by John Burdett
No mention is made of Ravi in the final report of the commission of inquiry into the riots, but every Thai understood what had gone on in Zinna's mind when he selected his one and only target. Ravi, you see, looked like a rich man's child, even from a distance. Perhaps Zinna didn't know who he was, but he understood very well what he was, and by all the rules of feudalism he should have held his fire. But Zinna, an upwardly mobile soldier-gangster of humble origins with chips on both shoulders, saw no reason for special treatment and fired deliberately at the arrogant, spoiled, drunk, drugged product of the system he served. Or did Zinna indeed recognize the son of his greatest rival? This is Vikorn's firm belief, for Zinna had purchased his commission with the fruits of his own substantial trafficking. Only Zinna knows what was in his mind when he pulled the trigger, but certain it is that with one fatal shot, he started a feud to last a lifetime. An unexpected consequence has been Vikorn's passionate conversion to democracy. He saw that the people were the only stick big enough with which to beat the army.
There have been many skirmishes in this war, for Zinna is no mean adversary. Deciding eventually, like all great narrators, that truth is best expressed through fiction, Vikorn one day last year had a truck dump a pile of morphine bricks onto Zinna's land in his country hideout up in Chiang Mai, then tipped off the local police chief. The scandal almost sank the General, but with his usual resilience he mounted a spirited defense at his court-martial, during which he supplied video shots taken from a security camera. The film showed a truck inexplicably arriving across a field, then two young men wearing black lace-up boots unhooking the back and pulling the gray brick-sized contents onto the land. Close-ups indicated the boots were not army but police issue.
The minute he saw that Zinna would survive his trial, Vikorn began another tack. Rather than micromanage Zinna's downfall himself, he has instead guaranteed promotion and a hundred-thousand-dollar reward for any cop in District 8 who finally nails the General. In addition, he has placed a trusted subordinate in charge of the file (if you can call it that, for nothing is ever written down in this inquiry), with the standing instruction to work on it whenever there's nothing more pressing in the in-box. Vikorn's choice of subordinate in this case was shrewd in the extreme: how did he guess that buried among my most secret defilements was a passion for promotion?
"He dropped the mark on my patch." Vikorn glares at me.
"Not the best party manners."
"Don't give me your fucking supercilious farang back-chat."
"Sorry."
"D'you realize what this means?"
"Maybe I'm missing the finer points."
"Maybe you're missing the main fucking point. Would you come to my house and drop an elephant turd on my Persian rug?"
"Your what?"
"That's the level of insult. It doesn't get worse than this. No one, I mean no one, not even your army fuckups, does this. It's the main rule. Without it we'd have-we'd have-"
"Anarchy?"
He looks at me but does not see me. In this case blind rage is no metaphor. He stops abruptly, goes to his desk, and picks up the gun to examine it curiously, as if unsure of the crimes it is about to commit, then with great care lays it down again next to the photos. I breathe a sigh of relief, for I have seen this before: the white heat of his fury slowly but surely mastered by a Herculean determination to use his great intellect for the purpose of spite. He looks at me again, eyes still glazed somewhat, but brighter. "Yes, anarchy. Do farang really suppose that our society could survive one minute without rules? Just because we don't follow the written ones doesn't make us third-world bums. No jao por wastes a mark on another jao por's patch. It just doesn't happen. This could take us back to the stone age."
"I understand."
"Good. You understand. Well, that's all that fucking matters, isn't it? In the whole fucking universe, what really makes the stars shine and the planets orbit is whether Sonchai Jitpleecheep understands or not."
"I didn't-"
"Didn't what? You're in charge of the X file-you were supposed to protect me from this."
"Huh? You never said anything about protecting you from Zinna's provocation. You said keep an eye out for opportunity-"
A scream: "Don't you see I've got to respond? And it has to be even worse than what he did to me?"
I refrain from saying: That's not a very Buddhist point of view.
Heaving, but resuming self-control. "Give me a report. How many major drug busts since Zinna got off?"
"Only two. They were both attempted exports to Europe."
"And?"
"The first was a minor player, a mule. She's pleading guilty. There's no obvious connection to Zinna-it was heroin, not morphine."
"And the other?"
He looks at me, causing a great quaking in my guts. "Sorry, I forgot to follow up."
"You what?"
"I was distracted. They brought him in a few days ago, looks like a heavy hitter, but we got focused on the farang Chanya wasted, and then I made that trip down south."
Glaring: "We still have the junk?"
"It's with the forensic boys."
"Morphine or heroin?"
"Looks like morphine."
Screaming: "Do what you need to do. I want to know where that morphine came from. I know he took my dope back from the army after the court-martial."
Exiting with a high wai: "Yes, sir."
I'm out in the corridor making running repairs to my psyche after the Vikornic onslaught. Look at it this way: for the Colonel to guess what Zinna will do next, he merely has to consult his own psychology. If Zinna dumped a hundred kilos of morphine on Vikorn's land, what would Vikorn have done? Do I hear: Sold the dope, of course? In the event (not, when all was told, unlikely) that Zinna found a way of wriggling out of the frame-up, would the General miss an opportunity of making twenty million dollars or so out of the product that his arch-enemy so generously supplied free, gratis, and for nothing? Do wounded bulls charge red rags?
Back at my desk, my first call is to Sergeant Ruamsantiah.
"That farang with the morphine last week. What was his name?"
"Buckle. Charles, but he calls himself Chaz."
"The Colonel is taking an active interest in the case."
"Why would he do that?"
"Because it's morphine. How many times do we see morphine these days?"
"Hardly at all. It gets synthesized into heroin before it leaves the Golden Triangle."
"Exactly."
A moment of silence, then: "Wow! Vikorn, that cunning old bastard! He knew Zinna might get off the inquiry, persuade his army chums to sell him back the confiscated dope, and export it, right? So now Zinna has to get rid of more than a hundred kilos of morphine in a hurry before someone blows the whistle on him. All the heroin labs are inconveniently located up north, so he's not going to have time to synthesize."
I say nothing.
"So anyone caught with morphine at this moment has a better-than-even chance of being a courier for Zinna?"
"Correct."
"Amazing. I never would have thought of that." A pause. "It's like they say: with the Colonel it's the B plans you have to watch for."
"You got that right."
All enthusiasm now, with little bubbles of ebullience punctuating his speach: "I'll go check on Buckle myself-he's downstairs in the cells. I'll call you back in five."
"Great."
While we're waiting for the good sergeant, farang, let me revisit the Buckle bust with you. It happened about a day before Chanya killed Mitch Turner.
18
F lashback: I was having a quiet morning pottering around the Old Man's Club when my cell phone started ringing. It was Lieutenant Manhatsirikit at her least glamorous.
"Get over here, pronto."
I showered quickly and grabbed a cab, only to discover when I arrived that it was not a shoot-out or an investigation by the Crime Suppression Division (our anticorruption bureau: everyone's worst sc
enario) but an interpretation job. I'm the only one in the station who speaks English worth a damn, so they tend to drag me in whenever there's a farang who needs terrifying. (Hard to convey the finer points of intimidation if the perp doesn't understand a word you're saying.) This guy, though, was something else: the kind of shaved skull like a pink coconut that belongs on the end of a battering ram, a fat round face bursting with Neolithic fury, small eyes, ironmongery hanging from his pincushion ears, short and incredibly muscular arms and legs, a frown characteristic of the intellectually deprived, tattoos on both forearms screaming of his inextinguishable love for Mother (left forearm) and Denise (on the right, in indigo, from elbow to wrist), and puncture marks in all major veins. On the bare wooden table in the equally bare interrogation room: two suitcases, open to show plastic-wrapped gray blocks about six inches by four. Ruamsantiah handed me a British passport: Charles Valentine Buckle. The sergeant explained that Buckle had been caught at his hotel in a combined police/customs operation after a tip-off, bang to rights.
"Tell me if he's as stupid as he looks," Sergeant Ruamsantiah ordered me.
"And if he is?"
"Then we better start looking for Denise."
Ruamsantiah's intuitive approach to law enforcement is famous throughout the station. I myself would have preferred a more thorough investigation, in which the stages of detection are more clearly defined, but his conclusion that this sack of testosterone:
1. was too stupid to arrange for the purchase, transportation, and export of $500,000 worth of morphine on his own;
2. must therefore be within the control of another person of superior intellect, who on the evidence of his tattoos and macho-slave posture was likely to be a woman;
3. whose name, on the balance of probability, was likely to be Denise,
was hard to fault. I noted, with admiration, that the Denise tattoo was darker and fresher than the other, which virtually proved Ruamsantiah's hypothesis. Indeed, the more I looked at him, the more convinced was I-as was Ruamsantiah-that he would not make a move without Denise. Yep, Denise done it.
"His mobile?"
Ruamsantiah took a rather outdated Siemens from a drawer under the table and handed it to me. With considerable pride I was able to locate both his telephone address book on the sim card and the list of numbers recently dialed and calls received. (You don't work with whores without learning mobiles, farang.) There was a predominance of one particular number, which looked like another mobile. When I checked with the address book, I saw that it corresponded to the number under the single letter D. The Pink Coconut was watching me with increasing fury, which expressed itself in recurring bursts of sweat with which his face and shaved pate were covered, just as if he'd come in from a tropical storm. (There was a periodic seeping and an unpleasant odor characteristic of consumers of dairy products-you don't get that sort of stink with lemongrass.)
"D is for Denise, right?" I snapped.
I did not, myself, consider this as evidence of forensic brilliance on my part, but Charles Buckle was clearly impressed. "Yeah." Then he clammed his mouth shut in an odd kind of way, fearing he'd said too much.
"Let's see if she's awake, shall we?"
I used the autodial feature to call the number under D. Twelve rings before a British accent that had been dragged from the bottomless pit of sleep answered. "Chrissake Chaz, what the fuck d'you want now?"
"Good morning," I said. "This is the Royal Thai Police Force, and Chaz is going to jail for the rest of his life, assuming, that is, that he avoids the death penalty. We would like to ask you a few questions concerning-"
Neither the sergeant nor I was ready for it. Arrested persons in Thailand are hardly ever violent for cultural reasons: the cops would shoot them. Indeed, a second after Chaz charged at me, apparently discounting the wooden table between us, Ruamsantiah was on his feet reaching for his service revolver, which he had stuck in his belt at the base of his spine, but Chaz, mad as a hatter, had launched himself across the table, apparently in a desperate but chivalrous attempt to protect the subject of his right forearm from implication in international drug trafficking. The table had other ideas and moved with him, creating the impression (as I and my chair went down under it) of a kind of four-legged land raft on which the lone sailor was making an adventure tour of the interrogation room, while Ruamsantiah prepared to take a shot at him and I rolled out of the way, spilling the Siemens as I went, which exploded into its various components. The suitcases followed me to the floor, and a few of the blocks burst their packing and crumbled, increasing the net value of my khaki open-neck shirt and black pants by maybe $50,000 as I rolled in their contents. I think Ruamsantiah would not have resisted the temptation to shorten the case with a bullet through that pink coconut had not the coconut itself made violent contact with the opposite wall, leaving its owner groaning in a heap along with what was left of the table. A flimsy third-world piece of furniture, it pretty much disintegrated when it hit the wall, unlike that robust first-world cranium, which suffered no more than a dramatic increase in its pinkness. Still, Ruamsantiah agonized over every cop's dilemma in such circumstances: shoot the bastard or merely beat the shit out of him?
Reluctantly, but perhaps bearing in mind the mountain of paperwork that invariably accompanies the death in custody of a farang, Ruamsantiah opened the door of the interrogation room and called for reinforcements. Before long the room was filled with vigorous and enthusiastic young men in black lace-up boots who were quick to see a cure for boredom. Coconut began to squeal as I left the room with the remains of the world-class narcotic smuggler's mobile in my hands.
I had to go to the latrines to dust off my shirt and pants, where I used the occasion to reflect on the fragility of human values: this gray poison, for which people risk life and liberty, was now worthless dust on the floor of an old police toilet. There is no constant in life but change. I also wondered what would happen if I encountered one of our sniffer dogs from the narcotics unit before I had the chance to go home and shower. To the dog, of course, the heroin would remain the most valuable commodity in the universe, since without it he'd be just another unemployed mutt wondering where his next meal was coming from: there are no more enthusiastic supporters of the war on drugs than our sniffer dogs.
Downstairs the forensic boys were too involved with their MP3 project (WAV to MP3 is no problem, but transferring Windows Media Player format into MP3 is quite a challenge, they explained) to check the sim card immediately. They pointed out that in view of the screams from the interrogation room, it did seem as if a confession was imminent, so what was the hurry? They'd get back to me.
Down in the canteen I tucked into a chile-intensive breakfast with a 7-Up before returning to the second floor, by which time the screams from the interrogation room had ceased.
At the top of the stairs one of the young cops in heavy black boots came out to tell me the Coconut wanted to confess. At least, they thought that's what he wanted. When I entered the room, I was quite pleased to see no blood, bruises, or broken teeth. Whatever they did, though, was amazingly effective. The Neolithic fury had quite dissipated, and the fat face was flabby with surrender and exhaustion, revealing the soul of perhaps a five-year-old yearning for Mother as he lay supine on the floor with a cushion thoughtfully placed behind his head which they propped up against a wall. With most of the buttons on his shirt popped, I saw what a gift he had been to various body artists over the years, some more talented than others, though all with the standard addiction to indigo.
When I asked him if he wanted to confess, he licked his lips and nodded. Now we hauled him to his feet and dragged him to a chair, revealing the telephone book he was lying on. The telephone book is the interrogator's best friend in these parts. Inserted between boot and perp, it prevents all signs of physical abuse without detracting too much from the point of the exercise.
Ruamsantiah shook his head in wonder. "He's tough, I'll give him that. They've been going at it all the tim
e you were having breakfast, and they only just broke him. I've never seen anything like it-incredible pain threshold. The ugly bastard must be made of concrete."
Now he mentioned it, I noticed that all the young men were sweating and some were still breathing heavily.
Somebody brought a Dictaphone so Chaz's confession in English and my simultaneous translation into Thai were both recorded. Chaz was commendably brief (Him: I done it. Me: Done what? Him: The dope), so much so that Ruamsantiah told me to tell him that if he didn't think up some convincing details, he was in for another round, this time without the telephone book. Chaz seemed to want to comply but was inhibited by some mystic force that had the power to banish fear.
Ruamsantiah: "What happened with the idiot's mobile?"
I explained that it might be a while before our musically inclined geeks were able to retrieve Denise's telephone number from the sim card.
"I'll get it myself," said the sergeant, who made for the door. By now about twelve young men were all licking their lips. I was not sure how long I could hold them off; nor was I sure if I should hold them off. Maybe if they gave Chaz Buckle a really good going-over while he was still weak from the first beating, he'd see the light and get his sentence reduced by giving us details of Denise's smuggling ring. If I used my influence to save him from a further beating, on the other hand, he would almost certainly get the death penalty. A man whose main crime was a room temperature IQ would rot on death row while the mastermind Denise went free. Properly understood, karma is more complex than a weather system, but fortunately I was saved from the need to intervene in this man's destiny by the sudden and triumphant return of Ruamsantiah, who had, he explained, grabbed back the mobile and simply clipped all the bits together again. It seemed to be working, indeed was that very minute receiving a text message: Chaz, where the fuck R U and? is going on?????
