"Bangkok Tattoo" - читать интересную книгу автора (Burdett John)

15

I t's lunchtime, but Mustafa and I have different tastes. He leaves me to go off to a Muslim restaurant, while I seek out a Thai canteen that is famous for the heat of its grataa rawn, a sizzling variety show of marine life. Actually, I could just as well have eaten some lamb with Mustafa, but I wanted to be alone for a moment. I pull out the picture of Chanya while I'm waiting for the grataa rawn. I would almost have preferred the simple case I first assumed it to be: an irrational outbreak of violence from an overstressed whore. Now the complexity seems infinite and infinitely impenetrable. I really have no idea what's going on or where it all will lead.

I'm in a pretty somber state of mind when Mustafa arrives at the restaurant in a pickup truck. It's a Toyota four-by-four with three young men in the back. I guess from the bulges they are armed guards. Mustafa and I sit in the front of the truck with the driver while the guards, scarves covering their heads and faces against the dust, bump up and down on a bench in the open back.

The road out of town leads northeast, and we soon leave the paved highway for a rutted track. There is no air-con in the cab, so we drive with the windows open. The heat down here is always a few degrees higher than in Bangkok; it doesn't sound like much, but when you live at the upper limit of what the human frame can tolerate, it makes a difference. When we slow down to accommodate the rutted terrain, I feel like we're in a mobile oven. The terrain is lush, though, even for Thailand, because they have a lot more rain down here. When the driver finally stops the truck and we get out, the intensity of the silence hits us all between the eyes. We've been rattling up and down in a noisy vehicle for more than half an hour; suddenly there is only a single cicada with the energy to rub its legs together.

Mustafa beckons to me, and I follow him down a footpath that leads into a tranquil valley in which the only buildings are a large wooden house on stilts and a tiny mosque, apparently made of wood that has somehow been fashioned to produce a dome. He tells me to stay with the guards while he checks on his father. He emerges from the house with joy in his face and beckons for me to climb the stairs to join him. Inside the house the old imam with the fire in his black eyes welcomes me with his usual hospitality. We sit on mats drinking peppermint tea. My report is brief but welcome. Of course, in light of the photograph of Chanya in Mitch Turner's bedroom in Songai Kolok, no responsible cop could avoid the conclusion that Chanya killed Mitch Turner, for whatever reason. They knew each other; she went back to his hotel when he came to Bangkok. Whatever happened in the hotel room, only she came out alive.

The imam has been examining my face while I speak. "But your Colonel is strangely keen to protect this prostitute. Why is that?"

"She's a key worker. These things happen from time to time. I guess he's just protecting the club and its reputation."

"You will put your report in writing?"

"I can't do that without permission."

Silence. Mustafa looks angry.

The old man says: "If Colonel Vikorn changes his mind under pressure from the Americans, will you warn us?"

"Yes," I say. "Okay." A long shot comes to mind. I'm shy to ask the question, considering its mystic origin, but what the hell? "Does the name Don Buri mean anything to you?" Blank glances.

The interview is over, and I go back to town in the truck with Mustafa, who is wrestling with some karmic obsession and says nothing throughout the journey. Indeed, he hardly manages to say goodbye.

Back in my hotel room I call Vikorn with my heart in my mouth. "I'm just about finished down here." I tell him about Hudson and Bright, the picture of Chanya.

"So?"

"I'm convinced Chanya did it."

Impatiently: "Well, what else is new?"

"So it wasn't a Muslim assassination."

A pause. "I hope you're not resurrecting that bleeding heart of yours?"

"It's not a bleeding heart, it's practical politics. If we try to blame Al Qaeda, it could have repercussions down here."

Even more impatiently: "Nobody's blaming Al Qaeda. You wrote her fucking statement yourself. Chanya acted in self-defense."

"She knew him from the States. He had a picture of her in his apartment. She sent me a copy of the diary she kept when she was over there. They were longtime lovers."

A longer pause. "You better get back here."

"I think I should make a written report-"

"No."

"If the CIA find out that she knew him, the cover story won't work, and you'll start blaming Muslims. That's your B plan, isn't it?"

"Get back here."

"If the Americans put pressure on us and our government gets clumsy, there could be war down here."

"War or no war, people die. They're always causing trouble in the South. Don't you want to save Chanya?"

"I don't want to be responsible for an insurrection."

"Then tell Buddha it's all my fault. Obedience is part of the Eightfold Path; you tend to forget that from time to time. Read my lips: no written report."