Free The Fourth Watcher by Timothy Hallinan Page A

Rafferty says, “why would a theoretically secret organization call itself the Secret Service? Kind of lets the cat out of the bag, don’t you think? I mean, why not something innocuous? The Adolphe Menjou Fan Club or the Mauritanian Triangle Stamp League or something?”
    â€œIf you’re looking for logic in Washington, I envy your optimism.” Prettyman lifts one end of the roll of paper and lets it drop again. “Don’t forget, these guys want to be important. They’re like twelve-year-olds. If they had their way, they’d probably call it Heroes Anonymous.”
    â€œOkay, so forget Elson personally. What’s the Secret Service doing in Bangkok?”
    â€œUnder this administration, anything they want. Mostly, though, they come here about counterfeiting. It’s a little weird, since you’d expect Treasury to be in charge of counterfeiting, but it’s the Seekies’ job. That’s what I mean about logic in Washington.”
    â€œWell, counterfeiting is what he kicked my door in about.”
    Prettyman’s eyes have not left Rafferty’s since he looked up from the roll of paper, but now they dart away for a tenth of a second and come right back, and there is real interest in them. He leans forward an eighth of an inch, which for Prettyman is an expansive gesture.
    â€œAmerican currency?”
    â€œNo, that’s what I can’t figure out. Thai.”
    â€œThousand-baht notes,” Prettyman says.
    Rafferty squares his chair so the sunlight reflecting off the mirrored wall won’t hit him in the eyes. “Very impressive, Arnold.”
    â€œYou don’t want to fuck around with this at all, ” Prettyman says. “I know that’s hard for you, but resist the impulse.”
    â€œWhy so ominous, Arnold? And what do you know about counterfeit thousand-baht notes?”
    â€œNorth Korea,” Prettyman says. His lifeless eyes wander the room. He and Rafferty are sitting in a small bar on the second floor of Nana Plaza, a three-story supermarket of sex off Sukhumvit Road. There’s not much affection in Prettyman’s gaze; few places are more forlorn than a go-go bar in the light of morning. He recently either bought the bar or didn’t, depending on which day he’s asked. Rafferty waits; Prettyman is a miser with information. He parts with it as though wondering if he’s spending it in the right place. Eventually he says, “The American government, and especially the Seekies, is obsessed with North Korea.”
    Rafferty gives it a beat to see whether anything else is coming. When it’s apparent that Prettyman is finished, he says, “I think it’s pretty interesting myself, but what’s the connection with bad thousand-baht notes?”
    Prettyman grimaces as though the prospect of answering the question causes him physical pain. “That’s where they come from. The NKs turn them out by the tens of thousands. And they’re not bad. Aside from the fact that they’re not real money, they’re better than the real thing. That’s one way they spot them: The engraving is actually too good.” He glances at himself in the mirror opposite and feathers his hair forward with his fingertips until he looks a little like Caligula. “Do you know anything at all about this?”
    â€œAbout North Korea? Or counterfeiting?”
    â€œBoth.”
    â€œNot enough,” Rafferty says. “So clue me in.”
    â€œFine.” Prettyman gives his head a quarter turn, right and left, to check the tonsorial repair job and then sits forward, crossing his hands. “Are you paying me?”
    â€œOh, Arnold,” Rafferty says. “After all these years.”
    Prettyman dismisses the appeal without a moment’s thought. “You know what Molière said about being a professional writer?”
    â€œNo,” Rafferty says. “But I’ll bet it’s