As it turned out, there was nothing to worry about: it took the Gossamer only a few seconds to zero in on his phone. It was at 96 Narathiwat Ratchanakarin Road, about two miles away—probably twenty minutes by tuk-tuk in Bangkok traffic. She wanted to look up the address to see exactly what she was dealing with, but couldn’t use her own phone, which she’d powered off before leaving Seattle. She didn’t want anyone to be able to track her the way she was tracking Lone. Not that anyone would, but regular use of Gossamers was enough to make anyone paranoid. And even beyond creating a record of her movements, she didn’t want to leave a record of anything she looked up on the Internet. A layered defense, as always.
She walked until she found a store selling prepaid mobile phones. The saleswoman set the whole thing up for her, selecting English as the language, installing the SIM card, and charging the unit while Livia waited. When it was ready, Livia headed out again. She input the address into the browser and got two hits. It seemed Lone was dining either at Vogue Lounge on the sixth floor of the CUBE building, or at L’Atelier de Jo?l Robuchon on the fifth floor. Livia looked up both and couldn’t decide which it would be. Both stylish, and the kind of high-end establishments where she expected local government officials might entertain a visiting dignitary. She thought about reconnoitering, but decided against it. Probably Lone would be in a private dining room where she wouldn’t be able to confirm his presence. But if he wasn’t, he might see her. She doubted he would recognize her after so many years, out of context, in disguise, and against a background of countless other Asian faces, but it would be bad if he did. It would ruin the surprise she had planned for later.
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