Bangkok 8 sj-1

by John Burdett

  "What are you saying?"

  "I'm saying I couldn't let them do what they planned, not even to a bum-boy." I am still puzzled and wrinkle my brow, wondering if it is alcohol poisoning which has paralyzed my brain functions. "I decided to outline my problem to my brother and let him guide me. I didn't tell him about the tape, he knew nothing of its existence. He meditated for a day and called me. His solution was elegant, clairvoyant and radical, like Buddhism itself, and consisted of one sentence: Give her the tape. Call me a superstitious old man, but I gave it to her, just a few days before she murdered Bradley with those snakes. Naturally, she understood everything, once she had seen the tape and that poor Russian woman with that gold stick in her navel."

  I stare at him, then can hardly resist a smile. "With that tape she controls Warren? She made him come here, to Thailand?"

  "That is correct. We've all underestimated her. She's turned him into her slave. I guess you could say it is justice Thai-style."

  "But what about Warren's minders, those Khmer?"

  A scoffing sound from deep in his throat. "She always controlled them. Warren and Bradley hired them in a panic when the Russians started putting on the squeeze, but how could Bradley communicate except through Fatima? Those animals only speak Thai and Khmer. Sure, Warren speaks Thai, but he's not here all the time and they don't trust farangs. Her people are all from the jungle, she understands how those goons think. Warren and Bradley saw no danger because they underestimated Fatima. Little by little Fatima turned herself into a religious figure for those Khmer. They're all lost since the civil war, and since Pol Pot died. For them she's like a return to the old days, with transsexual shamans, apocalyptic visions-plus she's provided them all with Harley-Davidson motorbikes and Uzi machine guns. She's like a combination of Pol Pot, Father Christmas and a Hindu death goddess, all in one."

  The mind likes truth. It will work quite hard to make the connections, once the pieces are all on the board. "She and Warren invited me to Warren's shop two days ago, I watched her destroy his most expensive piece of jade-a priceless piece, and a whole lot of other stuff."

  "She's toying with him. I don't know what she has in mind. She's the cat, he's the mouse. She's enjoying herself. The worm has turned." He raises his eyes, the lazy one still half covered by its lid. "Actually, she's toying with all of us. An interesting situation, no?"

  "You have no idea-?"

  "None. I don't know what she has planned. I always kept Fatima at arm's length. I only used her to report that the shipments had arrived safely and the product duly moved across the city. Bradley was a fool if he didn't guess someone was checking up on him every minute of the day. Some of those shipments were worth twenty million dollars. And I'm not talking about the jade." A pause while he rubs the side of his nose. "Actually, I don't like the trade at all, but we have to keep our people awake somehow."

  "How did she manage with those snakes?"

  "She's Karen, her people sell endangered species to the Chinese all the time, and the Chinese like their snakes fresh. The Karen have become expert in the transportation of live reptiles. She simply told them what she wanted and paid them. She probably did it with a single phone call."

  He raises his hands and shoulders. "Fatima is out of control, but with that tape she controls Warren. Why kill him while she's having fun using him as a slave and destroying him slowly?"

  "And through Warren she controls you too? I saw you at the Bamboo Bar a few nights ago."

  An old man's sly glance. "You did?"

  "Dr. Surichai was there."

  He swallows hard and stares at me. "Fatima wants to do to the world what the world did to her. It's not just a question of killing Warren-he didn't make the world. See? And now that she controls Warren, she controls everyone. Of course, when I was summoned I went to watch her sing. Warren insisted-he more or less went down on his knees to plead with me-because that's what Fatima wanted."

  "All that fuss just to get you to go to a jazz club to watch her sing 'Bye Bye Blackbird'?"

  "If you weren't such a fucking saint you'd understand. She's in control for the first time in her life, she's running the world. She's the empress, people indulge her every whim-or else. It gave her a kick to see me hop at her command."

  He leans forward to turn the gun around so that the handle is pointing at me and the barrel at him. "Kill me if you have the guts. You have the right, it's my fault your partner is dead."

  At that moment I turn at the sound of soft padding across the floor. This young woman's black hair is short, almost cropped, and there are three earrings in each ear. She is wearing jeans and a black top with bootlace straps which reveal an elaborate chrysanthemum tattoo over her right breast. My first thought is that she must be one of his daughters, but I remember from the gossip that the tattoo belongs to Da, the Colonel's fourth mia noi, or minor wife. She hardly gives the gigantic revolver more than a glance, wais to me and-with a glance of contempt as she registers Vikorn's drunkenness-asks rather briskly if we need tea or drinks? If not, she would like Vikorn's driver to take her into town, where she has an appointment with a girlfriend. The Colonel irritably agrees to let her have the car and driver and we watch her pad across the floor barefoot. Vikorn makes a wobbly gesture with one hand.

  "A mistake. I'm a dinosaur, Sonchai, and I didn't realize how our country has changed. In the old days when you took a mia noi all you had to do was to feed her and her family and give her a baby or two. Now"-he shakes his head-"self-improvement is all the rage. I've paid for hairdressing classes, beautician classes, tattooing classes, endless aerobic classes and the latest is Internet software. She claims she's bored out of her brain at home and wants to start her own Internet cafe. She doesn't seem to want kids at all. She tells me we have a deal, a contract. She gives me her body whenever I have the strength, she's faithful to me, in return I finance her upward mobility. You might say she's a living fusion between East and West."

  "It doesn't sound too bad a deal."

  "I know, but where's the romance? She isn't even scared of me. Did you see the way she looked at that gun, as if to say: The old man is playing his games again? Yesterday she said to me: 'Are we doing sex tonight or can I watch the football?' Since when did our women get obsessed with football?"

  "It's been going on for quite a while. I can confirm they often prefer it to sex."

  "She's the most ambitious and the least contented of all my wives. This is liberation, to be permanently unsatisfied? What kind of a world is this? I don't think I want to hang around in it much longer. Are you going to send me to my next incarnation or not?"

  The Colonel does not so much as stiffen when I lean forward to pick up the gun. I break it open to check the chambers, all of which are full. I realize that he is quite serious, that he would like me to kill him.

  "You think I'm bluffing?"

  "No, but I know at least one person who will doubt the gun was loaded, when I tell this story." I snap the barrel into place and put the gun back on the table.

  "So, how do you know the bullets are not blanks? You've spent too much time with the FBI, my friend, you've started thinking like an American." He picks up the gun and holds it shakily in both hands. "Honor is honor," he says. The shot makes a jagged hole in the glass wall and brings his security running from four directions. Still holding the gun, he waves them back where they came from. He replaces the gun on the table with a loud clack. The bang from the shot is still echoing in my ears and there is a steady tinkle of glass from the shattered wall in which lightning-shaped cracks have appeared. It is difficult to explain why this melodrama has only deepened my love for him. He says: "I don't know why I built a farang-style house. When I was younger I was impressed by the West. Now I can see how far we have lost ourselves. Look at that stupid window. What kind of idiot would build a wall of glass in the Tropics? Better small windows with shutters, high ceilings, a minimum of light, teak walls, the feeling of a living, breathing space." He looks away from me. Now, in
order to look at the fishermen he has to lean a little to one side. I can hear his thoughts, quite loudly, inside my head. He is talking to his brother, admitting that it would have been better to lead the life of a simple fisherman. His brother advises him not to mistake sentimentality for nirvana. Vikorn turns his attention to me with a helpless look on his face. "You heard that, didn't you? He's totally ruthless. Won't let me get away with anything."

  I watch while with some difficulty he rises from the armchair and beckons me to follow. He leads me to a small private theater consisting of a gigantic TV monitor and about twenty seats facing it. He tells me to sit down, leaves the room for five minutes, then returns with a videotape. "Naturally, I made a copy." Bending like a man ten years older than himself, he slides the tape into the machine on a shelf under the TV, and immediately a grainy black-and-white image of a young white woman with blond hair and Slavic features appears. She is wearing jeans and a tight T-shirt and smiling vivaciously, apparently determined to capture the attention of someone offscreen. She nods in response to some cue and begins to undress. The T-shirt comes off first to reveal a black bra and a gold stick which perforates diagonally the circumference of her navel. She fingers it whilst making an O of her mouth and sliding her tongue around the inside of the O. She bends forward from the hips whilst undoing her bra. She wiggles her torso to make her breasts wobble, but a quick frown followed by an obedient nod tells us that this is not pleasing to the audience. In a more serious mood she pulls off her jeans. Now she is naked except for a G-string. Apparently this is not erotic to the audience either, and with a slightly frustrated expression she pulls it off to stand naked with her hands on her hips, awaiting instructions. Puzzled, she raises her hands above her head and keeps them there for several seconds. There can be no doubt that the purpose is to highlight the gold stick in her navel.

  Vikorn freezes the tape at this point and turns to me with a quizzical expression. If one disregards the color of the skin, the resemblance to Fatima's body is startling. Vikorn presses the forward button. On instructions, the blond woman lowers one hand to finger the gold stick, erotically up and down, up and down, round and round, a combination of male and female masturbation.

  Now she lies on a bed behind her, full length, and once again the gold stick seems to dominate the screen. Her body language indicates that each time she stops fondling it, she receives a reprimand from her client. Now she turns over onto her front. Immediately two gigantic black hands take one of her wrists, bind it quickly with tape to the iron of the headboard while other hands-white with a filigree gold bracelet hanging from one wrist-bind her on the other side. She half closes her eyes and gives a convincing impression of a woman in deep lust. The camera takes in only her face and the upper part of her body, therefore one can only guess by her facial expressions that she is experiencing penetration. Her expression abruptly changes to one of profound physical shock at the first lash, which sprays blood lightly over her cheek. I scream at Vikorn to stop the tape.

  The TV screen is blank. Vikorn is looking at me with an expression of almost academic-and drunken-curiosity. "My brother talked about you and Pichai quite a lot. He said you were both very talented in different ways. He said your problem was your total lack of identity. You can be anyone you like, literally, but only for short periods of time. Who were you just then, the victim?"

  "Fatima, the first time she watched the tape," I mutter, ashamed of my weakness.

  To my surprise the Colonel puts his arm around me. "It's okay."

  A pause. I say: "I'll have to bring her in, won't I?"

  This question ages him still further. The skin under his strong jaw slackens somewhat. Now I can see the reptile in him: loose-skinned, prehistoric, cunning. This is the real punishment. Not rebirth in the body of an animal, but the eternal headache of trying to manipulate his way out of the consequences of his greed. With infinite weariness: "I suppose so."

  "Want to help?"

  "How can I?"

  "The Chinese?"

  He nods and grasps my arm. "Everything depends on them. If they choose to protect their man, we're finished, all of us. Fatima will broadcast the tape over the Internet and go ballistic. Who knows what she'll do? They took her humanity away-what has she got to lose? The Khmer will stand by her, they don't have anything to lose either. There'll be a bloodbath."

  At the door he reminds me of a toad, shrunken. A helpless gesture, then he grasps my arm again and a new light comes into his eyes. "The jeweler is a sick man, but he's also a genius. You should have seen him in his prime. The Chiu Chow love him. How d'you think I did so well myself? Everything comes out of Chinatown, you know? We Thais are only good for fucking, fighting, drinking and dying. That's what Warren taught me-and his Chinese friends." A long pause. "They were great days. The mountains of Laos are true Buddha country. Green, thick with mist in the morning, we used to climb like that"-a steep gesture with the palm of his hand-"until we reached six, eight, ten thousand feet. The air starts to get thin then, and it's ice cold. Pat would start his damned tape with 'The Ride of the Valkyries'-that was the first time I realized a farang might love a Thai. We crash-landed twice with bullet holes all over the plane. I shit in my pants, but that American aviator was like a superman. We got back to Long Tien somehow. The Hmong were wonderful, too. How could anyone understand the innocence of the opium trade? Warren was good to the Hmong, he forced his friends the Chiu Chow to pay top dollar-how about that? Even he had honor in those days."

  He stoops when he turns to go back into the house.

  50

  This isn't a whodunit, is it? More like a whatwillshedonext. While the FBI was here this question pressed on both of us as if it were inevitable that somehow we would reach one of those neat endings the West is so fond of, with all i's dotted and all t's crossed. Perhaps we were supposed to walk off into the sunset together, Jones and I, with no nifty Thai skeleton following us around, either? But Warren won at least that battle and I had to go to the airport to see her off last night. We were stiff, affectionate and melancholy all at the same time. Her eyes were pleading when she said, "I'm gonna miss you, Sonchai," so I had to make my eyes pleading when I said, "I'm gonna miss you too, Kimberley." Secretly, I lamented that her progress on the Path has not been as great as I might have wished. Of course she'll be back. In the meantime whatwillfatimadonext has turned into one of those open-ended Thai questions to which one does not necessarily expect an answer in this lifetime. Without that American impatience to drive me forward I'm not sure what, if anything, I myself will do next. Bring her in? The Colonel is reluctant and the possibility of a dastardly murder going unpunished does not enrage me as you probably think it should, farang. Of course I cannot forget Pichai-but did she kill him in any sense beyond the superficial? We all know who really dunit, don't we? And what, exactly, am I supposed to do about him, that prototypical Western man? And then, of course, there are my almost nightly conferences with my dead soul partner, which I've not told you about. These days, apparently, he is not in the least interested in matters arising from the destruction of his chemical body, which, on reflection, he is glad to be rid of. There are plenty of ways of getting in touch, he tells me mysteriously while we share the twilight zone between waking and sleeping.

  For a brief moment I think the United States of America will rescue me from this dilemma after all. Out of the blue I'm invited-summoned is probably a better word-to my second home, the U.S. Embassy on Wireless Road. I do not fail to notice a subtle increase in my respect quotient as I pass my friend on security at the gate-mixed with a fairly blatant splash of curiosity, I might add. Then my old companion from ancient times Katherine White arrives with the news that I am not going to the office of the FBI legal attache this time, but-a quick scan of my face to check that I'm fully cognizant of the honor I'm about to receive-to the ambassador's suite. A brisk march through those parts of the embassy designed to welcome kings and princes.

  The ambassador and her deputy are bot
h female and, ethnic origin aside, might have been cut from the same pattern of tall, slim women in their late forties with long arms, brisk manners and tones of voice which assume obedience. The ambassador is white and her deputy is black. I have been shown into the meeting after the massacre. I can almost see the careers of Rosen and Nape lying bloody and broken on the carpet. Nape is relying on what is left of his youth and options to see him through the meeting, but Rosen looks depressed. They are standing around a desk bigger than a king-size bed; only the ambassador is seated. Behind her the American flag hangs by a window at a slant and behind it lie the manicured gardens of the embassy. The deputy ambassador stands to one side.

  Graciously, the ambassador stands as I approach and shakes my hand while Rosen makes the introductions. I wonder if her politeness is a form of reproach to the others.

  "Well, I guess you know the main business of the hour, Detective?"

  "Is it that Mr. Sylvester Warren has disappeared?"

  "You got it. I've had faxes, phone calls and e-mails from two senators already, a call from the White House, an urgent fax from his lawyer in New York and some stuff from his staff." A glance at her watch, then at the deputy. "But I've got the Queen at noon, then I've got that flight to Tokyo. So I'm gonna leave it all to you. You can carry on in here, no point moving everyone to another room. Sorry to be leaving just when you've arrived, Detective. I sure hope you can help us. Your Colonel Vikorn was very complimentary about you over the phone this morning. He says you'll find him." A quick scan of my face. "That could be a very high priority." A last glance and nod at the deputy and she strode out of the room via a door near her desk.