Black Tiger

Black Tiger

Black Tiger

First edition published in 2013 by

MP Publishing Limited

6 Petaluma Blvd. North, Suite B6, Petaluma, CA 94952 USA

and

12 Strathallan Crescent, Douglas, Isle of Man IM2 4NR British Isles

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Copyright © 2013 by J.K. Draskau

All rights reserved.

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Jacket designed by Alison Graihagh Crellin.

CIP Data available in print ISBN: 978-1-84982-155-1

eBook ISBN: 978-1-84982-279-4

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

For Jess, Olympic marathon runner and lioness.

Tyger, tyger, burning bright

In the forests of the night

What immortal hand or eye

Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies

Burnt the fire of thine eyes?

On what wings dare he aspire?

What the hand dare seize the fire?

The Tyger

William Blake 1757-1828

‘Dr Raven?’

That lisping voice smooth as oil. The memories of the past I’d buried shot through me. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. I almost dropped the phone.

‘Prince Premsakul!
Sawasdee
, Your Highness!’

The prince chuckled. ‘I see you have not entirely forgotten us, Dr Raven. Jolly flattering to have made such a lasting impression, I must say! Got an invitation for you—an execution, no less. You remember, of course, that Black Tiger’s appeal has been denied? Would you like to be present as we bid goodbye to our good friend Colonel Sya?’

My teeth clenched in involuntary spasm. The memories were so strong as to be paralysing.

‘It will not be an easy death.’ The prince sighed. ‘We are to witness Old Sparky in all his glory, I fear!’

My stomach churned. I’d thought the wretched saga was done and dusted. Naïvely I had imagined that the tedious process of depositions had been the last of it. I couldn’t wait to get out of Florida, close the door on the whole wretched business.

‘Tuesday. Seven a.m. sharp.’ The voice was light with amusement, cordial, as though arranging an ambassadorial cocktail party. ‘I will expect you at the State Prison, my friend! Toodle-oo!’ He rang off.

‘Chee Laan.’ I found myself murmuring her name. The years fell away and I saw myself again, having just abandoned the Legion and the Service, telling myself I was finished with all that. Thoughts of settling down with my beautiful cousin Nancy, a rising star of the legal profession, and having a comfortable life as an obscure university don. A decent degree in politics, followed by a few years spent playing hide-and-seek with the angel of death in black holes and bomb craters, had qualified me to lecture the earnest young on terror, counterterror, and their moral implications. It wasn’t a bad life, all told. Then, in a cliché blast from the past, who should show up but Angel Fleischer—sometime brother-in-arms, mercenary, and murderer—shouldering his way into my small campus office at Liverpool University. Unshaven, filthy, exuding the rank odour of sweat, testosterone, marijuana, and gun grease, Angel pleaded his case.

‘Jesus, Raven!’ He gazed round scornfully at the overflowing bookshelves, swept a stack of term papers off a chair, and sat down, his legs propped out in front of him like a cowboy. He picked his nose, snorted, and studied me scornfully. ‘You’re in a rut, man. You’ve sold your balls; the civilians have brainwashed you!’ Soon I was listening to his new scheme for our partnership. ‘Boot camp! I’ve been on a recce, found the perfect site. Normandy. Bocage country. Perfecto!’ He rubbed his brown hands like a market trader and grinned.

‘Boot camp for whom?’

‘Well, mercenaries, and anti-terrorists—all government-sponsored, of course. And the civilians, rich adrenaline-junkies…’

‘You’re off your face, Fleischer.’

But all the same I followed him. And it worked well enough for a while, until they appeared: the three Thai girls, my eternal ghosts.

Salikaa, the Swallow, adopted daughter of a brigand; delicate Pim, Princess of the Blood, with her blazing revolutionary soul; and Chee Laan Lee, heiress to her grandmother’s empire. At one time, a life I’d have given my own for.

‘Little Miss Lee,’ Fleischer boasted, ‘personally recommended by the Black Tiger!’ My notion of Thai society was unsubtle, based on technicolour tourist brochures, but I recognized the name of Thailand’s first colonel. I might have known that Fleischer and the Black Tiger would be alert to each other’s movements in the jungle. Little did I know, my eyes blinded by beauty, what that name would mean to me by the end.

Sya Dam, which means Black Tiger, the most powerful tribesman since Genghis Khan, had waded through guts and gore on his ascent to power, rivalling at his zenith any Prince of the Blood. Now it was his turn on the block—the execution he had escaped once could no longer be postponed.

We were instructed to arrive two hours before the execution, scheduled for seven a.m. Prince Premsakul smiled and joked as the driver helped him clamber into the white van. I followed in silence. We were transported to the briefing room, where an official explained the possible effects when 1800 volts at 7.5 amps flow through the human body for thirty seconds, followed by one minute of 240 volts at 1.5 amps. That cycle is repeated once.

Then I was told that, exceptionally, I was to be granted a two-minute interview with the condemned man. I don’t know why he asked to see me—as if we had not already run that round, a lifetime ago. I was ushered into a small, drab room. Sya stood waiting between two hefty guards who stared stiffly into space.

I had rarely seen him out of uniform. Perhaps it was the informal denim shirt and trousers that created the illusion, but he appeared as young as in my memories, his handsome Mongol features unmarked by the passage of time. I noted that the right trouser leg had been cut off just above the knee. I averted my eyes from his pale, smooth lower leg. Asians are not hirsute, but the limb had clearly been shaved. He noted my unease and his eyebrows twitched in amusement. He greeted me with his old lazy grin.

‘Raven! Black Bird! So. The fucking hounds finally caught up!’ I grunted. ‘No last requests, thanks for asking! Already ate my last meal—Starke strawberries, sweetest this side of heaven!’ Sya patted his taut gut as he quoted the advertising slogan. His eyes gleamed. He prodded my chest. ‘Got a going-away present, Raven: a slice of inscrutable Eastern philosophy for you. “We cannot prevent the black birds from flying over our heads. But we can prevent them from building their nests in our hair.”‘ He stared at me for a long time, his eyes piercing straight through me, then grimaced and ran a hand over his skull, smooth-shaven for the metal cap and saline sponge. ‘Showtime!’ he bellowed, turning to the guards. They led him away. I stood staring after him.

Someone led me to the viewing chamber, where I took my place on one of the tiered plastic chairs and stared blankly into the brightly lit death chamber, already crowded with officials in dark suits. Sya was escorted in through a white door and was seated in the chair. Six correctional officers secured his limbs with big leather straps. I perched on the edge of my seat. The plastic rim dug into my thighs. My palms were sweating. My vision misted. Already steeling myself for the involuntary convulsions from the electric shock, I ached for the ritual to be over.

They started to drop the hood over his head, but he twisted away and grinned. The officers stood back. The warder asked Sya if he had any final words. Sya peered up at the glass through slitted eyes. Though I knew it was impossible, I felt his cold gaze settle on me. ‘Are you there, Black Bird? Remember those black birds! Not only can we prevent them from building their fucking nests in our hair, we can also stop them crapping on our fucking faces! My life ends here, this time around. But I stole your life, too, didn’t I? You never got to build any fucking nest, did you, Black Bird?’ He chortled, shrugged his still massive shoulders, savouring his triumph. As I watched with mounting horror, I knew he was right. His death was not my victory. In embracing it, he remained unconquered.

The prince had been right, too. It was not an easy death. The big body convulsed, sinews straining; a scarlet shower erupted from the nose, and a plume of blue flame shot from his helmeted skull. At 7.07 a.m., Colonel Sya Dam, a.k.a. the Black Tiger, once essentially ruler of Thailand, was pronounced dead by the prison doctors.

The observers filed out in silence. I felt drained. Prince Premsakul pumped my hand in farewell. ‘Hard-nosed bastards, these Akha tribal fellows, eh? No remorse, no priests, not even a bloody shaman! Well, toodle-pip!’ He waggled his pudgy hand at me and hopped nimbly into the waiting limousine.

Still dazed, I found my hired car and motored up the freeway in the shadow of towering pink billboards proclaiming:
Starke strawberries! Sweetest this side of heaven
.

By the time he had seen seven rainy seasons, the Akha boy had made up his mind to run away. He knew he needed to get away from the tribe. He wanted more from life. He would have run away even earlier, but there was his sister. Their mother was dead, worn out with work, pregnancy, and casual violence. His sister, older than him by a handful of years, had cared for him and for their other two siblings until, neglected and malnourished, the younger ones had drifted into death. He had known this initiation day would dawn for his sister, as for all women, and that then he would fight for her. If he lost, he would have to die or flee the village, never to return.

Now it was time. She had been declared ripe for ritual deflowering by the appointed tribal stud. She had soft little hands, the memory of which would strike him sometimes later, after a life where there had been little softness, and in the course of which he himself had grown monstrous.

He hovered on the edge of the excited group that had gathered when they came to lead his sister away. She was shaking, the coins on her black and silver headdress jingling, her breath coming in sharp, shallow gasps. She cradled herself with thin arms while the tribal stud stood waiting for her. His nostrils flared and his white teeth flashed in a mocking grin as he savoured the girl’s terror. She glanced up just once, darted a desperate look of appeal toward her brother. Just a snot-nosed, barefoot Akha brat, standing irresolute, inexperienced, but tense as a cobra poised to strike.

The boy made up his mind. His black topknot quivering like a coxcomb, he bent down and seized a sharp stone. He thrust it between his knuckles and squared up to the grinning bully. He knew his only chance was to strike first. He jabbed once, aiming the stone carefully. It was a good blow. He heard the nose-bone crack. The stud staggered back, howling with pain and outrage. Bright blood streamed from his shattered nose. Then he hurled himself upon the small boy, flailing with fists and feet.

A seven-year-old had no chance against his older, heavier opponent. Tearing himself free, the boy fled into the jungle, ignoring the yells of his tribesmen. He knew now: he could not save his sister from her fate. So long as he stayed in the tribe he would not escape his own. Destiny had forced his hand, and now it was time to break free. As he ran, spitting and grinding his teeth, he risked the vengeance of his savage gods and cursed his tribe. He sped fast, but not blindly, with a sense of purpose: he had heard of a temple, far to the west, where priests were reputed to teach orphan boys.