by Ben Mezrich
He hated the fact that he, too, had taken part in that exploitation. And that conditions might force him to use the young man once again. “These two FBI agents aren’t going to be easily dissuaded. They can’t be allowed to get any closer.”
“You worry too much,” Quo Tien interrupted, running a hand through his dark hair. “They don’t even have a body to work with. As long as we remain a step ahead of them, they’ll have nothing but guesses.”
Kyle rubbed his square jaw. Quo Tien was right—but Kyle didn’t like to take chances. Especially so close to the final phase of the experiment. “At this stage, even guesses can be dangerous.”
The Amerasian laced his fingers together, then shrugged. “As always, I eagerly await your orders.”
Kyle searched the young man’s eyes for some deeper meaning—but saw nothing but limitless black pits. He took a deep breath, slowly reaching for his phone. “It’s not my orders you follow, Quo Tien. Don’t you ever forget that. For both our sakes.”
14
Scully watched the creases appear above Assistant Director Skinner’s eyeglasses as he drummed his fingers against the open file on his desk. As usual, Scully felt stiff and uncomfortable in Skinner’s wood-paneled office on the third floor of the FBI headquarters in Washington. Mulder looked much more relaxed on the shiny leather couch to her right, but she knew it was a well-practiced facade. Her own turbulent alliance with their supervisor did not compare to the chaotic, sometimes violent relationship between Mulder and the bald, spectacled ex-Marine who governed both their careers.
Well over six feet tall, Skinner had a professional athlete’s body, chiseled features, and stone gray eyes. A perpetual frown was carved above his prominent jaw, and the packed muscles in his neck and shoulders struggled against the material of his dignified, dark suit. Power emanated from every inch of his body, and Scully had no doubt that Skinner could easily snap Mulder over one knee. At the same time, the man’s brutish physique belied an intense and brilliant deductive mind; there wasn’t much that went on in Washington Skinner didn’t know about. That knowledge—and Skinner’s ambiguous association with both the established military and the shadowy men behind the scenes—made him a natural target for Mulder’s paranoia. Likewise, Mulder’s unorthodox methods and nonconformist beliefs constantly antagonized Skinner, sometimes pushing him past the point of control. Scully prayed the afternoon meeting would be brief.
Skinner closed the file and crossed his arms against his chest. He shifted his gaze toward the window, letting the hazy sunlight play across the curves of his glasses. Behind him, Skinner’s office was spartan, another reflection of the AD’s personality. Aside from the wood paneling and the pristine leather furniture, the only distinguishing possessions were a colorful U.S. wall map, and a framed photo of Janet Reno by the door. The map was covered in plastic pushpins, each representing an open federal case. Scully could not help but notice the large white pin jutting out of Manhattan.
“Red powder picked off of a highway and a few MRI scans,” Skinner finally commented, still gazing out the window. “It’s not much to go on. Especially when you consider the expense, and the red tape involved.”
Scully nodded. “We wouldn’t be here if there was any other way, sir. It’s a unique situation. Perry Stanton’s condition—a condition that caused him to commit murder—needs to be explained. At the moment, Agent Mulder and I believe that Fibrol is a dead end; even with a search warrant, it’s doubtful we’ll find any evidence of Emile Paladin’s work, or any connection to the current MRIs. We believe that the only possible source of new information is in Thailand.”
Skinner turned back from the window. “Andrew Paladin. The deceased subject’s brother. You say he lives in the vicinity of a town called Alkut.”
“It’s a tiny fishing village on the southeastern coast,” Scully continued. She had researched Alkut by airphone during the short shuttle flight from New York. “The population is around five thousand, mostly fishermen and their families. No tourist industry as of yet, because the town is still inaccessible by train or airplane. There’s no local police force to speak of, and not much of a municipal structure. There’s no way to reach Andrew Paladin through the local authorities.”
Skinner nodded. “What about one of our foreign agencies? State Department, CIA, perhaps even the DEA? They’ve got people all over Southeast Asia.”
Mulder coughed, crossing his legs. He avoided looking Skinner directly in the eyes. “Our investigation is still in a fetal stage, sir. Andrew Paladin is not the final step—just the necessary next step. It’s not simply a matter of having him answer a few questions.”
Skinner raised his eyebrows. He leaned back in his high-backed chair. “Agent Scully? Do you agree with Agent Mulder? Is Thailand the necessary next step?”
Scully took a deep breath. She did not relish the idea of traveling halfway around the world. But she knew there was little choice; Stanton’s MRIs were impossible to explain—and as long as his death was a mystery, the case was still open. The only real clue they had was the connection to Fibrol and Emile Paladin’s fifteen-year-old experiment. In New York, that translated to a corporate dead end; Julian Kyle could hide behind his board of directors for months, and the investigation would get nowhere. That had left them with two options: leave the case standing—or follow the only real avenue left open.
Scully met Skinner’s gaze. She knew his decision would be based on her answer. “If we want to question Andrew Paladin about his brother’s activities, we’re going to have to do it in person. That’s if we can find him at all.”
Skinner paused, watching her expression. Finally, he nodded.
Twenty-one hours later, Scully’s fingers dug into a thick faux-leather seat cushion as the 747 wide-body lurched upward, ambushed by turbulent swirls of dense black air. There was a sudden moment of weightlessness; then the plane rolled sickeningly to the right. Scully glanced toward the oval window next to her—but it was like staring into a pool of oil, shades of sable broken only by the distant flash of lightning.
“It’s moments like these that make me glad I’m a believer,” Mulder commented from the seat to Scully’s right, nervously stretching his arms out in front of him. “I think I’ve discovered twelve new religions in the last five minutes alone.”
“I’m still hanging on to the laws of aerodynamics and the statistics of air travel,” Scully responded. “But if it gets any worse, I’ll be getting my rosary beads out of the overhead compartment. This is pretty damn intense.”
“Southeast Asia in July, Scully. The fun’s just getting started. In a couple of weeks this will look like a calm spring evening.”
Scully turned away from the window and tried to concentrate on the laptop computer resting precariously on her knees. The screen had changed from green to gray as the internal modem struggled to extract information from the static-ridden airphone link Scully had established before the storm set in. She tapped her fingers against the keyboard, trying to shake life into her fatigued muscles. It had been a long, tedious flight. Even in the relative comfort of Thai Airline’s business class, twenty-two hours felt like an eternity.
But as she had told Assistant Director Skinner, there had been no other choice. They needed information, and the only true source was in Thailand.
“Andrew Paladin,” Scully said out loud, as her laptop suddenly cleared. The picture took up half of the screen, and Mulder leaned closer to get a better look. Tall, muscular, with wide shoulders and a blond crew cut. Wearing a green infantry uniform, arms stiffly at his side. It was obviously an army recruitment photo, and Andrew Paladin had the dead look of a career foot soldier in his narrow blue eyes.
“He looks a lot heavier than his brother,” Mulder commented. “Wider in the shoulders, maybe a few inches shorter.”
Scully nodded. They had already looked through a dozen photos of Emile Paladin, most taken around the time of the Fibrol scandal involving the prisoners. Emile Paladin had been a handsome
man, long and thin, with intelligent eyes and an amiable smile. He had photographed well—and often. Especially in the years just before his death. But Andrew Paladin was a different story. “This is all I can find, Mulder. I’ve been through every data bank I can think of, and all I’m getting is an army recruitment photo and a paragraph of statistics. Born in upstate New York like his brother, served two years in South Vietnam before getting wounded in action. He was twenty-two years old at the time, and a pretty good soldier. Decorated twice for heroism, consistently good reports from his commanding officers. But after his injury, the reports end. He was sent to his brother’s MASH unit in Alkut—and pretty much disappeared from record.”
Mulder caught the side of the laptop as the airplane jerked hard to the left. “What about his wounds? Anything in his file about where he was hit—or how badly?”
Scully shook her head. She had skimmed Andrew Paladin’s brief military file while Mulder had watched the third in-flight movie, something about a family of talking cats. “Well, his injuries were bad enough to take him out of the war. He received a medical discharge three months after arriving in Alkut. But there are no specifics in his file. It’s odd, Mulder; the army is usually pretty good about this sort of thing. There should be some sort of medical chart, something the VA hospital system could refer to in case of future problems.”
“Well,” Mulder said, thinking out loud, “Emile Paladin was in charge of his brother’s medical care, right? If he had wanted to keep the details off the record, he wouldn’t have had much trouble.”
Scully caught her breath as the lights in the cabin flickered, then resumed. The storm seemed to be getting worse, huge raindrops crackling against the Plexiglas double window. “Why would he want to keep his brother’s medical state a secret?”
Mulder paused, as if debating bringing something out in the open. As usual, he decided not to edit his thoughts. “Emile Paladin might have had something to hide. He might still have something to hide.”
Scully stared at him. “Mulder, Emile Paladin died fifteen years ago.”
“Right on the tail of a scandal that could have landed him in jail—or threatened the company he had built.”
Scully paused. “So you think the timing of his death is a bit convenient.”
“And the circumstances, Scully. He died in an accident overseas. His recluse brother inherited controlling interest in his company—but remained completely invisible, without even an address or a phone number on record. A brother whose history seems to have ended more than twenty-five years ago—again, in mysterious circumstances.”
Scully shook her head. “I agree that there are a lot of loose ends. But to suggest that Emile Paladin faked his death—for what reason, Mulder? And how does Andrew Paladin fit in?”
Mulder shrugged. “Perhaps Emile Paladin wanted to continue his research in secret. Perhaps his brother is helping him keep his work private. And perhaps, somehow, Emile Paladin let something leak out—something that caused Perry Stanton’s rampage and death. Something that forced a cover-up that led to the murder of two medical students.”
Scully leaned back in her seat, her thoughts as turbulent as the air outside. Mulder’s paranoia had caused him to jump beyond the evidence—to conclusions he could not back up with facts. There was no reason to believe that Emile Paladin was still alive. Nor was there any way to connect the polyps inside Perry Stanton’s skull with the deaths of the two medical students—much less classify their deaths as murder. But at the same time, Scully knew better than to discard Mulder’s theory out of hand. His intuition—as insane as it often seemed—was unparalleled. “We’re not here to chase a dead man, Mulder. We’re here to find Andrew Paladin.”
Mulder was about to respond when the 747 suddenly dipped forward, the cabin lights blinking three times. A heavily accented voice explained that the airplane was beginning its descent toward Bangkok International Airport. Mulder waited for the captain to turn his attention back to the storm before clearing his throat. “You’re right. Andrew Paladin is where we have to start. But I don’t think this investigation is going to end with a few answers from a recluse brother.”
Scully let the thought sit in the air between them, as the airplane slipped downward through the frantic black air.
Six rows back, Quo Tien’s long fingers crawled spider-like down the window by his shoulder, chasing the teardrops of rain on the other side. He could just barely see the cluttered lights of Bangkok breaking through the cloud cover as the 747 sank toward the waiting runway. The sprawling metropolis evoked conflicting emotions inside of him; he thought about the years he had spent in the city’s nocturnal alleys, practicing his art, keeping himself toned and in tune—waiting for the next call to service. For seven years, Bangkok had fed his existence—but only Alkut had ever been his home.
Tien was a half-breed, the son of an American soldier and a Thai prostitute; in his culture, that made him polluted, untouchable. Still, he had never cursed the nature of his birth. The distance between himself and the children he had grown up with had nothing to do with the muted color of his skin. It had always been a matter of appetite. A matter of hunger.
He thought about the two agents seated a few yards away from him, and his stomach churned, a heat dancing up through his body. A smile spilled across his thin face, and he closed his eyes, caressed by the rhythm of the storm.
15
Twelve hours later, the rain was coming down in wide gray sheets as Mulder navigated a rented four-wheel-drive Jeep down a road rapidly changing from dirt to mud. Scully had a U.S. Army surplus map open on her lap, and she was struggling to match the surroundings with twenty-year-old military notations. Mulder could see that she was both tired and frustrated; every time the Jeep hit one of the crater-sized potholes that seemed to spring up out of nowhere, Scully let out a curse, strands of wet hair flopping into her eyes. In truth, Mulder sympathized with her worsening disposition. Hunched forward over the jerking steering wheel, sweat running down his back and chest, his fingers aching from the pitted road and the Jeep’s overtaxed, circa 1960s manual transmission—he felt anything but fresh.
So far, Thailand was not the tropical paradise he had imagined. The beauty of the country had gotten lost somewhere in the midst of the rain, the oppressive heat, the choking humidity—and the increasingly primitive conditions. Mulder had already stripped down to his thin cotton shirt and trousers—and still his skin felt prickly where the material stuck to him, each breath catching in his throat as he strove to adapt to the nearly gelatinous air.
Ahead, the road seemed almost a living thing, serpentine twists of dark mud slithering between the lush green trees. The sky had long ago vanished behind a canopy of rain clouds, and the Jeep’s fog lights danced like ghosts as Mulder fought to keep the vehicle from pitching into the encroaching forest on either side.
Physical conditions aside, it had been an exhausting twelve hours since he and Scully had landed in Bangkok. After deplaning, they had been met at the terminal by their military liaison, an army corporal in dress uniform with a permanent sneer embedded in his chiseled face. Timothy Van Epps was a career soldier with little time or regard for FBI agents so far from their jurisdiction—and it was obvious he had been given the assignment at the last minute, without his approval. After taking the agents to a small, lifeless office behind the airport customs desk, he had rushed them through a brief discussion of the present state of U.S. relations with the Thai monarchy, and had handed them a sheet of printed directions to Alkut. Along with the directions came a map of the tiny fishing village and the surrounding geography—and a disclaimer: “Things may be a hell of a lot different in real life than they appear on that piece of toilet paper. We haven’t had much use for that area since Vietnam—so most of those notations are twenty-five years old at best. If you want, you can fax me an updated version when you’re done with your little trip.”
Mulder doubted the U.S. Army needed FBI agents to update its information—especially
in a region of Southeast Asia where it had once deployed extensive military resources. It was much more likely that Van Epps had been ordered—or had taken it upon himself—to be less than helpful. Not because of some sort of overarching conspiracy—although Scully would have assumed that was where Mulder’s line of thought was heading—but simply because it was in the military’s nature. The military often saw the FBI as an errant little sibling—to be tolerated, but certainly not encouraged. Especially when the little brother wanted to join in the fun overseas.
After giving them the map and information, Van Epps had escorted them to a government sedan with diplomatic plates and transported them from the airport to Hua Lamphong, Bangkok’s main train station. The trip had been mind-numbing after the tedious flight. The Thai capital redefined the notion of an urban jungle: narrow, tightly packed streets jammed with compact cars, open-air buses, bicycles, and moped rickshaws—and everywhere you looked, people, so many millions of people. Thai men dressed in white business shirts and women in silk dresses, children in dark school uniforms and monks in bright orange robes: a never-ending sea of people, bouncing through the sidewalks like balls in a pachinko machine. Rising up above the sidewalks, the buildings themselves were something out of a schizophrenic’s dream. Glass-and-steel offices towered over ancient, golden-roofed temples, while apartment complexes sprang up on every corner, each a mixture of a half dozen different architectural styles: jutting spires, cubic balconies, curved white corners, levels constructed of wood, plaster, stone, and steel. The buildings seemed locked in a battle between old and new, and the only constant was growth—perpetual, throbbing, unstoppable.
