The Samui Conspiracy

By Carline Bouilhet

Under the limpid skies of a Parisian summer morning, the funeral takes place, closed casket and under locks. Shortly afterwards, Billy's three sisters begin to suffer from recurring visions.

The nightmares are eerily identical. In their dream, the coffin is empty and a ticking clock sits where their brother's head should have been. Convinced that their brother is still alive, calling out to them in their sleep, they put their lives on hold and go looking for answers in the Land of Smiles, in faraway Thailand.

Frog Leap Productions was Billy's last chance at a normal life. However, a fortuitous encounter in a Bangkok bar with a charismatic stranger and an enigmatic Eurasian beauty invite him to redeem the past and start over.

Will Billy come to accept the proposal designed to offer him a future or will he turn into another deadly pawn? When his sisters finally come looking for him, they are all too soon drawn into a web of murder and intrigue where the disappearance of foreign nationals lies at the heart of an international smuggling ring for the new and hip party drug, Infinity. Will they follow the unfathomable clues or decide to let bygones be bygones?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Nov 29, 2019
• ISBN: 9781528971614

Carline Bouilhet

A scholar by training, a businesswoman by day and a writer by night, Carline discovers the kernel of a story in every bite she takes out of life. Having divided her time equally between three continents, her fast-paced thrillers take the reader on a roller coaster ride spanning Asia, Europe and the Americas. Ten years ago, she started writing fiction on a dare and as a way to keep monsters at bay after losing one eye. The Samui Conspiracy is her fourth novel.

Book preview

Thereafter

About The Author

A scholar by training, a businesswoman by day and a writer by night, Carline discovers the kernel of a story in every bite she takes out of life. Having divided her time equally between three continents, her fast-paced thrillers take the reader on a roller coaster ride spanning Asia, Europe and the Americas. Ten years ago, she started writing fiction on a dare and as a way to keep monsters at bay after losing one eye. The Samui Conspiracy is her fourth novel.

Dedication

To my extraordinary siblings.

Copyright Information ©

Carline Bouilhet (2019)

The right of Carline Bouilhet to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781788233750 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781528971614 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published (2019)

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd

25 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5LQ

Acknowledgement

From the very beginning, a handful of people have applauded my writing ambitions, Paige Totman, Francoise Widhoff, Gwendoline Bouilhet Fontaine and Christophe Cornard, thank you for your unstinted support. A huge thank you to my publisher and my editor for allowing this story to see the light of day. To Vivienne Russell, whose love of words made her the ideal reader for catching the elusive. And to my readers, always remember that this is first and foremost a work of fiction and as such great liberties have been taken with people, events and locales you may suspect have existed at some point or another: sometimes it takes over a decade for a story to take shape, and, in the end, it never resembles the events which may have inspired it.

Synopsis

The coffin arrives sealed. International repatriation laws prevent it from being opened and the funeral takes place closed casket and under locks. Shortly afterwards, Louis’s three sisters began to suffer from identical recurring nightmares. In their dream, they buried an empty coffin. They become so convinced that their brother is still alive, desperately calling out to them in their sleep, that they decide to put their lives on hold and go looking for him. With a death certificate issued in the land of Smiles, they travel to faraway Thailand.

Frog Leap Productions was Louis’s last chance at a normal life but a fortuitous encounter with a charismatic stranger and a beautiful Eurasian girl in a Bangkok bar offer him the opportunity to simultaneously redeem the past and start over. However, the very proposal he was led to accept was never designed to offer him the future he was promised. Following Louis’ trail, the three sisters are all too soon unwittingly drawn into a web of murder and intrigue, where empty coffins, disappearances of unsuspecting tourists and the new, unforgettably party drug, Infinity stand at the very heart of a dangerous international smuggling ring. As the young women slowly peel away at the truth, their search for a missing brother soon turns into a desperate quest to save themselves.

Chapter I

The Call

She looked past the plush pearl-grey carpet, across the large bay window, idly watching the top of the trees swaying gently to the rhythm of the breeze. While the minutes ticked away slowly, she distractedly listened to the Myna birds screeching noisily in the branches over the road. The traffic up the road had finally slowed to a dull roar. As the shadows lengthened, she barely registered the streetlights coming on one after the other as if touched by a magic wand. With the crepuscule, a biting cold crept in, adding to the pervasive humidity. She turned on the reverse-cycle air conditioner over the desk and tightened her cashmere shawl around her shoulders. The insistent low beep of the internal line snapped her out of her reverie.

She finally showed up, announced Adriana, her trusted assistant of many years, with reprobation in her voice. I’ll lock up behind me, she added. Have a nice evening. I’ll see you in the morning. Is there anything else you would like me to do before I go?

Sophie sighed. At this point she had hoped that her client would cancel. She was already knackered and it was barely mid-week. She just could not imagine how she would draw the week to a close in her current state of fatigue. Maybe she should pop in at the surgery around the corner and make an appointment with her GP to check why of late she felt so out of sorts. There was really no reason for the tight ball that had lodged itself in the pit of her stomach, ever since lunchtime.

Sonja Stanislav appeared at the top of the stairs, slightly out of breath, and extended her hand.

How are you? I’m so sorry for being so late! The traffic is an absolute nightmare! So, have you given the matter any further thought? Pink or white organza for the tablecloths? queried Sonja in her usual rapid-speech pattern.

Sonja would best be described as a tall, sinuous beauty, donning large chocolate eyes, a straight nose, neither too long nor too narrow, a full sensual mouth, a strong jaw and thick brown hair cut in savvy layers. In her demeanour and vivacious expressions, there was no denying the fire of her Russian background. Hers was the classic story of the penniless immigrant, who had come to Australia to seek fame and fortune. What she found – and rather quickly – was a man willing to put a ring on her finger and his fortune at her feet, as long as she gave him the sons he longed for and kept the respectable house his social status demanded.

The love of her life though had insisted on an iron-clad pre-nuptial agreement, which determined exactly what sums of money she would be entitled to – in case of irreconcilable differences – for each year of devotion, obedience and fidelity: the sensitive subject was better not broached with the young woman, unless one wanted to be subjected to a long and passionate diatribe over men’s narrow-mindedness and pig-headedness where their pocket book was concerned. The scheduled meeting dealt with Sonja’s impending nuptials. Sophie had been hired weeks before as her wedding coordinator.

As a wedding coordinator for the past ten years, Sophie had mainly catered to the whims of the rich and the very rich, organising anything from flying the bride to the Paris Haute Couture shows to select the perfect dress from the Christian Lacroix or Balenciaga collections, to chartering a Ferretti 881" motor yacht from Brisbane to Vanuatu for the honeymooners. She was accustomed to place orders for custom-made cutlery from famed international silversmiths and overseeing the manufacturing of their monogrammed Limoges china.

She organised everything from the guest lists to the entertainment. She booked churches and synagogues. She made dinner reservations and secured private viewings at Cartier and Boucheron. In over a decade, she had come to know everyone in upper social circles and everyone knew her. Best of all, everyone owed her favours in some way or another, and she liked it that way, knowing that someday she could call them in, at a moment’s notice. She charged an absolute fortune for her services, yet not a single bride had ever dared ask for a rebate or her money back. Her ability to look at the big picture, to empathise with the bride’s changing moods and handle the groom’s exasperation at mounting bills, combined with her unique attention to details, made her much in demand.

So pink or white? repeated Sonja impatiently, after sitting across from Sophie.

The latter smiled, apparently unconcerned by the bride’s visible agitation.

It really depends on what you wish to achieve: are you after a ‘Swan Lake’ type of wedding, entirely in white and ethereal or after an utterly feminine, pretty, pages-of-Vogue-Living type of wedding? Look at these, proposed Sophie, taking a bundle of swatches of the most exquisite fabrics from her top left-hand drawer. I found this particular organza, made-to-order in Italy, of course, which, depending on the light, casts a blush pink shadow. It would be divine as an overlay to the white damask tablecloths we have already settled on. The tables will appear to be snow-white except when touched by candlelight, at which point they will appear to reflect the dawning day. We also propose to tie the napkins with a barely-there pink ribbon printed with both your initials.

Bobbing her head in approbation, Sonja was excitedly holding the delicate fabric to the light when the phone rang. Since it was well outside business hours, Sophie wondered who it could be.

Hello. Good evening, she said in her melodious voice, Wedding Unlimited. May I help you?

The pause, typical of a long distance phone call being connected, rang in the air. She mouthed Sorry to her client, It will not take but a minute, and repeated Hello in the handset.

Sophie?

It was her father’s unmistakable baritone voice.

Papa! Why are you calling me at this hour? Something happened? Are you OK? fired back Sophie quickly, her anxiety inexplicably mounting, the ball in the pit in her stomach tightening.

Darling, I don’t know how to tell you this, and I don’t know where to start.

Her father’s voice cracked. For the first time since she could remember, he sounded far away, incredibly remote and so tired that she held her breath. They had spoken only a couple of days before and he had sounded so cheerful, so buoyant then, that she could not figure out what could have changed in such a short time.

Your brother is dead, he stated bluntly after a few seconds, with tears and grief straining his voice.

The room started to spin. Her sudden pallor and shaking hand prompted Sonja to rise from her chair. Astute enough to realise that the phone call was bearer of bad news, and concerned for her well-being, she disappeared into the adjoining alcove, looking for some water.

Papa? Papa? What do you mean, he’s dead? It’s impossible! Papa, what are you talking about? What are you trying to tell me? Sophie screamed frantically down the phone.

We received a phone call, one hour ago, from a young woman; she told us she was travelling with your brother. She said she was a friend; they were in the jungle somewhere, I can’t remember exactly what she said, but then he suddenly collapsed, apparently from a heart attack, caused by a snakebite. I’ve already informed your sisters.

Her father’s halting voice was full of shock, heavy and slow, as if each word had become too painful to articulate.

Please come home right away. Please, I need you. I’ll call you back in one hour. You’ll tell me then which flight you’ll be arriving on. I’ll pick you up, and without waiting for an answer, he hung up abruptly, leaving her shell-shocked, incapable of moving, staring uncomprehendingly at the young woman across from her. Sonja, unbeknownst to her, had fetched her a glass of cool water and was holding it out to her, urging her to drink.

Are you all right? Is there something I can do for you?

No, it’s all right. A small family emergency. However, I need to book a flight immediately and go home as soon as possible. I’m really sorry: I’ve got to adjourn this meeting. I promise Adriana will take care of everything while I’m gone. I’ll let her know what we discussed. Don’t worry about a thing. I’ll be back before you know it. Everything will go as planned, assured Sophie in a choked voice. I’m sorry, I really have to go now, she added, indicating the meeting over.

She followed Sonja down the stairs, through the dimly lit showroom and opened the front door to let her pass. Sonja bent down slightly to give her a kiss on the cheek.

I’m sure it will be all right, she said, speak to you when you get back, and with a small wave of the hand, she sauntered off.

Sophie leaned behind the closed door. Her legs could no longer carry her and she slumped on the doormat, grateful for the coolness of the marble floor beneath her. Her heart racing and her mind in turmoil, she was suddenly at a loss on what to do next. Where were her cigarettes? Her desire for nicotine became so overwhelming that she rose from the floor and raced up the stairs to her office, opening the silver and Chinese lacquer cigarette holder on her desk, lighting a cigarette with a hand that shook so badly that at first she could not hold it. Finally, she inhaled deeply and with the billowing blue smoke came the first tears. They rolled down her face, hot and bold, streaking her cheeks. When the cigarette finally calmed her down, she frantically looked up her travel agent’s personal mobile number; at this time of day she was unlikely to find anyone still at work. When Samuel answered, she quickly explained the situation, requesting to be booked on the next Thai International Airlines flight to Paris. With departures only once a day, she held the line while the travel agent confirmed her booking for the following day at 3:30 pm, repeating slowly her credit card details back to her.

Another 12 hours to go before she faced the unimaginable: enough time to pack – by the way, did she actually own anything black and long and appropriate for both the weather and the circumstances? – yet not nearly enough to organise someone to look after her house or re-schedule all of her appointments for the following days. She did not even dare think how upset her clients would be when they realised she would not be on hand over the weekend to calm jittery nerves, hide that last Veuve Clicquot champagne bottle from the alcoholic second cousin, pay in cash the valet parking or fetch the father of the groom from the pool house, tearing him away from the arms of a woman other than his wife. In her now darkened office, Sophie tried to think on the best course of action but her mind remained at a standstill. While waiting for her father to ring back, she closed her eyes and pictured the family home that will welcome her some 48 hours later. She knew she should be doing something more useful than reminisce, but she could not think of what; with her computer screen the only light in the very quiet room, she just waited and daydreamed.

The Cluny family home was one of those 19th-century buildings built under Napoleon with its classical façade facing a wide tree-lined boulevard. The massive double doors, designed, once upon a time, to accommodate the passage of horse-driven carriages, opened to a spacious, covered vaulted portico. Glass doors on either side led to those apartments which faced the street and to the wine cellars and storage rooms below and ultimately the concierge lodgings. A massive cast iron and octagonal glass lantern hung from the ceiling. Past the portico, a wide cobblestone alley led to a light brick double-storey villa dripping in white wisteria and covered in creeping ivy. On either side of the cobblestone path stood four two-storey cottages with dormer windows; each of the dwellings, which once served both as servant’s quarters and stables, were now individually owned by respectable families. Gardens spilled out in front of the cottages, creating the impression of a true oasis in the middle of the bustling city, effectively shutting out the traffic noise of the nearby boulevard. Visitors were forgiven in thinking that by the mere action of pushing open the heavy portal they had suddenly walked into the countryside, as if by accident.

At the end of the path, through the ironwork fences surrounding the main house, visitors could peek at a large garden with lush close-cropped lawn and fruit-laden trees, ending with a tennis court at the very edge of the property. On the first floor of the imposing building stood the living areas, with the dining room, the kitchen, the large pantry, the laundry and the servants’ quarters on the left of the marble laid entrance hall. On the right side, the high ceiling living room, with its three double French doors, opened directly on a stone-laid terrace, the length of the house, offering uninterrupted views to the back garden. A library with a massive fireplace and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves stood directly opposite. An elegant double staircase with limestone steps and a brass-edged balustrade led to the second storey and opened directly into a sunny family room with a large screen TV and comfortable couches. On either side, broad silk-lined corridors led to spacious bedrooms, with the parents and guest quarters on one side, children and nursery rooms on the other. Six bedrooms in all and half as many bathrooms, all with sweeping views of the gardens and French doors opening unto small balconies overlooking the terrace below, completed the layout.

Sophie had come into the world on a warm Parisian summer afternoon. Lily followed suit, barely eleven months later. Their genetic godmother had obviously played havoc on the two children, who could not have been any more different in looks or personalities. Lily was as fair as Sophie was dark, as mutinous as Sophie was serious. Where Lily was lanky, Sophie was curvaceous. Straight, thick black hair framed Sophie’s oval shaped face whereas supple, blonde curls fell on Lily’s freckled shoulders. Sophie was thought precocious, whereas Lily marched to her own beat, never the one to do anything just to please. While Sophie combed through her porcelain dolls’ hair under the Christmas tree, dreamily smoothing out the pleats of elaborate dresses, Lily had instead insisted on racing cars and noisy trucks, tall scary-looking dinosaurs and medieval castles with cantilevered bridges.

As children, they had shared the same bedroom and followed the same schedule but had never shared neither friends nor foes. Whereas Sophie was feminine in the extreme, Lily exemplified the consummate tomboy, hating Sunday morning church attendance when gloves, smocked dresses and black patent shoes were the expected uniform for the occasion. They had attended the same primary school, albeit a year apart and then the same secondary private school, yet had made it a point of honour never to be seen together in the same spot, seemingly enjoying the same activity. They had fought their way through their early teenage years when they had agreed on nothing except to disagree. They had often played dangerous tricks on each other, and the emergency room personnel at the nearby hospital had come to know them by name. A big blackboard nailed to the inside of their bedroom’s closet door kept lists of scores in complicated games of cat and mouse of their own device. They were not so much jealous of each other than highly competitive towards one another, each vying for the attention of the grown-ups in their mist, who appeared to them as distant and unreachable adults, whose approval was, for some inexplicable reason, essential to their well-being. Truces were reached, albeit momentarily, only when the time came to present a united front to their parents’ wrath for a breach of protocol or another. Then and only then, did they seem happy to rely on each other and take their share of the punishment.

As no self-respecting bourgeois family would be considered complete without a male heir, Louis was born four years later. Sophie and Lily welcomed this most enchanting child, blessed with enormous green eyes which magically turned a shade of blue or grey, depending either on the weather or his mood, and a full sensual mouth, always ready to laugh. The child happily blended the features of both parents, neither dark nor fair. The girls played house at every opportunity, marvelling at his infallible good disposition, never tiring of dressing him up and undressing him, just like a doll, whenever their nanny had her back turned. The good-natured child rarely cried and seemingly enjoyed the constant attention showered upon him, following them around wherever they went. As Louis grew up, he raced Lily’s trucks and pushed Sophie’s prams with equanimity, sticking to them like glue. His drollery and irresistible looks had also earned him the reluctant tolerance of both girls’ school friends, who rarely shooed him away when he hung onto their every word.

No sooner had Louis turned six, he started begging his mother for a playmate of his own. Stephanie soon turned up, one Labour Day weekend. More than ten years separated the oldest child from the new arrival, too far apart to share the same childhood memories but close enough to create indelible bonds. Louis looked upon the fragile baby as his personal property and guarded her with such jealousy that his other two siblings were rarely able to get near her. Stephanie was as fair-headed as Lily, yet sported Sophie’s olive skin. The same green eyes and the same mischievous smile as her brother’s lighted her face. She shared, however, none of her older siblings’ larger-than-life personalities and none of their parental conflicts. As the youngest, most of her trespasses were quickly forgiven, since there was little she could do that had not been done before. For a few years, she grew up fending her siblings’ harmless taunts and constant teases, secure and happy in the warmth of their love for her. She was only eight though, when they began to leave home, one after the other.

The children’s upbringing was considered strict by most standards, yet they were never denied material comforts nor ever lacked in opportunities. Indeed, their parents’ credo was that holidays were a time better served by expanding their knowledge of that which could not be learned through books nor by sitting in front of a chalky blackboard. Thus, they rapidly excelled in sports such as skiing, golfing, horseback riding and sailing, which they all embraced as an excellent opportunity to escape parental vigilance. Every other holidays, they were dragged from museums to galleries, from porticoes to mossy walls, while a guide droned on the history of ancient civilisations and exalted the merits of the Dutch school or the freedom of Abstract Expressionism. While other kids played and wiled away the summer months, exhibiting tans and new boyfriends on the first day of school every September, they instead told stories of studying architecture in Renaissance castles, learning wine-making techniques in Burgundy, or attending star-studded openings at the Venice Film festival.

As a result, Sophie and Lily dreamed of summer romances, of dancing with abandon under the stars, of long lazy mornings in bed, which in their life never seemed to exist, except in the romance novels they devoured under their sheets at every occasion. Since at the best of time children were to be seen and not heard, the occasions to retreat into their make believe world were plentiful. By the time they reached their eighteenth birthday, the Cluny children were undoubtedly well-travelled, well-read and well-educated and could have also tried their hand professionally at any of the sports they spent their formative years perfecting. But by the time they reached eighteen, all they wanted was freedom. They spent their last year of high school plotting and scheming on how best to achieve it by presenting their parents with choices which would be looked upon as acceptable. Thus, a month after graduating, Sophie sailed away to the United States to follow courses at the University of New York, majoring both in business and economics studies. Six months later, she flew back to Paris to become the matron of honour at Lily’s wedding; her sister, daunted by the idea of studying abroad and learning yet another language, had opted for marriage as the most suitable option for leaving home. Neither siblings had spared a thought for the brother still in his teens nor for the quiet and academically accomplished Stephanie, whom they had left behind.

The epitome of the original golden boy, thanks to his quick smile, sharp wit, undeniable good looks, lazy charm and sunny charisma, Louis was impossible to resist. To his latter detriment, he quickly learned that thanks to his natural assets, he could obtain almost anything from anyone at any time, whenever he set his mind to it. However, the uncanny ability to make the world his playground and turn those who struck his fancy into willing participants in his games, would eventually lead him to his demise. Indeed, he became a master at charming his teachers out of passing grades and bribing the nanny in covering for him, over and over again. He soon spent most of his waking hours figuring out how best to break the rules and get away with it. His antics became the subject of many adult dinner conversations, yet assessments of his risky behaviour and daring pranks were, in the end, invariably accompanied by indulgent smiles and concluded with ‘boys will be boys’ comments.

Like his older sisters, Louis excelled at every sport he practised, yet unlike them, lacked the competitive spirit to pursue any of them. Gifted but undisciplined, he promptly became bored with academic life, which in his mind held few challenges, denying his parents’ high expectations for a male heir to walk into his father’s footsteps. Living on the edge is what Louis held most dear and so, early in his teens, he began to explore the other side of the beaten track. Progressively, his golden boy image turned into the even more appealing bad boy image. His circle of friends widened overnight. At first, no one had suspected that drugs were largely responsible for the teenager’s erratic sleeping patterns, his violent mood swings, his inconsistent story lines and obvious lack of motivation. For a couple of years, his behaviour had been blamed on a difficult adolescent stage; the mandatory round of visits to trusted psychologists had revealed nothing more, since the boy had become a master at dissimulation. Moreover, Stephanie never dared adding to the already tense family dinner discussions whenever his infractions were mentioned by revealing the unusual smells drifting up from his bedroom late in the evening, nor the late night phone calls, or her constantly missing pocket money. How could she have betrayed her favourite sibling, when she did not even know how to piece together the jigsaw puzzle sleeping in the bedroom next to hers?

As a teenager, the boy had begun to introduce into the house artists, musicians and people, whose background could not be easily checked, bringing an element of edginess that had not been there before. Flaunting his parents’ threats, he started breaking curfew, often tiptoeing home as the sun rose. When the late nights, the never-ending parties and the disappearing acts all became too much for the family to bear, it was finally decided that Louis would benefit from travelling abroad, thereby effectively cutting him loose from a circle of friends, who were seen as an essentially bad influence. Left with no choice, Louis had reluctantly agreed. When a family friend informed him he was soon leaving for Thailand to film a documentary on the indomitable snakes, which had become a huge nuisance in recent years, Louis had been urged to tag along.

When Louis packed his bags, Stephanie had refused to see him off: it was as if the sunshine had gone out of the house, despite the warmth of the early September day. Breakfast had been a subdued affair and the bags were hauled silently into the trunk of the chauffeur-driven black 4-wheel drive, which would take him to the airport. Sophie though had called that very morning to wish him luck, extracting promises to keep in touch regularly, while Lily and her husband had stopped by to see him off, stuffing a couple of large bills in his back jeans pocket for ‘emergencies’. Louis had a kind word for everyone and hugged particularly tightly the nanny he knew he was unlikely to ever see again: with his departure, her services were no longer required since Stephanie was a model child who did not require supervision. He swore to everyone he’d be back in the spring, as soon as the six months’ shoot was over, promising to have sown his wild oats by then, ready to sit exams and finally apply to the Sorbonne, as was his parents’ wish.

Louis greeted his friend Jacques at Charles de Gaulle Airport with great trepidation; this was a new adventure and he was certainly looking forward to it. He was likewise eager to put behind him the family fights and tensions of the past few months. Registration, however, was painfully slow, thanks to the careful check-in of the half-dozen oversized stainless steel cases filled with filming equipment. Once all the travel documents were finally completed, both friends embraced their respective fathers, who had come to see them off. As they climbed the tunnel-like escalator, which would see them through customs, they waved back at the solemn figures who stood there until they disappeared.

Prior to boarding, mindful of what a friend had once told him about cigarettes tasting different in every country, Louis quickly scanned the duty free shops, purchasing a carton of his favourite Marlboro. When the ‘now boarding’ sign flashed on the giant monitors, the two friends walked towards the embarkation door with an air of excitement. Their adventure had just begun and their spirits were high. Once Louis reached his seat – happily observing that the two seats next to him were indeed vacant – he buckled his seat belt, took off his Nike, spread out the thin blanket over his legs, reclined the seat and closed his eyes. The emotive morning had depleted him, yet not nearly as much as the last 120 days. Vivid and unpleasant recollections flashed before his eyes, not exactly what he had had in mind to drift off to sleep for the long voyage ahead.

The clinic he had attended, just a couple months prior, had been one of those small, non-descript pavilions, lacking both in charm and architectural flair. Flanked on either side by two smaller buildings, which housed the