Death in the Kingdom (24 page)

It was 20:40 when the detective in charge of the case arrived in response to Don Don's call. Inspector Tipayakesorn was a dapper little guy in an expensive suit. A suit that I would hazard probably cost a normal Bangkok detective three months' salary. This guy was either on the take or he was very, very high up in the food chain. Don Don had made the introductions and vouched for my presence at the time of Babs's murder. Tipayakesorn didn't need to interview any of the hundred witnesses Don Don said he could produce. ‘I have your word, Mr Wisehart, that is sufficient,' the inspector said in accented but precise English. ‘You may call me Kit,' Tipayakesorn said focusing on me. ‘Kit Carson,' he added with a chuckle.

‘Are you a cowboy?' I asked in Thai.

‘In my youth, perhaps,' he replied with a smile. ‘If you will excuse us, Donald, we will talk in Thai as Mr Swann is obviously fluent. The tape I will make may be transcribed by someone who does not speak good English and we want to be precise.'

Don Don agreed. Kit removed a small Sony dictaphone from his briefcase, set it upon the table between us and began the interview. Don Don, who had admitted to having only a basic knowledge of Thai, sat to one side and tried to follow our discussion as I gave Kit my cover details and explained exactly what had happened when I had entered the apartment. I omitted details relating to the gun, of course, and didn't tell him about Sami Somsak. Bringing him into the picture would cloud the waters. I did recommend that the security guard at the apartments be given a real working over. My bet was the prick would have let the killer into the building. ‘Who do you think would bear you ill will enough to do these terrible things?' Kit asked for the recorder.

‘I have made a lot of enemies,' I replied. ‘Trade is more and more cut-throat every day.' Yeah, I was aware of another bad and very unintentional pun. Kit didn't seem to pick up on it. ‘Maybe I have stepped on one set of toes too many,' I continued.

‘Gangster enemies?' Kit wanted to know.

‘I have had bad dealings with one gangster in particular,' I said. I figured that if I pointed a finger it might as well be at Tuk Tuk as anyone else. Given his record, having him as an enemy would possibly help prove that I was a seriously wronged innocent.

‘Who is that?' Kit wanted to know.

‘Tuk Tuk Song,' I replied.

The name produced an immediate reaction in the inspector. Kit sat back in his seat with a look of consternation on his face. ‘Tuk Tuk Song is a very bad enemy to have,' he said at last. ‘Very bad!'

‘Yes,' I agreed. ‘But perhaps it was not him. It may have been this woman's fiancé, but I think not. My old friend lived in Patong Beach. His death is linked to me and to causing me much pain and regret. It is the same with the girl, I think.' Kit was nodding. I could almost see the thought processes taking place behind his eyes. It didn't take Sherlock Holmes to fit the pieces together. They, whoever they were, had their reasons for wanting to rattle and roll me to hell and back. Kit didn't know that for a fact, but he was no fool. What he did know was that whatever business I was really in, my knowledge and perhaps relationship with Tuk Tuk put a whole different slant on things. He knew I wasn't a civilian and this hadn't been a nice little social killing spree.

‘I think we can rule out a jealous boyfriend,' Kit said at last. ‘Whoever did this thing wanted you to pay a very, very high price. As you said, someone is out to hurt you very badly. Perhaps it is Tuk Tuk Song. If so, I would advise you to leave Thailand immediately. There will be no charges for you to answer.' Kit stood and scooped his recorder off the desk and then, almost as an afterthought, he paused and held the Sony towards me. ‘If you will give me the details of your late friend, we will have people look for the rest of him.'

That was it. Kit and I shook hands and Don Don escorted him out, leaving me alone with the whisky bottle. I poured another solid belt and tried Sami again. Still nothing! Don Don was back. He tipped more whisky into his own glass and sank into his seat. ‘What are you going to do?' he was asking. I shrugged and finished my drink in one long swallow. I had to find out what the hell was happening to Sami. I was getting a really bad feeling about him. Sami Somsak could look after himself. That had been proven many times before, but this was a new game. Who the fuck was the mystery player? Something was niggling way back in my brain but it stayed just out of reach.

Don Don asked if I wanted another place to stay, a legitimate safe house perhaps? I rejected that. I looked at my watch. It was 22:34. I knew what I was going to do. I was going to go to Sami's and find out what the hell was happening. Then I stood up and the effects of the whisky hit me. I'd emptied my gut of food and the alcohol had gone straight to my head. I staggered a little and almost fell. Don Don, bless his little cotton socks, steadied me. ‘I think you'd better get some sleep,' he suggested and for once I couldn't summon an argument. ‘Couch next door, toilet at the end of the hall. I'll organise a blanket or two.' I didn't argue. A few minutes later I spiralled into the blackness of a deep and thankfully dreamless sleep.

I awoke long before dawn and felt like total crap. I used the toilet and splashed water on my face to try and make myself feel better. It didn't. There was instant coffee in a kitchen alcove. I made a strong one and loaded sugar into it. The lights in this part of the building were mostly off. I felt totally alone. I took my brew and my cigarettes, cracked a balcony door and went out into the muggy pre-dawn. There was a patio table containing an overflowing ashtray. I pulled up a chair. It was time to try and put everything in focus. I was tempted to phone and speak to the security types at the US Embassy. Should I apologise to the CIA operative in charge for being sort of responsible for killing off a dozen of his people and for slamming a big helping of egg on their collective face with my decoy plan? I could just imagine his reaction.

‘Not them,' I said aloud. Killing Babs and Geezer in that way wasn't their style, nor was it Tuk Tuk's. I instinctively knew it hadn't been him. ‘Who?' There were maybe a dozen arms and drug lords and the like in northern Thailand, Cambodia and Laos who would gladly pour petrol on me and set me alight if they had the chance, but that was business. This was a hell of a lot more personal.

I knew there was only one choice. I had to make some calls. Sami still wasn't answering his phone. I needed a phone book for the next one on my list so I went indoors. The battery light of my mobile was on, so I killed it and used the desk phone. It was a local call. I was going to speak to the guys in the white hats before I did anything else.

‘I could say you've got a hell of a cheek,' Karl Isbaider said as he stirred the last of six lumps of sugar into his coffee. Then he gave me a hard grin. ‘But then you always did.'

‘Yeah,' I agreed and took a sip of my own brew. Karl was CIA, the number two or three man in Thailand. He hadn't told me which and I hadn't asked.

It was now 08:30 and Karl and I were having breakfast indoors at the former Hilton in Nai Lert Park. It had been changed to a Swissôtel. Whatever, the food looked delicious but I wasn't eating. Karl and I shared an alcove as far from the rest of the diners as it was possible to get.

‘Categorically, Danny, we have not been playing any games with you.' Karl reached for one of my cigarettes. I did the same and lit them both. He was trying to give up smoking he'd told me. It wasn't working. Through a cloud of blue haze he continued. ‘We didn't have any team out in the Andaman, let alone lose one. We didn't tail you and we didn't stake out the British Embassy. It wasn't a CIA operation, Dan. End of story.'

‘Karl, I saw an ID from one of the dead guys in the water. It was State Department issue.'

‘Remember the name?'

I wound back the photographic cells in my brain. ‘Carl with a C, Leathem. New York driver's licence, Queens address, early forties, six foot one, weighing over 200 pounds, I guess, silver hair, number-two haircut, moustache, chubby face. State Department standard ID number ZD 437627002,' I recited.

‘Damn, I wish I could do that damned memory trick,' the CIA man muttered as he reached for his mobile phone. ‘Doesn't ring any bells.' He pressed a directory number. ‘Isbaider,' he said. ‘Run this ID number for me. ZD 437627002, name of Leathem. I'll hold.'

I poured another coffee and pushed the plate bearing my virtually untouched breakfast to one side. I wasn't hungry. Gallons of blood, severed heads and a missing friend could do that to you. I hadn't known who from the Sheriff's office was still in town, but it had been a lucky break that Karl had been on watch when I'd called. Karl had been a field operative like me way back when. We'd worked together occasionally in those days. Now I was calling on our past to try and figure out the present.

While Karl hung on the end of his phone I tried to stay in focus. Not knowing what the hell was happening with Sami was eating me. As soon as we finished, I would head down to Banglamphu to find out for myself. After a minute or so the CIA agent nodded, grunted and grunted some more before thanking whoever was on the other end of the line and flicking his phone off. ‘No State ID has ever been issued with that number. We only have one Leathem on our books and he's an accountant at Langley.' Karl took a final puff of his almost extinct cigarette and ground it out on his saucer. ‘Look, Dan, one pro to another and on my mother's grave, we didn't go out chasing whatever it was you were after out there. It was some other outfit. Also, old buddy, we would have got you,' he added.

‘But the colours, Karl! Mr Green, Mr Blue, Mr Beige. They had all the hallmarks of you lot,' I said.

‘We're not so big on the colour thing these days, Dan, we've become a bit more subtle than that. Believe me when I say you've been suckered on this one. Someone wanted you to think CIA, but we were not involved.' Karl looked absolutely convincing in his denial. Then he paused for a long time, giving me a calculated stare. ‘However, old buddy, if you tell me what it was that you found out there we might get very involved.' I believed him. I stubbed out my own cigarette and fought back the impulse to light another or scream with frustration. Karl could see it plainly. He just shook his head.

‘Fake IDs are a dime a bushel. The people in this mystery outfit might have been equipped with them to throw everyone off the scent if the shit went down wrong, which obviously it did.' Karl stood. ‘I've got a meeting down the street in fifteen so I've got to roll. But believe me when I say it wasn't us. If it had been, I think the only get-together you and I would be having about now would be over a gun. We're forgiving but not that forgiving, especially if you'd taken out a big chunk of our assets. If you figure it out, call me. I think we need to get close on this if some other player in our ballpark is impersonating us. I'll put the word out through our people and see what we dredge up.'

Karl and I shook hands and I watched him leave the restaurant. I was none the wiser.

If it wasn't the CIA or Tuk Tuk, then who the hell was it and where the fuck was Sami? The only good thing for the moment was the fact it wasn't the CIA on my tail. I paid the bill and headed back to the embassy. I needed to speak to Carter if he was still there. The SAS intelligence network was good, damned good. They might have a hint who the third player might be. Once I'd spoken to him I was going to go down into the Old Town to find my old friend, The Onion Man.

24

The retrieval team was due to fly out on a military flight at 22:00. I didn't see Sylvia or the little Welsh beauty in the basement. Carter's people didn't have any intelligence on new local players beyond what we already knew, so it was up to Karl's crew. I was caught in a hellish limbo. My mobile was charging so I found a scrambled land line and called home.

I told Bernard what had gone down in the last few hours. He seemed surprised, but it was hard to tell. No, he didn't have anything else to add. When I hung up I was left with the impression that there was a hell of a lot that he could have added. I didn't dwell on it. I had things to do, including finding a fucking head-hunting killer. In hindsight, maybe I should have realised it then, but I was still rocking from everything that had taken place in the last few hours.

So there I was. My prime mission had been accomplished, but now I was obligated to find the bastards who had killed Geezer and poor innocent Babs. Lone Ranger be damned. I needed to get them before they got me. It was plain that they would come after me in their own time. These guys were pros who knew only too well that when the spring was wound to breaking point, it was so easy to make a fatal mistake.

I was about to get myself organised to head down to Sami's place and find out where he was when Don Don appeared in the doorway. ‘Urgent call for you,' he said, indicating the phone I'd just used. It started to chime. Was it Sir Bloody Bernard?

‘Daniel, it's Sami.'

‘Thank Christ,' I said. ‘Did you know …?'

‘Just listen,' he said urgently in a hoarse whisper. ‘It's not the CIA, it's Dimitri Chekhov. They hit my warehouse two hours after you left. Killed everyone, then torched the place. They were looking for you and the box so it has to be Bernard. You're bugged, either your phone or your computer.'

‘Chekhov!' I said, stunned.

‘Yeah. Explanations later,' Sami whispered before I could dwell on the name or the man behind all this. He was obviously in a tight spot. ‘Be down at Banglamphu after dark. Chekhov's got the place under surveillance. He's waiting for you or me to show. Disguise. It's a circus. Go stand by the old man with the drinks cart. Use your phone, fake a call to me but only when you're in position. Watch your back. We need one of his people alive real bad. Later, Dan!' With that the line went dead.