Beloved Enemy by Eric Van Lustbader Page A

dense with petroleum particulates that he unconsciously leaned forward, as if he were moving along the bottom of the sea.
    He saw Dandy right away and headed toward her silver BMW motorcycle. Her left hand was curled around the handlebar and she held her gleaming helmet crooked like a baby in her right arm. She had cut her impossibly thick ribbon of hair short, so that it now bobbed at the length of her sharp chin. Her long almond eyes, which always seemed to be laughing, tracked him across the apron until he climbed on right behind her. As he picked his helmet off the saddle behind her, she settled hers over her head.
    “When are they gonna figure out how to air-condition these things?” he said.
    She laughed, stamped the engine on, and, as he wrapped his arms around her diminutive waist, buzzed away from the busy curb, threading her way between two cabs, painted yellow and green like forest parrots.
    As usual, the highway was a seven-lane parking lot, bright with pink and orange cars, red and blue buses, and cyclists weaving between lanes. The vehicles were indistinct, wavery, and the air stank of diesel fumes. The heat was unbearable.
    Over eleven million people lived in Bangkok and almost seven million vehicles drove its limited streets every day. It was a wonder that anyone could get to their destination. On the other hand, there were natives like Dandy who knew how to negotiate even the most flagrant of traffic jams. Dandy had grown up on a motorcycle, driven first by her father, then her various older brothers. She was ten the first time she drove on her own. Twelve years later, she was an old hand, as expert as anyone in maneuvering around the city at skull-cracking speeds.
    Twenty-five minutes after she had picked up Redbird, they arrived at his safe house, which she maintained when he was out of town. He had similar safe houses in many other cities; all of them proved useful and were often worth their weight in gold. The place was small but bright, a corner apartment on the top floor of a modern building overlooking the Chao Phraya, removed from the city’s oppressive, never-ending traffic. On the river’s far bank was an ancient temple, gongs sounding at all hours of the day and night. Such was life in Bangkok.
    Redbird turned the air-conditioning to low, crossed the room, and opened the French doors. Stepping out onto the narrow terrace, he breathed in the thick soupy air. On the river below him, boats and sampans drifted by, past the glittering tiers of the temple. He returned inside.
    Looking around the room, he took in the black-lacquered walls and ceiling, the mosaic tile floor, the long cane sofa, and two chairs.
    “Bag?”
    Dandy, who had stepped into the small kitchen and was already preparing tea, pointed underneath the sofa, where an old-fashioned doctor’s satchel sat, waiting. Redbird nodded, went over, fetched it, and pulled it open. Inside were the tools of his trade: two different caliber handguns, noise suppressors, ammo, three kinds of knives, small packets of C-4, timing devices, and wires, as well as a skeletal assault rifle handmade to his specifications by a German technician, broken down into three convenient sections.
    By the time he had checked all the weapons and ammo, Dandy appeared with a Chinese tea service on a lacquered tray, which she set on a low table lacquered in the Chinese style, at which they sat cross-legged, opposite each other.
    Redbird watched her appreciatively as her long, delicate fingers went through the calming ritual of brewing and pouring the tea. He hadn’t seen her in eight months. She looked the same to him, but he knew she couldn’t be. Time stood still for him each time he returned here, but for her each day, each night had to be lived. She had experienced events, people, movies, and sex of which he had no idea. Her days and nights were a blank to him. It was no wonder he felt like a stranger every time he came back. And each time he saw her anew, a wave