had sent a man to follow him precisely because they knew he would keep probing.
Nine thirty. Someone from the foreign desk would be in by now. Besides, he could not afford to leave it much later. As he dialled the number, he scrunched his face up in virtual prayer. Please let it be Andy.
There were at least four assistants who worked on the New York Times foreign desk; Will would struggle to name three of them. But one he had got to know. Andy was probably four years younger than Will and, ever since they had chatted in the line for the canteen one lunchtime, he had latched on to him as a kind of mentor. He was from Iowa and had a dry, unsmiling humour that Will liked instantly; a surrogate for the sensibility he missed from home.
‘Foreign.’
‘Andy?’
‘No less.’
‘Thank God.’
‘Will, is that you?’
‘Yeah. Why?’
‘No, nothing. Just—’
‘What?’
‘Dude, if I believed every evil rumour that I heard.’
‘What evil rumour?’
‘Word is, you got pounded by the big guy yesterday. That he found you rifling through someone else’s desk? I told people, “Hey, investigative journalism’s a tough business”.’
‘Thanks, Andy.’
‘Is it true?’
‘Put it this way, it’s not entirely untrue.’
‘Hmm. Well, it’s a novel approach to career development, I’ll say that for ya.’
‘Look, Andy. I need a favour. I need you to give me the number for the Times correspondent in Bangkok.’
‘John Bishop? Everyone’s on his case today, man. He’s run ragged.’
‘How come?’
‘Don’t you watch the news? The police are all over Brooklyn. Apparently the black hats tried to kill some guy in Thailand. It’s a Metro story: Walton’s on it.’
‘Walton?’ That was all Will needed: more needling from the notebook-thief. He would have to speak to Bishop behind his back.
‘Yeah. I hear Walton tried to wriggle out of it, being the weekend and all. Apparently he nominated you for the story: until the desk told him you were, you know—’
‘I was what?’
‘You know, not available for work just now.’
‘Is that how they’re putting it?’
‘Something like that. Listen, Will, what’s the deal? Are you sick or something? You smoke some bad weed?’
He knew Andy was trying to mock the heaviness of it all, sending up, in particular, the absurdity of the hard-working, married Will Monroe under suspicion as some Freak Brothers drug fiend. But it did not make Will laugh. Instead his friend’s banter merely confirmed his worst anxieties: that he was indeed effectively suspended from the New York Times and that he had become precisely the office talking point, the topic of water-cooler conversation, he had dreaded. The fact that this was a trivial matter, barely worthy of consideration alongside his other worries, only emphasized the desperation of his situation.
‘No, Andy. No bad weed, no weed at all as it happens. But I can see how it must look. Excellent. Tip top. Bloody marvellous.’
‘I’m sorry, dude. Is there anything I can do?’
‘Yeah, that number will be a huge help. Cell phone if you have one.’
‘Sure. And remember, they’re twelve hours ahead there. It’s like nearly ten at night now.’
Will did not allow himself a moment to digest the call with Andy. As he dialled the multiple digits to reach Bangkok, he imagined how the Times’s interns and young reporters would be burning up New York’s cellular system, updating each other on the rise and dramatic fall of Will Monroe at this very moment, but that was all. He tried to put it out of his mind – and focus on the sound of a telephone ring that was now in his ear.
‘Hello.’
‘Hello, John? This is Will Monroe from the Metro desk. Is this a bad time?’
‘I’ve just been up for about thirty-six hours and I’m about to file a story, Why would it be a bad time? How can I help?’
‘Sorry, I’ll try to keep it really brief. I know you’re liaising with Terry Walton, so I don’t want to cut across anything he’s doing—’
‘Uh-uh.’
‘But I’m working on a piece at this end—’ Terrible lie, and one that Bishop could so easily expose, but Will figured he was up to his neck already, a few more inches would not make much difference. ‘I’m trying to get more of a handle on the victim. Mr Sangsuk.’
‘Mr Samak. His name was Samak Sangsuk. In Thailand, the family name comes first; you know, like Mao Tse-Tung. Anyway, I filed all that already. Foreign will have it.’
Shit. Should have asked Andy to send everything over first.
‘I know and that’s all great. It’s just a bit of a steer I’ve been getting from some of the Hassidim here.’
‘Oh, yes? That’s great, Will. What’s the steer?’ The tone had changed. The prospect of useful information always improved journalists’ manners.
‘I know this sounds odd, but I’ve been told to look closely at the victim’s biography.’
‘Just some rich guy. In business.’
‘Well, I know. But my informer—’ a notch above “source” and therefore much more tantalizing ‘—suggests if we dig a bit deeper, we might find something useful. And relevant.’
‘What, was he a crook? There’s a ton of corruption in this town. That wouldn’t be news.’
Now Will would have to take his chance. ‘No, what I hear is the opposite. I’m told that if we look hard enough, we’ll find something very unusual about this man – and I don’t mean unusually corrupt.’
‘Well, what do you mean? What “very unusual” thing will we find?’
‘I don’t know, John. I’m just telling you what the Hassidim told me. Look for it, and it will explain everything. That’s what my guy said. Just wanted to pass the tip on.’
‘It’s ten o’clock.’
‘I know. But maybe some relatives of the victim, of Mr Samak, are still awake? Perhaps his friends?’
‘I’ve got a couple of numbers I can call.
