Cassidy

by Morris West

‘Small arms, grenades, bazookas and anti-personnel mines – and an end-user certificate for – would you believe? – Chile?’

  ‘And who’s the highest bidder?’

  ‘Macupan Pharmaceutical. But settlement is fourteen days from now.’

  ‘So why, Sergeant, would they kill off their banker, Pornsri Rhana?’

  ‘I can’t answer that yet,’ said Donohue with a shrug. ‘We set up the skittles and knock ‘em down, until one day there’s a skittle that nobody can knock down…’

  Then Laura came back. Our flight was called. Donohue spread his protecting wings over us until we were seated, slap in front of the bulkhead in first class. Then he left us, locked in our capsule to enjoy our last eight hours of privacy.

  There was little we could do, except hold hands. There was little left to say after the long night when what we had agreed to lend had become a gift that neither of us wanted ever to take back. Yet we were not desperate any more. We were very quiet, floating on a swift current over which we had no control, which was whirling us inexorably towards a dark, uncharted sea. ‘When we arrive,’ Laura had said, ‘we must be formal with each other. We must be seen to be separate. My father is very astute. He is also very jealous, bred to the notion that the strongest of men is vulnerable through his women. You must make your decisions as if I did not exist, because I shall no longer be the woman you held in your arms last night. Do you understand what I’m saying, Martin?’

  Strangely enough, I did understand it. The gift we had exchanged was a freedom and not a bondage. The sweet sadness of the aftermath was an absolution from whatever might be done when we came, captives to circumstance, into Bangkok.

  The first few hours of the flight took us away from the lush coastal fringe and right across the arid heart of the continent. Looking down at the raw earth-colours of the land, furrowed by ancient cataclysms, scored by millennia of wind, and drought, and rare floods that turned it once again into an inland sea, I felt a sudden, piercing pang of loss.

  This was my land and I knew it hardly at all. This was my land and I had exiled myself from it, exiled my children from it – for what? A vendetta against a man now discredited as a rogue? A marriage that was already in peril? Hung like the Prophet in his coffin, between heaven and earth, I could see all the follies of my past, all the simple pleasures I had missed. What I could not see, as the desert unrolled itself like a prayer carpet towards the sunset, was the shape of the future – for me, for Pat, for the children. Everything was in confusion now. Everything was at risk.

  The steward brought us a menu. Then he brought us drinks and canapés. We toasted each other… ‘I wish you the best of everything, my love…’

  ‘And I you…’

  I asked, ‘Does your father travel with an entourage?’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t call it anything so grand. He has a secretary, a masseur who is also a bodyguard, and that’s it.’

  ‘He has no woman friend?’

  ‘Many, but no permanent lover. What makes you ask?’

  ‘I’m trying to build up a picture of the man I’m going to meet.’

  ‘Don’t. You’ll be creating an illusion. My father is not a simple man, but he works to one simple rule: always tell the truth; you can be sure most people won’t believe you.’

  ‘You’re saying I should believe him.’

  ‘Believe him, yes. Not necessarily like him or agree with him. I tell you this because I won’t be present when you meet. He will insist on a face-to-face encounter, alone in his suite.’

  ‘And what do I insist on?’

  ‘Nothing. You listen. He likes people who listen. You ask questions, if you want. Then you tell him you need time to think. He won’t object to that either. But when you come back, he will expect an answer, yea, nay or on specific conditions. He deals all the time with hard men. He despises weak ones…’

  Then lunch was served and, after lunch, a mindless police film with banging guns and maniac car chases and gutter dialogue. I listened to Mozart on the sound system. Laura dozed, with her head on my shoulder. I felt very tender towards her, grateful beyond words for the liberation of our night together. I felt as if the ice around my heart had suddenly splintered away and I was able to feel again, laugh and cry and lust and be afraid again – for Pat, for my children, for the small white vagrant spirit that was all I had left of Martin the Righteous.

  We touched down at Don Muang airport an hour before midnight. The stink of the delta and the fumes of a million trucks and cars lay over the city like a pall. The Thai officials passed us through with a smile. A driver in spotless white, with the insignia of the Oriental Hotel embroidered on his pocket, led us to an air-conditioned Mercedes and, with patriarchal caution, drove us at high speed along the military road into the city where, in the press of buses, taxis, farm trucks, samlors and a whole mobile junkyard of vehicles, he turned into a suicidal maniac.

  As we swung into the narrow alleyway that led to the entrance of the hotel, Laura leaned across and kissed me. We clung together for a moment. She told me: ‘Father doesn’t get up until eight-thirty. I swim every morning at seven. That would be a good time for us to meet. Good luck!’

  We walked into the hotel together; but immediately an unspoken protocol separated us. The Duty Manager took charge of Laura and whisked her towards the elevator.

  ‘Your father is waiting for you, Miss Larsen – in the Royal suite. This way please. Your luggage will follow.’

  His assistant was only a shade less courtly to me.

  ‘You have the Graham Greene suite, Mr. Gregory. It has a beautiful view right down the river. We hope you’ll enjoy your stay with us.’

  Let me say it now. The Oriental Hotel, Bangkok, is one of the great hotels of the world – an oasis of civilised comfort in a ramshackle delta city built on mud, hopelessly overpopulated, awash with stinking water in monsoon time, heavy with polluted air in the dry. If you could afford it, you could live and die there and never believe that such squalor existed. I stood on my balcony and looked up and down the river with its firefly traffic of small boats, and across the dark water to the godowns and teak barges on the further shore. The godowns had always been there, since the Chinese came, carrying porcelain and silk to trade for long-grained delta rice, the best in Asia. But behind the godowns, where once Conrad and Maugham and Noël Coward had seen palm groves and paddy fields, now there were the yellow lights of an urban sprawl, so dense that they had filled in the canals to accommodate it. Still, below me in the gardens of the Oriental there were palms and hibiscus and plumeria trees and bird of paradise flowers and small, perfect women who made their Western sisters look large and awkward, like farm horses among the fillies in a race of champions.

  The porter arrived with my luggage. A bell-boy came with him to present a peremptory message from Mr. Marius Melville: ‘Ten tomorrow morning, in my suite – M.M.’ Hard on their heels came a waiter to offer me a welcoming cup – a compound of rum and exotic fruit juices. He was followed by a chambermaid to unpack my clothes and take away any travel-stained linen. At one-thirty in the morning, still wakeful, I was sipping my drink and leafing through an early edition of Stamboul Train, when the telephone rang.

  ‘Mr. Gregory.’ The voice had a long Queensland drawl. This is John Marley, Federal Police. The Commissioner sent us a message about you. Just checking in.’

  ‘That’s a kind thought. Thank you.’

  ‘He also said to warn you that Möller has people here. They’ve got a dive they call an office down in Patpong Road. They send Filipino bands and singers up here – other things, too. If you get any funny calls or messages, please let us know.’

  ‘Happily, Mr. Marley. And thanks again.’

  ‘One thing more. General Rhana knows that you are in Bangkok. He has been told through the Thai Embassy that you wish to pay your respects. He has agreed to receive you. I suggest you call him early in the morning – nineish.’

  ‘Any briefing?’

  ‘His ra
nk says most of it. He’s not in the top echelon of the power structure, but he’s got a lot of clout just the same.’

  ‘How is he taking his daughter’s death?’

  ‘We have no word on that. He’s dealt only through the Embassy. He asked for the body to be shipped home and, so far as we know, the granddaughter is remaining at school in Switzerland. If I get anything else I’ll let you know… Sleep well, Mr. Gregory.’

  ‘You too, Mr. Marley.’

  ‘Fat chance, I’m afraid. The Thai police have just arrested two Sydney girls at the airport. They had two kilos of heroin each. They were going back on the plane you came in on. Silly little bitches never learn… My guess is they were just mules making a cover run for something much bigger. But the Thais have got their bust, so they’re happy. I’m going to be up all night.’

  It was then that I remembered Sergeant Donohue’s parting gift – a pocket pen and a pocket pencil, each of which fired a bullet, lethal at short range. As I laid them side by side on the table, they looked pitifully inadequate. Neither would stop a charging man unless the bullet hit him in the heart or the head. Essentially they were tools for an assassin, not for a man defending his life against assault. Still, they were all I had. I had best be grateful.

  Suddenly I felt deathly tired. I put the chain on the door, locked the French windows that opened onto the terrace, asked for a wake-up call, made my last ablutions, tumbled into bed and slept like the dead until the telephone jangled in my ear at six-forty-five.

  Laura was at the pool before me, swimming steady laps, breast-stroke, on the sunny side of the water. I dived in and fell into rhythm beside her.

  She said, ‘…Father’s in a strange mood. He doesn’t look well. He says the journey from Zurich exhausted him; but I think it’s something more than simple fatigue… I told him about the murder. He seemed very distressed. He said it could have profound effects upon his dealings here. He’s negotiated to build a new hotel on the far west coast, near Phuket, between Malaysia and Burma. It’s a big project that involves feeder air services, from Malaysia as well as Bangkok… So he’s most sensitive to public and political relations. He wanted to know what I thought of you. I didn’t tell him you’d shown Cassidy’s documents to the Federal Police. I’m relying on you to do that, as you promised.’

  ‘I’ll do it. What else did he ask?’

  ‘He wanted to know how you felt about Cassidy and what effect, if any, his death had had on your marriage. I told him I didn’t know, hadn’t asked and it wasn’t my business anyway. He accepted that; but grumbled that everything was important in business and women never seemed to understand that fact… Finally, he got around to the real question: could I work with you in a commercial enterprise?’

  ‘And you told him?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know until I tried. Then he asked who I thought would be the boss if we joined forces.’

  ‘And what was your answer to that one, Laura Larsen?’

  ‘I told him we wouldn’t know that either, until we had our first fight.’

  ‘In short, he’s thinking about an alliance. With me running Cassidy’s interest?’

  ‘He’s thinking about it. He won’t propose it until he’s met you and tested you.’

  ‘But you’ve met me and you’ve tested me.’

  ‘Only the love, Martin. The rest of you is still a mystery to me… You should go in now. Father’s terrace overlooks the pool. He’ll be stirring shortly.’

  Back in my room, I ordered breakfast to be sent up and then telephoned General Rhana. His English was fluent, if exotic, his manner reserved but meticulously polite. I told him I wanted to meet him, offer my condolences and give him whatever information he wanted about my brief association with his daughter. His response was more eager than I expected: he lived quite close, he could be with me in twenty minutes. He was punctual to the minute, a small, dapper man, immaculately tailored, with fine-boned features and sombre dark eyes. He joined his hands and bowed in greeting. He refused coffee, but accepted a glass of mineral water. He acknowledged my sympathies with grave dignity and then prompted me: ‘I should like to know, please, who you are, how you became connected with my daughter’s life and what you know of her very terrible death.’

  I told him everything I knew – which, even as I laid it out for him, seemed pitifully little. He listened carefully, asking only an occasional question; but the questions revealed a precise knowledge of his daughter’s affairs, of her relations with Cassidy and with the Melmar interests in Thailand. I ended by offering to visit his granddaughter in Switzerland and providing her with such family support as she would like to accept. Then I waited. He excused himself and went out to pace up and down the terrace. When he came back, I poured him another glass of mineral water and waited again. Finally he managed to set his thoughts to my alien language.

  ‘…I believe what you have told me, Mr. Gregory… it fits with what I know from my long association with Charles Cassidy and as a director of the Chao Phraya Trading Company… He and I got along well together. We were never close friends. What father can be a close friend of his daughter’s lover? But I liked him and respected him. He did not think in black and white, as so many westerners do. He understood that what appears to be one colour is a combination of many. He understood that what is good for one man is poison for another. The hill folk will die without the poppy harvest; addicts in other countries die because of it… We trade guns to the Chinese war lords in the triangle because we would rather have them as uncertain friends than certain enemies. Our country is a monarchy, modified by the army, modified by an electoral system and a precarious balance of commercial progress and social discontents. Cassidy understood these things. He never drove too hard a bargain. He didn’t mind paying squeeze provided he was not squeezed too hard. So, he got the protection he paid for. In the beginning, it was the same with Marius Melville. He let himself be guided by Cassidy. He let my daughter and me deal in our way with our own people… Am I explaining myself properly? This is not easy for me.’

  I told him he was explaining himself very well. I begged him to continue.

  ‘However, as Cassidy declined in health Mr. Melville changed, little by little. It was not so much a personal thing, you understand. It was all the changes that are taking place right across South-East Asia. The economic balance has shifted. Singapore can no longer compete with Taiwan. China is opening her frontiers to trade and tourism – and what will all her millions do to the manufacturing market and what kind of a consumer market will they become! Vietnam is now the occupying power in Kampuchea, so we are threatened on our north-eastern frontiers… Indonesia makes ready for a push into Papua-New Guinea. Marcos is gone; the Philippines are in new ferment… All these changes, Mr. Gregory, challenge the Americans who control the capital necessary for adaptation and survival. Mr. Melville represents that capital – at least, a very special and powerful section of it. So he is under big pressure. When he acts, it is not with the subtlety of Cassidy, because he does not control his own destiny as Cassidy did… He is much harsher, much more demanding. He has found friends here who approve that, because he has enabled them to shift a large part of their capital out of Thailand and into the United States… So, Mr. Gregory, Cassidy was your enemy, but you tried to be a friend to my daughter. I will try to be a friend to you… my daughter was not killed for drugs or money, but for more complicated reasons. Your police are investigating. I shall make my own enquiries. You may learn something from Mr. Melville. Whichever of us is the first to find out the truth will tell the other. Yes?’

  ‘Yes, General. And what happens then?’

  ‘The question is premature, my friend. There is a saying in the Ramayana… “A good hunter never shoots at a bird-cry. He waits until the bird is in full view.”… You have done me a great service, Mr. Gregory. Please call on me at any time.’

  Again, the joined hands and the bow and he was gone. I looked at my watch. Nine-thirty. I still had half an hour to spare befo
re my meeting with Marius Melville. I took out the organisation plans of the Cassidy/Melville enterprise which Donohue had enlarged from the microfiches and tried to fix them, as visual entities, in my memory. If Melville and I were going to talk turkey, this was the bird we would be talking about, a big, plump bird with a lot of meat on it for the folk at the High Table – and generous pickings for the underlings below the salt.

  Cassidy’s side of the diagram was clear and simple. All the dividends from all his interests flowed back to the Rotdrache trust in Switzerland. His organisation was vulnerable principally in its local partners – Thai, Korean, Filipino, Taiwanese, Indonesian. Melville’s organisation was much less easy to decipher. The lines of communication were much longer. They bent through more cities. Most of them ended in a box called, cryptically, ‘Holders unspecified’. Cassidy’s empire was smaller, more controllable. I guessed, from my experience of the US fiscal system and the practice of US lawyers, that there were many more shifts, stratagems and treacherous byways in the domains which Melville shared with the Honourable Society. I knew in my bones that, once Melville was gone, Laura would have no hope of controlling the ramshackle system. Her safest move would be to get out rich and let the vultures pick the corpse down to the bones. But this was her business and Melville’s, not mine. I was as well briefed now as I would ever be. I ran a comb through my hair, straightened my tie, clipped the pen and pencil into my inside breast pocket and rode upstairs to the Royal suite.

  The man who met me at the door of the elevator was young, well groomed, hard of eye and muscle and studiously polite.

  ‘You’d be Mr. Gregory. Welcome, sir. I hope you’ll forgive me, but I have to search you. It’s an inflexible rule, a built-in condition of Mr. Melville’s life assurance policies.’ He ran expert hands round my body and up and down my legs. ‘Thank you for your courtesy. If you’ll go straight ahead, sir, Miz Burton will take care of you.’

  Miz Burton, a well groomed woman in her late thirties, gave me a dazzling smile and led me into a large chamber walled in tinted glass, with a panoramic view of the delta. She offered me coffee, which I refused. She apologised profusely because Mr. Melville had been detained by an unexpected call from California. Then she left me to solace myself with a distant glimpse of Wat Arun, the Temple of Dawn, shining in the morning light.