So who says life is all bad? I’m up, washed and shaved, and ready to put on my organ trafficker’s outfit to wear to the bank. Chanya can’t resist ogling me, and to raise the libido level, I refuse to tell her where I’m going, even though the question that cracked open the mystery came from her. Yep, DFR, I am telling you to put that suspect list away now, because Jitpleecheep has solved the case. Excuse me while I go out into the yard in my shorts to do my victory dance. (It’s from my Lakota incarnation: wood fires around the wigwams at dawn, a squaw who looked a lot like Chanya and another who looked like Om, white men with killing machines on the horizon, Red Horse and the braves grinning to crack their faces. What a fantastic day to die!) Chanya knows what I’m up to but takes no notice. She’s seen it before.
Just in case you haven’t worked it out, DFR, let me hand it to you on a plate:
The man who is not To (hereafter “Notto”) is not only a highranking Hong Kong banker who runs the Bangkok office sotto voce in the Confucian style; he is not only an ace troubleshooter for said bank and whoever of its most highly valued clients may need him from time to time-I bet Vikorn has close to a billion tied up there for him to get that kind of service; but Notto is also the incarnation of guanxi with some of the oldies who run China. That much, I trust, is clear. So, when a very fat cat like Vikorn needs the kind of help he needed with General Xie (deceased), dollar signs light up in Notto’s eyes. Perhaps his first impulse was to charge the Colonel a few million for the hostage-busting service, but then he talked to Beijing, who had a better idea. Or maybe Notto had the idea all on his own and simply made a phone call to Beijing for approval. Either way, somebody senior saw a senior-size opportunity to make a lot of dough. Everyone knows how corrupt our civil service is (we came in behind Malaysia in the how-dirty-is-your-country statistics last year-which only leaves Cambodia, Burma, Vietnam, Indonesia, India, and Laos for us to sneer at), and everyone knows how lucrative for a merchant bank big infrastructure projects can be. Instead of bleeding Vikorn white in the old-style subprime-mortgage win-lose equation in which so many have lost their homes, they used the enlightened win-win equation that, as we know from the news networks, all of which are large corporations with vested interests, is saving the world. “You are the next governor of Bangkok,” Notto said to Vikorn the day after he got back from Yunnan, or words to that effect. I imagine the conversation running like this: Vikorn: What? No way. Notto: Have you any idea how much a commando operation like that costs these days? Highly trained men, specialist equipment, state-of-the-art communications, stealth, airtight secrecy? And you know what, they’re going to have to go public because someone in the foreign media got hold of the story. Vikorn: You mean they weren’t allowed to just shoot the bastard? I thought you said airtight security. Notto: They charge a two-hundred-percent markup fee if they have to go public, whether it’s their screw-up or not. It’s to repair the army’s tarnished image and pay for the legal expenses. Vikorn: Okay, I’ll run for governor. What do I have to do? Notto: Nothing. That’s what I want you to know. You do nothing at all except what our experienced team will tell you to do. You just obey them, and Bob is your uncle. Vikorn: What experience do your guanxi have with democracy? Notto: None. What do you think American friends are for? Vikorn: So I’m governor of Bangkok, then what? Notto: Then you extend the Skytrain and similar stuff. Vikorn: Got it.
I’m pretty confident that’s how it went, DFR-you agree? It’s a wrap that explains everything, including the clumsy way Beijing and the Americans are going about the Colonel’s election campaign, and including sending me on some photo-op in Dubai with those crazy Twins, but especially dumping those three bodies in that house on Vulture Peak. Can’t you see the way the meeting went? Linda: Ah, we do go along with the idea that the Colonel should be running a high-profile case at the time of the election. Jack: Yeah, we all go along with that, right, Ben? Ben: Right. Linda: But we discussed it at length, and we don’t know of any evidence that Thailand is a center for organ trafficking. Jack: Yeah, that does introduce a, ah, what you might call an unwelcome variable. Notto: Just a minute. (Notto finds his cell phone and speaks into it. Perhaps he has to be patched on to a few other phones before he gets the right one. He speaks quickly in Putonghua. The Americans are all ears. Now Notto closes his phone and smiles.) Linda: Okay, I guess Thailand is about to be a center for organ trafficking. Jack: I didn’t quite catch what he said. Ben: Me either. Linda: I didn’t get all of it word for word, but the guy he spoke to runs the corrections services’ pre-sales unit. Ben: Pre-sales? Linda: Yeah, pre-sales of organs of prisoners on death row. Everybody wants fresh. I guess a few bodies with the organs ripped out and delivered to a Thai location would be no problem for him at all. Jack (shaking his head): The magic of guanxi. Ben: Right. Linda (to Notto): You sure they won’t be identified as executed Chinese felons? Notto: Yes.
Now I’m back in the hovel dressing and combing my hair, which the victory dance disheveled somewhat, at the same time as I’m putting a few finishing touches to what, if I may say so, is an impeccable piece of detection, when my attention is suddenly diverted against my will. It’s called possessiveness. I can’t help it-with conjugal alienation, I’ve become sensitive to little things, such as the fact that her telephone just rang and she turned away from the door and began speaking too softly for me to hear.
“Who was that, darling?” I say, putting on my Zegna jacket and trying to look as if I’m just making conversation.
“Ah, that was Colonel Vikorn, darling.”
I turn, aghast and confused. Why didn’t he talk to me? Controlling myself: “Really, what did he want?”
“He wanted to know what you were wearing, so I told him.”
“He wanted to know-”
My phone rings. It’s Vikorn. “Why are you wearing that getup?”
“To go to the bank.”
A pause. “Don’t go to the bank. Isn’t there a General Zinna line for you to follow up?”
“Yes, but-”
“Good. Go see Zinna. And change out of that crap. He’ll think you’ve turned gay and try to screw you.” He closes the phone.
Now I’m sitting bewildered on a chair. Chanya stands behind me and strokes my hair, then starts to massage my head.
“You were spying on me,” I say.
She giggles. “Honey, if you’ve worked out what I think you’ve worked out, then d’you think Vikorn and the Americans would want you making contact with the person I think you are trying to make contact with?”
“I’m a murder squad detective,” I say. “I got carried away. For a moment I was a real cop.”
“I understand that,” Chanya says, still massaging. “But-and do correct me if I’m wrong-isn’t there a genuine Zinna line? I mean, how is it that he has so many connections in Phuket? Isn’t that worth following up?”
I hear myself saying, “Yes. I guess I’ll have to make another trip down there.”
She freezes for a moment, then transforms. At lightning speed she has processed the thought that I might cheat on her in Phuket, closed all emotional hatches, and refocused with 200 percent attention on her ambition. “Of course you will,” she says, staring at the street. The massage is over.
Now my phone rings again. It’s Vikorn. “Have you been to the morgue yet?”
“Of course I went to the morgue.”
“I mean after the first time? Dr. Supatra called yesterday, I forgot to tell you. She says she has made progress with identification of the three victims.”