The sergeant manning the desk came back on the line.
"Sorry, lady," he said.
"Lieutenant Bernstein is not around." "Can you page him for me?" Sara asked.
"It's important."
"No can do. He is on official police business and cannot be reached."
Cannot be reached?
"Do you know where he is?"
"Can't say, ma'am. I'm not at liberty to discuss his whereabouts."
"But I need to reach him."
"That's just not possible right now. If you would like to leave a message, I am sure Lieutenant Bernstein will be calling in."
Sara scratched her head. Where could Max be that he could not be paged on his beeper?
"Please ask him to call Sara Lowell immediately. Tell him it's important. If I am not at home he can reach me at the clinic."
"At the clinic. Okay, Ms. Lowell, will do."
"Thank you." She replaced the receiver and considered her next move.
Narita Airport.
Max gladly disembarked the Japan Airlines' Boeing 747-300 that had carried him nonstop from New York to Tokyo for the past fourteen hours, checked the departure screens, discovered that his connecting flight was leaving from a nearby gate, and walked toward it. To be fair, the flight had been comfortable; in fact, the on-board service had been second to none. It was just that being trapped in any metallic tube 30,000 feet above the earth for fourteen hours had a way of wearing on a person even if they did show two movies and serve three meals.
As Max walked through the terminal, he glanced out the floor to-ceiling windows and saw a dozen or so JAL Boeing 747-300s lined up by their respective gates. Each plane had a boarding tunnel running from airport to aircraft like some gigantic umbilical chord that would have to be cut before the plane could be set free.
Max was not as tired as most of his fellow passengers. Though his mind had whirled with thoughts of how to free Michael, he had managed to sleep a good six hours. He checked his watch and realized that he still had about an hour before his connecting flight took off for Bangkok, the exotic capital of Thailand. Just as well. He had some important things to do in the meantime.
He followed the yellow sign that read
"Overseas Telephone," conversed with the operator for a moment, then went into a small booth and lifted the receiver. Within seconds the call was connected. One ring later the phone was picked up.
"Hello?"
Sara's voice came in a nervous half-shout. It was late in New York, almost two in the morning, but Sara Lowell sounded very much awake.
That did not surprise him. He debated what he was going to say and decided to be as vague as humanly possible.
"Sara?"
"Max? Where the hell are you? I've been trying to reach you all day."
"I'm sorry. I've been indisposed."
"Where are you?"
"In Tokyo."
"What?"
"Well, technically speaking, I'm not in Tokyo. I'm at Narita Airport.
That's about an hour and a half from downtown Tokyo."
"I don't need a geography lesson," she interrupted.
"What are you doing in Tokyo?"
Max began to wrap the phone cord around his arm.
"I'm on my way to Bangkok."
A small pause.
"Why?"
"Something has come up."
"Involving Michael?"
Vague, Max. Don't want to get her hopes up.
"Maybe. Look, I don't know what it means. I'm just tracking down a lead."
"What kind of lead?"
"Stop playing reporter, I don't have the time. I'll call you if anything happens."
"How long will you be gone?"
A good question.
"I hope to be coming home right away.
Anything new?"
"A lot."
"I'm listening."
Sara recounted her conversation with her father and Senator Jenkins.
Max listened in silence. He wrapped the telephone cord around his mouth now and gnawed. Tasted rubbery. The Japanese woman in the next booth frowned at him. Max smiled apologetically and let the wire fall loose.
When Sara finished, Max told her about his conversation with Winston O'Connor.
"Now we know how they were getting all that inside information," Sara said.
"I guess so," he said.
"But there is still a lot that doesn't make sense."
"Like what?"
"Like why would Sanders do it? What does Sanders gain from the murders?"
"He wipes out the evidence," Sara replied.
"No cured patients, no cure."
Max shook his head.
"There have to be easier ways than going through all this Gay Slasher stuff. Like your father says, the press from the Gay Slasher has strengthened the clinic. More donations, more media support even Markey couldn't close them down anymore."
"So what do you make of it?" she asked.
He thought. He thought about the murder victims. He thought about the AIDS clinic. He thought about the Washington conspiracy and Winston O'Connor's connection to it. He thought about the Gay Slasher. He thought about George Camron holding Michael in some whorehouse.
"I don't know," he said, "but I better go now. I'll call you if anything comes up."
He replaced the receiver before Sara could protest, walked into the airport pharmacy, and purchased a can of shaving cream and a disposable razor. He headed into the bathroom and wetted his face. Ten minutes later his mustache was gone.
Bangkok's Don Muang Airport.
As Max headed down the steps and into the Thai night, the humidity hit him first sticky, like small droplets of syrup hanging in the air. It was late now, almost eleven p. m." and Max felt revved up. He wanted to act fast.
The plane from Tokyo to Bangkok had been a carbon copy of the one he had taken from New York to Tokyo. Same size, same seating configuration, same interior design, same distortion over the loudspeaker so that he could not tell when the captain was speaking Japanese and when he was speaking English. He had been a bit surprised to see how few passengers were seated in economy class. In fact, he had counted the seats: 100 in economy class, 128 in business class, 32 in first class. The first class area was incredible. The spacious recliners reminded Max of his father's favorite TV chair in the family den, complete with leg rests. Don Perignon and beluga caviar were being served. Each passenger wore a Japanese hoppy coat. Very nice.
Of course, when you are paying approximately $5000 for a round-trip flight from New York to Bangkok you better be getting very nice.
Max was traveling economy class, which cost nearly $1500, a sum total greater than Max's entire financial portfolio. Since there had been no time to appropriate the funds from the police department, Max had gone to Lenny. Lenny made pretty good money very good, in fact. He was, after all, one of New York's top criminal lawyers. Ironic really.
Max's mother had always wanted him to become a handsome lawyer; instead, he was living with one.
Not exactly what his mom had in mind.
Though seated in the back of the plane, Max had wandered around during the billion hours he was in the air. He always got a kick out of the curtains pulled between the classes, turning an airplane into a microcosm of modern society. I paid less than you, ergo I am pond scum, not fit to look at you or breathe your air.
And just for laughs, try to use the bathroom in the first-class section when you are traveling economy class. The stewardesses attack like Moslem extremists. The reading lights were another problem. How come they were never aimed right? The beam was always too far to the left or to the right or too far in front of you or too far back so that it worked like a spotlight aimed at the top of your head. And who invented that medieval torture device known as the movie headset? They felt like someone was jamming pointed ice-tongs through your eardrums.