I am in a hospital such as I have never seen: a private room like a room in a five-star hotel, with a window which looks out on palms and banana plants, orchids and bougainvillea, hibiscus and the infinitely enticing whish-whish of an automatic irrigation system. When I last regained consciousness the FBI was already here. She said: “You lost a lot of blood, pilgrim, we only just got to you in time.” She could almost be a nurse, the way she takes my pulse from time to time and plumps the bed.
When I reemerged the second time from the depths of delicious oblivion, where I’m sure I encountered my brother Pichai, the seat by my bed was occupied not by the FBI but by a more military figure.
“All this for a scratch? The Buddha must really love you.”
“How do I look?” I had been afraid to ask this question of a foreign woman.
“Without the nose? On you, an improvement.” To my startled glance, the Colonel added: “Joking, joking.” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “But just tell me this, it won’t go any further I promise: Why did you have to kill the old lady? Was she coming on to you?”
I lay back on my pillow and returned to oblivion, just so I could tell Pichai about that one.
It seems that my mother met the Colonel in the corridor today. There’s a gleam in her eye as she draws up her chair.
“He’s very charming, isn’t he? I think he must be very rich.”
“No, Mother.”
“He asked me out on his yacht. Is it true it’s one of those huge things with a captain and crew, swimming platform, all that?”
“No, please, don’t.”
“Oh, I don’t care for myself, but it would be good for you. You deserve promotion more than any cop on the force, and you’ll never get it without developing connections. He even hinted-”
“If I was offered promotion that way, I would refuse it.”
She sighs and pats my hand. “Well, you can’t say I don’t try. You’re such a moral boy, I don’t know where you get it from.”
“Of course you know who I get it from, obviously not from you. I don’t know who I get it from because you won’t tell me.”
Nervous laughter as she reaches for her Marlboro. “I will, darling, one day, I just need a little time, that’s all.”
23
Random-access memory: an island in the Andaman Sea reserved for nature and forbidden to everyone except high-ranking cops with luxury yachts; more girls than I could count, their perfect young bodies permanently sparkling with droplets from incessant diving off the swimming platform (the girls really had fun that trip); Pichai and I uncomfortable and aloof, taking a lot of flak: to refuse bribes was bad enough, to refuse free sex was downright seditious. It was an office outing, a bonding binge soon after the assassination of those yaa baa smugglers, intended to cement the esprit de corps, just in case anyone was getting cold feet (no one was). The other cops were all too keen to bed the girls, leaving Vikorn, Pichai and me to drink beer together and stare at the stars. I guess the old man felt secure there on his boat, with the velvet night around him-and maybe he loved us, Pichai and me. On the boat’s stereo system Vikorn was playing “The Ride of the Valkyries,” the only piece of Western music of which he showed any awareness. In a lull in the conversation Pichai finally asked what no one else had dared to ask: What the hell was that weird music?
Even at his drunkest Vikorn’s war stories were veiled in secrecy. He might seem to lose control of his tongue altogether, but there was something as hard as diamond, some heavily guarded safe room in his mind that he dare not enter in company. The only real clues he gave us consisted of single words: REMFs; Ravens; O-1s; the Other Theater; American Breakfast; eggs over easy; Pat Black.
24
As soon as Nong has gone the FBI returns with a frown on her face. She cannot speak Thai, but I think she saw my mother and the Colonel flirting in the corridor. Perhaps she is suffering from advanced culture shock? I already know she and the Colonel are not going to get along.
She brings the news that Bradley’s computer has arrived, and a few minutes later she begins organizing a bridge over the bed, cables, even an Internet connection. Kimberley Jones does not flirt, indeed I think she must have taken an antiflirting course at Quantico, so there is a stiffness in the way she leans over me every few minutes. When we have the computer up and running, it is even more awkward. Half the time I have her bosom in my face, which often causes her to blush. Did American culture go back in time about a hundred years? I’m sure all those movies from the Vietnam era showed a more relaxed people. Not that it matters. We become quite excited, in a professional sense, once we enter Bradley’s e-mail files.
Pretty soon we are joined by Rosen and Nape, who look over my shoulder at the monitor. Everything is affable and even jolly until I say: “This guy, Sylvester Warren, does anyone know who he is?” Silence from the rest of the team. I search out Kimberley Jones’ eyes. She looks away. Rosen coughs.
“You have a way of coming straight to the point, Detective, I’ll give you that.”
Nape comes to the rescue. “I don’t think we’d want to let it be known we’re even reading e-mails from Mr. Warren. Not unless we get something concrete we can use.”
Rosen agrees with a vigorous nod. “That’s right. If what we have is a revenge killing in a narcotics feud, we don’t want to drag Warren into it. Not if all he’s doing here is keeping up an erudite correspondence with Bradley on some obscure aspect of the jade trade.”
I make big eyes from one to the other in the most charming and humble manner. Nape grins. “Warren’s a big shot. Actually, he’s a big shot here as well as in New York. He comes to Bangkok every month, gets invited to receptions at the embassy. He mixes extensively with local high society, especially the Chinese. He’s a jeweler and art dealer, big-time. He has shops in Manhattan, Los Angeles, Paris, London-and here. His passion is jade. It’s not surprising he would have contacts with Bradley, who’s coming across as a gifted amateur, living here in Bangkok, and a fellow American.”
“What a wonderful, democratic society you have, that a sergeant in the Marines hobnobs with a baron like this Warren.”
All three check my face for sarcasm, which I did not intend. I have managed to produce an awkward silence. Rosen says: “Well, Americans talk to each other. We still do that. Especially if there’s a profit to be made.”
I think I get the point and use the program to select some of Warren’s e-mails and Bradley’s replies to him. Helplessness radiates from my American colleagues as I read aloud.
Bill, your piece arrived yesterday FedEx. The boys are getting the point, I agree, but there’s still a long way to go.
Bill, look, this is good work which I can sell anywhere, but it’s not what we discussed. I’m arriving on a Thai Airways flight next Tues. We’ll talk.
Bill, I have to tell you I was very impressed with the latest piece. It’s not quite there, but it’s damn close. I’m going to release the second tranche today. Keep it up.
I interrupt my reading to search the three sets of eyes around the bed, until Rosen says to Nape: “Tell him.”
He clears his throat. “Sylvester Warren is a very well-connected man. He knows senators, congressmen. He probably fits out thirty percent of America’s richest women and a lot of our richest men with their jewelry, thanks to his gift for finding the best original designers. Basically, he knows everyone with real money, donates huge amounts to the Republican Party and somewhat less to the Democrats. He’s occasionally invited to the White House. He knows judges, senior lawyers. He’s also been under surveillance by the FBI for years. We suspect him of art frauds, but he’s just too smart to catch. Also, we don’t have a whole lot of specialists in imperial jade and he’s probably the world’s leading expert. It’s his hobby, his passion as well as his profession. If he’s a crook, he’s only ripping off the rich, and the rich don’t like to admit to being ripped off. There’s a limit to how many resources the Bureau wants to put into something like this, given our other priorities.”