The Golden City (23 page)

“Well, this is a surprise,” Michael said. “I start looking for one Traveler and find the other.”

“Is Dad here?”

“No. But someone was living in this cave for awhile. They built a fire near the entrance. Maybe they wanted to keep the animals away.”

Michael took a few steps forward and Gabriel retreated. “You think I want to kill you?”

“Seems like a good possibility.”

“So why aren’t you carrying your sword? Did you forget to bring a weapon?”

“I’m not taking that kind of journey.”

Michael laughed. “You really haven’t changed. You always were a dreamer. When we were in Los Angeles, you spent all your time in a daze—reading books and cruising around on that motorcycle.”

“We can’t change who we are, Michael. But we can make choices about how we’re going to live our lives.”

“You’re wrong about that. I’ve changed completely …” Once again, Michael took a few steps down the slope. “When we were kids, all I wanted was to fit in and be like everyone else at school. Remember when I took that job at Sloane’s hardware store?”

“You wanted to buy blue jeans.”

“No, I wanted the
right
kind of jeans and the
right
kind of shoes—all the stuff that everybody else was wearing.”

“It didn’t make a difference.”

“Correct. I bought the clothes, but other kids still thought we were strange. It took me a long time, but I finally learned my lesson: I’m
not
like everyone else. I’ve been to the Fifth Realm and talked to the half gods. Now I understand that the only reality in all six realms is
power
. And you demonstrate your power whenever you control another person’s life.”

“Do you really believe that?”

“It’s not a belief, Gabe. The half gods have discarded all this idealistic bullshit. They see what’s true.”

“You shouldn’t trust them.”

“Oh, I don’t.” Michael laughed. “The half gods are jealous of me, jealous of all Travelers. They’re trapped in their particular reality and they want a way out. So I’m using them to get what I want. They’ve already sent us the design for a new computer chip that will help create the Panopticon.”

“You can build all the computers you want. People aren’t going to follow you.”

“Of course they will. I just have to give humanity a little push in the right direction. Maybe your new friends don’t want to live on the grid, but everyone else wants that feeling of security. As long as you
leave up the window dressing—the superficial trappings of freedom—people are more than happy to give up the real thing.”

“Some of us know what’s going on.”

“So what? You can’t stop the transformation.” Michael took another step forward. “The group with the most power always wins. That seems pretty damn clear to me.”

“The kind of victories you’re talking about fade away in a few years. The walls crumble and people pull the statues down. Our world is pushed forward by compassion, hope and creativity. Everything else turns to dust.”

“Say whatever you want, Gabe. You’re still going to lose.”

Gabriel looked up at Michael, feeling the dark energy within his brother. They were connected, but apart—like two particles in a single atom that would explode if they came in contact with each other. Turning away, he headed down the hill. It was only when he reached the trees that he looked over his shoulder and made sure that Michael wasn’t following him.

Alone, he passed through the tall grass and returned to the shore.

A
s the hired car left the Bangkok Hilton, Nathan Boone told his driver to turn up the air conditioner and direct the vent toward the back seat. The hotel concierge had given him a bottle of chilled water, but Boone only took a few sips. He didn’t want to use the bathroom at the prison and would avoid touching anything while he was there.

The car traveled a few blocks, eased into an intersection and jerked to a stop. They were surrounded by pickup trucks, motorcycles, and tuk-tuks, the garishly painted auto-rickshaws that carried people around the city. A traffic officer in a white uniform stood on a box and waved his hands, but everyone cheerfully ignored him. Street peddlers threaded between the stalled cars, tapping on the windows. They were selling coconut slices and lottery tickets, neon green condoms and a rooster in a bamboo cage that squawked and flapped its wings as if he knew he was about to be plucked.

After much horn-beeping, the car cut around a stalled truck and glided past a food stand dotted with flies. A prostitute wearing a pink mini-dress pressed her palms together and made a
wai
gesture to two
Buddhist monks. An old woman reached into a plastic bucket and pulled out a live squid. The smell of car exhaust and fried food pushed into the car and Boone couldn’t escape the noise. When the tuk-tuks raced past, it sounded like an army of lawn mowers roaring in a concrete canyon.

—

For the last six years Boone had been allowed to hire his own employees without oversight from the executive board. It was his job to protect the Brethren and destroy their enemies. Both Kennard Nash and Mrs. Brewster preferred not to know the specific aspects of Boone’s activities.

Everything had changed since Michael’s speech to the Brethren. The Special Projects Group was organizing events in several different countries, but Boone didn’t know the details. He had been sent to Thailand to find an American named Martin Doyle who was serving time in a prison near Bangkok. Boone had no problem with that particular responsibility. What bothered him was the phone call he received from Michael Corrigan.

“The Special Projects Group has given me the file on Mr. Doyle,” Michael said. “He’s a difficult individual, but he’s suited for a particular job.”

“I understand.”

“Hire him. Put him on a plane back to America. And …”

There was a hissing noise on the phone and Boone lost contact with London.

“Hello? Mr. Corrigan? I didn’t hear you.”

“Make an
impression
, Mr. Boone. Make sure he’s completely under our control.”

“And how am I supposed to do that?”

“It’s not my job to figure out every little problem.”

—

It took an hour to reach Klong Dan Prison, a large area surrounded by guard towers and a brick wall. Boone told the driver to wait in the parking lot and walked into a three-story administrative building with lattice balconies on the upper floors. He mentioned Captain Tansiri’s name to a guard and was immediately ushered into a waiting room crowded with women and children waiting to see the prisoners. The room smelled of sweat and soiled diapers. Babies screamed as old ladies ate from plastic containers filled with shredded papaya and bean sprouts.

When prisoners appeared on a television screen near a door in the waiting room, everyone shouted to each other and rushed inside. For a few seconds, Boone stood alone in the middle of the room and contemplated a pair of discarded chopsticks.

“Mr. Boone?”

He faced a Thai prison guard wearing a tan uniform that was too large for his skinny body. The guard took a cigarette out of his mouth and grinned, displaying an array of teeth that looked like chunks of yellowed ivory.

“You must be Captain Tansiri.”

“Yes, sir. We just received a call from the minister’s office. They said you might drop by for a visit.”

“I’m here to see Martin Doyle.”

Tansiri looked surprised. “Are you from the embassy?”

“I work for the Department of Homeland Security.” Boone reached into his left shirt pocket and took out a fake ID card. “We have reason to believe that Mr. Doyle has information about terrorist activity.”

“I think someone was misinformed. There is nothing political
about Mr. Doyle. He is just a very bad person. Don’t you know why he’s here?”

The Special Operations Group had only sent Doyle’s name and location. Boone assumed that American was being held on a drug charge. “Perhaps you could give me the details.”

“We think he kidnapped and killed several children in the Khian Sa District.”

Boone was so surprised he couldn’t hide his reaction. “He killed children?”

“Well, technically, there was no evidence, but children would disappear when he was near a village. The police watched him for several months and were not successful. Mr. Doyle was far too clever.”

“So why is he in prison?”

“They arrested him on a passport charge and the judge gave him the maximum sentence.” Captain Tansiri looked satisfied. “This is Thailand. We solve our problems with foreigners.”

“That’s a good policy, Captain. But it’s probably best if I talk Mr. Doyle and get some information about what happened.”

“Of course, sir. Please follow me.”

The captain led Boone into a visitor’s room divided in half by a barrier of steel bars, wire mesh and Plexiglas. Two children knelt on the floor and played with a toy dump truck while family members used phone handsets to talk to the prisoners. Tansiri unlocked a door and they entered a much smaller room where a half-dozen Thai men sat on benches, gossiping and smoking cigarettes. They wore flip-flops, dark brown shorts and T-shirts. Each man had either a homemade club or a short whip lying on the bench beside him.

“We have too many prisoners and a very small staff. These trustees help us run an efficient operation.”

Boone noticed that three of the men had knives concealed beneath
their T-shirts. The trustees were the power here. If this place was run like most third-world prisons, then they were far more dangerous than the guards.

The trustees followed them into a corridor lined with prison cells about twelve feet wide and twenty feet deep. Each cell had a squat toilet, a water jug and a television mounted on a wall bracket. There were no beds.

“This is where the prisoners are locked in at night. Each cell contains about fifty prisoners.”

“That’s quite a few people, captain. How do you squeeze them all in?”

“They sleep sideways—one man’s head to another man’s feet. If you pay a small sum to the trustees, you can sleep on your back.”

“And how does Mr. Doyle sleep?”

“He has a mattress and a pillow.”

“So how does he pay for that? Does he get money from somewhere?”

“Mr. Doyle has no friends, and we have not heard from his family. He makes a few
baht
doing translations for the other prisoners. Without such work he would have to eat the prison food and bathe in the prison shower room. In a city where people squint, you must squint, too.”

Captain Tansiri unlocked the final door and they stepped into a prison yard. Around the perimeter of the yard, people had set up shops, selling medicine, fruit juices, and food cooked on a propane stove. It was about one o’clock in the afternoon, and the sun burned down on the packed dirt and dead grass. A few of the younger men kicked a soccer ball back and forth, but most of the prisoners sat in the shade of the main building, gossiping and playing cards.

As their little group walked across the yard, Boone considered
why he had been picked for this particular assignment. Michael Corrigan must have looked at his file and found out what happened many years ago. Perhaps the trip to Thailand was just an elaborate way to test his loyalty.

Martin Doyle sat on an empty plastic barrel and used a packing crate as a desk. He was writing something on a notepad while one of his translation clients sat on a second barrel. Doyle was a big man with black wavy hair and full lips. At one point of his life, he might have been handsome, but now he had a bloated, fleshy appearance.

Boone stopped in the middle of yard and motioned to Captain Tansiri. “I’d like a private conversation with Mr. Doyle.”

“Of course, sir. I understand. We will remain in the area in case you …” The captain tried to think of something polite to say. “In case you require assistance.”

As Boone approached the packing case, Doyle finished his translation. He took a few
bhat
from the Thai prisoner, and then flicked his hand like a potentate telling a servant to go away.

“Welcome to my office,” he said to Boone. “You don’t look like a prisoner, so I’m going to assume that you’re from the embassy.”

Over the years, Boone had learned how to talk to people who might want to kill him. Be polite and slightly formal, but never show weakness. If you think someone has a concealed weapon, then watch his hands. If the man is unarmed, then watch their shoulders. A person who wants to punch or strangle you will usually hunch up his shoulders before an attack.

“I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I have no connection with the American embassy.”

“I have sent over twenty letters to the ambassador.”

“Perhaps your case isn’t a high priority.”

Boone sat down on the plastic barrel and placed a fake business
card on the packing crate. “I’m Nathan Boone, a field officer for Active Solutions, Ltd. We’re a privately held security firm with offices in Moscow, Johannesburg and Buenos Aries.”

Doyle studied the card for a few seconds and snorted loudly. “Sounds like a bunch of mercenaries.”

“We hire, train and supervise former police and military personnel. They’re paid to deal with a wide range of security problems.”

“Look, I’ve been all over the world—Africa, Asia and South America. I’ve met people like you before and I know what you do. You kill people and get away with it. Don’t worry. I’m okay with that.”

Something scurried up Doyle’s right arm to his shoulder. It was a small gray mouse with a long tail. Cautiously, the mouse crept up to the base of Doyle’s neck. Its little black eyes stared at the prisoner’s lips. Meanwhile a second mouse crawled up Doyle’s leg to the left pocket of his jeans. The quick movements of the two rodents made it appear as if Doyle was a large and powerful creature with little bits of life clinging to him.

“My pets,” Doyle explained. “The men here keep scorpions for fighting, but you can do more things with mice.” Doyle plucked the first mouse off his shoulder. Holding it by its tail, he let the animal swing frantically in the air. “You like mice, Mr. Boone?”

“Not especially.”

Doyle opened an empty match box and dropped the mouse inside. “You’re missing out on a lot of fun.”