Bangkok 8 Part 23

I am escorted firmly but politely from the limo to the check-in desk for flights to Chiang Mai, where one of my minders pulls out a first-cla.s.s ticket in my name. The minders use their police IDs to pa.s.s through into the waiting area, where we all sit down. Even when it's time to board they accompany me as far as the airplane. The flight lasts thirty minutes and there is another limo waiting at the other end. The driver is Vikorn's usual trusted man. I'm sobering up by the minute, leaving no alcohol buffer between me and my triple-A headache.

I have never been to his house in Chiang Mai and I'm surprised at how far out of town it is. We travel parallel to the Ping River for about ten kilometers until we come to some of the best riverside property in the world. From time to time they appear for sale in the cla.s.sified pages of the newspapers, these million-dollar mansions in their own leafy grounds with river access and five-car garages. Some of them are renovated teak houses, some are imitations of Thai style, but most of them are imitations of Western luxury houses, perhaps from Malibu or the suburbs of Los Angeles. Gangsters own all of them. The Colonel's is a two-story with vast sloping roofs in red s.h.i.+ngles, white walls and floor-to-ceiling windows. Two cops with walkie-talkies stand guard at the electric gate, which opens as we approach.

Vikorn's driver gets out of the car and walks across the gravel in a relaxed mood, as if returning home after a day's work. The Colonel in a loose linen s.h.i.+rt, baggy black pants and old leather slippers comes to the door, looks at me waiting in the car and beckons me in. A few minor clues-the way he shuffles, a lazy left eye-tell me he is drunk. Must have been something in the stars last night.

By the time I reach the front door only the driver is there. He leads me through the house to a huge room on the river side which spans the length of the house. The wall is entirely of gla.s.s and looks onto an old wooden jetty on a bend in the river on which a couple of fishermen are paddling a small teak boat. It's like a painting from former times, the dense green of the jungle nodding over the slow-moving loop of brown water, two preindustrial fishermen with their nets and paddles, a serenity so profound it is as if time has stopped.

The room is so big I have to search for him; he is in a leather armchair at one end, smoking a cheroot and looking out. An empty bottle of Mekong whisky sits on a coffee table. I walk silently across the teak floor and take a seat in the armchair opposite his: Italian leather, cigar-colored, as soft as a baby's skin. The gun on the coffee table between us is an old-style army revolver with a barrel about twelve inches long. The Colonel does not look at me.

"You're angry with me, Sonchai?"

"You lied."

"Not really. I told you I'd never met a woman of Fatima's description. Fatima is not a woman. Not to an old-fas.h.i.+oned man like me, anyway."

"She was your contact for the yaa baa yaa baa Bradley was moving?" Bradley was moving?"

He raises his arms. "What could I do? I had to have someone. I had my doubts about employing a farang, farang, but in some ways it made a lot of sense. As a marine at the American emba.s.sy he was never under suspicion, but how far can one trust a foreigner? I needed someone to tell me what he was up to, moment to moment. I recruited her at the same time my people agreed to use him." but in some ways it made a lot of sense. As a marine at the American emba.s.sy he was never under suspicion, but how far can one trust a foreigner? I needed someone to tell me what he was up to, moment to moment. I recruited her at the same time my people agreed to use him."

I nod in my turn. This much I have understood. "What I don't understand is why you had Pichai and me follow Bradley in the first place."

"Because of what you were, the two of you. By that time I was sure she would kill Bradley and I expected the Americans to demand a full investigation. Any other cops might simply have arrested Fatima, but you two devout Buddhists, I knew you would not have the heart to prosecute once you knew what had happened. Naturally, I didn't want her in jail where she could be interrogated by my enemies. Her crazy thing with the snakes took me completely by surprise, though. I had no idea. I'd like you to believe that. I knew she would kill him, but I didn't know how."

"You knew knew she would kill him? And you used Pichai and me because you were feeling compa.s.sionate? I don't understand." she would kill him? And you used Pichai and me because you were feeling compa.s.sionate? I don't understand."

He covers his mouth to burp. "I'm getting old, Sonchai. I'm talking to my brother again these days. I sent him a mobile telephone more than six months ago. He almost never switches it on because it would disturb his meditation, but he uses it to call me now and then, when he can get someone to charge the battery at the nearest village. He doesn't have electricity in that Stone Age monastery of his. He told me I'd be lucky to be reborn in the human form at all, after the kind of life I've led. Maybe a deformed beggar was the most I could hope for, but something in the animal kingdom was more likely, or even an insect, a bug of some kind. He's pretty merciless, as you know."

"Go on."

"I asked his advice when I realized what Warren and Bradley had in mind for Fatima."

"How did you realize that?"

"That tape of Warren the Russian mafia made. They made it because they thought it would be a good idea to blackmail Warren on the basis of his s.e.x with a prost.i.tute. What they ended up with was a recording of a murder. Warren was desperate. He saw his whole life collapsing. He asked his good friend Colonel Suvit to get the tape for him, to deal with the Russians. The urkas have business here, they need us much more than we need them, but Suvit is not exactly a diplomat. You know what he's like. So then Warren asked me to help for old times' sake-perhaps the FBI told you about all that? So I was the one to negotiate the return of the tape. Apparently the urkas have their standards, their honor. If they say there's only one copy, then that is supposed to be reliable. I don't know, I've never dealt with them before, but they do run a lot of prost.i.tutes here, and they move a lot of their heroin through Thailand, so they need to keep us on their side. It was smart of Warren to have us negotiate the return of the tape on his behalf. And the money they received for the tape should have been enough to shut them up. Warren paid three million dollars for it, less our commission. I saw the wire. I got the tape, but I refused to hand it over to Suvit or to Warren. Suvit was furious and so was Warren, but what could they do? I told Suvit: 'Look, we'll keep the tape to keep Warren under control. So long as we have it he'll do as he's told.' " A wave of the hand. "But then I started talking to my brother. He started to dismantle my mind, the way he does. And that tape, you know, what they did, Warren and Bradley, it's very Western, very cruel, very un-Thai." A sigh. "We've killed a lot of men, you and I, but no women as far as I can remember. And what did it amount to? We simply sent them on to their next lives a little sooner than expected, usually without pain or suffering."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying I couldn't let them do what they planned, not even to a b.u.m-boy." I am still puzzled and wrinkle my brow, wondering if it is alcohol poisoning which has paralyzed my brain functions. "I decided to outline my problem to my brother and let him guide me. I didn't tell him about the tape, he knew nothing of its existence. He meditated for a day and called me. His solution was elegant, clairvoyant and radical, like Buddhism itself, and consisted of one sentence: Give her the tape Give her the tape. Call me a superst.i.tious old man, but I gave it to her, just a few days before she murdered Bradley with those snakes. Naturally, she understood everything, once she had seen the tape and that poor Russian woman with that gold stick in her navel."

I stare at him, then can hardly resist a smile. "With that tape she controls Warren? She made him come here, to Thailand?"

"That is correct. We've all underestimated her. She's turned him into her slave. I guess you could say it is justice Thai-style."

"But what about Warren's minders, those Khmer?"

A scoffing sound from deep in his throat. "She always controlled them. Warren and Bradley hired them in a panic when the Russians started putting on the squeeze, but how could Bradley communicate except through Fatima? Those animals only speak Thai and Khmer. Sure, Warren speaks Thai, but he's not here all the time and they don't trust farangs farangs. Her people are all from the jungle, she understands how those goons think. Warren and Bradley saw no danger because they underestimated Fatima. Little by little Fatima turned herself into a religious figure for those Khmer. They're all lost since the civil war, and since Pol Pot died. For them she's like a return to the old days, with transs.e.xual shamans, apocalyptic visions-plus she's provided them all with Harley-Davidson motorbikes and Uzi machine guns. She's like a combination of Pol Pot, Father Christmas and a Hindu death G.o.ddess, all in one."

The mind likes truth. It will work quite hard to make the connections, once the pieces are all on the board. "She and Warren invited me to Warren's shop two days ago, I watched her destroy his most expensive piece of jade-a priceless piece, and a whole lot of other stuff."

"She's toying with him. I don't know what she has in mind. She's the cat, he's the mouse. She's enjoying herself. The worm has turned." He raises his eyes, the lazy one still half covered by its lid. "Actually, she's toying with all of us. An interesting situation, no?"

"You have no idea-?"

"None. I don't know what she has planned. I always kept Fatima at arm's length. I only used her to report that the s.h.i.+pments had arrived safely and the product duly moved across the city. Bradley was a fool if he didn't guess someone was checking up on him every minute of the day. Some of those s.h.i.+pments were worth twenty million dollars. And I'm not talking about the jade." A pause while he rubs the side of his nose. "Actually, I don't like the trade at all, but we have to keep our people awake somehow."

"How did she manage with those snakes?"

"She's Karen, her people sell endangered species to the Chinese all the time, and the Chinese like their snakes fresh. The Karen have become expert in the transportation of live reptiles. She simply told them what she wanted and paid them. She probably did it with a single phone call."

He raises his hands and shoulders. "Fatima is out of control, but with that tape she controls Warren. Why kill him while she's having fun using him as a slave and destroying him slowly?"

"And through Warren she controls you too? I saw you at the Bamboo Bar a few nights ago."

An old man's sly glance. "You did?"

"Dr. Surichai was there."

He swallows hard and stares at me. "Fatima wants to do to the world what the world did to her. It's not just a question of killing Warren-he didn't make the world. See? And now that she controls Warren, she controls everyone. Of course, when I was summoned I went to watch her sing. Warren insisted-he more or less went down on his knees to plead with me-because that's what Fatima wanted."

"All that fuss just to get you to go to a jazz club to watch her sing 'Bye Bye Blackbird'?"

"If you weren't such a f.u.c.king saint you'd understand. She's in control for the first time in her life, she's running the world. She's the empress, people indulge her every whim-or else. It gave her a kick to see me hop at her command."

He leans forward to turn the gun around so that the handle is pointing at me and the barrel at him. "Kill me if you have the guts. You have the right, it's my fault your partner is dead."

At that moment I turn at the sound of soft padding across the floor. This young woman's black hair is short, almost cropped, and there are three earrings in each ear. She is wearing jeans and a black top with bootlace straps which reveal an elaborate chrysanthemum tattoo over her right breast. My first thought is that she must be one of his daughters, but I remember from the gossip that the tattoo belongs to Da, the Colonel's fourth mia noi, mia noi, or minor wife. She hardly gives the gigantic revolver more than a glance, or minor wife. She hardly gives the gigantic revolver more than a glance, wai wais to me and-with a glance of contempt as she registers Vikorn's drunkenness-asks rather briskly if we need tea or drinks? If not, she would like Vikorn's driver to take her into town, where she has an appointment with a girlfriend. The Colonel irritably agrees to let her have the car and driver and we watch her pad across the floor barefoot. Vikorn makes a wobbly gesture with one hand.

"A mistake. I'm a dinosaur, Sonchai, and I didn't realize how our country has changed. In the old days when you took a mia noi mia noi all you had to do was to feed her and her family and give her a baby or two. Now"-he shakes his head-"self-improvement is all the rage. I've paid for hairdressing cla.s.ses, beautician cla.s.ses, tattooing cla.s.ses, endless aerobic cla.s.ses and the latest is Internet software. She claims she's bored out of her brain at home and wants to start her own Internet cafe. She doesn't seem to want kids at all. She tells me we have a deal, a contract. She gives me her body whenever I have the strength, she's faithful to me, in return I finance her upward mobility. You might say she's a living fusion between East and West." all you had to do was to feed her and her family and give her a baby or two. Now"-he shakes his head-"self-improvement is all the rage. I've paid for hairdressing cla.s.ses, beautician cla.s.ses, tattooing cla.s.ses, endless aerobic cla.s.ses and the latest is Internet software. She claims she's bored out of her brain at home and wants to start her own Internet cafe. She doesn't seem to want kids at all. She tells me we have a deal, a contract. She gives me her body whenever I have the strength, she's faithful to me, in return I finance her upward mobility. You might say she's a living fusion between East and West."

"It doesn't sound too bad a deal."

"I know, but where's the romance? She isn't even scared of me. Did you see the way she looked at that gun, as if to say: The old man is playing his games again? Yesterday she said to me: 'Are we doing s.e.x tonight or can I watch the football?' Since when did our women get obsessed with football?"

"It's been going on for quite a while. I can confirm they often prefer it to s.e.x."

"She's the most ambitious and the least contented of all my wives. This is liberation, to be permanently unsatisfied? What kind of a world is this? I don't think I want to hang around in it much longer. Are you going to send me to my next incarnation or not?"

The Colonel does not so much as stiffen when I lean forward to pick up the gun. I break it open to check the chambers, all of which are full. I realize that he is quite serious, that he would like me to kill him.

"You think I'm bluffing?"

"No, but I know at least one person who will doubt the gun was loaded, when I tell this story." I snap the barrel into place and put the gun back on the table.

"So, how do you know the bullets are not blanks? You've spent too much time with the FBI, my friend, you've started thinking like an American." He picks up the gun and holds it shakily in both hands. "Honor is honor," he says. The shot makes a jagged hole in the gla.s.s wall and brings his security running from four directions. Still holding the gun, he waves them back where they came from. He replaces the gun on the table with a loud clack. The bang from the shot is still echoing in my ears and there is a steady tinkle of gla.s.s from the shattered wall in which lightning-shaped cracks have appeared. It is difficult to explain why this melodrama has only deepened my love for him. He says: "I don't know why I built a farang farang-style house. When I was younger I was impressed by the West. Now I can see how far we have lost ourselves. Look at that stupid window. What kind of idiot would build a wall of gla.s.s in the Tropics? Better small windows with shutters, high ceilings, a minimum of light, teak walls, the feeling of a living, breathing s.p.a.ce." He looks away from me. Now, in order to look at the fishermen he has to lean a little to one side. I can hear his thoughts, quite loudly, inside my head. He is talking to his brother, admitting that it would have been better to lead the life of a simple fisherman. His brother advises him not to mistake sentimentality for nirvana. Vikorn turns his attention to me with a helpless look on his face. "You heard that, didn't you? He's totally ruthless. Won't let me get away with anything."

I watch while with some difficulty he rises from the armchair and beckons me to follow. He leads me to a small private theater consisting of a gigantic TV monitor and about twenty seats facing it. He tells me to sit down, leaves the room for five minutes, then returns with a videotape. "Naturally, I made a copy." Bending like a man ten years older than himself, he slides the tape into the machine on a shelf under the TV, and immediately a grainy black-and-white image of a young white woman with blond hair and Slavic features appears. She is wearing jeans and a tight T-s.h.i.+rt and smiling vivaciously, apparently determined to capture the attention of someone offscreen. She nods in response to some cue and begins to undress. The T-s.h.i.+rt comes off first to reveal a black bra and a gold stick which perforates diagonally the circ.u.mference of her navel. She fingers it whilst making an O of her mouth and sliding her tongue around the inside of the O. She bends forward from the hips whilst undoing her bra. She wiggles her torso to make her b.r.e.a.s.t.s wobble, but a quick frown followed by an obedient nod tells us that this is not pleasing to the audience. In a more serious mood she pulls off her jeans. Now she is naked except for a G-string. Apparently this is not erotic to the audience either, and with a slightly frustrated expression she pulls it off to stand naked with her hands on her hips, awaiting instructions. Puzzled, she raises her hands above her head and keeps them there for several seconds. There can be no doubt that the purpose is to highlight the gold stick in her navel.

Vikorn freezes the tape at this point and turns to me with a quizzical expression. If one disregards the color of the skin, the resemblance to Fatima's body is startling. Vikorn presses the forward b.u.t.ton. On instructions, the blond woman lowers one hand to finger the gold stick, erotically up and down, up and down, round and round, a combination of male and female masturbation.

Now she lies on a bed behind her, full length, and once again the gold stick seems to dominate the screen. Her body language indicates that each time she stops fondling it, she receives a reprimand from her client. Now she turns over onto her front. Immediately two gigantic black hands take one of her wrists, bind it quickly with tape to the iron of the headboard while other hands-white with a filigree gold bracelet hanging from one wrist-bind her on the other side. She half closes her eyes and gives a convincing impression of a woman in deep l.u.s.t. The camera takes in only her face and the upper part of her body, therefore one can only guess by her facial expressions that she is experiencing penetration. Her expression abruptly changes to one of profound physical shock at the first lash, which sprays blood lightly over her cheek. I scream at Vikorn to stop the tape.

The TV screen is blank. Vikorn is looking at me with an expression of almost academic-and drunken-curiosity. "My brother talked about you and Pichai quite a lot. He said you were both very talented in different ways. He said your problem was your total lack of ident.i.ty. You can be anyone you like, literally, but only for short periods of time. Who were you just then, the victim?"

"Fatima, the first time she watched the tape," I mutter, ashamed of my weakness.

To my surprise the Colonel puts his arm around me. "It's okay."

A pause. I say: "I'll have to bring her in, won't I?"

This question ages him still further. The skin under his strong jaw slackens somewhat. Now I can see the reptile in him: loose-skinned, prehistoric, cunning. This is the real punishment. Not rebirth in the body of an animal, but the eternal headache of trying to manipulate his way out of the consequences of his greed. With infinite weariness: "I suppose so."

"Want to help?"

"How can I?"

"The Chinese?"

He nods and grasps my arm. "Everything depends on them. If they choose to protect their man, we're finished, all of us. Fatima will broadcast the tape over the Internet and go ballistic. Who knows what she'll do? They took her humanity away-what has she got to lose? The Khmer will stand by her, they don't have anything to lose either. There'll be a bloodbath."

At the door he reminds me of a toad, shrunken. A helpless gesture, then he grasps my arm again and a new light comes into his eyes. "The jeweler is a sick man, but he's also a genius. You should have seen him in his prime. The Chiu Chow love him. How d'you think I did so well myself? Everything comes out of Chinatown, you know? We Thais are only good for f.u.c.king, fighting, drinking and dying. That's what Warren taught me-and his Chinese friends." A long pause. "They were great days. The mountains of Laos are true Buddha country. Green, thick with mist in the morning, we used to climb like that"-a steep gesture with the palm of his hand-"until we reached six, eight, ten thousand feet. The air starts to get thin then, and it's ice cold. Pat would start his d.a.m.ned tape with 'The Ride of the Valkyries'-that was the first time I realized a farang farang might love a Thai. We crash-landed twice with bullet holes all over the plane. I s.h.i.+t in my pants, but that American aviator was like a superman. We got back to Long Tien somehow. The Hmong were wonderful, too. How could anyone understand the innocence of the opium trade? Warren was good to the Hmong, he forced his friends the Chiu Chow to pay top dollar-how about that? Even he had honor in those days." might love a Thai. We crash-landed twice with bullet holes all over the plane. I s.h.i.+t in my pants, but that American aviator was like a superman. We got back to Long Tien somehow. The Hmong were wonderful, too. How could anyone understand the innocence of the opium trade? Warren was good to the Hmong, he forced his friends the Chiu Chow to pay top dollar-how about that? Even he had honor in those days."

He stoops when he turns to go back into the house.

50.

This isn't a whodunit, whodunit, is it? More like a is it? More like a whatwillshedonext. whatwillshedonext. While the FBI was here this question pressed on both of us as if it were inevitable that somehow we would reach one of those neat endings the West is so fond of, with all i's dotted and all t's crossed. Perhaps we were supposed to walk off into the sunset together, Jones and I, with no nifty Thai skeleton following us around, either? But Warren won at least that battle and I had to go to the airport to see her off last night. We were stiff, affectionate and melancholy all at the same time. Her eyes were pleading when she said, "I'm gonna miss you, Sonchai," so I had to make my eyes pleading when I said, "I'm gonna miss you too, Kimberley." Secretly, I lamented that her progress on the Path has not been as great as I might have wished. Of course she'll be back. In the meantime While the FBI was here this question pressed on both of us as if it were inevitable that somehow we would reach one of those neat endings the West is so fond of, with all i's dotted and all t's crossed. Perhaps we were supposed to walk off into the sunset together, Jones and I, with no nifty Thai skeleton following us around, either? But Warren won at least that battle and I had to go to the airport to see her off last night. We were stiff, affectionate and melancholy all at the same time. Her eyes were pleading when she said, "I'm gonna miss you, Sonchai," so I had to make my eyes pleading when I said, "I'm gonna miss you too, Kimberley." Secretly, I lamented that her progress on the Path has not been as great as I might have wished. Of course she'll be back. In the meantime whatwillfatimadonext whatwillfatimadonext has turned into one of those open-ended Thai questions to which one does not necessarily expect an answer in this lifetime. Without that American impatience to drive me forward I'm not sure what, if anything, I myself will do next. Bring her in? The Colonel is reluctant and the possibility of a dastardly murder going unpunished does not enrage me as you probably think it should, has turned into one of those open-ended Thai questions to which one does not necessarily expect an answer in this lifetime. Without that American impatience to drive me forward I'm not sure what, if anything, I myself will do next. Bring her in? The Colonel is reluctant and the possibility of a dastardly murder going unpunished does not enrage me as you probably think it should, farang farang. Of course I cannot forget Pichai-but did she kill him in any sense beyond the superficial? We all know who really dunit, don't we? And what, exactly, am I supposed to do about him, him, that prototypical Western man? And then, of course, there are my almost nightly conferences with my dead soul partner, which I've not told you about. These days, apparently, he is not in the least interested in matters arising from the destruction of his chemical body, which, on reflection, he is glad to be rid of. There are plenty of ways of getting in touch, he tells me mysteriously while we share the twilight zone between waking and sleeping. that prototypical Western man? And then, of course, there are my almost nightly conferences with my dead soul partner, which I've not told you about. These days, apparently, he is not in the least interested in matters arising from the destruction of his chemical body, which, on reflection, he is glad to be rid of. There are plenty of ways of getting in touch, he tells me mysteriously while we share the twilight zone between waking and sleeping.

For a brief moment I think the United States of America will rescue me from this dilemma after all. Out of the blue I'm invited-summoned is probably a better word-to my second home, the U.S. Emba.s.sy on Wireless Road. I do not fail to notice a subtle increase in my respect quotient as I pa.s.s my friend on security at the gate-mixed with a fairly blatant splash of curiosity, I might add. Then my old companion from ancient times Katherine White arrives with the news that I am not going to the office of the FBI legal attache this time, but-a quick scan of my face to check that I'm fully cognizant of the honor I'm about to receive-to the amba.s.sador's suite. A brisk march through those parts of the emba.s.sy designed to welcome kings and princes.

The amba.s.sador and her deputy are both female and, ethnic origin aside, might have been cut from the same pattern of tall, slim women in their late forties with long arms, brisk manners and tones of voice which a.s.sume obedience. The amba.s.sador is white and her deputy is black. I have been shown into the meeting after the ma.s.sacre. I can almost see the careers of Rosen and Nape lying b.l.o.o.d.y and broken on the carpet. Nape is relying on what is left of his youth and options to see him through the meeting, but Rosen looks depressed. They are standing around a desk bigger than a king-size bed; only the amba.s.sador is seated. Behind her the American flag hangs by a window at a slant and behind it lie the manicured gardens of the emba.s.sy. The deputy amba.s.sador stands to one side.

Graciously, the amba.s.sador stands as I approach and shakes my hand while Rosen makes the introductions. I wonder if her politeness is a form of reproach to the others.

"Well, I guess you know the main business of the hour, Detective?"

"Is it that Mr. Sylvester Warren has disappeared?"

"You got it. I've had faxes, phone calls and e-mails from two senators already, a call from the White House, an urgent fax from his lawyer in New York and some stuff from his staff." A glance at her watch, then at the deputy. "But I've got the Queen at noon, then I've got that flight to Tokyo. So I'm gonna leave it all to you. You can carry on in here, no point moving everyone to another room. Sorry to be leaving just when you've arrived, Detective. I sure hope you can help us. Your Colonel Vikorn was very complimentary about you over the phone this morning. He says you'll find him." A quick scan of my face. "That could be a very high priority." A last glance and nod at the deputy and she strode out of the room via a door near her desk.

"Well, I guess we can all sit down," the deputy says. We move across the room to a set of chairs and sofas around a coffee table. "Let me just run through the points the amba.s.sador made, for the sake of the detective." A steady glance at me with two fingers raised. "Two possibilities, Detective. Either it's terrorism or it's not. We've got just a few hours to decide. On the one hand, Sylvester Warren is a high-profile American known to visit this country monthly. He's friends with presidents and heads of state and is probably as well known in Southeast Asia as he is in the States. Maybe more so. This country has a sizable Muslim population. Just south of us, in Malaysia and Indonesia, we find the most populous Muslim countries in the world, with a fair number of extremist factions. The borders are porous, anyone can enter by land or sea. I don't need to tell you the connections people are going to start making. You see the issue, Detective? It's as much diplomacy as forensic investigation. The reason we have legal attaches is that those two disciplines get confused from time to time, and we like to have a little warning when that is about to happen." A tightening of the lips as she scans the others.

We are doing American Grim, a genre with which I am unfamiliar. There is an implication, apparently, that the sterner you make your mood the more likely you are to solve the problem. But what problem? It takes me quite a while to realize that behind the facade of Grim we are acting out a pantomime with which I am thoroughly familiar. The laws of bureaucracy are much like the laws of physics it seems, they are identical in every corner of the earth. I see it now: I am here in the amba.s.sador's splendid office for the sake of form. There will be a minute recording the fact that the amba.s.sador herself and her deputy both personally interviewed Detective Jitpleecheep, following the alarming news of Warren's disappearance. Having satisfied themselves that no act of terrorism seemed to be implied, they had no choice but to allow the local police to investigate in their own way, in partners.h.i.+p with the FBI legal attaches, to whom a stern (grim) reprimand was given for their apparent laxness in failing to protect a high-profile American citizen. In parallel with the open minute, there will be a secret memo recording the fact that Warren is a psychotic sleazebag who is probably tied up in a wooden shack somewhere getting what he deserves, without risk to American security or any other U.S. citizen in Southeast Asia.

"This is a matter we are taking extremely seriously," I say slowly, in case someone wants to quote me.

The deputy is astute and gives me a surprisingly cute smile. "I'm relieved to hear it," she says, also slowly.

"We are satisfied that there are no terrorist implications in this case."

Nape almost smirks and Rosen is clearly shocked that a non-American knows how to play this game. "I can endorse that," he says, engaging the deputy's eyes with pathological sincerity.

In theory we could end it there, but it's a bit short and the meeting cries out for padding. Anyway, I'm suddenly in the mood to show off. It's been a while, but the mind-set is strangely addictive.

"Whilst Thailand is a humane Buddhist society committed to human rights and the dignity of its citizens, the wealthier countries of the world must appreciate we do not always have the resources to meet those high standards of law enforcement which, frankly, are a luxury afforded only by those countries which industrialized first."

Rapid blinks from the deputy until she has understood what I'm doing. "Can I quote you on that?"

"Absolutely."

A nod to Rosen, who nods to Nape, who takes out a ballpoint pen.

Now the interview is over and it seems everyone is delighted that the local cop is so learned in the n.o.ble art of a.s.s-protection. Nape insists on accompanying me back to Thailand. At the gate he says: "That katoy katoy's got him, hasn't she? Think there'll be anything left by the time she's finished? Maybe a thumb and a couple of kneecaps?"

I stare at him for a long moment, then hail a motorcycle taxi.

Back in my hovel I roll a joint. It is 12:56 p.m. by the clock glyph on my mobile.

51.

Waiting is difficult only for those beset by the delusion of time. Dope helps, of course. Weeks have pa.s.sed, Jones has called me three times from the States, each time on a Sunday. The loneliness of farangs farangs is a wasting disease for which, the FBI will sooner or later realize, Thailand may be the only cure. The sensation of somehow following in the footsteps of my mother is deeply disturbing to me, but I don't let it get me down. After all, there is plenty to do. Nong's bar has already opened unofficially and is doing astonis.h.i.+ngly well. There are accounts to check, board meetings to attend, provisions to order. Then the call comes. is a wasting disease for which, the FBI will sooner or later realize, Thailand may be the only cure. The sensation of somehow following in the footsteps of my mother is deeply disturbing to me, but I don't let it get me down. After all, there is plenty to do. Nong's bar has already opened unofficially and is doing astonis.h.i.+ngly well. There are accounts to check, board meetings to attend, provisions to order. Then the call comes.

Dr. Surichai is taut and formal over the telephone, using neither his bedside manner nor his fas.h.i.+onably sleazy tone. I think this is the voice he uses in directors' meetings at the hospital, when the nitty-gritty of balance sheets is being discussed. He says very little, indeed I have the feeling he would rather not be making the call at all. At the request of his patient he is inviting me to his home on Soi 30 Sukhumvit, very close to the Emporium shopping mall.

It is a mansion rather than a house, with an electric gate and uniformed security. In addition to the doctor's own guards, a half dozen well-dressed Chinese men stand around looking sullen and alert. One of them barks out something in what I think is the Chiu Chow dialect when I arrive, no doubt telling the others not to reach for the bulges under their jackets. A maidservant lets me into the house and shows me into a large salon where I sit on a sofa and wait. Surichai emerges from a corridor in a sleeveless canary-yellow cardigan and slacks, with a slight frown on his face, holding a single sheet of paper on which a statement is written in Thai script, with an elegant signature in Western script at the end. I study it carefully, hand it back to him with a nod, not entirely surprised. It seems the contending parties have reached one of those Oriental solutions which would be unthinkable in the option-starved West.

"I was asked to take him in as a patient in my home. Obviously, he doesn't want to be anywhere public. I've had to bring a lot of equipment from the hospital. Now, for some reason he wants to see you. This sort of thing can cause enormous and radical personality changes. He's decided you might be the only person in the world who understands him. Has he been a close friend of yours?"

Surichai's brisk manner has irritated me and I don't bother to answer his question. "He did a deal with Fatima?"

"His friends did. These Chiu Chow who have invaded my house. You've no idea how medieval the Chinese mind can be. They're not modern people at all. The way they see it, the solution to the kind of s.e.x problem their friend Warren has is very simple, even if the cure is somewhat radical and-dare I say-Forbidden Cityish. Fatima put them in a fix. If they let her kill him, it would look bad for them, even suggest they didn't have the power to protect their man. If they protected him, she would destroy him anyway by broadcasting that tape over the Net, and perhaps setting her Khmer loose. This was a compromise even Warren agreed to, as witnessed by his signature on that bit of paper. Of course, it was that or die. Fatima consented after he'd put more than half his fortune in her name. She must be the richest woman in Thailand. Maybe the wealthiest transs.e.xual in the world. You better come through. I operated yesterday. He's still very weak, but as I say the main thing is the total personality change. Mentally I'm afraid he's very unstable. You'll see." A pause. "He went into shock immediately after I operated. I had to pump him full of tranquilizers or he would have died. Even then his vital functions were suspended for a couple of minutes." He examines my face for a moment, checking me for some kind of understanding, but I have no idea what he is hinting at. Fatima put them in a fix. If they let her kill him, it would look bad for them, even suggest they didn't have the power to protect their man. If they protected him, she would destroy him anyway by broadcasting that tape over the Net, and perhaps setting her Khmer loose. This was a compromise even Warren agreed to, as witnessed by his signature on that bit of paper. Of course, it was that or die. Fatima consented after he'd put more than half his fortune in her name. She must be the richest woman in Thailand. Maybe the wealthiest transs.e.xual in the world. You better come through. I operated yesterday. He's still very weak, but as I say the main thing is the total personality change. Mentally I'm afraid he's very unstable. You'll see." A pause. "He went into shock immediately after I operated. I had to pump him full of tranquilizers or he would have died. Even then his vital functions were suspended for a couple of minutes." He examines my face for a moment, checking me for some kind of understanding, but I have no idea what he is hinting at.

Down a corridor surprisingly wide for a private house, on the walls of which I'm impressed to see original oil paintings of nineteenth-century Krung Thep. We take a left turn into what must be a late addition to the building and enter a solarium built of steel and gla.s.s, the views of the garden mostly obscured by wall-to-wall curtains. The head on the pillow is almost unrecognizable; not that the features have changed but because the personality inhabiting this body bears almost no resemblance to that of the former tenant. As a student of the Path this transformation is fascinating to me: the new resident has inherited a body and collection of memory cells with which it is unfamiliar, and of which it must try to make sense. A weaker spirit would have had a nervous breakdown, but this one has simply chosen to go haywire.

He motions weakly with his hand for me to sit down on a chair near the bed. "Welcome, my dear friend," he says in Thai. I'm startled almost out of my skin: that was Pichai's voice. The face smiles. In English: "It's okay, I'm still in the twilight zone. Your friend says h.e.l.lo. He's very talented you know. Isn't reality wonderful?"

All of a sudden he bursts into tears. "Here lies a fool who tried to f.u.c.k the East-d'you know who said that, Detective?"