“At the beginning it was simple,” Rafferty says. “We started with two sides. One of them is Ton, and I don’t know for sure who the other one is yet, although I’ve got a theory.”

“Let’s hear it.” Arthit reaches over to the other bed and grabs the pillow. He puts it on top of the pillow he already has, and then he sits up with them behind his back.

“No. I’m not sure, and I don’t want to plant anything in your minds, yours and Kosit’s, yet. I could be wrong. Let’s see how things shape up as we start to screw with them.” He rubs his face with his good hand, realizing how tired he is. But at the same time, there’s a kernel of excitement deep in his chest: He’s part of a team now. “So we had two sides, both threatening my family, one side if I wrote a book and the other side if I didn’t. And then it gets more complicated. Ton’s side is connected to Thanom. And Pan is connected-was connected, might still be connected-with this crook Wichat, who’s selling the babies.”

“Was connected or is?” Arthit asks.

“I think we’ll know in a few hours. I put some bait in a box. If Wichat goes for it, we’ll know they’re still an item.”

“Okay,” Arthit says. “Tell me about that ridiculous bandage on your hand.”

“This is courtesy of what I think of as the other side, meaning not Ton’s guys. I thought it was Ton’s side at first, but it wasn’t. Is this complicated enough?”

“I have extensive training,” Arthit says. “Cosmic string theory is complicated. Imaginary numbers are complicated. This is just two bunches of thugs tussling over a blanket, and you’re unlucky enough to be the blanket. Does the hand hurt?”

“Yes.”

“Well, don’t let it slow you down.”

“That’s what I needed. Sympathy.”

“Tell me about the money,” Arthit says, touching the bag with his foot.

“It’s Ton’s. I thought I’d enjoy spending it to stick his finger in a socket. And I’m hoping we’re at a point where we might be able to do that.”

“Hoping,’” Kosit says. He reaches down and pulls out one of the drawers in the dresser and puts one foot up on it. “Might be’ at a point. This is all very reassuring.”

“Why?” Arthit says. “Why are they any more vulnerable now than they were before?”

“Because they know that things aren’t working. They thought they had me under control, but now they know they don’t. They thought Thanom could put you on ice, but he couldn’t. Wichat, who’s probably involved in this, is worried about some kid wandering around who could bust his baby racket open. Nobody knows where we are or what direction we might come from. This is the kind of situation that makes people improvise, makes them do stupid things to get the world under control again.”

“But what was the point in the first place?” Kosit asks. “I mean, what were they all after?”

“Arthit called it,” Rafferty says. “It’s politics. Ton’s side, which is the elite who would hate to see Pan elected, aimed me at people who don’t like him. The kind of people who might spill the dirt if there were dirt to be spilled. We know-lots of people know-that there’s dirt back there, but I think there’s one thing, one horrific thing, people don’t know about, except as a rumor of some kind, and they wanted to see whether I could find it, so they could use it against him if he decides to run for office. The other side, call it the pro-Pan side, tried to scare me off because they were afraid I’d find the dirt, and they don’t want anything to surface that could keep him from getting elected. Whatever it is, Pan has managed to keep it a secret till now, and that’s why none of those biographies got written: He bought people off, or threatened them, or burned down a printing press.”

Arthit says, “Any idea what it is?”

“I’m pretty sure it’s exactly what we talked about the very first night, after the card game. It’s the missing step from ambitious thug to budding billionaire. At some point Pan acquired a guardian angel, and he did it by doing something unforgivable, something indelible. Something that could destroy Pan, and probably the guardian angel, too, if it came out. And I think it had to do with a fire. He was burned a few months before he made the leap. I located half a dozen fires in that time frame, but I think the one we want is a toy factory.”

“I remember that,” Kosit says. “It was awful.”

Arthit says, “Have you not listened to the radio today?”

“Actually, Arthit,” Poke says, “that was high up on my to-do list, but I haven’t gotten around-”

“Then you don’t know,” Arthit says. “This is no longer a hypothetical discussion.” He sits up and leans forward, grunting as he stretches his lower back. “I sat here, in this awful room, with nothing to do, and in self-defense I turned on the radio. Big story. Pan’s office announced today that he’s going to hold a press conference on Monday. The spokesman wouldn’t say what it was about, but all the radio commentators seem to think he’s going to announce that he’s running for office.”

“Monday,” Rafferty says.

“Day after tomorrow.” Arthit draws a deep, slow breath and blows it out. “The day of Noi’s cremation.”

“Well, then,” Rafferty says. “We’d better get going.”

“Finally,” Arthit says. “Where?”

“First,” Rafferty says, “we’re going to a camera store to spend some of Ton’s money. Then we’ll go down to the Indian district and spend some more of it to buy stolen goods. Third, we’ll go see some street kids, and after that we’ll pay a compassionate visit to someone in the hospital.”

“Compassion,” Arthit says. “One of my favorite words.”

44

They haven’t been out of the taxi more than a minute when Rafferty sees the first one, but only because he’s looking. The kid is about nine years old, dirty enough to have spent most of his life underground, and he’s lurking on the other side of a line of parked cars, watching them through the windows.

Rafferty says, “See him?”

Kosit, who is toting a big shopping bag, says, “See who?”

“Exactly,” Rafferty says. “Nobody sees them.” He turns to the kid and waves him over, but the boy squints at Kosit’s uniform and takes off at a run, and then two others appear, both girls, visible but just out of reach, dangle themselves in sight for a second, and sprint in different directions. It’s the same maneuver they did when they stole the wallet from the man who’d been following Rafferty.

“The old skyrocket,” Arthit says approvingly. “Everybody goes in different directions, and the fastest kid runs last.” One of the girls, thin as a piece of paper, with an explosion of fine hair framing a nervous, high-boned face, has slowed and is watching them over her shoulder. “That one,” Arthit says. “Nobody’s going to catch her.” He takes a couple of steps in her direction, and she accelerates like a startled hare, threading her way between the cars on the road and disappearing around a corner. “Olympic caliber,” Arthit says, coming back.

“It’s down there somewhere,” Rafferty says, thumbing over his shoulder at the Chao Phraya. All three kids had put the river behind them when they ran.

“Sure it is,” Arthit says. “If they run east, home is west.”

“Boo says it’s a shack, nothing but weeds and mud on either side of it. Just old wood with a tin roof. Right along here somewhere.”

They walk the cracked, weedy sidewalk that runs along the top of the riverbank. Across the river the city’s lights are beginning to flicker on, casting long yellow threads over the surface of the water. The sky is deep blue-black above them, reddening to an eggplant purple at the horizon. The river exudes a dark, sweet brackish smell.

Two more kids approach them from the front, and Rafferty turns to see the other three coming up from behind. They all look wary. “Put your hands on your wallets,” he says. “They’re artists with wallets.” To the speedy girl, who has come closest, he calls, “Where’s Boo?”