Snakehead

the river. Then, still dripping wet, with the water running into his eyes, he went over to the controls and slammed the throttle as far as it would go.
    This was going to be his way out of here. Once he was downriver, nobody would be able to find him. The engines roared and the propellers thrashed at the water, turning it white. The boat surged forward. Alex grinned. But a second later, he was almost thrown off his feet as the boat seemed to slam into a brick wall. Still gripping the steering wheel, he turned around and saw to his dismay that the boat had been moored to one of the columns supporting the arena. The propellers were churning up the water. If the rats were anywhere near, they would have been chopped to pieces. But the boat wasn’t going anywhere. A length of rope, almost as thick as Alex’s arm, stretched between the stern and the column.
    And he didn’t have time to untie it. Alex lowered the throttle, afraid that the engines would explode, and the rope sagged. Then somebody shouted something and with a heavy heart he saw Anan Sukit appear on the walkway outside the arena, anger stretching his mouth even farther across his hideous face. He had seen Alex. He still had his gun. Once again he took aim. He was about ten yards away, but he had a clear shot.
    Alex did the only thing he could. Once again he slammed down the throttle, and from that moment it seemed to him that everything happened at once.
    There were three shots. But Alex hadn’t been hit. And it wasn’t Sukit who had fired. The snakehead lieutenant seemed to throw his own gun into the river as if he no longer had any use for it. Then he followed it in, pitching headfirst into the water. He had been shot from behind, the bullets hitting him between the shoulders. Alex thought he saw a shadowy figure standing in a doorway, but before he could make out who it was, the boat surged forward. And this time it took the column with it, ripping it out from beneath the burning building.
    Alex felt himself propelled into the middle of the river, moving incredibly fast. He risked a last look back and saw the arena, consumed by fire, sparks dancing above it. In the distance, he could hear fire engines. But they weren’t going to be needed. It seemed that he had torn out a vital part of the structure. Even as he watched, the entire building slumped to its knees, as if in surrender, then slid off the bank and into the river. All of it went. The water rushed in through the rotting wood, eager at last to reclaim it. Alex heard screams coming from inside. Another burst of gunfire. And then the Chada Trading Agency had gone as if it had never existed. Only the green sign floated on the surface, surrounded by other pieces of splintered wood and debris. The flames sat briefly on the river before extinguishing themselves. Dozens of dark figures thrashed and shouted in the water, trying to reach dry land.
    Alex dragged at the steering wheel and brought the ferry under control. It was incredible, but he really was the only person on board. So which way now? North would take him to familiar territory. He could see the Peninsula Hotel in the far distance. He wondered what he must look like. Bruised, scratched, soaked, in rags—he didn’t think they’d be too happy to let him check in.
    And anyway, there was still Ash, presumably waiting for him in Chinatown. Alex steered the ferry toward the next public jetty. It seemed they would have to do without the forged papers. He just hoped Ash wouldn’t mind.
    So far, he had to admit, things hadn’t quite gone as planned.

10
    WAT HO
    M AJOR W INSTON Y U SELECTED an egg-and-cress sandwich and held it delicately between his gloved fingers. He was at the Ritz Hotel in London, which—even if they did allow too many tourists into the main rooms—was still his favorite hotel in the world. And tea was definitely his favorite meal. He loved the little sandwiches, cut in perfect triangles, with a scone served with jam and cream to follow. It was all so very English. Even the bone-china teapot and cup had been made by Wedgwood, the Staffordshire family established in 1759.
    He sipped his tea and dabbed his lips with a napkin. The news from Bangkok, he had to admit, was not good. But he wasn’t going to let that spoil his tea. His mother had always told him that every cloud has a silver lining, and he was looking for one now. It was true that it wouldn’t be easy to replace Anan Sukit. On the other hand, every