11. Phae
Phae
“D o you want the good news or the bad news?”
The accent was Australian, the voice male. I pushed away the remains of the nasi goreng we’d eaten for breakfast. Turned out that if you offered enough money, an airport official would pick up food from a local restaurant and deliver it right to your plane.
“Both,” Emmy said.
“The good news is that McDonald is here in Perth.”
Finally. We could get this show on the road. In the air. Whatever.
“And the bad news?”
“He’s about to leave.”
“Where’s he going?”
“We’re looking into that. Just wanted to give you a heads-up.”
“We should’ve gone to Perth,” I muttered as Emmy hung up.
“And we’d have landed ten minutes before he took off.”
“That’s enough time to ground an airplane.”
“This way, we refuelled ourselves and the jet, and we’re ready to go on the hunt. All we have to do is monitor his flight path and get ready to intercept.”
Out of habit, I considered the possibility of taking down McDonald’s aircraft.
There were plenty of radar black spots over the Indian Ocean, and if Emmy’s jet was anything like ours, she’d have a way of making that happen.
Who would inherit Malati? The wife? Would she push forward with the resort project?
We knew she was a big fan of shopping, yoga, and her reiki healer—right now, she was cosied up with him in the Portrait Milano, enjoying the pool, the bar, and the complimentary Ferragamo toiletries—but her views on conservation were still a mystery.
We’d spent the wait eating, catnapping, and researching McDonald.
He was a semi-successful businessman who respected the almighty dollar and little else.
Semi-successful because he’d inherited most of his wealth and hadn’t yet managed to squander it all on women and liquor.
Two of his three kids—by his first wife—had little to do with him, and the third was following in his footsteps as an arrogant jackass.
Emmy and I had three options—appeal to the part of his psyche that craved praise and admiration, bribe him into cooperating, or hit him with a touch of blackmail.
The third option was challenging because his entourage of bodyguards and assistants had squashed any evidence of significant assholery.
The first option? A possibility, but the evidence suggested McDonald was incapable of empathy.
Which left option two. We knew he hadn’t paid much for Malati—Mimi had been talking to the folks from the other end of the island, and he’d convinced the former owners of the land that he just wanted to build himself a home there, that he cared about the flora and fauna, that he’d invest in the community and provide jobs for everyone.
Then he’d pulled a bait-and-switch with the final contract, and they’d signed away everything they held dear in return for eighty thousand US dollars and an eviction notice.
“If necessary, I could fund a buyout of the land on Malati. It won’t be a bad offer if he simply wants to make a quick buck, plus he’ll look as if he did the right thing.”
“Although technically, he doesn’t even have to scrap the development. We just need him to make a convincing statement suggesting he will.”
“That might be an easier sell. He’d enjoy the chance to screw over those pesky environmentalists a little bit more.”
“And when the publicity surrounding the abduction has died down, he carries on with his plans as if nothing happened.”
“Right. Although I’d rather stop the development. Those Yoda-monkeys are cute in an alien-life-form kind of way.”
Okay, they were. We’d seen one in the forest last night. And that gave me an idea…
“All we have to do is buy time. Then when the heat’s off, McDonald can quietly disappear.”
Emmy gave me an amused smile. “Are you volunteering your services?”
If necessary. But Sin took great joy in fighting back on behalf of animals who couldn’t, and if I told her about McDonald’s plan for the Yoda-monkeys, she’d begin plotting right away. Well, after she finished wrangling turkeys. Huh. How was Marcel getting on back in Vegas?
“The Choir can handle it.”
“Attagirl.”
* * *
Four hours later, we landed in the heat and humidity of Thailand.
I began sweating as soon as the airplane door opened.
A car was waiting for us, courtesy of Blackwood, who didn’t have an office in Bangkok but did have a presence.
An investment in a local firm, Emmy said, and they operated under the Blackwood umbrella when necessary.
A legit outfit, unfortunately. They’d help us, but if we stepped out of the grey and into the black, we couldn’t involve them.
“Business or vacation?” I wondered out loud as we prepared to exit the jet.
We’d weighed up the options during the flight. One of Emmy’s infamous exes had gone into the private sector and become a partner in an intelligence firm, Sirius, and they’d put together an impressive report, given the time frame. I’d have to see about adding them to the Choir’s list of resources.
McDonald already had investments in the region—a mall in Malaysia, apartment buildings in the Philippines, and a share in a hotel in Fiji. He was probably hoping to expand. And possibly also hide assets in case his wife got sick of his cheating and decided to divorce him.
Speaking of the wife and mistress, wouldn’t he have brought one of them along if he was on vacay? Unless there was a third woman…
“Or a hookup,” I added.
“The more important question is, hotel or private residence?”
A hotel would contain potential witnesses and additional security, but as long as we wore the right clothes, we’d find it easier to move around inside. With a private residence, we’d have to skulk in the shadows.
“I look good in a maid’s uniform, but not here. Most of the staff will be locals.”
“If he’s meeting with a business associate, maybe we could join them for dinner?” Emmy suggested.
“Add some peer pressure, you mean?”
“Exactly. He’ll be less likely to tell us to fuck off if there’s a witness. Don’t forget his MO—he’s the congenial businessman, only too happy to help until the contracts are signed.”
“I like the dinner thing.”
“Go and pick a nice outfit out of the closet. We don’t want to get barred from a fancy restaurant for wearing shorts.”
* * *
McDonald didn’t go to a fancy restaurant. No, he checked into the Hotel Metrolux and disappeared up to the penthouse. I found a spot in the bar with a view of the lobby while Emmy went on a scouting expedition.
The bartender was a friendly guy wearing a dress shirt, a bow tie, and a maroon vest. His name tag said “Somyot,” and his smile said he was hoping for a tip.
“One more,” I said, placing fifty bucks on the bar. In local currency, that would be enough to buy me alcohol poisoning. “Keep the change.”
His smile grew wider. “You are drinking alone tonight?” he asked, his accent strong but his English perfect.
“I’m not supposed to be, but my husband’s meeting is running late.”
“A lot of businessmen stay here.”
Thank you for that perfect opening. A HUMINT collector’s dream.
“Yes, I’m sure I saw one of his associates across the lobby tonight. Lonnie, Lonnie McDonald.”
The smile slipped, which told me more than words ever could. “Yes, he is a guest.”
“You know him? How fascinating. Does he visit often?”
Somyot finished mixing my gin and tonic and slid the glass across the polished wood of the bar.
“Once every month, once every two months for the time I’ve worked here.”
“How long have you worked here? It seems like a real nice place. Are those palm trees real?”
He glanced in the direction I pointed, and I took the opportunity to pour an inch of my drink into a nearby ice bucket.
“Yes, they’re real. The orchids too. I’ve worked here for three years, almost.”
Interesting. Whatever business Lonnie had in Bangkok, it was taking a while. The intel report from Sirius didn’t list any completed deals for LM Developments in Thailand.
“My deepest sympathy. Lonnie can be a real douche.”
Somyot was too diplomatic to wholeheartedly agree, but the smile did come back.
“A new hotel is opening soon in Sathon, a deluxe one. Some customers we would not be sorry to lose.”
My phone buzzed with a message.
Emmy
McD’s car has pulled up.
“My husband’s meeting just finished. Thanks for the drinks, and I’ll see you again sometime.”
Somyot saluted me as I stood. “Enjoy the evening.”
Oh, I intended to.