The Bangkok Asset: A novel

by John Burdett

  We stop about a hundred feet from the Lexus and Sakagorn gets out of the Rolls. At the same time the sliding door of the Lexus opens and Goldman emerges. The halogen lamps catch the catastrophe that seven decades have wrought on the agent’s fat face. Unlike Sakagorn, though, he seems in fine fettle: a man in a rare mood eager to rock and roll. He waits for the aristocrat to approach him. I watch Sakagorn cross the waste ground. Lord Sakagorn seems to diminish in stature with each step. The two men do not wai or shake hands. Goldman sneers down at him while they speak.

  Now I become aware of another vehicle, a huge Toyota Carryboy at the opposite end of the clearing, which I had not noticed because it sits in darkness. The internal lights flash on as doors open on either side. The mighty Rungkom and his trainer emerge, with two bodyguards. The athletic figure of the former Muay Thai star stands out, a superior being in his own right. When the doors shut and the light goes out, the fighter and his entourage of about six or seven are almost invisible. They stand near the truck and wait. Rungkom folds his arms and stands with his legs apart, steady as a rock in the shadows.

  It becomes clear we are waiting for someone else. Lights of another vehicle arriving at the edge of the wasteland light up bits of ground, then pick out bits of the night sky as it bounces over debris. The new vehicle is a people mover, a Toyota that looks hired. Music and laughter burst from it when someone opens the sliding door at the back. The music is a mixture of Thai and Cantopop, the laughter both raucous and effeminate at the same time. Now Professor Chu emerges; both Goldman and Sakagorn rush to welcome him. While they are doing so, three exquisite katoeys also emerge, giggling and rasping simultaneously. They recognize Rungkom across the clearing lit up from the lights of their vehicle and wai him like a hero. Then they spot his opponent, the silent Asset who has emerged from Sakagorn’s Rolls to lean against it negligently. Who will die tonight? The katoeys give way to frivolity, as if the tense mood is something to be tasted like wine, then spat out again. But they follow the discipline of the bordello: their job is to take care of Chu; that is what he is paying for and those are seasoned professionals behind the baby-doll faces. They gather around him, searching his body language for clues as to how he wants to play this very exciting game.

  Chu handles the social challenge by switching between personalities, one for the trannies, the other for Goldman and Sakagorn. I don’t think either of them were expecting the katoeys, but the Professor is a rep with enough spending power to buy an infinity of patience, assuming his anonymous client is the PRC; or, to be precise, one of its ministries. Sakagorn gives him the full wai that he normally only reserves for very HiSo locals; even Goldman is able to control himself enough to demonstrate a degree of charm. He bows to the Prof at the same time as taking one of his hands in both of his, as if making some kind of betrothal, then welcomes him in Mandarin. Chu accepts the homage without reciprocating. On the other hand, he responds to jokes, prods, and caresses by the katoeys like a teen on a first date. It is like watching a light go on and off, depending on whether he is addressing the katoeys or the two high-powered salesmen. The party pauses, though, when more headlights precede another visitor. The vehicle is a police van. As soon as it comes to a halt, the rear door slides open.

  Krom is in her black tailored boiler suit. I’m not sure if it represents the latest in tomwear, or a signal that she is on some kind of special duty. The emergence of two Chinese with a high-tech video camera does nothing to dispel the ambiguity. Her van has stopped about fifty yards away from what must be the arena and sits in darkness once the driver has switched the lights off. Chu, the katoeys, Goldman, and Sakagorn fall silent and strain their eyes in Krom’s direction. Chu blinks at the two Chinese cameramen. I am not sure if it is the same two who were at the Heaven’s Gate Tower, nor if they are the same as the team at the river that day. Do we have a total of six, four, or two video specialists in the plot? Three ministries, or two or one? Chu, his face flat as a mahjong tile, watches the team silently carry their camera and tripod across the waste ground and focus it. There can be no doubt, now, where the fight will take place. Goldman’s van, Rungkom’s four-by-four, and Sakagorn’s Rolls mark three points on the circumference of a circle. Krom and I have seen each other, but she didn’t wave and neither did I. Right now I have no idea what side she’s on. These are fast-moving times. Two days ago we were close, now we are alienated. I’m already feeling strange enough when the door to the police van slides open again and a woman emerges. I recognize the striped red-and-gold leggings, the white Spanish leather belt, the pearl blouse, and the long earrings, because I paid for them. Chanya doesn’t acknowledge me either. When Krom and I finally make eye contact, hers are cold as ice. No time or opportunity to make a scene, though. Something heavier than a troubled heart is at issue this night.

  Now Goldman has switched his attention from Chu to the cameramen. It seems he was waiting for something that hasn’t happened, so he strides over to them. He speaks to them in Mandarin; one nods, the other shakes his head. Both of them return to the police van to bring back a second camera and tripod that they plant at the opposite end of the arena to the first one. Now the team is split between the two machines, one man each. Goldman wants a professional two-camera video, not a functional evidence-gathering exercise. Once the cameras are in place the show can go on. He nods at Sakagorn, his sidekick. The Senior Counsel nods back.

  “Okay,” the giant says in English, facing one of the cameras. “These are the rules. Rounds will last one minute. To compensate for unfair advantage, my Asset will not respond aggressively in any way during the first round. That means he will conduct a purely defensive fight for that round. He will not punch or kick. During all subsequent rounds, he will have right of reply with fists only, while Khun Rungkom can use fists, feet, shins, head—what the hell he likes. Breaks last thirty seconds. Okay?”

  The question seems directed at me. I deflect it by looking at Rungkom, who nods. Goldman doesn’t ask the Asset if he’s happy to be a punch ball for sixty seconds at the mercy of a world-champion kickboxer. The Asset rouses himself, though, and begins a few warm-up exercises that include stretching his arms laterally and making small circles with his hands while he runs gently on the spot. I try to decipher the body language between these two men. There isn’t any. My impression is of a marriage on the rocks.

  Sakagorn takes a whistle and a stopwatch out of a pocket of his dinner jacket while Goldman guides the two fighters to the circle of open ground between the three vehicles. Sakagorn is about to blow his whistle, but someone yells stop, first in Thai, then in English. It is Krom, holding her smart phone. She strides over to Goldman and looks up at him. “Someone else is expected.”

  Goldman stares down at her. “Listen, lady, if that’s what you are, this is my party, okay? No one else is expected.”

  “It’s classified, that’s why it’s last-minute. I received a message.” She holds up her phone. So far she has spoken in Thai. Now she adds in English, “You will wait.”

  Goldman looks as if he is about to explode, then calms down. Perhaps he has guessed who the mysterious guest may be. He shrugs. “Whoever it is gets five minutes, no more. We don’t need unnecessary exposure.”

  A minute later the lights of another vehicle appear from the road, then bounce around as the car hits the uneven ground. I seem to recognize the old battered red Mitsubishi. It stops near the imaginary circle of the boxing ring, the lights die, and Sergeant Ruamsantiah emerges from the driver’s side, Colonel Vikorn from the other. I might have guessed. Both of those Isaan boys are fanatical Muay Thai fans and were passionate about Rungkom in his day. The Sergeant earned himself a lot of street cred at the station by claiming he was a personal friend of the famous fighter. Both men are dressed in the same outfits they have worn to boxing tournaments since they were kids: worn T-shirts and jeans. The Colonel also sports a cloth cap. He scans the scene, absorbing its essence in a blink, while the Sergeant walks over to Rungkom and wais him with dee
p humility. I cannot make out the words, but by the gestures and the expression of extreme concern on the Sergeant’s face, it is not difficult to guess. Rungkom responds also with a wai and a gracious smile. He is expressing compassion for Sergeant Ruamsantiah, who is reduced almost to tears. Don’t worry, the fighter seems to be saying, this is my choice, my karma, thank you for your kind concern.

  The Sergeant leaves him, shaking his head. Meanwhile the Colonel has summoned Krom and spoken to her. Whatever he said seems to have impressed her. She walks back to Goldman. “The Colonel bets ten million baht on Khun Rungkom.”

  “This isn’t—” Goldman stops himself in midsentence. Perhaps he has remembered how important Vikorn’s agency is to his project. He starts again. “We’re not taking bets. We’re not set up for it.”

  “In that case, if Khun Rungkom loses, the ten million will go to his family.” She has spoken loudly enough for the fighter to hear. Rungkom walks over to Vikorn, gives him the high wai, and thanks him. He returns to his corner. Goldman nods at Sakagorn again, who blows his whistle.

  Now the fight has officially begun. In Muay Thai, however, there are protocols to be observed. Rungkom first kneels and wais to make homage to the master who taught him to box and the spirits who have helped him so far in his career. Now he nods at Sakagorn, who has returned to his Rolls-Royce and wound all the windows down. The unmistakable notes of a Thai oboe, called a pi chawa, emerge from the limo’s first-class sound system and Rungkom begins his warrior’s dance, which lasts only a few minutes. The Asset continues his mild limbering-up exercises.

  The open area of ground is quite small and the fighters have to remain under the lamps in order to work. A second blow on the whistle means they can start the action. Now they face off.

  The Asset hardly pays any attention to Rungkom, who begins to dance around him, feinting with both fists and feet in order to make a full professional inventory of his opponent’s strengths and weaknesses. Rungkom is puzzled because the American makes no effort to evade kicks that come within a millimeter of his face. It is as if he can measure distance down to nano level and guess the feints by some kind of telepathy. Then when the Thai finally lets loose with a head kick from an unexpected direction, the Asset simply isn’t there. He dodged at exactly the right moment, leaving only a split-second margin to avoid a blow that would have broken his cheekbone.

  —

  So it went on and I began to feel despondent. It’s true there were two strikes from the champion that left the Asset shaking his head and bleeding from cuts above and below his eyes, but those were blows that should have ended the fight, and the Asset merely staggered. Sergeant Ruamsantiah has covered his face with his hands. I want to yell, Run, Rungkom, run for your life. But I see from his face that he has reached a very personal conclusion. Perhaps he isn’t so fond of his HiSo lifestyle as the media claims. Perhaps he is somewhat disillusioned with success and feels a certain nostalgia for the early days when he was the hottest kid in Muay Thai and every fight was a personal statement of his quest for freedom and glory. He really is a champion, for already he has understood that he cannot win, that he might not leave this wasteland alive, but Sakagorn will have to give his family the agreed price and pay off the loan sharks, or someone will come for Sakagorn one fine night when he is least expecting it. And of course, there will be ten million from Vikorn, who always honors his debts. As for the fight, the best he can hope for is to damage the Asset so badly that he will be crippled for the next round.

  The Asset is tiring, too, though, there’s no doubt about that. Rungkom sees it and delivers a full power kick that was designed for the Asset’s jaw but—even better—lands on his Adam’s apple. Even a fully trained CIA zombie needs air, and for a moment the Asset doubles over coughing violently, as if he is about to fall. Rungkom sees it and comes in for the kill. But this is where training tells. The Asset not only manages to recover with astonishing speed; he has also prepared his posture so that when Rungkom delivers what he had every right to believe would be the killer kick, the Asset is able to twist around so that the force of the blow is lost on the muscles of his shoulder, and Rungkom now is close to exhaustion. A blow as heavy as that drains the fighter who lands it. I cannot describe the brief look that came over the Asset’s face when Rungkom hurt him; a snippet of conversation with Dr. Bride flashed across my mind:

  You’re talking about the devil?

  Aren’t you?

  Sakagorn blows his whistle. That was a very long minute. Now I am muttering out loud, “Run, Rungkom, run for your life.”

  —

  Thirty seconds have passed and Sakagorn blows the whistle again. Rungkom doesn’t care so much for his life, that much is clear now. I think he has decided that a damp and desolate piece of wasteland by the river would make an appropriate place to die and he is looking forward to fighting all the way to the end. He is especially clever at dodging the Asset’s punches—at first. It only takes one body blow under the heart to hurt him, though. I cannot doubt that a few ribs broke when that elegant fist landed with sickening force. Now the Thai moves awkwardly, favoring his right side, all too obviously trying to protect the left. Then, crunch: the Asset lands another punch in exactly the same spot under the heart and Rungkom can hardly believe the pain. It is only twenty seconds into the second round, but it’s all over for the Thai. Now I can’t help it. I yell at the top of my voice, “Get the hell out, Khun Rungkom, for Buddha’s sake, it’s not worth dying for.”

  Rungkom is a warrior, though, and knows different. He must have considered many times how it might be to die at the top of his game, under blazing lamps, in the ring of honor. Sakagorn must have promised a fortune to his family or he would never have accepted the challenge.

  The Asset stops fighting, turns to Goldman with a sneer on his face, as if he, too, thinks it bad form to have set him against a mere human. Goldman, with an ugly look, gives the thumbs-down. The Asset turns from Goldman to Rungkom with a kind of curiosity. He is like a tiger making a decision as to the most elegant way to destroy his prey. He walks up to Rungkom in a casual way, easily dodges the champion’s last sad kick, and puts the full force of his extraordinary body behind an open-palm blow to the center of the fighter’s forehead. Rungkom collapses like a sack of cement. As he lies stretched out in the dirt, it is obvious to me that he is dead. I feel only disgust and sickness. Of course, it is impossible not to hate Goldman and his Asset. That was just a tiny little taste of what we can do, the expression on the agent’s face says.

  I watch, stunned, while Rungkom’s people carry him to their truck. Two have to enter the vehicle and pull while the others hold him up. Not a chore that can be done with elegance, but they try.

  I am sad as hell and pretty much obsessed with what I have just witnessed when I feel a gentle hand on my arm. “Let’s go home,” Chanya says.

  Startled for a moment, I stare at her. “Did you have sex with Krom?” I ask. She takes out her phone to call for a taxi.

  28

  “I can only have sex with a man,” Chanya says in the back of the cab. “But that’s not the most important thing I learned tonight.” I raise my sad eyes. She lays a hand over one of mine. “Krom’s been enhanced, Sonchai. She’s one of them.”

  An invisible spider crawls up my spine. “Huh?”

  “Not like that monster tonight, that Asset—but down that road. Her body is incredibly strong. Not like a woman’s at all.” I stare at her. She looks away, out of the window, at the silent street. “It’s like something has been going on, maybe for decades, behind the backs of ordinary people. While we’ve been amusing ourselves with our little human issues that have to do with love, sex, and freedom, and the quality of life and democracy and pollution and stewardship of the earth—little minor things like that, which will turn out to be mere distractions—something else has been happening. Something that is about to change everything suddenly and forever—and despite myself I can’t wait.” For a second a convulsion shakes her
body and she emits something between a laugh and a shout. “It all really is going to be over, all of it.” She waves a hand to include the world. She seems genuinely relieved.

  “What are you talking about?”

  She raises her arms dramatically, then lets them drop. “Whatever it is, it’s out of control. Forget about human rights, that illusion is about to be squashed by something too big to care—or even notice.” She sees the look on my face, squeezes my hand. “Don’t be jealous, Sonchai. What is one woman going to fuck another woman with, an inanimate object? How would that satisfy me, given who I am and what I’ve done? I’m not scared of men and I don’t hate them, I spent a career manipulating the hell out of them. I adore the poor weak cuddly things.” She lets go of my hand. “She wanted intimacy, let’s put it like that. It was fun, for a moment, to be charmed by such a…person. She’s very funny when she wants to be. Incredibly versatile. She seemed to spill her guts a bit, just like a man would—but now I’m not sure about that. I think there was a lot she told me that she expects me to pass on to you. Stuff she wouldn’t tell you directly. I’m a kind of firewall. Coming through me everything is deniable, especially since we were supposed to be having sex at the time.”

  “What kind of things did she tell you?”

  “Well, this Christmas Bride you visited with, she knows a lot more about him than she let on that time she came round to see us. She holds him in awe.”

  “Krom, in awe?”

  “Yes. And she hinted that they’re mainly interested in you because of your father.”

  “They?”

  “She didn’t go into detail. That’s the word she used. It’s like she belongs to some splinter group that lives off crumbs that the main group throws them. It seems at that camp you visited, in its heyday, well, there was an awful lot of sex and no contraception. Your putative father was particularly active, a real alpha male. A lot of the enhanced kids were from his stock. They didn’t know how to bring up freaks. Most died—this Asset survived. That makes them interested in you.”