He was young and rendered suddenly insecure to find a more senior detective on the scene. The Sergeant, though, in my pay after accepting my modest bribe, explained about the cell phone, the photos, and why I was there. I was afraid some sinister suspicion would invade his young mind; it was, after all, more than a little strange, even in the context of local law enforcement, that I should have become part of the crime scene. But the detective, too, was overwhelmed by the sense that we were in a private kingdom run by the Sergeant in which anything could happen. On the other hand, those pictures of me on the smart phone needed to be dealt with in some way.
“You don’t know who could have taken them?”
“No idea.”
“There’s no clue in the phone as to the identity of the owner?”
“None at all.”
The young detective was too Thai-too programmed by deference, in other words-to ask me to let him keep the phone. He waited for me to offer, but I changed the subject. He shrugged as if to say, You’re more senior than me, I can’t stop you.
I left him to chat with the Sergeant while I walked along the side of the tarp.
I was, as usual, quite solitary in my quest and wondering why this should be a recurrent theme of my life, when I remembered my new friend. Even on my most alienated days I’m never more than half a pariah; from a certain angle, depending on the light, I can appear quite normal and adjusted. Krom was, in a sense, a more pure form of the loner and therefore strangely comforting-even someone to look up to. I also wondered what she knew about the bomb, if anything. I took out my phone and called her. She answered on the second ring. I told her the story so far.
“Photos of you on a cell phone?”
“At the scene of the bomb at Klong Toey.” I spoke in a slightly accusatory tone, to indicate that I thought she must know something, then added, “The Colonel personally sent me over here. Way out of our jurisdiction, of course. But then, you and I first met on a matter out of the jurisdiction, didn’t we?”
“Klong Toey?” She ignored the provocation and fell silent for a couple of beats. “That bomb was directed at farang-Americans, no?” I would classify her tone as wonder and surprise, rather than cynical foreknowledge.
“Correct.”
“Where are the Americans?”
“In a government hospital-concussed. Two will definitely live, the third is in critical condition. All three have head injuries. Apparently they are all old men, well over sixty.”
“And the phone is set up for English only?”
“Correct.”
Silence. “Sonchai, I don’t know anything about this.”
“Right.”
“You’re on your own here-it doesn’t fit with anything I’m working on.”
“Thanks.”
“Are you being sarcastic? You don’t believe me?”
“You could at least speculate, given all that classified knowledge you’re going to share with me sooner or later, once I’ve been properly vetted-right?”
Silence, then, “You’re smart, aren’t you? Just like they said you were. But maybe not that smart. I tell you all I can, probably more than I should. Could it be that I’m protecting you as well as myself? Do you think I’m not limited by need to know, just like everyone else?”
I groaned. “Just give me a hint, would you?”
“Those old Americans. They could be key, but I’m not sure. If they have connections to anywhere in Cambodia, follow up-but let me know first. That’s all I can say.” She closed the phone.
I walked around the crime scene to rejoin young Detective Tassatorn and the Sergeant. There was no point in trying to examine any more of the debris, which included a great mass of papers and photos that were soggy from the water used to douse the embers and would probably fall apart if I tried to separate them from each other. Anyway, my line of inquiry had now shifted to the victims. I hailed a cab and told the driver to take me directly to the government hospital where the three Americans were laid up.
–
They were in a secure ward: standard procedure in case of injury by explosions. You can have yourself shot by five fully automatic combat rifles and still not qualify for the secure ward; just one little homemade bomb, though, and you get the full treatment: metal detectors at the door, grim and very bored security, medical staff not happy that in addition to risking death by disease every day of their working lives they have to risk being blown up by bomb-toting terrorists and-perhaps worse-follow strict government security guidelines.
The first two beds on the ward were occupied by two Buddhist teachers who had been sent to the Islamic south to teach in government schools and within weeks became victims of the troubles down there. The Islamic resistance doesn’t like to see its territory seduced by Buddhist do-gooders, so a teaching assignment in Yala, Pattani, or any of the Islamic provinces is a dangerous posting that can amount to a death sentence. I was depressed to see their heads and eyes bandaged and remembered my uncle’s phrase, connoisseurs of bitterness, but strode onward to the other end of the ward where the Americans lay on their backs.
Question: how do you tell one American from another when they are all over sixty and have their heads, eyes, and half their faces covered in bandages? A male nurse came to find me while I was staring at them. In Thai script, the legend on the clipboards at the end of the bed was strange. It referred to each patient by his hospital registration number, then gave one of three possible names in English: William J. Schwartz; Laurence Krank; Harry Berg. In other words, nobody knew who was who. They were all in comas of various degrees of depth.
“It’s not unusual, especially with the old, for people to remain in a coma after traumatic shock for days, even weeks, then recover totally,” the nurse explained. “These two,” he added, pointing, “have no damage to the skull at all, only the skin. They will recover soon. This one, though,” he said, pointing at the last bed, “we’re not sure. He was blown back by the blast and hit his head on something hard. There’s quite a lot of swelling. If it gets worse we might have to break open the skull to release the pressure.” Now he came to the punch line and I understood why he was being so helpful. “That’s a long, expensive operation, because after we release the pressure we have to use plates to screw the pieces of skull back together again.”
I stared at the implacable mummies lying on the bed. A sentimental fantasy crossed my mind as I looked at them. No-I half smiled at myself-coincidences like that don’t happen in real life. On the other hand, a cynical but inevitable thought slipped past the internal defenders of the souclass="underline" If one of them is him, I sure hope it’s not the one with the brain damage. Then a third thought came flying out of left field: Could that be why the anonymous gray men pulling all our strings are interested in me? Because of him? But why? And if so, which him? And who, actually, is calling the shots?
“What shall I say to the Registrar?” the nurse was asking. “There are funds for the operation or not?”
I stared at the old man in the bed and allowed that thought to resurface: Supposing, just supposing…After all, one of those guys had taken more than a hundred shots of me on Soi Cowboy, hadn’t they? Or had they? Now was the time to test Vikorn, force him to reveal his hand just a tad.