by John Burdett
“Where do you want to go?”
“Soi Cowboy,” I say.
I have the jockey stop outside the Pink Pussy. Lalita is there sitting at her favorite spot, in shorts and T-shirt. She watches as I get off the bike, pay the driver, and turn to her. She smiles. When I join her on the bench outside the bar, she says, “Are you going to buy me a drink?”
“Sure. Make it a lady’s drink if you like, but I’m not here for your body.”
She disappears for a moment to fetch the drink, a spoonful of Coke with a dash of rice whiskey, which costs a fortune, half of which she will keep.
She sits next to me again on the bench and says, “I bet I know why you’ve come.”
“Why?”
“You want to ask more about that old man.”
“How did you know?”
She shrugs. “Just like that. I know you don’t fancy me, so there’s only one other reason.”
I cover my surprise with a cough. “Okay. You’re right.”
“What else do you want to know?”
I scratch my jaw. It’s a question that occurs regularly in detection. How do you know what you want to know from a witness when you have no idea what the witness knows? She’s a smart girl, though, famous for her commercial success.
“You said he was kind with you.”
“Kind and clever. Even though he was old he managed to turn me on. He was romantic. Once a year or so you find a customer who wants his sex served with a little romance. I liked it, even though it was pretend romance. Isn’t all romance pretend anyway?”
“Sounds like it was promising. Couldn’t you find a way to tempt him back?”
“That’s what I was doing—making more of an effort than usual.”
“And?”
“When he was about to come he called me Nong. He’d been calling me Lalita up to then, now he switched. And after we’d finished he burst into tears. He saw I was disappointed, that’s why he paid double.”
I let a few beats pass. “That’s it?”
“Yes. That’s it. Nong’s your mother’s name, isn’t it?”
“Every third girl on the street is called Nong.”
“I know. But you came back to ask about him. That’s why I mentioned it.”
18
Obviously, the Asset killed the girl in the market apartment. With his superhuman strength he twisted her head, snapped the vertebrae between C4 and C5, and pulled until it detached from her body. Then he wrote my name on the mirror in blood, including a reference to my father.
As you know, R, normally in police procedurals you are given the identity of the perpetrator one-third of the way through the narrative and have the pleasure of watching the sympathetic, humble, hardworking cop (but s/he’s a dead shot with a forty-five) plow their way through the clues in a frenzy (must stop the bastard before he kills again) until the cop finally discovers what you the reader already know—whodunit—thus clearing the decks for a nice little orgy of vengeance at the denouement. Here it’s different: I-the-cop am now certain he dunit, and he did it to reach me in a way that hurts the most. That innocent girl with the head of a Buddha died just so he could get my attention. The mystery is why? In theory all I have to do is wait. Except that he has disappeared. A week has passed and no trace. Goldman also has disappeared. All I have to play with is that smart phone. Therefore I call over and over again the number of the single entry in Contacts that begins with the Vietnamese country code. If I wake up in the early hours, unable to sleep, the first thing I do is press autodial for that number. No answer. Then, one fine night, around three-fifteen in the morning, I try it and there is an answer.
“Hello?”
The accent is very British, very cultivated, from a more authentic age when such vowels could be uttered without fear of ridicule. For a moment I’m stuck for words. I don’t want to wake Chanya, so I get up and take the phone out into the yard. The voice becomes impatient and suspicious: “Yes? Hello?”
There is really only one person it can be. “Dr. Christmas Bride?”
A pause. “Who wants to know?”
“Detective Sonchai Jitpleecheep, Doctor, calling from Bangkok. I was given your number in connection with a case I’m investigating here.”
A longer pause while he adjusts his attitude. Then he says, “Bullshit.”
I think he is about to close the phone on me. I need a key word to hold him.
“Goldman,” I say, “Mr. Joseph Goldman,” and let the silence speak for itself. He is in no hurry to rise to the bait.
“I see,” he says slowly. “You have my attention. How did you get my number? Who told you to call me?” The tone now is incisive, peremptory, imperial.
“A colleague handed me a telephone in connection with a murder inquiry.”
Silence, then, “I don’t think that answers my question, does it?”
I decide to risk the truth; half of it anyway. “This number was in the Contacts file of a telephone that may be relevant to a bombing at Klong Toey, here in Bangkok.”
A sharp intake of breath.
“You knew about that bombing?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Never mind.” A pause. “I’m afraid this is all a surprise to me, though frankly not a huge one. I’ll have to think about it and call you back.”
I have the feeling he will call someone else as soon as I close the phone.
—
I walk around in circles, waiting for him to call me back. He takes about ten minutes, and now I am certain he has had a hurried conversation with a third party: his attitude is quite different. The Old World courtesy has returned, but he is businesslike, as if I am a task he has agreed to take on.
“Look, thinking this all through, I suggest we meet.”
“Do you want to come to Bangkok?”
“I don’t think that would answer our needs. Yours, anyway.”
“I don’t follow. What needs?”
“The story I have to tell is the strangest you’ll ever hear, that I can guarantee. It is frankly beyond anyone’s credulity, except that it’s true. I wouldn’t dream of sharing it with you unless I can show you the evidence at the same time. Seeing is believing. Thomas was the only disciple with a brain.”
I wonder if the biblical reference has anything to do with his name. “So, what? Shall I come to Saigon?”
“No. There’s no evidence here either. I’m afraid we’ll have to meet in Phnom Penh—I’m going to have to take you up-country.” He utters this last sentence with a sigh, as if under constraint. “How soon can you get there?”
“Phnom Penh? The flight lasts about one hour, there are flights about every hour or two. Give a couple of hours either end, plus time to reach the airport—I suppose I could be there by early evening tomorrow.”
“I’ll fly from Saigon. Stay at the Foreign Correspondents’ Club. I’ll do the same.” A pause. “I suppose you’ve begun to have an idea of how big this is, Detective? You’re like a man who went fishing for trout and caught a whale.”
19
In Phnom Penh Dr. Christmas Bride has booked us into the Foreign Correspondents’ Club, with splendid views over the river, just before it joins the Mekong. Actually, it isn’t a foreign correspondents’ club at all, although the old colonial mansion (long verandahs, high ceilings, slow fans) looks the part. It is a private hotel named by its owner in honor of those intrepid reporters who used it as a base from which to file stories about the Khmer Rouge catastrophe, after Nixon and Kissinger destabilized the country with blanket bombing—as in Laos.
The riverside was wild and dangerous at that time, a great place to buy opium, heroin, and as many M-16s and AK-47s as you could carry before you got mugged by a gang carrying even more. Rape was the local sport, along with prostitution, child abuse, and knife fights. Now all that color has moved upstream somewhat, and loud, threatening posters proclaim in English draconian penalties for anyone caught with underage children. There’s not
a lot of enforcement against local transgressors, however: the campaign is targeting Western men in the hope of jailing them before they return home and abuse European kids; the posters are paid for in euros, after all.
Despite that Cambodia is only an hour by plane from Bangkok, once you add on the rituals of security and state control (they take a mug shot at both ends, you are not allowed to smile or wear glasses) you end up with half a day of travel, which is why the sun is going down even though I left home this morning.
It’s still hot, though, hotter than Bangkok, and despite the fans an overwhelming lethargy pins me to my wicker seat in the bar of the FCC, so that all I can do is watch a fisherman with a throw net stand in his boat on the river and cast away just as if the city has grown up around him over the past few hundred years and will no doubt crumble in due course without any effect on his fishing style, or indeed any claim on his attention at all. I order a glass of cold white wine and give myself a moment to think. Travel is a stressful bore these days, and I’ve spent most of the last few hours checking my passport, completing visa applications, checking that I’ve not contaminated clothes or luggage with powder from my gun, which of course I could not take (they can pick up a single molecule of saltpeter with those floppy wands they wave all over your bags; if they find any they torture you with interrogations for the next few days). What I am wondering now is, so to speak, merely a lowercase version of my life’s most constant theme: What am I doing here? I have come on the strength of a single phone call with someone in Saigon. But his name is Christmas Bride. Now an old farang man enters the bar.
He who I have come to meet is over six foot and skinny in khaki walking shorts, money belt, and T-shirt. Long white hair springs out from his head in all directions. Polar-blue eyes. I am sure much vigor remains in that eighty-something body, but it is the long mobile face one fixes on. Tragic craters transform into blooming smiles that fade into whimsy; a gaze of half-focused benevolence tightens into an interrogator’s stare; the mouth taughtens and looks vicious, only to relax again into a grin, which replays every nuance of every kind of grin from sardonic, cynical, cruel to naïve, happy, vulnerable—and back again. The mind behind it all has known and lived every major event in the history of the human psyche from Adam to Mickey Mouse. He is a walking history of consciousness, starting with reptiles and including congress with angels. He is the kind of man you assume is insane until someone tells you he is a psychiatrist from the sixties, when you say, Oh, right, one of them.
As he strides toward me with the purposeful grace of yesteryear, hand outstretched, his expression now is deeply and gratefully welcoming, promising hospitality and sensitivity of the highest order.
“Thank you so much for coming,” he says in that same tone I first heard on the phone: cultured, clear, beautiful, without the snobbery an inferior soul might express with that Brahmin accent. “Awful bloody trip, isn’t it? What are you drinking? Wine? I think I need a double scotch on the rocks.” He calls for a waiter using fluent Khmer.
The charm works. I am relaxed, impressed, instantly well-disposed without being intimidated. I am charmed into leaving the narrative, and the explanation, to him. We sit opposite each other at my table on the terrace.
“Names are important, so we should not dispense with the ritual. I am Christmas Bride, at your service.”
“I am Sonchai Jitpleecheep.”
He bends his head to grasp his chin with a large ruddy hand, frowns. “Hmm. I don’t know much Thai, but why Sonchai—not Somchai? Somchai is the common name, no?”
“Somchai is the common name. Sonchai means to think or dream. Apparently it arises from a mistake my father made.”
“Ah-ha! Sonchai means to dream? And Jitpleecheep is pretty much unpronounceable for the Western tongue.” I smile. “So you are a dreamer camouflaged from one half of yourself—not to mention the world?”
“Got it in one,” I say.
Bride takes out a packet of Camel cigarettes, knocks one out, fits it to an ivory cigarette holder, and lights up with a Zippo. He speaks through the first burst of smoke. “Oh, no, please. I’m not being clever here. I’m admiring your clever labeling. You’ve used the barricade to grow behind it beautifully—and in secret—that’s the key. Just imagine being lumbered with a moniker like mine.” Now the cratered face descends into tragedy tinged with rage. “The bitch was a Catholic of the old school, you see? She’d probably be illegal today.” He glares. “Christmas? And coupled with Bride? She thought she was nailing me to the cross at the baptismal font for the duration. I promise you, with a name like that you either crawl under a rock at age twelve and stay there, or you—” He stops himself and smiles.
“Drop acid more than a thousand times and kill God?”
His face is transfused with delight. “Excellent. Excellent. You play the apostate inadequate, then, when the timing’s right: wham! Fantastic life ploy—wish I’d known of it when I was your age. You must be one demon of a detective.” He drops his voice and leans forward. “So, you met dear old Joe Goldman. How was he with you?”
“I watched him through radar for about ten minutes. He was rather involved with the task in hand. He didn’t pay me any attention. Then we met again when he showed a promotional video at his apartment in Bangkok. That’s all.”
He nods. “I have the feeling this is a new field for you. Let me tell you, spies are fascinating, one of those professions like prostitution that has never been properly studied, perhaps because of what it reveals about the world we have made. Goldman is a more or less standard example.”
“But your relationship with him is what? How do you know so much? What is going on? Why am I sitting here talking to you in Phnom Penh?”
He takes a long toke on his Camel while he eyes me shrewdly. “Since when has the acquiring of knowledge and experience been that simple, Detective?”
I make signs of frustration. He turns his head to one side and lets some beats pass. “It really is just as I said over the phone. There is no technique for explaining all this in a way that anyone would believe, let alone a trained detective. I beg you to allow me to narrate the thing in my own way.” I do not ask, But why would you want to explain it at all to a total stranger from Bangkok? I nod instead. “Good. Tonight the prologue, tomorrow the story and the evidence.” He orders another double scotch, leans back in the wicker seat, stares out over the river for a good few minutes, takes a long toke on the Camel, then begins:
—
“Let us go back in time by half a century. We are somewhere in the late fifties or early sixties, our sample subject has been brought up according to the old WASP catechism: it’s basically old-fashioned sexism and racism, but the takeaway message is that democracy only works when it is undemocratically controlled by fat wise old white male Protestants. Socialism is the ultimate evil, which you must be prepared to die fighting against if you want to call yourself an American. Oh, yes, I forgot. There’s also the best-friend syndrome. A best friend is of the same WASP background as you to the point where he is indistinguishable from you. You will not at any time feel the slightest sexual attraction to your designated best friend, but you will be prepared to die for him if necessary.”
He pulls on the cigarette, inhales, exhales with relief and gratitude.
“Don’t believe what they tell you about tobacco. Without it I’d have died of boredom twenty years ago. It’s just a question of not overdoing it—we need wisdom, in other words, and there’s precious little of that left in the world.” He points to the pack he had placed on the table. “A habit my American friends taught me in the jungle. Do you see, the animal on the front is not a two-hump Bactrian camel as one would have expected, but a dromedary? The manufacturers knew that, of course, but were advised by industrial psychologists that one hump was somehow easier for the average Joe to take in than two. A primitive example of mind control—we’ve come a long way since then.” He sighs. “Not that we Brits are in any way innocent, you understand? I don’t m
ean to imply that. Every dirty trick in the book they learned from us.” He muses. “As a matter of fact, there are very few serious geopolitical problems today that were not created by the Foreign Office in London in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. Kashmir is probably the best example, after Afghanistan, Iran, Pakistan, Tibet, sub-Saharan Africa, and pretty much the whole of the Near and Middle East. In Tasmania we annihilated a complete race of humans. That all happened when we were civilized Christians, of course.”
“What are you saying, Doctor?”
“What am I saying? I’m saying that when we consider a case like—well, let’s call him Private Jack Doe as a twenty-year-old GI—we need to strip out a few erroneous assumptions, like he gives a damn about democracy or the plight of third-world Asians, or even has an idea of what those words might mean, or even has a precise idea where Vietnam is. Or is even aware of the excuse for being there at all, except that Uncle Sam knows best. You see, in a nutshell such a background is essentially tribal and shamanic. A lot closer to the mind-set of Crazy Horse or Red Cloud than anyone cares to acknowledge.”
“But who exactly are you talking about when you refer to this hypothetical Private Jack Doe?”
He pauses, waves a hand, says, “Later,” and continues. “Then some truly world-class idiot grabs Jack and half a million like him and sends them to the other side of the world to kill as many fellow humans as he can manage. If he wants to know why, it is explained using a metaphor from infancy: dominoes. Almost from the start Westmoreland and the CIA turned it into a body-count war, which is to say a war of extermination.
“Naturally, since Jack has already been initiated he hardly needs to be told that the people he is killing are inferior. The way he has been taught to see it, not only are they socialist, but they are brown-skinned slope-headed communists who have Stone Age technology and eat on the floor. Of course it’s okay to kill them. You have to kill them to save them, obviously.”
I am upset. The implication of blatant genocide is a little hard for a half-caste like me to take. I try to control my thoughts.
