Bangkok Burn - A Thriller

by Simon Royle

  “No. Maybe. Probably not. Could you hurry. I left mine with Chai in the van.” You can always play the Griengchai card, as long as the other party feels it. She nodded her head. Mind made up.

  “Okay, I'll just go get it.” She pointed up the stairs. “It's upstairs.” She started up the stairs, got about half way up and stopped, leaning over the banister. “By the way, Chai is he your driver or a friend? He's quite a...”

  “Sally. Please.”

  “Okay. Okay, I'm going. Make yourself comfortable, I'll er, okay, yeah...”

  ***

  My nose was inches away from the valley of Sally's cleavage, she putting extensions into my hair. At least that's what she said she was doing. I hadn't said a word since sitting down and Sally was bursting to ask me a thousand questions. Time to start a rumor.

  “Did you get these done in Korea?”

  “No, Bangkok. Why? Do you like them?”

  “Just curious. Sure. They look good.”

  Sally stepped back, long gray hair extensions in her right hand. She tucked her chin in looking down and pushed her tits together.

  “Do you think they should be bigger? I was thinking about have them upgraded. Go up a couple of sizes. What do you think?”

  “I think they're fine as they are.”

  “Would you like to see them?”

  “No, it’s okay. I can tell from here. They're fine. Can you hurry this up a bit? I've got to get to Cambodia tomorrow.”

  Sally pouted, flounced, grinned, all in one move and went back to putting extensions into my hair. She leaned forward giving me a close up of her cleavage.

  “So do you know who, um, you know, tried to kill you?”

  “Yes, that's why I'm going to Cambodia tomorrow. It's better if we don't talk about this Sally, and whatever you do, you must keep my visit here a secret. Okay. Promise me. Whatever you do, don't tell anyone.”

  “Of course. Darling. I won't tell a soul.”

  ***

  Sally's salon is in the back streets behind Arun Amarin Road. The Chao Phraya River runs by her back door. I stood on her dock waiting for a long-tail boat. Smelly, noisy, uncomfortable, but faster than rush hour traffic. The long-tail that responded to the green light on the dock was driven by a little skinny guy. He gave me a leery smirk when he asked me where to go. He'd obviously picked up Farangs from Sally’s before. The eye-patch had been the problem. Whatever the disguise, the eye-patch would draw attention. Thinking about the Bandidos had given me the idea. Now I looked like a skinny Hulk Hogan in denims. A long, droopy moustache tickled my nose. The black bandana headband, mirrored Ray Bans, skull-and-cross-bones eye-patch were Sally's work. I looked ridiculous, but I didn’t look like me.

  The river is only about 200 meters wide at this point, but the landing at the Shangri La Hotel was about 5 kilometers downstream. As the long-tail driver swung into mid-stream, I spent the time trying to figure out how many people Sally would have called by now, and how many of those would call someone else. She'd start with the senior rumor mongers. The one's with the highest celebrity value and work her way down. Working on a 1+1 principle, with an allowance for degradation, it would take about another fifteen minutes to reach the landing and it had been ten since I left Sally's. I came up with a conservative estimate of ten million. It probably wouldn't be that high within 25 minutes but by morning, everyone I wanted to know would have got the rumor that I was still alive.

  The long-tail taxi pulled alongside the landing at the Shangri La. I handed over 40 baht to the smirking driver and headed for street. The Shangri La is in a back street off Charoen Krung Road, which connects to Silom. Center of the financial district, also Patpong and Thaniya Plaza are here. Thaniya is a little piece of Ginza, and, at a tenth of the price, is the hang out for Japanese ‘Sararee’ men after a hard day's work on the golf course. Foreigners, especially one's wearing biker leathers and looking like Hulk Hogan, aren't welcome. It was where Musashi Shirotomi, Head of the international division of the Yamaguchi-gumi, had his headquarters. No taxis were around, so I shouted to a kid sitting on a motorbike squeezing his zits in its mirror.

  “Hey man, take me to Patpong.” Not that many of our motorbike taxi guys speak English, but this phrase is easily understood.

  “Hundred baht.” A rip off, but keeping in character, I nodded and climbed on, wondering what your average Hell's Angel might think of a biker on the back of 125cc Yamaha. Traffic was light, taxis scarce. It didn't feel like Bangkok. Way too quiet for rush hour on a Thursday. But then someone was firing a grenade launcher at the other end of Silom. Not normal times.

  As we approached the other end of Silom, where Thaniya was, I could see fireworks rising from the red shirt encampment. On the opposite site of the street were army and police. Barricades had been set up in case the reds tried to invade Silom. A few days earlier, about a hundred meters from where the taxi dropped me, a young student had been killed and 70 others wounded by M-79 grenades. The government said the grenades were fired from the red shirt camp. The red shirts said the grenades came from the government hospital. The truth? Who knew? The guy who fired the launcher. Shades of gray.

  About 20 meters into Thaniya on the right-hand side, opposite the new and second-hand golf shop, is a small alley running between two buildings. The first thing you notice about this alley is that it is spotlessly clean. The second is a door at the end of the alley that doesn't have a handle. I pressed the button on the speaker next to the door and took the Ray Bans off. I stood back and looked at the camera on the wall above to my right.

  “Please tell Ken San that Chance has come to see him,” I said at the little box. It was hot under all this hair.

  The door clicked open and I went in to the hallway behind it. A Japanese guy was waiting in the hall. He patted me down, two fingers on his left hand missing. He nodded at me, bowed and with a gesture of his hand, pointed at the door behind him. I went into a small room with a tiled floor and two wooden benches lining each wall. I sat down and removed the boots Sally had provided. The room was quiet, the slight humming of the air pump for the fish tank next to the door, the only noise. The outside world kept out. I put on the slippers provided and opened the door.

  Dogs Don’t Have Money

  14 May 2010 Bangkok 7:15 pm

  Mushashi Shirotomi, Ken, to his friends, stood by the door. A stocky guy, shorter than my six foot, but broader in the shoulder, wearing a dark suit and white shirt. Ken's a new generation, no tats, Yak. While his crew controlled the hookers, drugs, and snakeheads, Ken spent most of his time on the golf course. Just like any other Japanese exec. I gave him a wai. He bowed back.

  “I heard you were alive, just five minutes ago.” My rumor had beaten me to Silom.

  “Well keep it to yourself, could you, Ken? Another rumor's coming out tomorrow that I am really dead. And that one will be supported by a grainy YouTube video of me being put in a body bag.”

  A low laugh from a throat made raspy by the Mild Seven cigarettes he chain-smoked, then his face turned serious, and he gestured towards the long white sofa at the far end of the room.

  He sat on the sofa opposite me, a low Thai teak table between us.

  “What's going on, Smart? Is Khun Por really dead?”

  “No, but he's still in a coma and he's lost a leg.”

  “I'm very sorry to hear that. Please pass my wish for him to have a full and speedy recovery to Khun Joom.”

  “I will and thank you.”

  A guy came in with a tray and set it down near Ken. He moved the tray between us and poured me a glass of hot sake. Assorted sashimi and sushi lay on little plates on the tray. He waved his hand at the food, and taking his glass, raised it to me.

  “Cheers.”

  “Cheers.”

  I took a sip of the sake and then put it down on the table.

  “Ken, I will come straight to the point. I have a favor to ask. Two favors.” I held up two fingers. Elbows on his knees, palms together, a steeple to a point
resting on the tip of his nose, he nodded his buzz cut head at me.

  “One. I need some information on a Russian girl from Odessa. Her photos are on this.” I handed him a USB memory stick. He nodded. “The second favor is I need one hundred million dollars by Wednesday next week.”

  Ken didn't blink. He sipped his sake and then put the cup down on the table.

  “Australian, Singapore or US?”

  “US.”

  “Collateral?”

  “Stocks, bonds, gold futures contracts, a couple of coal mines in Indo and 45% of a tech company in K.L that I'm in the process of taking over. Total book value for the whole lot of about 150 mill. If liquidated in a fire-sale not less than 110. If you hang onto it for a few years 500 mill, easy.”

  “How long will you need the money?”

  “Not more than fifteen days.”

  “1% a day compound.”

  “Can you do 1% a day flat rate?”

  Ken lit a Mild Seven. I reached across and filched one from the packet.

  “I thought you didn't smoke?”

  “It's a newly acquired habit, along with dying.”

  “I hope dying doesn’t become a habit. It'll be hard to go for a drink with you. Have you figured out who's trying to kill you?”

  “No, not yet. Night before last, in the hospital, whoever it was tried again. Funny thing, the shooter, stopped at my door first.”

  “You couldn't keep him alive?”

  “No, Chai and Beckham were handling things. I was still banged up from the morning. And to be fair to them, the other two were hanging out down the corridor whilst this one guy went into my room.”

  “Which room came first your room or Por's?”

  “Mine.”

  “Maybe just a coincidence.”

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  The guy who brought the tray of food and drinks came back in and walked around to the back of the sofa. Ken leant back and the guy whispered, in Japanese, something in Ken's ear. He could have shouted from the door but I guess he was just being polite. Ken nodded and looked at me. His eyes thin slats in his tanned face, thick black eyebrows came together in a frown as he sucked hard on his Mild Seven and then stubbed it. Blowing the smoke out in one long exhale, he looked at me.

  “Seh Daeng has just been shot in the head. Seriously wounded according to our guy on the ground.”

  “Shit. That's heavy. Things will get bad quickly now.” Seh Daeng was a rogue Thai army general who'd allied with the red shirts organizing their defenses and, some said, the M-79 attacks.

  “Who'd you think? Army?”

  “Could be. Most probably. Seh Daeng is widely thought to be behind the blowing up of the army colonel last month and also behind the M-79 attacks going on. But he has enemies on the other side too. Some of the red shirt leaders are more scared of him than they are of the army. Nothing is what seems.” I shrugged.

  Ken nodded and took out another Mild Seven. He saw me looking and pushed the pack my way. I shook my head, lifting up the one I was still smoking.

  “I can get the money. I'll have it ready by tomorrow. And forget about the interest. Get it back to me in 15 days, okay. Give me a call when you need it. Allow ten hours for delivery.”

  Between our business interests in Japan and his in Thailand, it was a safe deal. I stood and offered him my hand. He smiled, looking up at me from the sofa, rose and took it. Ken understands Griengjai, and he'd just earned himself a boatload.

  ***

  Outside of the cloistered world of the Ken's office, automatic gunfire crackled interspersed with the loud ‘crump’ of explosions. Negotiations were a thing of the past. No one was talking now, only shooting. The yellow phone rang.

  “Chance?”

  “Cheep - what have you got?”

  “You were right. The woman and a man that sounds like Uncle Mike got on a big motor yacht from Yacht Haven. They left about midafternoon. Four guys, all Farang, with them. I got copies of their passports, I'm scan...” a series of loud explosions went off. They sounded close.

  “What was that?” he shouted. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, I'm okay. A shooting war's just started in Bangkok. Someone shot Seh Daeng about ten minutes ago. Hang on, I'm moving up the street a bit.” I turned right and walked quickly up Thaniya and found a doorway which shielded some of the noise. “Yeah, okay. What were you going to say before the explosions?”

  “Mother of God, that's going to set things off.”

  “You started to say something before the grenades went off.”

  “Oh yeah. I'm scanning copies of the passport and the yachts papers. I'll send them up to you.”

  “Okay. Thanks, Cheep. I got to go.”

  I kept walking up Thaniya, typing out a quick message on the Blackberry to Chai. The bursts of automatic fire faded the further I got up the street. I needed to get off the streets and out of here.

  - where r you?

  - Chinatown

  - pick me up Lob. Montien 15 min.

  - k

  Fifteen minutes from Chinatown was pushing it, but traffic was light, and Chai only knows one speed when he's driving. I stuck my head out to look up the street and to the right. Any shooting would come from there. It seemed calm enough, so I turned left, keeping to the edge of the buildings. There was a lull in the shooting behind me and then another series of loud bangs and the automatics started up again. The Montien Hotel was about another hundred meters up the road. I thought running might be better than walking.

  The lobby was nice and cool - a guy playing on a piano. You couldn't hear the shooting. The bar was empty except for the waitress and the bartender. The little war was hitting tourism hard. Numbers at our crocodile shows were seriously down.

  The waitress, dressed in a dark green Cheongsam, showing lots of leg, came over and knelt by my seat.

  “Can I get you something to drink, sir?”

  “Yes. Hennessy Cognac XO.” I spoke in English.

  She gave me a strange look. I guess Biker's don't usually drink Cognac, but to hell with it. The Blackberry buzzed in my pocket. I checked it. Mail from Cheep, with attachments. I left it. It was too hard opening attachments, especially large files on the BB. The waitress went to the bar and I overheard her say in Thai to the bartender, “The smelly dog wants a Hennessy XO, give him the cheap shit, and if he pays in cash I'll split the difference with you.”

  The bartender looked across, smiled at me, and nodded. The waitress turned and smiled at me too. Land of Smiles. She came back with the cheap shit, and kneeling put it down on the table in front of me, sliding the bill in a leather holder next to it. I smiled at her and said in Thai.

  “Now go get me a Hennessy XO, and don't fuck around. I'm not in the mood.”

  She went pale and grabbing the drink went back to the bar. The barman quickly poured a very generous shot into a new glass. He didn't look at me the whole time he did this. She came back and put the Cognac down. I picked it up and swallowed the lot in one go. It burnt deliciously all the way down. She looked at me nervously. I spotted Chai out of the corner of my eye, waiting just outside the doors. Standing up, I bent and picked up the leather holder the bill was in and gave it back to her.

  “Here. You can pay this. Smelly dogs don't have money.”

  She took it. Her eyes dropped. A 1,500 baht lesson. Got to do what you can for the country’s tourism standards.

  Chai saw me coming out of the bar and got in the driver’s seat of a black Benz 500 SEL parked in front of the entrance. I slid in the back. My notebook was on the seat beside me, and I knew the Glocks would be under the seat in front of me.

  Chai sitting at the wheel, engine running, looking straight forward and waiting for instructions.

  “Lat Prao 93.”

  We eased out of the forecourt of the Montien, Chai driving at a reasonable pace, not wanting to draw fire from a panicked soldier or red shirt. I plugged in the BB and downloaded the message that Cheep had sent me. I wanted to get a
look at this fucker.

  Lucjan Kaminski, age 35. I figured the passport was bullshit. I have a Polish passport. I've got four of them. They're the easiest to get and they give you access to EU countries. He had a pinched face and a hooked, long nose, with deep-set eyes. It was a black and white scan of a passport photo so the resolution was poor and the contrast made the cheekbones high and dark. With the pinched face, it made him look evil, or maybe that was just the way I was looking at it. The yacht's papers were more revealing. I'm sure the name was also faked, but the make would be real. The papers showed she had entered Thailand the day before the kidnapping and then gone straight to Yacht Haven. I started to forward the message to Mother with a note to get the photo of Lucjan around our contacts, and then I stopped. Little point, and it was a risk. I was pretty sure they'd left Thailand two days ago. The hundred million dollar question was where were they now? I canceled the format and instead hit reply, typing out: