The first couple of days had been spent in the pursuit of all of Bangkok’s hedonistic charms, and Kowalski and his friends were finally beginning to relax. Then one night — perhaps a Saturday, Cole couldn’t now remember — the men had become separated.
They had been drinking all afternoon, and some of them wanted to visit the red light district in Patpong. Kowalski had wanted to carry on drinking, and so while four of the team had headed off across town, he and a young SEAL called Taylor Henman had stayed in the bars around Khao San Road.
Eventually, Kowalski and Henman had also become separated, and Kowalski had found himself wandering the streets of Bangkok alone and more than a little drunk. It went against all advice for military personnel on R&R, but they weren’t thinking about rules and safety; they were SEALs, and they’d just been to war. What did they have to worry about in Bangkok?
Kowalski had been leaning against a dirty brick wall in an alleyway outside a rundown bar, trying to stop his head from spinning, when he’d heard it — the low, whimpering moans of a woman.
He had become instantly alert, his feet automatically taking him further down the alley towards the source of the sound.
Despite the alcohol he’d consumed, his mind became clearer and clearer with each passing second, his body sharper and more responsive as the moans turned to cries and then muffled screams.
Kowalski turned one corner, then another, running now towards the sounds, and then he made one last turn and there she was — a young women lying in a pool of blood on the floor, three Thai men stood around her with bloodied knuckles. One had a knife.
The woman was silent now, and still; far too still.
Kowalski launched himself down the alleyway, on the men before they’d even had a chance to turn round and see him.
He took the one with the knife first, tackling him full-force from behind and driving him into his friends, knocking them sprawling to the ground. The man dropped his knife and as he went to grab it Kowalski stamped down hard on his hand, breaking the bones; then as the others were getting back to their feet, he grabbed the first thug by the hair and rammed his head straight into the alley wall, bricks cracking from the impact, dust billowing out into the hot night air.
Kowalski wasted no time; he was trained to act quickly and decisively, and never to give the enemy an inch. Keep moving forward; always push forward.
He lashed out with his right leg in a powerful upwards arc, his boot catching the second man underneath the jaw as he was still rising. The head snapped back and Kowalski knew the man was out before he’d even hit the sidewalk.
He turned just as the third man put his hands around Kowalski’s neck in a Muay Thai clinch position; but Kowalski knew the position and knew what would be coming next — heavy blows with the knees, a trademark of that fighting art.
Anticipating it, Kowalski caught his hand under the incoming knee and — holding onto one of the man’s clinching arms with his other hand — picked him clear off the floor, turning the lighter man in the air and bringing him down savagely onto his bent knee, braced against the ground.
There was a snap and a dull moan, and then Kowalski dropped the man and smashed his head into the sidewalk just to make sure.
All three of the attackers were now out of commission — perhaps permanently, although Kowalski didn’t think so. They were tough; they’d pull through.
After his experiences in Afghanistan and Iraq, Kowalski considered simply killing them; after all, the world would undoubtedly be better off without them.
But he was not a murderer, and death could be kept for the battlefield. Perhaps their experiences tonight might make them rethink their way of life and choose a less dangerous path.
Kowalski certainly hoped so.
He stooped to the body next to him, the young woman lying in a pool of her own blood. He checked her body from top to bottom, discovered a small knife entry wound between two of her ribs, took off his shirt and tied it round her to help stem the flow of blood. All her other injuries were superficial, though unpleasant — her obviously pretty face had been mauled by the men’s fists. Two teeth were missing, and he was sure she had a cracked cheekbone, maybe jaw too.
He wondered whether he should leave her there and go and find help, but thought better of it; who knew if the three young thugs would have friends nearby.
And so he did the only thing he could think of and picked her up in his arms, carrying her out of the dirty alleyway.
It was when they were nearing the end that her eyes opened, taking Kowalski entirely by surprise; they were the most beautiful eyes he had ever seen, at once full of life but at the same time lonely and desolate, revealing depths of soul Kowalski couldn’t begin to understand.
Those eyes looked into his with an intensity he was unable to comprehend, a searching look, a look of trust, wonder and gratitude.
And then she spoke, even though it was just two short words and must have hurt so badly.
‘Thank… you,’ she managed, and then she was unconscious again in his arms.
And Mark Kowalski, despite himself, knew that he had just fallen in love.
The days that followed were strange ones for the young SEAL. He’d taken the girl to the nearest medical unit to have her looked at, and they had sent her straight to Bumrungrad International Hospital.
Cole had covered the young woman’s medical bills, and stayed by her bedside. The doctors had wanted to get the authorities involved, but she had been adamant that she didn’t want to let anyone know what had happened.
It turned out that the woman was from Japan, and the name she gave the doctors — and Kowalski — was Aoki Asami, despite her passport saying her name was Yamaguchi Asami. She was reluctant to discuss what she was doing in Bangkok except that she was ‘trying to get away from things’. Kowalski guessed that those ‘things’ might be related to the man who’d given her the married name of Yamaguchi; she was probably fleeing an abusive husband. But it was mere conjecture — even as the days continued and he managed to get in touch with his SEAL team mates to tell them to enjoy themselves without him, she refused to open up about her personal situation.
But Kowalski didn’t care; there was so many other things to talk about, things from a life Kowalski hardly knew existed. As Asami rested in her hospital bed, Kowalski held her hand and listened to her speak about her country, and many other countries besides — their language, their culture, their traditions, their music, their national character. The woman’s knowledge seemed boundless, especially contrasted to Kowalski’s own.
He had travelled the world, sure. But most of it was spent in combat in the worst hellholes of that world; and time not spent in combat was spent either in training or in partying. Culture was not something that had been on his agenda.
It was something that had been mentioned to him at Officer Candidate School at Pensacola two summers before, and something he had paid lip service to in order to pass out as an Ensign. But the truth was, he had typically divided people into two groups over the years — friends and enemies — and had given no more thought to further cultural niceties.
But Asami started to open his eyes to the beauty all around him, and he was at once amazed by what he was experiencing, and at the same time profoundly embarrassed by his own previous narrow-mindedness.
When Asami was released from hospital, the pair continued to spend time together, travelling round the teeming city of Bangkok to experience some of the things they had been discussing.
To Kowalski, every mouthful of food tasted delicious, the sound of the Thai language all around him like a beautiful song; even the polluted air seemed to smell fresh and sweet. It was as if a veil had been taken from him, and he was seeing the world for the first time, a man rediscovering his senses after years of deprivation.