The GoldenCity

The captain led Boone into a visitor’s room divided in half by a barrier of steel bars, wire mesh and Plexiglas. Two children knelt on the floor and played with a toy dump truck while family members used phone handsets to talk to the prisoners. Tansiri unlocked a door and they entered a much smaller room where a half-dozen Thai men sat on benches, gossiping and smoking cigarettes. They wore flip-flops, dark brown shorts and T-shirts. Each man had either a homemade club or a short whip lying on the bench beside him.

“We have too many prisoners and a very small staff. These trustees help us run an efficient operation.”

Boone noticed that three of the men had knives concealed beneath their T-shirts. The trustees were the power here. If this place was run like most third-world prisons, then they were far more dangerous than the guards.

The trustees followed them into a corridor lined with prison cells about twelve feet wide and twenty feet deep. Each cell had a squat toilet, a water jug and a television mounted on a wall bracket. There were no beds.

“This is where the prisoners are locked in at night. Each cell contains about fifty prisoners.”

“That’s quite a few people, captain. How do you squeeze them all in?”

“They sleep sideways-one man’s head to another man’s feet. If you pay a small sum to the trustees, you can sleep on your back.”

“And how does Mr. Doyle sleep?”

“He has a mattress and a pillow.”

“So how does he pay for that? Does he get money from somewhere?”

“Mr. Doyle has no friends, and we have not heard from his family. He makes a few baht doing translations for the other prisoners. Without such work he would have to eat the prison food and bathe in the prison shower room. In a city where people squint, you must squint, too.”

Captain Tansiri unlocked the final door and they stepped into a prison yard. Around the perimeter of the yard, people had set up shops, selling medicine, fruit juices, and food cooked on a propane stove. It was about one o’clock in the afternoon, and the sun burned down on the packed dirt and dead grass. A few of the younger men kicked a soccer ball back and forth, but most of the prisoners sat in the shade of the main building, gossiping and playing cards.

As their little group walked across the yard, Boone considered why he had been picked for this particular assignment. Michael Corrigan must have looked at his file and found out what happened many years ago. Perhaps the trip to Thailand was just an elaborate way to test his loyalty.

Martin Doyle sat on an empty plastic barrel and used a packing crate as a desk. He was writing something on a notepad while one of his translation clients sat on a second barrel. Doyle was a big man with black wavy hair and full lips. At one point of his life, he might have been handsome, but now he had a bloated, fleshy appearance.

Boone stopped in the middle of yard and motioned to Captain Tansiri. “I’d like a private conversation with Mr. Doyle.”

“Of course, sir. I understand. We will remain in the area in case you…” The captain tried to think of something polite to say. “In case you require assistance.”

As Boone approached the packing case, Doyle finished his translation. He took a few bhat from the Thai prisoner, and then flicked his hand like a potentate telling a servant to go away.

“Welcome to my office,” he said to Boone. “You don’t look like a prisoner, so I’m going to assume that you’re from the embassy.”

Over the years, Boone had learned how to talk to people who might want to kill him. Be polite and slightly formal, but never show weakness. If you think someone has a concealed weapon, then watch his hands. If the man is unarmed, then watch their shoulders. A person who wants to punch or strangle you will usually hunch up his shoulders before an attack.

“I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I have no connection with the American embassy.”

“I have sent over twenty letters to the ambassador.”

“Perhaps your case isn’t a high priority.”

Boone sat down on the plastic barrel and placed a fake business card on the packing crate. “I’m Nathan Boone, a field officer for Active Solutions, Ltd. We’re a privately held security firm with offices in Moscow, Johannesburg and Buenos Aries.”

Doyle studied the card for a few seconds and snorted loudly. “Sounds like a bunch of mercenaries.”

“We hire, train and supervise former police and military personnel. They’re paid to deal with a wide range of security problems.”

“Look, I’ve been all over the world-Africa, Asia and South America. I’ve met people like you before and I know what you do. You kill people and get away with it. Don’t worry. I’m okay with that.”