Snakehead

already explained to Alex what sort of papers would be prepared. Passports, possibly with visas for Indonesia. A police arrest form for Ash. A hospital report showing that he had been injured during questioning. Perhaps an old membership card for the Communist Party. All these things would help him get refugee status once he arrived in Australia.
    The photographer finished, but the discussion went on. Alex became aware that something was wrong. Sukit nodded in his direction a couple of times. He seemed to be making some sort of demand. Ash was arguing. He looked unhappy. Alex heard his name—Abdul—mentioned several times.
    Then suddenly Anan Sukit walked over to him. He was sweating, and his skin smelled of garlic. Without warning, he reached down and dragged Alex to his feet. Ash stood up and shouted something. Alex couldn’t understand a word that was being said, but he did what Ash had told him and stared with unfocused eyes as if he was a simpleton. Sukit slapped him, twice, on each side of his face. Alex cried out. It wasn’t just the pain. It was the casual violence, the shock of what had just happened. Ash let loose a torrent of words. He seemed to be pleading. Sukit spoke one last time. Ash nodded. Whatever had been demanded, he’d agreed. The three men turned and left the room.
    Alex waited until he was sure they had gone. His cheeks were stinging. “I take it that was Anan Sukit?” he muttered.
    “That was him.”
    “What happened to his ears?”
    “A gang fight. It happened five years ago. Maybe I should have mentioned it to you before. Someone cut them off.”
    “He’s lucky he doesn’t need glasses.” Alex rubbed the side of his face with a grimy hand. “So what was all that about?” he asked.
    “I don’t know. I don’t understand…” Ash was deep in thought. “They’re getting the papers for us. They’ll be ready this evening.”
    “That’s good. But why did he hit me?”
    “He made a demand. I refused. So he got angry—and he took it out on you. I’m sorry, Alex.” Ash ran a hand through his long dark hair. He looked shaken by what had just taken place. “I didn’t want him to hurt you, but there was nothing I could do.”
    “What did he want?”
    Ash sighed. “Sukit insisted that you collect the papers. Not me. He just wants you.”
    “Why?”
    “He didn’t say. He just told me they’d pick you up at Patpong at seven o’clock this evening. You’ve got to be there on your own. If you’re not there, we can forget it. The deal’s off.”
    Ash fell silent. He had lost control of the situation, and he knew it. Alex wasn’t sure how to respond. His first encounter with the snakehead had been short and unpleasant. The question was—what did they want with him? Had they seen through his disguise? If he turned up at this place—Patpong—they could bundle him into a car and he might never be seen again.
    “If they wanted to kill you, they could have done it here and now,” Ash said. It was as if he’d read Alex’s thoughts. “They could have killed both of us.”
    “Do you think I should go?”
    “I can’t make that decision, Alex. It’s up to you.”
    But if he wasn’t there, there would be no forged papers, no way for Ash to find out where they were being manufactured. Nor would the two of them be able to continue down the pipeline. The mission would be over before it had even begun. And Alex would have learned nothing from Ash—about his father, about Malta, about Yassen Gregorovich.
    It was a risk. But it was one worth taking.
    “I’ll do it,” Alex said.

    Patpong showed Alex another side of Bangkok—and not one that he wanted to see. It was a tangle of bars and strip clubs where backpackers and businessmen gathered to drink the night away. Through the doorways he glimpsed half-naked dancers writhing in time to western pop music. Fat men in floral shirts strolled past with Thai girlfriends. The neon lights flickered and the music pounded out and the air was thick with the smell of alcohol and cheap perfume. It was the last place on earth that a fourteen-year-old English boy would want to find himself, and Alex was feeling distinctly uncomfortable, standing at the entrance to the main square. But he’d only been there a few minutes when a beat-up black Citroën pulled over with two men inside. He recognized one of them. The man in the passenger seat had been carrying the camera and had taken the pictures of him and Ash.
    So this was it. He had