Passport to Death

by Yigal Zur

  Out front, just like out front of every other guesthouse on the street, was a gathering of Israeli kids sporting earrings, dreadlocks, and tattoos on their arms and legs, in true tribal tradition. The ones who had already been to India and met a guru had enlightened names: Bodhi, Shanti Ram, Shanti Sita. Those just starting out on their adventure made do with humbler names: Bro or Sis.

  Even before I got out of the cab, the flurry of activity I saw through the window strained my eyes. I climbed out, went inside, and crossed through the restaurant, brushing up against the local girls rushing from table to table to fill the demands of the fresh batch of noisy falangs. They may have just arrived, but they already knew where to sit, what to order—a Coke and steamed rice with vegetables—and, most importantly, how much to pay for it.

  One of the girls looked up at me with a smile. In different circumstances, I would have paused for a moment, returned the smile, and said with the refined courtesy typical of the Thai people, “Sa wat dee ka?—how do you do?” Courtesy is the first, and maybe the major, key to the Thai culture. But I skipped it this time.

  In the back was a flight of stairs. The lobby was dimly lit, with long shadows falling from the ceiling. A large notice board hung on one wall. An Israeli girl was standing in front of it, as absorbed as if she were reading the Bible.

  “Looking for a partner for a trip to the islands. Leave a message. Noa”; “Anyone up for a trek to the northern tribes is welcome to join us. Leaving May 1”; “For sale: hiking boots and sleeping bag. Going home. Yonni. Green House”; “Anyone know where Sigal Bardon is? Weiss.”

  Anyone know where Sigal Bardon is? Weiss.

  What was that all about? And who was Weiss? Someone was already looking for her. The note seemed innocent enough, but whoever pinned it here knew exactly what he was doing. I wrote down the telephone number. I wondered if it was real.

  Then I texted the office: Weiss? Israeli. Bangkok.

  I was just starting up the stairs when the reply came. It arrived in several fragmented messages.

  Alex Weiss. In Thailand around five years.

  Travels between Bangkok, Hong Kong, and Tokyo. Chain of stores selling knock-off watches.

  Thai police and Interpol suspect they’re a cover for Israeli drug ring in Southeast Asia.

  Launders money in local real estate ventures, mainly around Pattaya.

  The whistle I emitted this time was much quieter than the one I had let out in the cab. Sigal, I screamed silently, what have you gotten yourself into? What have you brought on yourself? How does a woman who goes on a pleasure trip for a few months get mixed up with a guy like Alex Weiss?

  I went up to the second floor. The stairs led to a long corridor, as quiet and empty as a pharaoh’s tomb. At the far end was a long batik curtain with pictures of the third eye of the Hindu god Shiva and other spiritual graffiti in vivid shades of purple, burgundy, yellow, and green. There was a light on behind it. I could make out someone moving in the shadows.

  I pulled back the curtain to reveal a small room. Against the wall was a wooden desk lit by a single bulb. The man behind it was sitting on an executive chair that had seen better days—before the stuffing had started to burst through the upholstery. He was talking on the phone. There were two chairs on the other side of the desk. The rest of the office, if that’s an appropriate word for what looked more like a storeroom, was piled high with cartons tied with thin rope. Here and there a piece of colorful fabric peeked out.

  “Shaya?” I ventured.

  Bingo.

  He raised his eyes from the phone and looked at me for a second or two with cloudy red eyes. He didn’t seem surprised.

  “Hey there,” he said, folding up a scrap of newspaper with weed sticking out of the ends and shoving it into a drawer. He was thirtysomething, but did his best, without much success, to look younger: a scruffy beard cut once a week with a hair trimmer, thin sideburns, and an unbuttoned shirt revealing a large Star of David hanging low on his chest from a heavy gold chain and indicating exactly where he came from.

  “What?” he asked wearily. It was obvious he wasn’t in the mood for talking.

  “I’m looking for someone,” I said.

  “And?”

  I ignored the lack of empathy, attributing it to the joint whose odor still hung in the air. I wished I could open a window, but there weren’t any.

  “Her name is Sigal Bardon.”

  His murky eyes came alive, but only for a very brief moment. It was as if he hastened to turn his interest off with an internal switch.

  “I’ll check my records,” he said.

  It took him a minute or so to make some semblance of order out of the papers on the desk. Finally, he pulled out a jumbled pile of coffee-stained forms divided into numbered squares representing the rooms in his establishment. Leafing through them, he chose one dog-eared sheet, presumably the most recent.

  He looked it over and then raised his eyes. “We don’t usually give out information about our guests.” I leaned against the wall. Of course, I could have reached over and grabbed him by the ear, but it was still early in the day. The image of the sweet smile of my seatmate on the plane, on her way to a Vipassana course in Bangkok, was still fresh in my mind. The memory of her innocence made me feel charitable. I didn’t want to get my hands dirty yet.

  In retrospect, that was my third mistake of the day. If I’d crushed the bug’s face on the wall right then and there, fewer bodies may have been found floating in the muddy waters of the Chao Phraya River.

  “You know the law in Thailand as well as I do,” I said. “The military junta gives drug dealers the death penalty without the benefit of trial.” I could see the hatred, and fear, in his eyes. Fear is an excellent fuel for hatred. Anyone who has spent any time in Bangkok, particularly on its fringes, knows that Thai cops don’t play around. Clearly, Shaya and I were never going to be friends. “Room 208,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “The other building, in the back.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “You’re a pal, Shaya. You can be real nice when you want to.” I’d made my first enemy on this trip. On average, not bad for the start of an investigation. I knew that the moment I left he’d take the little package out of the drawer and prepare the fastest-rolled joint ever in the history of the East. He might also do some speed for good measure. What I didn’t know was that after his first drag on the joint, he’d press a button on his phone and in a smoke-choked voice, he’d say, “Someone was just here looking for her.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  NARROW IRON STEPS led down into the alley. I passed an open kitchen where a cook was chopping vegetables with a large knife while chatting with the dishwasher, who scrubbed dishes in a big plastic basin with the help of a lot of water, a little soap, and a rag that had been demoted after years of service wiping tables.

  The alley was the epitome of a back street in Bangkok: tiny boxlike plywood houses; open doors to let in some light and air; laundry hanging from wires stretched along the walls and held in place by two nails. Famished flea-ridden dogs lay semi-conscious in the shade provided by a wagon with flat tires. Two children played with a bicycle rim. In the middle of the alley, between the wooden houses, was an open Muay Thai boxing ring, a large arena with a small raised platform marked off by ropes, and pictures of local heroes, champions who had started out in this very place. Boxing gloves and shorts hung from a rack. It was like thousands of other arenas throughout Thailand. Two young men were honing their skills on punching bags, while several others sat on low stools in the shade of a huge ficus tree, eating from bowls of steamed rice, stir-fried vegetables, strips of meat coated in sesame seeds, and small cubes of meat in a sauce that gave off the strong odor of chili. Beside them was a big bottle of Mekhong whiskey, nearly empty.

  They fell silent when I passed, looking at me with blank, sealed expressions. That was fine by me. I wasn’t expecting a smile from every person on the street. It’s only the two-dimensional people on the billboards that foll
ow you from the second you land at the airport that are always smiling.

  One of the men came toward me. He was a short broad-shouldered chap in yellow shorts over muscle-bound thighs that looked like they’d been molded from cement. “Want fight?” he asked with a grin, revealing black teeth. He made boxing gestures to demonstrate. “Maybe later,” I said like a stupid tourist instead of just keeping quiet and moving on.

  Sometimes the little traps are the most dangerous. You fall into them when you drop your guard for a second, and you always pay the price in the end.

  The three-story building in the back had suffered the ravages of time, its walls stained by dark patches of mold from the monsoon rains. Narrow wooden stairs led from one floor to the next. On the first floor were rooms, if that’s a suitable name for the cramped tiny spaces separated by plywood that kept nothing out, not roaches, not spiders, and not the sound of people fucking at night. A room cost two hundred bahts, all a typical Israeli backpacker could afford on their limited budget. A girl emerged from one of the rooms and headed toward the communal shower carrying a towel and soap.

  I was about to try the friendly approach when I saw the look of loathing on her face. I suspected it was a reflection of the humiliation she was suffering now that all the great guys she had joined up with in India only had eyes for Thai girls with their cute butts and little pussies, leaving her to go shave her pits in frustration and blame her tour of duty in the Israel Defense Forces for her big ass.

  Room 208 was at the end of the hall. I knocked on the thin plywood board purporting to be a door. No answer. I stuck my ear against it and knocked again. Nothing. But I could tell there was someone inside. I knocked harder.

  “Who’s there?” came an apprehensive voice behind the door.

  “I’d like to talk to you.”

  “What do you want?” There was fear in the voice now. “I don’t have it. Tell him I don’t have it.”

  “Stop whining. I’ve got your passport,” I said.

  The door was opened just as far as the rusty metal chain would allow.

  I’ve seen junkies in bad shape, but he was in a worse state than most. Micha Waxman was definitely not the sweet dream of every Jewish mother. He was her deepest, darkest nightmare. The sort of thing you can only expect from the neighbor’s loser son. The kid peering out at me had a skeletal unshaven face that was sweaty and jaundiced. He looked at the passport in my hand.

  “I’m sick, man,” he said. “I don’t have any money. Come back tomorrow. My parents are wiring me money.”

  “I don’t want your money, Micha,” I said. “I want to talk to you.”

  “Leave me alone. Can’t you see I’m hurting?” He tried to close the door, but my foot was already blocking it, and the metal chain wouldn’t do much good either.

  He moved back.

  “I’ll give you the passport. Promise.”

  He held out a skinny hand. His whole arm was dotted with needle marks and broken veins.

  “Hold on,” I said. “First I want to know where Sigal Bardon is.”

  “I don’t know who you’re talking about.” He was obviously scared. If there’s one good thing about heroin withdrawal it’s that it makes it impossible to lie. Not well, anyway.

  “C’mon, Micha,” I said. I was still keeping my tone amiable, but I was beginning to feel my good mood slipping away.

  “I swear,” he said, “on my mother’s life.” He clutched at the thin gold hamsa hanging from a chain around his neck and kissed it. I could see he was going to start crying if I pushed any harder, but I had no choice. I gave the door a shove. The rusty chain broke off. I grabbed his arm and twisted it slightly. He was such a wimp I knew just a little physical pain could be effective, but I wasn’t expecting the show he put on. He started screaming “ow” and “Mommy”—it’s interesting how your mother always shows up at times like this—and wept tears the size of monsoon raindrops. It was repulsive, too much for me to take. I’d already let go of his arm. What with all the bodily fluids leaking from it, I was worried I’d catch something ugly.

  “Quit it,” I said. “Calm down or I’ll slap you.”

  I found a small face towel on the bed and picked it up gingerly—God only knew what microbes were growing on it—and handed it to him.

  I’m not a violent guy by nature. On the contrary. I don’t think I got in more than one or two fights when I was a kid. But in the counterterrorism unit in the Army, I learned to use my arms and legs as supplementary weapons, or at least to hurry things along. Later, when I worked for the Security Agency, I polished my skills. Physical abuse became an interrogation tool. I found it useful, but I didn’t get any pleasure out of violence, neither mine nor anyone else’s. Well, maybe just a little.

  I was dripping in sweat. It was flowing in rivers down my arms and neck. The room was hot, and the small revolving fan on the brown wood chest of drawers in the corner was stuck in one position, not doing any good whatsoever.

  Micha wiped his face, pulled himself together, and sat down on the bed that was pushed up against the wall.

  “Where is Sigal, Micha?” I asked again.

  “I don’t know anything,” he answered. “I don’t know where she is. She hit me up for some dope. We shared it. That’s all. I swear. That’s all. She was only here for a second. Then she disappeared. Look, her stuff is still here,” he said, pointing to a small brightly colored pouch, the kind the kids pick up in Nepal.

  “Li-ar,” I said, drawing out the syllables to make it sound threatening.

  He started shaking again, a sign either of fear or withdrawal. It didn’t matter. The more he shook, the more aggravated I got.

  “You went to the train station with her,” I said, coming closer. “What did you do there?”

  He covered his face with his hand to fend off a slap. “I have nothing to do with it. Leave me alone. She asked me to help her with the bag.”

  The small cloth pouch Sigal had left behind was open. I rummaged through it: light cotton clothes, a few fashionable lacy bras, mostly black, high-end brands—I understand that sort of thing—thongs, an open box of tampons, a toiletry kit, a cosmetic bag.

  “What was in the other bag?”

  I’d lost him. Micha Waxman was sitting on the bed staring at me wide-eyed. He was sweating profusely, wiping his face over and over with the filthy little towel.

  “You’re not gonna hurt me?”

  I didn’t answer him immediately. I did a tour of the room to make sure I hadn’t missed anything.

  “Are you a dealer,” I asked, “or just a dumbass user?”

  He pulled back even further until he was up against the wall.

  “You’re on your way to the Bangkok Hilton,” I told him. “And once you’re there, you don’t leave so soon, if ever.”

  I turned to leave. Suddenly, he came alert. “Aren’t you gonna give me my passport?”

  “We’ll see,” I said as I walked out.

  I needed fresh air. There was no question the little shithead knew more than he was saying, but heroin had sent him off into other lands. I’d have to catch him off guard when he wasn’t strung out, I thought, exiting the building.

  I started making my way back up the alley. Just before I reached the boxing arena, my path was blocked. The broad-shouldered boxer with the short legs and yellow shorts grinned, again revealing his rotten teeth. If he’d been alone, I might have given him a reason to see the dentist, but he wasn’t, so I didn’t put up any opposition. It was better to get it over with quickly. They all had cement legs, without any feeling or nerves, and it wouldn’t make any difference to them if I managed to land a punch or two.

  Muttering falang kai nuk—white men are bird shit—one of them punched me in the stomach. It was the type of blow that doesn’t leave a bruise. The air was knocked out of me, and I couldn’t breathe. Another guy kicked me while I was down and said in a mixture of Thai and English, “Falang, go home.” His meaning was utterly clear despite the heavy accent.


  The bastards didn’t even bother to leave. That was their righteous spot, under the sacred ficus tree. They sat back down and poured themselves another round of Mekhong, not so much as glancing in my direction. Someone had told them to give me the old one-two, just a taste, to see how tough I was. So that’s what they did.

  Someone was sending me veiled messages, and I don’t like that. Even in our dark world you ought to make yourself clear. Who was behind it?

  But I didn’t take it to heart, even though my ribs hurt. I hoped they weren’t cracked. You can’t take anything to heart in Bangkok. If you don’t keep your cool, you won’t last long in a country where for a few bahts you can hire a pack of bullies to beat up a foreigner. They probably didn’t even know why. All they cared about was earning enough for another cheap bottle of Mekhong.

  When I got back to the street, the annoying cab driver was still there, waiting for me.

  “You see her?” he asked.

  “Fuck off,” I said. I wondered who he was working for.

  He didn’t let it go. “You falangs come here, think you very smart. Think you know Thailand. You not know nothing. Falang like bird shit. White and thick.”

  I wasn’t eager to use the services of the poetic driver again. I didn’t have the slightest doubt he hadn’t fallen out of the sky but had been sent by someone, even if I still didn’t know who. But my whole body ached.

  “You’re not the first person to tell me that today,” I said collapsing onto the back seat, my hands pressing against my painful ribs.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  FISHING FOR CLUES means you’re sometimes forced to play nice with the powers that be. I can’t say that’s my forte, but it’s part of the job. The following afternoon I set out for the Israeli embassy, deliberately timing my visit so I’d be there toward the end of office hours.