Actually, I don’t have a clue what he means. The case is over, isn’t it? A suicide is a suicide. I’m even more mystified later that day, when Lek sidles up to my desk with a peculiar expression on his face. He makes as if to lean over my monitor, then drops something on my desk, which looks like a piece of paper screwed up in a ball. When I catch Lek’s eye, he shrugs. I sense the need for secrecy, so I whisper, “What’s that?”
Lek whispers back, “Don’t ask me, darling. I’m not even allowed to tell you who sent it.”
I frown. “Who sent it?”
“I’m not allowed to tell you.” At my stern glance he starts to melt, then giggles. “Who d’you think? He made me swear on my next thousand years of karma not to tell you, but here’s a hint: it’s a he and he owns a Toyota.”
“Sukum? Has he gone totally over the edge?” I cast a glance in the good detective’s direction. He appears to be fixated on a file he is studying.
Lek shrugs. “I was beginning to wonder if you two had fallen in love and decided to use me as a go-between. I mean, that’s what katoeys are for, really, isn’t it? We’re just life’s eternal voyeurs, good for carrying messages but not for anything more.” He is giving me one of his prize pouts. I cannot help grinning while I dismiss him. When I flatten out the ball of paper I see it is a printout from Wikipedia:
Padparadscha is a pinkish-orange to orangey-pink colored corundum, with a low to medium saturation and light tone, originally being mined in Sri Lanka, but also found in deposits in Vietnam and Africa. Padparadscha sapphires are very rare, and highly valued for their subtle blend of soft pink and orange hues. The name derives from the Sinhalese word for lotus blossom. Along with rubies they are the only corundums to be given their own name instead of being called a particular colored sapphire.
I am scratching my head. Now I’m carefully tearing the paper into shreds and throwing the pieces into the bin under my desk, in accordance with Sukum’s furtive instructions. When, about half an hour later, I see Sukum get up to go to the men’s room, I follow and stand next to him at one of the booths. He instantly moves as far away from me as he can. When I say softly, “Detective,” he raises a hand, puts a finger over his lips for a brief moment, then zips up and exits without a word.
38
Sorry, farang, if I’ve gotten you excited about Frank Charles all over again; today it looks as if I’m consigliere for the duration.
Zurich/Lichtenstein just called, and would you believe the Swiss banker, who speaks better English than the Queen of England, and with an even snottier accent, actually scolded me for bullying his Ethiopian receptionist into sending the documents, because now he’s received them it is obvious they were incomplete?
“Incomplete? The whole package weighed more than two pounds.”
“She forgot to include a power of attorney.”
“I saw about five different powers of attorney.”
“But none of them in your favor. For you to be legally able to do what you are doing-not that I’m making any assumptions as to what you are doing-although everything is subject to attorney-client privilege anyway-as I say, for it to be legal and aboveboard, I need to see original powers of attorney from both shareholders in your favor.”
I’m not keen. The thought of asking either Vikorn or Zinna to go off to the notary with their ID cards all over again is daunting. Zinna, in particular, has been expressing doubts about trusting me with so much responsibility. Vikorn’s spies report the General is “quite wired.” Read: bag of nerves. The wording of the power of attorney is not without difficulties, either. It gives me absolute power over forty million dollars, for example. I’m not sure even Vikorn will be sympathetic, so to avoid a face-to-face confrontation I send both old men a translation of the power of attorney in Thai, with a notice that this is urgent business. I am feeling exposed, but can’t quite put my finger on it. When, after fidgeting for an hour or so, I don’t hear from either of them, I try to call Vikorn, but Manny says he’s not available. Not available? We’re talking about the deal of the year, if not the decade, and suddenly the boss is not available?
Paranoia comes easily to a mind that has been well prepared. My own has started revisiting the Thai translation of the Lichtenstein power of attorney. Even in English the language is intimidatingly absolute, using phrases like “each and every manner or thing of any kind whatsoever including but not limited to…” and then there’s the bit which says, “the said Sonchai Jitpleecheep shall be assumed to be acting with the full approval and authority of the grantor who will support, confirm, and endorse every such action of whatsoever nature and shall not under any circumstances seek to deny, block, alter, or amend any disposition of the said funds…” Well, in Thai, which tends to repeat important phrases so everyone is clear about them, and which has a certain way of emphasizing absolute power, probably due to Sanskrit influence, the whole thing sounds even more stern, like I’m being appointed the viceroy of India or something. Let me be frank: a poorly educated army type who has spent his career in the mind-set of a gorilla hunched over a sack of bananas might find this legal jargon quite threatening. Indeed, said gorilla might decide it is being ripped off. It does not help when I call Manny and she reports that Vikorn has been on the phone to Zinna for an hour. It was an hour ago that I e-mailed the Thai translation of the power of attorney. I feel a stroll coming on.
Out in the street I feel better for a moment. Everything seems normal, the cooked-food stalls are all set up and ready to do police business: it is shortly before noon. The worst thing I could do would be to start running for no reason other than self-generated terror. Is this what they call a nervous breakdown? It’s weird, the way I seem to have lost control over my legs. The worst thing you can do is start to run, it will look bad. The stalls are passing at an accelerated speed as I walk faster and faster. Something is saying, No, not like this, don’t go out like this, like a crass coward, a fool running from shadows, trying to flee his own mind. So I apply that thing called will. It is like finding an iron bar in the middle of a brawl, and using it to cosh the enemy: I use this thing called will, whatever it is, to beat down the accelerated heartbeat, the jumping nerves, the overheated imagination, the legs which at the moment want only to run.
Okay, I’m at the end of the street and everything is under control, except I’m inexplicably terrified. I tell myself this is crazy, there is no one there, no one checking, no one in the street is interested in me at all. Oh yeah? You just sent a document to two of the most senior mafiosi in Thailand requesting them to hand over control of forty million dollars, and you think nobody is watching you? When I force myself to walk back to the station at a reasonable speed, I look up at Vikorn’s window. Sure enough, the Old Man is there, staring down at me. When I get back to my desk, Manny calls: “Get up here.”
Now I’m standing in front of the Old Man, who is behind his desk. A cold sweat has broken out over my face and hands. But I haven’t even done anything. Vikorn lifts a document from his desk and waves it at me. It is the Thai translation of the power of attorney. “Kind of heavy, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” I splutter, “that’s the way farang lawyers do things. I didn’t draft it.”
He is looking at me curiously. “It gives you exclusive power over forty million dollars. You could do a lot of damage if you abscond. You would wipe out Zinna and cripple me.”