Restless Soul - Alex Archer [74]
“Please let me have gotten these directions right. Please, please, please,” she mumbled.
“Where are we—”
“Going?” She picked up speed as she turned onto Wichayanond Road. “To number 387,” she said, spotting the series of buildings she was looking for and honking madly, driving through as the gates were opened. The trailing police car stopped on the street and turned off its siren.
The second phone call Annja had made in the lodge office was to the U.S. Consulate General in Chiang Mai. They’d provided a little advice—come to them as soon as possible—and they gave good directions. They said glowing things about Thai police, but cautioned that coming to the consulate first would be the best tactic.
She knew that this was the only United States consular presence outside of Bangkok. It had originally been a traditional consulate, but was upgraded to a consulate general more than two decades ago.
“Just in case,” she repeated, turning off the engine, reaching for her bag and sliding out.
Johnson smiled and gave her a tip of his hat. “Well played, Miss Creed.”
The consulate was the base for Department of State employees, some members of the U.S. Air Force, DEA officers and Peace Corps officials.
Pete Schwartz, aid to the consular chief, met her at the front door. Annja gestured that Johnson was welcome to join her.
They turned her captive over to the police officer on the street and promised to also give them the crates later.
The entry smelled wonderful, of oiled, polished wood and flowers that filled a massive crystal vase.
Consulate officials—and, with her permission, Johnson—occupied her for an hour, scanning the map from the truck glove box and the marks Annja had made on it. She sat in a padded straight-backed chair, declining the more comfortable-looking couch on which she suspected she would quickly nod off. Schwartz and the others rattled off one question after the next and took copious notes as she once more related everything that had happened in the past few days and described some of the treasures. Three men from the consulate hovered during the interview, one recording the proceedings.
“We have pictures—mug shots, in the American vernacular—and we’d really like you to come into the department and go through them,” Johnson said.
She got him to back off on that count until sometime later—when she could have a representative from the consulate with her.
“Hopefully, we’ll have those men in custody by then,” Johnson said. “The ones you said you tied up in the mountains.”
“You’ve sent someone up there, right?” Annja had been concerned about the ones she’d left in the cavern. “You told me on the ride over here that—”
“They are on their way…were on their way around the time we left your lodge, following the directions you provided. Slower going in the mountains at night, but I’m sure they made it some time ago if the directions are true.”
Finished with their questions—at least for the moment—Annja requested some time alone. She had a lot of things to do. They let her use a secretary’s desk in a small reception area on the first floor. The desk was polished oak, pitted in places and with rounded corners from being bumped through the years. The chair was much newer, an ergonomic chrome-and-leather design that Annja settled comfortably into.
I could sleep in this chair, she thought. And she would fall asleep if she didn’t concentrate on the task at hand. How long had it been since she’d gotten a little rest? She resisted the urge to look at a clock. Her broken wristwatch was in a trash can back at the lodge. She waited for a promised laptop and focused on the items on the desk. A coffee mug was stuffed with mechanical pencils, pens and fine-line markers. A black plastic-framed photograph showed a young man and a woman sitting on a bench—the secretary and her significant other, perhaps. A flat-panel monitor wasn’t hooked to anything—Pete had mentioned the computer being out for repair. A resin figurine of a pug dog with a shiny black nose gazed