by Andrew Grant
It was the statue of a warrior, caught in the white glow of a single spotlight set in the ceiling. The curve of a sword shimmered silver in the light. Curious, drink in hand, I moved to examine it. The figure was Japanese, a samurai warrior, and it wasn’t so much a statue as a suit of armour fitted to a mannequin. The armour had been created from highly polished black metal with gold worked into it in intricate patterns. I then decided that it probably wasn’t metal but an elaborate creation of lacquered wood, metal and leather. It was hard to tell. The helmet had a beaked crown that formed a visor. The blank eyes of the mannequin were all but obscured behind narrow vertical slits. There were three swords, as was the samurai tradition. I remembered as much from my karate days. The smaller weapons, the wakizashi sword and the tanto dagger, were sheathed through a leather and cloth rope at the warrior’s waist. The gleaming longsword—the magnificent katana—was raised, held high above the warrior’s head. In heavily gloved hands he held the leather handle, probably made from the skin of a shark or ray. I knew the stroke the warrior was poised for. It was a blow that would send the razor-sharp blade of the katana down in an angled stroke that would cleave a victim from shoulder to hip in one ferocious blow.
Despite myself I shuddered. The forty-one- or forty-two-inch blade of the raised sword looked damned sharp. The light sparked off the cutting edge as if to illustrate this fact. It wasn’t a tourist article but the real thing, possibly the best bladed weapon of all time, and crafted for one purpose only: to kill. I moved back out of the arc of the sword. Maybe it was just fatigue but I felt vulnerable, as if the mannequin would spring into life and send the razor edge hissing my way.
It was said that the best blades were made with sometimes a million laminates of soft iron and hard steel, folded and hammered again and again to create the ultimate sword. Sometimes master sword makers could only complete a handful of these works of art in an entire lifetime. It was tradition that when the sword was finished, a criminal, slave or prisoner was brought forward and the sword bloodied with the cleaving stroke to satisfy the gods and illustrate that the blade was perfect. Nice touch!
Now that I was on my feet, I drifted along the walls of Sami’s study, browsing the artworks and books. When I reached the windows I stopped and looked down into the gardens. I could see Sami. He was to one side of the lake, by a small altar under a tall spreading tree. Two figures holding carbines flanked the tree, facing outwards. On the altar, long candles burned.
My old friend was kneeling, his back to the house, his head low to the ground. As I watched he rocked back, raising his head then lowering it. I could see that there was a white band around his forehead. He repeated the motion and I faded back from the window. I had no idea of Sami’s faith. I guess I had always assumed that he was a Buddhist, but there was no buddha on the altar—just candles.
My extremely complex friend, Sami Somsak, was either grieving for his people or he was praying for the strength to bring down Chekhov. I refilled my glass and somehow found myself back in front of the samurai warrior, hovering just out of range of its sword. I was still there ten minutes later when Sami re-entered the room. He came to my side.
‘The ultimate warrior, Daniel, the samurai,’ Sami explained. He moved around the desk, retrieving his glass of mineral water as he went. He sat in the leather swivel seat and I drifted to one of the equally plush visitor chairs. Sami sat looking up at the raised sword before his eyes turned back to me. He gave me half a smile. ‘You know me just about as well as anyone, Daniel, but there is one thing that few know.’ Sami paused for what seemed like a minute but was probably only a few seconds. I had the feeling he was choosing the words he needed to plot a verbal course through a complex explanation. Then he started speaking in little more than a whisper. ‘You don’t know Tuk Tuk Song and I are related,’ he said with a crooked grin. It wasn’t a question. Now he had me. I caught my lower jaw before it banged me on the knee.
‘How?’ I croaked.
‘He’s my uncle. My mother is his sister.’
‘Fuck,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘How come you never told me?’
‘Not important in the scheme of things,’ Sami replied simply as he lit a cigarette and held the pack out to me. I took one and accepted his light. ‘It wasn’t a secret, Daniel, it just wasn’t important to what you and I were doing,’ he added softly. ‘Anyway, after Chekhov hit me I called uncle.’
‘I called him as well,’ I admitted. Sami nodded.
‘He told me. He’s got a score to settle with the mad Russian as well. But first a little of my family history. It may help you understand more about your future business partner.’ Sami looked at me through a cloud of cigarette smoke, his eyes challenging. He was preparing to reveal yet another layer of himself ‘to me.
‘My mother, Shan, Tuk Tuk’s sister, was taken by the Japanese as a comfort girl,’ he said with no infliction whatsoever in his voice. ‘When the war ended she was pregnant. She was going to commit suicide out of shame, but Uncle Tuk Tuk stopped her. He cared for her and protected her from anyone and everyone. She gave birth to a boy. That boy was me.’ Sami stopped again but only for a moment before he raised his glass and gave me a wry grin.
‘Daniel, you coined the name The Onion Man for me many years ago. It was probably more apt than you even dreamed.’ Sami chuckled and his face came alive. He looked young again, the years dropping away. ‘I am part Thai, part Chinese and my father was a Japanese officer, a samurai, according to my mother. She was perhaps fortunate when she arrived at her comfort camp!’ There was emphasis in the words, a contemptuous sharpness accompanied by a grimace. ‘Yes, she was perhaps fortunate,’ he repeated more softly, ‘that an officer took her for his own exclusive comfort. The war ended before he tired of her and she was left carrying me.’ He paused for a moment. ‘I despised much of what the Japanese had done to Asia, and what they had stood for in my early years in particular. Then I discovered the code of the samurai.’
Sami tuned his swivel chair and nodded at the mannequin. ‘There are some things in their code that are admirable, other things not so. I have perhaps tried to live by those principles that are good,’ he said. ‘Those swords,’ he nodded at the samurai, ‘are my pride. They are fourteenth century blades made by one of the great masters, a craftsman named Orazawi. He made only five sets during his lifetime. This is the only one to survive to this day.’
‘Expensive,’ I said for something to say. Sami laughed aloud.
‘Ah, Daniel, you are so wonderfully blunt. Yes, expensive,’ he replied. ‘I won’t tell you how much, but let me just say that there are few automobiles in the world that cost more. However cost is not the issue, perfection is.’
Our conversation on the subject of Sami’s heritage and magnificent weaponry ended about then with a knock at the door. One of my host’s bevy of beautiful women entered the room at Sami’s word. She ushered a guest in with her.
28
Karl Isbaider didn’t seem surprised to see me. In fact, the expression on his face suggested that he knew I would be there.
‘Well,’ I said. ‘Party time!’
‘Absolutely,’ the CIA man said with a tight grin.
‘In five minutes we’ll go and speak to our guest,’ added Sami.
‘You got one, Sami? Nice going,’ said Karl.
That told me Karl knew exactly what Sami had planned all along, even though I hadn’t told him. The CIA agent gave me a knowing wink that said, ‘You can’t keep any secrets from us, Danny boy.’
‘Let’s go and play question and answer,’ Sami said.
‘Thumbscrews and needles?’ Karl wanted to know. He didn’t look as if the prospect of either or both bothered him in the slightest.
‘You barbaric Americans,’ said Sami, shaking his head in mock disgust. ‘I have found that chemicals are an irresistible force if used by a knowledgeable practitioner. I have one such on my staff.’
Five minutes later we went down to a basement room to hear the life
story of our Jamaican-born subject. Would you believe it? Wesley was his Christian name. He had an American passport. And yes, Chekhov was really pissed at me. There was more, much more, and he gave it all up very eagerly. The irresistible force coursing in his veins was doing its job.
‘It figures that Chekhov knows you’re still alive,’ said Karl, directing the comment at Sami before he forked a mouthful of something extremely tasty into his mouth.
‘Yeah, but he doesn’t know where I am,’ Sami replied.
It was midnight and we had finished with the Jamaican mafiosa. He was being dumped, still alive but slightly amnesiac, outside a hospital in Bang Sue as we ate.
‘Chekhov doesn’t know a lot about me, including the existence of this place,’ Sami replied. ‘No one knows but my inner circle and now you guys.’ He paused with a fork loaded with noodles hovering in front of his mouth. ‘Damn. That means I’ll have to shift or kill you both,’ he added without even the hint of a smile.
‘We knew,’ said Karl as he picked up a prawn and started peeling it. ‘You bought the whole ten acres in 1997, flattened just about everything on it but for the jungle fringe and built this place. Took almost two and a half years. You moved in in July 2000.’ The CIA man grinned at Sami from across the table. ‘Satellite mainly, Sami.’
‘Okay, you guys knew, but that doesn’t mean the mad Russian does,’ Sami replied. Karl and I made eye contact. Sami saw it and shrugged. ‘Okay, maybe he does, but I’ve got thirty people here with enough hardware to start a serious war. What do you suggest?’
‘We go up to Ayutthaya and collect the arsehole’s singed scalp with all due prejudice,’ Karl replied. ‘We’ve been fucked about for years. It’s just that we didn’t know Chekhov was the man behind a lot of what’s happened until just a few months ago. He laid a lot of the action off through people we didn’t know he actually controlled. Now that we do know we can put a whole lot of grief at his feet. He’s been officially sanctioned, and that comes right from the top.’ The CIA agent slapped the table and grinned. ‘Let’s go get the fucker!’
‘Okay,’ I said, ‘and there’s something else you should know.’ I’d made the decision to tell Karl about Sir Bernard. I laid it all out for him and he sat there expressionless until I had finished. Then he gave me that smile of his.
‘I wondered when you were going to tell me.’
‘You knew?’ I stammered.
‘That he was a traitorous old queer. We’ve known about him and Chekhov for years,’ the CIA man replied. ‘Years!’
‘Why the fuck didn’t you tell me?’
‘Fuck,’ Karl snapped back. ‘I figured you knew.’
‘Oh shit,’ I muttered. I was getting so sick of being a secret squirrel, especially as everyone else seemed to know the secrets I didn’t. ‘Do you know how long ago Bernard told Chekhov I was the man who fried him and killed his wife?’ I asked. ‘And if he’s known for years, why didn’t he come after me back in the UK?’
‘Dunno,’ replied the CIA man. ‘Maybe he was just busy. He’d been carving up the local rackets big time and perhaps he didn’t need the distraction until he was ready. Maybe he was waiting for you to return to Thailand or maybe Bernie boy just kept him as an ace up his sleeve until this fucking black box shit came along. Ask your boss before you kill him,’ he added in a tone that suggested he really meant it! To kill Sir Bernard, that is.
‘Whatever,’ Karl continued. ‘In the last year, Pizza Face started raising his ugly profile. Your arrival and that fucking thing you had out there in the bloody Andaman lit the psycho’s fuse for real.’
‘I’d be pissed off at the man who turned me into a Freddie Kruger clone and killed my woman,’ said Sami, joining in the speculation. ‘But as far as hitting Chekhov where it really hurts,’ he paused, ‘wheels are in motion as we speak. Now I think it’s time for some sleep. I think we all need it. Karl, will you be staying?’
‘Meeting in the morning,’ the big CIA agent said. ‘We run on meetings,’ he added rather ruefully. I imagine he would have liked to have been able to enjoy Sami’s brand of hospitality for the night. ‘Keep me in the loop.’
‘We most definitely will,’ replied Sami as he walked Karl to the door. I had absolutely no idea what Sami had going on, but I appreciated he had included me. I tried to stifle a yawn. It didn’t work.
29
There was breakfast for two on a table that could have seated twenty comfortably. I had forsaken my Indian disguise for new underwear, faded new Levis that were exactly my size and a black polo shirt. My outfit was completed by a pair of new Nike trainers which, of course, fitted perfectly. Because my kit was still in the embassy Sami, as always, had come to the rescue.
The breakfast spread was lavish. I went for the mixed grill with a vengeance; after a diet of embassy sandwiches this was pure heaven. Sami, as always, showed more restraint and went the route of fruit and rice porridge. We both did full justice to the excellent coffee. At one point Jo came in. He and I shook hands and did the bear hug thing. Jo Darakam, a former Thai Special Forces captain, and Sami had been inseparable in the years gone by. Given my association with Sami that meant we were often musketeers three, generally on the wrong side of some border or other.
Greetings over, Jo put my mobile phone on the table beside me. Like Sami, his English was devoid of any accent. ‘A built-in locator beacon and a bug. Beacon is active whenever the power is on and the bug picks up and rebroadcasts every call,’ he explained. ‘Very clever because it looks normal, except to an expert.’
‘That’s why Bernard was paranoid about me keeping it charged,’ I replied. ‘He wanted me with a permanent bull’s-eye on my back for the satellite.’
‘Let’s get Chekhov and then figure how to use that and circumstances to get Bernard,’ said Sami, folding his napkin and dropping it onto the table. ‘Daniel, I’d like for you to come with me on a run down the Gulf. It’ll be educational,’ he concluded with a chuckle. I agreed, wondering what I was in for. Whatever Sami had in mind, it would no doubt help make the day go a little faster.
Forty minutes later Sami and I were on board one of his low, mean-looking cruisers, nudging our way down side canals towards the river. The boat, like most of the ones in Sami’s fleet, had a pair of huge Mercury outboards on the back. I guessed he must have done a deal to buy the big black motors in bulk, and I also guessed that black was the official Somsak corporate colour because as well as the motors, the entire boat was also black, including the racing seats we were perched in. I had no doubt that the cruiser was as fast as it looked and felt. I was impressed.
Out on the Chao Phraya, the sound of the big motors got louder and the bow raised a little, but Sami didn’t give the boat its head. ‘Speed limit. Don’t want to attract too much attention,’ he said in reply to my silent question. I had to chuckle. Here we were, cruising down one of the most heavily populated rivers in the world in the nautical equivalent of a Formula One racing car, and Sami didn’t want to attract attention.
It was a pleasant run. The day was overcast and humid; a typical Bangkok day for my money. On the river, however, the breeze we stirred up as we moved was refreshing. I allowed myself to be a tourist for once. Luxury hotels and temples, barges, long tails, speedboats, freighters and rafts of water hyacinth all slid past as we glided down the brown waters towards the Gulf. As we moved on, our speed gradually increased, then we broke away from the river mouth.
‘Now we do it,’ Sami said with a broad grin as he slammed the twin throttles forward and adjusted the trim tabs. The water was calm and we started flying effortlessly, blasting past the slow-moving vessels in the harbour. I still had no idea where we were going. All I knew was that we were going there fast. We ran south for just over an hour, with the digital speedometer showing a steady seventy miles per hour. We raced past vessels of all shapes and sizes as if they were standing still.
‘That’s where we’re going,’ Sami yelled at me, pointing beyond a fleet of shrimp boats to a
matchbox shape that sat on the near horizon. ‘I was here when Chekhov hit the warehouse.’
I’d seen the big mineral suction dredges many times, but from the air or the shore. We’d passed two of them working the ocean floor for tin on our way from the river mouth, but they’d been a few miles away from us. Now it appeared we were about to pay one a visit. I didn’t try to second-guess Sami. I had learned that was almost impossible, particularly after the happenings of the past week or so. I didn’t mean it was the oriental mind at work, rather it was just that The Onion Man was as devious a person as I’d ever met in my so far very eventful life.
At a steady rate of knots, we surged on towards the dredge. It grew with every passing second. We were maybe half a mile away when the sheer size of the thing hit me. This monster in the Gulf of Thailand was enormous. It was basically a huge barge the size of a football field. Most of it was enclosed in a giant tin shed which had the dimensions of an aircraft hangar. A huge triangular-shaped boom hung over what was the bow. Suspended from this was a segmented pipe made from metal and heavy rubber. This pipe was a yard across. Effectively it was the suction tube for a giant vacuum cleaner. The bag was somewhere in the shed and the exhaust was at the rear, pumping waste into the water behind the barge and turning it the colour of shit as it created its very own ecological disaster, choking every living thing in the water around it. Nice!
The noise was incredible as we came alongside. The iron shed acted like a giant drum, amplifying the sound of the working machinery inside. Despite the racket, our arrival had been anticipated. Two guys carrying AKs were standing watching us as Sami nosed us into the buffers that edged a small floating landing attached to the dredge’s flank. Because the vessel probably had a top speed of half a knot and was basically a floating island, why not tag a jetty onto it?
