Bangkok Burn (25 page)

It didn’t take long to search the place. There are only so many places you can hide something in a four by three meter concrete box. In the wardrobe, women’s clothing took up more than half the space. I doubted Nong Um was a cross-dresser. I reckoned the clothes belonged to Ice. I took the large central shopping bag folded on the top of the drawers in the wardrobe and shoved all the paper on Um’s work desk into it. Emptied the bedside drawers in there as well.

“Take the computer. Let’s go.” There was nothing more to be learned from the apartment.

Back in the Humvee, the lieutenant all smiles, paying no attention to the computer that Chai was carrying on his lap, the driver taking us south, home.

Por was always good with women. Whether his own or others, treated them with respect. He did have a rule or two though, and one of them, was that if you were sleeping with him, then you shouldn’t sleep with anyone else. It looked like Ice had been breaking that rule. If Por found out he wouldn’t do anything about it, but the cash and presents would cease. I didn’t judge Ice. Bangkok is a big, hard, hungry city. It devours innocence, rewards corruption, and destroys it all on a whim with a smirk on its face. Everything is what it seems and nothing is what it seems.

The roads were deserted. It was eerie. I’d never seen Bangkok this quiet, not even at four in the morning. I wondered if we had changed, if the latest in this long series of political power struggles had reached in and twisted something inside us. Or maybe I was just projecting. Had I changed? It’s hard to know that about one’s self, and now wasn’t the time go there. Now was the time for doing. Thinking and analyzing could come later.

My guess was that Ice was supporting Nong Um. Um was mixed up with some heavy guys: military and they had the worn look of a team that’d been active recently. The “men in black” (MIB) a term used by the media to describe the so-called ‘Ronin warriors’, a term used by the now dead, Seh Daeng, fighting on behalf of the red-shirts. None of these MIBs had been arrested or killed. Or if they had been, the bodies had been disposed of and none were the wiser.

I’d been thinking about the suite in Heaven, trying to remember the layout. As far I could remember, and I planned on going back to check, there wasn’t any furniture near the entrance to the master bedroom. There would have been nowhere to plant the bomb, unless it was wired into the ceiling but then the blast would have taken out another floor and it hadn’t. So the bomb was in the room, near the door. The bomb must have been carried by Ice. I remembered the bag she had with her, multi-colored swathes of leather, a large bag - easily large enough to carry a half a kilo of Semtex without it being noticed.

Ice was many things, but not a suicide bomber. Despite our Jihad in the South, we hadn’t any suicide bombers to date. So obviously Ice was not the first. If she had carried the bomb, and it sounded like she had, she had done so unwittingly. Either by fault or design, she was killed. She may have been intending to plant the bomb and it had gone off accidently. She may not have known what she was carrying. It would be easy to dismiss this as Ice carrying a bomb for her red fanatic boyfriend to deliver to his mercenary “friends” and the bomb accidently going off. And maybe that’s all it was. Wrong place, wrong time. But that discounted Colonel Sankit and his knowledge of our meeting.

Big Tiger was off the hook for the moment. Sankit could have known from Pim that I was meeting with Big Tiger for dinner that night. I wasn’t sure, and it was a bit awkward to ask, but I sort of remembered mentioning to her that I was having dinner with Big Tiger on the Monday. I may even have mentioned the restaurant. The Cambodians and Sankit were speculation, but Heaven and Sankit were not. Chatree had pointed the finger. Sankit had known Por and I would be there, and a few hours later a bomb had gone off nearly killing us. Ice, a not-so-innocent casualty of circumstance, devoured by Bangkok. Too much coincidence.

The Humvee’s driver, directed by Chai through the back sois in Pak Nam, pulled up outside the gate to Mother’s house. Pichet, on sentry duty, let us in. A hot shower and sleep beckoned, tiredness hitting my legs as I climbed the stairs to my bedroom. The room was empty. Pim must have decided to sleep in the guest room. I felt a guilty surge of relief. I wasn’t up to dealing with questions.

Stripped, I stood in front of the mirror in the bathroom and peeled the bandages around my ribs off. The bruises around my stomach fading into a yellow tinged purple. The 9 on my chest still showed clearly, looked like a tattoo. I eased the plaster off my eye. Dry around the stitches, sewing together nicely. I could shower without a shower cap.

Showered and dry I slipped between the cool, soft, heavy white sheets. My cell phone’s alarm went off, 5 am. I reached across, ‘Dismiss’.

Tell It Like It Is

23 May 2010 Bangkok 8:30 am

In the early days of the Battle of Britain
, the Royal Air Force commissioned a study into sleep deprivation. Fighter pilots were few. German bombers were many. The conclusion they came to, was that the average male needs four hours sleep in every twenty-four hours to operate at a minimum of efficiency. In other words with less than four hours sleep, you start to do stupid things.

Chai was shaking my arm, a cell phone in his hand. I glanced at the time on the cell, 8:30 am. Three and a half hours - better than nothing. I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes and looked at the number but didn’t recognize it. I put my hand over the mouthpiece.

“Who?” I mouthed at Chai.

“Sankit.”

I held the phone to my ear.

“Do you always sleep this late? I’m always up before dawn. Anyway, I called to invite you for a game of golf. Thought we could have a talk, man to man. Two o’clock at The Royal. You know it? Just past the airport on the Motorway to Chonburi.”

“Yes, I know it.”

“Good. Then I’ll see you there.” He hung up. Golf with father-in-law. Great.

Mother had been at the showroom when we went to pick up a new car. General Montri’s Porsche Cayenne parked in the service bay. Some thoughtful person had washed it. It didn’t do much to improve the look.

Chai, one hand guiding the wrist of the other, in the polite Thai manner, when giving something to an elder, handed the keys of the Porsche to Mother. Mother, hand on hip, dangled the keys in her other hand, looking at them. Dragging Chai’s eyes with her, she looked at the Porsche, jangled the keys in her hand. She raised her eyebrows, and smiled. Chai was wise enough not to smile back.

She nodded at the black Maserati Quattroporte Sport GT parked at the rear bay to the showroom. “Take the Maserati. It cost four times as much as the Porsche. The keys are in the office.”

The Royal Golf Course’s parking lot was crowded. There's nothing like a game of golf after a little war. Chai parked the Maserati and popped the trunk. Hadn’t used the ‘Bag Drop’. Chai had stuck an Uzi and an USAS-12 shotgun in the bag. Chai believes in overkill.

I paid the green fee. Stingy old toad hadn’t even picked that up. Then I organized a cart and ordered a beer. No sign of Sankit. He was late. I took a seat at the little café next to the putting green. Been a while since I’d played golf. I’m an okay golfer. Like anything, the more you practice, and play, the better you get. I hadn’t had much time for either lately. I knew from Pim that Sankit was an avid golfer and played off 12. My handicap was around 18. On a good day I’d get around in under 90. On a bad day, under a hundred.

Sankit showed up in a flurry of wais, caddies, and a disapproving glance at the beer. I waied him with just enough humility to show him that I’d play the game of dutiful son-law-law, but only so far. We communicate a lot without saying anything in Thailand. He didn’t waste any time and jumped into the golf cart waiting for him. At the first tee, magically cleared before our arrival, he suggested a thousand a hole as a bet.

“I play off twelve. What’s your handicap?” At least he was an honest corrupt cop.

“Eighteen, last time I checked. Probably be twenty or worse now. I haven’t played in a while.”

“We’ll call it twenty. Give you a chance. Hmm.”

He didn’t ask or toss a tee for choosing who teed off first. He just went. It was hot: thirty-five Celsius in the shade, at least. Humid too, and very little breeze. Every third hole there is a drink’s stop. He waited until the fifteenth hole before he got to why we were here.

I ordered another beer, as I had done at every drink stop, knowing it pissed him off. This time he ordered one too and sat down. Leaning back in the wrought iron chair, he wiped the sweat off his face with a cool towel supplied by the waitress. He folded it carefully, and put it on the table next to his golf glove. His toady eyes accentuated by thick bushy eyebrows, focused on me.

“I heard you had a chat with my old friend from the south, Khun Chatree.” I drank my beer. No point denying or answering to it. I waited. Wanted to see what he would come up with.

Expecting an answer and not getting one, he let out a little snort and looked off down the fairway. He turned to me, leaned forward, his hands folded on the table in front of him.

“Look. I don’t like you. I never have. Doubt I ever will. Back in the day I dealt with thousands of young rich thugs like you. Killed a few, put a lot in prison. I hoped for better for Pim, but she’s chosen you. After what your mother put on the table, my wife has now also chosen you.” He blew out his cheeks and sighed. “I’m aware that Chatree told you that I knew about your meeting with Por that day. I did know. As much as I dislike you, I don’t go around killing people that I don’t like. I knew about the meeting, but I didn’t tell anyone about it and I didn’t try to have you killed.” This was the longest he’d ever spoken to me.

“Colonel Sankit, as you have probably worked out, I feel the same way about you that you feel about me. Just so you know where we stand, I’ve bribed thousands of cops like you, got hundreds on the pay roll. I honestly don’t care what you or your wife thinks. I only care what Pim thinks. Whatever I feel, I can keep to myself. Pim loves you as her father and that I understand. For her sake and for the sake of our family, I can put aside our past differences. Whatever has happened in the past, I can leave it there, as long as it stays there. A bomb ended up in that room somehow. I think I know how it got there. Now I want to know why it was there.”

“I can’t help you with that. I’ve asked around people I know, but no one knows who might have attacked you. Of course the list of people who might want to is long, but the list of who would dare to, much shorter and unknown.”

A fly buzzed around my ear. I wondered if his tongue would lash out.

“Colonel, let’s keep the need for family get-togethers to a minimum - you and I should get on fine.” I raised my beer to him. He picked up his and we clinked glasses. A truce sealed, based on as much trust as you’d give a Filipino money changer.

I had a shower, paid the Colonel the eight thousand he’d taken off me - there’s a reason I don’t gamble - and headed out past the ground floor massage room. Chai, waiting with the bag at the outside café, rose when he saw me. As I walked up, he glanced my way. I stopped. He slung the bag over his shoulder and walked to me.

“Four guys waiting on the steps by the entrance.”

He put the bag on the ground. We took a quick look around. No one was paying attention to what we were doing. I took out a Glock, quickly checked the mag, put one in the spout and shoved it down the back of my trousers. Slinging the Uzi butt first under his left armpit, Chai took a windcheater out of the bag and covered up. He moved the short irons to one side, easier access to the shotgun, and then picked up the bag.

We walked a couple of meters apart, Chai slightly behind me. By the steps, four guys who looked Japanese. The Royal is mainly a Japanese golf course, a lot of members from the Japanese factories nearby. These guys didn’t look like they worked in factories, nor like members of a golf club. The three standing in the car park below the steps looked like ex sumo wrestlers dressed in badly fitting black suits. It was like a scene from the blues brothers. The fourth guy, waiting on the steps, had a better tailor, a smaller body too.

I approached, hand behind my back. Chai one hand on the bag, another under his jacket.

The guy on the top of the steps smiled, held his hands out wide.

“Mr. Chance san.”

“Who are you?”

“Susumu Uchibori. Friends call me Steve. I work with the Yamaguchi-gumi. I’ve come to replace Ken. Can we have a talk?” He held out his hand to shake. I ignored it.

“Sure, go ahead. Say what you got to say.”