by John Burdett
I decided to try to clear up one part of the puzzle. “How did you know their names?” I asked.
“They arrived with a money belt containing three passports. We’re waiting for the Cambodian embassy to provide more identification, so we can tell who is who.”
“Cambodian? But they’re all Americans.”
“Yes, that’s what the passports say: Americans with Cambodian citizenship. I’ll show you the photocopies the registration staff took of the passports.”
I followed him out of the ward and down to the registration area. He entered an office and quickly returned with three bundles of photocopies.
Khmer script looks quite a lot like Thai, unless you’re Thai, when it appears as a collection of tantalizing squiggles and curls—pretty much the way Thai would appear to you, R. Fortunately, the Khmer was translated into English for purposes of international travel. The owners were Americans who had been naturalized as Cambodian citizens. The photographs were taken a long time ago, however, and were useless for identification. The only stamps were Thai visas. It seemed the owners had entered Thailand about ten months before and obtained retirement visas good for a year. They had entered our country together at the same time on the same day.
I thanked the nurse and promised that a team from the hospital in Chinatown would send an ambulance once the paperwork had been sorted out.
—
From the hospital I decided to use a motorbike taxi to avoid the jam on Rama IV. Like the bike jockeys on Soi Cowboy, my man was a hardbody with a neck like a buffalo who loved taking chances. You become very conscious of your knees when your pilot starts into the close-vehicle work, winding between stationary or slowly moving vans, cars, and trucks. He knew what he was doing and expected me to take care of my own legs. Then my phone rang. I saw the call was from Krom.
“Where are you?”
“On the back of a bike dying from asphyxiation.”
“You went to the hospital? Did you find out anything?”
“Maybe.”
“Don’t do this. Tell me what you discovered.”
“The three American victims own Cambodian passports.”
It seemed I had finally impressed her. “Interesting life choice,” she said.
On reflection, that was my reaction too. I don’t want to cause offense, R, but let’s face it, there has been a steady exodus from spiritual desolation in the Occident for some time now. Farang these days find wives or husbands in many Asian nations, including Thailand, Malaysia—and of course China. Cambodia, though? If they weren’t so old, one would assume they were CIA spies as a matter of course.
“I’ll tell you more tomorrow when you come by,” I said and closed the phone.
9
We started our morning with a row, Chanya and I. She wanted to know exactly why Krom was coming to visit, and if it was a business call, then why did she, Chanya, need to be there at all? She meant she didn’t need a social or professional event in which she was merely ornamental. She had a PhD, for Buddha’s sake, a Facebook following of nearly a thousand, she had written learned articles for online academic journals—and none of it seemed to impinge on reality at all, as if it all happened on a Google cloud somewhere. She was honest enough to admit that hers was a strange, possibly certifiable form of paranoia—but quite common these days. What she most resented was finding herself in the role of insecure little wife who had to be included in a serious adult meeting so that she wouldn’t feel like—well, an insecure little wife.
She was still in one of her rages while she showered out in the yard under a hosepipe, skillfully deploying a towel so no prying eyes could see her private parts, then returned dripping to the hovel, feeling better. She gave me a sheepish smile, laid a hand on my forearm. “Sorry.” She smiled.
“It’s okay. I understand.”
“No you don’t. You have a job. That makes you real. I don’t, that makes me a ghost. Let’s leave it at that.”
I guessed that was as good as it was going to get, so I shrugged, smiled, hugged her, and we were about as patched up as we were going to be that merry morning. I guessed she would not let the meeting pass without asserting herself in some way in accordance with online advice from her groups.
We were both showered, soaped, perfumed, and ready for Krom in about ten minutes. I felt tense and excited at the same time. As a cop I knew better than to hope for a sudden big break in the Market Murder case; as a man I hoped for a sudden big break in the case that had my name on it in blood.
Chanya could not resist an irrelevant question. “I wonder what Inspector Krom will be wearing? I mean, she can’t come in uniform since it’s all so hush-hush. What does a dyke like her put on for breakfast meetings?”
Now that I thought of it, that was a fascinating piece of trivia. What would Krom be wearing?
“It depends if she comes by taxi or on the back of a bike,” Chanya said.
“Why?”
“If she dresses up, she won’t want to be windblown. Depends how much she needs to impress you.” She coughed. “I mean, for her enterprises, of course, whatever they are.” Then she added, “She may be a dyke, but she’s still a woman, you know.”
It was a taxi. The young woman who emerged with a close-cropped haircut and dark glasses wore a fresh-pressed black shirt with cream bootlace tie, a cutaway jacket in black-and-white butcher’s stripes, pants with knife-sharp creases and the same wide vertical stripes as the jacket, brogues only slightly feminized with square toes, also two-tone. When I opened the door I was much refreshed by a strong cologne: Fabergé Brut for Men, if I was not mistaken. She carried a slim black briefcase.
“Do come in,” I said with a smile. Once in, she made a point of waiing Chanya. Chanya waied back. She had to acknowledge how impeccably Krom was behaving, giving the woman of the house big face, as the Chinese say.
There were no chairs or sofas to sit on, but I guessed Krom was brought up without furniture, like Chanya and me; she had no trouble hitching up her pants, bending her knees, and sitting on a cushion with her back against a wall like a well-dressed gangster. She took a single sheet of paper out of the briefcase. It looked like a printout from the Net.
“MKUltra,” she said.
Krom passed the single sheet over to us.
“I just copied the headline. I think that seeing it in black and white on a public document kind of helps with the credibility.”
It was a short extract from an article in Wikipedia. We looked at it, then looked up, blinking. Krom read from the extract and we followed, word by word:
Project MKUltra was the code name of a U.S. government human research operation experimenting in the behavioral engineering of humans through the CIA’s Scientific Intelligence Division. The program began in the early 1950s and officially halted in 1973. MKUltra used numerous methodologies to manipulate people’s mental states and alter brain functions, including the surreptitious administration of drugs (especially LSD) and other chemicals, hypnosis, sensory deprivation, isolation, verbal and sexual abuse, as well as various forms of torture.
Chanya and I stared at her with wrinkled brows.
“Ultra was a huge scandal in the seventies, but it went with all the other huge scandals,” Krom explained. “The world assumed it was a purely American story all about the toxic mix of ruthless spies and worse scientists. There was a movie: The Manchurian Candidate. Naturally, in the film the bad guys manipulating poor innocent Americans are driven by wicked Orientals desperate to take over the world using mind control.” Krom looked me in the eye. “I think you know Goldman ran the project in Vietnam as a young—very young—CIA agent. Of course, in Vietnam everyone who was put in harm’s way was young, most of the soldiers were under twenty-two. Goldman was twenty-six when he first went out. I guess the CIA also had its Rear Echelon Motherfuckers who didn’t want to risk their careers and left the wet stuff to ambitious young men like Joseph Goldman.”
I was in shock and had to reread the printout a cou
ple more times. That’s the power of print for you. I know the lawyer Sakagorn had hinted at something like this, but to see it referred to in the public space, to be told it had a notorious history that included congressional hearings—that was different. Krom seemed to understand that she had initiated me into a higher level of knowledge—and that was the purpose of the meeting.
When I looked up, the dynamics had changed. I took a clue from the strange look on Chanya’s face and switched to Krom, who was staring at her. I had to blink. So far I had seen two sides of the Inspector: the consummate professional cop and the wild humping dyke with full-body tattoo. Now I had to add: seasoned connoisseur of the female form. Chanya was still a very attractive woman (another hurdle to overcome in her quest for respect: I don’t want to be cute anymore, she would complain while applying moisturizers and embarking on radical diets), and Krom seemed to be concentrating on just how carefully, slowly, and adoringly she would like to undress her. Now I understood the way she was all dressed up and drowned in cologne: did she expect Chanya to fall for her on the spot?
Chanya saw what I had seen and moved a few inches nearer to me. This didn’t faze Krom at all. Like a male of the most politically incorrect kind, she appeared confident that she could take what she wanted when she wanted it. Her eyes shone when she looked at me, as if her victory and my defeat were certain. As if she belonged to a superior race. This enraged me, but Chanya’s reaction was more complex. Like me she was affronted by Krom’s arrogance; on the other hand, in her event-starved life perhaps a little adventure with a crazy tom would help pass the time?
I coughed. The moment passed. Krom tore her eyes away from my wife to look at me. “Here’s the kicker. After the big Frank Olson scandal, when MKUltra had to go underground, Goldman recruited a young British psychiatrist who had researched psychedelic drugs at Cambridge. How or why he was in Southeast Asia at that time is not known. Some say he was Goldman’s original mentor, the brains that made it all happen. For sure, the experiment wasn’t going anywhere until this shrink showed up.”
“This British shrink made the Asset happen?”
“That’s the implication. But the psychiatrist is extremely reclusive. This is all we have, an alleged photograph about fifty years old, and a name you can’t forget.” She dipped into her briefcase and brought out a sheet with a photograph printed on it.
The photograph seemed to have been taken in a Southeast Asian city, probably Saigon, for there were rickshaws and women in cone-shaped straw hats in the background. It was also long ago; the cars were all models from the sixties. The young man in the picture was unusually tall and skinny, and towered over the brown people around him. He was as improbable as a Greek god who arrived by mistake in the twentieth century in the middle of a war. Long blond hair lay over his shoulders and cascaded down the blinding psychedelic silk shirt. His face was both naïve and triumphant, as if he had found the God particle. He had chemically scaled the heights, solved the problem of existence, and now oozed benevolence, enlightenment, and confidence. He certainly didn’t look like an academic, but then those were very different times.
I looked up from the photo. “And his name?”
“Bride,” Krom said. “Dr. Christmas Bride.”
She stood up quite suddenly, picked up her briefcase, and made her way to the door. She waied us, told me not to come out to the street to help her find a taxi, and was gone. Chanya and I stared at each other. I wanted to know what Chanya thought, so I didn’t say anything.
“That is one very disciplined lady,” she said.
“Yes. I think so too. In what way, though?”
“She came to deliver a message. The message was that name: Dr. Christmas Bride. Of course, I don’t know anything about the case. Why is that name so important it’s worth a special private visit like this? Why couldn’t she give it to you over the phone or at work?”
“Because she wants to have you.”
“But how would she know that when she’s never met me before?”
“Think male,” I said. “Among pack animals tumescence is a product of hormones, fantasy, and competition, the lust object itself comes last. Most of the men in the station drool over you, even the ones you’ve never met—a reputation like yours makes for restless dreams.”
—
When I arrived at work, Manny, Vikorn’s secretary, told me that Krom and I had a meeting scheduled with the Old Man later in the day. “It’s important,” she added ominously.
“What’s going on?”
“I don’t know. He received a phone call just now and he turned serious.”
“Where did the call come from?”
“I think Beijing.”
10
Krom and I sat next to each other on the wooden seats Vikorn kept in his office, opposite his desk, while he sat in his padded executive chair. When he took out a Churchillian cigar and lit up, the familiar ritual was accompanied by sidelong glances at Krom, as if he were engaged in an act of defiance. He blew dense gray smoke out of his mouth and waited for it to diffuse throughout his office before he spoke.
“The Americans are in a hurry,” he said. “At least Goldman is. I don’t know why, and nor do the Chinese, who are suspicious. Why the rush for a security system that will take a decade to develop after purchase? Anyway, Goldman has promised some kind of show.”
He stopped and waited for questions. Both he and I were intrigued about how much Krom knew, how networked she was with Beijing. The Chief studied her for a moment, while she obligingly offered him a three-quarter profile without engaging his eyes. She did not respond, and my guess was that she was not aware of what Vikorn was about to tell us.
“As you would expect, there’s plenty of documentation on this Asset thing, but it’s hyper-secret. Goldman claims he used influence and a lot of dough to borrow—his word—a certain proof that his Asset is the real deal.” He drew on the cigar, exhaled, stared at Krom. There was perhaps a note of anger when he asked, “Do you know anything about this?”
She shook her head. “No.”
“But it has to do with the murder in the market, doesn’t it?”
She shrugged.
Now he had my complete attention as he spoke directly to Krom. “The Market Murder has given Goldman one huge credibility problem, but the origin of the problem so far is suspicion and innuendo. The Detective here has almost nothing to go on, no way of proving anything definitive either way. No one has come up with any convincing proof that the Asset did it. On the one hand, the crime is so bizarre it is difficult to think of an alternative suspect. On the other hand, that makes an ideal setting for anyone who wanted to sabotage Goldman’s sale. Therefore, the Market Murder has forced Goldman’s hand. Does he have a game-changing product that will bring more or less total control to those governments who can afford it? Or has he spent over fifty years producing some kind of out-of-control freak who can perform a few circus acts but could never be a team player in a disciplined security service? That’s probably the issue. But why the rush? Isn’t haste suspicious in itself? What’s he afraid of?”
“Another murder like the one in the market,” I said. They both looked at me.
“Right,” Krom said with a smile.
The Chief took a long toke on the cigar and stared at Krom. “Perhaps. What I’m not sure about, and would like your input on, is why would the Chinese continue to be interested? Isn’t this the kind of product where the potential purchaser simply refuses to go ahead if there’s the slightest hint of a defect in the product? It isn’t just a question of money. The credibility of the PRC government is at stake if they buy a defective asset of this kind—don’t you agree?”
Now both the Colonel and I stared at her. She nodded as a kind of acknowledgment that she did have further thoughts. “There’s a rumor—I don’t know because it arises from Goldman’s side so it could be counterintelligence—anyway, a rumor that it’s not any extracurricular activities by the Asset that is making Goldman panic. It�
�s the relationship between him and his Asset. The beat on the street is that they’re no longer getting along so well. It could be just rumor, but it relates to something else, something Beijing is very interested in. As a matter of fact, something that every specialist in transhumanism is passionate about.”
The Colonel and I both raised our eyebrows. Now Krom revealed herself by standing and pacing, just as if she were the Chief. It was a curious performance, because she was wearing her regulation uniform with white shirt and shoulder boards, blue pleated skirt that reached below the knee: the essence of subjugated womanhood in a man’s world. She compensated by putting her hands in her pockets as she paced. “This thing is more important than blind military obedience. It is the essence of the project: the gold ring. If Goldman and his people have got it right, Beijing might be prepared to overlook a little recreational killing. Any government would put up with a lot to have Superman on its side—especially if there is only one such in the world. Goldman is rushed because he needs to prove this very special quality of the Asset before a whole shitload of suspicion, innuendo, and negative publicity make the purchase impossible, even for China.”
Vikorn frowned at her. “What do you have in mind, exactly?”
Krom went to the window and looked out and spoke to it, exactly as if she were the Old Man himself; as if she had taken over already. “The product is fitted out with some high-tech circuitry that improves cognitive function by more than a hundred percent. This in itself is not revolutionary. All over the world similar experiments are being conducted in secret. Goldman’s original and totally exotic approach is inspired by the British psychiatrist Christmas Bride. You see, the result of artificially introducing performance-enhancing circuitry directly into the brain has always been, without exception, crippling mental illness resulting in clinical depression, catatonia, and ultimately suicide. The problem is the personality itself—or, if you like, the psyche. That was the problem with MKUltra from the start.”