John Burdett - Bangkok 8

The TV screen is blank. Vikorn is looking at me with an expression of almost academic-and drunken-curiosity. "My brother talked about you and Pichai quite a lot. He said you were both very talented in different ways. He said your problem was your total lack of identity. You can be anyone you like, literally, but only for short periods of time. Who were you just then, the victim?"

"Fatima, the first time she watched the tape," I mutter, ashamed of my weakness.

To my surprise the Colonel puts his arm around me. "It's okay."

A pause. I say: "I'll have to bring her in, won't I?"

This question ages him still further. The skin under his strong jaw slackens somewhat. Now I can see the reptile in him: loose-skinned, prehistoric, cunning. This is the real punishment. Not rebirth in the body of an animal, but the eternal headache of trying to manipulate his way out of the consequences of his greed. With infinite weariness: "I suppose so."

"Want to help?"

"How can I?"

"The Chinese?"

He nods and grasps my arm. "Everything depends on them. If they choose to protect their man, we're finished, all of us. Fatima will broadcast the tape over the Internet and go ballistic. Who knows what she'll do? They took her humanity away-what has she got to lose? The Khmer will stand by her, they don't have anything to lose either. There'll be a bloodbath."

At the door he reminds me of a toad, shrunken. A helpless gesture, then he grasps my arm again and a new light comes into his eyes. "The jeweler is a sick man, but he's also a genius. You should have seen him in his prime. The Chiu Chow love him. How d'you think I did so well myself? Everything comes out of Chinatown, you know? We Thais are only good for fucking, fighting, drinking and dying. That's what Warren taught me-and his Chinese friends." A long pause. "They were great days. The mountains of Laos are true Buddha country. Green, thick with mist in the morning, we used to climb like that"-a steep gesture with the palm of his hand-"until we reached six, eight, ten thousand feet. The air starts to get thin then, and it's ice cold. Pat would start his damned tape with 'The Ride of the Valkyries'-that was the first time I realized a farang might love a Thai. We crash-landed twice with bullet holes all over the plane. I shit in my pants, but that American aviator was like a superman. We got back to Long Tien somehow. The Hmong were wonderful, too. How could anyone understand the innocence of the opium trade? Warren was good to the Hmong, he forced his friends the Chiu Chow to pay top dollar-how about that? Even he had honor in those days."

He stoops when he turns to go back into the house.

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 attache 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 attaches 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.