Tom Callaghan - An Autumn Hunting

Instead of returning to Nana Plaza we drove for an hour until the city sprawl began to give way to the occasional patch of green. Finally, we pulled up outside two massive bronze gates set in a high wall topped by broken glass. I was uncomfortably reminded of the villa of Morton Graves, the foreign paedophile I’d killed back in Bishkek. He’d kept his victims in the cellar, where he filmed all kinds of horrors before killing the small boys and girls. I wondered if I was entering a death zone of my own.

The gates opened, we drove through, and they swung shut behind us. There wasn’t going to be an easy way out of here if things turned tense.

I got out of the car and looked around. Another courtyard, but a world away from the one at Nana Plaza. Immaculate areas of lawn, with a narrow stream meandering from one boulder to another, crossed by Japanese-style wooden bridges. A larger lake had stepping stones fashioned from white marble, laid out to resemble nature rather than any human design. One perimeter wall had a water feature set into it, running at irregular intervals to give a pleasing melodic effect. I wasn’t just looking at money and lots of it; I was admiring taste and style.

The villa itself was a single storey, with a veranda running around each side. The walls were wood-slatted to give a sense of tradition, although I was sure reinforced steel lay behind them. As I stared, Quang appeared from the right-hand side, accompanied by the overweight elderly man I’d seen the day before. Quang gave a wai of welcome, which I returned.

‘I thought you might like to begin our discussions in rather more elegant surroundings, Mr Borubaev.’

His use of Mister rather than Inspector was unsettling, as if I’d been demoted in importance, although I was surely no longer a member of the Bishkek Murder Squad, or indeed, the police force. It was a ploy to show our relative status, and despite myself, I could see it worked.

The driver frisked me, with particular emphasis on the sleeve of my suit, as if I imagined I could hide a steak knife there twice. I was glad I’d hidden the mobile; I suspected Quang would not approve of me carrying it. Straightening my jacket, I followed Quang and the old man into the villa.

I’d heard about the Jim Thompson House in central Bangkok, had even promised myself a visit if I could manage it. Quang’s house contained sculptures of inscrutable heads staring out with empty eyes, ornate carved wooden traditional furniture, even exquisite silk drapes and wall hangings. I had no doubt everything was of the highest quality and immensely valuable, like living in one’s own private museum. After all, what was the point of being Thailand’s most successful drugs overlord if you couldn’t spend your money on the best in life?

‘First, may I offer you some breakfast?’ Quang asked. ‘We have a local speciality, joke , a jasmine rice congee, although my chef has omitted the marinated pork out of respect for you.’

I didn’t explain I wasn’t a Muslim; I figured the less Quang knew about me, the fewer flaws he could find in my story when he sat down to pick it apart.

I shook my head, thanked him for his hospitality, asked for tea.

‘I know you are a very important and busy man, Khun Quang, and I don’t wish to take up any more of your valuable time than I have to.’

‘As you wish, let us begin,’ Quang said, gesturing towards a beautiful rosewood conference table that cost more than my apartment in Bishkek. As we sat down, a servant entered, pouring each of us a cup of tea and a glass of water. Quang smelt the aroma of the tea with an appreciative smile.

‘Lapsang souchong, from Fujian in China. You’re familiar with it?’

I shook my head: in Kyrgyzstan we’re more used to iced tea from Lipton, or fermented mare’s milk.

‘A weakness of mine, I’m afraid, and rather expensive. But then, the best usually is, don’t you find?’

The tea tasted of pencil shavings.

‘As you know, I have no faith that modern communications cannot be intercepted. What man invents, man can decipher. I never conduct business online, by telephone or any other means that can be recorded, copied, or used against me.’

He took a sip of his tea, nodded approval.

‘The reputation of your superior, Mr Kanybek, precedes him, although we have never met. He does not wish to visit Bangkok, and I – forgive me – don’t find your northern cold and snow to my taste.’

‘I understand,’ I said, noting the use of ‘superior’ to put both Aliyev and myself in our respective places.

‘He knows that to contact me at all requires a whole series of cut-outs and go-betweens,’ Quang continued, ‘and even then I will only discuss matters that may compromise me on a face-to-face basis.’

‘ Pakhan Kanybek shares your sentiments,’ I replied. ‘He believes the snow leopard stays alive from the hunters by remaining out of their sight. That’s why I have been sent here, to act as his personal emissary, pouring his words into your ear.’

Quang listened intently, while the old man sat nearby on a sofa, apparently asleep.

‘We both share similar retail interests, although we serve different markets,’ I began.

‘Heroin,’ Quang interrupted. I paused, uncertain how to continue.

‘Don’t worry,’ he continued, ‘this house is entirely secure, scanned every day for listening devices in every room. The windows are vibration-free, so sound waves from conversations cannot be intercepted. My staff are all absolutely loyal, knowing as they do that any lapse on their part would result in the torture and death of their entire family, immediate and extended. And needless to say, I have certain financial arrangements in place with senior police officials and army officers. Please continue.’

‘The one market that causes you some problems is the former Soviet Union,’ I said. ‘You supply large quantities of extremely high-grade heroin, and your shipping and distribution networks are the finest in the world. But the very quality of your product causes problems in our market.’

‘Please go on,’ Quang said.

‘Quite simply, the addicts in our market are poor and indiscriminate about the drugs they take. You will have heard of krokodil , I’m sure?’

Quang nodded, and the old man turned to look at me, before shutting his eyes and resuming his slumbers.

‘Easy to make, no smuggling or transportation costs, essentially home-made so no need to generate a profit margin except to make enough to sell to pay for the ingredients. And more to the point, it’s fatal in a very short period of time. The customers who use krokodil die off even quicker than they can be replaced, or weaned away onto purer, safer drugs.’

‘As you say, that’s your market, not mine.’

‘A major problem of the Afghan trade is that it’s become harder to reach the more lucrative markets. A greater clampdown by the West, drones watching smuggling convoys headed west, political pressure backed by promises of aid or bribes to wipe out the poppy fields.’

Quang said nothing, simply templed his fingers together, stared at me.

‘It’s easier to send shipments east, transport them through Tajikistan and from there to Osh, my country’s second city. The mountains are spattered with unofficial paths, littered with border guards who can earn a year’s money by going for a piss behind the border hut at the right time.’

Quang shrugged.

‘And?’

‘The worldwide market is expanding,’ I said. ‘Look at the way opium production has tripled in the Golden Triangle in the last decade. But prices haven’t dropped significantly.’

‘I know all this, Mr Borubaev,’ Quang said, impatience clear in his voice. ‘I’m waiting to hear your proposal. As you said earlier, I’m a busy man.’