There was some more noise and Møller lifted the Police Commissioner’s telephone receiver.
“What did you say, Harry? You …? Right. Well, we’ll discuss that here and keep in touch.”
Møller rang off.
“What did he say?”
“He didn’t know.”
By the time Harry got home it was late. Le Boucheron had been full so he’d eaten at a restaurant in Soi 4 in Patpong, a street full of gay bars. During the main course a man had come over to the table and politely asked if he would like a handjob and then discreetly withdrew when Harry shook his head.
Harry got out on the fifth floor. There was no one around and the lights were off around the pool. He pulled off his clothes and dived in. The water gave him a cooling embrace. He swam a few lengths, felt the resistance in the water. Runa had said that no two pools were identical, that all water had its idiosyncrasies, its special consistency, smell and color. This pool was vanilla, she had said. Sweet and viscous. He inhaled, but could only smell chlorine and Bangkok. He floated on his back and closed his eyes. The sound of his own breathing underwater made him feel as if he were enclosed in a little room. He opened his eyes. A light went off in one of the flats in the opposite wing. A satellite moved slowly between stars. A motorbike with a broken silencer attempted to move off. Then his gaze went back to the flat. He counted the floors again. He swallowed water. The light had gone off in his flat.
Harry was out of the pool in seconds, pulled on his trousers and looked around in vain for something that could be used as a weapon. He grabbed the pool net leaning against the wall, jogged the few meters to the lift and pressed the button. The doors separated, he stepped in and noticed a faint aroma of curry. It was as if a second had been taken from his life, and when he came to he was lying supine on the cold stone floor of the corridor. Luckily the blow had hit him in the forehead, but a huge figure was standing over him, and Harry knew at once that the odds were not in his favor. He hit out at the lower thigh with the net, but the light aluminum shaft had little effect. He managed to avoid the first kick and staggered to his knees, but the second struck his shoulder and spun him halfway around. His back hurt, but the adrenalin kicked in and he got to his feet with a roar of pain. In the light from the open lift he saw a pigtail jiggling around a shaven skull as a fist was swung, hit him above the eye and knocked him back toward the pool. The figure followed up, and Harry feinted a left before planting a right where he thought the face had to be. It was like punching granite, as though he had hurt himself more than his opponent. Harry stepped back and moved his head to the side, felt a current of air and horror seize his chest. He fumbled at his belt, found the handcuffs, detached them and threaded his fingers inside. He waited until the hulk came closer, took a risk that no uppercut was on its way and ducked. Then he struck, swinging his hip, following with his shoulder, his whole body behind it, and in furious desperation launched his iron-clad knuckles through the darkness until they crunched against flesh and bone, and something gave. He hit again and could feel the iron bore its way through skin. The blood was hot and thick between his fingers; he didn’t know if it was his own or his attacker’s, but he raised his fist for another blow, shocked that the man was still upright. Then he heard the low, throaty laugh and a trainload of concrete landed on his head, the blackness became blacker and the concept of up and down no longer existed.
26
Thursday, January 16
Harry was brought around by the water; instinctively he breathed in and the next moment he was dragged under. He fought, but it made no difference. The water amplified the metallic click of something being locked, and the arm that held him let go. He opened his eyes; everything was turquoise around him and he felt the tiles beneath him. He pushed off, but a jerk on his wrist told him what his brain had been trying to explain and he had refused to accept. He was going to drown. Woo had attached him to the drain at the bottom of the pool with his own handcuffs.
He looked up. The moon was shining down on him through a filter of water. He stretched his free arm up and out of the water. Hell, the pool was only one meter deep here! Harry crouched and tried to stand up, stretched with all his might. The handcuff cut into his thumb, but still his mouth was twenty centimeters below the surface. He noticed the shadow at the edge of the pool moving away. Shit! Don’t panic, he thought. Panic uses up oxygen.
He sank to the bottom and examined the grille with his fingers. It was made of steel and was totally immovable, it didn’t budge even when he grabbed it with both hands and pulled. How long could he hold his breath? One minute? Two? All his muscles ached, his temples throbbed and red stars were dancing in front of his eyes. He tried to jerk himself loose. His mouth was dry with fear, his brain had started producing images he knew were hallucinations; too little fuel, too little water. An absurd thought struck him—if he drank as much water as he could the water level might sink enough for him to breathe. He banged his free hand against the side of the pool, knowing no one could hear him, for even if the world beneath the water was quiet, the metropolitan clamor of Bangkok continued unabated up above, drowning any other sounds. And if someone had heard him, so what? All they could do was keep him company while he died. A burning heat centered on his head and he prepared to experience what all drowning people have to experience sooner or later: water inhalation. His free hand met metal. The pool net. It was on the edge of the pool. Harry grabbed it and pulled. Runa had been playing didgeridoo. Hollow. Air. He closed his mouth around the end of the aluminum pole and breathed in. He got water in his mouth, swallowed, almost suffocated, tasted dead, dry insects on his tongue and bit around the tube as he fought his cough reflexes. Why was it called oxygen, from the Greek, oxys, meaning acid? It isn’t acidic, it’s sweet, even in Bangkok the air is as sweet as honey. He inhaled loose bits of aluminum and grit that stuck to the mucus in his throat, but he didn’t notice. He breathed in and out with a passion, as though he had run a marathon.