Black Tiger (44 page)

‘If we do reintroduce martial law, it cannot appear to be a retrograde step,’ Praphan said. ‘That will provoke more determined resistance from…’ He had almost said ‘criminal and antisocial elements,’ but stopped himself just in time out of respect for Premsakul’s daughter’s memory. ‘Disaffected factions,’ he finished.

‘We cannot be seen to initiate a return to martial law.’ Prince Premsakul was alarmed, his smooth, round features glistening with moisture like a damp wall. ‘We are committed to the status quo.’

‘We,’ corrected Sya, with deadly emphasis, ‘
are
the status quo!’

‘Also, the CIA, who have so generously contributed to our favourite charities…’ Premsakul and Praphan looked at each other and sniggered like schoolboys. ‘…will want to be given credible reasons for any sudden
volte-face
.’

Praphan looked from one to the other, his shoulders hunched, his piggish eyes glinting. ‘No, the initiative cannot be perceived to originate from the Establishment. In public life, consistency is all.’ The bland phrases gave him confidence.

Sya’s tone was cold and impatient. ‘The identity of the paper men is immaterial. We know where the real power lies.’ As they stared at him, he spread his hands wide. ‘I agree. The time is ripe for a return to martial law. The most economical way of achieving this is through another bloodless coup. I’ve drawn up a list of useful dopes—members of the present cabinet who can be conveniently exchanged for other ciphers.’

‘We shall need an overall figurehead,’ Praphan said. ‘We can’t do it without a proper leader.’

Sya nodded. ‘We shall choose some muddle-headed liberal for that role—there are plenty of woolly thinkers—or somebody who recognises his personal interest. What we want is an agreeable lightweight, malleable and accommodating, someone with a following and a pleasant reputation. Any suggestions, old boy?’

‘A
bien-pensant
, a jolly good chap! That applies to all liberals!’ Prince Premsakul smiled. ‘Perhaps some lefty professor from one of our more militant universities…to flatter the radicals.’ These bleeding-heart lefties had alienated the natural affections and aspirations of his children through their cynical manipulation of those innocent young minds. Premsakul wanted to see every filthy pinko on a funeral pyre, along with the insufferably successful, treacherous Jeks. But, he assured himself, it didn’t matter who was chosen as their straw man. Who, more importantly, was to assume responsibility for the new line? Who was to be the sacrifice?

Sya turned and stared at Praphan without blinking. Portly Praphan, already sweating, mopped his brow under that unwavering yellow gaze.

‘It is time for you to take a more prominent part, Field Marshal. You are the iron man. A show of strength is expected.’

Praphan considered. His reflections did not appear to afford him pleasure. Outranking Sya, he could simply have refused. But he knew better.

‘Then—when the time comes—I’m to be scapegoated.’ Praphan’s porcine features contorted, a study in animal cunning. ‘What do I get out of it?’

Sya smiled appreciatively, as if applauding a bright child. ‘In anticipation of your services there must be adequate provision. This debt will be recognised. Any objectives you may wish to pursue will be arranged. Swiss bank accounts, anything needing the selective blindness of the official eye. A man of your eminence, Field Marshal, has many temptations, but also many opportunities.’ He paused, to make sure they had understood. ‘I shall inform Their Highnesses tonight. Prince Premsakul, perhaps you could organise your tame journalists. Inform your friend van Hooten, too. Field Marshal, you will prepare the army. On a need-to-know basis only, of course.’

Praphan considered. Then he nodded. He looked up at Sya, squinting in the dazzle of sun that blazed off the colonel’s cap badge. ‘Very well.’

‘Good man.’

‘Capital ruse! Think Their Highnesses will buy it?’ Premsakul mused, moving on quickly, as if the outcome had never been in doubt.

Sya smiled. ‘Their Highnesses will do as Their Highnesses are told.’ His arrogance both astounded and infuriated his companions, but he only grinned. ‘After all, we’re a constitutional monarchy now!’

He leapt lightly down from the bunker and slapped both men on the back at once, laughing as he felt them recoil.

Blaze van Hooten held the telephone a foot away from his ear and grimaced at it, rolling his eyes. He was profoundly weary of attempting to explain the intricacies of Thai politics, insofar as he himself grasped them, to his superiors. He had the American newspaper article under discussion before him, and as he listened to the stream of questions pouring down the line into his ear he scanned the print. He sighed, cupping his other palm over the receiver to muffle the sound of his impatience. Van Hooten had natural American courtesy.

Military Coup in Thailand: From Our Correspondent in Bangkok

Field Marshal Praphan and his military cohorts have consolidated their position as the major players in the Thai political scene by means of the traditional Thai method, the bloodless coup. Martial law has been reintroduced in the country, and hardline policies are to be implemented against economic imbalance and minor (if not major) corruption. Communist infiltrators will be pursued with renewed vigor. At the same time, it would appear that the irksome impedimenta of constitutional democracy are to be abandoned—free democratic elections, a vocal and critical opposition, and an unfettered press have been pronounced benefits for which the great Thai nation is not yet ready. The decisions echo the decision taken by His Majesty King Chulalongkhorn back in the 1890s that the people were not yet ready for democracy. Oh, and the position of the Royal Family, as figureheads and national icons, remains unaffected. Plus ça change…

‘Oh yes,’ van Hooten said into the receiver. ‘The reporter is correct. I can assure you that nothing here has changed. Nothing substantive. The status quo prevails. There is no immediate cause for concern. No, indeed! You have my personal guarantee on that.’ He listened respectfully. ‘Oh, that! These are isolated incidents. When taken in context, they are much less dramatic than they appear. There is no sense of coordination. A chain of purely fortuitous occurrences, no political significance whatsoever.’ He laughed. ‘Truth to tell, I doubt they’re capable of that kind of lateral thinking. Thank
you
, sir! I certainly shall…’

He looked at the receiver before replacing it softly in its cradle, and sat for a moment lost in thought. Then, as if making up his mind, he took up the telephone again and dialled his house phone.

‘Honey, it’s me. I think things are moving.’

‘Not before time,’ she said icily. ‘I may need to make another journey myself soon. There is anxiety.’

‘Rich folks are always anxious. Just so long as you don’t allow them to exploit your good nature. Never forget: for all their graciousness, in their eyes, we’re all expendable. We’re peons, honey. Not worth jack squat.’

He rang off. His eyes wandered to the signed photograph of the First Family posed in front of the White House; his eyes were drawn to another signed photograph beside it, of a lizard-faced man with big ears, ostrich-leather skin, and clever, calculating eyes. The elder statesman and potential peacebroker whom it was his duty to protect.

He sat studying his wall of photographs, as if the answer were to be found there, in the First Family’s smiles—the white pumps and stiffly lacquered hairdos of the women, the hail-fellow politician’s grin of the president. He considered the other photograph once more, and studied thoughtfully the big, powerful-looking man with a strong Jewish cast of his features, perfectly matching the strongly formed signature scrawled across it. On an impulse he bent and pulled open the bottom drawer of his desk and took out the bottle of bourbon. He unscrewed the top and took a meditative swig, raising his bottle in salutation.

‘Happy landings, Henry!’ Henry K seemed to smile back, his eyes wise with ancient sorrows, his grin wider than a crocodile’s. ‘We’ll see you right, old boy!’ Van Hooten raised his bottle again. ‘We won’t let you down. Don’t you go getting your ass shot off on my turf, y’hear?’

He wiped his lips with the back of his hand, put the bottle back in the drawer, and popped a strong mint into his mouth.

Salikaa

Sya had told me I had no aptitude for killing. Sya could go hang. I had not expected it to be so simple.

‘Pawn,’ I commanded my maid, that stupid creature, ‘I am weary. Go lie in my sleeping-place. If Vasit comes to you, make him welcome.’

‘But…’ she started, stammering. Her face went slack. I gave her a threatening look. She stopped arguing.

Later, Vasit tumbled in, grunting like a beast. I peered through the bamboo curtain and saw him fall upon the skin couch and the servant girl’s warm, accommodating flesh. She squeaked and squirmed, but then she resigned herself, recognising her fate. She went catatonic. I had the bone needle hidden and ready. When he was sated and snoring, I made my move. As he slept, still sprawled upon the limp body of the girl, I stabbed it through his ear, finding the soft tissue of his brain. The girl, breathing heavily beneath Vasit’s dead weight, her mouth half open, never stirred. I dropped the needle and I ran, hitching up my skirt, twisting my hair into a plait to prevent it catching on the branches—running, breathless, straining to hear if they came after me. I fled, stumbling through the undergrowth. I did not know this hill country. A stranger cannot hide for long in such an environment. As I fled from the Akha, my breath bursting painfully from my chest, my heart pounding, memories flashed before my inner eye, filling me with terror and increasing determination. Tripping over rocks and tree roots, the vegetation tearing at my clothing, I ran from the memory of my wedding night.

Vasit had deserved to die.

Alone at last, we ill-matched newlyweds had stared at each other with growing revulsion. My lip throbbed where he’d hit me; I could feel it starting to swell, but I was damned if I was going to touch it, or show my fear. I turned my back on him and started to remove my wedding jewellery. My hands were trembling. I tried not to dwell on how different this wedding night should have been, tried not to wish myself a million miles away from this horrible primitive hut and this loathsome creature. I had to think fast, find some strategy to deal with my dread. There was no time for self-pity. I’d gambled for high stakes and lost. For the moment, my enemy, Sya, that devil, had outwitted me—but only for the moment.

There was nothing resembling a closet in that dump, so finally I just collected all my expensive baubles and dropped them in a heap in the middle of the floor. I began to uncoil my hair as slowly as I could, my mind still racing down different alleyways, each one blind. I pulled out pin after pin, allowing each heavy lock, rigid with lacquer, to bounce about my neck like fat springs. Naturally, there was no mirror. My nuptial bed was a pile of malodorous hides. God knew what creepy-crawlies lurked there! When I was Miss Thailand, almost a princess, I’d have struck an attitude. I’d have snapped my fingers and six maids would have scurried about, assisting me with my toilette for this night of nights.

Now all I had was that simpleton, Pawn. I was damned if I’d lower myself to complain. Besides, I didn’t want that filthy brute Vasit, my lord and master, to clout me in the chops again. So I said nothing. I even hummed a little tune to indicate my mastery of the situation.

Vasit was leaning in the doorway, watching me with a nasty look in his eye. Without warning, he launched himself at me like a rat off the wall, tearing at me with teeth and claws. He seemed to have a dozen limbs. For such a scrawny fellow, he was wiry and had a horrible strength. I kicked out wildly. He grabbed the waistband of my long silk skirt and pulled. The cloth unwound and tumbled round my ankles. Now he was tugging at my pants. I fought back with the strength of desperation, but he was too strong.

‘All right!’ I panted at last. ‘All right. Just—just let go of me, will you?’

He went quiet. ‘No tricks?’ he grunted. He had the suspicious nature of all truly stupid people.

‘No tricks.’ I pulled myself free and stood up. There was, after all, nothing else to be done. I removed the rest of my clothing and turned to face him.
At least
, I thought,
I have a beautiful body.
My face, however, must have looked like a massacre. My lipstick was smudged, my cheeks were streaked with mascara, my false eyelashes were hanging off like dead spiders, and I could sense the unsightly bulge in my lower lip where he had struck me. He took his time, the bastard. Looked me over, lingering insultingly, from crown to fork and back again, and then he threw back his head and laughed till he cried. Sinking down against the wall in a paroxysm of mirth, shaking his head this way and that, the greasy ponytail flicking like a whip about his shoulders, he studied me more closely. I was not sure what reaction I had expected, but this was certainly not it.

‘The king, and Prince Toom, and my own cousin Black Tiger—you fooled them all! You little beauty!’ Vasit finally gasped in his rough accent. He scrambled to his feet and lunged for me. ‘I can’t believe it!’ he chuckled coarsely. He clutched me round the waist, pulling me against him, thudding against my thighs, bone grating on bone. ‘Oh, they will pay for this!’

‘So now you know—so let me go.’ I struggled in his grasp. But he was strong, and determined.

‘Likely!’ he barked. ‘I’ve got you, and I’m not letting you go! Nobody makes a laughingstock out of Vasit! I’m going to have my money’s worth out of you, my pretty dear!’ He thrust one hand into my mouth. I bit him as hard as I could, but he just laughed. Then he threw me forward, plunging my face into the heap of stinking skins, and closed with me.

I thought I would die.

But I lived. I lived to take up my new life as a bride among my husband’s people, the Akha.

Nothing had prepared me for the Akha. I doubt if anything could have done. The men smoked opium all day. I was expected to join the women, tending pigs, grinding rice—despised, beaten, and abused. Sometimes my dear husband Vasit came to me at night, stinking, unpredictable as a mad boar, quick to flare into violence—at best lice-covered and slobbering, dazed with opium and mercifully incapacitated, at worst, vigorous and vengeful.