Escape (16 page)

Police Major General Prompon Phoont’ang jauntily stepped from the darkness dressed in inappropriately tight shorts, a golfing T-shirt and top-shelf white trainers. No chains, of course. He was trying to give a carefree impression, smiling at everyone, winking and finger pointing at the respectful guards as he took a cage alone.

After a short short time the guards left him, having covered their bets by asking politely if all of Phoont’ang’s needs had been met. Within a few minutes I walked to his cage and then paused, trying to think of a way to introduce myself. This proved unnecessary.

‘Come in, Westlake,’ laughed the major general as though my name alone was a great source of hilarity. (Perhaps ‘Westlake’ meant shithead in Thai for this was not the first time a Thai had enjoyed speaking my name.) It was not yet noon and Phoont’ang was drunk. ‘Welcome!’

It would have been impolite to ask immediately about the faked Saudi royal jewels so I simply complained about the length of our trials.

‘That doesn’t matter. A long time can be good.’ Phoont’ang clapped his hands in slow motion. ‘No witnesses.’

Ordinarily a man of such high rank and power as Phoont’ang would have had no trouble avoiding punishment but it had been an indirect offence to Thai royalty to filch another royal’s personal knick-knacks. I hinted to the major general that he might have to wait for the quiet of the appeal courts to get free. When he didn’t respond I set out my reasoning in a disinterested yet respectful tone.

Finally Phoont’ang sat up from his bench and gently clapped me on one shoulder.

‘Westlake,’ he said warmly. ‘Very sorry. You’re fucked. Everybody knows.’

When a stranger tells you that which everyone seems to know you might as well believe it. Yet to understand why my case was hopeless, I would have to think back to the days leading up to my capture. As always happens after each life-wrecking arrest I had shed the memory as a snake sheds a skin that becomes too tight. Now I must revisit that discarded husk and pick over its scales for clues.

In the months before my journey to Thailand I had been living in a small apartment, formed in the renovation of a 1960s motel that had been bypassed by a freeway leading to the airport. There I kept only my name and clothing so nothing for which I cared. Yet the bed was large and made comfortable and, at any time, I was prepared to check out without notice. Each day with US$5,000 and a passport in my tracksuit pockets, I would take morning runs. Skirting the playing fields of parkland, ducking through bracken and ascending over the rubble to the high ridges of an old railway line to then stop and view the nearby cityscape of Melbourne. This routine would also allow the first shift of detectives to let themselves into the flat to poke around. More widely, my phones were tapped, there were bugs in my office furniture and this early morning rifle through my drawers was, for them, no more than an eye-opener before beginning a day’s four-car surveillance.

Most youthful indiscretions are forgivable. Some are not. Unlawfully—or even legally—making a fortune before the age of twenty is unpardonable in any land. It didn’t matter that twice since I’d lost and made again that fortune. There would be no forgiveness. Newer religions might aspire to fundamentalist rigour but nothing tops Anglo-Christianity for eternal damnation.

Two previous police groups had expended their funding so these surveillance tasks were now maintained by the Target Identification Branch, a federal agency. Every three months these agencies would exchange these duties until one of them could convince the boss that a dedicated taskforce would be worth the investment.

For me an impractical amount of each day was taken up merely communicating with friends: burying my car in the concrete of big car parks to then take trains and taxis to meetings, locating untapped payphones away from telescopic lenses to make calls. Inevitably the time came when I needed to speak with distant friends using real names and dates. At the same time new equipment had been installed in the capital’s phone-tapping bunker making every phone in the country unsafe. I would need to travel even to talk.

‘You could do nothing and wait for the police to go away.’ This was Michael, a friend formed strong within the pressure of our carbon mountain.

‘Or I could grow old and die,’ although I doubted that Michael was making a serious suggestion. We were standing at the front gate of Michael’s suburban house. Parked at the kerbside about a hundred metres away stood a white delivery van with mirrored rear windows.

‘Let’s move into the garden.’ Michael nodded at the van. ‘Maybe they have a lip-reader today.’

Michael and I had worked together, on and off, for fifteen years. We had met by chance just before dawn at the Electro Doghouse where hot dogs were sold to go and, in those days, one of the few places open around the clock. Michael was dressed in a buckskin jacket and wore snakeskin boots. I carried a cane and wore a large felt hat. I was twenty. We had both finished work for the night, having quietly met our last customers at the Doghouse.

Michael’s ex-presidential convertible was parked by the pavement rubbish bin and I spoke as we both dumped our unopened hot dogs in the bin.

‘Looks like it’ll be a fine morning,’ I declared.

‘It sure does but I won’t get to see much of it,’ Michael said. ‘I work nights. I’m a waiter.’

‘Really, now there’s a coincidence. So am I.’ As I spoke a police cruiser eased around a corner. ‘But let’s not wait here.’

Now, seventeen years later, we sat on the cushions of two large cane chairs under a cloud of microscopic summer insects rising from the untended ferns of Michael’s back garden.

‘No other way?’ Michael’s eyes stared through his rusting incinerator drum that had burned more evidence than Saigon’s embassies. ‘You’ve tried phoning Thailand, I suppose?’

‘The usual waste of time. Tommy’s wall of voodoo goes up. And, of course, yes is always the answer even when all the questions are misunderstood. I
get yessed to
death.’

So that I would not be missed by the watchers my tour of Bangkok, Brussels, Copenhagen and London needed completing within five days, with a return by Friday lunchtime. I explained to Michael that I’d leave a wig and moustache in the bus-station lockers near Sydney Airport for the return journey.

‘How about passports?’ Michael removed his wire-frame sunglasses to give them a needless polish. ‘The forces of darkness know all our old names.’

‘Indeed. I’ve left the birth certificate and application for a New Zealand passport lying around the office.’ I stood up from my chair. ‘The spooks couldn’t have missed that. But I have a new one. Very deep and another crap passport to sacrifice in Thailand.’

‘You’ll still be missed.’ Michael didn’t like the idea of the cops running around looking for me.

‘Could be and that’s where I need your help.’

One thing on which I could absolutely rely was that my mobile phone was not only tapped but also routinely traced to the nearest transponder. So using a dictating machine, Michael and I recorded a phoney but still guarded three-minute conversation in which I hinted at an immediate journey to the Murray River marijuana fields. On a recent buying trip to the area I had spotted a shadow (ultramarine T-shirt, black Nikes, city hair and a bumbag) so felt confident the watchers knew that I frequently visited the Italian countryfolk. As I gave the recorder to Michael I told him what I thought best to do.

‘Wait until Wednesday next week. That’ll be my last day in Bangkok. Go into Melbourne, downtown and on foot. Take my mobile phone and find a payphone out of sight. Dial my number. Of course, my phone will ring in your pocket so answer it. Then I think it’s best if you play the recording into my mobile phone, not the land line in your other hand.’

Michael agreed that this trick should convince the monitors that I was still somewhere in the city, at least, rather than 10,000 miles away. Even so he cautioned, ‘Don’t overdo it with the red herrings, David. That can excite them more if things seem too busy.’

I squeezed my hands together. ‘I’m breaking the rules anyway. I suppose with this much heat I’d be smarter to leave the country and not come back. Call it year zero in a new land.’

An evil-eyed crow speared into the tall grass at the end of the garden and Michael said, ‘It’s a long way to go to make a few phone calls.’ Then smiling, he added, ‘Good luck.’

The portly young man sat in my office waiting for the laser printer to deliver a sheet. I sat at the desk. He had covertly entered the premises by the back door, a task slowed by the fact that there was no back door.

Barry plucked some remaining twigs from his jacket and we began.

‘It’s you.’ I seemed surprised. ‘I didn’t recognise you under that beard. And you’re all wet! Take off that sou’wester and sit down.’

‘Thanks. I could use a drink.’

‘Sure.’ I rattled the ice in my Coke. ‘So, tell me. How’d it go?’

‘Well, the third zodiac sprang a leak but other than the usual thing with Gomez, it was a breeze.’

‘I thought you might’ve had trouble with the handshake.’

‘No, my grandad was a mason,’ Barry answered. ‘By the way, Maxwell Kenton gave me a message. You’re to go to the beach hut in Esperance next Tuesday. He’ll call you then from St Kitts.’

‘How do I get in?’

‘He left the key in the barky bole of a tree at the back. The one that looks like a big “W” on the grassy knoll.’ Barry made a coughing noise. ‘What’s in this drink?’

‘Your usual,’ I assured. ‘Absinthe with—oh, sorry. I’m fresh out of persimmons. Cumquats okay?’

‘Yeah, I guess. Are we all right for New Year’s?’

‘You bet. Just tell Damien to bring three trucks and park them away from the coast. We’ll radio in on 468.75 megs. You want to write that down?’

‘That’s okay, I’ll call if I forget.’ Barry lowered his tone. ‘Um, have you got any of that, whatsit?’

‘You mean the, ah, how’s-your-father?’

‘No, no. The thingummy with the slight, you know, look about it.’ Barry made orchestra conductor’s gestures.

‘Oh, right. The wazzername. Yeah, sure, but put
well
away. It’ll have to be tomorrow. I can only get it between two and three in the morning.’

‘Well, if it’s not too much hassle.’ Barry was apologetic.

‘A bit but no problem. We’ll make it Monday, say Sunday. No, Monday’s fine.’

‘S’Monday it is.’ Barry understood. ‘Where’s the boss today? He told me to call sometime.’

‘Dammit,’ I swore. ‘Lost the number but it’s room 589. Sydney Hilton, under some cover name. Don’t call between eight and eleven tomorrow night. It’s all happening then. Wait until the Latvians have gone ...’

And more of the same nonsense. When we’d finished I led Barry down into the dark street, gave him tickets to four cities and advised, ‘Just keep it up for a week. I’ll be back by then. Even if they only follow up a tenth of that crap they’ll be stretched.’

‘Dave, you really think the cops will go for any of it?’

‘Maybe not. We were talking right on top of the bug. It’s built into the drinks cabinet. Anyway, I’ll pull it out tomorrow and dump it in the river. The more crap they think that lot is the more they should believe Michael’s call. By the way, did you really want me to get you some stuff?’

‘No, not at all. Did you really think that? I was ad-libbing. You know, give it the touch.’ Barry was the night porter at an edgy city hotel that I used sometimes for afternoon chemistry. He had ambitions as an actor.

‘Don’t ad-lib Barry, I’m confused enough already.’

My travel schedule required a flight from Melbourne at lunchtime on Monday, then a flight to Bangkok arriving late that night. Australian immigration computers log details of all incoming and outgoing passengers and, for this exit, I would use the new passport, gained in utter secrecy.

Passports could no longer be acquired safely by the simple mailing of a birth certificate of someone who had died in infancy. All applicants were now required to appear in person at a local post office where senior staff would check for their existence against entries in a national health-registry database. In addition whoever countersigned the applicant’s photograph—usually a doctor or dentist already on record—would be telephoned for confirmation.

The path through these traps lies with encouraging someone who’s never had a passport to prepare all his documents including having his photographs countersigned. Then, as may happen, all those documents are mislaid. A duplicate set with a new photograph—but otherwise with all the same details—is then presented to Mr Postman. Should he call the doctor the conversation would never turn to a description of the new applicant. Eye colour and height no longer figure on applications, even when biometric.

On arrival at Bangkok I would not tarnish this pristine passport with the stamp of a ‘country of interest’ but present another. This second passport, not of such pedigree yet good enough for moving in and out of Thailand. As this was in a different name I had bought duplicate tickets. (Under the hard labour of three hours on five trains and underground pedestrian links to a lunch-hour carnival of Vietnamese travel agents’ shoplets beyond my watchers’ eyes.)

Tuesday in Bangkok would begin at seven in the morning with the first of an ambitious three meetings—I’d dreamed of more until considering the city’s traffic jams—before a late-night flight with SAS to Belgium via Denmark.

On arrival at Copenhagen on Wednesday I’d have the opportunity to unburden myself of the second passport I’d been using in Thailand. The Copenhagen transit lounge had a small post office from where I could mail the passport and any other bothersome documents back to Australia. (Sadly that post office is these days landside and there exists only one lonely red-and-bomb-proof postbox near the A-gates. Intrepid travellers must now bring their own stamps and apply caution as well.) I’d hoped a fellow traveller who was resident in Copenhagen could join me for the flight to Brussels, although I now doubt that Søren would have managed to get out of bed in time for an eleven o’clock morning flight.

By then in Europe I would switch to an old British passport, the third in use for this five-day trip. European Union passports are not stamped for travellers anywhere within the continent. This UK passport was necessarily dog-eared. European officials, especially the British, regard new passports as objects to be thoroughly examined. The reverse is true of Australia where holders of new and rarely used passports are considered good citizens. Perhaps the opposing attitude of customs inspectors is explained by their contrasting views of international travel. The English are expected to seek imperious amusement at the expense of foreigners while Australians feel they should take foreignness in small doses. Alternatively it may be that Britons so loathe their local neighbours they take any opportunity to flee the cold, whereas any Australian daring to leave even temporarily his god-blessed and sun-kissed land cannot be less than a traitor in the eyes of airport officials. A careful smuggler in transit may only meet these prejudices, not dismiss them.