by Yigal Zur
I strode from the ticket booths through the large hall to the platform. The corridor was lined with lockers of all sizes. Was the bag on its way out of Bangkok, or was it hidden away in one of the lockers?
It’s easy to find foreigners outside Bangkok. They stand out against the background. But for some reason I was almost certain that if Sigal was still alive, she was in the city. I envisioned her hiding out somewhere, scared to death. Unless it was too late for the scared part, leaving only death.
I stood in the middle of the station for a few minutes, knowing I had reached a dead end. That happens in investigations, no reason to get upset. You keep digging and something else pops up. Something happens. Clearly, I had started making waves, and they’d get bigger. Of course, they could also come back and hit me in the ass.
When I got back to the hotel, the lobby was buzzing with activity and filled with the usual noise of guys who’d brought local girls with them for a night of fun and were haggling with the manager over the cost of changing the room to “double occupancy.” One of them followed me into the elevator with a dark girl on his arm. She stood facing the door with her eyes lowered, carrying a small purse that most likely held her identity card, a cheap lipstick, chewing gum, a little cash, and, with any luck, a condom or two.
“You couldn’t find one?” the guy asked me with a wink. He was the type who slapped a whore on the ass in a Bangkok hotel elevator, the type who went abroad with two wads of bills wrapped in rubber bands. Five thousand to buy a present for his wife, a gold bracelet or necklace with semi-precious gems so she wouldn’t ask questions about what he did in Bangkok, and another ten to burn. But he still haggled with the hotel manager over the twenty-five bucks he was being charged for “double occupancy,” and he’d still say he was being robbed. “You don’t have to look hard around here,” he informed me. “They fall on you like flies. When I’m through with her you can take her for a ride if you want. I’ll go get another one in Patpong later. Whaddaya say?”
“We’ll see,” I answered.
“No problem. Whenever you want. Don’t be bashful. We Israelis have to look out for each other here, right?”
The bottle of Jameson worked particularly well that night. I took a shower and then poured myself a generous glass and sat down by the window. Across the way, the flashing neon sign screamed Purple Octopus. I thought about the Israelis in Bangkok. What were they looking for? My mind turned to Yair Shemesh—Barbu—and I wondered how he came to be the manager of such a place. What had happened between leaving the Security Agency and ending up here? The one time I saw him after we parted ways, I didn’t ask him. I knew I should pay him a visit and question him about Sigal Bardon. A man like him knows things. But not tonight. At that moment, I wasn’t even capable of picking myself up out of the chair. The mental effort of crossing the street, going into the club, and watching dull-eyed girls dance on metal poles was too much for me. Flashing neon signs might be tempting, but they didn’t call to me that night.
CHAPTER NINE
I WAS AWOKEN early in the morning by the chanting of mantras coming from a group of monks passing below my window. Namo tassa bagawato arahato samma sambuddhassa—Honor to the Blessed One, the Exalted One, the fully Enlightened One. I imagined them walking barefoot with their beggar’s bowls and contemplating how to rid themselves of the filth known as life on earth. Sighing, I turned over. After so many visits to the East, I was just beginning to understand that people like me had a lot of incarnations ahead of us before we learned not to get caught on the hook called suffering.
I looked at my watch. Four thirty in the morning. Those guys were nuts. I took a few sips from the bottle of water on the nightstand, turned the AC up to freezing, and went back to sleep. The next time I woke up, sunlight was already streaming through the large windows. Naturally, I’d forgotten to draw the curtains. I picked up the phone and asked the operator to connect me to the Oriental Hotel, Room 339. And that was even before I had my coffee.
The female voice that answered was clear and pleasant.
“My name is Dotan Naor,” I said.
There was a moment of silence before she said, “I know who you are.”
“I’d like to talk to you.”
“Can you come here? I’m at the Oriental,” she said.
“I know. I just called you.”
More silence. Finally, “I’ll be in the café.”
“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” I said.
Since its establishment, the café at the Oriental has been the best place to sit, ponder life, and watch the Chao Phraya flow by. Nothing much has changed since Joseph Conrad assumed his first command of the Otago and sailed into the huge channel, or, as an old salt once referred to it, “the river, aye … a strange bit of water.”
The wide river flowed gently toward the bend in the south. It bustled with activity: large barges loaded down with sand and gravel, nearly sinking below the waterline, were dragged along by small, industrious tugboats; elegant long-tail boats, their motors roaring, slithered among the floating islands of blue water hyacinths and cut dangerously in front of the barges; ungainly ferry boats crossed the river at the narrowest point, carrying passengers back and forth between the Thonburi district on one side and the center of Bangkok on the other; the crowded water buses lumbered from stop to stop, the orange robes of the monks on deck visible from afar, sending a message of peace and moderation to a restless, sometimes perilous world.
She was sitting at a table on the terrace overlooking the river.
“Dotan,” I introduced myself.
She raised her eyes, shielding them from the sun with her hand despite the large white parasol that shaded the wooden table. Her big and bright eyes were a striking deep green. We shook. The handshake lasted a second too long. Both of us sensed it.
“Reut.”
We laughed. Apparently, the formalities were over.
A waiter arrived at the table and checked me out from head to toe. My jeans and sneakers were not in keeping with the Oriental Hotel, not even by the pool. Reut ordered iced coffee. I was about to ask for a double espresso, but said instead, “I’ll have a gin and tonic.”
Not my drink at all. And certainly not in the morning. But there’s nothing like a G&T beside the calming rhythmic flow of water. We sat and watched the river. It was almost pastoral.
“It’s a lovely time of day,” Reut said. “Maybe the nicest in Bangkok. Later it gets too hot.”
Her voice painted a picture, as if a delicate brush moved through the air when she spoke, sketching the scene as she described it. For a moment, the world could only be seen in one way—through her eyes. The palm trees among the tables in the café waved gently in the morning breeze, their branches dancing in an enchanting undulating motion. The river shimmered like a mirror in metallic blue. There was no sense of urgency. I took another sip and marveled. It was the usual gin, the usual bubbly tonic, the usual lemon, although it was probably a lime. Everything else came from her.
She bore a certain resemblance to her sister, and yet she appeared to be the antithesis of the woman I imagined from Sigal’s pictures. She was wearing a summery dress, and on the chair beside her was a straw hat with a bandanna around the brim, the sort of hat European women wear when they go on safari. Dark sunglasses lay next to it. Except for her nails, painted the brightest red I had ever seen, Reut looked as far as possible from a pickup girl, and there wasn’t the slightest hint of any “come-hither” look in her eyes. Her beauty was refined and restrained. Tiny drops of perspiration, like dewdrops, stood on her brow just below the hairline. I yearned to be a hummingbird flitting around her, oblivious to the rest of the world.
“From here it looks like we’re in paradise,” she said.
“Not from where I’m sitting,” I answered.
She let that sink in, throwing me a glance but in no hurry to reply. To an onlooker we may have seemed like a couple who had already said all there is to say in a single life cycle an
d were now sitting and watching the river flow by, musing about its journey from where it rises to where it splits in the delta.
“Tell me about yourself,” she said.
I didn’t answer her immediately. I lit a cigarette. A Camel. I don’t do that very often. I’ve never been a serious smoker, but I always have a pack in my pocket for those moments when I feel the need for the decadent taste of tobacco.
I took two long puffs, and then, with the smoke rising in the air beside the muddy river, I turned to her. “My resume is nothing special. Not a lot to tell. I had a government job in security and now you might say I’m taking some time off.”
“A long time?”
“That’s still up in the air.”
“It didn’t end well?” she asked, patting her face with a wet wipe she took from the purse on the chair beside her.
“One day I found myself high up on a shaky ladder,” I said somewhat belligerently, irritated by the directness of her question. “It’s not a position you can maintain for a long time. Either you straighten up or you fall.”
She gave me a searching look before asking, “What do you know about my family?”
“From what I read, you’re rich and you’re divorced. You used to be married to a man named Nimrod Merhav, who also came from money. At some stage, he disappeared from the picture. Your father is a wealthy industrialist. Your sister …” I fell silent. The intrusive waiter was standing by our table, asking if I wanted another drink. I nodded.
“Go on,” she said, but there was a distant look in her eyes, which were focused on the river.
“Your sister is pretty and she’s a wild child. Sigal. I think she’s in trouble.”
She gave me a quick glance and then turned back to the river. It’s a good thing it was there. She patted her face again. “You think?”
It came from far away, from a place I wasn’t familiar with, not the place I thought was reserved for sisters. But what do I know?
The waiter placed my drink in front of me. When he was far enough away, I said, “I think, and I’m almost convinced.” Then I added, because it was time, “Let’s get things straight between us. I’m here because of your family; I’m guessing your father, contacted our office. I admit I like Bangkok, but I have no other reason to be here at this particular time.”
She gazed at me as directly and openly as possible. “Assuming what you say about Sigal is true, what’s your first step?”
“The usual. Look, Bangkok is a big city with a long name that no foreigner can even pronounce—Krung Thep Mahanakhon Amonrattanakosin—and it goes on, for a total of one hundred and sixty-seven letters. Do you think anyone in a city with a name like that gives a damn about one Israeli woman, even if she’s pretty? When someone sinks below the surface here, they don’t usually pop up again.”
She didn’t reply, continuing to pat at the perspiration on her neck in silence. Finally, she said, “I don’t like the way you choose to paint the picture.”
“It’s not me,” I said. “It’s just how things are here. I can understand if you don’t want to see it that way.”
After a long pause, she gave me a hard look. “I don’t know why I’m sitting here having a drink with you,” she said.
“Because you thought I might be able to tell you something that would solve the mystery of Sigal’s disappearance. Then she’d suddenly show up and fall into your arms and all would be forgotten. But mysteries like this don’t get solved with abracadabra and the wave of a magic wand. Sigal is missing. That’s a fact. When people go missing in the East, it’s generally for one of two reasons: either they want to disappear or someone makes them disappear. Let’s hope Sigal falls into the first category, because unfortunately, there’s not much we can do in the second case scenario except to look for her and maybe, if we’re lucky, we’ll find her body.”
She leaned forward on her elbows and stared at me. There was no emotion in her eyes. “I know Sigal well enough to know she can take care of herself in any situation.”
“And what life experience do you base that on?” I said more sharply than I intended. “Growing up in a large house with a live-in cook and a full-time gardener? Two years in the Army as a secretary? A three-month trip to the East?”
“Don’t be cynical, Mr. Naor.”
“Call me Dotan,” I broke in. “And here’s what I’m most curious about at the moment. What are you doing here?”
“Isn’t it obvious? I’m here for Sigal.”
“You don’t have to be here for Sigal. You could just as well have stayed home.” As soon as I said “home” I saw a flash of anger in her eyes, but she doused it quickly.
“What do you think she got herself mixed up in?” I asked.
Her deep green eyes gave me the sort of look that says, “I’ve got your number, mister. Cool it.”
“She might have gotten mixed up in something, I don’t know what. But that doesn’t mean she can’t look out for herself.”
“Might,” I echoed. “I hope you’re right, but I’m working on my own assumption, based on considerable experience. I think you’re sadly mistaken. If Sigal is still alive, I think she’s in some dark, dangerous hole that’s not so easy to get out of.”
She chose not to listen. “My sister won’t be pleased to hear that her father is interfering in her life. She’s very cocky and very independent.”
How far would Sigal go to get back at her father or her sister? The last thing I wanted was to get drawn into the entangled relations in a dysfunctional family. But I had a job to do, and that was the last principle I still stuck to in my own complicated relations with the world.
“That sounds great at a party in Tel Aviv,” I said. “But here it can be a matter of life and death. And I’m not talking metaphorically. They don’t play games in Bangkok.”
She sat up straighter. “You’re very proud of your skill at solving other people’s problems. But when it comes to yourself, you seem pretty messed up to me.”
“I think you’ve got it the wrong way around,” I answered. “I didn’t come here to find myself or fix myself. I get paid for what I do. I assume the money is coming from your father, but frankly, I don’t know and I don’t give a damn. That’s what my partner’s for, to move me around like a piece on a checkerboard: up, down, or sideways. Sometimes he makes me jump.”
I have to admit she was pushing my buttons. I stood up. “Watch out you don’t get a chill. The wind can pick up suddenly,” I said, pulling a business card from my wallet. “I’m at the Fontaine. You can always reach me on my cellphone.”
She didn’t take the card. I put it on the table and left.
When I stepped out of the Oriental Hotel, the sun was already blazing. It was broiling hot. I started down a street crowded with stalls selling overpriced souvenirs. The vendors were taking shelter under colorful umbrellas or deep inside their stalls, coming out only to try and reel in an innocent tourist passing by. I was walking at a leisurely pace. A black Mercedes pulled up alongside me. The window rolled down and a clean-shaven head leaned out. The man had a large tattoo that ran down the back of his neck to a spike-studded dog collar. He addressed me in Hebrew with a heavy Russian accent.
“My name is Ivan. Around here I’m known as Ivan the Durian.”
“Pleased to meet you,” I said with a laugh, not stopping. “It suits you. Big, prickly, and smelly.”
The Mercedes rolled forward, keeping pace with me. It was obvious he didn’t share my sense of humor.
“You talk to her sister. What she tell you?”
I kept walking steadily, not answering.
“Mr. Naor,” the bald guy said in the same calm tone, wiping his neck with a wet towel the driver handed him. “My boss, Mr. Alex Weiss, want me to tell you that you are now partners, whether you like or not. You both want same thing, for different reasons. My boss, Mr. Alex Weiss, does not offer to share expenses, but maybe he cut you in on profits if you find Sigal Bardon. Mr. Weiss say this very generous offer
, especially for him. You know that if you know him better. But not good idea.”
The driver handed him another wet towel, a sign the man had been in Bangkok long enough to have adopted some of its customs. He was starting to infuriate me. My anger was rising like cloudy spume. I could have ignored the creep, but there was something oddly satisfying in my repressed rage. I knew where it was coming from, but I didn’t want to admit to myself that the meeting at the Oriental didn’t end as I had envisioned. What was I hoping for? That we would smile at each other in blissful harmony? That we would look each other in the eye and the world would come alight? That we would hold hands and thank the heavenly spirits for bringing us together? She hadn’t been very cooperative even on the professional matter of finding Sigal. She was wary, distant, and concerned for her privacy, and Sigal’s as well. Why? Did she know something? Or was she just naturally protective of her family?
The bald guy showed up like dessert at the end of a bad meal. We passed the row of shops under the Oriental. I picked up one of the carved walking sticks with a sharp tip they sell as souvenirs. The car was still rolling forward. I stopped short and held the stick up against it. A deep scratch appeared along the whole length of its black body.
Baldy was appalled. He stuck his head out the window to see what damage I had done to his beloved Mercedes. I could tell I had scarred his prize possession.
“Blyad, motherfucker,” he blurted. “I get you later.”
Ivan the Durian rolled up the dark window and the Mercedes sped away.
It was time to probe more deeply into Mr. Weiss. I texted Shai in the office: Send everything you have on Weiss, including pictures.
Khao San was a ten-minute drive away. I hailed a cab. To my amazement, the driver was totally unknown to me. I got out and went into one of the many internet cafés on the street where I checked my email. Shai had already come through, sending a message with a long list of attachments. One was the scan of a newspaper article with a pyramid-shaped diagram of an Israeli drug cartel whose tentacles reached across Europe and Asia. It contained the names of several well-known underworld figures and their henchmen. One of them was Alex Weiss. I clicked on a photo. His face wasn’t particularly memorable, except for the eyes. Small and half-closed, the dark pupils peered out like cold black beads.
