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that he’d never met such an American—and a battered copy of George Orwell’s
Burmese Days
. The authors were a couple of guys who had established reputations for knowing a thingor two about Southeast Asia. There might be another coffin-like trick he could pick up from their books.
    More than a year had passed since Calvino had taken his last real holiday. This was his first forced exile. Either way, it was a milestone to be in the suite overlooking Beach Road in Pattaya. No stakeout, no phone calls to clients, no security detail, phone bugging, or tailing assholes at three in the morning. He pushed back in the chair and poured himself a drink, telling himself that life was good. The hotel hugged the rim of the beach. It was a dream location, a dream room, and on the lucky ninth floor. The Chinese thought highly of the number nine. But they were also big on eight and thirteen. They had number madness that could leave them in a shrill and dazed place.
    Colonel Pratt had said the hotel owner was an old friend of General Yosaporn’s. The General had made the arrangements, and by paying for the suite he’d given Calvino a lot of face. He figured that the General’s name had been linked with his own, and that fact had been passed down the chain of command. A Thai receptionist seeing a farang being taken care of by a Thai general saw a face the size of a full moon. The social network of names and ranks coiled itself around lives like ivy. Once it started, there was no way to fight the foliage; it simply consumed everyone.
    Calvino opened a bottle of Johnnie Walker—having promised himself not to touch the expensive stuff from the General—and poured himself three fingers of scotch. He sipped it and thought about going out for dinner. He also considered whether Apichart might send someone to shoot him. That was an easy thing to arrange in Pattaya. Colonel Pratt had been less concerned about Apichart than about the cops. A couple of people had seen him push the vendor’s cart into the path of the motorcycle, and Thailand was a place where, in the not so distant past, over a hundred people had seen someone shoot a cop in the head but afterwards no one could remember a thing. Colonel Pratt had the experience on the ground. He had convinced the police at the scene to write it up as an accident. Just in case someone from the department came around to ask more questions, it was better for Calvino to be out of town.
    Calvino looked over at the case of whiskey and smiled. The guy who wanted to buy the whiskey also ran a restaurant where the steaks were thick, the mushroom sauce was perfectly seasoned, andthe women were smiling and available. The restaurant was located at the far end of South Pattaya Road; it was squeezed between a dive where the Russian mob drank vodka and plotted crimes, and an Italian joint where old criminals had retired, having beat the system and set up a restaurant. Removing the lid from the ice bucket, Calvino breathed in deeply, closed his eyes, and tried to remember what the General had taught him about meditation. When he opened his eyes, he stared at the sea and felt calm and alive. He even allowed himself to feel happy.
    He lowered his glass, sucked in the air, and admired the view. Had it been possible to hold a moment for eternity, this one would have been high on his short list. The problem with such a moment is that it never lasts.
    The spell broke when Calvino saw a naked woman in a freefall, directly in front of his balcony. Long black hair flowing, lips parted in a silent scream—the look of someone who knew she was already dead. He stared straight into her face, and it hit him like a jolt of electrical current. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end. He rose to his feet, grabbed the railing and looked down. “What the fuck?”
    He backed away, shaking his head. Then, moving forward, he stuck his head out, looking above and then down below. His heart