Regardless of whatever action both the Thai and British protection groups would take, there was only one method that was a hundred per cent certain: to shoot first, and at the last minute. In three major waves of arrests the police had neutralized upward of two hundred known agitators, subversive elements, and Communist agents as part of their 'drive against crime.' Today, on the morning of the 29th, a thousand police were combing five thousand unoccupied rooms along the motorcade route. Uncountable bouquets of flowers would be examined for hidden bombs. But the only certainty lay in an overkill.
Loman was worried, because in sanctioning my proposal he was going to let one of three things happen. If I killed Kuo it would be a premeditated act, and if I were caught and put on trial I would have to involve others in my defense, however indirectly, in order to plead justifiable homicide, and the Bureau would be seen suddenly to exist – and in the moment of its existence it would be blown apart. If I failed to kill, because of the heat haze or sweat on my finger, or a fault in the mechanism of the gun, the Person would suffer public execution. If I killed for nothing – that is, if Kuo had arranged for a reserve marksman to take over regardless of what happened to Kuo himself- the Person would still be shot dead.
Loman had angered me by voicing his fears, even though they were not his true fears. He had angered me, not by breaking a rule strictly enforced on intelligence directors in the Bureau, but by reminding me of my own fears, the ones that were with me now as I crouched in the small high room of the condemned building, the Husqvarna across my knees.
Let him be damned for that.
For me the day passed slowly through three stages.
During the first few hours of the morning the Link Road below my window looked fairly normal, the only difference being that it was a national holiday and the pavements were filled with strollers.
At eleven o'clock I heard the news on my transistor. The main item was that Prince Udom had passed a comfortable night but was expected to be confined to his bed for several days. His place beside the distinguished visitor was to be taken by H.R.H. Prince Rajadhon, who was on leave from his studies at Basel University in order to participate in the Palace receptions.
The news contained an announcement of the definite itinerary of the motorcade. (Pangsapa's information to Loman was perfectly correct.) It was the first time the exact route had been made public, and within half an hour the strollers on the pavement below the condemned building had grown thicker, and the police began setting up guardropes on each side of the road. Motorcycle patrols were now slowing the traffic because of danger to the crowds.
Halfway between the condemned building and the temple the Link Road curved at a boomerang angle of some 150° and the people pressed more thickly at that point because it offered a better view.
The street looked pretty: flags, flowers, bunting, women in silk. Soon after two o'clock the traffic was diverted along Rama IV and the Link Road was quiet except for the voices of the crowd. A chapter of Brahman priests made a patch of bright yellow among the other colors. The sun was hot and parasols opened like big flowers; soft-drinks men worked their way through. Small children were delighted as their fathers lifted them to let them look. The police moved systematically, taking the bouquets from some of the women and weighing them briefly, handing them back.
First-aid men of the Thai Red Cross had posted themselves at intervals along the guard-ropes.
I heard a door open below me in the building. I had been listening for it and went along to the elevator. Their voices were amplified by the central well of the staircase and other doors banged as they began searching the second floor. I went into the elevator. There was no electric power in the place; it had been cut off when the building was marked down for demolition; but I had tested the manual emergency handle the day before and now I turned it, winding the elevator down to the blank walls between the fifth and sixth floors. All my gear was with me, leaving the room bare for the inspection. Cheap carpet, sleeping bag, tripod and camera, field glasses and gun. It looked like a second-hand store.
I waited. Their footsteps echoed sharply on the stairs. They opened every door, calling to one another. They were part of the army of a thousand police who were searching five thousand uninhabited rooms in buildings along the route.
Colonel Ramin was being very thorough. The blanket operation of a full-scale search is typical police routine and in most cases it is of value. Even on this day it had a certain advantage: the Colonel would be able to claim, later, that his men had searched every room.
They reached the top floor. I stood watching one of the elevator cables which was frayed: two strands had parted, the ends curling; in the bottom of each curl was a crescent of dust and plaster congealed by the damp that had leaked through the roof. The cable would never be repaired now.
They were taking their time. The heat was stifling but it was a stray thought that made the sweat spring: would the emergency handle still work all right when they had gone? How much would the Southeast Asian complex of warbrink policies be affected by one man getting stuck in an elevator?
They were checking every room. My watch said 3:15 and Loman would be calling again in ten minutes if the schedule were running to time. I felt for the on-off switch of the two-way radio again to make sure Loman's voice couldn't come through. That was bad: you shouldn't have to check things more than once, at a time when the nerves ought to be at their optimum pitch, about two-thirds up the scale.
In the heat I could smell the oil on the mechanism of the gun. A sound came and one of them opened the metal doors above me on the sixth floor to see if anyone were on the top of the elevator. They didn't see anyone so they shut the gates. Thoroughness is an admirable quality. I had been thorough too: there was a main emergency handle in the elevator well at ground level for winding it up and down, and yesterday I had taken the grub screw out.
The first of them began going back to the stairs and when the rest followed I looked at my watch again. We were running it close for Loman's next call. The main exit doors were slamming shut and I waited another minute and then grasped the handle, overcoming the half second of irrational fear that it wouldn't work, and wound the elevator back to the top floor.
A lot of the stuff could stay where it was; all I needed was the carpet, the tripod and the gun. The Jupiters gave x8 magnification and the Balvar scope was only x5, but since first light this morning I had stopped using the field glasses so that I could get used to the scope. It was the scope that would give me my last sight of him.
The second stage of the day now began. The police had made their search and the main doors below had been shut. Yesterday I had made a hole in the plaster above the door of my room with a rusty nail and now I hung up the cheap carpet. This was sufficient. The sound of the report would be trapped before it reached the ground floor inside the building; the main doors would provide additional silencing. Most of the sound would remain trapped in the room itself because the Husqvarna would be mounted far back from the window. The residual sound would be diffused in the open air, impossible to place because of the height of the window from the street.