Chapter Four

“Okay, okay, look, all you gotta do is stand here, and hand out the programs, okay?” Morris said, juggling his radios and the clipboard he had under his arm.

“Shit, there are so many people.” Nick said wonderingly, looking back the way they had come.

“You ain’t gonna freak out on me, are you?”

“That was one time, man!”

“I’m just trying to look out for you,” Morris said. Nick conceded the point. Morris was a real son of a bitch to the security team he managed. But he had taken it upon himself to make sure Nick wasn’t put in situations over his head. He did this without ever asking why Nick had trouble with crowds or loud noises. It was just something he did—an efficient use of resources.

“Yeah, yeah—I’m fine,” Nick said, punching Morris lightly on the shoulder

“Besides, the VIPs come through here from the red carpet,” Morris said. “You’ll see all the who’s who.”

“Like who?”

“Just politicians and rich people, man. This is a Peace Prize Ceremony. Rihanna ain’t coming.”

“Too bad.”

Nick stood in his borrowed suit and held the stack of programs. He was just off the main lobby—apparently the VIPs were coming from a different direction than the main mass of people. After a moment, he took several deep breaths, in an attempt to calm himself. Morris was the assistant to the security chief, so he knew all the ins and outs of the building. He had placed Nick in a good spot.

The side doors opened, showing a glimpse of the red carpet, scrum of photographers, and the VIPs as they arrived in their limos and state cars. Nick squinted against the strobes of cameras and a wall of shouted voices.

The first was a diminutive woman in a blue-and-gold sari who was in deep conversation with one of her aides. Nick gave the program to another aide, under the hard glares of the woman’s personal security. She and her entourage were through the foyer and gone.

In her wake, came a couple of old men in elaborate military uniforms, Nick wasn’t sure what country. They had so many medals on their chests he assumed it had to be a dictatorship. They were trailed by a gaggle of civilians who ignored Nick completely, not even taking a program.

And so it went, a buildup of excited voices, the door bursting open in a blaze of cameras, and someone arriving in a crowd of their own people. No one even glanced at Nick except whichever frazzled assistant took the program. It was an easy job. The people watching was good. And no one spoke a single word to him. Perfect.

He told Morris so when his friend came to check on him.

“That’s good, man,” Morris said. “The big wigs will come later. Some will have secret service, some won’t. Remember to smile and don’t take a step toward the last few—their guys will beat you up and drag you off to some black site in the jungle.”

“No thanks. I’m a statue with programs, man.”

Morris’s radio crackled to life and he trotted off, giving Nick a friendly jerk of his chin.

It was almost time for the event to start and the last few people arrived. Nick recognized Sang Soe Jeanne Kyaw as soon as she came through the doors. She was the one receiving the Peace Prize, and anyway, even a college dropout like Nick knew who Sang Soe Jeanne Kyaw was.

He grinned at her like a fool. She saw him and waved, smiling back. Unlike so many that night, she had only one bodyguard and just a couple of assistants. The state department attaché was with her as was the Burmese ambassador, but they all seemed relaxed and happy. Even the secret service officer with her was smiling. Jeanne Kyaw came and took the program herself.

“Thank you,” she said. “And what is your name?” She was taller than him, and slim as a boy with almond skin and long black hair braided down her back. It was hard to tell where her Burmese parentage left off and the French picked up. Her full upper lip and perfectly arched brow were very French—but her eyes were pure Shan. Black with only the faintest hint of brown, with a pure expanse of lid that would never need a drop of eye shadow. She wore a tailored gray dress that managed to look expensive without a single bauble on it. Around her neck hung a simple chain of red jewels. Given who she was, he had to assume they were rubies from her native Myanmar.

“Nicholas Erickson, ma’am,” Nick couldn’t seem to stop beaming at her.

“Thank you, Nicholas,” she said and continued on her path. The way she had said his name in her French accent made Nick feel like he was floating. Nee-coh-la.

He shook himself off as the doors opened again and Secretary of State Wilson came through. She had secret service with her and what looked like half the embassy staff. They didn’t even glance at Nick. Which was good because the doors opened again right on their heels, and Nick nearly dropped all his programs on the floor.

It was the giant. Surrounded by armed men, a couple of senators, and Ambassador Young at his heel like a well-trained dog. The giant towered over them all. He was in an exquisite three-piece suit in dark blue, cut perfectly for his shoulders and chest. His creamy brown skin was set off by the crisp white of his shirt and dark-gold tie. He walked with the rolling step of a sailor, leaning on a cane, and listening to whatever Ambassador Young was saying. He was one of those people who smiled with his whole face. It made him look completely different from the scruffy giant who had run him over. His face was freshly shaved. Flashes of gold at his wrist, ears, fingers, a watch too heavy to be anything but real. The shades were replaced by a pair of gold-rimmed glasses, like he had stepped straight out of GQ. Beside him, John Young looked like the assistant manager of a car dealership.

Nick stood with his mouth hanging open, programs forgotten in his numb hands.

This is the guy who almost ran me over? This guy? Oh my God— What if I had punched him?

“Well, hello,” came a voice at his side, and Nick whirled to see the older man—Bishop. He blinked stupidly for a moment, trying to collect his thoughts.

“Funny meeting you here,” Bishop said. His face was grim, and Nick saw with alarm his hands were resting on another of those snub little machine guns, somehow not looking out of place against his charcoal suit.

“I… I work here,” Nick said. He fumbled for the badge around his neck.

“I know,” Bishop said. His face relaxed into a smile and he winked. “I’m just messing about, eh. Are you really all right? Lord Graves didn’t hit you, did he? With the car I mean—”

“N-no,” Nick said. “He clipped me—but I mostly fell from—wait. Lord Graves?”

He glanced down at the programs in his hand. It was right there in black and white:

Introductions:

The Honorable Jane Wilson,

Secretary of State of the United States of America

 

His Excellency John Young, Ambassador of the United States of America to the Republic of Singapore

 

Presentation of Peace Prize:

Nelson Graves, Comte de Diarmuit et Cuyler,

Scimitar Shipping, Inc.

 

Keynote Address:

The Honorable Sang Soe Jeanne Kyaw

 

“Oww, you all right then? We didn’t bang you about too much, eh?” Bishop continued. He had gray hair in a crew cut and a wide smile that crinkled his gray eyes. His accent clicked suddenly.

New Zealand. This guy is a Kiwi.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” Nick shook himself and held out a program. “Working hard,” he quipped. Bishop clapped him on the shoulder.

“Good lad,” he said and took it. “I’m sorry about the other day, eh.” He turned to catch the entourage. Nick watched in disbelief as the group passed. Lord Graves didn’t even look his way. Asshole. But a high-flying, fucking asshole.

After that, there were no more people through Nick’s door, and Morris came to ensure the place was locked and guarded. He patted Nick on the shoulder.

“See? Easy peasy. Did you see the big three?” he said. “Secretary Wilson is like a cat that ate the canary. She set this whole thing up, you know.”

“Who the fuck is Lord Graves?” Nick asked.

Morris rolled his eyes.

“That guy! Jesus. Security like a head of state. Rolls up in an armored Range Rover —enough guns around him to make my guys look like rent-a-cops.”

“He is just some shipping guy, though, right?”

“He is one of these Singapore billionaires. I have no idea why he is here. A friend of Ms. Kyaw, I think.”

“I saw her! She said hi to me,” Nick said, warming at the memory. Morris got the same dopey grin.

“Me too. She is so nice. Another filthy rich Singapore type but she used her dad’s hotel in Mandalay to set up the peace talks, and suddenly the fighting stops and she gets the peace prize.”

“Thank you, narrator,” Nick laughed, holding up the program. “I can read.” It explained the whole story. Morris gave him a little shove.

“Hey, you don’t know as much as you think. Lord fucking Graves talked about getting his legs blown off in Afghanistan. And then Jeanne Kyaw talked about her people and the scourge of war and who knows what else—but the whole office was sniffles and running makeup.”

“He has no legs?”

“Yeah—trippy right? I had no idea.”

“But he—” Nick shook it off. He had been about to say but he was standing when we were arguing, but that was incredibly stupid. He forced the tired horses of his thoughts in line and stuck to nodding. Morris was already moving, and Nick hustled to catch up.

“Okay, you’re done on this side. Let’s move you. There is a back entrance behind the kitchens I don’t want anyone wandering out of. You can sit there, and no one will bother you.”

Nick followed his friend around the side of the hall and finally to an unassuming fire door in a corner. There was a bored-looking diplomatic security service officer leaning against the wall. He straightened when he saw them.

“Hey Smitty,” Morris said. “I’m putting Nick here on the inside. You can walk out, between post two and three. There are a few spooks around, too, so make sure you check badges before you challenge.”

“Thanks, man,” Smith said and vanished through the door. When it opened, it revealed a dull-looking loading dock with a line of steel crates.

“This is as out of the way as it gets, bro,” Morris said.

“Thanks again, Morris,” Nick said. Morris punched his shoulder and left him.

*

Nick played games on his phone, and paced a little. He daydreamed about Jeanne Kyaw but felt obscurely guilty. Because she is here for doing the impossible. Getting the fighters in Shan state to stop. She isn’t some pretty face. He shook his head and hauled the steel door open, trying to catch the breeze.

“Does that lead out?” came a deep voice behind him. Nick knew who it was before he even turned. Lord Graves was standing almost directly behind him, holding—

“Is that a joint?” Nick blurted.

“Yes. Do you want some?” Lord Graves said. Up close, the effect of him was worse. Nick felt like he was wearing sweats. He stood straighter, tugging at his jacket. Lord Graves cocked his head to the side and grinned. The smile took years off his face. Trouble. I bet he was trouble when he was younger. Shit, I bet he still runs his team ragged.

“Bishop told me you were here,” Lord Graves said. “I am terribly sorry I didn’t see you earlier.”

“You never seem to. Isn’t that how you almost ran me over?” Nick snapped, irritated all over again.

“So, step out and share this with me,” Lord Graves said. “The least I can do.”

“Offering me pot to make up the fact that you ran me over? Are you even real?” Nick snapped. Lord Graves snorted, then glanced behind him.

“I am very real as you put it. And I do owe you. Please, indulge me,” he said. His voice was deep and rich—with a clear upper-class English accent. The accent spoke of boarding schools, Oxford, high tea somewhere with stone walls and clipped hedges. It was the kind of voice they used to say reassuring things on the radio.

“That’s true. But I can’t,” Nick said. “I’m already… I mean…I just can’t.”

“Not your thing?”

“Oh, it is…it’s just…”

“Please? I truly do feel like I owe you,” Lord Graves said. He smiled again, which had the effect of warming his entire face. Nick found himself smiling back. It would be so good to get high right now. After this week. And who will know? No. I can’t. That would be so stupid.

“I don’t know…” It was tempting. It was so tempting. Despite Singapore’s notorious zero tolerance policy toward drugs, their use was rampant among embassy personnel. Nick was more cautious than most, having more to lose—but the old hands like Lena and Morris smoked and vaped all they wanted. And half the Marines coming to Singapore from the killing fields of Iraq and Afghanistan, were functional addicts. And no matter what the CIA and DEA did, Red Sky ran enough dope through Thailand and Laos that every diplomatic pouch crisscrossing the region had a little extra in it.

That being said. It was still illegal. And federal employees who failed drug tests lost their clearances and so their jobs. For Nick, it had not been worth the risk at first. Lately he had indulged, but he was still cautious.

But he is the most important person here— What will they do? Peterson is already getting rid of me. Sending me to Siberia or something. And I bet he has the good stuff. Not that shit Lena smokes.

“Yeah,” he said. “Okay. You do owe me.”

“Good lad, what’s your name anyway?”

“Nick. And you’re Lord Graves?”

“Just Graves,” the big man said, opening the heavy door with a brisk tug. “Lord Graves is back there—busy being important.”

*

The last time Graves had seen this boy, he had been shaking his fist at Graves in his rearview as he sped off. At the time, Graves had laughed before setting his mind to eluding his security detail for an hour or two. The redhead was cute, a vicious little thing, perfectly ready to start a fight even if he barely reached Graves’s chin.

Now Graves had the same impression. The disbelief on Nick’s face when he offered him the joint, the sneer… When was the last time anyone sneered at him? Graves felt a swell of affection for the little American. He wanted Nick to think well of him suddenly, to make up for nearly running him over. These events were so boring, and lately he had been too restless to even pretend to be charming. Nick was a pleasant distraction.

They stood out on the dock and smoked, Graves asking about the States and what Nick’s life had been like. Nick, looking happily stoned, told some stories about his brief stint in the seminary, and how wildly out of place he had been. In return, Graves told a few stories about being a Māori “big and clumsy as an ox” in an English boarding school. The aimless small talk gave a chance for the pot to lift both their worldviews.

“This is ridiculously good,” Nick said, looking at the neatly wrapped joint in his hand.

“I’m particular,” Graves said with a smile. The boy was cute. Damned cute. And sweet-natured once you got through his horrendous language. He was observant and curious. Not afraid to ask Graves anything.

“You said boarding school. Is that how you sound so…English?” Nick said. “I mean, if you don’t mind my asking. All your guys are from New Zealand and you look—sorry. I don’t mean—”

Graves waved him off, taking a long drag. Is it possible he doesn’t know who I am? He isn’t the slightest bit intimidated. Hasn’t been in Singapore long then. Charming little thing. Not that he was going to bare his soul, mind you. But it was nice just to be asked, flat out.

“I was born in New Zealand, but raised in the UK,” he said. “My foster father, the elder Lord Graves, insisted I speak correctly, as he put it. Boarding school and elocution and all the trappings of gentility.” He grinned at Nick’s skepticism. “But oww—I can give a good Kiwi when I need to, eh?” he said in a thick New Zealand accent. Nick snorted, making himself cough. Graves laughed at him, and it also turned into a cough. His hip throbbed.

“Damn,” Graves muttered, shifting to sit on the metal crates. He pulled his pipe out of his jacket and lit it. He had already prepped the dope, knowing the pain would sneak up on him. The smell of opium blew up and around on the breeze.

“That’s the real stuff,” Nick said, sniffing the air. “Not the tobacco-laced crap the Marines get.” Graves took a few puffs then put the pipe out, laying it on the crate beside him.

When Nick raised an eyebrow, Graves nodded toward his cane.

“My hip is killing me,” he said. The old embarrassment rose but he pushed it away.

“Whatever floats your boat, big guy,” Nick said. Graves blinked at the nickname. They talked a little about drugs, what the American embassy personnel got into and what they didn’t. After a moment, Graves shook his head.

“That is better,” he sighed. “I shouldn’t have trained so hard today.”

“I guess you don’t have to worry about being busted by the authorities,” Nick said.

“My dear fellow: power has its privileges,” Graves said, deepening his voice and making his English accent even thicker. Nick snorted

“You sound like the tiger from the jungle book,” he could barely get the words out, his blue eyes shining. Graves let out a completely unexpected bark of laughter, and they were off again, helpless to stop. Graves felt shaky; when had he last laughed like this? Until something sharp and ugly twisted in his hip again.

“Stop! Christ, boy, stop!” Graves said, pressing a hand into his hip. He leaned back, trying to take the weight off the prosthetic and shift enough to make the pain stop. “Bloody hell—that hurts. I haven’t laughed like this in a long time.” He took another draw on his pipe. The pain receded.

“Did it hurt to get those?” Nick asked, gesturing to the tattoos on Graves’s face. His voice was far away, and Graves felt himself smiling, loopy and mindless.

“Like you wouldn’t believe,” Graves said. “My brother had to hold my hand! But the pain is part of the tradition, so…”

“Do you mind if I ask what they mean?” Nick asked. Oh, Graves liked this American. Liked him very much. Being asked so…honestly was a refreshing change from the usual racist nonsense he heard. It had been a long time since someone had just…asked.

“This is family, here,” he said pointing to the two over his brows. He let his fingers drag down. “I have three children, their mothers, my brother, my other brother, who died before I met him. Our family—living and ancestors and even future generations you might say.” He traced the ones around his mouth. “I have more, but we’d be here all night, and I’d end up half naked, and then what would Ambassador Young say?”

“He’d say ‘It is a terrible moral failing! You sir, lack fortitude!’” Nick said, in a passable imitation of John Young. Graves, who arranged for most of the ambassador’s moral failings, snorted. Moral failings indeed; he likes his coke and he likes his mistresses—typical.

The door banged open, and Nick jumped, spinning in place. Graves’s hand was already dipping into his jacket, but it was only David Bishop.

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Bishop muttered. Nick turned and Graves hastily pulled his hand out from inside his jacket. He saw Nick’s eyes dart to his hand and widen.

Ah, bloody hell; he saw the gun. I’m too high. I really mustn’t get so comfortable with someone.

“Come on then, Boss; you are on in two minutes!” Bishop barked and Graves straightened his jacket. Nick cleared his throat, and Bishop spotted him. Graves didn’t fail to notice how Bishop’s face softened when he saw Nick.

“Hey there, Nick; how’s tricks?” Bishop said, winking at him. Graves gave him a dirty look. Peel your eyes off him, you old jackal.

“Oh you know…” was all Nick could manage. Bishop winked at Graves, clearly perfectly aware of his thoughts.

“Miss Jeanne said if I didn’t find you, she was going to make me into a hat—” Bishop said. They made their way down the hall, Bishop half dragging him away.

“Oh stop,” Graves said, shooting one last smile at Nick. “She knows I can do these things in my sleep.”

“I see you made up with our Nick,” he said.

“Our Nick?” Graves laughed. “What are you on about?”

“Oh, I think we’ll see him again,” Bishop said. “I seen that face of yours.”

“Don’t be absurd.”

“Hope you don’t mind me cutting your lunch then,” Bishop said.

That would have started another argument except it was time to be Lord Graves, and that needed all his concentration these days.