Bangkok 8 Part 21

"Well, Bill wasn't doing as well as he expected with his yaa baa yaa baa. The s.h.i.+pment came about every two months. We would go to the domestic airport to collect it. I went with him just in case there was a problem that needed a translator-his Thai never did get beyond the beginner stage. The stuff was sent by some Burmese army general who paid off everyone on the border, and a local syndicate. All Bill had to do was move it from the airport to the squatters under the bridge. They're Karen and have strong connections to the people in the jungle on the border. The syndicate didn't really need Bill except for that one link from the airport to Dao Phrya Bridge. It would have looked strange if a Karen squatter turned up to collect a big s.h.i.+ny steamer trunk every few months, but an American in a Mercedes sort of went with the trunk. But Bill's contribution was not exactly crucial and he wasn't indispensable, so he didn't get paid that well. I didn't know this until quite recently, that he wasn't getting that much money out of the yaa baa yaa baa thing, despite the risk. I mean, if he'd gotten caught they would have put him in Bang Kwan for life, wouldn't they?" thing, despite the risk. I mean, if he'd gotten caught they would have put him in Bang Kwan for life, wouldn't they?"

"Probably. He would have been transferred to the States after five years, but he would have had to do time there as well. He was running a big risk."

"That's right, that's what I told him, a big risk for small bucks. I'm trying to be the good wise wife at this stage. I'm also getting curious. Dr. Surichai and his hospital do not come cheap, and if the yaa baa yaa baa isn't paying that well, and the little bits and pieces he's doing for the jeweler aren't paying that well either, where's the money coming from?" isn't paying that well, and the little bits and pieces he's doing for the jeweler aren't paying that well either, where's the money coming from?"

"Did you have suspicions?"

"Not of what was really going on, no. I knew there was a whole side to Bill that I didn't know about, but I had no idea what that was. For a while I really wondered if he was serious about the jeweler being the devil, or a devil wors.h.i.+per, you know, if there was some kind of black magic they were into. I even wondered if Bill was blackmailing him. I asked him outright a few times, Where are you getting the money for the medicines, Dr. Surichai, the hospital, all that? He would tell me not to worry about it, the money was there."

"But you did find out, somehow?"

Silence. She is sitting on a sofa, I'm sitting in a large armchair.

"You think I killed him, darling?"

"I know you did."

"Little me? How on earth would I manage with all those snakes? Be real, Detective, it would have taken an army of experts."

Then she stands up, exactly as a woman would, elegantly and with an erotic intonation in the way she twists her b.u.t.tocks, which really does seem to be unconscious. In the silence I have to admit it's eerie just how perfectly the operation seems to have worked in her case. No wonder Dr. Surichai is so proud of himself. It is only from this angle, looking almost directly up at her neck, that I can see the tiny scar he talked about. I stand up and she escorts me to the door. The idea of killing her is ridiculous at this moment. I am under her spell and she knows it. She c.o.c.ks her head slightly. In a whisper: "Not going to kill me today?" The question takes me by surprise because I'm sure she read my thoughts. She leans toward me. "Let me kill the jeweler for you, then you can do what you like with me. What do I care?" Suddenly holding my chin and staring into my eyes. "You're an arhat, arhat, why ruin your karma on a senseless vendetta? The world needs you. Let a devil do your killing." why ruin your karma on a senseless vendetta? The world needs you. Let a devil do your killing."

I try to move but she holds my s.h.i.+rtsleeve in a hand suddenly turned into a claw. "The first time you saw me, in the shop, you knew, didn't you? I'm the other half of what you are, darling, if one of us is in the world, so must the other be. I'm your dark side. I think you realize that. Kill me if you like, but then you kill yourself."

She opens the door and suddenly I'm outside again, between the Chinese door G.o.ds. There is no time to ask her about the apartment, which she bought outright in her own name according to the clerk in the Lands Department, or the priceless furnis.h.i.+ngs. The cost of the penthouse was twenty million baht, or half a million dollars, but the jade collection-on display on a Chinese temple table in polished blackwood-would have been worth more than that. Then there were all the other artifacts from Warren's shop, artistically placed on pedestals, antique tables, or just left on the floor where one might easily kick them by accident if one were not careful.

I am left thinking how easy it would have been to kill her. The thought that I may have failed Pichai threatens to depress me. It is only counterbalanced by the opposite possibility, that she has charmed him too.

44.

Yesterday my mother sent a messenger to the station with samples, for the Colonel and me, of the new T-s.h.i.+rts and tank tops she has designed. The motif is identical in both cases: under the main legend in burning scarlet-THE OLD MAN'S CLUB-the subtext in black italics: Rods of Iron Rods of Iron. She employed a professional cartoonist to produce a convincing caricature of senior prurience: stooped but muscular, bald but sprouting pubic hair from his chin, tongue hanging out. The Colonel sent for me to ask what I think. Filial loyalty (read: a childhood of relentless brainwas.h.i.+ng and emotional blackmail of the lowest kind) obliges me to opine that it is the work of genius.

He takes the T-s.h.i.+rt in both hands and presses it against me. I have to hold it up as he stands back. "Farangs go for this sort of thing? It's so . . . so ugly." go for this sort of thing? It's so . . . so ugly."

"It's the way they are. If you give them a traditional Thai men's club they'll be intimidated."

"Really?" For a moment he stands confused, stranded in an alien psychology. "It's not important that some of the customers will actually look like that?"

"That's the point. It makes them feel more secure."

A slow nod of understanding, or at least acceptance. "By the way, your mother and I are giving you ten percent of the shares in the business. She wants you in as a family member, and I can see the advantage of not having you pa.s.sing heavy judgments on us when you go through one of your devout phases."

"I'm afraid I cannot accept. Making money out of women in that way is expressly forbidden by the Buddha."

"So is smoking dope. Anyway, I'm ordering you. Disobeying a superior is also proscribed from the Eightfold Path."

"Then I accept."

I take off the T-s.h.i.+rt and fold it on his table. He unfolds it to take one more look, then, rea.s.sured-if aesthetically challenged-the Colonel nods and lets me go. After all, Mother is the one who took the WSJ WSJ course on the Net. When I reach the door, he calls to me. "Sorry, I forgot. This fax came through from the American emba.s.sy a couple of days ago. It's just one of those dumb profiling things they do in Quantico. I had it translated into Thai, but it's the usual c.r.a.p. Stuff you would know just by thinking about it." course on the Net. When I reach the door, he calls to me. "Sorry, I forgot. This fax came through from the American emba.s.sy a couple of days ago. It's just one of those dumb profiling things they do in Quantico. I had it translated into Thai, but it's the usual c.r.a.p. Stuff you would know just by thinking about it."

I find a quiet corner of the station. The profile is only three pages long and surprisingly free of technical jargon.

Report from the Department of Criminal Profiling, Federal Bureau of Investigation, Quantico, VirginiaCategory of doc.u.ment: Confidential, for distribution only to interested parties (permission is granted for this report to be shared with the Royal Thai Police)Subject: Fatima, a.k.a. Ussiri Thanya, a transs.e.xual who underwent gender rea.s.signment in her late twenties, born and brought up in Thailand. Father an unidentified African American serviceman (probably a draftee during the Vietnam War); mother a prost.i.tute of tribal origin in northwest Thailand, a member of the large Karen group who reside in the border areas. Within the Thai tradition, the subject is believed to have been brought up by her grandmother in the tribal area on the border with Myanmar while her mother continued to work as a prost.i.tute in Bangkok . . .

Just as Vikorn said, the report is nothing one could not work out for oneself. I skip to the last paragraph.

Save for those who experience a deep, personal and lifelong craving for gender rea.s.signment, the long-term effect of surgical removal of the genitals is likely to be of the most appalling psychological devastation.The subject's suspected reaction in murdering Bradley in an elaborate, s.a.d.i.s.tic and clever manner is entirely consistent with our expectations. However, it is highly unlikely that the subject's rage has been a.s.suaged. She turned Bradley into a savior figure, the only human being who differed sufficiently from the others to the extent of being basically benevolent. To him she sacrificed the only possessions to which the world apparently attached value: her genitals. With her betrayal by Bradley she would most likely have ceased to be capable of trust in any form. If to date her behavior (absent the murder of Bradley) has been relatively normal, we believe that she is simply acting from memory, or pursuing a plan of some kind which must be essentially sociopathic. The need to do to the world what the world did to her will be irresistible.

45.

The Correctional Services and Immigration Departments collude to keep a foreigner in quarantine the moment he is released from prison, pending bundling him on a flight back to his own country. The reasons are unclear, for why would a farang farang ex-con be more of a threat to society than the hundreds of Thais who are released from jail every week? The rule is strict, though, and no amount of arguing and pleading on my part gained me access to Fritz while he waited in the Immigration building for the bureaucrats to arrange his ticket. The best I could do was to ascertain that he would be on the next Lufthansa flight to Berlin, which left at ten in the evening. Even at the airport he was fenced in by Immigration officials and police. ex-con be more of a threat to society than the hundreds of Thais who are released from jail every week? The rule is strict, though, and no amount of arguing and pleading on my part gained me access to Fritz while he waited in the Immigration building for the bureaucrats to arrange his ticket. The best I could do was to ascertain that he would be on the next Lufthansa flight to Berlin, which left at ten in the evening. Even at the airport he was fenced in by Immigration officials and police.

In a fake Armani jacket, his remaining tufts of hair carefully shaved, prison tattoos on his neck, and in white pants, he could have been just another middle-aged tourist trying to be hip in Krung Thep, except for the large Band-Aid above his left ear and the walking stick. He saw me coming long before his minders did, but instantly looked away with that prison reflex. I had to use my influence to follow him airside, where the Immigration people decided their duties were completed and disappeared. Close up, I saw how strange and brand new the world now appeared to him. I was put in mind of a creature with lightning reflexes and restless habits, perhaps a sable or a mink, panicked and fascinated by the straight lines and smooth surfaces of the human world. He sat next to me on a bench near the gate where his flight would board and his eyes scanned while he spoke: "The operation at Dao Phrya Bridge is officially moons.h.i.+ne. Only a few of the squatters know about the yaa baa yaa baa. The headman uses the contacts they made for the moons.h.i.+ne to distribute the meth. After all, if you can metabolize that rice whisky you can probably handle yaa baa yaa baa. They're major distributors in Bangkok and they're run by a real big shot."

"Who?"

"A cop of course. A police colonel."

"Did you get a name?"

"Vikorn."

"You're sure?"

"If the information wasn't accurate they wouldn't have needed to beat me so much, would they?"

"I guess not. n.o.body mentioned Suvit? The squatters are in his district."

"No. Vikorn was the name. The way I heard it, he runs a very big operation. The squatters are only a small part of it. Maybe this Suvit works for him?"

"Anyone talk to you about the way the marine was murdered? How it was done?"

"No one knows how those snakes were organized so well, but everyone knows it was that katoy, katoy, the ladyboy, who did it." the ladyboy, who did it."

"How are they so sure?"

"She was seen by one of the squatters. Some Khmer on motorbikes met the Mercedes before it drove down to that slip road. Maybe they were summoned by cell phone. The marine hardly spoke Thai, so he wouldn't have known even if she said: 'Come kill the b.a.s.t.a.r.d now.' She was seen going off with one of them. They actually escorted the marine down that slip road-they had guns, so probably the marine didn't dare open the door even if he could."

I shake my head. "It doesn't make sense. If the point was to kill him, why not just shoot him?"

Fritz in turn shakes his his head. "To answer that question, just spend a few months in a Thai jail. Death is just too ordinary for most vendettas-the point is to maximize the terror." head. "To answer that question, just spend a few months in a Thai jail. Death is just too ordinary for most vendettas-the point is to maximize the terror."

His scanning eyes saw from a monitor that his flight was boarding. He held out a hand for me to shake. Our eyes locked. He looked away. "You're better than me. I shat on you and your mother and you saved my life. I wouldn't have bothered, but thank you. When you go to the Buddha you can tell him you cured a German of his racist superiority complex. From the bottom of my black heart, thank you" were the last words I heard Fritz utter. I left him to return to the departure lounge.

One should not exaggerate, at least two-thirds of the people waiting for flights were normal couples, singles, families: Western, j.a.panese, Chinese, Indian, African. The other third consisted of Western men usually over forty-five with Thai girls invariably under thirty. What we don't realize, we Thais, is just how simple life is in the West. Too simple. The most modest of contributions-a forty-hour week at the least demanding of mechanized tasks-earns one a car, an apartment, a bank account. Other gifts of the system-a spouse, a child or two, a small collection of friends-arrive automatically and gift-wrapped with support of every kind. A whole hemisphere, in other words, lies dying from event-starvation. It must be a subconscious demographic drive that sends these men to us; each one of those beauties hanging on their arms is a time bomb of demonic complications and explosive events. Hey, let's hear it for Thai Girl, selflessly taking her message of love, life and l.u.s.t to a jaded world!

Complications come naturally to us, we are never without them, like our traffic jams. Like Vikorn. If only one could package him for export.

46.

Last night the FBI invited me to supper at the Italian riverside restaurant at the Oriental hotel. With great compa.s.sion she told me not to dress up. She wore a generic pair of white linen shorts, open-neck white short-sleeved s.h.i.+rt, open sandals: simplicity itself, I gratefully observed. I ordered antipasto misto and calf's liver to follow. She copied me with the antipasto and ordered a baked lasagna for herself. When the waiter came with the wine list she gave it to me, because I had told her about Truffaut and his meticulous education of my palate. I ordered a simple Barolo and made a great fuss of holding the gla.s.s to my nose, sipping decorously, then chasing the wine round my mouth with my tongue, while the wine waiter-a Thai-stared at me, before I gave Kimberley a big wink and knocked the wine back with a vulgar gulp. It was only a Barolo after all. We both realized that this was the first time I had made her guffaw, a dangerous moment in the ritual of seduction. I am ashamed to admit I did not turn off the charm as resolutely as I ought to have done, and she muttered darkly about my being too d.a.m.n cute for words. I was asking for trouble.

"Sonchai, why do you hate me?"

"I don't."

"But you pretend not to find me attractive? A stupid woman would decide you were gay-lots of women protect their egos that way-but I'm not stupid. You're not gay, sometimes you're attracted, at least on a physical level, but you veer away. Time after time. Like a wild animal that sees a trap. I'm curious."

I cast my eye over the other patrons. Three middle-aged Western couples who were probably staying at the hotel, and at least four tables consisting of a young Western man and a Thai girl. What a good life we must offer to any young farang farang with a little money. An evening spent trawling the bars will secure you that beautiful young G.o.ddess of your dreams for as long as you care to rent her, and you may play out a romantic evening or two with her in an expensive restaurant under the stars with the certainty of bedding her afterwards. And all without petulance or temperament, or obligations which stretch into the future. Tip her well and she will even come to say goodbye to you at the airport. Love a la carte must surely be an improvement on the fixed menu? with a little money. An evening spent trawling the bars will secure you that beautiful young G.o.ddess of your dreams for as long as you care to rent her, and you may play out a romantic evening or two with her in an expensive restaurant under the stars with the certainty of bedding her afterwards. And all without petulance or temperament, or obligations which stretch into the future. Tip her well and she will even come to say goodbye to you at the airport. Love a la carte must surely be an improvement on the fixed menu?

"I don't want to feel like an ice cream."

"Huh?"

"Look at them." I wave a hand at the other tables. "Those girls don't speak English as well as I do. They don't surf the Net. They've probably never been abroad. They don't realize they're a new flavor from Haagen-Dazs. Anyway, they're professionals."

Jones swallows hard. I feel sorry that I've brought her close to tears. She's tough, though. "That's how you see me? Another Western sleazebag, just like the farang farang men?" men?"

I don't say anything for a beat or two. Then: "No one escapes their own culture. It's hardwired in us, from birth onward. A consumer society is a consumer society. It may start with was.h.i.+ng machines and air-conditioning, but sooner or later we consume each other. It's happening to us too. But you see, the Buddha taught freedom from appet.i.te."

"Him again." A sigh. Now she is determined not to let me off the hook by changing the subject, or even talking at all. I start to grin. "What are you laughing at?"

"The beauty of the Buddha. Look how perfectly he described cause and effect. Your ego is injured, so you won't talk to me. Perhaps I will retaliate by not talking to you. Then we become enemies. If we had guns perhaps we would shoot each other, over and over again, in lifetime after lifetime. Don't you see how futile it all is?" I've made her unhappy, far more than I expected. It is as if I've kicked her in the pit of her stomach, just when she was offering love. A crime against life. "Kimberley-"

"Don't."

"Kimberley, when my mother was sixteen years old she offered herself to a mamasan she'd been introduced to in Pat Pong. n.o.body forced her to do so, her parents were not those kind of people. n.o.body was going to stop her, though-they were dirt poor. The mamasan put her on display at her club every night, but postponed selling her until a good offer came up. Virginity is supposed to be most highly prized by j.a.panese and other Asian men, but the highest bid in my mother's case came from an Englishman in his forties. There are plenty of men who would understand the special pleasure in deflowering a child, but I don't. He paid forty thousand baht, an astronomical sum. My mother insisted that her best friend accompany her so she would not feel so terribly alone. The friend sat in the toilet while the event took place. He was kind to her, in a manner of speaking. He used a lubricant, tried not to hurt her too much, and burst into tears when it was over. My mother and her friend stared with great wonderment at this man who was more than twice their age. As the Third World said to the First World: If it makes you feel so bad, why do you do it? They felt sorry for him. It was my mother's blood on the sheets, but the agony was all his. He did not appear to be rich, so he must have saved up. Forty thousand baht was a lot of money, even for a Westerner. It was a very special occasion for him, a kind of feast. Perhaps it was his birthday. When we are in the grip of hunger we think only of eating. Then, when the banquet is over, we see the evidence of what we really are."

Something is happening behind her eyes. I wonder if I've succeeded in reaching her latent Buddhahood. A Thai woman would simply have thrown a tantrum and walked out, but there is American Will here, that grim hanging on.

Quietly: "You've never slept with a Western woman?"

"No."

"If you did, you would be that virgin on the bed, being raped by a pig?"

"She wasn't raped. She knew what she was doing. She was proud that she commanded such a good price. Of course, she gave almost all of it to her family. That's what innocence looks like over here."

"The legal age is eighteen in this country. In the States it would have been statutory rape. He could have been sent away for twenty years." A long silence during which the atmosphere freezes and I realize how naive I'm being. No latent Buddhahood in the FBI, merely the cold fury of a will deflected, an appet.i.te frustrated: no ice cream in the fridge tonight: d.a.m.n d.a.m.n.

"Did you ever think your meditation might not be such an a.s.set in the craft of detection?"

"How so?"

"Naivete. A luxury no cop can afford, frankly. The way you see it, Warren, Bradley, what they did to Fatima, what they did to the Russian wh.o.r.e-what they planned to do to a bunch of other boys and women, that's peculiarly Western, isn't it?" The expression on my face says: Yes, obviously. Yes, obviously. "That kind of existential crime without meaning, without profit motive, has to be just an extension of Western self-indulgence, doesn't it? A variation on the theme of the guy who raped your mom? Let's get the bill, I wanted us to eat here tonight for a reason. Let's say it's reality sandwich time for both of us." "That kind of existential crime without meaning, without profit motive, has to be just an extension of Western self-indulgence, doesn't it? A variation on the theme of the guy who raped your mom? Let's get the bill, I wanted us to eat here tonight for a reason. Let's say it's reality sandwich time for both of us."

She makes no attempt to extract the arrogance from the gesture when she calls for the bill. She pays with a gold AmEx card and I follow almost at a trot as she strides across the floor, leading me around by the pool between great mountains of bougainvillea, crimson hibiscus nodding in the evening breeze. We wind up at the Bamboo Bar, the hotel's famous jazz venue. Jones checks her watch before leading me inside. She asks the maitre d' for a discreet table for two near the window. The seats are woven wicker with luxurious cus.h.i.+ons, the air-conditioning glacial, the margaritas perfect with viscous ice, salt glittering around the rim of wide gla.s.ses, generous shots of tequila. We are just in time for the first act. The maitre d' anounces "the incomparable, the spectacular, the truly magnificent Black Orchid." Enthusiastic clapping from the old hands in the audience, the small band plays a couple of bars and she walks on.

The song had to be "Bye Bye Blackbird," didn't it? Corny perhaps, but wonderful, too, with a depth of melancholy I've never heard before. I wouldn't have guessed she could even sing like a woman. Jones is enjoying the shock on my face.

"She's not bad. Not a professional of course, and jazz outside the States is always a bit of a disappointment, but she's not bad."

I realize that Jones is deaf to a specific quality in Fatima's voice. Let's call it heart: build the fire, light the light, I'll be home late tonight, blackbird, bye bye build the fire, light the light, I'll be home late tonight, blackbird, bye bye.

Let's not not call it heart. The sound she is making is the sound hearts make after they're in pieces and the fragments dissolve into the overwhelming sadness of the universe. The power to hear it may be the only privilege of the thoroughly dispossessed. "No," I say, and sip the margarita, "not as good as an American, but not bad." call it heart. The sound she is making is the sound hearts make after they're in pieces and the fragments dissolve into the overwhelming sadness of the universe. The power to hear it may be the only privilege of the thoroughly dispossessed. "No," I say, and sip the margarita, "not as good as an American, but not bad."

"Now look to your left at about ten o'clock. Don't move your head, just your eyes."

"I already saw them." Warren and-a triumph for Jones to judge by the expression on her face-Vikorn. She doesn't know that the short dapper Thai man sitting with them is Dr. Surichai until I tell her. Together the threee of them make a half-moon around a large round table. They are all absorbed by Fatima and have no inclination to look behind them, but the diva in the long purple silk gown and heavy pearl necklace glances in our direction. Our eyes meet for a moment and she misses a beat. Not a professional at all. She recovers quickly and the band covers her mistake, but not before that total blackness has intervened behind her eyes. A few seconds later and she's got a better idea. She c.o.c.ks her head slightly to one side and engages my eyes mercilessly while she sings: No one there to help or understand me, oh what hard-luck stories they all hand me . . . No one there to help or understand me, oh what hard-luck stories they all hand me . . .

"I want to go," I tell Jones, sounding just like a girl who is out too late and-I'm afraid-covering a single sob by leaning over and coughing. We wait until Fatima has finished her song, when the clapping masks the noise of our departure.

"Pretty well as soon as Kennedy decided to send military advisers to Laos, the CIA realized they had a problem," Jones explains in the back of the cab. "It was the CIA who ran the war there, by the way, from beginning to end. The problem was the opium. When the French ran Indochina it didn't bother them at all, they ran it as a state monopoly, complete with bonded warehouses in Vientiane and Saigon. When America got involved the obvious knee-jerk reaction was: no more opium. Just like us to try to reinvent the wheel, right? That n.o.ble idea lasted maybe ten minutes and here's why. The Laotian armed forces had this unique characteristic: they didn't fight. Not anyone, anywhere, anytime, and most of all they didn't fight the North Vietnamese regular army, which scared the s.h.i.+t out of them. The only people who would fight were the Hmong, the indigenous mountain tribe up in the north, whom the Laotians were happy to see annihilated by Ho Chi Minh. Americans like guts, we love to fight and we love fighters, and the Hmong were that. They became the CIA's favorite exotic pets, but the drawback was they depended entirely on the opium crop to survive. Of course, the French would have explained all this to us if we'd asked them, but-well, we were Americans, weren't we? The only answer, though, was to help the Hmong sell their opium. Being fantastic hypocrites-like all masked avengers-we didn't want to get our hands dirty. The Agency tried to keep its involvement to a minimum. Basically they would use anyone they could disown afterwards. They preferred non-Americans. Your Colonel was hardly more than a kid at the time, but he caught on real quick. Coming from Udon Thani, he also spoke Laotian fluently, so after he'd done a stint as short-order chef he got the job of organizing the Hmong's crop up in the mountains and getting it to the airstrips. With the Hmong you have to realize we're talking Stone Age-people whose idea of commerce was trading pigs for wives. Vikorn was fine up there in the hills, but even he wasn't that sophisticated when it came to dealing with the Chinese. It was the Chinese traders-specifically the Chiu Chow clan, who originate in Swatow-who brokered the product when it reached the cities. Of course Of course. The Chiu Chow are the finest businesspeople in the world, then, now, and for maybe a thousand years past. They run this country-h.e.l.l, they practically run the Pacific Rim. The Agency didn't want to be in the business at all, but they had to accept that since they were in it, it was in their interests to make sure the Hmong didn't get too burned. They needed a dealer who was a match for the Chiu Chow."

"Warren."

"Sylvester Warren was born to a theatrical couple in Boston. They were the usual alcoholic narcissists who started to fade early in life. The only way they could deal with the responsibilities of parenting was to employ a Chinese maid on a minimum wage. A Chiu Chow girl from Swatow who hardly spoke English. As the parents faded out altogether, she took over the house. She ran everything, including Sylvester's education, which took on a very Chinese flavor. To survive at all the kid had to learn Chiu Chow, and this fascinated the other Chinese from Swatow who were living in Boston and particularly New York. They saw a low-risk investment. Warren has been involved with them all his life. They funded his gemology degree, set him up in his first businesses and loaned him as much money as he wanted. The price he paid was to belong to them body and soul. When the CIA found out about him he was already in the jade trade, importing into the States with a shop in Manhattan. They didn't worry too much about conflict of interest. On paper he looked like the perfect broker for the Hmong's opium when it reached Saigon and Vientiane. As a matter of fact, he didn't do too badly by the Hmong. He got halfway decent prices for their opium. At the same time he did exactly what Vikorn did. He built up connections in the Agency, and just in case the Agency should become useful in later life or-just as likely-decide to double-cross him, he collected a body of evidence showing how the heroin epidemic on the streets of New York during the sixties and seventies was largely thanks to the CIA's helping the Hmong sell their crop. I guess he and Vikorn didn't meet more than once a month, but they talked over the field radio a lot. Vikorn wouldn't learn English, so Warren, who is one of those people who can learn any language in a month, made a point of learning Thai. Vikorn has been in awe of him all his adult life. Warren did what Vikorn did, but he did it bigger and better and for a lot more money-just like a Yank is supposed to. For every million Vikorn made out of the opium, Warren made ten, but more important than that, Warren's connections in the CIA and the Bureau go all the way to the top. You didn't really think it was money alone that got him all that influence, did you?"

We're turning into Wireless Road now, on the way to the Hilton. I wonder what is going to happen next when I say: "Why didn't you tell me before?"

"Because I wasn't going to pop your naivete until you popped mine. I kinda liked that medieval loyalty you have for your Colonel-says a lot for your heart, but not much for your head. No money no honey, isn't that what your ma always told you?"

"f.u.c.k you." As she's getting out of the cab, I say: "Surichai? What was he doing there tonight?"

An elaborate raising of the hands and shoulders. "Did I say I knew everything?" Then: "Want me to pay for the cab, or can you manage?" Poking her head back into the car, almost going nose to nose with me: "Warren's winning, by the way. He'll have me out of here in a week or less. I'll be out of your hair."

I am in the back of the cab, racing through the night; the shock of Vikorn socializing with Warren and Surchai, of Fatima singing in a jazz club, is slowly eclipsed by a shock of my own making. I've never told the story of my mother's first sale of her body before, never really taken it out from that secret, painful place where it resides in my heart. It wasn't Nong who told me, but Pichai. The friend who sat in the toilet was Wanna, Pichai's mother, who must have told her son, who whispered the story to me one dark night up in the monastery, when the future seemed nonexistent.

What is shocking is the way the story has marked me without my realizing it, and Jones' effortless reading of me: yes, that must be why I've never slept with a farang farang woman. If I didn't know that about myself, what else don't I know? woman. If I didn't know that about myself, what else don't I know?

When I reach my room I call Jones. She is half asleep, surprised to hear from me and intrigued by the tremor in my voice. "According to the principles of profiling, how long has Fatima got?"