Tombstone and Pamela had been returned to the room where he had been held earlier. Mercifully, the bodies of the three seamen were gone, though the coppery stink of fresh blood lingered. Traces of red gore still streaked the concrete floor and pooled about the rusty drain in the center of the room.
Their clothes had been returned to them, though wallets, watches, money, and IDs were missing. Their captors had collected everything they could find back in the hotel room, searching for useful information. That he and Pamela were being allowed to dress was in itself encouraging. Possibly the worst of the ordeal was over.
They were going to be moved, Tombstone guessed. He didn't think Hsiao was going to dispose of his captives, not yet at least. Their Chinese interrogator was planning… something, something very big. He and Pamela would have hostage value for negotiations if nothing else, and Hsiao did not seem to Tombstone to be the sort of man who would throw away any advantage, however small.
His mind turned to Bayerly. An initial surge of anger died before it more than ruffled his thoughts. It was hard to blame Made It for breaking the way he had; Tombstone himself didn't know if he could have sat there and done nothing while they tortured Pamela. The question for the moment was not Bayerly's cracking, but what could be done about the situation now.
As he sat down on the edge of the cot next to Pamela, she reached over and took his arm. He was surprised by the strength of her grasp as she leaned close and echoed his own thoughts. "Matt? What are we going to do?"
He glanced around the room without answering, looking at the walls. They might have been put together for eavesdropping purposes, Mikes could be invisibly buried inside the concrete walls. Pamela watched him studying their cell and silently touched her ear, her eyebrows questioningly arched.
She understood. Smart girl.
"I… don't know," he said, more for the benefit of any microphones than anything else. Damn it, they needed a plan. "All we can do is go along with them. Maybe they're planning to use us as hostages."
Pamela leaned closer, until her matted blond hair brushed his cheek.
"Matt?" Her whisper was so low, Tombstone had to strain to hear it. "Matt… I know they may be listening. What do they want?"
The question ignited memories… waking nightmares of Hsiao demanding answers. Details on Jefferson's defense posture in port. Details of approach procedures by friendly aircraft. The pattern was frighteningly clear.
He turned his head, nuzzling the blond riot of Pamela's hair. "They must be planning an attack on the boat," he whispered.
She shifted position, making Tombstone wince as she rekindled the flame of several injuries. "That's what I thought," she said. "Listen, one of us has got to get away and warn the Jefferson!"
"Agreed," he said. "And it's got to be soon. Tonight."
The situation looked helpless. If their captors were planning to move them soon, though, there was a chance, slim but real, for escape.
The hard part would be getting Pamela and Bayerly out. Bayerly might already be beyond his reach, since they hadn't seen the other aviator since Hsiao had led him away.
How to do it, and when? Jumping Hsiao's henchmen when they came to get them here in this room was out. Tombstone still ached in every muscle, and the burns all over his body were small, separate patches of agony where his clothing rubbed them. He would be no match for several opponents, all armed and watchful.
Or rather, he would be a match for them only if he was able to pick the time, the circumstances of his escape. When he moved, he would be able to ignore the pain.
But there would be no second chance.
He turned and let his lips touch Pamela's ear again. "I think they're going to move us soon," he whispered. "We'll try to make a break then. Watch me, follow my cues, and run like hell when I tell you."
She pulled back, shaking her head.
Silently he mouthed the words, "What's the matter?"
Pamela leaned close again. "Matt, we may not be able to choose. They may not take us together. Look, what I want to say is… if you see a chance, take it. Okay? Even if I'm not around. Even if you have to leave me behind."
The idea filled him with fresh horror, with denial, with memories of her stretched out on the table. He started to pull away from her.
Gently, she pulled him back. "Think, Matt! You've been through the wringer, and you look like hell! If they believe you're badly hurt, they may not watch you as closely as they will me. If you can get away without me, do it… please! Please!"
Numbly, Tombstone looked into her eyes for a moment, then nodded. There was no other choice, nothing to be said. He turned his eyes to the locked wooden door, and waited.
Colonel Kriangsak pounded up the steps to the Government Building, flashed his ID to the soldiers standing guard inside the doorway, then hurried through empty corridors toward his office. The building was almost deserted, save for a few staff personnel working late. That was just as well. He didn't want to have to stop and explain his actions.
It was time… time! His earlier doubts about Hsiao's ability to pull off Sheng li were gone now. Somehow, the former Chinese intelligence officer had extracted the information he needed from his prisoners. And the time to strike was now, before the Americans realized that they were in danger.
According to Hsiao, two helicopters were already on their way south from U Feng, would be over Sattahip Bay within two hours. And his part in the plan had to begin now, before those machines reached their destination.
Hurrying through the empty outer office, he went to his desk and picked up the telephone. "Savahtdi!" he said as the switchboard operator came on line. "Colonel Kriangsak Vajiravudh speaking, Give me a line to Sattahip.
Major Chani Silapakom, Army Air Operations. Quickly!"
After a few moments, a voice came over the line. "Colonel Kriangsak?
This is Major Chani. What can I-"
"Listen carefully, Major. The sun sets on two hundred years!"
"The sun sets…" There was a moment's hesitation from the other end of the line. "Yes, Colonel, I understand."
"Commence operations as planned. Your pilots have received the orders sent over this afternoon?"
"Yes, sir. Everything is ready."
"Excellent. Carry out your instructions, Major."
He hung up the phone. The sun sets on two hundred years. A nonsense phrase, actually, one made up by Hsiao as a code signaling the final phase of Sheng li. It was apt, however, and Kriangsak wondered whether Hsiao had chosen it deliberately.
Bangkok had become the capital of Thailand in 1782, a little more than two centuries ago, when the first of the Chakri kings, the founder of the current dynasty, had established his seat of power in what was then a fishing village on the Chao Phraya River. And when this night was over, the sun would indeed have set on two centuries of Chakri rule. If King Bhumibol still ruled, it would be at the sufferance of the leaders of the coup under Kriangsak's command.
And Hsiao, of course… though Kriangsak thought it should soon be possible to ease the Chinese general aside from the halls of power in Bangkok… or eliminate him entirely. Hsiao Kuoping was more interested in dealing with the drug lords of the Golden Triangle than with controlling Thailand.
Many options were open, and soon Kriangsak would only have to choose among them.
There was a delicious irony about the situation. In 1981, Kriangsak's father had died leading the attempted coup which had come to be known as the Young Turks' Rebellion. That rising had failed because the plotters had been unable to enlist the support of the King.
This time, though, it would be different. The King would support the coup, or…
Kriangsak made a second call, this time to another major in an army barracks in Bangkok. A third call went to the garrison commander at Don Muang. A fourth to a captain at the Grand Palace.
By the time he was done, men and machines were on the move throughout the Bangkok area.
There would be no failure this time, so long as Hsiao kept his part of the bargain.
The telephone receiver clicked in his hand. He held it to his ear, then smiled. Good. The city's phones had been knocked out on schedule. In the distance, he could hear the crackle of gunfire, and the first, faint wail of a siren. Now, he thought. Now it begins!
The door banged open. Phreng stood outside the room, between two Burmese holding AK-47s. "On your feet," the That said. He too held an assault rifle, and its muzzle was directed squarely at Tombstone's chest. "Now!"
Tombstone stood with exaggerated slowness. "Where are you taking us?"
"Never mind that. Hurry it up!"
"He can't!" Pamela said, flaring. "You hurt him…"
"We'll do a lot more to him if he doesn't move fast." Phreng gave her a leering, gap-toothed grin. "And we're not done with you yet, little muu. We were only just getting acquainted when we were rudely interrupted, no?"
They were led at gunpoint through the warehouse, Tombstone walking with a pronounced, halting limp, Pamela supporting him by one arm. A side door opened into an alley between the warehouse and another large, empty-looking building. An army truck filled the road, its motor running.
A bell clanged with an uneven rhythm somewhere in the near distance. Any seafaring man would have recognized the sound, the ringing of a channel marker buoy moving with the lap of the waves. They were near the water, then. The warehouse suggested a dockyard complex. This could well be the Kiong Toey district, the rough waterfront area on the river which serviced Bangkok.
Phreng gestured with the AK, directing them toward the back of the truck.
Tombstone was already gauging his chances. There were Phreng and four Burmese, plus the driver, a brawny man who looked like a That dockworker. Six men, three with AK assault rifles. The odds were not good.
The That barked orders, and two Burmese closed in on Pamela. Standing to either side of her and pinning her arms, they manhandled her toward the truck.
"Let go of me!" Pamela demanded. She twisted against their grip.
One of the Burmese bellowed with pain and rage as Pamela's foot caught him squarely in the kneecap. He released her as the girl jerked free, striking wildly at the other guard with her fist.
Phreng turned away from Tombstone. That was the chance he'd been watching for. Tombstone whipped around, smashing his left elbow into the side of Phreng's head. The That slammed back against the side of the truck, and Tombstone grabbed for the AK.
They battled for the weapon in the cramped space between warehouse wall and truck. Tombstone crowded in close, then snapped his knee up hard, aiming for the That's groin. Phreng screamed. And then Tombstone had the AK as the civilian dropped to his hands and knees on the pavement. The two Burmese with AKs stood just beyond, beside the truck's cab, one fumbling with the weapon slung over his arm, the other bringing his assault rifle up to aim at the American. Tombstone's finger closed on the trigger. An ear-splitting chatter of full-auto gunfire exploded in the night, impossibly loud in the tight confines of the alley.
One gunman crashed against the side of the truck, then dropped to the pavement. His partner slammed into the warehouse wall. Tombstone whirled and pounded around to the back of the truck. Where was Pamela? The guard she had kicked was just getting up off the pavement, tugging a revolver from the waistband of his pants. Tombstone smashed him in the face with the AK's stock.
Fresh movement caught his eye… Phreng, rising now with one of the dropped AKs in his hand. Tombstone fired, stitching Phreng's torso from groin to throat with bloody explosions.
"Pamela!" he yelled, rounding the back of the truck. Where was she?
"Pam!"
There she was, on the far side of the truck! Another Burmese guard was holding her from behind, using her body as a shield as he backed away, one hand around her waist and the other clamped over her mouth. Tombstone's eyes met hers, and he saw the terror there.
In the same instant, the canvas curtains screening the back of the truck were thrust aside. Men were jumping out, armed men in uniform.
And behind them, handcuffed to a railing inside the truck's canvas top, he saw Bayerly, staring back at him with eyes as wide and as terrified as Pamela's.
Tombstone jerked the rifle skyward, unable to fire for fear of hitting either of the American captives. A That soldier running toward him opened fire, and Tombstone felt something snap past his head.
A That soldier…?
The alley seemed filled with running men now. More soldiers were arriving from someplace… the other side of the alley, from the inside of the warehouse. Tombstone ducked and whirled, seeking cover, but there was no cover in the alley, only trash-cluttered pavement.
He heard a man's yelp of pain, then Pamela's voice shouting in the darkness. "Run, Tombstone. Run…!"
Her scream was drowned by gunfire. Bullets sang from the pavement near his feet and whined off the wall near his head, but he was already running, pounding down the alley toward the open street beyond. Random shots snapped past as he rounded the corner, plunging into a narrow, poorly lit street.
Pamela had given him his chance to escape. If he let himself get caught again, his failure would be like a betrayal. His lungs burning with the effort, he ran faster.