by John Burdett
“No, except that I think it was a Russian prostitute. Do you have a photograph of your victim?”
“I can get one. I can give you a description right now. A stunning light-skinned African American, beautiful long legs, full firm bust, great face, hair dyed all the colors of the rainbow, a discreet little piercing in her navel for a jade ball set in a gold stick. She was tall, too, just under six feet. We’re pretty certain she got the gold stick from Warren. Preliminary interviews are not uncommon with this kind of prostitution—after all, a lot of money changes hands. Usually the woman will ask what kind of clothes, what kind of underwear, what erotic props or fantasies the john wants. We think Warren wanted to customize her body with his gold stick and she agreed.”
We stop talking as soon as the door opens. It is the Monitor.
Jones gave him this name. His real name is Detective Constable Anusorn Mutra—it and he appeared yesterday, on permanent secondment from District 15, compliments of Colonel Suvit. He sits cross-legged in chairs in corners of rooms, and except for visits to the bathroom is tied to me on an invisible leash. He owns the short brow, saggy cheeks and melancholy mouth of an idiot, but he has been expertly programmed to guide me away from any line of inquiry that might lead to Warren. The smartest thing about him is a new Nokia which he keeps in the left breast pocket of his shirt and which requires only one keystroke to join him to his master in District 15. We do not use the name “Warren” in front of him, even though he speaks no English. I have already complained to the Colonel, using arguments that do not normally fail: How could a self-respecting tribal chieftain tolerate a spy from a competitor right in the center of his camp? Vikorn replied mysteriously that if I took care of the Monitor he might yet save my life. Jones and I watch the Monitor cross the room and seat himself in his usual corner.
“Should we buy him a bowl and wicker basket?” Jones asks.
I ignore the crack because I’ve seen a possible fruitful line of inquiry. “Would it be easier for you or me, Kimberley”—I’m using American Polite here, even doing the smile—“to get hold of the jeweler’s schedule over the past years, I mean to find out exactly what periods he spent in Bangkok?”
“Let’s put it this way. If I do it and the wrong person finds out, I get reassigned to Records. If you do it, the wrong person will definitely find out and you get reassigned to your next life. I’ll see what I can do. You see if you can find out how many Russian prostitutes suffered untimely deaths in Bangkok over, say, the past five years. If checking your records is indiscreet, you can always use the newspapers. You know, hardly a day passes without some police scandal of one kind or another. Must be all those profit centers working overtime.”
I ignore the dig because I want to get on with the job. In particular I want to take a second look at the e-mails between Warren and William Bradley, which means hunting down Bradley’s computer, which is stored in a place we call “the evidence room.” I tell the Monitor to go get the key, then immediately regret this order because of the likely time lag. We watch him shuffle across the floor. The FBI puts her hand on my thigh, then immediately takes it off again. “Sorry. The fact is this town liberates all sex drives, not only white male ones. I went to that place you keep talking about, Nana? I was expecting to feel totally disgusted, but I saw your point. Those girls are born huntresses. I wouldn’t say they were happy in their work, but they’re not exactly suffering either. I didn’t see a single one who didn’t have a cell phone clipped to her belt. A lot of them, you can see it in their eyes, that combination of money and sex and the thrill of the hunt, it’s addictive. I could relate, as most women could. And it’s hard to witness so much unrestrained promiscuity without feeling the itch yourself. Some of the men were damned good-looking, too. They weren’t all middle-aged farts like you implied. You also happen to be damned good-looking yourself, if you don’t mind my saying so.” She looks away when she says this, so I cannot tell if she is smirking, blushing or biting her lip in the anguish of unrequited lust.
“You have to remember where they’re coming from,” I say, to avoid the main issue. “Anything is better than a country brothel. Anything. Farangs give them a five-star experience in comparison.”
She turns back to look at me. “It’s true, most of the girls come from the country, don’t they?”
For a moment I think about taking the FBI to a bed somewhere, but immediately I realize this is a consequence of the defilement from yesterday. This is exactly how karma is generated, through craving arising from craving arising from craving. Just because I successfully negotiated the charms of three beautiful women, with the help of JBO and an astronomical investment by my Colonel, I now feel I can fuck the FBI with impunity. But the Lord Buddha taught two thousand five hundred years ago that there is no impunity. In more elegant language than I can muster he warned that you always pay for pussy, one way or another. For example, if we go back to Jones’ room at the Hilton, one of two things could happen. She could enjoy it more than I or I could enjoy it more than she. The keener one immediately becomes the slave of the other, with disastrous consequences for both. I think it likely that I would initially fall under her spell, which gets more powerful every day. Having trapped me, she would use her abrasive genius to nibble away at everything about me which is alien to her: my belief in rebirth, my spiritual dimension, my meditation, my Buddhism, my preference for huge doses of chili in everything I eat. She would not realize that she would be turning me into an American, but by the time I’m living with her in some luxurious but soulless suburb in one of those cities in America which look like all the others, conscientiously working at the sort of work immigrants work at, speaking with an American accent now and forced to go underground with my chili habit, she will have started to hate me because I will have become a millstone round her neck and the lust will have run out a long time ago. There might even be a child, which of course will make things a whole lot worse, because our mutual karma will include this third person. After death, no matter how hard we try, we will be reborn in circumstances where we will be forced to continue where we left off. We will be sworn enemies by this time, and I will probably be the dominant one now, due to the way things have to balance out in the universe. No, I am not going to fuck her today.
“Sonchai, what are you doing?”
“I am meditating.”
“D’you have to do that now, in the middle of a conversation? We’re supposed to be working.”
See what I mean?
There is no point waiting for the Monitor, who has probably got himself lost, so I leave Jones to the cassettes and go search for the key myself.
I find that I have underestimated the Monitor, who found the key all right. It was already in the door because three young constables are in the evidence room playing some kind of Space Invader game on Bradley’s computer. The polythene we used to carefully protect the evidence is on the floor and the three boys—they’re between eighteen and nineteen years old—have brought in stools, and some food in Styrofoam boxes, some cans of 7UP. It looks as though they have installed themselves here for quite some time. The Monitor is standing silently behind them watching the black steel–clad invaders get knocked off by the lithe white defenders, with something that approximates to excitement.
This situation, like everything in life, is a useful conundrum to a practicing Buddhist. To scream and yell will generate more negative karma than has already been generated by the boys. On the other hand, too soft an approach on my part will lead them to continue on their downward path. What would my master the abbot do in such circumstances?
I find that I don’t really give a shit, so I slam the door as hard as possible behind me. This has the effect of a scramble. Three rapid wais, the computer is turned off in double-quick time, the food gathered, the Styrofoam boxes closed, the polythene replaced, the 7UP drunk in a minimum of gulps, the room emptied except for me and the Monitor. My precipitate action has had the negative effect of obliging me to unwrap the co
mputer again and turn it on, so it was not an entirely skillful strategy. I have plenty of defilements left to work on, even if I don’t go to bed with the FBI.
I tell the Monitor to bring Jones, while I locate Bradley’s e-mail file. Jones enters while I am reading. I find it convenient to divide the e-mails into phases.
Phase 1 [July–September 1996]:
Bill, your piece arrived yesterday FedEx. The boys are getting the point, I agree, but there’s still a long way to go.
Bill, look, this is good work which I can sell anywhere, but it’s not what we discussed. I’m arriving on a Thai Airways flight next Tues. We’ll talk.
Bill, I have to tell you I was very impressed with the latest piece. It’s not quite there, but it’s damn close. I’m going to release the second tranche today. Keep it up.
Phase 2 [November 1996–July 1997]:
Bill, I have to admit you’ve impressed me quite considerably. I’m not entirely sure how we take it from here, but I agree you can continue to cross-refer over the Net. I think the best would be for you to e-mail me the design you have in mind, I’ll come back with some general comments, you’ll modify and work up the details (something you’re damned good at) and we’ll proceed like that until we’ve got an agreed set of three-dimensional designs. I’m releasing a special payment for your extra expenses. I have to tell you I’m damned excited. It’s like being a kid at Christmas. Except that this is the real thing, if you see what I mean.
Bill, got the designs you sent. I fully agree that the Net has its limitations here, so you better send the hard copies FedEx. I’ll continue to make general comments over the Net, with more detailed ones when we meet. I’ll be in BKK end of next week. I’m at the Oriental, however, and I think I explained what that means. The Chiu Chow bosses are throwing one of their parties. I’ll call you and we’ll meet somewhere discreet. I do not want you to come to the Oriental. When I stay at Rachada, that’s a different matter. I’m sure you understand.
Bill, received your FedEx package today and I’m more excited than ever. This new venture of ours requires a whole new outlook. They say an old dog can’t learn new tricks, but I take a more Buddhist view: by learning new tricks you stop yourself from turning into an old dog!
Phase 3 [September 1997–end 1998]:
Bill, I understand your reservations about your work and its final purpose, but frankly this is hardly the moment to get cold feet. You have to finish what you start. Be a marine.
Bill, this is fantastic! Can’t wait for everything to be finished! I’ll be in BKK early next month and maybe you’ll let me have a peek? See you then, and I apologize if I was a little insensitive in my last e-mail.
Jones is looking over my shoulder at the screen. I glance up at her. She is frowning, her jaw is working. I think she is starting to realize who did it, which will be a problem for me but, I now realize, an unavoidable one. I watch and admire while that efficient professional side of her comes to dominate. Sex could not be further from her mind at this moment.
“I never read them that way. That’s pretty smart of you to divide them into phases like that. D’you want to explain what inspired you?”
“The tone of his voice on the cassettes. The totally desperate but gifted second-stringer, the order-follower who will do anything for money is doing just that. The symbiosis only began with jade. It went on to something quite different.”
“But we don’t know that Bradley knew . . . everything that might have been on Warren’s mind.”
I sigh. To me it is obvious, but intuition clearly plays no part in American law enforcement. “No, except that Bradley’s knowing would have been an overwhelming motive for killing him. Anyway, look at the change of tone, starting with phase two. Can you imagine Warren expressing that kind of boyish excitement if it wasn’t over something really different? This guy has been in the gem trade all his life—how is someone like Bradley going to get him all excited about copying a jade figure like the horse and rider?”
Jones is shaking her head. I check her eyes and realize that she has still not plumbed the unspeakable depths, which is just as well. There is a lot more work to do. The snakes remain a problem and I do want to know what Warren did that Vikorn and Suvit don’t want me to know about.
While Jones returns to the embassy to retrieve photos of Gladys Pierson, I leave the station to use an Internet café to check the Bangkok Post, an English-language daily which is published on the Net in its entirety and has an excellent archive going back ten years. As I patiently click through the thousands of articles and reports responding to the keyword “murder” I know I’m wasting my time. I key in “Russian prostitutes,” and the name of Andreev Iamskoy immediately pops up. The ways of karma are mysterious and implacable. Convinced I will not be able to live out this lifetime without another brutal session with Iamskoy, I give up on the Internet, pay fifty baht for fifty minutes’ use and while I’m waiting for change cast my eyes over the rest of the users sitting at the twenty or so monitors in the shop. They are all women between the ages of eighteen and thirty and they are helping each other out with the English. “Thank you for—allai?” “Money.” “Okay, thank you for money.” “Thank you, darling, for money.” Giggles.
Back at the station the FBI, who has mastered the art of riding the motorcycle taxis, has managed to return alive from her embassy. While the Monitor looks on with glistening eyes we compare pictures of a naked Gladys Pierson with a naked Fatima. Jones explains that Pierson used such pictures extensively as part of her marketing. We place them side by side and put a sheet of paper over their faces, which do not resemble each other. Jones and I exchange glances.
“The same!” the Monitor says. “Same body! Even same thing in her belly button.” It’s better than Space Invaders. Jones takes out another picture, postmortem, of Pierson lying facedown on the mortician’s table. The Monitor’s eyes are still glistening. I look away.
“Is it your theory that he was having sex with her while he was doing this? I thought a bullwhip was very long?”
“We made a lot of tests. You’re quite right, the whip would have needed to have been at least six feet for this kind of penetration. We think he had an assistant.”
“Oh,” I say. “An assistant?”
“There are people who would do that. Women as well as men. And don’t forget how rich the jeweler is. Also, you see how regular the ruts are? Whoever did it knew how to handle a whip. When I look at this picture I always think of the Marquis de Sade with his personal valet.” Jones takes out another picture. Pierson has been turned over on the table.
“Breasts as well?”
“Correct. Can you send this creep off on an errand before I punch him?”
“Go get us some coffee,” I tell the Monitor.
40
We are so accustomed to sitting together in the back of Jones’ hired car, it has become our equivalent of sitting on a sofa and watching TV together. We have progressed from flirtation to sexless tolerance with no passionate coupling in between. I think this might be an example of postindustrial romance. This thought is not canceled out by the Monitor, who sits in the front passenger seat munching fat pork sausages which he made us stop for at a cooked-food stall. He is like a nightmare offspring who was precipitated rather than conceived.
“If I’ve understood why we’re going to Pattaya, I’m wondering how you intend to sideline the Monitor,” Jones murmurs into my ear.
“I have a plan.”
“I thought maybe you did.” A yawn. “So what’s he like, this Iamskoy? Another urka gangster with Cyrillic tattoos on his forehead and a sales brochure that includes weapons-quality plutonium?”
“Not quite.”
Pattaya is a beach resort which would be about an hour’s drive from Krung Thep if it were ever possible to make the journey without traffic snarl-ups. It is also the place where the Industry reveals itself for what it is: the Industry. Jones has brought her Lonely Planet guidebook, from which she quotes:
The sex industry’s annual turnover is nearly double the Thai government’s annual budget. (Wow!) Only an estimated 2.5 percent of all Thai sex workers work in bars and 1.3 percent in massage parlors. The remaining 96.2 percent work in cafés and barbershops and brothels only rarely patronized by non-Thai clients. In fact most of the country’s sex industry is invisible to the visiting foreigner and it is thought that Thai-to-non-Thai transactions represent less than 5 percent of the total.
Jones closes the book and looks at me with an expression I’ve never seen on her face before: humility? “Prostitution was never my bag. I studied the law on it, of course, and know how to bust a streetwalker in the States, and I know a lot about the career of Gladys Pierson, but I never really went into it sociologically. This is one hell of a phenomenon you have over here. I wonder if it’s ever been this big, in the history of the world? I think it must have very complex sociological origins. I didn’t tell you, but when I visited Nana that time I saw a young American man, maybe twenty-two, twenty-three, very very good-looking, a real pinup, except he’d lost both arms in an accident. The girls didn’t treat him any differently than anyone else. There was nothing forced about it either, they asked how he’d lost his arms, played with his stumps—broke all the rules of social etiquette—groped him and asked if he wanted to take them to his hotel. He was grinning like a cat and at the same time there were tears in his eyes. You didn’t need to be a psychology major to read his mind. He’d come halfway round the world to be treated like just another guy. I couldn’t detect an atom of physical revulsion or patronizing attitude in any of the girls. It’s like, I guess you don’t have the same problem with physical deformity as we do? Those were young, beautiful, perfectly formed women, and they didn’t bat an eye.”