Sidney Sheldon - Chasing Tomorrow

“Thanks, Helmut. But I prefer this one.”

Jeff pushed forward.

“Please, Mr. Bowers, it is most important. We ask all our European visitors to board the other raft.”

“I’m sure you do.” Jeff smiled. “But I’m taking this one.”

Noticing the minidrama being played out behind him, General McPhee came over.

“What’s the matter, Bowers?”

Jeff whispered in the general’s ear. “I heard they give very different versions of the tour on the Japs’ boat. Apparently they tell them about how brave and noble their soldiers were, and how their mistreatment of the Allied prisoners of war was exaggerated. I’m curious to hear it.”

“That’s outrageous! Who told you that?”

“A little bird.” Jeff shrugged. “The narration’s in Japanese but Minami here’s agreed to translate for me.” He nodded toward a Japanese woman a few feet ahead of them in line.

“I’m taking this raft too,” the general announced loudly.

“Sir! I must protest.” The poor chief steward looked as if he might spontaneously combust. “Really, ve have a system . . .”

“I’ll bet you do.” The general followed Jeff onto the raft, leaving the little man helpless on the quayside.

THE GENERAL’S TEMPER WORSENED as they made their way down the river. Bowers was right. The crap they were feeding the Japanese tourists bore no resemblance to the truth. He was damn well going to complain to the management and in the strongest terms! He tried to concentrate on everything his Japanese translator was saying. But the woman was so short and spoke so softly, it was impossible to hear her at times over the noise of the engine. Between straining his ears, stooping uncomfortably and attempting to swat away mosquitoes the size of small bats, it was a thoroughly unpleasant trip. The humidity was also horrendous, like breathing hot soup. Removing his backpack and loosening the buttons on his shirt, the general was relieved to see that Bowers had been forced to do the same.

BACK ON THE TRAIN, General McPhee headed straight to his cabin. As soon as he’d peeled off his wet clothes, he intended to dictate a strongly worded letter of complaint to the relevant authorities. He was stopped in the corridor, however, by a borderline-hysterical Helmut.

“I’m terribly sorry, General. I really have no idea how this happened. But I’m afraid you can’t return to your cabin.”

“What do you mean I can’t return to my cabin? I can do as I damn well please.”

“It appears there has been a robbery.” The German looked as if he might faint. “Both your cabin and Miss Joy’s were targeted. The young lady appears to have been chloroformed. The police are on their way.”

THE BREAK-INS AT GENERAL McPhee’s cabin and that of his pretty young secretary were the talk of the train for the remainder of the journey. After a six-hour delay, the Malay police allowed them to continue across the border to Thailand. Other than a few inconsequential items of jewelry and some of the general’s personal effects, nothing appeared to have been taken.

Tiffany accosted Jeff angrily on the outdoor viewing platform later that night.

“What the hell happened, Thomas? Where were you?”

“I’m sorry. I got stuck on the same raft as your boss. I couldn’t get away.”

“Well, someone got away. Whoever they were, they were obviously after that stupid statue.”

“I imagine so. You poor thing. You must have been terrified.” Jeff wrapped an arm around her shoulder. Despite herself, Tiffany leaned into him.

“Actually I didn’t know a thing about it. The police think whoever it was must have gassed me through the keyhole. All I remember was waking up and the room looked like a bomb had hit it. Anyway, they didn’t find what they were looking for.”

“So I heard,” said Jeff. “How did he manage to conceal it so well in such a tiny space? That’s what I don’t understand.”

“I told you.” Tiffany shrugged. “The general’s a brilliant man. He’s smarter than he looks.”

“He must be,” said Jeff.

AFTER THE CRAMPED CONFINES of the Eastern and Oriental Express, Bangkok’s Peninsula Hotel was the last word in luxury. The food was exquisite, the service faultless and the beds so soft and capacious that General Alan McPhee could have wept with relief. Freed from the prying eyes of his fellow train passengers, the general had decided to dispense with the subterfuge and install Miss Tiffany Joy in his palatial suite. After all, it wasn’t as if his wife was about to drop in and discover them. With only a few days left in his trip to Asia, the general was looking forward to spending some quality time with his young secretary’s delicious body, away from the distractions of the infuriating Mr. Thomas Bowers.

Sprawled out by the Peninsula’s spectacular swimming pool overlooking the harbor, in a minuscule gold bikini that left little to the imagination, Miss Joy looked particularly ravishing this morning.

It’s a pity to have to leave her, the general thought. On the other hand, by dinner tonight I’ll be two million dollars richer. We can celebrate together.

“I have some business to take care of.” Leaning over her sun lounger, he kissed her on the top of the head. “I’ll be back before tonight.”

“Good luck.” Tiffany sighed, rolling over onto her stomach.

Watching the general walk away, with that distinctive stiff, military gait of his, she was glad she hadn’t slept with Thomas Bowers in the end. He was charming, of course, and sexy. But men like him were a dime a dozen. Alan was different. He was a war hero, a man of true intellect and gravitas. A little pompous perhaps, but a good man at heart.

I made the right choice.

HOW THE HELL DO people live here?

General Alan McPhee’s lip curled in distaste as the crowds of sweaty Thais surged around him like vermin.

He’d taken the Skytrain to Bang Chak, preferring the anonymity of Bangkok’s famous monorail to a cab, where he ran the risk of the driver remembering him. From there he made his way by foot through the market, holding tightly to his precious backpack as he weaved through stalls selling everything from textiles and electronics to cheap religious icons and revolting herbal charms made from chicken’s feet and the like.

In every corner, junkies sat slumped like the corpses they would soon become. Chao-tak’s customers. General McPhee felt no compassion for them. Their misery was self-inflicted.

The general had heard the horror stories about Chao-tak’s torture chambers, and the toe-curling punishments he apparently inflicted on perceived rivals, enemies or delinquent debtors. He wasn’t impressed. These drug lords and gang leaders thought of themselves as warriors. Pathetic! Put them in a real war zone and they wouldn’t last a day. Most of them were illiterate thugs who’d risen to the top like scum in a jar full of pond water. It pained the general in a way, to be handing over the beautiful Entemena statue to such a philistine. But business was business. Two million dollars would pay for the luxurious retirement that General Alan McPhee deserved.

A minion emerged from an alleyway and scuttled alongside the general like a rat.

“McPhee?”

The general nodded.

“This way.”

Chao-tak’s office was a sparsely furnished room in a nondescript apartment building. Not quite a tenement, it was nevertheless extremely run-down, with patchy air-conditioning, peeling paint and carpets that looked as if they hadn’t been cleaned since the day they were laid. In Mexico, the drug barons lived like emperors. Clearly Chao-tak had other uses for his money.

“You got the statue?”

General McPhee laid his backpack gently down on the desk.