Some sort of cherry room freshener had been sprayed in heavy doses, trying to conceal the still unmistakably foul smell of... of sleaze.

Sleaze permeated every part of the room, as if the very acts had nestled into the walls like thousands of tiny cockroaches, rotting the foundations. Max shivered.

Where did his unease come from? he wondered. He had been in bathhouses, even heavy-duty mass orgies and yet something about this room intimidated him. There was just something so... so blatantly dehumanizing.

As far as the physical lay-out, well, suffice to say that room was aptly named the Kink Room. On one wall hung dildoes, lots of them, of shapes and sizes that boggled the imagination. Some were barely phallic. Whips, chains, handcuffs, ropes, straitjackets, leather masks, bondage and submission devices of all sorts covered shelves on his left. And then straight ahead, on a red colored wall... he walked over to get a closer look.

"Jesus."

The red wall.

He spun back toward Bambi who was huddled in a corner now. The smile was still there, but her eyes had suddenly filled with pure terror.

"Red wall extra, Max." Pause.

"You want?"

He looked again, not believing what he was seeing. A stun gun A goddamn police stun-gun. Enough volts of electricity to make a body spasm like an epileptic's during a seizure.

"People use this on you?" he asked.

She did not respond for a few seconds, only smiling.

"Not on me. Other girls."

He put the stun-gun back and picked up a... Jesus Christ... an electric cattle prod. Kinky was one thing, but this went beyond simple sadism.

He had heard about such things, men who enjoyed zapping nipples or even a clitoris, but his mind had dismissed it as mind-boggling fiction.

"Sometimes," Bambi said, "they want me to use."

"Huh?"

"On them," she continued.

Max looked at the prod and tried to imagine it pressed against his balls and prick. His muscles stiffened and something flipped over in his stomach. He continued to look at the shelves in disbelief. Nipple clamps. Sharp, pointed studs. Torture devices that looked like something from the Middle Ages. Nausea swept over him.

The Kink Room? Chamber of Horrors is more like it.

"What you want, Max?"

"I want to tie you up."

"You going to use... the red wall?"

"No."

Her relief was palpable. She started to undress, but Max stopped her.

"Don't strip."

"You don't want me naked?"

He shook his head.

"Lie on the bed," he said, trying to make it sound like a lustful command.

The girl eyed him strangely but obeyed. Max knew plenty about knots and tying people up. He bound her arms and legs three different ways, making sure they were secure but not cutting into her flesh. There was no reason to hurt her.

"Open your mouth," he said.

The young prostitute did as he asked. She was surprised when he stuffed only a cloth into her mouth. He wrapped a rope around her mouth and the back of her head repeatedly, effectively gagging her.

"Can you breathe okay?" he asked.

She nodded.

He wanted to leave with some words of everlasting kindness and wisdom, but he knew it would sound hollow. Instead, he leaned forward and gently kissed her forehead.

"Good- bye."

He stepped back toward the door. Bambi's eyes followed him.

He opened the door slightly and glimpsed through the crack.

The corridor was empty. He slipped out and headed toward the room where Frank Reed said Michael was being held. When he reached Michael's door, he grabbed hold of the knob. He turned it and pushed hard.

The door gave way and Max entered.

George held the phone close to his ear.

"Then I'm going to kill Michael Silverman right now," he said.

"Wait!" the voice cried.

"I am paying you to destroy the Bangkok supply building and " "And I'll do that," George, "but first Silverman must die. He is a loose end now, and I cannot let him go. He knows too much."

"Now just a second. I made it clear " George hung up the phone. The sampan coasted through the still waters of the Chao Phraya River, but George did not really feel its calming effects. For the first time since the Gay Slasher killings, George was seriously worried. His employer was unraveling and worse, holding out on him. To want him to close up shop all of a sudden, to destroy the clinic's storage house and to return Michael Silverman made no sense unless. unless something had gone wrong. Very wrong.

Had he, George Camron, made a mistake?

Impossible.

"Thank you, Surakarn. I appreciate your service."

"Not at all, old friend."

George rolled out of the boat and back to dry land. In front of him the silhouette of the Grand Palace sat in monumental silence. George moved toward the tuk-tuks.

"Need ride, sir?" the bald driver asked him.

George strolled toward the driver and suddenly veered in the other direction. Better safe than sorry. He jogged a few long blocks, hailed a taxi on Lak Muang Street and climbed in the back seat.

"Patpong."

The taxi driver nodded and started off.

Back by the tuk-tuks the bald driver picked up a radio.

"Colonel?"

"Go ahead."

"George Camron bypassed us and took a taxi. He could be there in a matter of minutes."

The colonel put down the radio microphone and waited for Bernstein's signal.

Michael looked up through bleary eyes.

"Max?"

Max signaled Michael to keep quiet while his eyes traveled about the room, probing, searching.

"Did Camron mention anything about an explosive?" he asked.

Michael's voice was weak, barely audible.

"Behind you.

Ceiling."

Max turned, looked up, and saw the sticks of dynamite tied together.

"Damn," he said out loud.

His hand opened and closed the window shade, signaling the colonel and his men to stay away.

"We have to get you out of here."

Michael tried to focus on Max's face, but his eyes would not obey him.

Sweat pasted his hair against his forehead. His lower lip quivered as though from a fever.

"It's okay, Michael. You're as good as home."

"Home."

Max stood on a chair and examined the explosives. Then he jumped off and knelt in front of Michael. From the inside of his boot Max pulled out a long-toothed hacksaw and began to work on the chain around Michael's ankle. The steel was thick and strong, making progress dangerously slow. The heat in the room was sweltering, like a sauna on overdrive. Max had trouble breathing.

"You been in here this whole time?"

Michael nodded.

Max continued to saw away. One floor below him George Camron entered the Eager Beaver.

Colonel T saw two things at almost the exact same time. He saw Lieutenant Bernstein's signal telling him that there was indeed an explosive device in Michael Silverman's room, and he saw George pay the taxi driver.

"Shall we detain him, Colonel?"

"You saw the lieutenant's signal. It is too risky."

"Then what shall we do?"

"Do?" the colonel repeated.

"We are waiting for your orders."

But the colonel knew there was nothing he could do. If they tried to stop him, George Camron might blow up the building.

Lieutenant Bernstein was on his own. All the colonel and his men could do was watch helplessly while George disappeared into the Eager Beaver.

Michael had never known such complete exhaustion. It was as if some sci-fi villain had drained all his life energy, leaving behind nothing but an empty carcass. His limbs were like blocks of lead, impossible to move. The pain that had engulfed his nose was gone now, replaced by a tingling numbness that was equally uncomfortable. The swelling had dogged his nasal passages, each drawn breath like inhaling flames.

George had fed him only a chunk of bread once a day. He had given him a bit more water, enough to prevent complete dehydration. The ceiling seemed lower now, the walls closer together. Delirium had begun to settle in. Michael wanted very much to scream, to scream until everything snapped and he could scream no more.