The Noble Path: A relentless standalone thriller from the #1 bestseller by Peter May (electronic book reader .TXT) 📗

‘And his daughter?’

‘Don’t know who she is, but he got some white girl. La Mère Grace selling her for big bucks. You know, rich European like Thai girl. Rich Thai like white girl.’

The acid of his anger burned now in Blair’s gut. ‘What did you get me?’

Sarit drew out a cloth-wrapped bundle from under his jacket. ‘Colt point four-five, Mistah Blaih. M-nineteen, eleven A-1.’

Blair unwrapped the automatic pistol and weighed it in his hand. It came in at just over a kilo, and had an effective range of about fifty metres. Loading from a seven-round box magazine, it had considerable stopping power. ‘Ammo?’

Sarit produced two magazines from each pocket. ‘I don’t mind telling you, Mistah Blaih, I was pretty damn nervous waiting around airport with this stuff on me.’ He paused for an apprehensive moment. Then, ‘What you planning, Mistah Blaih?’

‘Don’t know yet, Sarit.’ He snapped a magazine into place and flipped the forward safety catch off, then on again. He nodded towards the driver. ‘This guy to be trusted?’

‘Sure, Mistah Blaih. He like eat frighten half-loaf, too.’

Blair grinned. ‘You’re a greedy bastard, Sarit.’ He paused. ‘I might need you later. Tell him to drop me at the end of Sukhumvit Road.’

*

Tuk’s villa lay in darkness behind its high walls. A single light twinkled through the leaves that fluttered in the hot night breeze. The gates were locked. Blair pressed the buzzer and waited. A female voice crackled across the intercom. ‘Yes?’

‘Tell Mr Tuk that Sam Blair is here to see him.’

‘You wait.’

Blair glanced at his watch. Almost eleven-twenty. The curfew would be in force in a little over forty minutes. He ran a hand quickly over the bulge beneath his jacket, an instinctive act of reassurance. A high-pitched electronic whine preceded a dull clunk, and the gates swung open.

A girl in a yellow dress opened the door to him and he stepped into the large, air-conditioned entrance hall. The hard glare of electric light reflecting off cold tiles momentarily hurt his eyes.

‘This way, please.’ She led him into Tuk’s study, where the light was gentler, lying in soft pools beneath occasional lamps. Tuk rose from behind his desk, looking fresh and cool in a neatly pressed white shirt. But his smile could not disguise his tension. He held out his hand.

‘Mr Blair. What brings you to Bangkok?’

Blair made no attempt to take the proffered hand. He waited until the girl had closed the doors behind him. ‘I’ve been hearing stories, Tuk.’

Tuk’s hand hung uncertainly in mid-air for some moments before he let it fall to his side. ‘One always does.’ He sank back into his leather swivel chair.

‘About how you tried to have Elliot killed on the Cambodian border.’ Blair walked into the centre of the room, keeping his eyes on Tuk.

‘I have many enemies, Mr Blair. It is inevitable, a man in my position. People will always try to discredit one.’

‘It’s not true, then?’

‘Mr Elliot crossed the border safely into Cambodia. What has become of him since, I have no idea.’

‘And his daughter?’

‘His daughter?’ Tuk frowned, a look of implausible consternation creasing his brow. Then enlightenment, equally implausible, flickered across his dark eyes. ‘Ah, yes, you mentioned her when we spoke.’

‘You’ve seen her, then?’

‘No. I told you on the phone.’

‘That’s strange, Tuk. Because I’ve been hearing other stor-ies. About a white girl fetching big money. White pussy’s a valuable commodity among wealthy Thai businessmen, I understand.’

‘Of course. It is the way of the world. We both know this.’

‘So you know about it?’

‘One hears stories, of course, just as you do. But I have no personal knowledge.’

‘Do you mind if I have a drink?’

‘Please, help yourself.’

Blair crossed to the drinks table and poured himself a large whisky. ‘You know I spent some time in Angola?’

‘It is common knowledge. But, I don’t . . .’

Blair waved his hand and Tuk stopped short. ‘Some people think I’m a nice guy, Tuk. I think I’m a nice guy.’ He sipped at his whisky. ‘What do you think?’

Tuk felt a tiny trickle of cold sweat run down the back of his neck. ‘I think you’re a nice guy, Mr Blair.’

‘Of course you do. Trouble is, sometimes people who think you’re nice think you’re soft, too.’

‘I don’t think you’re soft.’ Tuk was irritated by having to play this childish role. But fear held him glued to the script.

‘Good. I’m glad.’ He took another sip of his whisky. ‘Good stuff this.’

‘Best Scotch.’

‘Makes me think of home.’ Tuk smiled nervously. ‘See, there was this laddie in Angola. He thought I was soft. His first mistake. He was taking money from the other side, feeding them our position. Second mistake. I cut his dick off and stuffed it down his throat.’ Blair drained his glass and replaced it carefully on the table. ‘Sometimes I’m not such a nice guy.’

Tuk reached suddenly for the top drawer of his desk. Blair was there in two strides, grabbed his arm and slammed the drawer shut on his hand. Tuk screamed and tried to pull away, but Blair held him firm. His voice was almost a whisper. ‘See what I mean?’

‘You’ve broken my wrist!’ Tuk squealed.

‘What a pity. That’ll put you out of action for a while.’

Tuk flashed him a venomous look. Blair opened the drawer and lifted out a small pearl-handled revolver. The distant rasp of the buzzer on the gate failed to register, even in his subconscious. ‘Very pretty. A real girl’s gun.’ He slipped it into his pocket, and was about to shut the drawer when his eye caught the familiar gold crest, on dark blue, of a British passport.

‘Well, well, well.’ He lifted it out. ‘Dieu et mon droit.’ He let go of Tuk’s arm and walked back around the desk to face him. Tuk doubled forward, clutching his wrist. ‘So Lisa never called on you? Odd that you should have her passport, then, isn’t it?’ Tuk turned frightened eyes in his direction. Blair seemed calm, almost benign, as he drew the