Beloved Enemy by Eric Van Lustbader Page A

money. Experience had taught him that the people Dickinson worked for had very deep pockets.
    “You got a figure in mind?”
    Redbird threw out a sum that left him plenty of room to maneuver.
    “Huh,” Chati said dismissively, “you must not want to find him that much.”
    Redbird was unfazed. “I need to know whether you can help me.”
    Chati plucked up a crisp morsel, popped it between his lips. “You still sitting here is proof of that.”
    Redbird wasn’t budging. “So you say.”
    Chati swallowed, all the while eying Redbird calculatingly. “Because you’re a friend of Dandy’s I’ve decided not to take offense.” Without taking his gaze from Redbird, he popped another morsel into his mouth. “I’m not going to eat all this food by myself.”
    Redbird ate slowly and deliberately.
    “Good?” Chati asked.
    Redbird nodded. “Very.”
    Chati wiped his grease-smeared lips with an oversize linen napkin. “I gotta guy who will tell you what you want to know.”
    “He in Bangkok?”
    Chati’s face was perfectly immobile. Then, like a detonation, he threw his head back and laughed. “Maybe I know why you like this one, Dandy.” His hand waved back and forth. “Okay, Mr.—what is it? Douglas?” He laughed again. “Very good. Let’s consummate our deal. I have a very sexy lady waiting for me.”
    *   *   *
    Jack plunged into the teeming currents of Bangkok. With Tweet and Hitch at his side, he’d had no trouble passing through immigration, the harried officials on the freight side of International Suvarnabhumi Airport giving him scarce notice.
    After purchasing a sat phone in an ultramodern mall on the outskirts of the city, he proceeded to an Internet café, paid an hour’s fee, and settled himself at a free terminal. Typing in the Internet address of the Bangkok Post , he scrolled back in time to the date Leroy Connaston was shot to death at WTF.
    The resulting story was sparse, providing nothing in the way of the victim’s background, other than he was a British national, but it included a photo of Connaston: a middle-aged man with thin hair, a receding hairline and chin. He carried a shabby air with him like an umbrella, as if he were a solicitor down at the heels.
    Jack made a copy of the photo, using the café’s public printer, and stowed it away. He checked all the Thai papers, but there was barely a mention, and no other photos. Before he left the terminal, he accessed the Options menu on the browser and deleted both the history and the cache, erasing any vestige of his searches.
    Outside the mall, he grabbed a taxi. On the interminable crawl into the city, he used his sat phone to call Nona and was relieved when she answered her mobile.
    “It’s me,” he said tersely.
    “Hold on.”
    He could hear noise—people talking, mostly—fading out of the background and knew she was moving to isolate herself from whomever she was with, in order to talk securely with him. “Are you okay?”
    He heard the anxiety in her voice. “Unharmed. I’m down.” Meaning on the ground.
    “That’s a relief.”
    “How are things there?”
    “Worse. The manhunt has intensified tenfold.”
    Jack tried to block the rapidly deteriorating situation out of his mind. “I need some help.”
    “Tell me.”
    “See if you can find information on a man named Leroy Connaston.”
    There was a small silence, during which he could hear someone speaking softly, but urgently to her.
    A moment later, she came back on. “What can you tell me about him?”
    “He was a British national, shot to death in a Bangkok nightspot called WTF eight days ago.”
    Another small silence. “That’s it?”
    “I’m afraid so.” He took a breath. “Listen, Nona, it’s okay if you can’t—”
    “Stop right there,” she said. “I’ll get right on it.”
    Relief flooded through him. “I call back in an hour.”
    “You’re giving me that much time?” she said archly. “Really?”
    He laughed grimly. “Thanks,