Final Answers

by Greg Dinallo

  “No. The rooms weren’t ready. They said any time after three.”

  I glance to my watch. “What are we waiting for?”

  “Vann Nath.”

  “Who?”

  “The businessman I told you about.”

  “The one who works with the refugees?”

  “Yes. I dropped the bags in the lobby and cabbed it to his office. He was out, but when I got back, there was a message that he’d meet me here. I’ve been waiting almost an hour. I guess he—” She pauses suddenly, and scowls. “Boy, you look awful.”

  “Thanks. You should see the other guy.”

  “Does that mean the Surigaos were still at the hotel?”

  I nod solemnly, my gut constricting.

  “And?”

  I hesitate briefly, then, in a taut whisper, reply, “Carla’s dead. I think he is too.”

  Kate leans back in the chair and glares at me accusingly.

  “No, I didn’t kill them. It was Surigao’s buddies. Sounds like they said, ‘Good work, Sean. Come live a life of luxury in Bangkok.’ I figure Ajacier was planning to kill him all along. Carla got caught in the cross fire.”

  Kate nods thoughtfully. “So, now Ajacier knows you’re not dead.”

  “Sure does.”

  “You don’t seem very concerned.”

  “I’m not.”

  Her eyes widen curiously.

  “I remembered in this game you’re either the hunter or the prey. So I tracked him down and scared the shit out of him.”

  “I take it all back.”

  “Three Our Fathers, Three Hail Marys, take two aspirin, and call me in the morning.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “You have to be Catholic.”

  She smiles, then her eyes brighten at something she sees behind me. “There he is. Vann?” she calls out, waving and getting to her feet. “Vann? Over here.”

  I look over my shoulder to see a handsome man in a business suit coming toward us. He’s unusually tall for an Asian, in his late forties, with an aristocratic bearing accented by a dramatic streak of gray where his hair is sharply parted.

  “Kate,” he calls out effusively as she hurries to him with open arms. “I can’t believe you’re here.”

  “Neither can I,” she replies, hugging him.

  He removes his sunglasses and steps away to look at her. “You look wonderful. As beautiful as ever.” His accent is slight. His manner almost courtly.

  “Better put those back on,” she jokes. Then she turns to me and introduces us, discretely explaining I’m a friend on a similar mission.

  “Well, if I can be of any service,” Vann Nath offers as we take seats at the table.

  “Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “My apologies for being so late,” he says, turning to Kate with a smile, “But this might just be worth waiting for.”

  “You have something?”

  “Remember, Kate, I said might.”

  “Oh, my God, tell me,” she says, taking his hand and squeezing it excitedly.

  “After you called from Hawaii, I remembered there were several people I’d helped relocate in recent years who’d been with the Pathet Lao. They were reluctant conscripts, so to speak. Journalists and photographers pressed into service to implement propaganda compaigns. They wrote press releases, took pictures of downed American aircraft and prisoners, that sort of thing. I reviewed my records and discovered one of these men had been stationed in the area where your husband was lost.”

  “He has information about John?”

  “He claims to. I gave him his name, and the new information you’d given me.” He pauses and shakes his head with dismay. “I still can’t believe they never told you he’d survived.”

  Kate shrugs resignedly. “They had their reasons.”

  “Anyway, the man called back that same afternoon and said he found something in his files.”

  “He say what?”

  “Oh, no. He’s keeping his cards very close to his chest. You know how this game is played.”

  “All too well. How much will you need?”

  “It’s hard to say. Let’s see how it goes, Kate. You can reimburse me later.”

  “When can we talk to him?”

  “Tonight. Be at this club at eight-thirty.” Vann Nath takes a business card from his wallet and jots down the information on the back.

  I sense a waiter hovering over us. “Excuse me?” I ask, “Would (either of you like something?”

  “Thank you, Mr. Morgan. Perhaps another time,” Vann Nath replies, getting to his feet. “As usual, I’m running late. Very nice to meet you.”

  “Same here.”

  “You know, Kate,” he says, his voice taking on a more serious tone, “things haven’t changed very much when it comes to information on MIAs.”

  “I understand.”

  “Good. I just want to make sure you don’t commit your heart to this.”

  “Thanks.”

  He hugs her, then turns and hurries off.

  She watches him go. A tear rolls down her cheek.

  “You okay?”

  “Yes, I’m fine. Just a lot of old feelings all of a sudden.”

  “We could both use some rest.”

  She nods, rubs a sleeve across her eyes, and starts across the terrace.

  We’re entering the lobby when I unthinkingly reach into my coat pocket. It’s empty. A chill goes through me. Confronting Ajacier in a room full of businessmen, unarmed, was one thing. I was in control. The element of surprise was mine. But his thugs could be standing next to me right now, and I wouldn’t know it. It’s a sobering thought, and I’m feeling vulnerable. I hang back, looking about warily as Kate approaches the check-in desk and gives the room clerk our names.

  He’s a haughty fellow who frowns when he finds them in his computer registry. “You’ll be staying in five twenty-seven,” he says in a British accent. “Your luggage has already been placed in the room.”

  “And Mr. Morgan?”

  “I’m sure you’ll find his there as well, madam.”

  He raps his bell sharply and turns to a rack of pigeonholes to fetch the key.

  “They booked us into a double,” Kate says to me with a scowl, then, as the room clerk turns to an approaching bellman, she calls out, “Excuse me? Excuse me, I think there’s been a mistake.”

  The clerk pauses in midstep and whirls toward her challengingly. “Pardon me, madam?”

  “I said, there’s been a mistake,” Kate replies, her tone sharpening to match his. “I didn’t book a double. I booked two singles.”

  The clerk’s brow furrows skeptically. He turns to his computer while the bellman stands by. “Why, yes, madam, so you did. I’m so sorry,” he says, studying the screen, not sorry at all. “Yes, I still have several singles available, which I’m sure will be quite satisfactory. Unfortunately, the housekeepers are terribly behind today. I’m afraid neither room is prepared.”

  “When?” Kate asks impatiently.

  “Within the hour.”

  Kate and I exchange exasperated looks.

  The clerk gives the bellman the key and instructs him to retrieve our bags from the double room. He fetches a cart and heads off toward the elevators.

  We head back toward the bar.

  We’ve gone a few steps when the vulnerable feelings intensify and another chill goes through me. I’m flashing back again. Back to the Nam. Back to where you never knew who the enemy was. Where the gentle village girl who did your wash one day, sent it back booby-trapped the next. I haven’t felt like this in twenty years. I can’t get it out of my head. It’s really bothering me.

  “What is it?” Kate prompts, sensing my uneasiness.

  “I don’t know. Something isn’t right.”

  “Mai pen rai,” she says.

  “What?”

  “It’s an old Thai expression. Loosely translated it means, ‘These things happen.’ Look at the bright side of it, at least they still have a co
uple of singles.”

  “That’s not what I meant. I’ve got this really strange feeling. I used to get it when I was on patrol in Vietnam. It’s sort of like a sixth sense. A lot of us developed it after a while. Especially the guys who made it back. It was as if you could almost smell danger.”

  “Danger?”

  “Yes, danger,” I reply sharply, suddenly caught up in the throes of a vivid, frightening flashback about booby traps. About the laundry girl. About climbing fences instead of going through gates. About going through windows instead of doors. I make a one-eighty and hurry back to the check-in desk.

  Kate hurries after me baffled.

  “Where’s the bellman?” I ask the clerk.

  “The bellman?” he echoes, as if I’m speaking Swahili.

  “Yes, the guy who went to get our bags.”

  “Ah, I imagine you’re referring to the porter. He’s on his way to the room, sir.”

  “The wrong room?”

  He misunderstands and stiffens indignantly. “Yes, sir. Again, I’m very sorry for the inconvenience. Is there something you require from your luggage?”

  “No. No, you have to stop him.”

  “Stop him, sir?”

  “Yes, now. You have to stop him now.”

  “Really, sir,” he says, put off by my attitude.

  “Can’t you beep him or something?”

  “No, I’m afraid not, sir.”

  I whirl and run to the elevators. One of the floor indicators is on 16. The other is moving slowly toward 3, where it stops.

  “What is it? What’s wrong?” Kate asks, bewildered, as she catches up.

  “What room did he say?”

  “Five twenty-seven, I think. Why?”

  I run to the staircase that’s off to one side of the elevators and start climbing. It winds upward around the shaft. I’m taking the steps two, three at a time. I can hear Kate behind me trying to keep up. Then I hear the click of the motor as the elevator starts. It ascends slowly to four, and stops. Now, I can hear the doors rolling open, then voices, and the sounds of people exiting. There’s a long pause before it closes and starts ascending again toward five. The motor’s whirring. I’m climbing like crazy, humping up the stairs.

  I finally stumble onto the fifth floor landing and push through the fire door into the corridor. The elevator doors are rumbling open. I come around the comer. It’s gone. They weren’t opening. They were closing. I dash past it, rounding the next corner.

  The bellman is already down the end of a long corridor with his cart. He’s reached the room and is putting the key into the lock.

  “Wait! Wait, come here,” I call out.

  He waves at me genially. “Yes, sir. One moment. I’ll be right with you.”

  “No! Wait!” I start running down the corridor as he opens the door and pushes the empty baggage cart into the room. “Wait!!”

  “What is it? What’s the matter,” Kate asks, hurrying after me.

  “No, Kate! No, stay back!” I shout over my shoulder without breaking stride. “Stay back!”

  A thunderous explosion erupts inside the room.

  It blows the door to bits and sends a shock wave and blast of heat down the corridor, followed by a roaring fireball.

  I instinctively wrap my arms around Kate, shielding her as we tumble to the floor.

  Flaming pieces of luggage and clothing, neckties, brassieres, a sports jacket, a can of deodorant, a hair dryer, computer parts, and body parts are all blown out the doorway into the corridor. They sail through the air, landing on the floor around us in incendiary heaps.

  Kate is staring in horror at a blood-spattered wall. Thick black smoke comes billowing down the corridor. We get to our feet and make our way back to the staircase. I pull a fire alarm as we hurry through the door and begin clambering down the stairs with other guests. We reach the landing adjacent to the lobby. The place is in a frenzy. Guests and staff are hurrying in every direction, spurred on by the clanging alarm. We avoid the lobby and continue to the basement, past the hotel kitchen and laundry toward an illuminated exit sign at the far end of the corridor. A set of double doors opens onto an exterior staircase, which we climb to street level.

  Dusk has fallen.

  The wail of sirens rises in the distance.

  We hurry down a darkened alley behind the hotel, past dozens of overflowing trash pails, into the street. Suddenly bursts of yellow and red light begin strobing across the buildings up ahead. A Metropolitan Police minibus, emergency flasher whirling atop its roof, takes a corner at high speed and roars past us. A fire engine is close behind.

  “Where are we going?” Kate asks, gasping for breath.

  “I don’t know. Someplace where we can hide out for a while.”

  “I used to stay in this little hotel over on—”

  “I’d rather pick one at random.”

  “There’s a lot of small hotels and guest houses over by the train station. I used to live near there.”

  “That sounds more like it.”

  We’ve gone several blocks before I pause and look back at the Oriental. Smoke is spiraling high into the night sky from a window that is engulfed in flames.

  “Bastard,” I say under my breath.

  “What?”

  “That clerk. He gave us a room that faced the back.”

  27

  A crooked neon sign flickers SOI 12 HOTEL.

  It floats in the darkness deep in this knot of narrow alleys, one of the few areas in the city where the sois are numbered, not named.

  “How about that one?” Kate wonders.

  “Sold,” I say numbly.

  “You know, I’ve been thinking,” she says as we approach the entrance, “Maybe a double’s not such a bad idea.”

  “Sure,” I say knowingly. “I think I’d feel more secure that way too.”

  For almost an hour, we’ve been walking through back alleys where light comes in thin shafts from an occasional window. Now, miles from the teeming tourist and business centers, we’re in the Hua Lamphong district, an area adjacent to the main railway station just off Charu Muang Road where Kate used to live.

  We enter the Soi 12’s tiny lobby to find a lone clerk behind the desk reading a newspaper. He looks up and smiles, revealing blackened teeth. When Kate addresses him in Thai, he bows slightly, offers her a pen, and gestures to his register.

  “Let’s talk about this,” I whisper, smiling at the clerk as I direct Kate aside. “Maybe you should tell him we’ll pay extra if we don’t have to do that.”

  She shakes her head no emphatically.

  “Why not?”

  “He’ll know something’s going on and sell the information to the police,” she whispers tensely. “He will. Take my word for it. I know this city.”

  “Okay, make up some names.”

  “What if he asks to see our passports?”

  She’s right. They always ask for them; and, sure enough, when she returns to the desk to fill in the data, that’s exactly what he does.

  We pay cash for one night and climb a narrow staircase to the third floor. The room is immaculate and neat. It has twin beds, a small window that overlooks the alleys and rooftops, and not much else. There’s no phone. The bathroom is down the hall.

  I’m exhausted. I could sleep for a week. I fall onto one of the beds.

  Kate sits on the edge of the other. The impact of what happened seems to have just hit her and hit her hard. All of a sudden, she’s actually aware of just how close we came to being blown to bits. That’s how it always was in-country. The realization came after a fire fight, not during it. Men who’d fought bravely, with no concern for their own safety, were often traumatized afterward when they realized how close they’d come to death, or what they’d done to their fellow man to avoid it.

  “Better if you don’t think about it,” I counsel.

  Kate’s lips tighten into a thin line as she nods.

  “Besides, you have a decision to make.”

>   Her eyes widen curiously.

  “I mean, you should be thinking about whether or not you want to continue this partnership.”

  She shrugs and splays her hands ambivalently.

  “I’m the one involved in this drug thing. I’m the target. They have no reason to hurt you.”

  “Do they know that?” she asks in a fragile voice.

  “Maybe not, now that you mention it.”

  A long silence follows.

  Kate is staring off thoughtfully, a question forming in her eyes. “I’m confused about something.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Why did we run?”

  “Why?”

  She nods.

  “I didn’t think it would be wise to get involved with the police.”

  “Why not? We didn’t do anything.”

  “For one thing, after Vegas and L.A., I’ve had my fill of cops. For another, I’m concerned about what the clerk might’ve told them. I mean, it was pretty obvious I thought something was about to happen. From his point of view, I’d say I knew something was about to happen. I’d rather not have to deal with that right now.”

  “You could explain.”

  “No. Even assuming the cops believe it, assuming they’re not corrupt and up to their asses in this, they could still declare us undesirables and put us on the next flight home.”

  She nods resignedly, then glances at her watch and goes down the hall to the bathroom.

  I’m propped up against the headboard, watching the pink and green neon flicker across the ceiling and listening to the sounds coming from the street: the din of traffic, rock music, bursts of tonal conversation and laughter. I keep seeing Carla’s blank expression, and wondering about Surigao. Is he dead too? Is it over? Maybe I should be on the next flight out of here. It’d probably be the best thing for Kate. But I’ll never know why Nancy died if I leave. Even if Surigao is dead, there’s still Ajacier. I’ve no doubt he’s the one who’s behind it all. He has the answers. He knows I why Nancy died. And I know where to find him. My mind drifts. I I’m thinking about Nancy. She’s playing the piano for me when Kate returns.

  “I have to go,” she announces, her voice a little stronger now.