John Burdett - Bangkok 8

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 facade 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 attaches, 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.

Waiting is difficult only for those beset by the delusion of time. Dope helps, of course. Weeks have passed, Jones has called me three times from the States, each time on a Sunday. The loneliness of farangs is a wasting disease for which, the FBI will sooner or later realize, Thailand may be the only cure. The sensation of somehow following in the footsteps of my mother is deeply disturbing to me, but I don't let it get me down. After all, there is plenty to do. Nong's bar has already opened unofficially and is doing astonishingly well. There are accounts to check, board meetings to attend, provisions to order. Then the call comes.

Dr. Surichai is taut and formal over the telephone, using neither his bedside manner nor his fashionably sleazy tone. I think this is the voice he uses in directors' meetings at the hospital, when the nitty-gritty of balance sheets is being discussed. He says very little, indeed I have the feeling he would rather not be making the call at all. At the request of his patient he is inviting me to his home on Soi 30 Sukhumvit, very close to the Emporium shopping mall.

It is a mansion rather than a house, with an electric gate and uniformed security. In addition to the doctor's own guards, a half dozen well-dressed Chinese men stand around looking sullen and alert. One of them barks out something in what I think is the Chiu Chow dialect when I arrive, no doubt telling the others not to reach for the bulges under their jackets. A maidservant lets me into the house and shows me into a large salon where I sit on a sofa and wait. Surichai emerges from a corridor in a sleeveless canary-yellow cardigan and slacks, with a slight frown on his face, holding a single sheet of paper on which a statement is written in Thai script, with an elegant signature in Western script at the end. I study it carefully, hand it back to him with a nod, not entirely surprised. It seems the contending parties have reached one of those Oriental solutions which would be unthinkable in the option-starved West.

"I was asked to take him in as a patient in my home. Obviously, he doesn't want to be anywhere public. I've had to bring a lot of equipment from the hospital. Now, for some reason he wants to see you. This sort of thing can cause enormous and radical personality changes. He's decided you might be the only person in the world who understands him. Has he been a close friend of yours?"

Surichai's brisk manner has irritated me and I don't bother to answer his question. "He did a deal with Fatima?"

"His friends did. These Chiu Chow who have invaded my house. You've no idea how medieval the Chinese mind can be. They're not modern people at all. The way they see it, the solution to the kind of sex problem their friend Warren has is very simple, even if the cure is somewhat radical and-dare I say-Forbidden City-ish. Fatima put them in a fix. If they let her kill him, it would look bad for them, even suggest they didn't have the power to protect their man. If they protected him, she would destroy him anyway by broadcasting that tape over the Net, and perhaps setting her Khmer loose. This was a compromise even Warren agreed to, as witnessed by his signature on that bit of paper. Of course, it was that or die. Fatima consented after he'd put more than half his fortune in her name. She must be the richest woman in Thailand. Maybe the wealthiest transsexual in the world. You better come through. I operated yesterday. He's still very weak, but as I say the main thing is the total personality change. Mentally I'm afraid he's very unstable. You'll see." A pause. "He went into shock immediately after I operated. I had to pump him full of tranquilizers or he would have died. Even then his vital functions were suspended for a couple of minutes." He examines my face for a moment, checking me for some kind of understanding, but I have no idea what he is hinting at.

Down a corridor surprisingly wide for a private house, on the walls of which I'm impressed to see original oil paintings of nineteenth-century Krung Thep. We take a left turn into what must be a late addition to the building and enter a solarium built of steel and glass, the views of the garden mostly obscured by wall-to-wall curtains. The head on the pillow is almost unrecognizable; not that the features have changed but because the personality inhabiting this body bears almost no resemblance to that of the former tenant. As a student of the Path this transformation is fascinating to me: the new resident has inherited a body and collection of memory cells with which it is unfamiliar, and of which it must try to make sense. A weaker spirit would have had a nervous breakdown, but this one has simply chosen to go haywire.

He motions weakly with his hand for me to sit down on a chair near the bed. "Welcome, my dear friend," he says in Thai. I'm startled almost out of my skin: that was Pichai's voice. The face smiles. In English: "It's okay, I'm still in the twilight zone. Your friend says hello. He's very talented you know. Isn't reality wonderful?"