Thai Horse (17 page)

WATER BABIES

Windy Porter sat at his customary table in the corner of Queen’s Pub watching a dozen Thais trying to
launch a
chula.
The
enormous kite was at least six feet long and the team was having a problem getting it aloft. On the other end of Sanam Luang Park,
several
pakpao
kite
fighters already had their small one-man kites in the air and were yelling good-natured insults at the team.

When the big dragon kite finally caught the wind and spiraled up into the air, one of
the
pakpao
charged
, zigzagging toward the big kite, trying to pass it and get to
the
chula’s
end
of the field and win the match.
The
chula
was
difficult to maneuver, but its tea
m
was expert and they cut across the
path of the
pakpao,
snared its string with their line, and brought the smaller kite
auguring
to the ground. There was a great deal of cheering and now it was the
chula’s
turn for insults, and the young man with the
pakpao
gathered up his wounded flyer and went back to his end of the field in humiliation. A
n
other
pakpao,
whose kite was purple with a blazing red tail, reeled his bird in tight and got ready for the run.

‘A red on the
pakpao,’
Porter said to Gus, the bartender, and slapped a red hundred-baht note
o
n the table.

‘Yer covered,’ the Cockney bartender replied, accepting the five-dollar bet.

The new fellow, who was short and muscular, started running toward the
chula
team, the
n
let the kite run its string, up, up, almost a hundred feet, and began his drive toward the imaginary goal, moving like a good quarterback breaking field, pulling the p
u
rple diamond down, maneuvering it away from the lo
n
g
chula
string, then letting it out as he dodged under the threatening dragon kite. He was very good, outsmarting the team players and dipping his kite under the big dra
g
on just as they were about to collide, hauling it in for a second and then letting it glide back up so that it brushed the larger kite for a moment before he ran on to win the
m
atch.

‘Way to go, sport,’ Porter yelled gleefully. He turned to the bartender and added, with smug satisfaction, ‘Just take it off my tab, Gus.’

Porter loved the kite fights. He left his post every day at four-thirty, walking a mile across Bangkok’s crowded streets rather than fight the noisy traffic jams, to Queen’s, where he sat in the same corner table with a clear view of Sanam Luang Park and the gleaming spire of the Golden Mount atop Wat Sakhet. Porter had been stationed in Bangkok since the end of the Vietnam war, and he loved the ancient beauty of the city and particularly the Thai people, whose prevailing attitude
was
Mai pen rai,
‘Never
mind.’ He had been a close friend of Buffalo Bill Cody’s for many years, a once proper Bostonian who had, on a summer day in 1968, suddenly chucked his executive job in one of the city’s larger banks, accepted Cody’s offer of a commission and a spot on Buffalo Bill’s Nam staff and gone off to find a purpose for his life in a place most men feared and wanted to avoid.

It was an amazing turnabout, for Porter not only quit but burned his bridges, telling the president of the bank what to do with his job and where to take it once he did it, and giving his wife who was equally appalled by his sudden decision, a variation of the same message. After ten years in the stultifying atmosphere of Back Bay and his debasing daily bank chores, which consisted mostly of disapproving loans and foreclosing on unfortunates, Saigon had been a breath of spring air to Porter. The general had even arranged an assignment for him as intelligence adviser in the embassy at Bangk
o
k when the war fizzled out. Porter’s last visit to the States bad been ten years ago.

Although he was pushing fifty, Porter kept trim on the squash courts, had grown a monumental mustache, which he waxed every day, and had learned the language and customs of Thailand. He had become, for all practical purposes, a native. He also adored the Old Man and considered his assignment
—
to keep a loose tag on Wol Pot
—
a privileged responsibility.

Porter was not trained in intelligence work and surveillance, but he had managed to keep up with the Thai informant, although he was getting nervous. Wol Pot had moved twice since he had first discussed the Murphy Cody affair with him. He was obviously jumpy and afraid of something. Could the Thai be stinging them? If so, how did he know about Murph Cody? Why pick him? And why had Wol Pot refused Porter’s offer of protective custody in the embassy? It was obvious the man trusted no one.

He watched the fights until the shimmering fireball of the sun sank slowly behind the Golden Mount, first silhouetting the gleaming gold spire, then etching it against the scarlet sky, and finally surrendering the bell- shaped landmark to darkness. Night began to settle over Bangkok, the lights blazed on, the tourists trekked out of their hotels in pursuit of evening j
o
ys, and Windy Porter left Queen’s and hurried another fe
w
blocks across town to a park called Bho Fhat across from the Sakhet temple, there to begin his nightly vigil on his customary bench, a bench well hidden by jasmine bushes.

There was no question in Porter’s mind that Wol Pot was terrified
of
something.
After
the initial contact, he had turned rabbit. At first, he had followed a loose routine. Porter had followed him once to a junk on the river, to his nightly forays along the klongs, and the strip joints on Patpong Road and particularly to Yawaraj, the Chinese section. The little bastard was addicted to hot Chinese food. Then two days earlier Pot left his rooms and disappeared. Porter had panicked. The little weasel was the only person he knew who might lead them to Murph Cody, if Cody was alive. He had put out the word
—
all over Thailand
—
to his informants, his contacts, his friends, and had run down a few leads, which had fizzled out.

Then Porter had lucked out. A priest, a friend of Porter’s for many years, heard that Porter was looking for this man, Wol Pot.

‘It is probably nothing,’ he said, but a man, no longer a youth, has joined the Wat Sakhet, and has been seen to leave the grounds every night.’

Strange behavior, since the discipline at the monastery was quite rigid though purely voluntary.

‘When did he enter the monastery?’ Porter asked.

‘Only two days ago. That is why his conduct seems strange,’ the priest answered.

‘Khob khun krap,’
Porter said, tha
n
king the priest. ‘May I ask you not to discipline him until I check him out?’

The priest agreed. It was a long sh
o
t, Porter thought, but certainly a clever deception if it was Wol Pot. Porter was familiar with the demands made upon neophyte monks of Theravada Buddhism. One of the most familiar sights in Thailand was the hundreds of saffron-robed
Naen
with their shaven heads wandering the st
r
eets and meditating in the city’s hundreds of wats, the monasteries or temples that were the most common structures in the country. When he first came to Bangkok, Porter had found the monks an annoyance; they reminded him of the Hare Krishnas who had turned most of the airports in the United States into a bizarre distortion of the wats. But w
h
ile he did not pretend to understand the mysteries of Eastern religion, he had gradually come to accept and respect these dedicated men.

During the rainy season of late summer and early fall, the ranks of these monasteries were swelled by thousands of young men. It was a tradition for them to enter the wats, sometimes for two weeks, sometimes for six months, and learn the virtues of an ascetic life free of material possessions. While there, they were obligated to adhere to 227 strict rules, abstaining from lying, idle talk, and indulgence in sex, intoxicants, luxuries and
f
rivolous amusements. Their only possessions were the familiar saffron robe and a brass alms bowl, with which they b egged the two meals a day allowed by the order. Their stay was a matter of personal dedication, nothing prevented them from leaving whenever they wished. But while they were pledged to the order, they had to adhere to its demands. At night they prayed in the wat and went to bed with the sunset, arising before dawn to go on the Street with their brass bowls to seek their first meal of the day.

Since the wats were open to everyone and monks were free to travel from one to another, it was an ingenious place to hide, particularly now when so many were in the order.

That night Porter had stationed himself across from the temple with its great golden dome and waited. Sure enough, just after sunset he saw the yellow-robed monk slip out of the temple. Porter followed the little man, who trotted about a mile to Hua Lamphong, the main train station, where he kept clothes in a locker. He changed in the rest room. When he emerged, dressed in a Western suit, Porter recognized him immediately as Wol Pot. The Thai took a cab and doubled back to Yawaraj, Chinese Town, where he ate dinner in a small nondescript restaurant in the old section. Having satisfied his hunger, he strolled down to Klong Phadung, one of the many canals that branch off the Mae Nam Chao Phraya, the main river that defines the western edge of the city, and there Pot negotiated a price with a tiny tee
n
age prostitute, one of many ‘water babies’ who sold their wares from
hang yao,
long tail boats discreetly covered by bamboo sheds. Pot spent an hour with the young
woman
, then returned to the train station, switched back to his robe, and was back at the monastery by midnight.

It was a ritual with Pot, one that bored Porter, although he followed Pot every night, leaving only when the Thai was safely back in his hiding place.

Porter was a little irritated on this night, for he had hoped to turn over his nightly vigil to the new man, Hatcher. He wasn’t sure he could trust Hatcher. He was Sloan’s man, and Porter never liked Sloan, never liked the shadow wars he fought, breaking all the rules and operating outside what Porter felt were proper military parameters. But it was Sloan’s game now, and since Hatcher had not shown yet, Porter had to continue the loose surveillance himself, making sure Pot didn’t slip away into the night and vanish again, this time for good.

If Pot was coming out, he
would
leave the Buddhist monastery soon after the sun died. Porter lit a British 555 cigarette and waited.

The street was quiet. There was very little traffic, and the din of the city was a like a murder in Porter’s ears. An elderly woman scurried up to the spirit house adjacent to the Wat Sakhet, placed a wreath of
j
asmine in front of the prayer station, stuck several sticks of incense in the ground and lit them. Then she clasped her hands together and swayed back and forth for several minutes, invoking the generosity of the spirits. Porter wondered what she was asking for. A healthy new grandchild? A good crop of poppies? A winning lottery ticket?

His thoughts were interrupted by
the
appearance of Wol Pot. A door in the side of the
temple
opened just wide enough for Pot to slip through. Porter killed his cigarette and watched the little man as he huddled in the shadows, looking around nervously, then started off toward the station. Porter fell in behind him, keeping far enough back so Pot would not be suspicious. He was concentrating so hard on Pot, he did not notice the other two men who fell in behind the Thai.

They were Chinese, small and wiry, dressed in the stark black shirt and pants that many Chinese affect. They followed Pot to the train station, where he changed into civilian clothes, and from there to the edge of the Yawaraj. Pot got out of the cab and strolled down cluttered Worachak Road, one of Chinese Town’s main thoroughfares. As he turned and headed down into the noisy, cramped alleys of Chinese Town, the two Chinese split up, each taking one side of the street. Pot strolled down through the twisting, neon-lit alleys while the two worked both sides of the street behind hi
m
. It wasn’t until Pot entered a tiny restaurant in an alley off Bowrong Street that the pair realized that Porter also was tailing Wol Pot.

One of the Chinese was in his early twenties with long blow-dried hair and a trace of a mustache. The other was older, his face scarred and angry. A sharp cut separated his right eyebrow, and the eye below it was partially closed by the same old wound. He was the leader, and it was he who spotted Porter. He had seen the husky American in front of the train station and now he saw- him again, getting out of the cab just behind Pot. He nudged his partner and nodded toward the other side of the street, where Porter was checking the restaurant
w
hile mock window- shopping. When Pot was seated, Porter entered a small noodle shop across the street from the restaurant, found a seat near the front window, and ordered something to eat while he kept an eye on the Thai.

The two Chinese became as interested in Porter as they were in Pot.
They decided to split up again, the younger one following the American while Split-eye stayed with the Thai.
They had just begun following Wol Pot that day and were not familiar with his nightly habits. But Split-eye had little respect for him. Pot had successfully eluded them and found a perfect hiding place, then blown it all by going into Chinatown to eat, the most likely place in the city for him to be recognized. Now it looked as if the American had also blown Pot’s cover. The Thai was smart, but he also appeared to be stupidly reckless.

He took out a red hundred-baht note and held it over his head. She saw him, squinted her eyes as she focused on the bill, then shook her head. Pot was surprised, having thought his offer was a generous one. He took out a five-hundred-baht purple and held it up. The girl pondered, then held her hands apart, palms facing, and slowly closed them. Pot thought for a moment, then held up both the purple and the red. She nodded. The deal was struck.

Windy Porter watched Wol Pot cross the two boats to the
hang yao
of his newly acquired ‘water baby’. They stood on the deck for a moment, talking back and forth, until finally the girl took the two bills and led Pot into the thatched cabin in the rear of the boat.