Passport to Death

by Zur, Yigal;

  “There is a person who may be able to help you,” the monk said. “An Israeli. His name is Reuven Badash. Like every place else, Bangkok is essentially a small world. Reuven knows all the Israelis. The ones who come and the ones who go, and especially the ones who get stuck here. You should talk to him.”

  The name was like a kick up my ass. Reuven Badash? What the hell was he doing in Bangkok? And how come I didn’t know? The past surged up and flooded over me like a sewer that had overflowed. All the crud I had buried came back to haunt me. I was knee-deep in shit again.

  The monk got up and walked toward the wooden buildings until he vanished from sight, leaving Reut and I alone. We headed for the river.

  “Reuven. That’s the name Weiss mentioned last night, isn’t it?” I asked.

  She nodded. We passed a large statue of Buddha facing the river.

  “Do you know him?” she asked.

  This time it was me who nodded.

  From the light falling on the statue at this hour of the morning, the Buddha seemed to have the hint of a smile on his face. Even his “third eye,” the small dot on his forehead, looked like a soft, fleshy mole. He was depicted cross-legged, his right hand in his lap, the palm facing upward, and the fingers of his left hand pointing to the earth and the river, drawing strength from them. It was a delusive strength. It suddenly occurred to me that it was no accident that I was in Bangkok. I still didn’t know what Reuven had to do with Sigal’s disappearance, but there was no doubt in my mind that he was involved. And I realized I was much more than just some random private investigator who had been hired to find her. Reuven had roped me into the case. He’d fucked with me before and he was doing it again. Why? What did he want from me after all these years?

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  We were on the ferry again, on the way back to the city, leaning on the railing. The water lapped against the side of the boat. Long-tail boats crowded with tourists in loud shirts sounded their horns as they made their way along the river, their noisy motors leaving a white wake behind them. The tourists snapped endless pictures and waved to the passengers of every other tourist boat they passed, who waved back in return. The Bangkok they saw, with its imposing sites and colorful markets, was nothing like the Bangkok we were seeing. Once you cross the thin line to the dark side of the city, it’s not so easy to come back. And that’s what Sigal had done. I was trying to figure out why.

  “Hey there,” Reut said with a smile. “You’re a million miles away.”

  If things were different, it might have been a romantic moment. We were standing next to each other, but we weren’t really close. At least not as close as I would have liked.

  “How do you know Reuven?” she asked.

  What could I tell her?

  The hyacinths floated past on their way downriver. At some point they would attach themselves to the bank and begin to spread out. One would blossom and another would wither as they fed off each other. And then some would detach themselves from the soil and float on the water until they reached their next foothold. That was the way of the world. What could I say about Reuven? We grew up together. For years we were best friends working side by side for the Security Agency. For years we went out on missions together and saw the unspoken fear oozing from the pores of the other. Out in the field, I always knew that if Reuven was around, someone had my back. And he felt the same about me.

  But then Yussuf, our most reliable informant in the Jenin refugee camp, was picked up by the Palestinians. They employed the same methods we do, what we like to call “moderate physical persuasion.” They learned a lot from us. Yussuf talked. He didn’t just talk, he spilled his guts, and it brought down a whole network it had taken years to build. Someone had screwed up, and it could only have been me or Reuven. It was simple: if Yussuf was blown, one of us was to blame.

  These things happen. People make mistakes. But our fuck-up came at the end of March 2002, a few days before the Battle of Jenin. The timing—how should I put it?—wasn’t a fluke. In any case, Yussuf broke and blew his cover. Maybe he decided he didn’t want to ruin their only chance of getting the upper hand over us. The only thing we knew for sure was that Reuven and I were in charge of the sector, and we were completely in the dark. We had no hint of what was about to happen in Jenin, of what they were setting in motion, of the hundreds of anti-personnel mines and IEDs they were preparing. We had no idea that Jenin was about to be the site of one of the bloodiest battles in history between Israel and the Palestinians.

  First, they sent us his head. Then we got his whole hide, after they skinned him, a custom reserved for traitors.

  The press was full of the military fiasco. It was so stunning and painful that there was hardly any mention of the botched intelligence.

  It started with an internal inquiry. That was at the stage when they were still trying to cover their asses. It’s normal procedure: the system protects itself. The committee took its time before issuing its conclusions, but Reuven and I didn’t need time to get the picture. We knew we’d screwed up, or at least one of us had, and we blamed each other. That’s how we went from best friends to worst enemies. There was nothing loud or vulgar about our mutual hatred. It was cold and distant. A total break.

  But someone had to pay the price.

  It wasn’t long before we were both out on our asses. And following regulations, they froze our pensions. We were left with only unemployment benefits to get by. There was nothing we could do about it. So we each went our separate ways.

  What could I tell her? That my former friend was now a corn under my skin, the kind that leaves a root even after you remove it, and the minute you apply a little pressure it’s back? “Reuven is an old wound that never healed,” I said finally. “A wound that aches with every change of season or scenery.”

  “Do you want to tell me what happened?”

  “There was a screw-up. We were both involved. We both paid the price. But we never settled accounts between us.”

  “He blamed you?”

  “Yup. He couldn’t admit that he made a mistake. After the inquiry, I got up and left. They made it clear to him that it was in his best interest to do the same. He thought I set him up to take the rap. Then he vanished off the face of the earth. I heard rumors that he was training drug runners in Columbia or hunting for diamonds in Angola. I don’t know if they’re true or not. And now, all of a sudden, he turns up in Bangkok.”

  Reut put a gentle hand on my arm. “Most of us have something in our past we’d rather not talk about,” she said.

  “As far as I’m concerned,” I answered, “the past is the past.”

  I was standing with my back to the bank of the river when the boat tied up. That’s why I didn’t see the change on Reut’s face when she looked down at the pier. When I turned around, I saw them. Ivan the Durian with his spiky dog collar and his arms crossed on his chest, and beside him, two strapping local thugs who looked astonishingly like the ones who had beaten me up in the alley. Even if they weren’t the same guys, it didn’t matter. The principle was the same. Judging by their appearance, given the chance, they’d beat anyone up.

  Apparently, Weiss’s fuse had gotten shorter since yesterday. Just how short, I didn’t know.

  “Stay behind me when we get off,” I told Reut. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a stall selling grilled octopus near the exit from the pier. Even from this distance, I couldn’t mistake the oddly shaved head of the vendor. It was Tom’s driver, Gai. I wondered how he knew to wait for us here. How many people had been tailing us?

  “When the fun starts, go to the octopus stall,” I instructed.

  We were standing by the exit ramp when the ferry stopped at the rocking pier. We had no choice but to get off.

  Approaching the fat Russian, I said, “I bet you a hundred bucks you’re the first to hit the water.”

  Instinctively, he took a step back. Realizing his mistake, he held his ground and grinned. “Lucky for you they not understand,” h
e said, pointing to the two thugs holding their ground. “They die laughing.”

  I gestured discreetly with my head toward Reut. She got my meaning. They made no attempt to stop her.

  “Might as well get the party started,” I said, aiming a fist at the jaw of the nearest thug. He swayed in surprise, not expecting such a move from a falang. I was just beginning to realize how much my hand hurt before the other one jumped me. On my way down, I caught a glimpse of Reut standing next to Gai. That was all I needed.

  I picked myself up slowly.

  “What do you want?” I asked Ivan. My kidneys ached. I resolved to stop drinking the local whiskey.

  “Weiss want to see you.”

  “You’re an asshole, you know that?” I said.

  I walked toward the black limousine. The driver opened the door for me like I was some celebrity. Before I got in, I called to Reut. “Wait for me at the hotel. Don’t do anything until I get there.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CONTRARY TO ITS name, the Royal Palatine Hotel is a three-star rat trap. The limousine pulled up to the shaded entrance and the doorman showed us in with a bored glassy-eyed expression, the kind that says, “I see nothing, especially nothing I’m not supposed to see.” As soon as we entered the run-down lobby, I realized why Weiss had chosen this place to conduct his business. It was way out of the spotlight.

  I crammed into the narrow elevator with Ivan and the two thugs. Ivan stank.

  “Why don’t you do the world a favor and use deodorant,” I complained.

  We rode up one floor to a corridor with a row of what appeared to be identical offices. On each door was a small sign with the name of a company. They didn’t give a lot away. We stopped in front of a sign reading “Weiss Import-Export Inc.”

  Ivan opened the door. In the hotel’s effort to save on electricity, the office was even darker than the corridor, lit only by a few dim lamps.

  Alex Weiss was sitting behind a large, highly polished desk facing the door. He was wearing a deep blue military-style suit with epaulets, brass buttons, and short sleeves. His ponderous arms were stretched out motionless on the desk. Several gold chains hung from his broad neck, each of them heavy enough to anchor a boat. They held a collection of weights in the shape of square or triangular amulets with a little Buddha in the center. One also bore a lingam, the penis-shaped amulet that serves as Shiva’s phallic symbol. A few bigger lingams sat on the desk, perhaps functioning as paperweights, along with a vase of incense sticks with split heads holding a variety of bills: dollars, rubles, bahts. On the corner of the desk was a yellow-white canary hopping about inside a small straw cage. Tarot cards were spread out in front of it.

  Weiss didn’t bother to raise his head when we came in. His eyes were pinned on the canary. He opened the cage and it hopped out, pecked at one of the cards, and returned to its cage. He tossed it a few seeds from a bag on the desk, and the bird pecked at them, chirping happily. Still without raising his eyes, Weiss spluttered, “Ivan, you stupid motherfucker, tell the fish sauce to wait outside. I can’t stand the smell. You don’t smell so good either.”

  Ivan gestured to the thugs. Obediently, they left the room. When they were gone, Weiss turned over the card the canary had selected, glanced at it briefly, and then placed it back on the desk, facedown.

  “Judgment,” he said. “Not good. I’ve been asking questions all day, looking for the answers. The bird picks the cards. And what do they tell me? That everything’s an illusion and I don’t have the means to find the answers. Me, Weiss, can’t find the answers? I’m a serious businessman. You know what the Chinese call me?” Finally, he looked up at me. I shook my head.

  “Mr. Ten Percent.”

  I kept silent.

  “You know why? Because they know I take an honest commission off the top of every deal. Not ninety percent and not eleven percent. Ten percent precisely. You get my meaning? But I don’t have my ten percent this time. The whole shipment has gone missing. Where is it? That’s what I want to know.”

  He swept the cards onto the floor. I’d already met enough jerks for one day, but I refrained from comment.

  Instinctively, Ivan bent down and picked up the cards, examining them closely.

  “Pizdetz, boss,” he said. “Cunts. I look and I see. All cards naked cunts. And all white cunts. Big tits, like in Russia. On Star and World, naked cunts with orange veil like Thailand monks. Blyad. I say maybe girl hiding in temple. She put orange veil around her to hide cunt. Maybe also hide money in temple?”

  Weiss looked stunned. Finally, he said, “Come here, my little pussycat.”

  Ivan moved closer. Weiss rose, picked up a large ceramic lingam, and smashed it down on his head. The lingam shattered, but it didn’t seem to have any effect on Ivan. He merely scratched the point of impact, like someone scratching their head in embarrassment. I was sure it wasn’t the first time it had happened. Weiss sat back down, looking calmer. Ivan spread the cards out on the desk again, facedown as before. The loud noise had sent the canary cringing in a corner, but as soon as Ivan finished arranging the cards, it chirped, hopped out of its cage, and pecked at one.

  “Two geniuses,” Weiss said. “The bird and the retard.”

  He eyed me, still considering whether or not to turn the card over. “Is she there? In the temple?”

  Again, I shook my head. He didn’t move his eyes away until he decided he was satisfied with the answer.

  “Like Ivan said the first time he tried to make friends with you, you and me, we’re partners, whether you like it or not. That’s just how it is. Israelis look out for each other, right?”

  “Whatever you say.”

  He ignored the hostility in my tone.

  “You find the girl and we split it down the middle,” he went on. “You get the girl and I get the package. Capito?” He didn’t wait for my answer. “Girls are like flies around here. Every race, color, and type you can name. You see the Russians? Premium class. Every one of them has a degree. A PhD in physics, an MA in education, it doesn’t matter. Here, all of them are studying life sciences.”

  I didn’t respond.

  “You want an example?”

  Again, he didn’t wait for an answer before pressing a small button on his desk.

  The most beautiful Russian bombshell I’d ever seen emerged from behind a Chinese screen. Everything about her was absolutely divine. Flowing blond hair, exquisite face, long slender body, amazing boobs.

  “Galina, my lovely, what’s Einstein’s formula for the speed of light?” Weiss asked her.

  She didn’t blink. “E equals mc squared.”

  “See? All my whores are educated.”

  I nodded.

  I was still scanning her, my eyes pausing at the interesting bits, each one worth a zoom-in.

  “Life isn’t easy,” Weiss said. “You can see how rewarding my business is, but it also has its irritations. I’m a hard man. I’m used to getting what I want. There aren’t many things left that I don’t already have. But I’m not going to let some little bitch with no manners and no education play me for a fool. You get it?” His face got redder as his voice rose, but I could see the effort he was making to control his temper. He closed his eyes and took three deep breaths before opening them again.

  “Go find the girl and get me my package and my money. Capito?”

  “What makes you think I can find her?” I asked.

  He was trying very hard not to fly off the handle. He wasn’t used to doing things this way. Ordinarily, he’d tell Ivan and his stooges to make mincemeat of me, but instead he closed his eyes again and stretched his arms out on the desk in the position they were in when I first came in. Then he took three more deep breaths and let the air out slowly before opening his eyes. “They say you’re a pain in the ass that never leaves empty-handed.”

  “Assuming I find her, give me one good reason why I should tell you.”

  That’s all it took. He lost it. He was furious, and this time he
couldn’t control it.

  “You think you’re a big man, huh? Big enough not to give a shit.”

  “Boss,” Ivan interrupted. “He can’t talk to you like that. You want I stomp on him a little?”

  “Ivan, my darling, he’s like every Israeli. They think they can piss on a tree and the fruit will fall into their hands. He doesn’t know us.”

  “I can teach him some respect, boss,” Ivan answered. “He scratched the Mercedes.”

  I knew exactly what to do to shake the idiot up and take the air out of him. It was my specialty in the agency, psychological warfare. All it takes to pull the rug out from under someone is a few well-aimed provocations they can’t handle. It makes them see the fear they keep buried deep down inside. I was very adept at it.

  I moved closer to the desk. The canary hopped out of its cage to peck at the seeds scattered about and made the chirping sounds that happy little songbirds make. With a single swift motion, it was in my hand. I turned it over, puffed on its chest to separate the feathers, and pulled out a handful of tail feathers.

  The canary shrieked, Ivan the Durian’s jaw dropped, and Weiss went white. Literally. All the blood drained from his face. “You know where you can shove these fucking feathers,” I said, laying them on top of the cards. I walked out of the room at a measured pace. No one stopped me. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him pick up the bird and stroke it gently.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  ONCE AGAIN, NIGHT fell on the city, bringing with it loneliness and alienation, crime and brutality, cold and emptiness. At night, beliefs are shattered, relationships reveal themselves to be fickle and meaningless, and the city is covered in a heavy blanket of despair.

  My next stop was Barbu—Yair Shemesh. We used to be friends.

  When Mama Dom mentioned the “angel for all Israel falang,” I thought she meant Barbu. I knew now that I was wrong. She was referring to Reuven. The cab driver who gave me the amulet from “Buddha of the West” was also talking about Reuven. The pieces were beginning to fall into place. If there was anyone in Bangkok who could clue me in on Reuven, it was Barbu. And he’d know where Reuven was.