Sidney Sheldon's Chasing Tomorrow (Tracy Whitney) (12 page)

“Well . . . yes,” Tiffany admitted. “I’m just not sure she keeps the general’s fires burning, though. Not anymore.”

“What about
your
fires, Miss Joy?” Jeff’s hands slid around her waist, then down over her deliciously pert bottom.

“Oh, Mr. Bowers!”

“Thomas.”

“Thomas. I want to but I . . . we can’t. He’s my boss.”

“You know what they say about all work and no play . . .”

The boring Swedish couple emerged from their cabin. Reluctantly Jeff released the general’s secretary—
“under” secretary—
and let them pass.

“Your boss was boasting last night about having something priceless in his cabin,” he said nonchalantly, once they were alone again. “He wasn’t
only
talking about you, was he?”

“No. But I can’t talk about it,” Tiffany said primly.

“Why not?” Lunging forward, Jeff kissed her suddenly and passionately on the mouth.

“Thomas!”

“He obviously wanted me to know. Come on, I won’t tell. What’s he got stashed in there? The world’s biggest bottle of Viagra?”

“Don’t be mean.”

“A toupee spun from threads of pure platinum?”

“Stop it!” Tiffany giggled. “If you must know, it’s some sort of statue. Between you and me, it’s quite hideous. It was a gift from a grateful Iraqi gentleman, after the liberation. Apparently it’s very old and very rare.”

“Just like Alan’s erection,” Jeff couldn’t resist saying. “Look. It’s the boat tour of the River Kwai this afternoon.”

“I know.” Tiffany sighed. “The general’s an expert on World War Two history. I’ve been hearing all about it since Singapore. He really is an incredibly learned and eminent—”

“Get out of it. Say you’re not feeling well.”

“But he knows I’m—”

“Fake something. Come
on,
Miss Joy. Live a little! I’ll make sure your boss and I are on different boats. Then I’ll duck out early and come and take a look at the general’s priceless treasure.”

“I assume you’re referring to the statue, Mr. Bowers?” Tiffany threw back her hair coquettishly.

“I’ll show you what I’m referring to this afternoon, Miss Joy. Enjoy your breakfast.”

IT WAS A HUNDRED
degrees and a hundred percent humidity at the River Kwai. Dressed in khaki slacks and a linen shirt, and carrying a small rucksack, General Alan McPhee was sweating like a pig.

“You must be used to these sort of conditions, General. What’s your secret?”

General McPhee scowled. He disliked Thomas Bowers. The man was too handsome by half, too smooth, too full of himself. Bowers looked immaculate as ever today in a white shirt and shorts, and if he was feeling the heat he didn’t show it.
Bastard.

“No secret, Mr. Bowers. Just perseverance.”

“Very admirable. I notice your secretary isn’t with us. Military history not her thing?”

“Miss Joy isn’t feeling very well. I believe she’s resting in her cabin.”

The E&O passengers were divided into two groups and herded toward separate rafts. The Asians were directed toward the vessel with a Japanese-speaking guide, and the Europeans to one with an Australian ex-serviceman providing the commentary.

Jeff made his way toward the Japanese raft. He was immediately accosted by the train’s chief steward, a look of panic on his face.

“No, no, Mr. Bowers. For a tour in English, you must join the other line.”

“Thanks, Helmut. But I prefer this one.”

Jeff pushed forward.

“Please, Mr. Bowers, it is most important. We ask all our European visitors to board the other raft.”

“I’m sure you do.” Jeff smiled. “But I’m taking this one.”

Noticing the minidrama being played out behind him, General McPhee came over.

“What’s the matter, Bowers?”

Jeff whispered in the general’s ear. “I heard they give very different versions of the tour on the Japs’ boat. Apparently they tell them about how brave and noble their soldiers were, and how their mistreatment of the Allied prisoners of war was exaggerated. I’m curious to hear it.”

“That’s outrageous! Who told you that?”

“A little bird.” Jeff shrugged. “The narration’s in Japanese but Minami here’s agreed to translate for me.” He nodded toward a Japanese woman a few feet ahead of them in line.

“I’m taking this raft too,” the general announced loudly.

“Sir! I must protest.” The poor chief steward looked as if he might spontaneously combust. “Really, ve have a system . . .”

“I’ll bet you do.” The general followed Jeff onto the raft, leaving the little man helpless on the quayside.

THE GENERAL’S TEMPER WORSENED
as they made their way down the river. Bowers was right. The crap they were feeding the Japanese tourists bore no resemblance to the truth. He was damn well going to complain to the management and in the strongest terms! He tried to concentrate on everything his Japanese translator was saying. But the woman was so short and spoke so softly, it was impossible to hear her at times over the noise of the engine. Between straining his ears, stooping uncomfortably and attempting to swat away mosquitoes the size of small bats, it was a thoroughly unpleasant trip. The humidity was also horrendous, like breathing hot soup. Removing his backpack and loosening the buttons on his shirt, the general was relieved to see that Bowers had been forced to do the same.

BACK ON THE TRAIN,
General McPhee headed straight to his cabin. As soon as he’d peeled off his wet clothes, he intended to dictate a strongly worded letter of complaint to the relevant authorities. He was stopped in the corridor, however, by a borderline-hysterical Helmut.

“I’m terribly sorry, General. I really have no idea how this happened. But I’m afraid you can’t return to your cabin.”

“What do you mean I can’t return to my cabin? I can do as I damn well please.”

“It appears there has been a robbery.” The German looked as if he might faint. “Both your cabin and Miss Joy’s were targeted. The young lady appears to have been chloroformed. The police are on their way.”

THE BREAK-INS AT GENERAL
McPhee’s cabin and that of his pretty young secretary were the talk of the train for the remainder of the journey. After a six-hour delay, the Malay police allowed them to continue across the border to Thailand. Other than a few inconsequential items of jewelry and some of the general’s personal effects, nothing appeared to have been taken.

Tiffany accosted Jeff angrily on the outdoor viewing platform later that night.

“What the hell happened, Thomas? Where were you?”

“I’m sorry. I got stuck on the same raft as your boss. I couldn’t get away.”

“Well, someone got away. Whoever they were, they were obviously after that stupid statue.”

“I imagine so. You poor thing. You must have been terrified.” Jeff wrapped an arm around her shoulder. Despite herself, Tiffany leaned into him.

“Actually I didn’t know a thing about it. The police think whoever it was must have gassed me through the keyhole. All I remember was waking up and the room looked like a bomb had hit it. Anyway, they didn’t find what they were looking for.”

“So I heard,” said Jeff. “How did he manage to conceal it so well in such a tiny space? That’s what I don’t understand.”

“I told you.” Tiffany shrugged. “The general’s a brilliant man. He’s smarter than he looks.”

“He must be,” said Jeff.

AFTER THE CRAMPED CONFINES
of the Eastern and Oriental Express, Bangkok’s Peninsula Hotel was the last word in luxury. The food was exquisite, the service faultless and the beds so soft and capacious that General Alan McPhee could have wept with relief. Freed from the prying eyes of his fellow train passengers, the general had decided to dispense with the subterfuge and install Miss Tiffany Joy in his palatial suite. After all, it wasn’t as if his wife was about to drop in and discover them. With only a few days left in his trip to Asia, the general was looking forward to spending some quality time with his young secretary’s delicious body, away from the distractions of the infuriating Mr. Thomas Bowers.

Sprawled out by the Peninsula’s spectacular swimming pool overlooking the harbor, in a minuscule gold bikini that left little to the imagination, Miss Joy looked particularly ravishing this morning.

It’s a pity to have to leave her,
the general thought.
On the other hand, by dinner tonight I’ll be two million dollars richer. We can celebrate together.

“I have some business to take care of.” Leaning over her sun lounger, he kissed her on the top of the head. “I’ll be back before tonight.”

“Good luck.” Tiffany sighed, rolling over onto her stomach.

Watching the general walk away, with that distinctive stiff, military gait of his, she was glad she hadn’t slept with Thomas Bowers in the end. He was charming, of course, and sexy. But men like him were a dime a dozen. Alan was different. He was a war hero, a man of true intellect and gravitas. A little pompous perhaps, but a good man at heart.

I made the right choice.

HOW THE HELL DO
people live here?

General Alan McPhee’s lip curled in distaste as the crowds of sweaty Thais surged around him like vermin.

He’d taken the Skytrain to Bang Chak, preferring the anonymity of Bangkok’s famous monorail to a cab, where he ran the risk of the driver remembering him. From there he made his way by foot through the market, holding tightly to his precious backpack as he weaved through stalls selling everything from textiles and electronics to cheap religious icons and revolting herbal charms made from chicken’s feet and the like.

In every corner, junkies sat slumped like the corpses they would soon become.
Chao-tak’s customers.
General McPhee felt no compassion for them. Their misery was self-inflicted.

The general had heard the horror stories about Chao-tak’s torture chambers, and the toe-curling punishments he apparently inflicted on perceived rivals, enemies or delinquent debtors. He wasn’t impressed. These drug lords and gang leaders thought of themselves as warriors.
Pathetic! Put them in a real war zone and they wouldn’t last a day.
Most of them were illiterate thugs who’d risen to the top like scum in a jar full of pond water. It pained the general in a way, to be handing over the beautiful Entemena statue to such a philistine. But business was business. Two million dollars would pay for the luxurious retirement that General Alan McPhee deserved.

A minion emerged from an alleyway and scuttled alongside the general like a rat.

“McPhee?”

The general nodded.

“This way.”

Chao-tak’s office was a sparsely furnished room in a nondescript apartment building. Not quite a tenement, it was nevertheless extremely run-down, with patchy air-conditioning, peeling paint and carpets that looked as if they hadn’t been cleaned since the day they were laid. In Mexico, the drug barons lived like emperors. Clearly Chao-tak had other uses for his money.

“You got the statue?”

General McPhee laid his backpack gently down on the desk.

“You got the money?”

A different minion handed him a briefcase.

“Do you mind if I count it?”

Chao-tak wasn’t listening. Like a greedy child on Christmas morning, he was attacking the general’s backpack, clawing at the Bubble Wrap protecting Entemena.

“Be careful with that!” The general couldn’t stop himself. “There’s over two thousand years of history in that bag.”

The squat little Thai turned the statue over in his hands, like a monkey examining a troublesome nut.
Ignorant peasant.

Suddenly something happened. Chao-tak’s face darkened. He shook the statue hard, like a baby with a rattle, then started shouting something in Thai. Two of his men rushed forward. Each examined the base of the statue. Then all three glared at General McPhee.

“You try to cheat me!” Chao-tak spat.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Ridiculous?
You
ridiculous. Two-thousand-year-old statue, you think I’m stupid?” Snatching the Entemena back from his henchmen, Chao-tak threw it at the general, who only just caught it in time.

“For Christ’s sake! What are you doing?”

“Look at bottom. Look at base!” Chao-tak commanded.

The general’s face drained of color.

“They have serial number two thousand year ago? They have bar code?”

“I . . . I don’t understand,” the general stammered. “This is a mistake. Someone must have switched the statues somehow.” He thought about the robbery on the train, but that made no sense.
It couldn’t be. I had the statue with me on the Kwai. It was never
in
the room.

“Look, I’ll straighten this out. You can keep your money.” He closed the briefcase and pushed it back across the desk. “I don’t know how this happened but—”

Four hands gripped his arms from behind. Before he could react, someone brought a metal crowbar slamming into the back of his knees. He screamed and slumped to the floor.

“You try to cheat me.”

The Harvard-educated American war hero looked into the eyes of the illiterate Thai drug dealer and saw his own black, compassionless heart staring back at him.

Tears welled up in his eyes.

He knew there would be no way out.

TIFFANY JOY HAD BEEN
waiting at the table for over forty minutes when the champagne and note arrived.

She smiled.
About time.

She waited until the waiter had opened the bottle, poured her a glass and left before she opened the note. When she read it, the smile dissolved on her lips.

The General is dead. I paid your check. Get out of Bangkok now or they will kill you too. Don’t pack. Your friend. T.B.

T.B.

Thomas Bowers.

Tiffany Joy got up from the table and started running.

JEFF STEVENS WAS AT
the boarding gate, about to board Qantas flight 22 8419 to London via Dubai, when a Thai police officer pulled him roughly to one side.

“Is there a problem?”

The officer said nothing. Snatching Jeff’s carry-on out of his hand, he unzipped it and pulled out a Bubble Wrapped package.