The Palace

by Reich, Christopher

  Simon found a seat at the bar, happy to be out of the sun. A girl joined him before he could order a beer.

  “Buy me drink.” She was twenty, almost pretty, with a sunny disposition, clad in short shorts and a strategically cut off T-shirt. A hand dropped onto his thigh. No beating around the bush here. “How you today?”

  “I’m fine,” said Simon, and when the waitress arrived, he ordered a beer for himself and a Shirley Temple for the lady. Actually, she wanted a shot of tequila.

  “Me, Gate,” she said.

  “Gate?”

  She nodded. “American name.”

  “Not Kate?”

  “Gate.”

  Simon said he must have missed that one. The drinks arrived. He tipped the waitress and gave Gate a thousand baht to begin the process of legally changing her name. She asked where he was from, and he said, “Australia.” Why not? He planned on visiting one day.

  “Listen, Gate,” he said. “I need a favor. I’m looking for the person who runs this place.”

  “You mean, in charge of bar? My boss, there.” She pointed to a faded beauty seated at a far table smoking a cigarette and doing her nails.

  “I mean, the big boss. The person who owns this place.”

  “First, I ask my boss for you.”

  Gate hurried to the far table. The older woman—probably his age—eyed him, then, with great effort, rose and came to the table. “What you want?”

  “A favor,” he said, slipping the woman a thousand baht. “Five minutes of your boss’s time. The owner.”

  “Who you?”

  “A businessman.”

  Her look told him she didn’t believe him. “Why you want to talk to him?”

  “Personal.”

  “You have card?”

  “Left it on my dresser.” It was apparent to Simon that he was getting nowhere. He decided on the nuclear option. “Please tell him that I’m a close friend of Sergeant Rudi.”

  The woman’s eyes didn’t change, but he could sense her growing tense.

  “You name?”

  “Simon.”

  “You wait here,” she said. “First you buy Gate drink. Me too.”

  Simon ordered another round for all of them and sat back to wait. Ten minutes passed. Gate asked repeatedly if he would take her home when his business was done. Simon said, repeatedly, “Not tonight. Maybe another time.”

  She asked if he wanted a boy…or a ladyboy. Simon declined each.

  Gate pouted. “You buy me one more drink?”

  Simon obliged, thinking they should use Gate in their employee training videos. By now he was broke. Another half hour passed. He hadn’t seen Gate’s floor boss since their conversation. He kept his eyes on the street, checking for police. An occasional uniform walked past, keeping the peace, nothing more. Simon pulled his cap lower. One more farang enjoying Pattaya’s hospitality. He had an hour before the bank closed. If he could find a passport, it wouldn’t come cheap.

  Someone tapped him on the shoulder. A middle-aged man sat on his haunches, white shirt, shorts. “Mr. Simon, please come with me.” His English was good. A step up.

  Simon followed the man through the bar to a suite of offices on the first floor. The floor boss waited inside a small office. “You sit,” she said. “Wait.”

  Simon entered and took a seat. The woman left the room. He checked the door. Locked. The office was cramped and without windows. A desk, a file cabinet. A Buddha on a shelf with a wilted garland around its neck. This was not the boss’s office.

  Some time passed. The door opened. Two men entered. Tough and Tougher. Late twenties, as thin as rails and probably as strong, wearing jeans and T-shirts, hair cut too fashionably, razored on the sides, dressed up on top. Not the boss. Not even his deputies. They were muscle, pure and simple. He’d come to the wrong place, asked the wrong questions.

  Simon hit the first man as he closed the door, a sucker punch to the ribs, knuckles extended. He followed with a jab to the chin. The man bounced off the wall, grunting, otherwise showing no ill effects.

  A fist struck Simon in the kidney. He spun, vision blurring, kicked at the other man’s knees, felt the kneecap give way, winced at the telltale snap of broken ligaments. A howl to alert police in the surrounding five counties as the man fell to the floor. But Simon was already turning back to the first man, blocking one punch, the other landing on his solar plexus. A hammer. Gasping, Simon threw an uppercut, connecting with bone. A tooth whistled past. The counterpunch landed wide, grazing Simon’s shoulder. Simon charged ahead, a wounded bull, lifting the man bodily off his feet and slamming him against the wall. A flurry of punches to the ribs followed. The man down, writhing.

  Fifteen seconds. Over and done.

  He fell onto the chair, panting, head down. He was wiped.

  And then, a thunderclap of boots climbing the stairs. The door flew open. A wave of olive drab stormed the room. Angry hands hauled him to his feet and flung him against the wall. His arms were pulled behind him. Steel cuffs bit into his wrists. Someone spun him around.

  An officer stood before him, ribbons to rival Colonel Tan, wearing his mirrored sunglasses, too.

  The national police.

  “Don’t move. You’re under arrest.”

  Chapter 34

  Pattaya

  The policeman was sixty if a day, short and stout, a green beret tugged low over one eye, salt-and-pepper hair cut short. His name tag read SUWANNARAT.

  “So I understand you are a businessman,” he said, taking a chair opposite Simon. “What line of work are you in?”

  “Self-preservation, for one.”

  The policeman eyed the two men lying on the floor with disgust and ordered his men to take them out. “Your present situation may put those skills to a greater test,” he said after they had left. “Name?”

  “Ledoux. Simon Ledoux.”

  “You’re sure?” The police officer removed his beret and set it on the desk, then his sunglasses on top of it. With the same precision, he unbuttoned his pocket and removed a piece of paper, folded in quarters. With care, he spread it on his leg. “You do remember that a photograph was taken as you entered the Spanish embassy? For your ID?” He held up the photocopy so Simon could see it. Simon said nothing.

  “Every police officer in the country has one of these, Mr. Simon Riske. On order of the king. He’s quite upset, as you can imagine. Things like this reflect poorly on his country. Added to that, Colonel Albert Tan was a close friend. Practically a relative. Did you know that we only recently reinstated the death penalty? So far, the means used has been lethal injection. The king is talking of bringing back the firing squad just for you.”

  “I’m flattered,” said Simon. “But you have the wrong man. I didn’t kill Colonel Tan or anyone else.”

  “Says the sole survivor last seen fleeing the compound.” The policeman sighed. “Really, Mr. Riske. Give us some credit. Save your story for the judge, or perhaps the king himself. By law, he can involve himself in matters like these. You’ll have plenty of time to fashion something more credible than ‘You have the wrong man.’ A year until trial, at least. Five years until you’re executed. Maybe ten. We like to appear fair-minded. The king will make sure you serve your time in an appropriate location. There’s a prison up the river that we keep for our most special guests.”

  “This is a mistake,” said Simon. “You know I’m not the killer. I was there to help my friend, Mr. De Bourbon. It was another man. Shorter than me. Mixed race. There are cameras all over the embassy.”

  “Disabled. All of them. Another of your business skills, perhaps…along with beating up two of my men?”

  “They were police officers? I didn’t know.”

  “Of course not. Those two aren’t fit to wear a probationer’s uniform. They are my employees. We are sitting in my establishment. I’m the proprietor.”

  “You own this place? The Awake Till Dawn?”

  “And Awake Till Dawn 2 and 3.”
/>   Simon sat forward. “You’re Sergeant Rudi?”

  “Major Rudi these days. A bit old for the rank, but yes, I used to be Sergeant Rudi. I’m Ben Sterling’s friend.” The policeman told Simon to stand and unlocked his handcuffs. He held Simon’s wrists for a closer look. The skin was abraded where Shaka’s bonds had cut into him. “We didn’t put the cuffs on that tightly.”

  “That’s another story,” said Simon.

  “I’m sure we’ll come to it.”

  “Did Ben tell you what I needed?”

  “Passport and a way out of the country. He doesn’t realize the trouble you’re in. Do you have any kind of identification?”

  Simon shook his head. “I’ve had a rough few days.”

  Rudi removed a pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket and shook one loose, tilting his head as he lit it. “Now I begin to see. Any preference for nationality?”

  “Swiss, European Union, Canadian—I’m not certain where my travels may take me. I’d like to avoid any visa requirements.”

  “Is there anything else you’d like? Say a flying carpet?”

  “Just a passport. One that meets all biometric standards and won’t raise any red flags. Oh…and I need it today.”

  Major Rudi considered this, a long drag, a look at his boots. He exhaled and looked at Simon with a new determination. “If I were able to help you, such a document would be quite expensive. Friend or no friend. Excuse me for saying, but you do not appear to be especially prosperous at the moment. The people involved to make such a document…if I knew where to find them…the short delay. Yes, extraordinarily expensive.” He dropped the cigarette on the floor and crushed it under his boot. “There is something else…”

  “Yes?”

  “We know that you are not the culprit. It’s true that all of the cameras in the embassy were deactivated, except one.”

  “In the ambassador’s office, I hope.”

  “On a separate feed. Of course, I haven’t seen it. I’d prefer not to.”

  “Then why are you searching for me?”

  “The police must be seen to be doing something. It comforts our people to know that we have some idea who we’re looking for. Two of my men spotted you in the café. I had no choice but to follow procedure.”

  “I understand,” said Simon.

  “However, since you were there at the embassy, it might help if you were able to provide some information about the killer.”

  “I take it there’s no photo of him entering the embassy.”

  Major Rudi grimaced. “Or the country, it turns out. A capable fellow all the way around.”

  “I’d be happy to,” said Simon. “Though I’m fairly certain he’s no longer in the country.”

  “Still, I’d like to be of assistance to my colleagues abroad.”

  “May I ask you something first? Were you close to Colonel Tan?”

  “A fine officer. A credit to the Royal Thai Police and I say that without reservation. But let’s say that Albert Tan and I were on the opposite sides of many issues. Do you know about his family?”

  “Just stories.” Simon rubbed his fingers to indicate “wealth.”

  “In this country, there is still very much an ‘us’ and a ‘them.’ I come from Isan, the poorest region in Thailand. I am old to be only a major. Still, for my family, it is a victory. I am ‘us,’ the people. Colonel Tan, he was ‘them.’ A member of the ruling class. Rich. A friend of the king. Two worlds, really. Why do you ask?”

  “Just curious.” Tan…his involvement with Rafa…whatever lay behind it all. It was too big a can of worms to open at this point. If Simon did his job, Major Rudi and the entire Thai police force would learn the reasons behind Tan’s actions at the same time he did. “The man you’re looking for is mixed race, thirty-five to forty years old, five feet nine inches tall. Very strong. He goes by the name Shaka. He’s from South Africa and spent some time as a member of GSG 9, Germany’s counterterrorism brigade. He’s a trained professional.”

  “It sounds as if you had a run-in with him before.”

  “You can say that. He tracked me from the embassy and nearly killed me. Long story. If I had to guess where he’s headed, I would say Singapore.”

  “Singapore? An arrogant bunch, the police down there. It will be a pleasure to tell them that this Shaka is on his way.”

  “My guess is he’s already there. He probably arrived early this morning, if, that is, he took a commercial flight. He may have private transportation at his disposal.”

  Major Rudi wrote all this down in his police notebook. “There’s more here than you’re telling me. I appreciate your discretion. I have no interest in learning about what Albert Tan may have been involved in. In this country, it is often better not to know. Is there anything else you’d care to add?”

  Simon shook his head, shrugged, indicating that they had better get a move on. “I’ll need to get to the bank.”

  “Yes, the passport. I’m thinking Canadian. A trustworthy country. A man just up the road does an excellent job. You can’t leave from any of the major airports, however. As I said, your picture is everywhere. We’ll be keeping a close watch on flight manifests. A cash ticket will raise a red flag. I’ll put in a word on your behalf, but it will be some time before your name is stricken and the watch is called off. I’m thinking a private aircraft to Malaysia—a turboprop—then the ferry across the Johor Straits. It will take longer, maybe all night, but I don’t think you’ll have a problem at the border.” Major Rudi replaced his beret and put on his mirrored sunglasses. “I take it you are going to Singapore?”

  Chapter 35

  Cannes

  Transcript from Press Conference: The Raft of the Medusa

  Salle de Presse, Palais des Festivals et des Congrès, 21 Mai 2020

  Participants:

  Thor Axelsson—Director

  Samson Sun—Producer

  Mohammed Al-Jumani—Actor / Himself

  Mohammed Tabbi—Actor / Himself

  Mohammed Zafrullah—Actor / Himself

  Jean Renaud—Directeur du Festival

  Jean Renaud: (Introduction) The Raft of the Medusa is a film of extraordinary compassion that chronicles one of the most terrible tragedies of the last twenty years, brought to life not by professional actors but by the very individuals who suffered through it and survived. You are all familiar with the story. Today, I am proud to stand beside the team behind this magnificent work of art. Dare I say, “a masterpiece of its kind.” With us are Thor Axelsson, the director, Samson Sun, the producer, and three of the principal leads, who play themselves. None of the actors speaks English or French, so please direct your questions to either Mr. Axelsson or Mr. Sun.

  New York Times: I was hoping you could comment on your development process. Most independent films take years to come to the screen, yet you’ve boasted about going from concept to completion in eighteen months. Considering this is your first film, that’s quite a feat. How did you do it?

  Samson Sun: As you know, everything begins with the story. When I received the screenplay, I immediately knew that it could be not only an important film that speaks to one of today’s most urgent issues but also an exciting thriller and box office smash. There was no reason to delay. When Samson Sun decides to do something, he does it.

  New York Times: This is the screenwriter’s first film. It is safe to say she is an extraordinary talent. How did she find you, or vice versa?

  Sun: You know Hollywood. It is all about connections. A mutual friend knew that I was searching for the right film to be my first. He put us in contact. As you said, she is an extraordinary talent. Of course, I had my own comments about the script. We worked together to bring it to the screen as quickly as possible.

  Der Spiegel: Whose idea was it to use the real survivors of the ordeal rather than professionally trained actors?

  Sun: It was the screenwriter’s idea from the beginning. She had first approached the subject as a documentary. But very soon
she realized that the story could be more fully told if dramatized. When she asked what I thought of the idea, I said it was brilliant.

  Der Spiegel: Of the survivors who appeared in the film, only three were granted asylum in the European Union. The others were sent back to their home countries. How did you find them?

  Sun: It wasn’t easy. (Laughter.)

  The Guardian: How did the actors hold up during the filming? Given the emphasis on re-creating the events as accurately as possible, did any suffer from post-traumatic stress by reliving such a terrible experience? I’m referring specifically to the graphic depiction of cannibalism.

  Thor Axelsson: They are remarkable human beings. I can answer for them and say that to a man they have put the events behind them. Remember, a movie set is a busy place. While what you see on film is harrowing, the actors are surrounded by a crew of professionals. So much is going on out of sight of the camera that the men were able to maintain a division between fiction and reality.

  The Guardian: A follow-up. It had been reported that there were naval vessels from France, Spain, and Italy all in the area at the time of the ship’s initial fire and sinking. None responded to calls for search and rescue when the Medusa was reported missing two days after it had sunk. Do any of your actors harbor ill will toward those governments?

  Sun: We are here to discuss the film. We know of no proven, purposeful actions taken by any of those governments not to come to the Medusa’s assistance. As we show in the film, no distress call was sent. This is not a political statement but a humanitarian one.

  The Guardian: Does Mr. Al-Jumani wish to comment?

  Sun: No. He does not.

  Le Figaro: Two of the actors were among those survivors not granted asylum due to their past affiliation with terrorist organizations, namely Al-Shabab and Ras-al-Islamiya. Did you feel any responsibility—one way or the other—about hiring them?