The Fourth Watcher: A Novel of Bangkok

46
Monsoon Christmas

Frank's a bonanza," Elson says. "Monsoon Christmas." He is seated comfortably on an uncomfortable chair as angular and uncompromising as he is, his black suit soaking up a surprising amount of the light streaming through the window behind him. The chair, just strips of black leather on a chromium frame, looks like he designed it. "Frank's the kind of gift that makes you wonder what you've been doing right all your life, why you deserve this. I mean, we're going to be able to dam up one major river of counterfeit into this awful country, without the North Koreans even knowing it, for a few months at least."

He bounces a couple of times in the uncomfortable chair, just out of enthusiasm. He's doing something with his mouth that might pass for a smile if the room was a little dimmer. "And it's extra-good we've got Frank, because Chu's not talking. And I mean not at all. On the other hand, we've got the other cop, the one who was dressed like a doctor, and he can't stop talking. He talks even when there's no one else in the room. Seems to think we're going to send him to Syria for interrogation." Elson rubs his hands together. "And there's all that fake money."

"For example," Rafferty says, "about Frank. What kind of things has he given you?"

"Frank," Elson says in the tone Miaow uses to say chocolate. "Well, Frank's just something that happens maybe once in a decade. He's given us fucking flow charts of the counterfeiting structure. A map of routes used to take money out of China, routes we can seal up. He's given us a bank in Harbin, China, owned by his former… um, company, that's a central distribution point, a bank we can crack into electronically. It'll let us put enough pressure on the North Koreans that the cash flow will dry up. No more cognac, no more new cars for the fat cats. It's probably enough to bring them back to the negotiating table."

"That's good," Rafferty says.

"And more. There's an American end, a sleeper who's been in place for almost twenty years, reporting directly to Chu. And he was nowhere on our radar."

"Irwin Lee," Rafferty says.

Elson's eyebrows go up. "Your radar is better than ours."

"Shucks," Rafferty says.

"Isn't it a wonderful name?" Elson says. He makes a frame with his hands and says the name into it. "Irwin Lee."

"Lee is one of the two most common Chinese names," Rafferty says, but Elson's enthusiasm tickles some obscure area of Rafferty's brain that specializes in obscure connections, and suddenly he's sitting bolt upright. "That's what this whole thing was about, isn't it?"

"What?" Elson asks.

"Irwin Lee. My father's going to be Irwin Lee, right?"

Elson looks disappointed, as though he's been deprived of his big surprise. "Nobody knows about Irwin Lee except Chu," he says. "It's a perfect fit. Lee has a twenty-year legend, one of the best I've ever seen. A house in Richmond, Virginia, that I can guarantee no triad member ever heard of. We're going to remove the current Irwin Lee and install your father. He'll live in Richmond and consult with us."

Rafferty leans forward. "What has Chu said about Frank?"

"About Frank? That's the one thing he'll talk about. Says he doesn't understand it, can't figure out why Frank betrayed him. They were friends, he says. Says he'd have made Frank his successor if Frank had been Chinese." He starts to add something and thinks better of it.

"What?" Rafferty demands.

"The, um, story about Chu insulting Frank's wife. I mentioned it as a way of suggesting why Frank's loyalty might be a little weak, and Chu said it never happened."

"Of course it didn't," Rafferty says. He can feel the blood rise in his face. "I can't believe I fell for it. You'd think, by now, I'd know. It's always about my father. Whatever it is, whatever is happening, it's always about my father."

"I'm not following you," Elson says.

"He took the goddamn box in the first place because he wanted to be Irwin Lee. The rubies were a bonus. All the stories about Chu being the worst thing since Grendel's mother were his way of justifying himself to me. His way of making sure I was on his side. He needed Chu either dead or put away forever, so he could be Irwin Lee. And I could help, so he sold me that line of crap."

Arthit says something that comes out as a croak, and Rafferty says, "Arthit. Don't try to talk."

But Arthit lowers a heavily bandaged hand-the doctors had to do a little emergency repair where he yanked out the intravenous line-and pushes a button that raises the top third of the bed to a forty-five-degree angle. As he comes up, he ages ten years; he has lost fifteen pounds in three days, and his face has slackened and droops downward as it comes toward vertical. His throat is as loose and rippled as a theater curtain. When he is upright, he reaches for a small carton of apple juice, sips it through a straw, closes his eyes for a moment to gather some strength, and says, "Dangerous. Chu… dangerous." The words are barely audible, not much louder than someone tearing paper.

"You bet he is," Elson says. "He's got fangs like a wolf spider. Your friend's right. Your father wanted you to be afraid of Chu, wanted you to realize how dangerous he was. He was doing you a favor."

"If you believe that, don't spend too much time with him," Rafferty says. "He'll have you nominating him for the Presidential Medal of Freedom."

"You're overreacting," Elson says.

"Irwin Lee," Rafferty says, and he doesn't know whether to laugh or cry. "My father is going to be Irwin Lee. Do you know what Lee means?"

"No idea," Elson says.

"The character used to write it," Rafferty says, the sentence not coming easily, "is a tree over a child. It's an image of parental care."

"That's nice," Elson says. "I can't see the immediate usefulness of the information, but maybe something will come to me." He crosses his legs and looks approvingly at the shine on his shoe. "We're flying him back to America tomorrow. Get him out of here and put him somewhere safe. So we're going to have to take him away from you, just when you guys have sort of gotten together again."

"Take him today," Rafferty says. "That way I don't have to feed him dinner tonight."

Arthit says, "Poke." He puts a hand to his throat and tries to clear it. The effort obviously hurts. "He's… your father."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah."

"So anyway," Elson says, "he'll be leaving. And I won't forget that I owe you."

"Yes," Rafferty says with some vehemence. "You do."

"Well, don't get too comfortable with it." Elson turns and looks out the window, which opens onto a world of merciless sunlight. The monsoon has moved on, and it is so hot outside that the air-conditioning in the hospital room is producing a misty film of condensation on the inside of the glass. "You may have overachieved."

"That's the curse of talent," Rafferty says, still furious, and Arthit lets go with something that sounds like a toy steam engine releasing its first little puff. It's a laugh, Rafferty realizes, and in spite of everything he finds himself grinning at his friend so hard he feels like his face will split. Arthit has a hand pressed to his chest, damping down the pain of the laugh, but he laughs again. This one doubles him up, and when he sits upright again, he shakes his head and wipes the sweat off his brow and says, "Over…" He breathes. "Achieved…" He grabs another breath. "How?"

"Remember how I hated the monsoon?" Elson says to Rafferty. "Well, I hate this heat more. I hate everything about this climate. I hate the traffic here. I hate the food-it gives me the squirts, and they feel like lighter fluid. So what's my reward? I'm an expert, they say. I'm the guy with the map, they say. I'm being assigned here for a year."

Arthit, who has been sipping at the apple juice, suddenly spurts a substantial amount of it through his nostrils and into his lap. He bends forward, making the puff-puff sound again, and Rafferty takes the apple juice out of his hand and puts it on the tray, letting his free hand rest on his friend's shoulder.

To Elson he says, "I've got a great maid for you."