Assignment Bangkok (8 page)

Something flickered briefly in Savag’s black eyes. “I will overlook the remark. You have had a difficult time since your arrival here. You could use some medical attention.” “Who told you about it?” Durell asked. “Miss Ku Tu Thiet, in James’ house?”

Tiny muscles bunched in Savag’s jaw, under his ears. His eyes were malevolent. “We are both in the same business. Yes, yes. Miss Ku works for me. A lovely child. It is her duty to report to my intelligence staff. We are riddled with traitors, saboteurs, terrorists, Mr. Durell, who work for the enemy. I will not tolerate it, I will use any means, any tool, to learn what I must know. You interfere with my work. I will not tolerate that, either. I speak plainly, you see. Miss Slocum, by the way, will be sent home under protective custody. But you will be kept here. I will not soil my hands further with a
fahrang
like you. I shall turn you over to Major Luk, who will question you further. In the morning, you will be escorted to> the airport for a plane bound for the United States.”

Durell felt relieved. He did not think he could tolerate any more abuse at the moment.

Major Luk was in another office in the deserted barracks building, and through his window the lights of Bangkok made a pale haze in the night sky, seen through a screen of wild banana trees that had grown up against the outer wall. Luk was very polite, very urbane. He apparently ate at odd hours. He had a paper plate of Thai bacon and a bowl of pineapple and coconut rings before him, and he was putting lime juice on a slice of papaya when Durell was escorted in.

“Ah. My apologies. You wish a doctor now? You look rather—ah—desolate.”

Benjie sat in one corner, her legs crossed. She had fixed her hair, pulling it back into her usual severe style. Her greenish eyes told Durell nothing.

Durell looked at the girl. “I thought they let you go.”

“I refused to leave until I heard about you. Was Savag very bad?”

Major Luk said, “You must make allowances for my superior. He is a dedicated man. Perhaps he goes to extremes in his dedication, but he has been badly treated in the past, especially by you Westerners.”

“He told me that Miss Ku, in Mr. James’ employ, also works for you.”

Major Luk nodded. “She is helpful, now and then. Are you surprised? It is all in the business, is it not?” He sprinkled more lime juice on his papaya. “Come, Mr. Durell, we are not uncivilized. I believe our ancestors had a highly developed culture when yours were still swinging from the trees, so to speak. We are very proud of our Thai heritage.

To us, you are barbarians, relatively speaking. Americans are General Savag’s particular dislike, I am afraid. You do not comprehend our ways and customs, nor do you try to.”

“Let’s not have any lectures,” Durell said flatly. “Just let me out of here.”

“You must forgive me. You know I have orders to put you on a plane tomorrow.”

“I’m going up-country. Into your security area.”

Major Luk smiled. “You are honest, at any rate. I have heard about you, Mr. Durell, and read your dossier. It is formidable. I truly believe you may accomplish what you have set out to do.” The Thai soldier’s eyes moved, smiling, from Durell to Benjie. “But you must leave Bangkok in the morning. If you do not, General Savag will be most annoyed. I would not recommend that you cause him any distress.”

“The bastard,” Benjie said. “His reputation stinks.” “There are rotten apples, as you would say, in every barrel. Am I correct?” He turned to Benjie. “You are free to go. I understand you wish to travel to Chiengmai?”

“Yes. On business.”

Major Luk said gently, “Ah, Chiengmai. Once a beautiful city, the capital of a Laos kingdom, you know, for which the Burmese and Thai people fought. Your teak rafts start there, going down-river to Bangkok?”

“You know it,” Benjie said.

Major Luk looked at Durell. “It was once an important junction, in ancient days, for caravans to Yunnan and the Shan states. Now, of course, it is our strategic base for the battle against insurgents . . . and others. The
moi
—the tribesmen—are most unsettled. General Savag is determined to halt their activities. He is very proud of our traditions. ‘Muang Thai’ means the Land of the Free, you know. Over two thousand years ago we migrated from the Yangtse, pushed south by the Chinese, and we established the kingdom of Nanchao, on the Yunnan plateau, about 700 A.D. Eventually, Nanchao was destroyed by Kublai

Khan, the Mongol emperor of China, in 1253, and we trekked south again to fight against the Khmers and established the Kingdom of Sukhothai, which means the ‘Dawn of Happiness.’ The first king of the Thais is our national hero-figure, Phra Ruang. His third son was Rama Kamheng, a warrior, statesman, scholar, lover, devout Buddhist, and patron of the arts. He invented the Thai script, too. You know something of Sukhothai pottery, and the delicate bronze Buddhas from the area?”

“I’m wondering why you give us a lecture,” Durell said. “I was briefed on Thai history.”

“Of course. My apologies. Miss Slocum, you may go.” “What about Sam?” she asked defiantly.

Durell said, “It seems to me you still have a few Mongols from Kublai Khan’s day with you, Major.”

Luk smiled. “You refer to General Savag?” Then a telephone on Luk’s desk rang. He seemed to have been waiting for the call. He spoke briefly, then stood up. “Excuse me. It is urgent.”

He went out. Durell and the girl waited for a moment. Then Durell said, “Let’s go.”

Benjie was surprised. “It’s too easy. It’s a trick.”

“No trick. He wants us to get out.”

“How can you tell?”

“He hates Savag’s guts. He’s sympathetic to us. He told me so, when he mentioned caravans out of Chiengmai. He knows what my job is. He wants me to get it done.”

“You’re building a lot on a few casual words.”

“The Thais are like that. You ought to know.”

The office door was not locked. The corridor was empty. Benjie followed him out. From an open doorway down the hall came the sound of high-pitched Thai argument. General Savag’s voice was a low growl over Major Luk’s protests. Durell gave Benjie the signal to go the other way. At the head of some stairs going down there was a dim light, and below was an open door going outside. The sounds of highway traffic seemed louder.

“They must have my jeep here,” Benjie whispered.

They went silently down the stairs. There was no alarm. The single unshaded lamp made a dangerous pool of illumination, and from behind them came the continued argument in Savag’s office. Durell wondered where Savag’s platoon was posted. Then he took Benjie’s hand, and, together, they ran across the lighted hall and out the doorway.

Among the weeds and trash that littered the barracks area, they felt isolated, as if the place were deserted. Then Durell noted a cigarette glow near the sagging gate posts that led to a rutted road going toward the highway. Headlights flared from the traffic there, above a small rise clumped with vegetation. He pulled Benjie silently to the left, around a corner of the sagging doorway, and exhaled softly.

Two army trucks and Benjie’s jeep were parked in the shadows under some leaning palm trees. She dug into the hip pocket of her baggy blue denims.

“I have a spare key,” she whispered.

They ran for it. If any of the soldiers in the shadows of the wire gate saw them, they gave no sign. Benjie tumbled in behind the wheel, jabbed the key into the lock, and switched on the engine. The racket sounded enormous. Over its roar, Durell thought he heard a shout of alarm, but Benjie paid no attention. The jeep swung in a wild turn that kicked up a cloud of dark dust around them, and then she switched on the headlights. The guards at the gate were caught by surprise in the glare. Benjie tramped on the gas. One of the soldiers tried to raise his rifle, but he was sideswiped by the jeep and sent sprawling into the dust. Before any shots could be fired, they were through and heading for the open highway.

The barracks was only a few hundred yards along an access road to the four-lane thoroughfare. There was a lot of military traffic going east out of Bangkok. Benjie slammed on the brakes to avoid crashing into a troop-carrier. The column seemed endless. The jeep rocked on its springs, and Durell looked back. Some lights were going

on in the rambling barracks. A single shot made a dim popping noise through the racket of the traffic, but the bullet went wide.

Benjie grinned wanly. “Major Luk is not going to be very comfortable when Savag learns of this.”

“I’m sure Luk has an explanation ready for the general.”

There was a momentary gap in the convoy. Benjie stepped on the gas and the jeep bounced forward onto the concrete. She swung left, tires screeching, and headed for the city. Durell looked backward, but no one seemed to be following. If he had estimated Uva Savag correctly, however, the general would be turning the town upside down for him.    

“Are you still willing to fly me to Chiengmai?”

Benjie looked serious. “On my deal. I go with you.”

Durell considered it. The girl was competent enough. On the other hand, she was a sure tell-tale for General Savag to take him in again. “Can you get a plane to the airport?”

“There’s a small strip at Lung Moc. I’ll have a Thai Star plane there by dawn. But where will you stay tonight?”

“Better if you don’t know. I’ll be at Lung Moc before ten in the morning,” Durell decided.

Headlights flared behind them on the highway, but as they passed into the outskirts of Sampeng, heading for the Chao Phraya River, he saw no special pursuit. When Benjie spoke again, her voice had softened, but her grin was still tough and insolent.

“Sam, you make me feel like Goldilocks—only, I’m Mama Bear. Do you have plans to crawl into
my
bed tonight?”

He looked at her. She was the most un-feminine woman he had met in a long time. He spoke bluntly.

“Not likely,” he said.

The young monk, Prajadhipok, was happy. Pra was nineteen, a
samanara
, a novitiate monk. The sun beat down fiercely on his shaven head as he trudged in the dust to Sampeng, behind Kem. Brother Kem was his idol. Everything about Kem was holy. His spirituality was a moral lesson to all at the little temple on the outskirts of Bangkok, where they lived. Pra carried his begging bowl in both hands as he followed Kem around the corner to their usual stops at the tourist shops which, at this hour, were still relatively empty.

The day would be hot and dry. The monsoons and the blessed rains from heaven were still one month away, as Buddha willed. Pra was stout for a monk, although he ate sparingly, as all the brothers of the Sangha did. The Wat Kao Po was not a rich or elaborate temple, and it did not attract tourists. Its
prangs
did not pierce the hard sky, nor were their emerald Buddhas and yellow-tiled roofs meant to provide earthly beauty. True, there were the tripleheaded elephants at the main entrance, and the tall central tower boasted a mosaic of shells dug from the delta mud, reaching for the triple trident of Siva. It was a back-country temple, but wherever Brother Kem lived, that place was sanctified. Now and then Pra worried about the joy in his life. All was a dream in the eye of Buddha that would blend into the next inevitable reincarnation that would lead, eventually, to oblivion in the Universal—if one were holy enough, like Kem.

Pra had risen from a lowly
dek wat
, a temple boy, where he received only board and lodging at the monastery. Now, as a
samanara
, he hoped to become a
bhikkhu
, a monk who wore the orange-yellow robe. His hair and eyebrows were totally shaven. Life was austere. He had awakened this sunrise to the sounds of prayer and drums, and had washed, swept his cell, helped to broom the courtyard and filtered the drinking water, which was not to kill insects, but to purify it spiritually.

Trudging behind Brother Kem, he had marched out with the others, with his alms bowl. Already he had collected curry and fruit, which he had accepted with downcast eyes. Never did one give thanks to the donor. It would rob the giver of making merit. After the sun passed the noon hour, he would be allowed to drink only liquids. To eat, he had to push back his robe and bare one shoulder. He would spend the afternoon with Kem in the wat’s pavilion where the resident monks maintained school rooms for the villagers. There was a Buddha image there of crystal, and another of jasper, and he would sit in the class with Kem under the symbols of the Teacher—the Bod-hitree—the sacred serpent and the wheel of doctrine.

Pra often wondered that Brother Kem, who had seen much of the world and the ways of men, had chosen the little country temple in which to seek holiness and merit. Kem had even seen America, had gone to college there, with the help of certain Americans; but Brother Kem never spoke of that.

In busy Sampeng, where shopkeepers enjoyed the briefly cool hours before the sun really struck down, Kem moved ahead in his saffron robe with his shaven skull meekly bowed before the great glories of Buddha. It was a day like every other day. But the shops, the dust, the glare of light, the gay splash of blossoms, were all illusions. Trudging behind Kem, Pra saw him turn his gentle eyes toward him, smiling. They passed a clockmaker’s shop and all the clocks in there began to chime the eighth hour of the day since midnight. Kem halted.

“Wait, Brother Pra,” said Kem. “Mr. Kow Singh always has a few coins for us.”

The Kow Singh Clock Shop was a dusty haven of quiet in a side alley off one of the busier roads in Sampeng. Brother Kem always went in alone. Pra never questioned this. He knew it had something to do with a vow that Kem had once taken, but what the vow was and why Brother Kem never failed to stop here on his alms-begging rounds was never explained, and Pra never presumed to ask for an explanation. Now, on this morning like every other morning, Kem, his bald head agleam with sweat in the morning sun, smiled again and walked into the shop without bidding Pra goodbye.

Pra sat down in the dust at the corner, his eyes humbly downcast, his bowl held out at the feet of the busy, worldly shoppers, whores, tourists and children who shuffled by.