pattaya AirCon Bus Station on North Pattaya Road.
The bus to Bangkok took three hours. In Bangkok, they bought round-trip coach tickets on a British Airways flight for London that left at twenty minutes past midnight, from a small travel agent on a side street using credit cards under the names of Smith and Jones. The agent was grateful for the revenue and took no notice of the shiny new cards or the incongruous names.
In a department store large enough to provide anonymity they purchased a small suitcase for each of them with cash, and filled the suitcases with a few garments from a different store and toiletries from a drugstore two blocks away, because people traveling with no luggage aroused suspicion in this untrusting age. They checked in, correctly for an international flight, three hours before departure, attired in neat suits and ties and shoes polished to a high gleam, and suffered through the minor indignities inflicted upon them by the security and customs personnel. They were passed through without incident.
The plane departed the gate precisely on schedule. As they lifted off the end of the runway, Jones turned to Smith and said, “Why?”
“Because we were there,” Smith said. “And because we could.”
HEATHROW
SMITH AND JONES ARRIVED in London at 6:30 a.m. Greenwich time, ten minutes ahead of schedule and seven hours before their next flight, time enough for a proper breakfast and to read the accounts of the bombing in the London newspapers. One of the stories had the Tamil separatist movement claiming responsibility, but general editorial feeling was that this was mere braggadocio. The Times deplored the exportation of terror to tourist communities, beginning with the attack on the Achille Lauro, continuing with the bombing of the bar in Bali, and now this outrage. They were careful to call the target a nightclub and not a whorehouse. The Guardian had discovered a minor Welsh poet among the dead and had devoted quite half of their obituary page to him, paying graceful homage to a body of work they had not deigned to recognize during the author’s lifetime. On its front page the Mirror had a photograph of the head of a bar girl lying six feet from its body. Her lipstick wasn’t even smudged.
They boarded a plane for Moscow at thirty-five minutes past one, which was where the plump blond woman from the cafe in Pattaya Beach lost them. They arrived at Sheremetyevo Airport at half past eight in the evening. They checked into a hotel for the night, slept soundly, and boarded yet another airplane the following morning for Odessa. The taxi driver, a thin adolescent with a chin that was trying hard for the unshaven look and blond hair that looked as if it had been shorn, shredded, and glued back, heard the address he was given with a professionally bored look and delivered Smith and Jones to a nondescript office building near the top of the Potemkin Steps. They took a very slow elevator to the seventh floor, where they were met by a young, beautiful, and exquisitely dressed brunette who escorted them into a small but luxuriously appointed meeting room with windows giving a sweeping view of the port of Odessa and the Black Sea. The docks were crowded with oil tankers, bulk carriers, containerships, and tramp freighters of every make and tonnage, flying flags from all nations, although it was sometimes difficult to see those flags through the forest of cranes working to load and unload cargo.
They were asked what they wished for in the way of refreshment. Tea, please, they said. Smith went to the window while it was being fetched. Jones joined him. They stood, contemplating the vista spread out before them.
“For the first time, I think perhaps it might be done,” Jones said.
“It will be done,” Smith said.
The door opened and a tall, big-bellied man with a baby face and pale, thinning hair cut so close to the scalp he looked fashionably bald came into the room. His gray wool suit was exquisitely tailored. Beneath it he was lavishly scented. A watch and rings shone from wrist and fingers, discreetly, it must be said, but with the gleam of true gold and the flash of real diamonds nonetheless.
He walked forward with a bouncy step and clasped Smith’s hand between both of his. “My friend, my friend, it has been so long since we has met. Come, sit, eat, drink.” He waved forward another man carrying a tray, dismissed him, and proceeded to fill the cups himself. “A little sugar, eh? Ah, you see, I remembers! Peter his friends forget never!” He handed out cups.
They were made of fine, thin china decorated with delicate sprays of pink flowers. Smith and Jones held them awkwardly while the Russian emptied his with noisy enjoyment. “There!” he said, banging his cup down in its saucer with a movement that should have shattered it. “You may has your coffee, pah, a harsh drink accurate for peasants and Americans. For gentlemen only the tea is.” He bent a shrewd gaze on Smith. “The last shipment is pleasant?”
Peter was fearless in his use of the English language, if not quite as fluent as he thought he was, but Smith knew what he meant. “Perfectly,” Smith said.
“Again and yet here are you. This time what for you I do, my friend, my very old friend? What has the inventory of Peter which can excite a customer so nice in his testes?”
Smith told him.
Peter shrugged. “Easily available. I have associations in Russia, in Libya, in Afghanistan -”
“I would prefer North Korea.”
Peter made a face. “That will be the more tricky, yes?”
“And the more expensive?” Smith said. “It does not matter.”
However odd Peter thought this request, he didn’t earn his fees by letting it show on his face. He made an odd little bow and spoke in a hollow, echoing lisp. “By your command.” Peter, unfortunately, was a devotee of Battlestar Galactica. He had all the episodes on a set of bootleg VHS tapes, with which he had bored a series of nubile companions who were intelligent enough to pretend an interest in Cylon tyranny for as long as they enjoyed Peter’s support.
Peter laughed heartily at his own joke until he saw that Smith and Jones did not share in his amusement. “Ah well,” he said philosophically, and with a flourish worthy of a professional magician produced a gold-monogrammed handkerchief to mop a sweaty brow. “A telephone call, minutely. I know a general-ah, ah!” He wagged a mischievous finger back and forth. “I must not to reveal my sources, even to such an old friend as you, or there will be no need for Peter’s services!” He laughed again.
He stopped laughing when Smith told him what else he wanted. “My friend, my old friend,” Peter said, looking very grave and shaking his head. He even paused to get his grammar in order. “This thing will be very difficult and very dangerous to aspire, and even more bad to transport. Such things are guards by incomplete companies of soldiers. A nations of them, almost.” He cocked his head. “And even for me, Peter the Wolf, it will be expansive. Very, very expansive indeed.”
“Call your bank,” Smith said.