50
This isn’t a whodunit, is it? More like a whatwillshedonext. While the FBI was here this question pressed on both of us as if it were inevitable that somehow we would reach one of those neat endings the West is so fond of, with all i’s dotted and all t’s crossed. Perhaps we were supposed to walk off into the sunset together, Jones and I, with no nifty Thai skeleton following us around, either? But Warren won at least that battle and I had to go to the airport to see her off last night. We were stiff, affectionate and melancholy all at the same time. Her eyes were pleading when she said, “I’m gonna miss you, Sonchai,” so I had to make my eyes pleading when I said, “I’m gonna miss you too, Kimberley.” Secretly, I lamented that her progress on the Path has not been as great as I might have wished. Of course she’ll be back. In the meantime whatwillfatimadonext has turned into one of those open-ended Thai questions to which one does not necessarily expect an answer in this lifetime. Without that American impatience to drive me forward I’m not sure what, if anything, I myself will do next. Bring her in? The Colonel is reluctant and the possibility of a dastardly murder going unpunished does not enrage me as you probably think it should, farang. Of course I cannot forget Pichai—but did she kill him in any sense beyond the superficial? We all know who really dunit, don’t we? And what, exactly, am I supposed to do about him, that prototypical Western man? And then, of course, there are my almost nightly conferences with my dead soul partner, which I’ve not told you about. These days, apparently, he is not in the least interested in matters arising from the destruction of his chemical body, which, on reflection, he is glad to be rid of. There are plenty of ways of getting in touch, he tells me mysteriously while we share the twilight zone between waking and sleeping.
For a brief moment I think the United States of America will rescue me from this dilemma after all. Out of the blue I’m invited—summoned is probably a better word—to my second home, the U.S. Embassy on Wireless Road. I do not fail to notice a subtle increase in my respect quotient as I pass my friend on security at the gate—mixed with a fairly blatant splash of curiosity, I might add. Then my old companion from ancient times Katherine White arrives with the news that I am not going to the office of the FBI legal attaché this time, but—a quick scan of my face to check that I’m fully cognizant of the honor I’m about to receive—to the ambassador’s suite. A brisk march through those parts of the embassy designed to welcome kings and princes.
The ambassador and her deputy are both female and, ethnic origin aside, might have been cut from the same pattern of tall, slim women in their late forties with long arms, brisk manners and tones of voice which assume obedience. The ambassador is white and her deputy is black. I have been shown into the meeting after the massacre. I can almost see the careers of Rosen and Nape lying bloody and broken on the carpet. Nape is relying on what is left of his youth and options to see him through the meeting, but Rosen looks depressed. They are standing around a desk bigger than a king-size bed; only the ambassador is seated. Behind her the American flag hangs by a window at a slant and behind it lie the manicured gardens of the embassy. The deputy ambassador stands to one side.
Graciously, the ambassador stands as I approach and shakes my hand while Rosen makes the introductions. I wonder if her politeness is a form of reproach to the others.
“Well, I guess you know the main business of the hour, Detective?”
“Is it that Mr. Sylvester Warren has disappeared?”
“You got it. I’ve had faxes, phone calls and e-mails from two senators already, a call from the White House, an urgent fax from his lawyer in New York and some stuff from his staff.” A glance at her watch, then at the deputy. “But I’ve got the Queen at noon, then I’ve got that flight to Tokyo. So I’m gonna leave it all to you. You can carry on in here, no point moving everyone to another room. Sorry to be leaving just when you’ve arrived, Detective. I sure hope you can help us. Your Colonel Vikorn was very complimentary about you over the phone this morning. He says you’ll find him.” A quick scan of my face. “That could be a very high priority.” A last glance and nod at the deputy and she strode out of the room via a door near her desk.
“Well, I guess we can all sit down,” the deputy says. We move across the room to a set of chairs and sofas around a coffee table. “Let me just run through the points the ambassador made, for the sake of the detective.” A steady glance at me with two fingers raised. “Two possibilities, Detective. Either it’s terrorism or it’s not. We’ve got just a few hours to decide. On the one hand, Sylvester Warren is a high-profile American known to visit this country monthly. He’s friends with presidents and heads of state and is probably as well known in Southeast Asia as he is in the States. Maybe more so. This country has a sizable Muslim population. Just south of us, in Malaysia and Indonesia, we find the most populous Muslim countries in the world, with a fair number of extremist factions. The borders are porous, anyone can enter by land or sea. I don’t need to tell you the connections people are going to start making. You see the issue, Detective? It’s as much diplomacy as forensic investigation. The reason we have legal attachés is that those two disciplines get confused from time to time, and we like to have a little warning when that is about to happen.” A tightening of the lips as she scans the others.
We are doing American Grim, a genre with which I am unfamiliar. There is an implication, apparently, that the sterner you make your mood the more likely you are to solve the problem. But what problem? It takes me quite a while to realize that behind the fa?ade of Grim we are acting out a pantomime with which I am thoroughly familiar. The laws of bureaucracy are much like the laws of physics it seems, they are identical in every corner of the earth. I see it now: I am here in the ambassador’s splendid office for the sake of form. There will be a minute recording the fact that the ambassador herself and her deputy both personally interviewed Detective Jitpleecheep, following the alarming news of Warren’s disappearance. Having satisfied themselves that no act of terrorism seemed to be implied, they had no choice but to allow the local police to investigate in their own way, in partnership with the FBI legal attachés, to whom a stern (grim) reprimand was given for their apparent laxness in failing to protect a high-profile American citizen. In parallel with the open minute, there will be a secret memo recording the fact that Warren is a psychotic sleazebag who is probably tied up in a wooden shack somewhere getting what he deserves, without risk to American security or any other U.S. citizen in Southeast Asia.
“This is a matter we are taking extremely seriously,” I say slowly, in case someone wants to quote me.
The deputy is astute and gives me a surprisingly cute smile. “I’m relieved to hear it,” she says, also slowly.
“We are satisfied that there are no terrorist implications in this case.”
Nape almost smirks and Rosen is clearly shocked that a non-American knows how to play this game. “I can endorse that,” he says, engaging the deputy’s eyes with pathological sincerity.
In theory we could end it there, but it’s a bit short and the meeting cries out for padding. Anyway, I’m suddenly in the mood to show off. It’s been a while, but the mind-set is strangely addictive.
“Whilst Thailand is a humane Buddhist society committed to human rights and the dignity of its citizens, the wealthier countries of the world must appreciate we do not always have the resources to meet those high standards of law enforcement which, frankly, are a luxury afforded only by those countries which industrialized first.”
Rapid blinks from the deputy until she has understood what I’m doing. “Can I quote you on that?”
“Absolutely.”
A nod to Rosen, who nods to Nape, who takes out a ballpoint pen.
Now the interview is over and it seems everyone is delighted that the local cop is so learned in the noble art of ass-protection. Nape insists on accompanying me back to Thailand. At the gate he says: “That katoy’s got him, hasn’t she? Think there’ll be anything left by the time she’s finished? Maybe a thumb and a couple of kneecaps?”
I stare at him for a long moment, then hail a motorcycle taxi.
Back in my hovel I roll a joint. It is 12:56 p.m. by the clock glyph on my mobile.