by John Burdett
“And you?”
“Me?”
“Why have you changed your image? I thought you were committed to American pie?”
A hostile look from Jones. “You want to know? I got tired of being invisible in this damn town. Girls have egos, that’s the main message of the twenty-first century, so better get used to it.”
“You weren’t turning any heads?”
A smoldering pause. “I don’t entirely blame the Western men over here. I met Nape’s wife last night. She’s stunning and walks like her parents paid a million dollars for comportment classes. But then, most of the women here move like that, don’t they? Even the ones with no education at all.”
“Have the haircut and the T-shirt helped?”
“Nope. Can we talk about you now?”
“I’m a career inadequate. Ask my Colonel. In ten years I’ve made no useful contribution to the force.”
“You feel guilty about not taking bribes?”
“You must understand, the Royal Thai Police Force has always been way ahead of its time. It’s run like a modern industry, every cop is a profit center.”
“Yes, I’ve heard about that. I guess a cop enjoys immunity from prosecution for just about everything, right?”
I have to think about that one. “Cops giving evidence against cops in open court would not be good for the esprit de corps. Transgressions are dealt with internally.”
“Oh yeah? What happens to the bad apples, they’re barred from taking bribes for a week?”
“Something like that, unless they’re really bad.” I’ve piqued her interest. She smells blood and a damn good story for the guys back home.
“C’mon, let me have it, what medieval punishment for the ones who really piss off the colonels?”
“Mandatory suicide,” I mutter. “We are a gentlemanly service and extreme transgressors are expected to act like men, after due process.”
“A kangaroo court?”
An image flashes before my mind. I’m not the type who is normally invited to these secret proceedings. It has only happened to me once: a somber mood in a large bare room full of chairs, cops of all ranks selected from every district in Krung Thep, a very scared sergeant sitting in the defendant’s chair, a small table in front of him with a service revolver and a glass of water. I want to change the subject. “It’s not all bad. Take a young farang who’s caught with some ganja. He pays five thousand baht to the cop who caught him, which is a reasonable sum. He gets off with a lesson and a fright. If he were prosecuted and sent to jail in Bang Kwan, his life would certainly be ruined. He would risk all kinds of diseases, probably incur a serious drug addiction. Our system is humane and compassionate. It is also cost effective. The cop receives a bonus without any extra burden on the taxpayer. Police salaries have been at starvation level forever.”
Jones cannot decide if I’m serious or not. “Well, that’s a long way from the American viewpoint. It’s a given that our laws are applied evenly to every citizen—the alternative is total sleaze.”
“In that case, why aren’t we investigating Sylvester Warren?”
Her head snaps away and she is looking out the window. “Cute, aren’t you?”
A long silence. Finally, she slowly turns her head back toward me. “Actually, that’s exactly what we’re doing. Only don’t tell anyone.”
32
We are sliding past the American embassy on Wireless Road in moderate traffic, heading toward Lumpini. Jones and I both spare a glance at the thick white walls. It was the King’s birthday a few days ago, and one of the gates to the embassy carries a banner which reads LONG LIVE THE KING. It’s the kind of touch we appreciate from Uncle Sam.
Jones shifts her gaze away from the embassy. “Every time anyone dusts off the file on Warren, Warren himself gets to hear about it. Pressure and heat. Memos and e-mails demanding to know why resources are being wasted on a case consisting of innuendo and gossip. Once a station chief was shifted sideways. But we have our cops of integrity, just like you. A small team is secretly dedicated to the Warren case. That’s why I’m here. Rosen doesn’t know, neither does Nape. They think I screwed up somewhere and got myself a punishment posting. That’s fine. That’s what I want them to think. So don’t you open your mouth. I’m telling you because you’re going to help me. I’ve spent a chunk of my career on this and it’s going to get me promotion. I know all about Warren and his jade.”
“Tell me.”
“Does the name Barbara Hutton mean anything to you? How about Woolworth? Her daddy built the tallest skyscraper in Manhattan until Chrysler went higher. The Sassoons? They were very big in Shanghai before the Chinese revolution. The list is almost endless and includes Madame Chiang Kai-shek, Edda Ciano, who was Benito Mussolini’s daughter, Edwina Mountbatten, the mother of the Queen of England, all the way up to Henry Pu Yi. You’ve heard of him?” I shake my head. “Better known as the last Emperor of China.” A reverent pause. “What do all these people have in common? They were major players in global finance before anyone called it that. They were the swinging thirties, the roaring forties. And they started a new fashion in gems. Before them only the Chinese and a few Western specialists really appreciated jade. After them, if you didn’t have at least a few pieces of ‘the stone of heaven’ to flash at dinner parties, you didn’t get invited to the dinner parties. Of course, they’re all dead now, or too old to care about jade, but jade was their passion, it was a common theme. You can’t look into their private lives without it leaping out at you. And they all have heirs, who are pretty damned old themselves.
“You may as well know that Warren studied under someone called Abe Gump. He was an antique dealer in San Francisco who got interested in Oriental art when all his Italian marble, French clocks and just about everything else was destroyed in the San Francisco earthquake. He was blind but one hell of a connoisseur. He was a legend in the thirties for being able to value a piece of jade just by feeling it. He was Barbara Hutton’s tutor when she wanted to learn about jade.
“So when the great families of the prewar period came out of the war and the various communist revolutions relatively poor, perhaps even destitute, they thought about selling their jade to people like Abe Gump and then later to Sylvester Warren. There’s an old Chinese proverb: Better to invest than to work, better to hoard than invest. You’ve probably heard it? Well, Sylvester Warren learned that lesson. He’s one hell of a hoarder. But even hoarders have to know when to sell. You might say a signal flashed around the world to all jade hoarders in September 1994 when Barbara Hutton’s jadeite wedding necklace was sold at auction in Christie’s Hong Kong for U.S.$4.3 million. Madame Chiang Kai-shek made a bid but lost. She wanted the necklace for her hundredth birthday. She bid by telephone from her apartment in Gracie Square on the Upper East Side. All of a sudden jade was the biggest news again in the gem industry, but with one catch. The necklace was imperial jade, the highest quality that exists, from the Kachin Hills in Burma, and could be traced back to the Forbidden City. Without that cachet, the stones might not have fetched a tenth of that amount. It’s like Elvis Presley’s guitar. Without the illustrious pedigree it’s just a very good secondhand guitar.”
“You think Warren was using Bradley to fake these pieces?”
“We just don’t know. It’s a hypothesis, like Nape said. Unlike what Nape said, I work with people in Washington who are very interested in Warren. I’ve studied him and his business more or less nonstop for three years. I even know all about Far Eastern art. Test me.”
“What are the six postures of the Buddha usually represented in religious sculpture?”
“Vitarka mudra—seated with thumb and forefinger of right hand touching; seated in the lotus with one hand on top of the other in his lap; seated with one hand on his lap, the other on his knee; seated with right hand touching the earth; standing with palms up facing outward; standing with one palm up, the other pointing to the earth, known as restraining the waters.”
; “That’s good. Very good. Want to test me on Western culture?”
“What are the names of the Seven Dwarfs?”
I feel I know the answer to this question, but cannot retrieve it without the aid of meditation.
We have ground to a halt in a jam where Wireless Road meets Rama IV. Immediately in front, a small red light swings to and fro at about ten feet above the ground. “Am I seeing what I think I’m seeing?”
“They have to use taillights at night. It’s the law.”
“I’m feasting my eyes. That must be the only law in Bangkok that’s seriously enforced.”
We drive around the elephant to turn left into Rama IV, and the stadium is only a few hundred yards further down. Jones’ driver lets us out and drives off. The courtyard in front of the stadium is crammed with cooked-food stalls and people eating and drinking, while behind them a crowd roars. Jones flashes her ringside tickets, and we walk through a tunnel which leads directly to the ring, which we walk around. Seats are not numbered, there are a couple of spaces in one corner. The stadium is packed while two fighters are slugging it out. We’ve arrived halfway through the fight and both men are exhausted. Now I recognize Mhongchai, who is up against his old enemy Klairput. No wonder there is such excitement. In Muay Thai fighters kick when Western boxers jab. Both men are bruised on both sides of their rib cages, and Mhongchai’s eyebrow has opened up. It is his main weakness, otherwise he is the stronger fighter. Klairput is too slow with a head kick, which allows Mhongchai to twist his foot between his gloves. The normal tactic is to send him flying to the floor or across the ring, but Mhongchai, the genius, adapts the move by spinning him round and coming in from behind with an elbow smash to the head. Now Klairput is laid out on the mat and the referee is counting. Klairput doesn’t bother to get up, he’s lost on points anyway so why take more punishment? A great roar from the crowd as the referee declares Mhongchai the winner. In the stalls, people rush to claim their money from the bookies, who stand with wads of banknotes clipped between their fingers, using their knuckles as an abacus. I’ve always admired the speed of ringside bookies. I used to be one about seventy years ago.
Jones orders a Coke while we wait for the next fight. She sucks a straw while she looks around the stadium and places her spare hand on my thigh. She leaves it there for a provocative thirty seconds before leaning toward me and whispering out of the side of her mouth: “Behind you, at ten to twelve. Wait a minute, then make it smooth and casual.” I do as I’m told and scan the seats behind long enough to catch Sergeant William Bradley and his paramour. I sit back in my seat and close my eyes to re-create the image of a huge Negro eating from an American-size tub of popcorn, and the dazzling woman beside him. She has taken the colors and frizz out of her hair and is wearing a green silk blouse, purple shorts. On reflection it is not William Bradley resurrected. This man is not quite so tall and is in poorer shape, gray in his hair. There is a substantial gut under the Hawaiian shirt, his face is puffy and he is slouching. I doubt that William Bradley was a sloucher. The resemblance, though, is uncanny. I look accusingly at Jones.
“It’s his older brother. We’ve been watching him for a couple of days. He took an American Airlines flight to Paris, then Air France to Bangkok, so he’s trying to be invisible. I found out from his hotel he was coming here tonight—the hotel sold him the tickets. I never hoped for a double whammy with the woman, though. She probably needs an escort as huge as that, men can’t keep their eyes off her. Shit.”
What I thought was pique turns out to be professional guilt. Jones looked over her shoulder once too often. Her eyes locked with the black man’s for a second, and the giant was on his feet, leading the woman through the stalls and up the aisle to the exit with unexpected agility. There is no way to get to the stalls from the ringside seats, so we rush back through the tunnel and watch while the Negro holds a cab door open for the woman to get in, then ducks in himself, smoothly and quickly. The cab is already driving down Rama IV by the time we reach the curbside. Jones curses. “I never figured he would sit in the stalls. A guy like that always sits ringside.”
“Did he recognize you?”
“No, he doesn’t know who I am. But he’s a professional. He’s done a lot of time, he doesn’t take chances. That wasn’t a runner he did, he was just taking precautions.”
Yet another persona is inhabiting Jones’ body. She is taut, focused, disciplined. The T-shirt and hot pants belong to the woman she was ten minutes ago and are now redundant as she dials her driver from her mobile to tell him to pick us up. She folds the mobile and says: “Okay, here’s what we do. We go to Bradley’s house now and hang out there. There’s no way Elijah flies fifteen thousand miles without checking out his brother’s house, and I’m sure he hasn’t done that yet. He’ll go at night, try to be incognito. He probably came to the kickboxing to pass the time until he figures it’s the moment to go to the house.”
“Muay Thai,” I correct as we get in the Mercedes.
In the back of the car, Jones says: “They’re both Harlem boys, William and Elijah, who chose radically different paths. Elijah has run ice, snow, crack, smack—big-time. He started as a teen and by the time he was twenty he was a millionaire with his own gang. Somehow William wasn’t even tempted. A very private personality, very straight. It seemed like he would use sport to get him out of the slum, but he was one of those men who are brilliant all-rounders but don’t have a specialization. He was just too big and slow for heavyweight boxing, not lithe enough for professional basketball, too big for anything else. He joined the army at age seventeen and seemed to find his element. He was one of those men who just naturally take to the military life when young, maybe without foreseeing the downside. He was ashamed of big brother Elijah and we think they didn’t communicate for more than a decade. William mellowed, though, got disillusioned with the Marines. They talked over the telephone a lot the past few years.”
“Elijah is under surveillance?”
“More or less full-time. I managed to get some of the transcripts by e-mail this morning.”
“But there was no e-mail between the two on Bradley’s files.”
“I know, which makes me all the more suspicious. The telephone conversations are mostly bland and carefully nonincriminating. They were up to something. They probably used e-mail addresses we don’t know about through Internet cafés. There are just a couple of moments in the telephone conversations when Bill lets his guard down. That guy was seriously worried about income after his retirement. He talks a lot about how expensive his lifestyle is, wonders how he’s going to make ends meet—there’s a very authentic tone of worry in the early conversations which reaches a pitch when some loan sharks start to threaten him. Then the fear disappears. It’s the voice of a man who sees why his big brother did what he did. A man very very disillusioned with the system he’s served all his life. Then all of a sudden the tone changes, the sun has come out, William Bradley is happy again.”
“Did that coincide with contact with Warren?”
She nods her head slowly and profoundly. “Pretty much.”
It takes more than an hour to reach Kaoshan in the traffic. As we approach from the river side I say: “Doc, Happy, Sneezy, Dopey, Bashful, Grumpy, Sleepy.”
“Good,” Jones says, distracted.
We force our way down Kaoshan and slip into the narrow soi which leads to Bradley’s house. I’m impressed that Jones knows to take off her shoes on the outside steps, and even more impressed that she has a key to the downstairs. She opens the door softly and motions for me to follow her inside. We pad across the room, which is in near-total darkness, and arrange some cushions on the floor. She props herself up against a wall while I squat, waiting for my eyes to adjust. A click when Elijah Bradley switches the lights on.
I take in the big Negro, then my mind automatically discounts him as it focuses on his two companions, who wear red checkered headscarves around their necks. Bradley is seating himself uncomfortably in one of
the leather chairs after crossing the room from the light switch, while the two Khmer squat on either side. One of the Khmer is holding a machine pistol which could be an Uzi, the other stares at Kimberley Jones. Jones is staring at Elijah, who is staring at me. Slowly Elijah reaches into his enormous shirt and takes out a stiff brown envelope, which he throws to me. I open it and pull out a legal document in Thai script, which I read. Jones glances at me.
“It’s the last will and testament of William Bradley, who bequeaths all property located in Thailand, including this house, to his brother Elijah.”
“Which means you all are trespassing, right? Don’t you think a little explanation is in order, before we throw you out?” His voice is deep and heavy. I’m surprised at the mild note of hurt.
In Thai I explain to the man with the Uzi that I’m going to reach into my pocket for my police ID, and wait for a consenting nod before I do so. I show Bradley. “And who’s the lady?”
“FBI,” Jones says.
Elijah nods slowly, frowning. “Well, well, well. I just knew you were all wrong the moment I set eyes on you at the boxing. You don’t have any legal right to be here at all, do you?”
“No, no I don’t,” Jones admits.
“The Thai cop don’t have no right either, except a cop can do anything he likes in this town.”
I’m fascinated by the cultural divide. For Bradley and Jones I’ve ceased to exist, just as for me the two Americans have no immediate claim on my attention. I do not take my eyes off the Uzi except to check the other Khmer, who has undressed Jones about twenty times already. Elijah spends a long moment thinking, staring at Jones, biting his lower lip, shaking his head.
“Okay, here’s what we do. The cop leaves, you and I have a good old American-style rap and see if we can explore some common interest. Right?”
“Okay,” Jones says.
“No,” I say. The two Americans gaze at me.