Death in the Kingdom (28 page)

Sami had now steered us off the main river and we were moving along a canal. There were the usual groups of tired warehouses broken by houses on stilts and docked long-tail boats. Clumps of water hyacinth floated everywhere along with the usual assortment of rubbish. This certainly wasn't one of the more salubrious waterways in the Kingdom. It was almost totally dark, and the spotlight fixed to the bow carved a bright slash through the night.

Sami turned off the canal we'd been running along and we moved slowly into a waterway that was only a couple of feet wider than the hull of the boat. There were no buildings along the banks of this mini-canal, just jungle. All of this in the middle of a damned city!

The canal ended at a high concrete wall with a large pair of solid steel gates set into it, extending right across our path. Sami tapped a button on the boat's console and the gates slid apart smoothly and silently. We moved on into the glare of powerful lights. There were lights everywhere. It was like daytime in this place. I could make out the lake we were crossing. There was a stone jetty in the foreground, and a large three-storey building behind.

‘Home sweet home,' Sami said as he turned the wheel to line us up with the jetty. He touched the control on the console again and the gates to the canal slid shut behind us.

‘Your line of work certainly pays,' I said in open admiration or just plain old-fashioned jealousy.

‘Oh yes,' Sami replied as he nudged us into the buffers on the pier. ‘It does that. We'll talk more about that when we sort out Chekhov and your beloved Sir Bernard.'

I mumbled something approaching agreement and took in the amazing surroundings. There were half a dozen other boats moored at the jetty and anchored in the lake itself. They were all long, low craft with big outboards in their sterns. I had no illusions that these were fast-running drug boats designed to get from A to B very, very quickly indeed.

More lights had come on, exposing what appeared to be a huge compound with gardens and lawns stretching off into the darkness. Half a dozen figures came out of the shadows towards us. These guys were armed with M16s and Ak47s. One held the leashes of a pair of what I took to be attack dogs. I couldn't tell the breed, but they were big, black and had plenty of white fangs. Dogs and I had never got on.

The first pair of guards came out on the jetty to meet us. Sami threw the bow rope to one of them and stepped onto the dock. I followed. Sami jerked a thumb at the man lying in the stern of the cruiser. ‘We want him alive. Stem the blood flow and prep him for conversation,' he instructed. ‘A little truth juice, I think. Call us when he's ready.'

‘Okay,' came the acknowledgement. The men slung their assault rifles and dropped down into the boat as Sami and I moved off. I trailed my host as he led the way up towards the house. It wasn't a house, it was more like a damned palace or a luxury hotel. From my perspective it appeared to be U-shaped with the open ends pointing towards the lake. It was truly magnificent. Its splendour was more than driven home when we entered a wide glass door at the base of the U. Sami and I were in a huge, high foyer. The floor was polished cream marble and there were statues and paintings everywhere. This was like Tuk Tuk's palace for Sakura—elegant and so damned lavish.

We didn't loiter in the foyer. Sami led me up a wide, curved teak staircase. As we climbed the broadly spaced steps, I recognised some of the paintings hanging on both sides of the walls. I knew without asking that they weren't copies.

‘Fruits of my ill-gotten gains,' Sami said with a thin smile as I paused to check out what I thought was a Renoir. It was! I finally dragged myself away from the two-foot-by-two-foot daub that was probably worth more than I'd make in a lifetime, given I lived to eighty or ninety. I wasn't bitter. Fucking Renoir was dead and, for the moment, I was still alive.

I carried on after The Onion Man and eventually followed him into what appeared to be his study. It was the size of a basketball court, filled with leather and more dark, beautiful wood. Antique weaponry, a dozen more paintings, ceramics and shelves of leather-bound books all vied for my attention. I didn't give in to them but instead headed for a couch and crashed onto it. Sometimes I was on overload, and the last forty-eight hours had just about blown my circuitry to hell and back.

Seated with a big tumbler of bourbon in my hand and a mineral water in Sami's, we started to debate what to do. We began with the most important question: Did Sami know where to find Chekhov? He did.

‘Chekhov's main base is in Ayutthaya,' he said. ‘It is on the Pa Sak River, about 300 metres from where the Pa Sak and Lopburi rivers converge, just above the actual town. Looks like a warehouse complex, but appearances can be deceiving.'

I knew Ayutthaya was about fifty or so miles north of Bangkok. I'd been through it a few times. It was probably as good a place as any to set up house. It was close enough to Bangkok to keep a handle on things and, being small, it was certainly a lot easier to keep tabs on who was in town. ‘He'll know we took one of his men alive and he'll be ready for whatever we throw at him,' I suggested. Sami nodded in agreement.

‘We'll need a lot of help on this one,' he replied, ‘and that is being organised as we speak.' Sami stood. ‘Relax here. I have a personal matter to attend to.' He hesitated. ‘Daniel, we both have grieving to do, but it will have to wait until we have completed our business with Chekhov. I will be half an hour. Help yourself to whatever you want. Company is on its way and we'll eat later.'

Sami left. I lit a cigarette and let my eyes wander around the incredible room. Hell, this was as much a museum and a library as it was a study. There were thousands of books in the cases that lined the walls and a dozen free-standing sculptures and pieces of pottery. As I took in the eye candy, one object caught my attention. Amidst all of the magnificent artworks on display, the figure that caught my eye was positioned in the corner of the room to the left of Sami's huge desk.

It was the statue of a warrior, caught in the white glow of a single spotlight set in the ceiling. The curve of a sword shimmered silver in the light. Curious, drink in hand, I moved to examine it. The figure was Japanese, a samurai warrior, and it wasn't so much a statue as a suit of armour fitted to a mannequin. The armour had been created from highly polished black metal with gold worked into it in intricate patterns. I then decided that it probably wasn't metal but an elaborate creation of lacquered wood, metal and leather. It was hard to tell. The helmet had a beaked crown that formed a visor. The blank eyes of the mannequin were all but obscured behind narrow vertical slits. There were three swords, as was the samurai tradition. I remembered as much from my karate days. The smaller weapons, the
wakizashi
sword and the
tanto
dagger, were sheathed through a leather and cloth rope at the warrior's waist. The gleaming longsword—the magnificent
katana
—was raised, held high above the warrior's head. In heavily gloved hands he held the leather handle, probably made from the skin of a shark or ray. I knew the stroke the warrior was poised for. It was a blow that would send the razor-sharp blade of the
katana
down in an angled stroke that would cleave a victim from shoulder to hip in one ferocious blow.

Despite myself I shuddered. The forty-one- or forty-two-inch blade of the raised sword looked damned sharp. The light sparked off the cutting edge as if to illustrate this fact. It wasn't a tourist article but the real thing, possibly the best bladed weapon of all time, and crafted for one purpose only: to kill. I moved back out of the arc of the sword. Maybe it was just fatigue but I felt vulnerable, as if the mannequin would spring into life and send the razor edge hissing my way.

It was said that the best blades were made with sometimes a million laminates of soft iron and hard steel, folded and hammered again and again to create the ultimate sword. Sometimes master sword makers could only complete a handful of these works of art in an entire lifetime. It was tradition that when the sword was finished, a criminal, slave or prisoner was brought forward and the sword bloodied with the cleaving stroke to satisfy the gods and illustrate that the blade was perfect. Nice touch!

Now that I was on my feet, I drifted along the walls of Sami's study, browsing the artworks and books. When I reached the windows I stopped and looked down into the gardens. I could see Sami. He was to one side of the lake, by a small altar under a tall spreading tree. Two figures holding carbines flanked the tree, facing outwards. On the altar, long candles burned.

My old friend was kneeling, his back to the house, his head low to the ground. As I watched he rocked back, raising his head then lowering it. I could see that there was a white band around his forehead. He repeated the motion and I faded back from the window. I had no idea of Sami's faith. I guess I had always assumed that he was a Buddhist, but there was no buddha on the altar—just candles.

My extremely complex friend, Sami Somsak, was either grieving for his people or he was praying for the strength to bring down Chekhov. I refilled my glass and somehow found myself back in front of the samurai warrior, hovering just out of range of its sword. I was still there ten minutes later when Sami re-entered the room. He came to my side.

‘The ultimate warrior, Daniel, the samurai,' Sami explained. He moved around the desk, retrieving his glass of mineral water as he went. He sat in the leather swivel seat and I drifted to one of the equally plush visitor chairs. Sami sat looking up at the raised sword before his eyes turned back to me. He gave me half a smile. ‘You know me just about as well as anyone, Daniel, but there is one thing that few know.' Sami paused for what seemed like a minute but was probably only a few seconds. I had the feeling he was choosing the words he needed to plot a verbal course through a complex explanation. Then he started speaking in little more than a whisper. ‘You don't know Tuk Tuk Song and I are related,' he said with a crooked grin. It wasn't a question. Now he had me. I caught my lower jaw before it banged me on the knee.

‘How?' I croaked.

‘He's my uncle. My mother is his sister.'

‘Fuck,' I said, shaking my head. ‘How come you never told me?'

‘Not important in the scheme of things,' Sami replied simply as he lit a cigarette and held the pack out to me. I took one and accepted his light. ‘It wasn't a secret, Daniel, it just wasn't important to what you and I were doing,' he added softly. ‘Anyway, after Chekhov hit me I called uncle.'

‘I called him as well,' I admitted. Sami nodded.

‘He told me. He's got a score to settle with the mad Russian as well. But first a little of my family history. It may help you understand more about your future business partner.' Sami looked at me through a cloud of cigarette smoke, his eyes challenging. He was preparing to reveal yet another layer of himself ‘to me.

‘My mother, Shan, Tuk Tuk's sister, was taken by the Japanese as a comfort girl,' he said with no infliction whatsoever in his voice. ‘When the war ended she was pregnant. She was going to commit suicide out of shame, but Uncle Tuk Tuk stopped her. He cared for her and protected her from anyone and everyone. She gave birth to a boy. That boy was me.' Sami stopped again but only for a moment before he raised his glass and gave me a wry grin.

‘Daniel, you coined the name The Onion Man for me many years ago. It was probably more apt than you even dreamed.' Sami chuckled and his face came alive. He looked young again, the years dropping away. ‘I am part Thai, part Chinese and my father was a Japanese officer, a samurai, according to my mother. She was perhaps fortunate when she arrived at her comfort camp!' There was emphasis in the words, a contemptuous sharpness accompanied by a grimace. ‘Yes, she was perhaps fortunate,' he repeated more softly, ‘that an officer took her for his own exclusive comfort. The war ended before he tired of her and she was left carrying me.' He paused for a moment. ‘I despised much of what the Japanese had done to Asia, and what they had stood for in my early years in particular. Then I discovered the code of the samurai.'

Sami tuned his swivel chair and nodded at the mannequin. ‘There are some things in their code that are admirable, other things not so. I have perhaps tried to live by those principles that are good,' he said. ‘Those swords,' he nodded at the samurai, ‘are my pride. They are fourteenth century blades made by one of the great masters, a craftsman named Orazawi. He made only five sets during his lifetime. This is the only one to survive to this day.'

‘Expensive,' I said for something to say. Sami laughed aloud.

‘Ah, Daniel, you are so wonderfully blunt. Yes, expensive,' he replied. ‘I won't tell you how much, but let me just say that there are few automobiles in the world that cost more. However cost is not the issue, perfection is.'

Our conversation on the subject of Sami's heritage and magnificent weaponry ended about then with a knock at the door. One of my host's bevy of beautiful women entered the room at Sami's word. She ushered a guest in with her.

28

Karl Isbaider didn't seem surprised to see me. In fact, the expression on his face suggested that he knew I would be there.

‘Well,' I said. ‘Party time!'

‘Absolutely,' the CIA man said with a tight grin.

‘In five minutes we'll go and speak to our guest,' added Sami.

‘You got one, Sami? Nice going,' said Karl.

That told me Karl knew exactly what Sami had planned all along, even though I hadn't told him. The CIA agent gave me a knowing wink that said, ‘You can't keep any secrets from us, Danny boy.'

‘Let's go and play question and answer,' Sami said.

‘Thumbscrews and needles?' Karl wanted to know. He didn't look as if the prospect of either or both bothered him in the slightest.