Tom Callaghan - An Autumn Hunting

Finally, we turned into Langsuan and back to the hotel. It was already getting dark, and I could see flocks of birds rising up and spiralling to find somewhere to roost in Lumpini Park. The idea that wildlife could survive, even thrive, in such an urban chaos was oddly reassuring.

Back in my room, I retrieved the burner from its hiding place and switched it on. A single message, ‘Asia Books, Landmark Hotel, 20.00.’ Saltanat was nothing if not concise. I didn’t know whether she intended for us to meet there, but I only had an hour to get there. In reception, I spoke to the husky-voiced kathoey receptionist (I was beginning to recognise the telltale signs) who told me it was about three quarters of an hour away on Sukhumvit, if I was willing to walk. A taxi? Who knows, this time of night? The receptionist gave a sweet smile, apologising for being unable to be more helpful, told me I couldn’t miss the Landmark. Just follow the Skytrain overhead. I gave my thanks, pushed through the oversized doors and out into the night.

I wondered about getting a tuk-tuk, one of the three-wheeled motorbikes with seating and a roof attached that hurtle through the city, decided I’d had enough excitement for one day.

I strolled up Langsuan past the luxury condominium blocks and building sites towards Chit Lom BTS station. I looked at the concrete stairs climbing up to the platform, saw the crowds heading towards the trains, and chose walking as preferable to being squashed to death.

It was a very pleasant walk, if you took away the incessant roar and blare of traffic, the fumes hanging in the air, the humidity visible under the streetlights, and the countless people who in their hurry to be somewhere decided to walk through me. It was a relief to find myself at the Landmark, which I discovered was just around the corner from Nana Plaza. From low life to the high life in just a few steps; maybe that was part of the charm of Bangkok.

This was the sort of hotel where Quang thought I should be staying, with a spacious terrace proclaiming ‘Al Fresco Dining’. It was populated by the kind of people who’ve never gone hungry or cold. I could drink a very expensive cup of coffee, nibble at an even more expensive piece of cake, or simply enjoy the air conditioning. I wandered around in the aimless fashion that anyone following me would expect of someone sightseeing with nothing particular in mind. I looked at tourist souvenirs, studied restaurant menus discreetly positioned by the dining area, looked for the toilet, came out drying my hands.

I arrived at the Asia Books shop a little after eight. One thing I’ve learned is never to arrive exactly on the hour or the half-hour. Nothing spells rendezvous more clearly than that; six minutes past the hour is just a random time. Simple tradecraft, but you’d be amazed at the number of people who don’t use it.

I smiled sweetly at the assistant who scurried over, shook my head to show I didn’t need any help, and started to browse the big books of photographs of Thailand. I’d been there for maybe ten minutes when I felt the burner in my pocket vibrate. I pretended to stumble, looking down at my shoe as if I’d tripped over my lace, then knelt down behind a large display of self-help books and checked the burner. The last time I’d been in a bookshop, I’d shot and killed a man. That doesn’t say much for literature as a civilising influence.

The screen message simply said ‘John Burdett. Bangkok 8’. I deleted the message and stood up. I didn’t know anyone called Burdett, and I had no idea where Bangkok 8 was. But I wandered around the store until I came to the fiction section, and there, under B, were half a dozen copies of the book. I picked up a copy at random, flicked through, replaced it. Bangkok 8 seemed nothing out of the ordinary, but as I leafed through the third book, I found a small strip of paper, the kind you tear off the edge of a newspaper to use as a bookmark. Someone had written 623. Saltanat made it a rule never to leave an obvious trail; it was part of how she’d stayed alive for so long.

I put the book back on the shelf, screwed up the paper and dropped it to the floor. Probably a room number. Maybe when all this was over, I could rejoin the police and work my way up the ranks to detective.

I spent a few more minutes thumbing through a photographic history of Angkor Wat, the sort of book that takes two hands to hold and a deep wallet to buy. Some of the pictures showed where statues, sculptures and carvings had been cut away from the temple walls, and I wondered if one of them showed the spot where Quang’s bas-relief had been hacked away.

The assistant hovered by me, hoping to snatch my credit card and ring up a purchase before I could change my mind, but I simply shook my head and replaced the book.

Outside the store, I saw a row of lifts, walked over, looked at the destination board. The Rib Room and Bar Steakhouse sounded ideal, not that I was particularly hungry after lunch. Maybe a drink or two first.

The lift was empty when I arrived, so I pressed for the thirty-first floor. When the doors opened and a group of well-fed diners entered, I exited, making sure to press the button for the sixth floor on the way down. The lift hadn’t stopped on the journey up, so anyone on the ground floor who had been watching me would assume I’d gone to eat, drink and stare aimlessly out of the plate-glass windows. I was pretty sure I would have an hour or so to remain out of sight, so I looked for the stairwell, started to make my way down.

I prefer stairs to lifts any time; it’s harder to be surprised by a gun or a knife. However, walking down twenty-five flights of stairs is not my idea of light exercise, particularly when the stairwell doesn’t have air conditioning, and I hoped Saltanat would have a fridge full of cold water when I reached room 623.

I knocked on the door and waited. I could see the glow of lights in the room through the peephole. The door swung open, just a little, and I knew Saltanat was standing to one side, gun in hand, ready to shoot at the first sign of anything wrong. I didn’t know how she’d acquired a firearm, but she wouldn’t have had any trouble, or have any problems using it either.

I pushed the door open a little further, didn’t step in right away. Caution keeps you breathing, even air as polluted as Bangkok’s.

‘Thanks for the book recommendation,’ I said, ‘but my English isn’t up to it. Perhaps when it comes out in Russian.’

‘Shut the door,’ was all she said.

I watched as she put the gun away behind a newspaper on the table. In movies, people hide guns under pillows, but in real life that’s clumsy, and when fractions of a second count, possibly fatal.

I shut the door, put on the chain, operated the deadlock and one of those horseshoe-shaped hasps that hotel guests believe keep intruders out. They don’t; you just have to be determined and not care if you make a bit of noise.

As always, a first glimpse of Saltanat was enough to deprive me of breath, let alone sense. The elegant hooker outfit of the night before had been abandoned in favour of jeans and a crisp white blouse. No make-up, hair tied back in a chignon, I couldn’t imagine anyone looking more elegant, more poised. I suspected she didn’t see me in quite the same worshipping light.

‘I’ve made a few enquiries, Akyl, while you’ve been out playing footsie with one of the biggest criminals in the Far East.’

I didn’t bother to ask how she knew where I’d been; in fact I’d expected nothing less.

‘What in the name of God possessed you to shoot Tynaliev?’ she asked.

‘Because I knew he was going to shoot me,’ I said. ‘And I’d rather be on the run than in a grave.’

‘How do you know he was going to kill you?’