Once inside the terminal Max spotted a sign with his name on it. He approached the man holding it. The man was tall for an Asian, over six feet, and very thin. He stood perfectly still, only his eyes moving, as if he wanted to conserve his strength.
"Colonel?"
"Yes."
"I'm Max Bernstein."
The Thai colonel looked at him.
"You are a police lieutenant?"
Max nodded.
"Pardon my surprise, but I was expecting someone older."
Max started to pull at his mustache. He stopped when he realized that he had shaved it off.
"That's why I normally have a mustache. Makes me look older."
"Pardon me?"
"Never mind. Where can we talk?"
"Come. I have a car waiting outside."
"Where is Frank Reed?"
"Mr. Reed is waiting for us in the car. We can talk on the ride."
The colonel led the way, walking effortlessly and without any wasted motion. He opened the car door and they both got in the back seat.
Like the police vehicles in New York, the air-conditioning was not working. Max wasted no time.
"You're Frank Reed?"
"Yep." The man stuck out his hand.
"Call me Frankie."
Max shook the hand as briefly as possible and continued.
"Mr. Reed, I need you to give me an exact layout of the area where Michael Silverman is being held."
"Nothing to it. You really a New York cop?"
"Yes."
"You look like a school kid."
"I joined the force when I was four. Tell me about the upstairs area."
"Well, Silverman is being kept on the second floor," Frankie began.
"There must be about a dozen rooms up there. Looks like a sleazy motel or something. He was in a room in the left hand corner at the end of the hall. There was a Do Not Enter sign on the door. I couldn't believe my fuckin' eyes. I opened the door and wham! there he was.
Super strange, you know? I saw Silverman play at the Garden last year against the Bulls.
Fantastic "
"Can you draw it for me?"
"A Do Not Enter sign? Sure thing."
"No, a map of the floor."
"Oh, yeah, sure." "And you said he was chained to the floor?"
"Looked that way," he replied.
"I only got a brief look."
"Lieutenant," Colonel Thaakavechikan interrupted, "do you have something in mind?"
Max nodded, his fingers twisting braids in his hair.
"George Camron is familiar with most of your good people, correct?"
"Yes."
"I don't think he is familiar with me. Just in case, I shaved off my mustache on the plane."
"I see."
"I want to go in myself."
"When?"
"As soon as Camron leaves the bar. Michael is very ill. We have to get him out right away."
The colonel nodded.
"Tell me what you have in mind."
Dr. Eric Blake checked his appearance in the mirror. As always, everything was in place. When people were asked to describe him, they rarely used terms like handsome or ugly or even nondescript. They usually said neat. Tidy. Immaculate. Every hair in place, shoelaces tied, every button buttoned. Eric's shirttail never hung out, his socks always matched, his face was always clean shaven. Even now Eric looked cool, unemotional, detached.
But inside, under the fastidious grooming well, that was another matter.
His head ached horribly. The pressure mounted until he was sure something was going to burst through his forehead.
Suddenly, everything was falling apart and Eric was not sure what to do.
Do whatever is necessary... He walked purposefully toward the lab room.
Harvey, he knew, was downstairs, injecting Kiel Davis with SRI. Then Harv had rounds. He would not be on the third floor for some time now.
It was safe.
Eric crossed the room and unlocked his private file. Once again he slipped open the bottom drawer and withdrew the blood samples. He carefully lifted them free and placed them on the table. Then he examined them.
Nothing yet.
He sighed. Well, that was to be expected. The results would not be in for a little while yet. Thinking he could see something now had been little more than wishful thinking on his part. He would just have to be patient.
With not- so-steady hands, Eric returned the samples to the drawer, locked it, and went back to work.
Max and Colonel T (as he liked to be called) sat in a taxi on Rama IV Street not too far from Patpong. Through the static of the car radio, a voice blurted out something unintelligible to Max.
Colonel T picked up the receiver and blurted back something equally unintelligible.
"Camron has left the bar," the colonel explained.
"He hired one of our tuk-tuks."
"Tuk- tuks?"
"Think of it as a taxi."
Max nodded.
"Then I guess it's showtime."
"I will set up tuk-tuks wherever he is dropped off. We will try to stall him if he returns before you have a chance to free Mr. Stiverman, but there is no guarantee."
"I understand."
"You will signal us if the room has an explosive device?" "I'll raise and lower the shade," Max said.
"If I give you the signal, don't try to stop him. He might blow the place sky-high."
The colonel nodded.
"And you have the layout memorized?"
"Yes."
"Then good luck."
"Thanks." Knots began to form in Max's stomach.
"One last question."
"Yes?"
"How do I go about hiring a prostitute?"
The colonel smiled.
"Sit at the bar and hold up a ten dollar bill, Lieutenant. The rest will take care of itself."
Sara woke up late. For a brief moment she blindly reached out for Michael and clawed at the pillow before she remembered that he would not be there. Then she withdrew her hand and began to get ready to visit Harvey.
An hour later she knocked lightly on the door to Harvey's if fice and peeked in.
"Can I come in?"
He looked up from his desk. He smiled at her in a tired way and took off his reading glasses.
"Of course."
"I don't want to interrupt." "No," he said, "you're not interrupting. I need a break anyway."
"When was the last time you got some sleep?" she asked.
"Oh, let's see. What year is it?"
"You look awful."
He nodded, still smiling.
"I've seen you look better too."
She limped toward the wooden chair in front of his desk and sat down.
Her eyes were immediately drawn to the poster of
Michael that Harvey had plastered on the wall behind him. Seeing his image soaring to the basket was oddly comforting. She adjusted her spectacles and stared for a few more moments, watching him glide in mid-air, seeing the mask of concentration that covered his face. Then she said, "I have something to tell you. Something involving my father and Reverend Sanders."
He leaned back in his chair.
"Oh?"
"You are not going to like it."
"When something involves your father and Sanders, I rarely do. What is it, Sara?" She told him everything. Harvey's mouth remained still while she spoke but his body language was another matter. It altered completely. His fists slowly closed and then tightened to the point where the knuckles turned white. His face grew scarlet, his features twisting in smoldering anger.
"Sons of bitches!" Harvey shouted at long last.
"Those ignorant, bigoted bastards!" Sara said nothing.
Harvey stood up, his rage mounting with each passing second.
"How could I have been so stupid? I knew it and I didn't do a goddamn thing. Of course Markey was working for them, the callous son of a bitch." He shook his head.
"Sanders and Jenkins I expected it from but your father, Sara he calls himself a man of medicine. A healer. Yet he joined forces with them.
What kind of man is he?"