“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 interrupted, “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 backseat.
“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 clogged 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.
And then Max opened the door.
At first Michael had been sure it was an hallucination. Even now the room’s dreamlike quality remained fixed. Strange sounds seemed to come from inside Michael’s head—Max’s saw munching through the chain, the bomb going tick, tick, tick, though he knew that the ticking was only in his head. No timer on the bomb. Still, tick, tick, tick, tick . . .
Ka-boom.
“Max?”
“Almost got it, Michael. Hang in there.”
“Sara.”
“She’s fine.”
“Our child.”
“Safe in the womb. You’ll be with her soon.”
Michael tried again to focus on Max’s face. Skinny face. Long nose. Clean-shaven. “No mustache.”
A tight smile from Max. “I shaved it. Almost there, Michael. Almost . . .”
“Almost,” Michael repeated.
“Got it!” The chain fell apart. “Michael, can you walk?”
“Sure.”
Michael made it to his knees before his head began to spin like a plane taking a nosedive.
“Lean on my shoulder,” Max urged. “We have to hurry.”
With a lot of help from Max, Michael managed to stand. His legs were wobbly, but he was able to take a step forward.
“That’s it. You’re as good as home.”
Michael nodded.
Max moved another step. He stopped suddenly when he felt something cold touch his neck. He looked down.