Death in the Kingdom

by Andrew Grant

  I pulled into a roadside eatery. It was typical of the sort found in Thailand. It was a shack to be sure but there was cold beer and the smells coming from it were delicious. The place had electricity. The owner, a smiling Thai woman of indeterminable age, was happy for me to charge my phone. I got the charger from my kit and set it up while my host started cooking up a storm. My plan was to eat first then do whatever came next on a full stomach. I used the computer to check my emails and the news. Hell, I’d been out of touch for what seemed like years.

  Three beers later and a feast that included steamed fish, prawns fried with chillies and other delights, I retrieved my phone and charger. I paid the delighted cook at the roadside eatery far too much. Hell, I was out at least five quid in real money. Try getting a half-decent curry for that anywhere in the UK. I hit the road and whilst on the move I tried Sami again. He was still on voice mail and Geezer wasn’t home. I was beginning to feel like everyone had abandoned me until a few miles short of the turn-off onto Highway 41—the highway that links the southwest of the isthmus to 4 at Chumphon—the phone went. It was Bernard, of course. I flicked on the scrambler.

  ‘You’ve been switched off,’ he said angrily.

  ‘I’ve been out of fucking battery,’ I snapped back at him. ‘I’ve just had the damn thing charged.’

  ‘All right,’ Bernard conceded with absolutely no hint of apology in his crusty old-maid’s voice. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘I’m forty miles south of Chumphon,’ I replied, guessing he would at least have a small-scale map of Thailand on the desk in front of him. ‘I’m on my way to Bangkok,’ I replied.

  ‘Yes,’ he agreed, ‘the original plan is best.’ He paused for a moment as if a sudden thought had struck him. ‘Now you have your phone charged, leave it on, Daniel.’ He was almost pleading. ‘There are forces at work over there and we must be able to communicate to save the box.’ As an afterthought he added, ‘And you, of course.’

  ‘Thank you, Bernard. I didn’t know you cared,’ I said dryly as I hung up and immediately turned the phone off. The only calls I wanted to deal with at that time were those I made myself. Staying alive was going to take all my energy and concentration from that moment on. I was coming into the turn-off onto 41 so I turned right, not left, to go north. Lang Suan was a couple of miles south of the turn-off but it was the closest main station from which to pick up a train.

  I parked the Jeep in a quiet side street a hundred yards away from the station. I took my time to wipe down all the surfaces which could have captured my fingerprints. I almost forgot one vital thing as I prepared to abandon the big black beast: my bugged cigarette pack under the passenger seat. I retrieved it and left the keys in the ignition for some lucky Thai wide boy to discover. The Jeep would be in a chop shop in a day or so.

  I was lucky that the next train from Trang was running late. It wasn’t the express, but it was going the right way. I got a second-class ticket. The train arrived within five minutes. The carriage I chose was half-full, or half-empty, whichever, and the air-con was working. It was a slice of heaven. I parked my bag under my feet and settled in for an enjoyable trip. I enjoyed travelling by train. There were no responsibilities and it wasn’t far to fall if the engines failed or the wings came off.

  Just as we started to move I looked up. A flustered European arrived on the station platform running flat out and he wasn’t carrying a suitcase. A second figure appeared behind him, also European. The pair were both dressed in what I called ‘CIA casual’: a pair of jeans or khaki casuals, a pair of sports shoes and a T-shirt or polo shirt hanging loose at the waist, all the better to hide weaponry. One of the new arrivals was in a green polo, the other a white T-shirt that was a little grey from spreading sweat stains. The pair didn’t hesitate as the train gathered speed. They turned and headed back for the street at a run.

  Where had they picked me up? The wharf at Ranong, leaving Tuk Tuk’s palace or on the road? And why hadn’t they taken me earlier? Maybe they hadn’t expected me to head south from Phetchaburi, anticipating instead that I would go straight for Bangkok. Had they planned on taking me en route? If I’d broken their tail by heading south on the highway, and then getting beyond that damned multi-vehicle pile-up before they did, they’d have been livid. Blind luck may have saved me when I’d turned off the highway to sleep the previous night. They’d probably steamed on south for Phuket, no doubt thinking that was my logical destination. Ducking off for Pha To had been another whammy. It was almost funny thinking of the agents of the mighty CIA chasing their tails up and down the highways of the Kingdom trying to find me, or rather find the Cherokee. So how had they eventually done it? Well, it wasn’t magic.

  The most important things about any sort of surveillance exercise was manpower and time, knowledge of the countryside and, to a degree, knowledge of the subject in the mix. Enough of each and the game was easy. I knew the CIA’s manpower on the ground in Thailand was finite, at least in the short term. They’d have been pulling people out of everywhere in Asia right about then and sending them my way.

  Then, of course, there was the technological side of the business. A clear cloudless day and a satellite with a big lens could have tagged my arse. Hell, if you could read a newspaper from up there, picking up a distinctive vehicle and even a licence plate was no problem. Sky surveillance aside, the CIA might have even managed to get a tracer beacon onto the Jeep if they’d had a man at the port. It was the American way to keep throwing resources at the problem to get a solution. I guessed they were throwing heaps my way. They obviously wanted the damned box really badly.

  No matter how they had done it, the CIA colours were hot on my tail. At the next stop they would have agents on the train. That posed the immediate question: What should I do about that? It was time for a bit of magic. I had to assume they had a photo of me. I knew I was on their files from when we had been bunk buddies out in the bush. The file shot was probably ten years old, unless they’d updated it. Trouble was, the shot would show me almost exactly as I still was, with blond, medium-length hair, same colour moustache, blah, blah. The few extra scars and wrinkles weren’t going to change much of the big picture.

  I took my holdall with me and headed to the toilet. Inside I locked the door and started to turn Daniel Swann into someone else. I didn’t have much in the bag: the damned lead box, my computer, phone charger, toilet kit and a few choice articles of clothing. However I did have the bare essentials for what I needed.

  From experience I knew how easy it was to transform oneself into someone else in the short term if prepared. I stripped and replaced my faded blue jeans with the only other pair I had with me, which just happened to be a pair of black Levis. My white T gave way to a black Harley Davidson cut-off. Colour was the name of the game. My choice of headgear was the clincher: a green John Deere baseball cap with a dark ponytail hanging nine inches down the back. I put it on and pushed any stray strands of my own hair up under it. Then I got every blond agent’s friend from my toilet kit—mascara. Using the wand, I quickly blackened my sideburns, my moustache and the fringe areas that poked out under the cap. An almost stranger was staring back at me from the mirror. I had one more little disguise element. The soft camera bag was in the side pocket of my holdall. I pulled it out, knocked it into shape, then put my gun, spare double-magazine pouch and holster inside. I stowed the dark Ray Bans and put on my other disguise: a pair of thin gold aviator frames with orange-tinted lenses. I looked like Joe Tourist out for the sun, cheap booze and Thai ladies.

  I stuffed everything else into my holdall, including the leather jacket. Now I was a tall, dark guy in close-fitting clothes. No place to hide weapons. The train was starting to slow. We were about to come into Chumphon. Time to bail out. Before I did so I checked the injury on my thumb. The edges of the gash were red and there was a hint of swelling. I found another plaster in my kit and stuck it on. I didn’t want to think about the implications of the wound having been infected by whatever was in
the damned box.

  I left the toilet and moved to the nearest exit. The attendant standing at the door turned to look at me. I could see he was puzzled. Had he seen me in his carriage? He soon gave up on his speculation and shrugged slightly as he turned back to watch the platform slide into view. Possibly all farangs looked the same to him. The moment we stopped he opened the door and stepped aside to let me out.

  I jumped jauntily down onto the platform and eased my way through the crowd waiting to board the train. I had my bag slung casually over my left shoulder, my camera case over the right. I presented like a seasoned traveller who knew exactly where he was going. I brushed past Mr White. He didn’t even turn his head. His gaze was on the train. He had a photograph or something in his right hand and his eyes were darting back and forth, trying to watch half a dozen carriage doors at once. A good trick if you could do it. Mr Green was further down the platform, and there was a Mr Blue hovering by the exit. I went past Mr Blue and again, he didn’t turn his head. This American bum traveller wasn’t who he was looking for. If he’d spoken to me for any reason I would have given him a fair hint of Texas by way of return, thanks to months in the late Casey’s company. No one spoke to me and I carried on.

  In the street outside the station I saw Mr Beige. He was a big black guy in a beige shirt, leaning against the side of a blue Toyota four-door. A silver Toyota was parked immediately beside it. Mr Beige wasn’t interested in me either. I crossed the street and walked away. The train was on the move. I looked back. Mr Blue came out of the station entrance and stopped to talk to his compatriot. White and Green, it seemed, had caught the train. Blue and Beige would take the vehicles and head up to the next stop. I needed to be on the move.

  A tour bus was parked a hundred feet ahead of me. I could see camera-carrying folks wearing little tour badges converging on it from several directions. The driver and a female tour guide were sitting at a pavement stall drinking soft drinks and eating snacks. I walked up to them and greeted them in Thai. Pleasantries quickly over, it was down to business as I reached for my wallet. Their eyes followed my movement. ‘Are you going to Bangkok?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied the guide.

  ‘Can I buy a seat?’ I asked in English. ‘I seem to be too late for the train.’ I pulled a thick wad of US dollars from my pocket, most of them supplied by Choy. I peeled off a couple of fifty-dollar bills and handed one to each of them. Fifty dollars at the current exchange rate represented a week’s wages for them. They accepted the money with broad smiles.

  ‘We have a seat for you at the back. We leave in five minutes,’ the guide said, obviously delighted with her sudden bonus. She opened her bag to put the money away, or so I thought, but after rummaging in it for a moment she handed me a circular decal sticker. The background colour on the sticker matched her green uniform. ‘If you put this on your shirt that will be good,’ she explained. I peeled off the backing and stuck the decal over my heart. Now I was officially a tourist.

  I climbed on board the bus and made my way to the back, smiling at the people already seated as I went. I had just taken my seat alone in the rear section when the two Toyotas drove past, heading for the highway feeder going north. With any luck I would be ahead of them by the time they picked up their disappointed train spotters at whatever stop they would rendezvous at. They would figure I was back on the road and, with no idea how and in what I was travelling, they’d realise they had lost me for the moment. I’d be just another figure in a huge and very mobile crowd. There were hundreds of tour buses plus local transport of all shapes and colours streaming up and down the highway. It was now an impossible task for the CIA ops, or anyone else, to find me. They would regroup and try to tag me in Bangkok, probably as I attempted to get into the British Embassy.

  With that thought in mind, I pushed up the aircraft-style armrests on my seat and the next two in the row. With my holdall under my head, I stretched out across my comfortable bed and closed my eyes. After the Odorama, this was pure bliss.

  18

  I awoke as we hit the traffic wall and joined Highway 35 heading into Bangkok. As we drew closer to the river, the traffic got progressively denser and louder. ‘Welcome back!’ I thought as I sat up. I felt shitty. My mouth and throat were dry and my damned thumb throbbed with a burning intensity. I’d had plenty of cuts in my life, some of them fucking serious, but nothing like this fleabite. Once again I wondered if whatever had leaked from the fucking box had somehow managed to get into my system.

  ‘Imagination,’ I chided myself. I was in danger of acting like a big kid on this one. Whatever had escaped from the box had been washed away by the tide. Whatever was still in it was sealed up tight. I had just sliced open my thumb and maybe picked up a slight infection. Face it, the Odorama was about as hygienic as a sewer.

  I had the coach driver drop me a hundred yards short of the approach to the expressway leading to the Rama IV bridge. I cut down a couple of side alleys and fell back out of instinct, just to reassure myself that I wasn’t being followed. I wasn’t. I changed direction and flagged down an orange jacket. I had the motorcycle taxi take me down river a mile or two. I was going to get into the city through the back door.

  I had figured that the CIA’s ground troops would be watching the train and bus stations, the approaches to the British Embassy and, just maybe, they would have the sky train stations closest to the embassy covered as well. I wasn’t heading for the embassy. Not yet! I had something else to put in place first. After I had paid off my orange jacket, I grabbed a long-tail river taxi and haggled my fare to Banglamphu. The big six-cylinder car engine in the stern of the boat bellowed as we flew up river. It was always a unique experience screaming up the Chao Phraya River with a cowboy driver wielding a flailing naked propeller. Failing light or not, we hurtled along at a rate of knots. The reflected light from the great hotels that lined the shore turned the river to molten metal, and rafts of water hyacinth riding the current dotted our path. We raced past the Grand Palace and went under the Phra Pin Klao Bridge. Here I gave my man specific directions.

  I switched my mobile on and tried Sami again. This time he answered in person. I had to shout over the sound of the boat’s roaring engine. ‘I’m coming in the back way. Five minutes!’

  ‘Okay,’ came the reply. The phone vibrated as I finished the call to Sami. It had to be Bernard. I flicked the thing off. I had the fucking box but there were things to do and speaking to that old queen wasn’t one of them at that particular moment in time. I’d never known him to be so damned twitchy or demanding. Where I was going, the forces of evil couldn’t reach me. I would be safe at Sami’s.

  The last time I’d been up that way was when Arune had grabbed me as I came over the border from Laos. My boatman found the canal I was looking for and turned off the main river, heading back into the old city. He produced a big torch and began shining it on the water and buildings that crowded in on us. There were few boats on the narrow, ancient waterway. The buildings—old warehouses and sweatshops—crowded in on us. This canal redefined pollution. The stench was something else. It was one spot that definitely wasn’t on the tourist agenda. But I was no tourist.

  It took five minutes and a bit of backtracking before we found what I’d been looking for. There were no signs and no street numbers as such. I was relying on a daylight memory from years before, translating it into black, white and shades of night. I generously paid the boatman and took my life in my hands, climbing a slimy wooden ladder up onto a high landing. This was the rear entrance to Sami’s place.

  The metal door was ancient. It didn’t look as if it had been opened in half a century. I knew better. I pulled off my cap with its fringe of fake hair and ponytail and thumped on the steel sheath. I didn’t want to be mistaken for someone else when it opened. Five seconds after my knuckles beat out their paradiddle, the door opened noiselessly on oiled hinges. The man who met me was carrying an Uzi. The muzzle of the sub-machine-gun was pointing loosely in my direction. The
face above the gun, however, was split into a wide grin. ‘Daniel, welcome back. Come in.’

  ‘Greetings, Sami,’ I replied, stepping past the man who had been one of my most trusted companions back in the days when I did things in the bush and over the borders. Sami Somsak still did those things, but these days he was an industry in himself. Sami locked the door with a mechanism that pushed six huge bolts into the metal recesses positioned around the heavy metal doorframe. Basically it was the sort of door that you’d expect to find in a bank vault. When he was done, we embraced. We both had our genuine smiley faces on.

  It had been a year and a half since Sami Somsak had been to the UK and we’d caught up. Anyone looking at my friend would see a slight, good-looking Thai male of about thirty, a man who always had a smile on his face. In actual fact Sami was almost sixty. He feigned bad English when it suited him to acknowledge anything other than Thai. In reality, his English was perfect and virtually accentless. He also spoke at least half a dozen other languages.

  Sami Somsak was a paradox, just like the country that had raised him. There was some Chinese in his racial mix, amongst other things. Once, over a whisky session with me doing all the drinking, I had coined the term The Onion Man for him. Far from being offended, he had just smiled back at me over his mineral water. Sami was made up of layers, each one more complex than the next. I’d maybe penetrated two or three layers in the years I’d known him. However I had always sensed that there were many more hidden beneath those I thought I knew about.

  ‘Come, old friend,’ Sami said. ‘I still keep a bottle of vintage Jack Daniels just for you.’ I fell in step and let him lead me through a labyrinth of corridors off which dozens of doorways opened. Some doors were ajar. In the rooms beyond I could see vats, burners and people wearing chemical masks. ‘Business is good?’ I asked.