Bangkok Rules

by Harlan Wolff

  “You have ten seconds starting from now. Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two.”

  Anthony Inman felt the small blade pressing into his scrotum. “What do you want me to do?” he yelled.

  The grey-haired ghoul withdrew his hands and the knife and stood up and turned off the gas. He took another cigarette from his pocket and left the room without speaking another word.

  A short man with dark hair and younger eyes sat in the chair in front of Inman. His face was hidden behind the rubber mask but Inman could see by his eyes that he was smiling.

  “You wanna stay out of the frying pan you cooperate and you better hold nothing back,” he said with the twang of street New York. “I’m an expert on bank accounts and internet banking processes. Our leader who you just saw leave the room is never going to speak to you again, never another mother fuckin’ word. If he comes back it’ll be to use the knife and the frying pan so don’t try and lie to me. You will tell me about your accounts and the passwords and the security devices attached to those accounts. I will let you speak on a mobile phone to instruct a household member or a member of your office staff to retrieve the security devices and deliver them to a place of my choosing. Do you fully understand me?”

  “I understand,” Anthony Inman said shakily looking down at his intact genitalia.

  Approximately ten hours later Anthony Inman woke up, fully dressed on the back seat of a car parked on the side of the road not far from Bangkok’s airport. His head was full of cotton wool and his memory patchy as a result of the drugs that had been used to force him in and out of consciousness. His pockets were empty but there was a five hundred baht note sticking out of his shirt pocket. At least he had taxi money to get him home. He was a very angry and unhappy man and he felt weak and foolish. It had been an expensive afternoon.

  Chapter 21

  While Anthony Inman had been suffering his worst ever afternoon, his nemesis was only a few kilometres away having a quiet drink. Carl had spent a few hours in Candy’s bar being prodded and pulled in all directions by the scantily dressed girls. He felt exposed being back there but was comforted by the knowledge that George was out on the street watching all of the comings and goings on Suriwongse Road. Candy’s was busier than on his previous visit. Several barstools were occupied by early evening drinkers who had come straight from their nearby offices for fun and games before dinner, the usual crowd.

  Carl finished his drink and walked to the toilet at the back of the bar. Mick Flynn grabbed him roughly as he went through the door. Mick was an extremely heavily muscled Irish building contractor with a drinking problem and permanent nosebleeds from the buckets of cocaine that he shoved up his nostrils all day and every day. He was dabbing at his nose with a blood-stained handkerchief with his left hand as he grabbed Carl’s arm in a death-grip with his right hand. His breath stank of Irish whiskey and there were minute particles of white powder above his top lip.

  “What the fook are you doin’ here? I haven’t seen you in ages,” Mick shouted at Carl. His grip on Carl’s arm was too fierce for Carl’s liking. After snorting cocaine Mick had no idea of his strength.

  “Just stopped off on my way home for a quick drink,” Carl told him as he used his right hand to weaken Mick’s grip on his left bicep.

  “Dere’s people bin asking after you on Patpong. It’s not narcs is it?” Mick asked staring wildly. “They looked like feckin’ narcs.”

  “Why would narcs be after me Mick?” Carl asked calmly.

  “Because you’re a friend of mine, you eejit. They nailed me last month and I had to pay them three hundred thousand to let me go. You know what they’re like. They’ve probably already done the money and have come back for some more.”

  “I’m sure they weren’t narcs Mick, so you can calm down and let go of me. I got caught screwing some rich banker’s wife and he has set the dogs on me. So they’re definitely not narcs Mick, and it’s me they’re after so you can let go of my fucking arm now.”

  Mick looked around the bar and then, still standing half in and half out the door to the toilet, he said, “Orright then. Do you want a couple of lines?”

  “No thanks Mick. I have all the paranoia I need at the moment thank you.”

  “Please yourself,” he said and let the door go behind him as he walked happily back into the bar.

  Carl caught the door and went in to use the toilet. When he finished at the urinal he went to the cracked sink and splashed cold water on his face. He stood up with water dripping off his face onto his shirt. He looked at his tired unshaven reflection in the mirror and said, “Either you are totally mad or every other fucker in Bangkok is.” Then he opened the door and walked back into the forever twilight of Candy’s bar.

  Bart Barrows had come in while Carl had been in the toilet and was sitting on his own in the middle of the bar waiting for his beer to be delivered. He was studying the activities and availability of Candy’s girls like a hungry wolf. Carl moved up quietly and sat on the barstool beside him.

  “Good evening Bart.”

  Bart Barrows turned and saw Carl. “Back again so soon? Have you given up your high society friends and come back down to earth at last?”

  “Not really Bart, I’m here because I’ve been looking for you.”

  “Why would you be looking for me Carl? You spend most of your time avoiding me.”

  “It’s about the people from your American office.”

  “I don’t have an office, I’m retired, but you know that.” Bart was not talking like a buffoon for a change, which Carl found interesting.

  “Yes you do. The huge one in Langley.”

  “What kind of mushrooms have you been sprinkling on your fried rice?”

  “I know you’re with the CIA Bart because a dead man told me. He knew all about you since Beirut. He was always smarter than me. I need your help for a change so the least you can do is listen,” Carl said firmly.

  “Go on then.” Bart had stopped denying it at least, which was a better start than Carl had anticipated.

  “I may be able to help you with some information. Anthony Inman is living in Bangkok under a Thai name and passport. He’s a criminal and a serial killer and I know where he is.”

  “We know where he is Carl. His office is less than a mile from here,” Bart said unusually sympathetically.

  “Why on earth wouldn’t you do something about it? He kills little girls and runs fucking guns to the Yakuza and god know what else.”

  “We know about the guns but you are full of shit if you think he’s the serial killer, you would’ve been given that line of bullshit by Victor Boyle. He was always a liar. Surprised you bought it though. A little farfetched even for your infamous imagination,” Bart said gently.

  “So if you know about the gun running how on earth is he still out walking the streets Bart?”

  “Because as much as we despise Tony Inman, we’ve grown immeasurably fond of his associate General Amnuay and want him to be our best friend. He could be the next Chief of the Army, or don’t you read the papers?”

  Carl thought for a while and then said, “Bart, confidentiality is my business and you know I can keep my mouth shut if I choose to. It comes with a price though.”

  “It always does. And oh how painful is all payment.” Bart was paraphrasing Lord Byron and Carl was staring at him open mouthed. Bart and Byron was a combination that beggared belief.

  “You are going to write your mobile number on a piece of paper for me and one day soon I will call you and you will answer no matter where you are or what you are doing. That is all I ask in exchange for never telling a living soul that you are CIA. Fuck me around and I’ll start putting deposits on advertising space. The mood I’m in at the moment I strongly recommend that you believe me.” Carl’s face had gone pale and his lips had become thinner.

  Bart took a pen out of his shirt pocket and wrote his phone number on the back of a beer mat, which he handed to Carl. Bart looked at him in th
e eyes and said, “You are all right Carl, that is our opinion of you in the Bangkok office. Some of us have known you since you were a kid. But Carl, it’s time for you to leave Thailand. These guys are out of your league and you are going to get yourself killed if you stay here.”

  “Doesn’t sound to me like the CIA gives a fuck about civilians getting murdered. You know something Bart? They fucking well should.”

  “I just obey orders.”

  “I heard that excuse somewhere else. Just one more thing before I go. How is it possible that Art doesn’t know Inman is here?” Carl asked as he folded the beer mat and put it in the back pocket of his jeans.

  “Art would have done something stupid, killed him or at least told his friends at the FBI. Inman had some of Art’s friends in Saigon killed and so Art wouldn’t have played along with us. We had him working on the Cambodia desk for his last ten years and kept local operations from him. He was always drunk by eleven o’clock in the morning so it wasn’t hard. Carl, you have promised me you can keep a secret. I don’t want you letting me down on this.”

  “Take my call and I promise never to tell a living soul. I’ll take it to my grave. And Bart, in spite of popular belief, I assure you that I plan to live to a ripe old age.”

  “I hope you do Carl. I really hope you do. We’re all rooting for you.” Bart turned his back to Carl to collect his bottle of beer.

  George came through the door with a crash and flew down the bar towards them. “They’re here Carl, quick, is there a back way out of here?” he yelled as he slid to a stop in the middle of the bar.

  Carl turned and moved quickly to the door into the toilet area. “I know a way out,” he told George who was right behind him already.

  They crashed through the door to the toilet and found Mick Flynn in front of the mirror wetting his handkerchief with cold water and holding it up to his nose again.

  Carl stopped dead as George ran into him pressing him against the wall. Carl turned, his face pushed uncomfortably against the cold rough cement, and shouted to Mick, “Narcs Mick, two of them, right behind us. Block this door and dump the coke before they can get in.” Then he grabbed George’s arm and said, “This way!” He pointed at the staircase that was to the right of the toilet area. He ran up the stairs to the second floor with George close behind. As Carl turned the stairs he looked down and saw Mick’s large frame pushing against the door as hard as he could. Staring at Carl he was yelling, “Yoo loyed, you knew dey was narcs. Oy can’t believe you loyed to me.”

  At the rear of the building’s second floor, in a room with women’s clothing strewn over the bare concrete floor, was a large window that looked down on the grounds of a busy Buddhist temple. Carl picked up the solitary wooden chair and threw it through the window. “Now George!” They both took a running leap through the window, and after flying three meters through the air with their arms and legs going in all directions they fell a few feet and landed with a crash that put a serious dent in the tin roof of a hut that was part of the temple annex.

  Their landing area was the temple’s toilet and shower. The massive percussion noises made by the two big men crashing onto the thin tin roof received fearful screams from inside where a novice monk had been squatting on a toilet. He was new to the spiritual atmosphere of his new environment and although his mind was readily open to all things he hadn’t anticipated the world exploding above his head, that had never been discussed, and so he had been taken totally by surprise.

  They leapt down from the bent roof and into the temple grounds where they ran for the main entrance on the far side with Carl strongly outpaced by George but keeping up as best he could. The throngs of local people holding garlands and candles on their way into the sanctuary of the temple moved aside just in time as the two giant men came charging and yelling through their centre disrupting the calm joss stick infused air.

  Once out on a street and well around the corner from Candy’s bar, Carl and George headed toward Silom and kept running for a good ten minutes. At this point they decided it was safe to flag a taxi. They climbed in the back of the car wheezing and coughing much to the amusement of the driver. Carl told him that an angry bar girl was chasing them and if he wanted a tip he should put his foot down.

  George’s stolen car was not parked anywhere near Candy’s. They had put it in the car park of an office building around the corner from Patpong and walked the remaining distance to the bar. As safe as they assumed it probably was they decided it best to wait a couple of hours before collecting it or possibly not to bother. Carl needed a drink, as usual.

  Chapter 22

  It was around midnight and Carl was lying on the back seat of yet another stolen car as George drove him to the nightclub. When they arrived he sat up and looked around. Everything out on the street looked relatively normal. The queue of people leading up to the security area with its airport style metal detector and front desk was typical of that time of night. Carl got out of the car and walked under the building through the parked cars. He entered via the back door and through the kitchen. George stayed outside in the car.

  The colonel was standing in his usual place at the bar surrounded by the usual suspects. By the time Carl had crossed the crowded floor the bar staff had a drink prepared and on the bar waiting for him. Colonel Pornchai hadn’t seen him come in so Carl tapped him on the shoulder. He saw Carl then took a quick glance around the busy nightclub to check for danger.

  “You’re living dangerously,” he shouted above the music. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

  Carl leant forward and said in his ear, “I’m being as careful as I can. We should talk in the kitchen.”

  They both picked up their drinks and walked to the kitchen, dodging the party people on the dance floor as they went. The kitchen had stopped serving food and the chefs and their helpers had gone home. Only the most junior of the kitchen staff were still there working and they cleaned up around Carl and the colonel. Carl put his drink down on a chopping board and turned to face him.

  “I need something done,” Carl said to him.

  “Does it involve you staying out of trouble?”

  “Yes it does, after this I’ll be staying out of trouble,” Carl told him.

  “All right, go on then.”

  “There is a building on New Phetchburi Road.” Carl handed him a piece of paper with the address written on it. “I need you to get a couple of boys from the drug squad to go and talk to the neighbours. They must make lots of noise and ask lots of questions about that building, and I mean a lot of noise.”

  “Is that all?”

  “No. Then I want them to go to the local court and apply for a search warrant on the grounds that they have an informant that has told them the building is being used by youth gangs to store drugs and to host drug taking parties. However, and this is the important part, they must make a mess of the search warrant application. I need the application rejected and submitted continuously for not less than two full working days. They must also be very rude and angry so that they argue with everybody working in the office at the court. Everybody in that department must become aware of this application.”

  “Are you sure this is necessary?”

  “Totally necessary, and I need it done exactly the way I have asked.”

  “Why the drug squad?”

  “Even the big shots will not interfere and tell the drug squad to back off,” Carl told him. “Too much risk for them, by interfering they will go on the radar as possibly being involved in the drug business themselves. Under the present political climate that attention is something they will not want.”

  The colonel thought for a while and said, “The cost will be at least sixty thousand baht.”

  “A hundred thousand will be transferred to your account.”

  “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” he asked, obviously happy with the amount he was being paid.

  “I hope so.”

  “Do you know that your friend
Mike was murdered?”

  “Yes. I was taking a shower upstairs in his spare bedroom when they killed him.”

  “Maybe you should leave Thailand for a while.”

  “So people keep telling me.”

  “Don’t go getting yourself killed just for the sake of being stubborn. I’ll miss our business deals if you leave, but I don’t make anything from you if you are dead.”

  “I am not planning to die.”

  “You won’t have a choice. If they want you dead you’ll die. You are a farang and they are Thai.”

  “Nobody will ever let me forget I am a farang. That is what I have going for me right now and why they won’t see me coming.”

  “You are talking nonsense. Are you drunk?”

  “Not yet.”

  Colonel Pornchai went back to the bar and Carl went the other direction via the kitchen sinks and left by the back door. He saw the car immediately. It was as close to the exit as was possible. George had kept the lights off but left the engine running. Carl looked up and down the street to make sure there was nothing out of the ordinary. All appeared normal so he got in the car and lay down on the back seat.

  George drove through Bangkok for half an hour and parked the car outside Boonchoo’s house. Boonchoo was their taxi surveillance man. Boonchoo lived with his family in one of Bangkok’s oldest housing estates. The houses were very old but they all had small gardens, which made them more pleasant than most of the cheaper housing that the outskirts of Bangkok offered.

  They got out of the car and rang the bell on the gate. Boonchoo and his son opened the rusty gate and greeted the pair with big old-fashioned genuine Thai smiles. Carl was always uncomfortable about his height around the people from the provinces as they were even smaller than the Bangkok Thais. Carl and George were a foot taller than Boonchoo and felt clumsy. Boonchoo’s home was old and built for people like him, not giants like Carl and George.