Assignment Bangkok

by Unknown Author

The boy gasped. His face dripped sweat. He straightened slowly.

  “In Sampeng—in Kow Singh’s tourist shop. He goes there mornings with begging bowl—”

  “Kow Singh’s,” Durell repeated.

  “Yes. Please. Help me?”

  “All right, Tinh.”

  It was too late to help. Great rivulets of sweat poured down Tinh’s face and body. His eyes rolled. His tongue came out, and then he slid sidewise on the bench and Durell caught him before he hit the concrete floor.

  Whatever it was, McFee in Washington hadn’t told him all of it. Whatever it was, it had already caused two deaths, not counting the kamoy Durell had dropped into the canal.

  There was a flurry of voices in the corridor outside the dressing room. Durell straightened and sighed and went to the door. No one tried to enter. The group of men moved on. When he couldn’t hear them, he opened the door and stepped out. He looked back once at the dead boxer, and hoped that Tinh, like Aparsa, would have a better life in his next reincarnation. Then he headed for the ramp and the outside gates of the stadium.

  6

  He took a samlaw with a striped canopy and a rackety lawn-mower engine behind. The night was still hot. Advertisements flickered in rainbow colors, spelling out letters in English and French and the long, horizontal Thai script. The driver crossed Suriwong Road, returned to the Chao Phraya, then swung into Rama IV Road. He did not think he was being followed now.

  “Drong bai,” he told the driver. “Straight ahead.”

  At the next fork, back in the favored Rajprasong district, the traffic was lighter, and in the residential area the low houses were set back from the road, with pagoda roofs and lush plantings making cloudy darknesses on the lawns. The houses here had large verandas and were discreetly lighted. A maze of lanes led down to the canal-side.

  “Charamaya Lane,” Durell said. “Number Twelve.”

  The motorized rickshaw nosed into a narrow street bordering the canal. Each house here was surrounded by a high wooden fence, so that only the low, sweeping Thai-style roofs were visible through the fan-shaped palms.

  “You want me wait?” the driver asked.

  “No.” Durell counted out enough bahts for the fare, and paused in the dark lane until the samlaw puttered out of sight.

  He sensed the cats the moment he opened the ornate gate. At the carved and gilded door, he heard the music, too. The heavy bass beat made the air shake. Oleanders, jasmine, and hibiscus dotted the lawn. Except for the Thai design, the house on the canal could have been in any Florida development. A sleek power boat was moored to the dock on the canal. An enclosure on the lawn was made up of small cages, where the sounds of the cats came from. Durell let his anger go into the large wooden knocker on the door. He heard a cat squall suddenly. He didn’t like the shadows nearby. No place was safe, he thought.

  “You’re a bit late, Cajun.”

  “So I am,” said Durell. “Ask me in?”

  The heavy door swung open. On the post under the knocker was a polished brass plate that read in etched Spencerian script, James Darwinton James. Jimmy D. Jimmy wore a brocaded Nehru jacket and black slacks that emphasized his pipestem legs. A girl flickered in and out of sight behind him, like a bird. Durell said, “Company?”

  “My secretary and companion, Miss Ku Tu Thiet. Lovely child.”

  “How nice for you.”

  James D. James waved him in with an elegant hand. “Come in, Sam. It’s hot out there, not lit for man or beast.”

  “I can’t hear you,” Durell said.

  James closed the door after looking out across the lawn toward the cat cages, then swung about to lower the volume on the gleaming components of stereo equipment on his bookcase. The moaning and shrieking that substituted for lyrics in this latter-day popular hit faded to a distant groan of adolescent anguish. Neither the icy air-conditioning nor the incense that spiralled through the big, high-ceilinged room could erase the presence of the cats. Durell looked for Miss Ku, but she had vanished. But there were enough Siamese cats around.

  Their blue eyes watched him from every cushion, every chair, with a hostility reserved for strangers. There were a dozen, Seal Points and Lilac Points, Chocolate and Blue Points, and two Albinos. A Red Colorpoint was perched on James’ silk brocaded shoulder. The Red spit at him, and James made a soothing noise. The cat’s humped back did not go down.

  “Princess Mai Pen Rai,” James said. “It’s a common Thai phrase meaning, ‘Don’t bother.’ I have a royal permit to breed these little people.” He made more noises to the cats, who continued to regard Durell as a dangerous enemy. “It took something to get a palace license, I can tell you. Siamese cats are different, you know—they were bred for battle in medieval times. Quite vicious, then. Still quite muscular, as you see, and devoted to home and master. Quite unhappy when anything disturbs their routine.”

  “I haven’t much time, sir,” Durell said.

  “These Lilac Points are quite unusual. Fine masks, neatly defined, connected to the ears with tracings. Liu Phan, over there, is a fine example. Excellent gloss and coat texture, a long head, a wonderful wedge from muzzle to ears. No whisker breaks, you see. A dainty fellow, really, for a stud male, but small oval feet, slanting eye aperture—-a true Oriental.”

  “Sir—”

  “Of course, old man. Go away now, children.” The Red. jumped, the Lilac Point hissed and scampered away. James D. James’ hands waved, his fingers long and delicate, and the other cats moved silently out of the room. James’ silver-gray hair was freshly pomaded. He was about fifty, with a lean angularity, and Durell did not doubt that James held memberships in the Polo Club, the Royal Turf Club, and the Royal Bangkok Sports Club. He probably also maintained a resort cottage on the beach at Hua Hin on the Gulf of Siam, as close as possible to the Klaikanwon Palace there. As Bangkok Central for K Section, James was technically Durell’s superior in the area. “Drink?” he asked.

  Durell nodded and James picked up a square bottle of Jim Beam. From a hexagonal Indian table inlaid with mother-of-pearl, he chose a kanum, a honeyed rice cake, and popped it into his mouth. As Durell waited, he deftly poured three fingers into a heavy-based goblet, lifted his brows, and handed the drink to Durell. Durell put it aside on the amoeba-shaped coffee table and hoped it would leave a ring.

  “Are you in business with the cats?” he asked.

  “In a way. The little chaps are amusing.”

  “And Miss Ku Tu Thiet?”

  James said abruptly: “You’ve been in the tropics, Sam?”

  “Yes. Africa, Pakuru.”

  “So I’ve heard. How is the leg?”

  “Fine, sir.”

  “No, seriously, Sam.”

  “It was blown off.”

  “Ha ha.” James was as graceful in his movements as his cats. His eyes were wide and guileless. “Why are you so late in getting here, Sam?” he asked quietly.

  Durell told him. He spoke flatly, but his anger came like -a rasp. “Everybody knows I’m here. Everybody seems to know why I’m here, too,” he said. “And they’re reacting too violently. Almost desperately. I don’t consider myself that important. Everybody also knows there is a serious Communist insurgency up in Chiangrai and Nan provinces, and that K Section is interested in stopping it. But everybody also knows that the White House has issued strict directives for our disengagement. The guerrillas have been active up there since 1965, when Peking announced a ‘people’s war of revolution.’ The Meo and Yao tribesmen are the ones involved, mostly. So why did someone push the panic button and start killing, when I arrived in Bangkok? It’s all old stuff. The Thai Third Army up there is handling it well. Why did I have to send Mike Slocum in, anyway?”

  “Good questions,” James said gently.

  “I’d like some answers.”

  “Of course. I’m sorry you had such a bad time of it since you got here.”

  Durell waited.

  James popped another kanum into his mouth, then spoke. “You are un
der a double cover, Sam.”

  “Yes?”

  “Your MDU—the agricultural mission—is the obvious outer peel of the onion. No one in the business is fooled by it, but we have to go through with the motions for the sake of the government here. Your mission to get Mike Slocum out of the northeast is the second layer. Everyone, as you say, knows K Section’s major interest is the insurgency. Mike isn’t far from the Thai Third Army’s main forward command post at Chiangklang. It seemed to us that Mike could have been found and returned to us by the regular security forces up there. But he hasn’t been, has he? We receive devious explanations of the difficulties. So you are sent in. All relatively clear and aboveboard, considering the wheels within wheels that run our business.”

  “So I have another job?”

  “Correct.”

  “Did Mike know of it?”

  “I briefed him just before he left—as I’m doing with you.”

  “Go ahead,” Durell said. He still looked angry.

  “Actually, old man, we’re cooperating with the Bureau of Narcotics and Dangerous Drugs, under the direction of the House Select Committee on Crime. It has White House approval. Our own S Section identified almost two dozen opium refineries up in the Burma-Laos-Thailand frontier area, the Golden Triangle.”

  Durell sat down. “I’ve seen the reports. Some of this is now making sense.”

  James moved about like a long-legged insect, all silver and knobby legs and arms. “The Golden Triangle accounts for almost a thousand tons of opium every year, and production is going up. You know of the drug problem at home and in the armed forces—epidemic, my dear Sam, epidemic. We want it stopped. But it is protected by insurgent armies and by renegades, gangsters, crooked politicians and regular Army officers from all areas up there. Political borders, old man, mean nothing when gold is concerned. All this stuff is moving via Saigon and Hong Kong to our West Coast, poisoning the nation. I won’t lecture to you about that.”

  “You sent Mike in to investigate it?”

  “We know almost all we need to know about it. There are two dozen refineries in operation up in the Triangle, making opium, morphine base, and No. 3 smoking heroin, which is being refined now to the pure white stuff.

  “Most of the buyers are ethnic Chinese in the area. The product is smuggled to Bangkok here, Vientiane, and Luang Prabang. From here, by the way, it goes to Hong Kong on fishing trawlers and junks—at least one a day— carrying up to three tons to the Red Chinese island of Lema, a bit over a dozen miles from Hong Kong. From there it is transshipped into Hong Kong junks. From Laos" and Chiengmai, the stuff moves in caravans of two or three hundred men and horses and boats down the Mekong. The price has been going up lately—a kilo of No. 4 heroin is now pegged at fourteen hundred dollars. We know definitely of refineries on the Mekong River at Ban Houie Sai, in Laos. And we also know that middle-level military and government officials in all three countries are deeply involved. Sam, we plan to dry up this source.”

  “And you had me send just one man in, to do it? Just Mike Slocum?” Durell asked flatly.

  “A preliminary survey, old chap, nothing more. You suggest that the reaction to your arrival was more violent than professional. True. Very acute of you. The Red insurgents protect the criminal elements in northeast Burma, for example—in the Tachilek area, we’ve identified sixteen refineries that recently converted thirty tons of raw opium into refined morphine base and heroin. In Shan, Wa, and Kokang, the material is put together into these caravans by the insurgent leaders and transferred to middlemen in the rackets, and then it journeys to further refineries in the Thailand-Ban Houei Sai areas. We’ve pinpointed northern Thai towns such as Chiang Rae, Chiang Mai, Lampang, and Tak as targets.”

  “How are the insurgents paid?” Durell asked.

  “Weapons, mostly. Often stolen U.S. materiel. But some gold and silver rupees are popular, too.”

  “And now?”

  James D. James ate another rice cake. His chewing was slow and methodical. His unwinking eyes studied Durell. “Now,” he said, “we cut off the head of the dragon.” “But there is a problem,” Durell suggested.

  “There always is. We don’t know who is the head.” “Maybe it’s a joint operation of a number of people.” “Not lately. It’s too organized. Consider what happened to you on your arrival. Fast, prompt, accurate reaction. You are lucky to be alive, Cajun.”

  “But do you have any ideas as to the head of this dragon?” Durell asked.

  James shrugged his shoulders. “That’s for you to find out. It could be your Mr. Chuk—but we doubt it. He’s in it, of course, but as a minor figure, we think. It could be Colonel Lak, up at Third Army base. Or any number of luangs, royal government officials. It takes organization, a network of transportation, and a legitimate commercial cover.”

  “Mike?” Durell said.

  James did not blink. “Possibly.”

  “But I was asked to send him in.”

  “With you to follow, old man.”

  “The Slocums—Mike and Benjie—have the transportation network, the teak and tea plantations, sawmills, airline and ships.” Durell spoke quietly. “I don’t like it.” “None of us do, Cajun. Mike is a lush, and an irresponsible troublemaker. A line sister, but a greedy girl, concerned with her business empire, pretty much fed up with her erratic baby brother. She really runs the Slocum enterprises, after all. Making a legitimate fortune.” James looked envious for a moment, then waved a bland hand. “You look thoughtful.”

  “It could be you,” Durell said.

  “Ha ha.”

  “Or your little Miss Ku.”

  “Not funny, old man.” James flicked back his sleeve and consulted his watch. “Mike is due on the air in twenty minutes. We’ll see if he comes on.”

  “You son of a bitch,” Durell said.

  “Are you upset?”

  “You could have told me he’s been in contact.”

  “I’m telling you now. You can listen and talk, if you like—and if he chooses to transmit.”

  Durell sat down on a wooden chair with cerise cushions that matched the rug. He still sensed all the cats around him. Movement whispered behind a curtained doorway across the room, and lie sensed Miss Ku Tu Thiet, too. In a moment she came in with a small silver tray of tea and more rice cakes. Her almond eyes slid over Durell and he felt as if he had been stroked from head to toe. She was a slim, lovely Thai, proud and immaculate, in a tight cheongsam cut from the same silver brocade as James’ coat. His and Hers, he thought wryly. The high collar made Miss Ku’s face look like the Siamese cats’. The slit dress showed a round, firm thigh when she walked.

  “My dear, pour Durell another drink. He needs it. The poor lad has had a difficult time.”

  “Of course, Jimmy.” She made Durell a brief wai, hands together as if in prayer. Her smile was enigmatic when he shook his head, rejecting the drink, and she returned to James. “Jimmy, I have warmed up the transceiver.”

  “Fine, darling. That will be it.”

  Durell watched her walk out. He appreciated James’ taste. He said bluntly, “Sir, the only contact I made when I arrived yesterday afternoon was with your phone. Miss Ku answered. At Uncle Hu’s, they were waiting for me. Does your little friend listen in? She knows your radio, I see. So how did Chuk know who I was, where I was, and get set for my arrival?”

  “Ku? Not to worry there, old man. Fine family. Lovely girl.” James’ voice was suddenly hard and sharp, like the unsheathed claws of his Siamese cats. “Come along and listen in on the transmission.”

  Durell stood up. Ahead of him, he heard the quick scampering of cats’ feet and the thin slide of Miss Ku’s sandals.

  7

  The house was long and rambling, filled with lacquerware, antique Sukhothai carvings, and silk tapestries. There was a delicate arrangement of jasmine in a Chinese bowl. Beyond a modem kitchen and a glimpse of a long, pale lemon bedroom draped in silk, there was a solid door, a short hallway, and a closet. Thr
ough the closet was another door and the radio room. The air-conditioning felt frigid in here.

  The radio was a TK-89 model, a bank of equipment with three microphones and headsets that almost rivaled the electronic splendor of the stereo job in the living room. Miss Ku Tu Thiet was setting two wooden chairs in place when James ushered him in. A big clock on the wall read eleven-thirty.

  “Please be seated, gentlemen,” Miss Ku whispered.

  “Thank you, darling,” James said.

  “Tea, Jimmy?”

  “Please.”

  She went out. Durell watched her go and said, “Is she on the payroll?”

  “Naturally. She’s quite invaluable.”

  “I can imagine.”

  James snapped switches and picked up a microphone. “We’ll see what we get. The last transmission was two days ago.”

  “You’re sure it was from Mike?”

  “Certain. But whether he’s in the hands of the insurgents or the drug smugglers is the big question. He may be talking under duress. He may be forced to lead us into a trap. Or doing it willingly. As I said, both Slocums are suspect.”

  The radio crackled and hummed. Voices spoke into the earphones Durell clamped over his head. Cold air drew an icy scarf across the nape of his neck. Distant music came in, drowning out the dissonant ghost words. For a moment, he heard the louder voice of a woman exhorting listeners to greater effort for the freedom-loving revolutionaries of Indo-China. The voices faded. The music came in a low roar, rising and falling like the sea. James clicked his tongue and delicately twisted the dials, then leaned forward on his chair.

  “. . . position twenty-four by seventy-three, sector Kappa . .

  “That may be Mike,” James said. “Recognize him?” “No.”

  The sea of sound roared in Durell’s ears, and a ghost voice whispered, “Alpha Five and Brooklyn Omega, the ball game is in the last half of the ni—”

  Durell was still not sure, through the disruptions, that he was actually hearing Mike Slocum’s voice.