“Okay,” Linda says.
The three of them stand on a common impulse and leave the room. Now it’s Vikorn and me alone together.
Silence. “So, are you aiming to run the country? Is that what this is really all about?” He doesn’t answer. “Nobody really figures you for governor-it doesn’t make sense. You make more on heroin than you ever would peddling city construction contracts. Prime minister, though-I can see that might be a temptation. Is that the deal you have with Beijing?” He stares at me. “Which ministry is behind you?”
I shrug and get up to leave. When I’m at the door, he says: “Would you prefer Zinna?”
I stop short. “What?”
“There’s been a last-minute addition to the candidate list. Check the lampposts tomorrow.” Vikorn pauses to look at me. “He even has counselors. Two Americans. A man and a woman. They’re said to have got people elected to high office in Africa somewhere. And, of course he’s very well in with the Ministry of Correctional Services in Beijing.”
“Who are his advisers? Ex-CIA?”
“Ex-World Bank.”
I stare at him for a moment, shake my head, and turn the doorknob.
“What’s your next move?” Vikorn says when I’m nearly out the door. He beckons me back in. I close it again.
“Next move? With regard to what? How can any cop investigate a case of triple homicide when my own boss doesn’t give a damn because it isn’t going to affect his election chances because he’s given up on organ trafficking as a campaign theme? Anyway, we know who did it. If I arrest Manu, Zinna will go ballistic-is that what you want?”
“It’s become important that you find out more,” the Colonel says, making eye contact for the first time since I got back from Phuket.
“May I ask why?”
“I have a feeling someone in China has become aware of you. If they call, follow up on the contact.”
I shake my head, shrug, get up to leave. At the door he stops me with a cough. He taps his nose. “I wouldn’t let on to other detectives in other lands that you’ve found out who pulled the trigger-you know how lazy cops can get when they’re certain who done it. There are depths to this thing designed just for you.”
“Ah, okay.”
“In fact, how about we make it an order. You don’t tell anyone about the whore’s evidence.”
“Yes, sir.”
I have no idea what he’s talking about, but I nod knowingly, leave, and close the door behind me. Then I count to ten, and on one of those impulses born of long intimacy with an alpha personality, I silently turn the handle and open it a crack. Yep, there he is, the master of the universe, standing at his window puffing on a Churchill cigar.
24
I’m at one of the cooked-food stalls in the street outside the station when my cell phone rings. When I check the window, I see it is a “private number,” meaning no one close to me: if it was Chanya or Vikorn, the phone would definitely let me know. I look at the screen for a moment and realize the phone is the only thing in my life that I have under control right now. It seems natural for me to exercise my sovereignty by pressing the “silent” button; now the caller is holding his/her cell to their ear thinking they’re making a noise in my life when actually they’re suffering from the great delusion of our times: that someone is listening. After a minute or so the caller gives up, and I restore the ring tone.
Now the thing starts again. I stare at the screen: “private number.” I press “silent.” The caller gives up. I restore the ring tone. The caller calls again. On the fifth attempt, I start to weaken. Suppose it’s important? I check to see how long the caller is prepared to go on ringing into emptiness: three minutes this time. Maybe it is important? I decide to see if they’ll go to nine attempts, nine being a lucky number over here. Yep. To fulfill my conditions for accepting their call, I decide they must wait until they’re at two and a half minutes on the ninth call. Would you believe, they gave up after a minute and a half? Now I’m wondering who the hell it was and wishing they’d ring back.
I’ve finished my somtam, paid, and I’m strolling down the street-when it rings again. I press the pickup button. Now a woman is speaking urgently into my left ear, but I don’t understand a word. I scratch my jaw, trying to identify the language. It must be a Chinese dialect because there are a lot of x — type vowels, which can sound seductively soft one moment, then make you wonder if the speaker has a cockroach stuck in her throat the next. Got it: Shanghainese. I speak very slowly in English: “I do not understand a word you are saying,” and hang up.
The caller must have my number on autodial, because it starts ringing again faster than anyone could plug the numbers into a cell phone. I say, “Yes.”
“Is that the Honorable Detective Sonchai Jitpleecheep?”
Now the voice is male, Chinese. The English seems almost perfect, despite the literal translation from formal Chinese. “Yes.”
“Honorable Detective, I am Detective Sun Bin from Shanghai Yangpu District, Thirteenth Precinct.”
My heart has inexplicably skipped a beat. “Yes?”
“Detective, I am not at liberty to tell you how I obtained your private telephone number-”
“Inspector Chan of the Hong Kong police gave it to you, didn’t he?”
“Ah, I’m not too clear about that. Detective, I am calling to see if it would be possible for you and I to collaborate on a matter of mutual interest.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Detective, it has fallen to me to investigate a very sad and tragic case of triple homicide.”
“Where?”
“In Shanghai, Detective. I have become aware of the similar circumstances in which three people died in a case you are brilliantly investigating for the Honorable Royal Thai Police Force.”
“How did you become aware of those circumstances?”
“Ah, I’m not too clear, Honorable Detective. However, I can reveal that in the present case, which occurred in a luxury apartment building here, the victims were all shot in the back of the head and their solid organs were surgically removed with great skill.”
He knows he’s got my attention and lets the silence hang for a moment.
“What gender were your victims?” I ask.
“Two males and one female.”
“Are you sure?”
“Sure.”
I take a deep breath. “Do I come to you, or do you come to me?”
“In my humble opinion the honorable detective, who lives in a country which grants its citizens certain democratic rights, would find it considerably easier to obtain a visa for the PRC than your humble correspondent would find it to visit your honorable country.”
“Where did you learn English?”
“Books and TV.”
“You are a genius.”
“Forgive me, but I cannot accept such a compliment from a giant in the art of detection such as yourself.”
“Did Chan tell you to talk like this when you spoke to me?”
“Ah, I’m not too clear.”
25
“Welcome to the Kingdom of Hu,” Sun Bin says. He is short, slim, and wiry, with a thin face molded by mean streets.
I already know that Hu is the local name for Shanghai because I forgot to bring anything to read for the flight from Bangkok, so I was stuck with the in-flight magazine. That’s about the limit of my knowledge, though. The airport is hypermodern, shiny and high tech, and so is the train into town. Then things start to slow down somewhat. I’ve never seen so many people crammed into the same space. They are everywhere, like a moving jungle where you have to negotiate your way around forests of Homo sapiens and avoid all bottlenecks. Sun Bin is a skilled guide, though, and demonstrates unusual talent for overtaking on bends and exploiting almost invisible openings in great walls of humans.
At the morgue he shows me three cadavers that have been mutilated in exactly the same way as the three on Vulture Peak. He watches closely as I become fascinated by exactly how accurately the atrocities have been replicated, down to the absence of faces and eyes. We exchange glances. I nod. He nods back.