by John Burdett
I feel like a man in a blindfold: is the next step an abyss or merely level ground? I take a long time to reply. “No, it’s okay. I’ll come now. Shall I come to the address on the card?”
“Yes, if that’s all right. And thank you.”
I call my mother to tell her to come mind the bar. She is in the middle of watching a soap (a family of wizards who live in a mysterious region above the earth and intervene in earthly affairs from time to time, especially in the love life of the lead couple, who are perpetually pursued by a light-stepping human skeleton—we like realism in our entertainment). My argument is compelling, however, and she arrives in about fifteen minutes in her Chanel business suit and her discreet perfume by Van Cleef and Arpels, dripping in gold. Some of the girls are returning one by one from their romantic trysts and, surprised to see the matriarch herself behind the bar, give her deep, respectful wais.
The apartment is close to Soi Cowboy, and it takes me only ten minutes to walk there. It is in Soi 23, a street famous for its restaurants, which cater to every conceivable taste (fussy French, flaky Chinese, Vietnamese, British, German, American, Japanese—we call it the “street of the hungry johns”). As I stroll up the soi, I have frequently to step off the pavement to avoid bumping into romantic couples, most of whom consist of middle-aged white men and Thai women in their twenties. (Cultural note: look closely, and you will see the girls are flinching away from embraces, despite what they are about to do, or have recently been doing, in private: a matter of face, farang.)
A modest building guarded by a few guys in security uniforms with handcuffs and night sticks hanging from their belts. Two of them are sitting at a makeshift table playing Thai checkers with bottle tops. I flash my ID and take the lift.
A door like any other opens onto something quite different. I count eight prayer rugs (richly colored in greens and golds, geometrical patterns only) laid out in parallel at an odd angle to the room as the young man from the bar lets me in. Something in his manner suggests an ancient Arab tradition of hospitality (he has suspended the heavy judgments for the time being, even morphed into gracious host), and he manages a wai, which I return. I’m distracted, though, by the other person in the room, a man in his sixties with a long robe and a skullcap, who rises from a chair to wai me mindfully. I wai back. Wais are more than just a matter of placing your hands together and raising them to your face, however; they are a social semaphore with a whole alphabet of meaning. Let me be frank, those who embark on the spiritual path have ways of recognizing each other’s rank, and this imam impresses me immediately. (Thin and straight, there is depth and fire in those coal-black eyes.) I raise my pressed palms as high as my forehead and pause there for a moment, a form of homage that pleases and impresses the young man. (Under the rules a Buddhist cop need not show such reverence to a southern Muslim, however senior.)
“Welcome, stranger. Our house is your house.” The old man offers the traditional welcome in that power whisper I recognize from my phone call. He nods to the young man.
“My name is Mustafa Jaema,” the young man says, “and this is my father, the cleric Nusee Jaema.”
I do not disguise my surprise. Although rarely photographed, Nusee Jaema is often in the news these days as a moderate voice in the far South, respected by Buddhists as well as his Muslim followers. There are those who believe that he alone holds back the threat of insurrection—for now. I know he lives in a town in the far South called Songai Kolok.
“I am Detective Sonchai Jitpleecheep,” I say, “but then you already know that.”
“Let us sit,” says the imam, elegantly descending to one of the prayer rugs and tucking in his feet. His son and I do likewise.
“Please do not be afraid,” Mustafa says.
The imam raises a hand. “Forgive my son, he is thinking of the American, Mr. Mitch Turner.” To Mustafa: “The Honorable Detective is not afraid, his intuition is too good, and anyway there are only the three of us.” To me: “We asked the others to leave us in peace. I’m afraid that too many Muslims in one room these days sends shivers down Buddhist spines. Is that not so, Detective?” I shrug. He studies me for a moment. “I give thanks that Allah has blessed us with a man tonight.” Darting eyes from his son. “Let us cut to the chase, as Americans love to say. Why are we here? Why have we invited you? Mustafa, tell the Detective everything.”
In the presence of his father, Mustafa has become self-conscious. He garbles his words. “As you know, Songai Kolok is on the border with Malaysia, where half the world’s computer components are made.” A glance at the old man. “We were eavesdropping on the American. We followed him here.”
A sigh from the old man. “It is in the nature of youth to begin at the end and work backward. The beginning, Mustafa, if you please.”
I watch Mustafa compose himself. “We knew Mitch Turner. Everyone in Songai Kolok knew him. That was his problem. Our problem too.” I half-expect the old man to interrupt again, but both are questioning me with their eyes. Do I understand? How smart am I? Smart enough to be trusted?
The old man coughs. “I think I do not need to bore a man of your discernment with irrelevant detail. Will it suffice to say that our people called my attention to his presence the minute he arrived in our town?”
“My father has organized an intelligence network,” Mustafa says proudly. “It is necessary.”
“You guessed the American’s profession,” I supply. “Perhaps not all of your fellow townspeople were hospitably inclined toward a farang spy?”
“Exactly,” from the imam in a tone of relief. “He was a source of great anxiety to me and my supporters. Can you guess the rest?”
“Word spread locally, then down into Malaysia? Perhaps as far as Indonesia?”
A profound nod from the imam. “I cannot control all the young men in Southeast Asia. We received many requests, some more polite than others, some barely disguised demands with menaces . . .”
“For assistance in killing him?”
“Yes. And with the escalation in violence in our part of the country—the somewhat heavy-handed way the government is dealing with it—it was becoming difficult to continue to protect him.”
“You were protecting him?”
Gloomily: “Who else? His people could not even protect their own skyscrapers.”
The harsh irony takes me by surprise. I stare at the old man. “You feared a backlash from the government if he were assassinated?”
“Let us be frank, he was CIA and looked like every young fanatic’s idea of an arrogant American predator. If he were murdered in the South, Washington would be sure to put still more pressure on Thailand. We were terrified of an Internet beheading. More pressure, more backlash, and so the vicious circle continues until we are all rounded up and placed in camps. This was my fear. When we were told yesterday that he had been murdered—you are not the only one who can bribe a receptionist, Detective—I knew I had to come to Krung Thep to assess the situation.”
My eyes flick to Mustafa: serious, intense, a young man with a mission quite free of troubling nuance. There could hardly be a greater difference between him and his subtle father. The old man reads my mind without effort.
“Oh yes, my son also is tempted by the world of black and white. Of course, everyone who enters that tunnel believes they are on the side of the white. Is that not so, Mustafa?”
“I have always obeyed you, Father.”
“Obeyed without understanding. And when I’m dead, will you remember my wisdom?”
Mustafa looks away, then back to me. Adoration of his father may be the most human trait in this stern young man. “Have you any idea how much the Muslim majority did not want the United States to make a total asshole of itself and encourage the radicals? My father’s position is very difficult.”
I say: “What d’you want me to do? I should probably take you in for questioning. After all, you seem to know a lot about the murder victim.”
A stiffening from Mustafa, bu
t the imam is not perturbed. There is a twinkle in those old eyes: “But that would upset your Colonel’s cover-up, would it not? We understand that one of your, ah, employees was responsible.”
I nod. “I understand. You want to make sure nobody blames a Muslim?”
“Would that not be both a fair and truthful result?”
I want to play every cop’s game of I ask the questions, but there is a higher calling. I accept the old man’s challenge to look into his eyes. “Yes.”
“Then a man of your integrity would want to be sure that justice was done?”
I raise my hands in an extravagant shrug. “You must know it is not up to me.”
Mustafa shifts on his rug. “Your Colonel is well known throughout the country. He is very wily. If things go wrong with his plans, he will start blaming us for sure. He has no morality at all.”
“If he does, what can I do?”
“Warn us,” Mustafa says, “that we may prepare.”
A long silence. The imam’s concentration is unwavering as he looks at me.
“We want you to come down South to see us.” He makes a curious gesture with his right hand, as if he is caressing an invisible creature. “You see, we knew Mr. Turner quite well. He was here to spy on Muslims, of course. Now he’s dead, murdered. That in itself is sufficient for the Americans to feel justified in whisking some of my people away to unknown locations, interrogating them, perhaps torturing them, using up years of the lives of innocent men—husbands and fathers upon whom their families depend. I cannot simply wait and do nothing.” He studies me.
“I see. That’s really what you came for? You think all it takes is for you to show up in Krung Thep, call me over to your apartment, and get me on your side for the sake of a God I don’t believe in?”
The old man winces. “Not for Allah—who cares what name you call him? I see that in the language of your prophet the Buddha you are an awakening being. You cannot allow yourself to be the instrument of a serious defilement that may cost many lives. For you that would be impossible. Within your belief system, how could you even contemplate the endless lives of suffering you would have to endure? We want you to come see us in Songai Kolok—I’m sure your Colonel will agree. After all, a certain amount of background will prepare you for when the CIA arrives, will it not?”
“But what do you get out of it?”
“Your integrity. We ourselves could not hope to persuade the Americans that, far from killing Mr. Mitch Turner, we were exerting ourselves to save his life. But coming from a Buddhist policeman who has conducted an inquiry and made a written report—”
“Something to wave at the media or a judge?”
The imam surprises me with a broad grin. “Is this not the way wars are won in the modern world? And of course, look how much merit you will make.”
“You seem to know a lot about Buddhism.”
“I’m Thai. My mother was Buddhist until she converted at my father’s insistence. I am not a fanatic. Educated clerics know that Islam did not suddenly appear from nowhere. It bears many influences, some of them surely Buddhist and Brahminic. It is the youngest of the great religions, which is why we see it as the perfection of a spiritual path as old as man himself.”
Who could not be moved: this rail-thin old man who must loathe Bangkok and all it stands for, on a pilgrimage with his son and a group of disciples for the sake of peace; the shrewdness to understand the political implications of Mitch Turner’s death; the naÏveté to stake everything on a five-minute assessment of my character. But there is more here.
“Exactly how well did you know Mitch Turner?”
Mustafa turns to his father. This is a question they anticipated. “We asked him to leave, once,” the old man says with a sigh. “Unfortunately, our visit to his apartment had the opposite effect. The Western mind is wild and unpredictable, devoid of center. He came to see me several times after that, and I offered what solace I could to an infidel. You Buddhists have your nirvana, we have Allah, even true Christians have a path of sorts, beset though it is by childish miracles. But what of these products of capitalism like Mr. Turner? Human souls locked out from God forever. One hears their screams of anguish even while they drop their bombs, these young people who have no idea who they are. They think they are killing others. They are killing themselves. I warned him of his death wish, but a good part of his identity had already been annihilated. He was a collection of cover stories.”
A long pause. “Now I understand better,” I say. “In any investigation it will be discovered that you knew him, that he came to see you, that you were able to eavesdrop on him. You’re right, it won’t look good.”
“Come,” Mustafa says in a voice of such urgency I think for a moment he intends to take me out of the room. “Come to Songai Kolok. We know about you. You are a complex man, but truthful. You take your Buddhism seriously. If you make your report early, exonerating us, it will be difficult for anyone to contradict later.”
“But how can I justify a report when the case is closed?”
Impatiently: “Your Colonel will not fool the CIA. We don’t know the details of the cover-up, exactly, but it will certainly be a pack of lies. The Americans will be sending agents very soon, and everyone knows how dishonest they are. Would people who invade sovereign countries on false pretenses stop at anything? There are many interests in the West who benefit from wars with Islam.”
I shake my head, glance from one to the other. “So now you’ve made it my problem?”
I may be mistaken, but I do believe I glimpsed a smile pass over the old man’s lips.
11
I’m wearing my earphones, listening to Rod Tit FM at the same time as wondering what to do about the noble imam and his son. I’m of a mind to call Vikorn, who has flown up to his mansion in Chiang Mai for a few days. Subtext: to be with his fourth mia noi, or minor wife, a spirited young woman who doesn’t take any nonsense from the gangster—and won’t have his kids either, a revolutionary form of mutiny that Vikorn has never had to deal with before. My mind flits to Pisit, who is nattering in my ear about how superstitious we Thais still are. He is taking his rage out on a moordu, a professional seer and astrologer whom Pisit clearly despises.
Pisit: Take the current trend to buy lottery predictions.
Seer: Yes?
Pisit: I mean, how pathetic. Thais are spending more on these little pamphlets that you see all over the newsstands than we spend on pornography.
Seer: Is it your point that pornography would be a superior superstition?
Pisit: My point is that pornography is not a superstition at all. In other countries newsstands make money from honest lust, not medieval mumbo jumbo. Do you have any input into these predictions?
Seer: No, I’m not qualified.
Pisit: Oh, so there’s a branch of your profession with special qualifications to predict next week’s winning lottery numbers?
Seer: You could say that.
Pisit: And could you tell us what is the success rate?
Seer: It depends. Some have a high degree of accuracy—they can improve one’s luck by as much as fifty percent.
Pisit: Just by someone like you staring into a crystal ball?
Seer: Not exactly. You see, someone pays a bribe to the lottery operator, then they make a profit by selling the information to the pamphleteers. They have to pretend it’s mumbo-jumbo, as you put it, and dilute the success rate, or someone will get suspicious. It’s not as risky as bribing an operator, then winning the lottery outright. People get caught that way.
I finally summon the courage to call Vikorn, who hates to have to deal with business when he’s at his retreat in Chiang Mai. He listens, though, and I note a catch in his voice when he says: “Nusee Jaema is involved? You’re sure?”
“Yes. You know him?”
“Of course. He’s the main moderate influence down there. He set up a network, which his son runs. He’s walking a tightrope. If he cooperates with us, his people might
see him as a traitor. If he doesn’t, he might be seen as a militant.”
“What kind of network?”
“Information. You better go down there, see what you can find out.”
There’s nothing for it, it seems, but a trip to the benighted South. But back at the bar next morning I am distracted, not for the first time, by an e-mail message on a computer monitor:
Michael James Smith, born in Queens, City of New York, Social Security Number: 873 97 4506, profession: attorney; marital status: divorced (five times); children: three; financial position: wealthy; criminal record: none, successfully avoided conviction for substance abuse a number of times, by hiring an expensive lawyer. Military service: enlisted for Indochina War, 1969–70, rank of major; served with honor (Bronze Star and Purple Heart); believed to have attended detox program for alcoholism during March/April 1988; active member of Veterans Against the War.
The e-mail comes from one Kimberley Jones, an FBI special agent who worked with me on the cobra case. The karmic reward I continue to enjoy from refusing to sleep with her, despite a campaign of threats, bribes, cajoling, and tantrums on her part, is that she has become a friend for life. (The karmic price is that she still won’t give up—this particular message is unique in that it is entirely free of sexual innuendo, declarations of undying lust, or the legendary fury of a woman scorned.) I am now inestimably in her debt, for she has adopted Thai ways to the extent of putting personal feelings before abstract duty and used the FBI database to illegally obtain these precious details of Michael James Smith, attorney, Vietnam war veteran, former user of Thai prostitutes (at least one, once), and father of at least four children, not three. My cell phone rings even while I’m staring at the screen.
“You got it?”
“Yes.”
“You’re reading it right now, aren’t you?”
“Yes. How did you know that?”
“Love intuition. How do you feel?”