Snakehead

was called Wat Ho.
    Alex only had a few moments to take in his surroundings: the ornamental ponds and bodhi trees that grow in every wat because they once gave shelter to the Buddha. He glanced at the golden figures—half woman, half lion—that guarded the main temple, the delicate slanting roofs, and the mondops… incredible, intricate towers with hundreds of tiny figures that must have taken years to carve by hand. A group of monks walked past him. Everywhere there were people kneeling in prayer. He had never been anywhere so peaceful.
    The man he was following had disappeared behind a bell tower. Alex was suddenly afraid that he was going to lose him, at the same time wondering what it was that had brought him here. Could he have been mistaken? Could the man be a tourist after all? He hurried around the corner and stopped. The man had gone. In front of him, a crowd of Thais were kneeling at a shrine. A couple of backpackers were having their photograph taken in front of one of the terraces. Alex was angry with himself. He had been too slow. The entire journey had been a waste of time.
    He took a step forward and froze as a shadow fell across him and a hand pressed something hard into his back.
    “Don’t turn around,” a voice commanded, speaking in English.
    Alex stood where he was, a sick feeling in his stomach. This was exactly what Ash had warned him against. The snakehead had sent someone after him, and he had allowed himself to be led straight into a trap. But why here—in a Thai temple? And how did the man know he spoke English?
    “Walk across the courtyard. There’s a red door on the other side of the shrine. Do you see it?”
    Alex nodded. The man had a Liverpool accent. It sounded completely weird in the context of a Bangkok temple.
    “Don’t turn around. Don’t try anything. We’re going through the door. I’ll give you more instructions on the other side.”
    Another jab with the gun. Alex didn’t need any more prompting. He walked away from the bell tower, skirting the Thai people lost in their prayers. Briefly, he considered starting a fight, out here, while there were still witnesses. But it would do him no good. The man could shoot him in the back and disappear before anyone knew what had happened. The moment would come…but not yet.
    The red door was set in the wall of a cloister—somewhere for the monks to walk in silent contemplation. It was surrounded by images of the Ramakien, the great story of gods and demons known to every child in Thailand. Gods or demons? He had little doubt to which one of them the man belonged.
    As he approached, the door clicked open automatically. There had to be a surveillance camera somewhere, but, looking around, Alex couldn’t see it. There was a modern corridor on the other side, with bare brick walls slanting down toward a second door. This one opened too. All the sounds of the temple had faded away behind him. He felt as if he was being swallowed up.
    Alex wasn’t going to let that happen. He timed his move very carefully. The second doorway was narrow, leading into a square-shaped hall that could have been the reception area of a lawyer’s office or a stylish private bank. The walls were covered in wooden panels. There was an antique table with a lamp, a fan turning overhead. And more bizarre than anything, on the opposite wall, a picture of the queen of England.
    As Alex made his way in, he hesitated, allowing the man to catch up. Then suddenly he punched backward with his elbow, bringing his fist swinging around in the same motion.
    It was a move he had been taught when he was training with the SAS in the Brecon Beacons in Wales. The elbow jab winds your man. The fist carries the gun aside, giving you time to spin around and kick out with all your strength. Never try it in the open because you’ll end up getting shot. It only works in a confined space.
    But not this time. The man seemed to have been expecting the maneuver. He had simply stepped aside the moment Alex began his move. Alex’s first strike didn’t make contact with anything, and before he could even begin to turn, he felt the cold farewell of the gun pressed against the side of his head.
    “Nice try, Cub,” the man said. “But much too slow.”
    And that was when Alex knew. “Fox!” he exclaimed.
    The gun didn’t matter anymore. Alex turned to stand face-to-face with the man—who was now grinning at him like an old friend. Which, in a sense, he was. The two of them