The Secret Agent

by Francine Mathews

  “Did you talk to Pridi yourself?”

  Carlos shook his head.

  The sound of running feet echoed in the corridor; Roderick turned, an intent expression on his face. “We’ve been set up, my friend. When I release your wrist, head for the window. Try to get to your old meeting place. Lie low. I’ll find you when it’s dark. Now—GO!”

  Carlos shoved the old woman out of the way and leapt to the windowsill without a backward glance. He jumped—a blur of jet-black hair, khaki suiting the color of mud—and was gone. Only then did Roderick wonder how far the drop from the sill was.

  The old woman, on her knees, began to sob wrenchingly. What was she? A princess? A nurse? Roderick placed his hand tentatively on her shoulder. She spat at him.

  The first of the palace guards pounded into the room. Strange, Roderick thought, that it had taken them so long to respond to gunfire in the royal household. “Tell them,” he urged McQueen. “Tell them the killer went out the way they came. And get that woman to shut up.”

  The real question, Roderick thought later, was not why the young king had to be murdered. That, he almost understood. Ananda had grown up in exile, a child educated in boarding schools and surrounded by doting family; the boy knew nothing of government, nothing of Thailand, but he had taken to the notion of rule like a duck to water. Ananda had descended on his capital ten months before with the sorry notion that he possessed absolute power; and he’d been itching to use it. He’d quarreled with his Prime Minister, Pridi Banomyong, who thought kings should remain figureheads while elected officials ran the government. Pridi could not control the king any more than he could destroy the machine that had governed Thailand in Ananda’s absence— the military faction that had cast its lot with Hirohito’s Japan, seized a large chunk of disputed territory beyond Thailand’s borders, and then retired in disgrace. The military hated Pridi and the king with equal force.

  No, Roderick thought: the question had never been why the king was shot; the question would always be who. Who among the floating crap game of sedition politics in the soggy, rain-swept capital wanted to destroy Carlos—the Prime Minister’s most trusted aide—and through him, Pridi Banomyong? Who would want the regicide to be discovered by Jack Roderick, head of U.S. intelligence in Thailand, and Alec McQueen—who commanded the power of the English-language press corps?

  Prime Minister Pridi’s chief enemies: Field Marshal Pibul and his cadre. The men Jack Roderick had helped to defeat and disgrace.

  He sent Boonreung that night to find Carlos, among the maze of canals and houseboats that made up the far reaches of Thon Buri. There was a place they always used for meetings—one of Carlos’s safe houses during the war. A sampan with a roof over its head, a widow who peddled vegetables on the water. Her husband another dead hero of the resistance, her children too gaunt and terrified in the wavering lantern-light. Carlos crouched like a dog in the boat’s shelter, the woman going about her evening business as though frying oil were all she dreamed of. In the chaotic hours that followed Ananda’s murder, Roderick wondered if the hiding place was wise. It might have been betrayed long ago. It might be the first place the enemy would look. But there had been no time to regroup. First there was the necessary explanation to the palace guards. The shouted testimony of the two witnesses—the king’s Swiss valet and his ancient nurse—who insisted that Roderick and McQueen were in league with the assassin. Only after an endless period, were they allowed to place calls to U.S. Ambassador Edwin Stanton and the Prime Minister, who had never summoned them to the palace in the first place. At last, when they had been grudgingly released, there was the dressing-down in the ambassador’s office—the final blow that rankled in Roderick’s soul.

  “Did you orchestrate this fiasco, Jack?” Stanton had demanded querulously. “Did you act on orders from Washington of which I was never informed?”

  “You think I’m a kingmaker, Ed?” Roderick retorted acidly. “You figure I paid the assassin myself?”

  “That’s what they’re saying in the street,” Stanton replied, “so it doesn’t much matter whether you did or didn’t. The air is thick with coups and plots wherever you walk, Roderick. This time you’ve gone too far.”

  “This time I’m innocent,” he muttered sourly; but nothing he could have said would have mattered. From that day forward, Prime Minister Pridi’s hours were numbered, regardless of how many times Roderick attempted to explain how brilliantly they had all been set up—that the real villains were those who were ruthlessly determined to regain power. A single act of bloodshed and calumny—the turning tide of public opinion—was worth more than an armored division in the streets any day.

  King Ananda’s death was declared an accident. No one in Southeast Asia believed it.

  “Carlos gave me this,” Boonreung told Roderick before dawn the next morning. “He said you would know where it came from.”

  Puzzled, Roderick turned over the smooth, dark red gemstone the boy handed him. It was polished but uncut, and looked quite old. A garnet? A ruby. “He told you nothing else?”

  “Only that he found it on the floor of the palace, by the king’s bedside. Perhaps it was Ananda’s.”

  Roderick pocketed the stone. “Did all go well?”

  Boonreung had collected Carlos from Thon Buri in a borrowed long-tail boat and poled him downstream to the city’s edge. Roderick had arranged for transport—a truck packed with fish and bound for market in the interior. Carlos had clutched at Boonreung’s shirt and begged him to take care of his children. The boy promised what he could and refused to say goodbye.

  “I saw Vukrit Suwannathat hunting through every sampan and houseboat on the Thon Buri side with three soldiers in army uniforms, just as I poled the boat out of the khlong,” he told Roderick.

  “Did Vukrit see you?”

  “I do not know. Maybe. He certainly did not see Carlos in the bottom of my boat.” The boy shrugged. “We got away.”

  Unless, Roderick thought, Vukrit had you followed—but he said nothing of his suspicion to Boonreung. Carlos would be safe soon in the hill country of Chiang Rai. He intended to pass into Laos at the first opportunity. If Vukrit knew more than Boonreung guessed, Roderick could wait for the man’s attempt at blackmail.

  It was only years later that Jack Roderick understood that blackmail was not the point. It was Boonreung he should have saved.

  8

  That Tuesday night, Stefani made her way back to her room around ten o’clock, leaving Rush Halliwell standing on the river terrace. Halfway down the Garden Wing corridor, the strains of a viola skittered through her brain. She stopped dead, borne back immediately to the moonlit bedroom in the old stone house above Courchevel.

  “Max,” she said aloud in the empty hall. “Max, are you there?”

  The faint strains died away into silence. She brushed one hand over her eyes, which were suddenly damp, and fumbled for her key.

  Of course Rush Halliwell had invited her to dinner. Her bare-faced claim to Jack Roderick’s House was designed to snare his interest, and he’d risen instantly to the bait, as she’d assumed he would. He wanted to know more. Because everything to do with Jack Roderick’s Bangkok life was universally irresistible? Or because the U.S. embassy’s Third Political Officer was in league with Max’s enemies—whoever they might be?

  “I don’t know a great deal about the Roderick story,” he’d offered as he pulled out her chair. “Just the stuff that’s in all the guidebooks.”

  Liar, she’d thought, and said: “That’s what most people know. I was fortunate enough to be a friend of the family.”

  “Obviously, if you inherit under a will. But I thought even the family had no idea how Jack Roderick died.”

  “Oh, as to that—” she said airily, “there are probably as many theories as there are people to form them. Ideas are everywhere. It’s the truth that’s in short supply, Rush.”

  “And is that what you’re looking for? Truth?” His smile was roguish, as though she
should hardly take him seriously; but it was precisely this, Stefani decided, that he really wanted to know: the depth of the unquiet graves, and whether she carried a shovel.

  “I just want my house.” Max’s house. And all its resident ghosts.

  “That could be difficult.” Halliwell unfurled his napkin with care. “I had heard that Roderick left his house and collection to Thailand. An altruistic gesture. That’s why the place was turned into a museum, isn’t it?”

  “If you say so.”

  “What other reason is there?”

  “Greed. On the part of those who manage the collection.”

  “Greed cuts both ways,” he pointed out. “Is it greed to preserve the nation’s artistic heritage—or greed to claim it for yourself?”

  “That depends upon how the collection was acquired,” Stefani returned tartly. “In this case, wholesale theft seems an apt description.”

  Halliwell shrugged, untouched. “That’s probably how old Roderick came by the stuff in the first place-raiding parties on ancient temples, lost for centuries in the wilderness. The man was a connoisseur, sure—but most swear he was also a pirate.”

  “I’ve never known a connoisseur who wasn’t.”

  “That doesn’t justify piracy. Look, Stefani—the Thai government maintains Roderick’s hoard and makes it available to the public. Absent that, the collection would have been broken up and sold long ago. Statues of Buddha, figures in limestone and bronze, carved heads— the treasures in that house span fourteen centuries. Roderick owned the finest example of a Thai Buddha sculpture in existence. Add to that the fact that it’s almost a crime in this country to display sacred images in private homes, and by any argument those pieces belong in a museum.”

  “And yet—that’s not what Roderick wanted. Not what he stipulated in his will.”

  “Which will?”

  “The one that governs. The one that postdates the 1960 document.”

  Rush’s fork arrested in midair. “You’ve seen it?”

  “Of course. Roderick probably intended to destroy the 1960 testament. He drew up the final will a few weeks before he disappeared in ’67. Unfortunately, that document was misplaced. It was only recently found in the home of Roderick’s sister, after her death.”

  “Along with the Hitler diaries and an unknown play by Shakespeare.”

  “It’s been authenticated, Rush.”

  He eyed her shrewdly. “Try getting a Thai court to accept that. Jack left everything to his heirs?”

  “—And they, to me.”

  He smiled. “What a fortunate girl you are, Stefani.”

  I might say the same about you, she thought, remembering the ample assets of the California Halliwells. “So tell me. How do I get what’s mine?”

  He sipped from his water glass. Buying time before answering? “You’ll need a lawyer who understands the Thai justice system. But possession, as they say, is usually nine-tenths of the law. As a foreigner, you’ll have a difficult time winning property rights in this country. Your best bet is some sort of compromise. An out-of-court settlement.”

  “I abhor compromise. Particularly when I’m in the right.”

  “Then you’ll never thrive in Thailand. Here you must be like the bamboo tree. Bend in a typhoon, lest you break. Do you know how the museum’s managed?”

  “By a private board—the Thai Heritage Board. It’s funded in part from donations, but mainly through a trust fund managed by Dickie Spencer, the chairman of Jack Roderick Silk. Dickie’s father, Charles, worked for Jack during the sixties. Charles took over the firm after Jack’s disappearance. The Spencers are something of a local dynasty.”

  “You’ve done your homework. What exactly was your profession, back in the States?”

  “I managed a mutual fund for a while.” She threw him her impish smile; if Halliwell believed she was susceptible to flattery, she’d better look like flattery was working. “I suppose I should tackle Spencer first. He’s the man with the most obvious stake in the house.”

  “But the power brokers behind the scenes are the ones who really control it. I know Dickie Spencer rather well. He’s a good front man for the Thai Heritage Board, and he’d hate to lose the house—he’s put a chunk of change into it and it’s a focal point for the silk company—but he’s not emotionally invested.”

  “The others are?”

  “The others might kill to keep their hands on the place.”

  He said it very quietly, but the menace was real. People didn’t joke about Jack Roderick’s legacy. Stefani sat back in her chair and gazed at Halliwell. “Is that a warning? Hands off?”

  “I don’t expect you to take it.” He shrugged again. “But you did say you were looking for the truth.”

  “Then tell me whom I should be afraid of,” she challenged softly. “The power brokers behind the scenes.”

  His eyes flicked away from hers. She could almost feel him deciding how many cards to show, and which to conceal. “You understand that all of this is off the record.”

  “Of course.”

  “A gesture. Not a professional commitment. Not the official statement of the U.S. embassy. I’ve got to talk to my superiors before I can offer you help.”

  Have you got any superiors, I wonder? Or do you simply invent them when it’s convenient? “We’re two acquaintances having a conversation over dinner,” she replied evenly.

  “Right.” He raised his glass again, revealing a tanned wrist beneath his elegant cuff. “Positions on the Thai Heritage Board are granted by appointment. They’re considered quite prestigious and are in fact virtually controlled by certain families or interests. Something you should understand about the Thais, Stefani, is that this is a collectivist society. Not as strongly conformist as, say, the Japanese—most Thais talk a lot about individuality and personal freedom—but group-oriented all the same.”

  “You mean, the whole country operates on patronage.”

  “On clientelism,” he corrected. “Patron-client relationships. Thai society is knit vertically and horizontally by bonds of personal obligation. Favors. Debts. Call them what you will.”

  “And so appointments to the board are won by influence?”

  “Basically.”

  “Who controls the power of appointment?”

  Rush smiled. “You must know his name.”

  She frowned. “Why would I?”

  “You seem to know everything else.”

  “If I did, I wouldn’t be having dinner with you.”

  “How frank.” He looked rueful. “The man you want is Sompong Suwannathat. He’s Minister of Culture in the current government. He’ll probably be Minister of Defense in the next. Culture and crowd control go hand-in-hand in Thailand.”

  Sompong Suwannathat. “You think this guy is emotionally invested in my house?”

  “I think Suwannathat would argue that it’s his house,” Halliwell rejoined mildly. “Sompong’s run the Heritage Board for over ten years. His father was a member before him. If Jack Roderick’s legacy belongs to anyone—”

  “Then it’s Sompong, and not the Thai public,” Stefani cut in. “You’ve just made me feel infinitely better, Rush. I’m delighted to rob a fellow power broker.”

  “Don’t take this lightly.” The easy charm that had lingered around his eyes had vanished. “Sompong is someone to respect.”

  “What does that mean? That he employs thugs?”

  “Undoubtedly. But he also employs half of Bangkok. Which means he owns half of Bangkok. If you cross Sompong you’ll get hurt. That’s not a threat. But it is the truth.”

  “I’ll call and make an appointment with the man. That’s one way to manage a threat.”

  “Like you managed funds. Did you meet Max Roderick trading assets?”

  Stefani’s fork slipped through her fingers. Rush bent instantly to retrieve it.

  “He’s the only Roderick left,” he added reasonably. “Besides, I skied Tahoe as a kid. Max is a local hero there. And I s
till follow the World Cup. Didn’t he have a nasty accident last year?”

  “He died six days ago.” She said it carefully. “Suicide.”

  “I’m sorry.” Halliwell’s somber expression suggested a proper degree of empathy; but the news was not news to him, Stefani was certain. “If, as I take it, your inheritance is only six days old, then I wouldn’t topple the Suwannathat throne just yet. You’ll have months to wait before you can justify a claim. Probate is never quick, particularly when it’s done on three continents.”

  Three continents. In that single phrase, he’d just betrayed himself: he knew a bit more about Max than was usual for a Third Political Officer in Southeast Asia, even one who followed the World Cup. She thought of the powerful man in the dark suit and the perfectly groomed hair, the man who had taken so long to request directions to the bathroom from Rush that evening. She thought of the crumpled paper stolen from her bag, and the names and suspicions written on it. She thought of accidents that were not accidents. Of murder dressed up as suicide. Of Max, sailing out into thin air with his hands locked on the brakes—

  “You’ve been so helpful, Rush.” She smiled up into his green eyes. “I’m planning to visit Jack Roderick’s House tomorrow afternoon—won’t you meet me there?”

  * * *

  She thrust her key into the bedroom door. Turn-down service, the stereo softly playing, and beyond the windows, river traffic like a festival of lights. Someone had left her lychee fruit in a porcelain dish. She allowed herself thirty seconds to soak in the peace before she picked up her phone.

  “Feeling better, ducks?” Oliver asked.

  “Exhausted to the damn bone.”

  “That must be why you called from your room. I’d prefer, in future, that you try the street.”

  “Sloppy,” she agreed, stung by the note of reprimand in his voice. “Sorry.”

  “I suppose you need something.” Again, she heard annoyance.

  “I need a good lawyer. Somebody who practices in Bangkok. An American, if possible.”