Bangkok Burn - A Thriller

by Simon Royle

  “I’ve got a deal going, in Australia, and the party over there wants to meet me. Here, Monday, he flies in. You know me. I don’t speak a word of that dog fucking miserable language. I was hoping you could handle it for me.”

  Plausible enough. It was true. Big Tiger was renowned for his inability to speak anything other than Thai and his ability to curse.

  “What’s the deal?”

  “Counterfeit stuff.”

  “Money?” I wouldn’t touch counterfeit money. Countries are serious about that stuff. All kinds of the wrong heat.

  “No, no. Levi’s, watches, bags, that sort of thing. We get in China, truck it down, and ship through Singapore. He’s got a contact in customs on the other side.”

  “How much?”

  “He reckons he can move about three million a month. He’s got a network through all the major cities, the local markets…”

  “What time Monday?”

  “Dinner at eight, the big room upstairs.” Big Tiger’s restaurant had a large air-conditioned function room on the top floor with a balcony running around it.

  “Okay. I’ll be here. Then you and Por are square, right.” It wasn’t a question and he wisely nodded, raising his glass to me.

  “So Por’s still alive then. Fuck me! He’s a tough fucker, that one.” I didn’t answer the question in his eyes, just polished my drink off, stood up, and walked out.

  Back down the pier I stopped and leaned my elbows on the edge. I lit up a smoke. Chai went on ahead. Looking down, the muddy brown water reflected my thoughts. I was nowhere in finding out who was trying to kill me. I had been half convinced it was Big Tiger but his reaction and answers told me otherwise. It wasn’t him. Whoever it was, their information was good. Either they’d been following me for some time, and done a very good job because I hadn’t seen them, or they had someone on the inside. Horrible but logical.

  The other thing I didn’t know. Was it an attack on me personally or was it an attack on the family? It amounted to the same thing in the family’s eyes but it meant the source would be different. I thought back over recent business deals, as Chance, and as Harper. Nothing I’d done was worth killing over. At least not to me, but then I’d recently read in the Bangkok Post about a Cambodian guy killing his neighbor because the neighbor stole his melon. I breathed out. It’s stressful knowing that someone out there wants to kill you. The smoke tasted good. I smiled. It was going to be hard to kick these again if I survived.

  Cambodians – why had I just thought of that? Because so far everyone who has been sent to kill you has been Cambodian. Work with what you have. I threw the butt into the sea. Time to go to work.

  The Count

  15 May 2010 Bangkok 10:30 pm

  Ken called as we were entering Bangkok.

  “I’ve got the money but I want to move it now.”

  “Where do you want me to send the guy who’ll bring you to our warehouse?”

  “Send him to my place in Thaniya. We’ll take it from there.”

  “Okay. Aim to be at a warehouse near the airport no later than midnight. Can you do that?”

  “No problem.” He hung up.

  I called Mother to tell her we were on our way to the warehouse. We had to count the money and counting one hundred million dollars takes time and space.

  “Chai, the Lat Krabang warehouse, but take your time.” It was only twenty-five kilometers to the airport. Chai used the back streets. It was quiet. Very quiet. We had to move the cash to Phuket. I was sure that the kidnappers would want to make the exchange at sea. If they didn’t, then I was going to persuade them it was their only option. I wanted them to stay with that boat.

  And then. There’re two sides to every coin. I didn’t trust Ken. One hundred million is a lot of money, enough to tempt anyone. Ken had got the cash for us by going to his board. The deal had been approved in Tokyo, so he was covered for the action. Stealing it back from us would be a big temptation.

  Moving one hundred million in cash is no simple thing. There’re eight hundred kilometers of road and seven provinces between Bangkok and Phuket. Each province has its own police force, army, and “families”. Nothing moves in or out without being at risk that one or more of those parties will take an interest in it. If it was something normal, like an errant son who’d killed someone and needed to leave the country for a while, clear passage could be obtained by connecting the dots between the “owners” of the province. Cash or favors the typical currency. But a hundred million USD in cash was too risky. The value was so high. So we had to move it “under the radar”.

  Thirty minutes later we pulled into the warehouse, one of the boys, an AK47 on his back, wheeling back the chain link gate. Chai parked in the loading bay, next to the caravan Mother had organized for transport to Phuket: two black Toyota Land Cruisers with windows tinted black and a VW van to match, all covered in military badges. Very subtle. I guessed the colonel’s son could go for a doctorate.

  We went into the warehouse. At least ten of our boys were on the loading bay, armed to the teeth, strolling around, joking. I nodded and smiled my way through them.

  Joom had put forty women at tables in the area just behind the loading bay. Thirty of them had counting machines with counterfeit inspection scanners built in on the tables in front of them. The other ten were for moving. The women were all wearing the same gray one-piece track suit. Made them look like some weird bunny rabbit pantomime. Joom was in the office in the back of the warehouse. I walked past the girls, all smiles, round faces and white teeth.

  I waied Mother and sat down.

  “You look tired”, she said, tapping her pen on the paper in front of her.

  “I’m okay. How’s Khun Por?”

  “Still in a coma, but all other vital signs are okay.”

  “This hospital he’s in, in Cambodia, you sure he’s safe, right?”

  “Yes. He’s in an army base. Aunt Su’s cousin, a general in the Cambodian army, organized it. Why?”

  “Everyone who’s been sent to kill me has been Cambodian.”

  “They’re the cheapest gunmen around. All that tells us is that our enemy is operating on a tight budget.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not.”

  “I have to stay here, keep an eye on things. It’ll take us at least half a day to count. Why don’t you head back to the farm and see what you can learn from the idiot we caught today.”

  “Okay. Call me when we’re ready to move.”

  “I will, and Chance?”

  “Yes, Mother?”

  “Don’t be soft with the guy. Pit 51, the crocs haven’t been fed for a week. Take him down there. He’ll talk.”

  “Yes, Mother.” She smiled and her phone rang. I left.

  Thirty minutes later Chai and I arrived at the Crocodile Farm, the largest in the world, with over one hundred thousand crocodiles. It had two faces. The public face with the shows, the Zoo, and the private face, with the disposal business. The “day” staff knew what happened at night but everyone came from Pak Nam and knew when to look the other way.

  Two of the boys were waiting for us in the staff parking lot.

  “Pichit, where have you got him?”

  “He’s in cold storage boss.” Cold storage was behind the unloading bay. We go through a lot of supplies, so we’d put in a full docking undocking facility last year.

  “Shit. How long’s he been in there?” I didn’t stop moving and Pichit fell in step with me. Proactive adjustment of a process, initiative in the chain of command, is not a Thai strongpoint. We usually deal in dead bodies, so cold storage was the first place they end up, before processing and organic recycling. We are proud to promote The Crocodile Farm, as a “green” business.

  Pichit was scurrying to keep up with my stride. He looked at his watch, a worried expression on his face.

  “About four hours, boss.”

  Outside the cold storage door, another of our boys, Somboon was having a smoke. He snubbed it out on his boot and the
n put the butt in his pocket. No littering at the Farm. Pichit went to the door and took the padlocks off the deadbolts top and bottom. Somboon then opened the main door handle. Cold air billowed out in a white cloud. The walk-in cold storage room door big enough to drive a forklift into. The room itself was ten meters wide, and thirty deep. We kept the frozen chicken for the crocs here.

  At the far end of the room, tied to one of the cheap black swivel chairs that we used in accounting, was the Cambodian. Slumped over. Not moving. Shit. I covered the distance to him in a nano-second. Even the rope tying him to the chair was frozen. He was as stiff as a board.

  “What temperature is the room?” I asked Pichit. Sensing an opportunity to shift the blame, he turned to Somboon, and asked him in an angry tone.

  “What did you set the temperature at?”

  “Minus fifteen degrees, boss”. Somboon said to the ground not daring to look at me.

  “Christ, why did you set it so low?”

  “Wanted to soften him up a bit.”

  “Come on feel him, feel how soft he is.” Somboon looked at Pichit. Pichit and Somboon, both paler than the guy in the chair, stood heads down, waiting to be tongue lashed. I sighed.

  “All right what’s done is done. Put him through processing and recycling, and stay with him till he’s croc food, understand?”

  “Krup Pom, yes, sir!” they shouted in unison, standing at attention.

  “Come on, Chai, let’s go.”

  We got back in the Jaguar that one of the boys had delivered to Chai at Big Tiger’s Restaurant. Chai raised an eyebrow at me.

  “Back to the warehouse?”

  I was starting to get seriously pissed off. Then the SIM that had been in Lilly’s mouth and was now in a new phone rang. Lisp. Shit. I checked the time, ten past midnight, Sunday.

  “What”

  “You have my money, yes?”

  “I want to talk to Mike. Put him on the phone. I want proof of life.” I’ve seen the movie with Russell Crowe, the one with Meg Ryan – that’s where I got the proof of life thing.

  “He is sleeping. You can talk tomorrow. You have my money?”

  “I have my money which I’ll give to you after I have received proof that Mike is okay?”

  “You get proof tomorrow. Tuesday you give me money. I tell you where tomorrow.” He hung up.

  I immediately dialed back and dialed Mother on the other phone. She answered instantly.

  “Yes.”

  “Mother. The number I gave you from Lilly. Can you get your contact to check the routing on the call I just made. I’m dialing the number now. It is now twelve after midnight exactly.”

  “Yes. Where are you now?”

  “On the way back to you.”

  “What did you learn?” She sounded anxious, not like her.

  “Nothing. The boys put him the deep freeze and turned down the thermostat to the lowest level.”

  “Oh. Well, I’ll talk to them tomorrow at your funeral. Cambodians aren’t very good with the cold.” That was more like Mother. I’d forgotten about the funeral I was having.

  “Chance.”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you seen the Thai Rath newspaper tonight?”

  “No.” Now I was worried.

  “Um, late edition, the paper has made the connection between Samuel and Chance.” That was bad. Really bad.

  “Does it give the reporter’s name?”

  “No. Just says ‘by staff reporters’.”

  “Okay. Do we know anyone at Thai Rath?”

  “Yes, I’ve already spoken to her. She’ll find out what she can tomorrow.”

  “Okay, I’ll see you in a bit.”

  “All right. Ken is still here. We’re unloading now.”

  Mother hung up, without saying goodbye, something she did with everyone she was close to – a little signature of hers. So, Sam Harper and Chance had been linked to the family name. That was going to complicate things a lot. By tomorrow, if it hadn’t already made it on the ‘Breaking News sections’, it would be in the English language dailies, The Bangkok Post and The Nation. Apart from the fact that Sam Harper was involved as director on a host of companies - which being dead, would be positions that I would have difficulty fulfilling my obligations - there was the added complication that “my out” had just been blown, which meant that at some point in the not too distant future I was going to have one of hell of an argument with Pim.

  We pulled up the warehouse. The guy on the gate was now accompanied by Japanese guy wearing a silver suit and shades. It was such a cliché it cheered me up a little.

  On the loading bay the crowd had swelled in our absence. More guys in bad suits wearing shades at midnight. Ken was in office, I could see the back of his head. The guy who’d told him Seh Daeng had been shot, stood by the door to the office. Must be his number two or his bodyguard.

  Chai positioned himself on the other side of the door. Between the two of them, they made the space in between look small. I walked through it. Ken turned and stood up, reaching out a hand. Mr. Smooth.

  “Chance. Good to see you. I’ve just been telling your charming mother that she must be our guest in Tokyo.”

  “Sorry I’m late. Little something I had to take of.”

  “Is everything okay?”

  “Yeah, all cool. Shall we proceed?”

  “Sure.”

  Mother reached down and pulled up a file folder with the all documents we’d prepared. Deeds, shares, bonds. Ken checked the documents and nodded. He pulled out the Loan Agreement and put it on the table. Mother checked it, giving it a quick but thorough reading and passed it to me. It was straightforward enough. It listed the property we were handing Ken for collateral and the amount we were getting it for. Forfeiture of all the property if the funds not returned within fifteen days. To be placed in escrow with Bank Tokyo Mitsubishi. I nodded at Mother and she signed, handing it back to Ken. He signed. Now we were responsible for the hundred million.

  Ken stood up and waied Mother, his wai perfect. Not many foreigners can do that. He turned to me. “Chance, or should I say, Sam?” and smiled. Shit! This guy was plugged in. He got rumors and news faster than Mustang Sally.

  “So you’ve heard the good news, then.”

  “Yes. A friend of mine called me on the way here.”

  “Ah well. At least I still have a choice. Life or death for Sam and Chance.”

  “Chance, don’t say that. It’s bad luck.” Mother is not the most superstitious of Thai’s, but she is Thai.

  “Sorry, Mother. Ken, let me walk you to your car.”

  I followed Ken out of the office walking past the women counting the cash. The head cashier had given the thumbs up after checking random samples. The money was good. Ken watched as the pallets he’d brought in were being broken down and loaded on the counting tables, the machines creating a symphony of sound with the sharp flick of the paper.

  “Quite an operation, how long will it take you?”

  “About sixteen hours,” I lied. We should be able to get it done in ten or eleven.

  “So what are you going to do about being exposed?”

  “Don’t know. Haven’t really given it any thought, yet. Play it by ear I guess. See what tomorrow, sorry, today, brings.”

  We shook hands again and he and his men pulled out. Six cars and one UPS truck. I smiled. UPS, that was original. The UPS truck went left, the cars went north. Golf somewhere upcountry, would be my guess.

  A Marriage Proposal

  16 May 2010 Bangkok 2 am

  I left Chai with Mother and the money and took the Jag, driving back to Mother’s house to pick up Pim.

  I stayed out of Bangkok. There were running battles in the streets around the red shirt encampment and army road blocks everywhere. Twitter reports said that the ‘Men in Black’ were out in full force, sniping targets on both sides to stir up trouble. It was a mess. Paralleled my life quite nicely.

  I drove slowly, skirting the airport and th
en through the quiet sois beyond Bang Na Trad Highway. I didn’t come this way often. Most times I used the expressway or the highways. Somehow imprinted somewhere in my memory were the correct turns in the sois with no signs.

  Joom’s house was filled with relatives staying for the funeral. Apart from the aunts and daughters, only Chai, Beckham and Tum knew that Por was still alive. Most thought I was dead as well so I stayed in the soi outside and waited for Pim to come out. The air was cool. Joom’s house is on the last bend of the Pak Nam side of the Chao Phraya River, just before it empties into the Gulf of Thailand. The five acres of land, a stretch along the river, now worth a fortune, had been in her family for generations.