Assignment Bangkok (4 page)

According to General McFee, there were fresh Chinese incursions from Laos. Among the thirty or more hill tribes, Meo, Karen, Lahu, Musso, and Ko people, each with their distinctive cultures and slash-and-burn agronomy, and with a penchant for growing opium above the five thousand-foot level, there was a growing defiance of Bangkok and a flood of arms that could mean another divided country in Indo-China. It was a mission to gather information, nothing more, according to strict White House directives, McFee had said. Durell still did not know what had gone wrong with it. With Mike’s business connections up

there, it should have been routine. But Mike hadn’t come back.

Durell sighed, snapped off the lights, locked his hotel room door, and left.

“I am ordinarily not a betting man,” said Mr. Chuk gently, “but I have wagered one thousand dollars, Hong Kong, on young Tinh, the boy in the red trunks. A protege of mine, you see.”

“Why?” Durell asked.

“Ah. He is a true fighter. In any conflict, the aim is to win, eh? The world is more violent today than in the past. To enter a fight—or a war—without the heart to win is to invite and anticipate defeat.”

“And Tinh?”

“He is vicious and single-minded. He wins.” Chuk smiled. “You are sitting in a reserved seat, my dear sir.”

“I know,” said Durell.

“You seek me, personally?”

“You know it.”

“Ah. Ah.” Mr. Chuk settled himself comfortably in the stadium chair. He was a stout Chinese-Thai, with a high, round belly under his tight white suit. A number of quivering jowls framed his round face. He mopped several of his chins with a lavender silk handkerchief. The air-conditioning in the sports stadium had broken down, and the heat from the avid crowd and the lights from the TV cameras rapidly built up the temperature. Bright reflections of Pepsi-Cola, Yamaha, and Sanyo TV shone in Mr. Chuk’s' hexagonal glasses.

“You seem to be in good health, Mr. Durell.”

“Shouldn’t I be?”

“You are extraordinary. Very direct. You proceed like a charging Hon straight to your goal. Stubborn, too. Nothing turns you aside. And here you are, seeking me out.” “You know why,” Durell said.

“I admit nothing.”

“You admit you know my name.”

“Ah, yes. But I am merely a businessman.” Mr. Chuk smiled apologetically. “I am only a middleman in the teak and rice industries, concerned with the oppressed laborers, you see. I am not one of your
luangs
, a royal palace official. My life is quite open. Neither am I an agent of the imperialist Mao Tse-tung, a charge to which many Chinese in Thailand are liable. It is the tragedy of our times, sir, that the innocent suffer and evil prevails. My business is simply smoothing the wheels of industry and labor in the mills of Thonburi and Bangkok.”

“And you run the tong called the Muang Thrup.”

“Not a tong. A legitimate labor union.”

“You hire torturers, murderers, and rapists.”

“Come, come, sir. You can prove nothing.”

“I can. I will.”

Mr. Chuk pretended to be appalled. “
Nee arai?
What’s this? I heard of your arrival. You did not look like a
fahrang
, a Westerner, assigned to the MDU—the Mobile Development Units who aid our farmers. I am in the rice labor business. Did you know there are almost one thousand rice mills on the canals around Bangkok? No matter. You speak so quietly, Mr. Durell. Men like you never let the mind or body rest, eh? You see all things around you, and are always quick and decisive. You bore directly to the heart of the matter. But you are quiet. Ah, so quiet.” Durell shifted slightly so his gun in its underarm holster could be reached easily. He felt the pressure of Mr.

Chuk’s fat arm against his, and he knew that the Sino-Thai was shocked by his arrival here. Two young Chinese thugs sat on the other side of Mr. Chuk, their faces impassive. He wondered if they knew by now of the death of one of their comrades, impaled on the canal post. Certainly they were surprised by his escape, his prompt arrival here. Mr. Chuk was the jolly old King Cole of the teak and rice mill labor thugs, and no more, so far as his dossier was concerned.

A thunderclap shook the stadium as the two flyweight Thai boxers stood in the ring. The rhythm of thudding drums and a shrill Java pipe increased in tempo. The only similarity between Thai and Western boxing was in the leather gloves and trunks and the squared ring. Durell studied the boy in the red trunks, Tinh Jumsai. This was Uncle Hu’s other nephew, he thought; the only one who could locate his brother, the
bhikkhu
, among the tens of thousands of Buddhist monks in the country. Tinh wore a red charm cord around his upper arm and a sacred headband. As a cymbal clashed, the two boxers knelt and faced the four sides of the ring. Tinh looked tiny, but hard and taut as whipcord. His black eyes were emotionless as he prayed to the spirits of the boxing ring and swung his ropy little torso in time with the screeching music.

“
Nai
Durell?”

“Your boy looks good,” Durell said.

“He will most certainly win,” Mr. Chuk said blandly. “But you, sir, will only find defeat in your mission here.”

“What mission is that?”

“We know you are not an agricultural expert.”

“Your information service is full of Yunnan fables.”

“Your arrival here, via Ton Son Nhut Airport in Saigon, did not go unnoticed. Our Don Muang Airport is very crowded. You were lucky, during your wait in Saigon, to escape the nail bomb that was thrown when you were in the Plum Cafe near the Thi Nghe canal. Close to the Bien Hoa highway?” Mr. Chuk was amused. He liked to boast, Durell noted. “Yes, our information service is good. I am a loyal Kuomintang, sir, faithful to Chiang Kai-shek. One of my wives is a Malay girl from Kuala Lumpur. Lovely child. But of course, you are a victim of America’s paranoia and you suspect all Chinese of being Maoist agents. I assure you, I am only a businessman, interested in profits.” Mr. Chuk’s many chins quivered as he smiled again. “Violence disturbs commerce, and who would wish to make Peking hysterical, what with their bombs and vast armies? You really should go home, Mr. Durell.”

“What do you offer?” Durell asked.

“Anything. Name it.”

“No bargaining?”

“Name your price. Your life alone, sir, must be of some value to you.”

“Money?”

“One hundred thousand unmarked, small-denomination American bills,” said Mr. Chuk promptly. “A guarantee of your safe departure. What happened yesterday was a mistake. I see it now. It was not my decision, I pray you to believe me. But it seemed necessary at the time. Now, can we do business?”

“You’re too late,” Durell said.

“You hold a grievance?”

“Let’s just say that I must satisfy my curiosity as to why the murder of innocent people was thought necessary simply because I have arrived in Bangkok.”

“Sir—”

The two fighters in the ring were going through the ritual of the Elephant Dance, the Four-Faced Buddha, and making hex signs at each other. The air was gray with smoke. Durell watched young Tinh slide his hands on the ropes to ward off malicious
phis
. He could not have known about the rape and death of Aparsa, his aunt.

“Sir,” Mr. Chuk persisted. “I live in Sampeng, Mr. Durell. Please come to see me. It is the Chinese district, and although many Westerners consider the area a hotbed of Communist conspiracy, you will be perfectly safe. We may come to a fine agreement—profitable to both of us.”

Durell got up and returned to his own seat as the boxing match began. There were no Queensberry rules here. Kicking, kneeing to the groin, elbowing—ail were in demand. The boxers were as agile as dancers, leaping high to aim deadly blows with their heels at chin or knee or belly. Tinh’s naked feet swung like whips, slashing at his opponent’s head. The other youth aimed at Tinh’s leg, missed, and took a kick in the back of the neck that put him down on all fours. He was up at once, dancing back. The fans howled. The tempo of the music increased. The stadium was packed with Thais in Western clothes, some turbaned Indians, and a spray of American uniforms.

A chant began.
“Sok! Sok!”
The fans were calling for an elbow ram. The noise reached a crescendo. The TV cameras followed the boxers avidly. Tinh jumped high, aimed his right foot at his opponent’s belly, danced back, came in again, and smashed his heel into the other’s face. Blood gushed. Durell looked down at the back of Mr. Chuk’s head, at ringside. The Chinese was smoking a long, thin cigar; he watched the boxers placidly. Tinh’s adversary had staggered away, bleeding from a broken nose. His eyes were glazed.

Tinh was merciless. He danced high, jumped, and swung his left foot like a mace. His opponent’s head was almost torn off by the blow. The screams of the fans and the weird thud of drum and Java pipe mingled with a clash of cymbals as Tinh’s enemy went down. The referee pushed Tinh aside. The fight ended.

Mr. Chuk rose ponderously and moved toward the ring. Durell stood up and went quickly through the crowd on the ramp, found the exit door and a corridor and iron stairs that led to the dressing rooms below the ring. There were other fighters here, with trainers, lackeys, hangers-on. It took a few moments to find the room assigned to young Tinh. There were touts, girls, fans, handlers in his way. He asked a few questions, got some shrugs, and finally a pock-marked Malay told him how to find Tinh’s cubicle. It was beyond a long locker room, equally crowded. The place smelled of curry and sweat. Tinh’s door was closed. Durell palmed the knob, stepped inside, and saw Tinh in a dim light, crouched over on a bench near a rubbing table.

“Tinh?”

The boxer moved slightly, his head down between his knees. His muscular little back was knotted, and beads of sweat stood out on the nape of his neck and down his spine.

No one else was in the dressing-room.

Durell put his hand on the boy’s shoulder, but Tinh groaned and clutched his belly and rocked sidewise, not looking up.

“Tinh, were you hurt?”

The boxer looked up. His young, round face was a mask of agony. His eyes looked blind. He dug into his stomach with clawed fingers.

“Bad water—” he gasped.

“Where? When?”

“Xu—my trainer—gave me just now.”

The boy rocked back and forth in his cramped position. “Look at me,” Durell said.

Tinh did not look up.

“Do you remember me, Tinh?” Durell asked.

Slowly, the anguished face turned to him. Through the glaze of pain in the black, slanted eyes came a whimper of comprehension. “
Nai
—Durell?”

“That’s right. Your brother’s friend.”

“You helped Uncle Hu—and Kem.”

“Yes, that’s right. I helped Kem. When you were a small boy. Now I am back, and I must find him.”

“Kem is sacred—belongs to Sangra.”

“I know that. Which monastery is he in?”

The boy convulsed and doubled over in a renewed spasm of pain. He was dying. It was a waste of time to go for a doctor. Durell had to learn what he had come to find out.

“Do you ever see Kem?”

The boy gasped. His face dripped sweat. He straightened slowly.

“In Sampeng—in Kow Singh’s tourist shop. He goes there mornings with begging bowl—”

“Kow Singh’s,” Durell repeated.

“Yes. Please. Help me?”

“All right, Tinh.”

It was too late to help. Great rivulets of sweat poured down Tinh’s face and body. His eyes rolled. His tongue came out, and then he slid sidewise on the bench and Durell caught him before he hit the concrete floor.

Whatever it was, McFee in Washington hadn’t told him all of it. Whatever it was, it had already caused two deaths, not counting the kamoy Durell had dropped into the canal.

There was a flurry of voices in the corridor outside the dressing room. Durell straightened and sighed and went to the door. No one tried to enter. The group of men moved on. When he couldn’t hear them, he opened the door and stepped out. He looked back once at the dead boxer, and hoped that Tinh, like Aparsa, would have a better life in his next reincarnation. Then he headed for the ramp and the outside gates of the stadium.

He took a
samlaw
with a striped canopy and a rackety lawn-mower engine behind. The night was still hot. Advertisements flickered in rainbow colors, spelling out letters in English and French and the long, horizontal Thai script. The driver crossed Suriwong Road, returned to the Chao Phraya, then swung into Rama IV Road. He did not think he was being followed now.

“Drong bai,” he told the driver. “Straight ahead.”

At the next fork, back in the favored Rajprasong district, the traffic was lighter, and in the residential area the low houses were set back from the road, with pagoda roofs and lush plantings making cloudy darknesses on the lawns. The houses here had large verandas and were discreetly lighted. A maze of lanes led down to the canal-side.

“Charamaya Lane,” Durell said. “Number Twelve.”

The motorized rickshaw nosed into a narrow street bordering the canal. Each house here was surrounded by a high wooden fence, so that only the low, sweeping Thai-style roofs were visible through the fan-shaped palms.

“You want me wait?” the driver asked.

“No.” Durell counted out enough bahts for the fare, and paused in the dark lane until the
samlaw
puttered out of sight.

He sensed the cats the moment he opened the ornate gate. At the carved and gilded door, he heard the music, too. The heavy bass beat made the air shake. Oleanders, jasmine, and hibiscus dotted the lawn. Except for the Thai design, the house on the canal could have been in any Florida development. A sleek power boat was moored to the dock on the canal. An enclosure on the lawn was made up of small cages, where the sounds of the cats came from. Durell let his anger go into the large wooden knocker on the door. He heard a cat squall suddenly. He didn’t like the shadows nearby. No place was safe, he thought.

“You’re a bit late, Cajun.”

“So I am,” said Durell. “Ask me in?”

The heavy door swung open. On the post under the knocker was a polished brass plate that read in etched Spencerian script,
James Darwinton James
. Jimmy D. Jimmy wore a brocaded Nehru jacket and black slacks that emphasized his pipestem legs. A girl flickered in and out of sight behind him, like a bird. Durell said, “Company?”