by Alisa Smith
Looking upward, I figured the giant wall clock in the main hall was a good place to meet. Here, each minute ticked by, hugely momentous. I crossed the polished stone floor and entered the platform where the trains stopped. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw a smaller clock over the doorway, alongside a portrait of King Ananda, who was thin and delicate. The English newspapers said that he had just reached the age of majority, and had returned from his studies in Switzerland to take the throne in December. This was the king that Bill meant to protect, if what he told the guard was true. Frankly I had a tough time imagining Bill taking that on—it was so unlike anything he’d done before. Maybe somebody offered him a lot of money. Standing beneath the gold-framed portrait as the crowds parted around me, I wondered idly what it would be like to be born a king. From what I understood, in Siam a king was halfway to being a Buddha, their god.
As foreigners in all kinds of strange clothes flowed by me, I wondered what would happen if you put the world’s religions in a boxing ring—if one would come out on top as the ultimate truth. Or were all religions just stories we told ourselves to find meaning in our small lives, and keep the fear of death at bay? Bill had taken a surprising interest in this Buddha business, and had told me a good deal about it. Maybe that was why he’d want to save the king. Was Bill seeking some kind of redemption?
When I thought of his fingers probing the floor tiles in the royal temple, I thought it more likely that he coveted the Buddhists’ wealth. He’d told me the tops of the towers were solid gold, and sported diamonds so high up that only heavenly beings could see them. “What a goddamn waste!” he’d said, sounding more like the Bill I knew. But why would he risk stealing that Emerald Buddha, under the nose of hundreds of guards, when he had a perfectly legal method to get rich with his opium? I supposed Bill had never been happy unless he had a challenge that would crush a regular man. I sighed. I was a regular man.
I compared my watch to the clock above me and inched the hands ahead by one minute to match it. My visit here was a piece of foolishness, and I fancied a change of scene. At the Oriental Hotel, I could talk comfortably to the Americans and Englishmen who were arriving in the country, more almost by the day. The Americans were not good news for Bill. Hopefully no one would recognize him in his altered circumstances, but it was still safer for me to scope out the bar alone.
When I left the station the sun blasted me like a sucker punch. By the time I reached the curb sweat poured down my back, and with relief I stepped inside one of the few taxi cabs waiting. Even with the window open it was still sweltering inside. I removed my hat, and in the rearview mirror I saw it left a dent where the band had squashed down my hair. I turned the Panama hat to read the label inside: a Montecristi Super Fino, just like Bill’s. He had left it sitting on my dresser one day as a gift. I believe he took some pleasure in forcing me to ape him—back in Seattle he had dragged me to his favourite tailor—though reluctantly I had to admit this Panama hat was the ideal protection from the tropical sun. Of course, the wealthy locals seemed not to wear hats, because they preferred to avoid being outside entirely. Only I, Bill’s lackey, was left to bake outside at midday. I had the sudden urge to crumple up the hat, but smoothed it carefully instead, since there was a dress code at the Oriental.
The Oriental Hotel bar was soothing with its dark wood panelling and private nooks. It nodded to the locale with teak filigrees crowning the bar like the border to an exotic land. As I scanned the room, I wondered what an arms trader looked like. So far I hadn’t met any, at least that would admit it. Whatever they were up to, the foreigners here struck me as cuckoo, because they were willing to descend into the chaos left after the war. It was no place for cozy homebodies. Like me, I thought with a sigh as I raised my hand at the bartender. Pull yourself together, By God, I thought, conjuring the power of Bill’s name for me.
I ordered a gin and tonic, hoping to build more malarial resistance. It was not comfortable living so close to the river. The biting insects rose up in clouds every sunset, and Bill laughed at me when I took off in alarm and refused to come outside until they had settled again after dark. But Jesus, he had had malaria, and I noticed that he meandered into the palazzo not long after I closed myself in. I think even Bill feared the mosquitoes, though he’d never admit it.
“You been here long, in Siam?” asked the man on the stool to my left.
“Six weeks maybe.”
“I just arrived. Name’s Warner. You?” He reached over to shake my hand.
“Byron,” I admitted, disliking my name whenever it was laid out like a dead fish in front of people.
He was American—East Coast money, I figured from the accent. Warner was dressed casually in a pale yellow cotton shirt. The way he carried himself was self-assured, and he spoke in hearty tones as though confident you would find him fascinating no matter what he said. He was what I imagined an Ivy League man must be like. His glasses could not conceal his craggy good looks, though I judged him to be five years older than me, in his early forties. Blond, with no trace of grey. The ladies still went for him, I guessed. A fellow who got whatever he wanted.
“What business brings you here?” I asked.
“Oh, you know, import export.”
I wanted to roll my eyes at his shillyshallying, but I restrained myself. God knows, he could be on the straight and narrow. But what legal thing could be worth importing or exporting in Siam? The economy was in ruins. The government had a store of rice, but that was hardly worth the interest of a man of his station. I would have to draw him out.
“I deal in gems and other resources of the mountain tribes. Of Burma,” I said. He kept his profile to me, but I could see his face fully reflected in the bar mirror, appearing as if floating between bottles of scotch.
“What’s it like?”
“I haven’t been there yet. My—” I was going to say boss, but Bill wasn’t really that, after all, and I did not want this man to think I was nobody— “associate manages that side of things. William Yardley. He’s well known in Bangkok.”
“Then I’d like to meet him.” He handed me his card and I studied it. Nice cream paper, raised cursive script. Warner Knox, Jr., Resident at the Oriental Hotel, Bangkok.
“You’re staying on here?” If he could afford the Oriental for long enough to put it on his card, he certainly had the kind of money we were looking for. It was the most expensive hotel in the city.
“For now. Though I’m sick of living out of a suitcase, and looking for a house to rent. All the best places seem to be taken. Have you found something?”
“Yes, though you can only get to it by boat, and that takes getting used to. It’s like being marooned on an island.”
Shut up, Byron, I thought. Why did I tell him that? Bill had not ordered me to keep our location private, but he didn’t exactly want it advertised in the newspaper, either.
I felt at risk of doing something wrong in this exchange. I needed to confer with Bill before I gave away more of our game. There was something about Warner’s expectant silence that made me want to tell him things, and I did not trust myself. I downed my drink. “Sorry, got to run. Great meeting you. See you again soon, I hope.”
He waved as I left, already turning to speak to the fellow sitting on his other side. Well, he was no wallflower.
The pier was only a minute’s walk away, through the hotel garden speckled with a few solitary Englishmen in white like mushrooms in the shade. I continued down a narrow street, past the brick Catholic mission with its spread-armed Christ behind a wrought-iron fence. A group of bald monks in pink robes walked past, as though to prove whose religion really belonged to the streets. With a shock, I realized from the shape of their bodies beneath the cloth that they were women. I hung back near the fence as they passed, no doubt headed for the green and red pagoda that was just visible beyond the Oriental Hotel’s perimeter wall. I was in no mood to ride a crowded local ferry, so I asked the attendant, who spoke English, to instruct a priva
te water taxi to take me to pier thirteen, across from the palazzo. I would take Bill’s longtail from there, because he didn’t like strange boats pulling up at his dock.
When I arrived, Bill was ensconced in his library, reading the South China Morning Post. He set it aside to hear my report, and his fingers were stained grey from the cheap newsprint. I told him I’d found a wealthy prospect at the Oriental Hotel. “An American, I think,” I said.
“Did you trust him?”
“Not sure. I didn’t trust myself around him. He seemed like somebody trying to find out more about you than he was willing to give away.”
“You say he’s rich?”
“Must be, if he’s taken up residence there. Costs a mint. And he seemed interested about the gems. That’s all I mentioned so far.”
Bill carefully wedged the newspaper in the magazine rack beside his chair and stared into space a moment, his expression unreadable.
“This man’s business is top priority. Good work.” He stood up and clapped me on the shoulder, and I could feel myself grinning like a fool while he told me to book his favourite table for the three of us in the Oriental dining room, for tomorrow night. So I hadn’t botched the whole thing after all.
That evening, lying down on my bed, I stared up into the swirling fan high above me on the ceiling. Bill, praising me? I wished I had it in writing, it happened so seldom. Damn it, why did it matter? I was starting to step out of Bill’s shadow, I reminded myself. Maybe Lena would sense that when she saw me again.
I pulled the sheet off my chest so the fan would cool me, and I went to sleep, smiling.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
BLOOD IN THE WATER
THE BANDIT SHOVED me toward the doorway leading into the galley. He stepped back to hide while I opened it and called for Frederick as he’d ordered me to do.
I felt horrible dragging Frederick into this, but I didn’t have a choice. There were three of the pirates aboard already, and they had rifles strapped across their chests. They knew some English, so they had likely done this many times. I could not hope for amateur mistakes. One man had a red bandana tied over his long, matted hair and wore aviator sunglasses so I could not see his eyes. The other two men had shaved heads, with a zigzag pattern left behind in the stubble. It was one of these two that had crept up on me at the railing. He waved for me to step away from the stairway. He grabbed me again, twisting my arm behind my back. It hurt but I stayed silent, my jaw clenched.
“What is it?” Frederick asked as he walked upstairs. Took a look around. “Shit.” He raised his hands over his head.
The other two men grabbed Frederick. They tied us up quickly, each to a mast. The rope dug into my wrists. A machete at my throat now. The man’s face near mine, his square bones sharp under his skin, heavy eyebrows, deep-set black eyes—impossible to read emotion there.
“Where is your money?” said the one in the bandana. The ringleader. A painful light glared off his mirror lenses.
I didn’t answer, my heart racing as I looked straight ahead. Shouldn’t I be doing something brave or clever right now? I should have used my training and fought back when the first one grabbed me. At Camp X, a Shanghai policeman had taught us martial arts. But we’d only practised kung fu for one day. What the hell could I do with that? We’d mostly done close combat drills with weapons, and I didn’t have one now. Only the crooks had weapons.
“Somebody answer me!” the leader yelled.
“There’s a box in the kitchen downstairs,” Frederick said. “Under the seat.”
That was Frederick’s money. He was trying to save mine—five hundred American dollars in my suitcase, in the front cabin. I also had a few Siamese bills sewn into the dress I was wearing, reserved for emergencies on my landing. It looked like there was going to be an emergency. Sweat dripped into my eyes, and I squinted from the sting of salt that I couldn’t wipe away.
“Seat flips right up, so no need to wreck it.” Frederick spoke to the back of the man running downstairs. He was admirably calm. Our bank robber days had stayed with him enough to steel his nerves, it seemed. I just felt detached in a way that left me paralyzed. All I could think of was the irony. We, who had robbed so often, were now the victims of robbery. Though of a much baser sort, I thought. The banks were insured, but these thieves would leave us in desperate straits, and they did not care one jot.
Why had I frozen up so badly? I tugged against the ropes.
“Pretty lady,” my captor said. “Why you try to get away? Tired of your African? You will like me much more.”
He caressed my face with his dirty hand, ran rough fingertips down my neck and onto my breast. I spit in his face. He flinched and wiped his eye. He stepped closer to me, his breath hot.
“You regret that,” he said.
I felt something running down my neck, below the machete that pressed against my skin. Was it blood? I wondered distantly, giddy. Would he kill me?
The leader spoke in a language that was abrupt yet musical. It sounded angry, but some languages always sounded angry to the foreign ear. My thoughts were drifting in funny directions but it seemed to take too much effort to rein them in. I thought more about languages, and if there was objective beauty in them? If so, English was partway beautiful, or maybe more like ugly-beautiful. There were people that had these confusing looks, too. They could provoke different feelings depending on the day, or the character of the observer. The Japanese language I had always thought soft and elegant when I was eavesdropping on the pilots earlier in the war. Except when they were shot down. Scattershot and hysterical words, then. It was horrible. But all speech deteriorated in times of panic. I wondered what a scream for mercy in English would sound like to these men’s ears. Beautiful or ugly?
The machete was still at my throat, and I waited for what would come next.
Banging noises came from below as the third bandit did his work. He was obviously not content with the stash that Frederick had admitted to. Frederick sagged against the mast, a picture of hopelessness as he heard the damage being done to his ship. By contrast, the head pirate was cheerful now, while my guard stared at me with barely suppressed lust and rage. I felt sure he would choose between the two as the seconds passed. Neither would be good.
The shouting downstairs got louder, and both men fixed their attention on it. They watched keenly while the flunky emerged onto the deck. He smirked and held up the small wooden box with Frederick’s money, as well as my drawstring purse with the roll of US bills. My mission was unravelling before it even began. My landing would be much more difficult with no cash.
That was assuming they would let us live.
A shiver ran over my body. I wasn’t ready to die yet. I had too much left to do. I tried to remember if I had heard of any murders of foreigners in these parts. No, I had not, but news agencies were not exactly thick on the ground here, either. It was a blank spot in the Western consciousness. Until I learned Link was here, I’d never heard anything about Siam.
I watched their faces for a clue to their thoughts. Yes, they were jolly. I thought if they planned murder they would look serious, with such business left to do. Then I remembered the boys’ excitement when we were chased by the police and they fired at our pursuers. That was different, I told myself. That was the thrill of the chase, while Frederick and I were trussed up like farm animals. There was no sport in that. Even criminals differentiated, didn’t they?
Oh God, I didn’t know what would happen to me now. I felt faint.
The pirates moved their lips, whispering a greedy novena as they counted out the bills. When they were done, the man who had captured me shoved the money into a pouch at the waist of his sarong.
“The police will not help you,” the leader said.
My heart lifted: he was imagining our future. We would not die here. I would wake up another morning, in this muggy heat and hot sun, and the thought was glorious.
The three bandits turned their backs as they laid down a board t
o breach the gap between our ships. Frederick was suddenly moving quickly and quietly across the deck to the lifejacket box, free from his bonds. He had the cold, bloodless look that I remembered from our heists, and I realized I hadn’t seen it since then. He pulled out a lever-action rifle and as he cocked it, the pirates froze in place. The leader screamed, jerked back, and fell off the edge of the boat. In the same split second I heard a shot. There was a splash, then silence. The two men remaining looked stunned.
“Put all the money back in the purse and lay it on the deck,” Frederick said, the gun trained on them. “No funny business.”
Frederick’s former captor stared overboard and looked back at him with fear. “You kill him,” he said.
Frederick did not answer. He kept his gun aimed, unwavering. Would he kill them too? On the run, Frederick had fired in defence, but I’d never seen him kill coldly. He might well have—he had a history of crime before I knew him. Even after all my target shooting in Alaska, I did not know if I could have pulled the trigger to kill a man the way Frederick had. The real thing was very different.
The bandits did not appear to doubt Frederick’s intention. Their hands shaking, the men took the money out of their waist pouches. Hands in the air, my captor shoved the purse toward us with a filthy toe. I couldn’t help but think I would never want to use that purse again.
Frederick pulled back the lever action, clack ka-clack. The sound of death. My captor squeezed shut his eyes and suddenly looked very young. The other one’s hands dangled helplessly at his sides. They were lost now that they had no leader and were faced with superior firepower.
The hard look fled from Frederick’s eyes, and I saw doubt flash.