Livia Lone (Livia Lone #1)(90)
So she weaved along the Chao Phraya River while the last light faded from the cloud-studded sky, checking the Gossamer periodically to see whether Lone had moved. She passed endless sidewalk food stalls, their plastic tables crowded with families eating, laughing, conversing animatedly in a language that sounded weirdly familiar but that Livia could no longer comprehend, like a melody she recognized, the lyrics of which she no longer knew. There were tiny corner shrines and a massive, multi-tiered wat; luxury hotels and corrugated shacks; men in dark business suits and saffron-clad monks. Even in the midst of the city, she could hear the buzz of insects in the trees. It brought her back to the forest, and she found herself thinking of her parents. Were they even still alive? The last time Rick’s police contact had checked had been years before. After so much time and so many reports of no news, the exercise had become pro forma. If Livia went to them, would they even recognize her?
She decided she didn’t care. The only thing she might want from them was that they understand the horror into which they had delivered their own daughters. But why would it matter to them, anyway? They’d say they didn’t know, they didn’t realize, they had been desperate, it wasn’t their fault.
No, she wanted nothing from them. If she ever saw them, her mother she would ignore. Her father, she would spit on. Beyond that, whether they were alive or dead or happy or sad or comfortable or in pain meant nothing to her. And likewise her brother. All he had ever done was receive from their parents everything that should also have been for Nason and Livia.
She passed an outdoor market and browsed the stalls—handbags and Thai silks and stuffed animals and lingerie and every kind of tourist trinket. She paused in front of one of the pavilions, and selected a platinum blonde wig, affixing it carefully, checking it from all angles in a mirror, and paying cash before moving on again.
At just past ten o’clock, Lone’s cell phone started moving. Livia felt a little kick of excitement in her chest. She watched its progress until it stopped—Thanon Khao. A short street in . . . Dusit, the east bank of the Chao Phraya. She checked the address on her phone, and found a nursing school, a fire station . . . and the Hotel Orient. Her heart kicked harder.
She read some online reviews. Hotel Orient . . . one of Bangkok’s oldest and, following a multimillion-dollar update several years earlier, most fashionable. She zoomed in using a map and satellite view, and saw the building was a long rectangle facing the Chao Phraya. At each end of the rectangle was a protrusion—suites, she guessed, with windows in three directions. The property was popular with dignitaries, it seemed, because Dusit was the government district. Famed for its guest list, assumed to be comprised of various international celebrities and power brokers; its discretion; its triple-glazed windows and soundproofing. She wondered about that last feature, and whether it was part of the attraction for Lone.
One way or another, she was going to find out.
60—NOW
She waited until close to midnight. His phone hadn’t moved for more than an hour, and it was a safe bet he was in for the night now. Maybe his “aide” Redcroft was close by, but beyond that, she didn’t expect him to have bodyguards. He never had in Llewellyn. And he was a senator, not the president or secretary of state. Besides, she thought he would value his privacy while he was in Bangkok. Three days, for government meetings? Maybe. But she thought he was here for something else. Something that might be difficult to explain to a bunch of Secret Service agents, or anyone else watching him closely.
She had a tuk-tuk drop her off a few blocks from the hotel, then walked. The moment she turned onto the street, the sounds of the city faded, and within a short distance the urban tumult had become no more than a steady hum in the background. This was a residential neighborhood, dignified and quiet. To her left were genteel apartment buildings; to her right, a long wall with tall bamboo behind it, protecting and concealing the hotel.
Halfway down the street, she came to the entrance—an ornate metal gate, open, with a small wooden building along the stone road behind it. Two uniformed guards were inside behind a glass window; another stood in front, holding a flashlight and a mirror attached to a telescoping pole. She caught a glimpse of a security camera affixed to the underside of the eaves, and was glad she was disguised, and keeping her head down. The guard outside nodded to her pleasantly enough, and she walked past, the soles of her shoes crunching softly on the gravel path, glad she hadn’t been asked for ID. Probably their job was to search the trunks and undersides of cars for explosives. Pedestrians, it seemed, were okay. But it was unnerving to encounter guards at the perimeter of the hotel at all. It made her aware of how much she didn’t know, how much she was winging this.
But she had to. She might never get a better chance.
The hotel’s fa?ade was dramatic and imposing: four stories of white stone, surrounded by palm trees swaying in the evening breeze; tall, rectangular, black lattice windows; square turrets on the top floor. There were a few concessions to Thai architectural tradition—the sinuous lines on the corners of the roof, for example—but for the most part, the structure was starkly contemporary, the ambiance that of an elegant fortress. Livia didn’t like it. Or maybe her feeling was just a reflection of what she was here for.
She walked inside. The lobby was equally imposing: a long rectangle lined with planters, and open to the guest floors and a latticed glass roof above. During the day, it would probably be flooded with light and feel airy and open, but just then, it struck Livia as a luxuriously decorated prison cellblock.