by Ian Hamilton
“Marcus Lee calling for Carter Chan,” he said. It took less than a minute. “Hello, Carter, this is Marcus… I’m well, thank you. And you and the family?… Actually it’s a family matter I’m calling about. I need a personal favour. My daughter Ava needs to speak with your son-in-law. It’s about a matter that does not involve him directly, or you or any of your interests. She’s a forensic accountant, and the issue concerns Frank’s brother. I don’t know much more than that… He is? Can you give me a number where she can reach him?” He took a small notepad and pen from his inside jacket pocket and wrote down two phone numbers. “And Carter, could you contact Frank yourself and ask him to speak with her? If she calls directly, well, you know… Thanks, Carter.”
“Frank is in the U.K.,” he said to Ava. “This is his Hong Kong cell number, and Carter says he normally has it on. The other is his hotel number. Carter will have someone call him and tell him to be cooperative. You should wait until that happens.” He checked his watch. “It’s about six in the morning there. Give it a few hours.”
He walked her out to the taxi stand. They hugged, his intensity catching her off guard. “I am really happy you called me,” he said. “I love you, you know, and I’m very proud of you. Just be careful, huh?”
“Thanks for making that call. I love you too.”
“Try to join us in May, will you?”
“I’ll try.”
(8)
Ava phoned uncle when she got back to the Mandarin. She told him about her meeting with her father and about her possible access to Frank Seto. “I’m leaving tonight for Bangkok,” she said. “My flight leaves here at six on Thai Air. I’ve decided to take your advice and not see Andrew Tam.”
“I think that’s best. I’ll pick you up at the hotel at three thirty.”
“That’s perfect. See you then,” Ava said.
She checked her watch. Not enough time to change and go for a run. She went online and searched Frank Seto. Ninety percent of the references were about his relationship to the Chan family, and the balance were reports about Admiralty Property deals. Seto didn’t seem to exist outside of the Chans. There were photos of his wedding from multiple sources. He was as skinny as Jackson; the bride was twice his size. Some men like fat women, but all men love money. She wondered if Frank Seto had found the perfect combination.
The Mercedes was in front of the hotel entrance right on schedule. Sonny opened the back door for her and she slipped into the seat next to Uncle. He had a file folder resting on his lap. He waited until they were on the highway before he passed it to her.
“This came through this afternoon. Our friends worked quickly. Antonelli will be easy enough to contact. He is a creature of habit; he stays at the Water Hotel. I know you like the Mandarin, but it is miles from the Water and against traffic. They suggested the Grand Hyatt Erawan. You can walk to the other hotel from there.”
She knew the Hyatt, or rather she knew Spasso, the hotel’s nightclub — one of the classiest pick-up joints in Bangkok.
Ava opened the file. There was a photo of Antonelli clipped to a page of data. He was short, fat, and bald and had a black mole on his right cheek. “Not pretty, is he?” she said.
In the photo he was standing next to a gorgeous Thai girl. “It is Thailand. He does not have to be,” Uncle said.
She scanned the documentation. “He’s American, Atlanta-born and — raised, and evidently still married. He has three sons in their teens. The family lives in Georgia. He wires money to them every month and seems to visit three or four times a year.”
“He and Seto have been in business together for close to ten years,” Uncle said.
“And in trouble before.”
“It seems to come around every two years.”
“And they get away with it.”
“So far, but then the people they scammed before were mainly Indian and Indonesian. Some of them tried to get their money back, but it is almost impossible to do it legally when so many jurisdictions are involved.”
“How much money?”
He shook his head. “They started small and worked their way up. Andrew Tam is the biggest by far.”
She closed the file. She would read the rest on the plane.
“You’ll be met at the airport.”
“I’d rather take a taxi,” she said.
He knew she preferred working alone unless she needed a specific kind of help. “I made the arrangements,” he said.
“Cancel them, please. I still have to figure out how I’m going to handle things, and I don’t want the pressure of worrying about someone waiting around for me. Just give me a name and contact information. I’ll call when I’m ready.”
“They have the logistical material you requested.”
“I’ll call if I need it. Hopefully I won’t.”
(9)
It was a two-and-a-half-hour flight from Hong Kong to Bangkok. Ava slept for most of it. She had been to Thailand at least six times and it was by far her favourite place to crash. Whether she stayed in Bangkok, Phuket, Ko Sumoi, or Chang Mai, Thailand was always an oasis.
This was, however, her first time at the new airport, Suvarnabhumi. The old airport had always been the worst part of the trip, coming or going. Huge lineups at Immigration, slow baggage claim, waits of maybe half an hour for a taxi, and if it was raining you could be there for hours. Then a ride into the city that sapped whatever energy you had left.
So it was a bit of a shock for Ava when she breezed through the new complex. Like HKIA, Suvarnabhumi had been built and staffed to get you into the country as fast as possible. When she walked into the Arrivals hall, she almost ran straight into a sign that read uncle chow. She nodded at the young man holding it.
“ Sa wat dee ka,” he said. He wore blue jeans and a black T-shirt that showed off his muscular frame. He was about five foot nine, and his hair was so close-cropped that the stubble on his chin was almost as long. He looked tired, his eyes tinged with red and swollen underneath, making them appear smaller than those of most Thais. Still, he gave her a quick and easy smile. Despite his casual dress, Ava knew he was a cop.
“I’m Ava,” she said. “But I told Uncle that I was going to take a cab.”
“Arthon, and I never got that message.” He reached for her bags.
“No, I’ll handle it,” she said.
“Do you want the ride?”
“Why not?”
He led her outside the terminal. His car was parked in a zone clearly marked NO STOPPING / NO PARKING. On the dash was an official-looking sign with a logo and the words dtam-ruat — she knew that meant “Police.” Just behind the car, a man in uniform was putting a Denver boot on a silver Lexus. He and Arthon exchanged waves.
He seemed hesitant about which door to open. She went to the front passenger side and tossed her bag in the back. “What a difference from the old airport,” she said.
“It wasn’t so much fun when it opened. There were many birthing problems,” he said. Ava noticed a slight British inflection in his speech.
“You went to school in the U.K.?” she asked.
“Four years at Liverpool U.”
This is not your average cop, she thought. To go to university overseas meant at the very least that he came from money. He’s probably Chinese Thai, she thought. None of Uncle’s friends with whom she had worked didn’t have Chinese roots.
“Are you by any chance Chinese?” Ava asked.
“I’m Chaozhou.”
“Do you still speak Chinese?”
“No, we’re assimilated. Fourth generation now.”
Arthon pulled the car out of the airport almost directly onto an expressway. They sped into Bangkok, but then traffic slowed when they got into the city. It was always bad in the city. Seven-days-a-week bad. Twenty-four-hours-a-day bad. This despite an extensive infrastructure of expressways, sky trains, and subways.
Arthon was quiet, his eyes on the road. The only sound was a Neil Diamond CD playing on the car st
ereo. She was the first to speak. “What have they told you about me?” she asked.
“All I was told was to give you whatever help you needed,” Arthon said. “I read the file on your man Antonelli. He’s a bit of a pig.”
“He sure looks like one.”
“The file says he lives at the Water Hotel. You can walk there from the Hyatt Erawan. The Hyatt is on Rajdamri Road. When you come out the front door, turn right and walk about a kilometre past CentralWorld to Petchburi and go left there. The Water Hotel is only a couple of hundred metres from the intersection.”
“I think I’ve been there,” she said. “Is there a large market on the corner?”
“About four thousand booths selling every knockoff known to man. We raid it every month. Of course, we give them twenty-four hours’ notice before we do.”
“And another market where you can buy bootleg DVDs and all kinds of computer software?”
“That’s the Pantip Plaza, further down Petchburi.”
“Okay, I know the area. Now, does Antonelli have a routine?”
“According to our sources, on weekdays he comes down to the lobby lounge around 7:30 a.m.; has coffee and a biscuit, sometimes toast; works on his laptop; sometimes has a meeting. His driver and car show up around 8:30 a.m. He goes to Mahachai — that’s northwest of Bangkok, about sixty kilometres. He has an office in a seafood plant there. He works there till three or four and then heads back to Bangkok to beat the traffic. He’ll get back to the hotel by five, just in time for happy hour in Barry Bean’s Bar, which is one level below the lobby. He’ll drink margaritas until seven and then eat in the Italian restaurant upstairs.”
“So I can count on meeting him in the lobby?”
“That’s what we’re told. He’s there every morning.”
“You said that he’s a pig. What exactly did you mean?”
“So you haven’t read the file?”
“Not yet.”
He looked sideways at her as if trying to gauge her appetite for steaminess. “A short, fat, ugly American comes to Thailand and finds out that with enough money in his pocket he can be George fucking Clooney. That’s Antonelli. He thinks he’s George Clooney — George Clooney with some ugly twists. He started out with bar girls; some of those evenings ended badly because after fucking them he took to beating them. Charges were filed twice and then withdrawn when the Mama-Sans were paid enough. The fat man then switched over to boys for a while, and that was even worse. He hit one so hard he almost killed him. It must have cost a ton of money to get those charges dropped.”
The Grand Hyatt came into view. Arthon put on his turn signal. “Read the report — it’s all in there,” he said.
A ramp from the street led up to the Hyatt entrance. Arthon had to get in line. Security was tight. All the cars were being searched and their underbellies examined using mirrors on long poles.
“We had some terrorist scares last week,” Arthon said. “They mainly stick to the south, but the word was that they were targeting Bangkok. Five-star hotels are always popular.”
As they approached the security checkpoint he rolled down his window and yelled something in Thai at a man in a black suit. They were waved through. He parked in front of the hotel and made a move to exit the car.
“No, that isn’t necessary,” Ava said. “I’m just going to check in and head for bed.”
He shrugged. “Tomorrow?”
“Let’s just play it by ear. I have to figure out how to handle Antonelli. I’ll probably walk over to the Water Hotel in the morning as a starter. How about I phone you if I need you?”
“I live more than an hour away from this area,” he said.
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
He passed her a business card. “My office number is on the front, my mobile is on the back. Mobile is best.”
She took a quick glance at the card. He was a lieutenant. Ava was impressed.
(10)
Her room had all the asian five-star bells and whistles: teak floors, Chinese black lacquer console and dresser, stylish modern beige leather chairs with expansive footrests, a desk with a leather captain’s chair, and a king-size bed with a brilliant white duvet so plush it looked as if it could swallow her whole. The bathroom was all mirror and glass and marble, the walk-in shower large enough for six people. All the room lacked was the quiet dignity of the Mandarin.
Ava showered and climbed into bed in a T-shirt and panties. She extracted from her wallet the paper with Frank Seto’s U.K. phone numbers and called his cellphone. It was late afternoon in London.
“Frank Seto,” he said on the second ring.
“Ava Lee.”
“I was told to expect a call from you.”
“Thanks for taking it.”
“My father-in-law and your father have been friends for many years.”
“So I’m told. I’m calling about your brother.”
“I have three brothers.”
“Jackson.”
“He is one of them.”
Ava knew then that whatever cooperation she got would be grudging. “I’m trying to locate him,” she said.
“Why?”
“I have a client who has a business relationship with Jackson. There are some outstanding issues that need to be resolved and he hasn’t been able to reach him. He hired me to help.”
“And what makes you think I would have any interest in Jackson’s business dealings?”
“I haven’t made that assumption.”
“And what makes you think I would have any idea how to reach him?”
“He is your brother.”
“In name only,” he said sharply. “We have nothing in common. He’s been a problem for our family for many years.”
“Yet you introduced him to Andrew Tam?”
“Shit, that was completely incidental. Andrew and I were having lunch when Jackson came into the same restaurant. Believe me, I’m not in the habit of hooking up Jackson with my friends or business associates.”
“He’s burned some of them?”
“He burns everyone, sooner or later. He can’t help himself.”
“I’m really sorry to hear that,” she said. “It must be difficult for someone in your position.” He didn’t respond, and she knew she had gone off mark. “Anyway, Frank, I would be grateful if you could help me find him.”
“Weren’t you listening? I have no idea where he is or how to get in touch with him.”
“Would your brothers?”
“No, and neither would my mother, so your enquiries should end with me.”
“I had a Seattle address for him, but the place is vacant,” she said.
“The last address I had for him was in Boston, not Seattle.”
“How many years ago was that?”
“At least five.”
“I also had a Hong Kong address for him, in the Wanchai district. Again it came up empty.”
“We were all born and raised in Wanchai, but the rest of us escaped. He keeps going back. He likes grunge, I guess. But I’ve only known him to stay in hotels there.”
“Any particular one?”
“No. He’s strictly a two- or three-star-hotel kind of guy, and you know how many of them there are in Wanchai.”
“Do you have a phone number for him?”
“This is the number I have,” he said, and gave her the same cellphone number she had been trying to reach for days.
“Well, I guess I’ve run into another dead end,” she said.
“There isn’t much I can do about that.”
“Evidently not. Well, anyway, thanks for taking my call.”
“Make sure you tell your father that I did,” he said.
“Are you always this rude?” she shot back.
“My brother brings out the worst out in me,” he said, and cut off the connection.
Ava turned her attention to the Antonelli file and began to read it in detail. He was now her primary interest. She had hoped she would be able t
o work her way around him, to avoid alerting Seto that they were coming after him and the money. Now she would have to go after him directly.
The file was quite detailed. Given the short notice, Uncle’s Thai friends had done a remarkable job of using his passport to track his movements. The first official sighting of Antonelli in Thailand had been six years before. He had landed at the old Bangkok airport, got a six-month tourist visa, and then gone to southern Thailand, to the city of Hat Yai, in Songkhla Province near the Malaysian border, and checked into the Novotel Hotel. The visa was renewed six months later in Malaysia. A note in the file said that Antonelli probably drove there from Hat Yai — about an hour away — crossed the border, and then re-entered Thailand. It was all legal. Over the next eighteen months he renewed the visa three more times, flying back to Atlanta each time. On each trip to the U.S. he didn’t stay more than a week.
The Novotel had his passport on file for two years. It appeared that he had been involved in business with a fish processing plant in Hat Yai, but when the Muslim terrorists in southern Thailand targeted the city — the largest in the area, with a population of about a million people — and began blowing up hotels and shopping malls, Antonelli moved north to Bangkok. He stayed at an apartment hotel on Petchburi Road for the first three months and then moved three blocks to the Water Hotel. He had been there ever since.
After five months in Bangkok, his name showed up on two official documents. The first was a work visa through Seafood Partners. The second was a document registering him as a minority shareholder in the company; its majority shareholder was, as required by law, a Thai. The Thai owned a separate shrimp and fish processing plant, Siam Union and Trading. Ava assumed that the Thai’s shares in Seafood Partners were a sham, declared simply to enable Antonelli and Seto to do business in the country. Over the next two years, Seafood Partners shipped multiple containers of shrimp to the U.S. and became embroiled in dispute after dispute about short weights, mixed grades, and excess glaze.
