‘You want to work for me for about a week?’
‘A week? Do what?’
‘Translate for me.’
‘Everybody here speak English. And you speak Thai,’ Sy said.
Hatcher nodded. ‘Yeah but not Sabai-dii. You get me around, tell me about people. Help me get things done. No problems.’
‘Ahh. No problems,’ Sy said, and suddenly he understood what he was being hired for. ‘Mai pen rai.’
‘That’s right, mai pen rai,’ Hatcher agreed. ‘So how much?’
‘Every day. All the time?’
‘I sleep late,’ Hatcher said with a smile.
Sy chuckled and nodded slowly. ‘I gotcha. Sleep late, stay up late.’
‘That’s about it.’
Sy, his hands folded behind his back, paced back and forth in front of Hatcher, his forehead wrinkled in a frown. ‘I will have a fight tomorrow night, so I cannot work then.’
‘Okay.’
‘And I must do my moves each afternoon.’
‘I understand,’ said Hatcher. ‘Where do you fight?’
‘Everywhere. Tomorrow at the Royal Park near Wat Phat,’ he said proudly. ‘If I get good enough, someday I will become a member of the King’s guard.’
‘That’s what you want, huh, to be a King’s guard?’
‘Yes. I have asked Buddha for that gift every day for twelve years. I wear the hai-huang and tattoo to guide me to that job.’
He reached inside his shirt and took out a circular brass ornament on the end of a silver chain. A reclining Buddha was engraved in its center. The Thais were big on amulets, which they called hai-huang, meaning ‘worries away,’ and some had amulets for every occasion. There were stalls and shops that specialized in amulets near all of the four hundred wats in Bangkok.
‘That’s a handsome hai-huang,’ said Hatcher. ‘Okay, I’m sure we can find thirty minutes for you to practice every day. Maybe I’ll even go to the fights with you.’
‘I will get you ticket,’ the driver said excitedly, thrusting his leg out to the side in two hard kicks.
‘Okay, so how much?’ Hatcher asked again.
Sy stopped and held out his hand, the fingers splayed out. ‘Fi’ dollars, American bucks.’
‘An hour?’ Hatcher said.
‘All day.’
‘Five dollars a day?’ Hatcher said with surprise.
‘And I eat.’
‘Right. Five dollars a day and meals.’
‘Chai,’ the little Thai said.
‘You’re worth more.’
‘More?’
‘Twenty bucks a day.’
‘A day!’ Sy said, his eyes growing twice their size. Hatcher nodded.
‘I am rich man,’ said the delighted Sy. ‘I will rent a car.’
‘Can you drive a car?’
‘Sure, okay.’
‘Okay, I’ll throw in the car,’ said Hatcher.
‘Throw in?’
‘I’ll rent the car.’
‘A jeep?’ Sy said excitedly.
‘No, something better.’
‘Jeep is good. Take bumps good.’
‘Too hard on the ass,’ Hatcher whispered. ‘And too hot.’
‘Merkedes?’ Sy said, coming down hard on the c.
‘How about a chevy?’
‘Chevy? Ah, Chevrolet?’
‘Chai,’ Hatcher answered.
‘Okay,’ Sy answered with a shrug.
‘Okay, here’s what we do. We’re going to the police station. Then we’re going back to my hotel, rent a car and then I’m going to study some reports for an hour or two. You can practice. There’s a small park across from the hotel. Then you and me, we’ll check out Bangkok.’
Major Tan Ngy stood behind the desk, his hands clasped behind his back, his face a mask, staring at the memorandum that lay in front of him. He was annoyed, annoyed that the chief had ordered him to cooperate with the Americans, annoyed that the Americans had even asked to interfere with the business of the Bangkok police. And that’s what the American was coming for, to interfere.
Why was it that the Americans always felt they could step in and take over? No matter where they were in the world, they expected reports — and authority — to be handed over to them, just like that. The death of the American intelligence officer, Porter, was a local police matter, a homicide on the streets f Bangkok. It was not the business of the United States Army or military intelligence or this Hatcher. It was his business. Ngy was head of the homicide division of the Bangkok police and he had nothing against Americans in general, but he did not like their interfering in his business.
Ngy was an excellent police officer, tough, resilient, uncompromising and honest, all of which had earned him the nickname the Mongoose. The Mongoose did not need Americans snooping around, implying that his investigative abilities were inferior or inadequate.
That was the worst part about it — he had nothing to report. His investigation was stymied. The trail was growing colder by the day, and Ngy knew that with each passing hour the killers moved a little farther out of reach. Now the Yankee would come in and offer to solve the matter, just like that. He had dealt with Americans before. Arrogant. Presumptuous. Conceited. Superior. And yet he would have to be almost obsequious. The chief’s memo was quite clear about that. Be friendly, it said. Not just courteous, friendly!
It was not going to be a good day.
He looked at his watch. Fifteen minutes. In fifteen minutes the American would arrive. Oh, he would be prompt. My God, were these people never late? He would make the usual salutatory comments. He would be patronizing. He would smile a lot. Then he would offer to assist the local police. It was always assist.
At two minutes before the hour, Ngy’s assistant tapped on his door and almost reverently announced the arrival of Hatcher.
Ngy walked over very close to the police sergeant. ‘He is an American Army officer, not the president of the United States,’ he hissed under his breath.
‘Y-y-yes, sir,’ the sergeant stammered, surprised at the major’s subdued but vehement outburst.
‘Show him in,’ Ngy said, marching back to his desk.
Hatcher approached the meeting with the same anxieties as Ngy. He didn’t want to stir up anything. He wanted the Americans to stay off the case, but he wanted copies of the police reports and a sense of their progress. He wasn’t sure just how to pull that off without raising Ngy’s suspicions. But he was sure that he would not mention Wol Pot, Cody, Thai Horse or any other aspect of the case.
Hatcher was surprised at how big the office was. This was, after all, the office of a homicide cop, not the prime minister. It was a high room, hollow-sounding, with spotless tiled floors, its sparse furniture polished and free of dust and blemishes. Papers fluttered listlessly on desks, stirred by the ceiling fan. The sounds of traffic and bells ringing and people moving were a murmur from behind closed shutters.
The major was short and trim, neatly dressed in a khaki business suit, a pale blue shirt and a yellow tie. His mustache and hair were trimmed with infinite care, his nails were manicured, his black boots buffed to a blinding shine. His face was a mask, revealing neither pleasure nor pain, surprise nor ennui, friendliness nor antagonism.
Murder at a poker table, thought Hatcher.
Hatcher knew all about him. He had worked his way up through the ranks, attended the American FBI training academy, spent six months working with police in New York City, had once been part of a team that had tracked heroin movements from the Golden Triangle into Malaysia, a team comprised mostly of U.S. Drug Enforcement agents. His arrest record was the envy of most department heads.
Ngy was a precise man, it wasn’t hard to tell. Everything about him was precise. The way he was dressed. His office. His desk! Everything on it was arranged in perfect geometric patterns, letters, pens, blotters, phone, all in tight little squares.
Precise, precise, precise. A man with a big ego and one easily bruised. Hatcher would have to be
very careful dealing with this cop whose underlings, behind his back, called him the Mongoose.
‘Major,’ Hatcher said in his most sincere tone, ‘I’m Hatcher. Can’t tell you how much I appreciate your time.’
Ngy’s smile struggled not to be a sneer. 1t is my pleasure, Colonel,’ he said earnestly. ‘I am embarrassed that such a thing could happen here. I had hoped Bangkok was more civilized.’
Uh-oh, thought Hatcher, he’s having trouble with it.
‘These things happen,’ Hatcher said. ‘Do you think robbery was the motive?’
Aha, fishing, thought Ngy. He’s being subtle. Well, it won’t hurt to give him a little bit.
‘No,’ Ngy answered. ‘Nothing was taken. It appears he stepped into a fight and was killed for his trouble. There are witnesses who saw the whole thing.’
This is a smart cop, thought Hatcher. If there are witnesses he’s picked them clean., no need for me to appear interested. That’ll throw him off a little.
Hatcher decided to give him a little something in return.
‘That sounds just like Windy — that was his nickname, Windy — anyway, he was that kind, always ready to help someone in trouble.’
Ngy nodded, still smiling. ‘I see,’ he said. He seems to be leading me down this dead end, thought the Thai policeman, a chance killing. Didn’t he know that Ngy knew that Porter was an intelligence officer? Intelligence officers were not likely to be killed by chance.
‘Ironic, isn’t it,’ Hatcher went on, ‘an intelligence officer getting killed like that. He . . . deserved . . . I don’t know, a more . . . exotic death.’
Clever! thought Ngy. That clears the air about Porter’s job. He poses the problem and then answers it. What is the game here?
‘Well, we haven’t ruled out other considerations yet,’ Ngy said. ‘It’s just that from all the surface evidence it appears he was just an unfortunate good Samaritan.’
Is he here because he knows something we don’t know? thought Ngy. Perhaps Porter was on some questionable intelligence job and Hatcher is here to find out how much we know. Ngy decided to drop his hook a little deeper. ‘Was he . . . uh, involved in anything that might have a bearing on the case?’ Ngy asked.
Hatcher shook his head. Good, thought Hatcher, he doesn’t know a thing. He’s really fishing now.
‘No, actually his job was pretty much confined to embassy security. He wasn’t a working field agent. Windy was close to retirement. This was considered a kind of easy job to go out on.’
Ngy thought, Do I trust him? If what he says is true, then the Porter case could very likely be a chance encounter that ended in death. It would make the lack of arrests somewhat more palatable to his superiors.
‘Well, rest assured we are doing everything in our power to find the killers. We have adequate descriptions of both of them, and the man in the other boat.’
‘Other boat?’
Well, obviously he hasn’t spent a lot of time on this matter, thought Ngy. Even the papers had reported that there was a man in the other boat. I’ll give him some more free information. See how he reacts.
‘The one who seemed to be the intended victim,’ Ngy said. ‘He jumped in the river when this all started. It could very well be some kind of grudge fight between Street gangs and your Major Porter stumbled on to it. There was also a prostitute involved — but there was no implication that the major even knew her. I assure you we don’t suspect any connection between them.’
‘Thank God for that. This has been rough enough on his wife.’
Ngy thought, perhaps he can help with the note. He reached into the folder and tool out a five-by-seven sheet of lined three-ring notebook paper. It was stiff and faded and the blue ink was smeared.
‘We found this,’ Ngy offered. ‘But even our handwriting experts cannot decipher what was written on it.’
Hatcher looked closely at the paper, turned it over and looked at the back. It was the page from Porter’s diary on the day he died. He dropped it back on Ngy’s desk, not wanting to seem too eager.
‘Probably his grocery list,’ Hatcher said with a chuckle.
‘Probably,’ Ngy said with an equally forced smile.
‘Perhaps I could show this to some of his associates. I may be able to turn something up that will help you.’
Ngy was immediately suspicious again. But he decided his fears were unfounded. This Hatcher appeared to have no interest in the case other than to officially report he had looked into it. Thus far he had made no attempt to interfere. Ngy decided a concession or two would be all right.
‘I see no problem there,’ Ngy said with a smile.
Okay, thought Hatcher, now comes the breakthrough. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Well, I know you’re busy.
I’m here really to see that the remains get back safely. Let the family know that the police are working on it. You know how it is, they’re on the other side of the world. . .
Ngy nodded vigorously. Why not put him at ease, he thought, get rid of him once and for all.
‘Perhaps,’ said Ngy, ‘it might help if you took a copy of the investigation report back to the family. Let them know that we’re doing everything possible.’
Hatcher could hardly contain his joy. Point, game, match, set.
‘Excellent idea, Major. I’m sure it will help.’
Harmless, thought Ngy after Hatcher had left. Apparently the Americans trusted Ngy’s handling of the case.
Sy and Hatcher returned to the hotel, where Hatcher rented a dark blue two door Chevy sedan. Then he went up to his room, ordered a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and a pot of Thai tea. He turned up the air conditioning, turned on the ceiling fan, peeled off his shirt, poured himself a cup of tea and laced it with whiskey, and sat down on the rattan sofa with all the files spread out on a coffee table.
The report was short and simple and told him very little. Witnesses reported that a man had made an arrangement with a prostitute named Sukhaii who worked on the Phadung Klong near New Road market. While they were in the cabin of her boat, a hang-yao approached and two men got out and started to board the boat adjoining Sukhaii’s. The American, Windy Porter, apparently went to the aid of the prostitute and was stabbed by one of these men. He fell overboard and his body was retrieved quickly by several boat people. The man with Sukhaii jumped over board and escaped the scene. The killers escaped in the hang yao, which was later recovered with its owner, who also had been stabbed to death. The autopsy showed two stab wounds, one in the lower right chest, the other straight down into his neck, by a thin blade knife that had coursed down seven inches and pierced the heart.
It could be coincidence, thought Hatcher, that the killers had used a killing thrust that had become a trademark of the Chiu Chaos.
The officers making the report assumed that the two intruders were attempting to rob the prostitute and her mark and Porter unfortunately had interceded. Descriptions were vague. one of the killers was described as ‘a Chinese man with a streak down the side of his face and a bad eye.’
Police had been unsuccessful in locating the mark who had jumped overboard and swum for his life. Sukhaii had given them an insignificant description of him — five six, 150 pounds, brown eyes, black hair, narrow face. No name. According to the report, the killers had said nothing to her.
Was it Wol Pot? If so, why 1id Porter mix it up with the two men who were obviously after the ex-Vietnam prison commander? Perhaps it was simply chivalry. More likely, Porter knew that if they lost Wol Pot they would also lose Cody. So he’d tried to help out.
Hatcher pored over every slip of paper, writing down anything that seemed significant. There were more than a dozen locations mentioned in the daily diaries, although it appeared that Porter practiced a very simple surveillance and did not ask any questions about Wol Pot or Taisung or whatever the hell his name was.
He added to his list every location that was mentioned more than once, including the American Deli. Porter had been there three times, once with a
notation:
‘Ate lunch while observing subject from across the street.’ He also had attended several sporting events, including the horse races and boxing matches.
Hatcher also added to the list ‘Tombstone’ and ‘The Longhorn,’ the two locations mentioned to Daphne by the ex-GI at the Ts’e K’am Men Ti battle. When he was finished he had a list of fifteen or twenty locations. Then be started checking them more carefully, trying to form some kind of profile of this Wol Pot in his mind.
As soon as Hatcher was gone, Sloan left the hotel and took an air-conditioned limo to the embassy. He signed the necessary papers and made the :necessary arrangements to ship Major Porter’s earthly remains to San Francisco on an Army transport leaving the next day. In all, the Porter business took a couple of hours. He lunched with Harvey Kendall, a diplomat familiar with DEA and NSA operations in the area, and made small talk for an hour.
Then he took a tuk-tuk to Yawaraj. Driving into Chinese Town was like entering the wide end of a funnel. They went down one twisting, tortuous street to another and then to an alley suffocated by row shops and then another alley, even more claustrophobic, and from there to its dead end at the river.
The old man who ushered Sloan through the innocuous-looking door was as old and wasted as the doorman the previous night. His eyes were unfocused burned-out coals, his face was caved in and as wrinkled as a pitted prune, and he was skeletal.
The timbers and slats were webbed by spiders. The old place creaked and groaned with age. Below him, Sloan could see the desk and, behind it, cubicle after cubicle. Faintly, he could hear an occasional cough, and softly, far back in the room, a vague tenor voice was crooning an Irish lullaby. The old man led Sloan down the rickety wooden stairwell into the den, into smoke that swirled in wispy whirlpools under a broad ceiling fan that hung on the end of a long, 1ender pole, which vanished up into darkness. The sweet mown-grass odor of opium drifted up the stairway, and Sloan’s mouth went dry with anticipation.