We’re sitting in his office now, having carefully reviewed Damrong’s performance with Khun Tanakan. It’s around midnight. When Vikorn turns to me, I cannot read the expression on his face. There is a frown of sorts, but it is complex and nuanced by what might be a smile flickering over his lips from time to time. I’ve known him so long, though, all I need do is check his eyes: bright and shiny. He speaks very softly, like a lover. There is gratitude and caress in his tone.
“Sonchai, I might need a witness.”
“Yes?”
“Someone with the smarts to understand what’s going on, and at the same time the foresight to realize that any breach of confidence could be fatal.”
“I’m not following, Colonel,” I say.
“You know the way our country is, Sonchai, ti-soong, ti-tam.” The reference is to the Thai feudal system, called high-low or, if you prefer, top and bottom. “If I do this alone, he’ll find a way of pulling rank.”
Light breaks in my frontal lobes. I feel a delicious frisson of fear and excitement. “You want me to be there when you put the squeeze on Khun Tanakan?”
Vikorn raises a finger to his lips. “He won’t know you’re there.”
“Why don’t you video it?”
“Because he will insist on meeting in his office.”
“So how can I be present?”
“You’ll come as my assistant and bodyguard. He will not allow you into the room during negotiations, so I’ll be wired. You’ll have the recorder. You will also listen over a headset so you can claim to be a live witness if things go wrong. We’ll make it look like you’re listening to music-what are those stupid things called?”
“iPods.”
“Right. You’ll be one of those switched-on cops, like in the recruitment posters.”
“This could put my life at risk, Colonel.”
He raises his eyebrows, then looks away. “Ten percent for the relief of poverty.”
“Twenty.”
“Done.”
I shrug. If it is the Buddha’s will that Khun Tanakan’s wealth be more equitably distributed, who am I to argue? Anyway, I wouldn’t want to miss Vikorn doing what he does best.
“You better tell me about the case again,” Vikorn says. “It’s a murder investigation, isn’t it, or have I got that wrong?”
“Sort of.”
“Anyway, one thing is for sure. We can’t let this Baker character hang out unprotected. Have someone arrest him on pornography charges. I want him in the cells, where I can keep an eye on him.”
“Okay,” I say, “okay.”
As I’m preparing to go home, with most of the station in darkness, I realize I’ve not given much thought to Baker these last few hours. Hanging the laptop out of his window like that was humorously amateurish, the kind of dumb reaction of a born loser. But losers scare easily, and now I know what is on the hard disk. I call the guard at Baker’s apartment building.
“He left with a rucksack more than an hour ago, after that Englishman left.”
“Why didn’t you call me?”
“You only bribed me for one call.” I groan, hang up, then dial the station operator to get me Immigration.
“He can’t get far without his passport,” a cheery voice advises.
“He’s running for his life. Maybe he has a forged passport. Maybe he bought a spare one in Kaosan Road.”
“Okay, send me a good copy of his passport mug shot in the morning, and we’ll send it out in digital form to all major entry points.”
I say something sarcastic that repeats the words all major and in the morning. Thais don’t react well to sarcasm, though, and he grunts non-committally before closing the phone. I call Vikorn, who promises to kick ass; after all, he’s the one who wants Baker arrested.
11
I expected Vikorn to use his Bentley, which only goes to show how vulgar and unsophisticated I am. Of course, he is visiting the great Khun as Humble Cop, so we sit in the back of a particularly banged-up patrol car. Fortunately, the journey lasts only ten minutes, which is just about the upper limit of the Colonel’s tolerance as we bounce around on the torn-up backseat. He is in full police colonel uniform, though, and looks quite trim in the brown tunic with gold shoulder boards. Throughout the journey he has been making curious, delicate hand gestures, which are an expression of the infinite subtlety of his mind. I follow him into the vast lobby of the bank. He uses charm, not authority, on the receptionist, who makes a call. From the look on her face when she puts the phone down, the instruction must be to get the two cops out of the banking hall and into some private room, pronto. We are taken in a lift to an oak-and-green-leather conference room on a high floor, where we sit at the board table. Normally, one would expect a secretary to appear at this stage, but Tanakan didn’t get where he is today without knowing how to play every gambit of the game. The door opens, and there is the man himself. The Colonel and I both stand immediately, hands held together at our foreheads in a high wai.
The Khun shows his humility by giving us a high wai back. This cookie is way too smart to try to defend the indefensible.
Chinese genes are taken for granted among Thai high society, especially in banking. Khun Tanakan’s porcelain skin, small intense dark eyes -more slitted than those of an ethnic Thai -jet-black hair, sophisticated manners, and beautifully cut suit all place him at the highest level of Thai-Chinese movers and shakers. But Tanakan has something extra: surely his forefathers were not all diminutive Chiu Chow from the Swatow region of fishing folk, for he is almost six feet tall, indicative of ancestors from the north, Manchuria perhaps. It is nearly impossible to imagine uncontrollable passion in this man, but I’ve seen Baker’s video; I have watched that intense, focused ambition morph into a lust of reptilian intensity. In his early fifties, he owns an excellent physique and -ref. the video-a smooth ivory member of respectable dimensions.
“Allow me to introduce my assistant Detective Jitpleecheep,” Vikorn is saying. At the subtlest shift of the banker’s eyes, Vikorn adds, “He will wait here, or perhaps in your own suite, while we chat.”
Tanakan nods. Graciously: “He can sit wherever he pleases. My secretary has her own office. He can sit there, or he can stay here.”
“I think he would prefer your secretary’s hospitality,” Vikorn says, thinking of the range of his equipment.
“Yes,” the banker says, turning to me with a smile of such warmth and hospitality, I could be his favorite nephew. Once in his suite, he introduces me to his secretary at the same time as he shows Vikorn into his office, then firmly closes the door.
She is, I am afraid, quite amazingly attractive. If Tanakan is banging her (which I bet Wall Street against a Thai mango he is), you have to wonder why he needed Damrong.
Or do you? Her long black hair floats on the air when she moves, exactly like a shampoo advertisement. She is dressed in the very latest HiSo business combination (black and white with a dash of color in the jewelry). I’m sure that’s Van Cleef and Arpels distributing subtly perfumed vectors into the air-conditioning. She does not make a single move, or even blink, without reference to some beautician’s code of conduct, and she seems able to type. On the other hand, I have my own insight into the kind of service Damrong provided to the master banker, the likes of which might have shocked this girl into confessing all to her mother; unlikely that she could satisfy Tanakan’s darker needs.