Death in the Kingdom (29 page)

‘You barbaric Americans,' said Sami, shaking his head in mock disgust. ‘I have found that chemicals are an irresistible force if used by a knowledgeable practitioner. I have one such on my staff.'

Five minutes later we went down to a basement room to hear the life story of our Jamaican-born subject. Would you believe it? Wesley was his Christian name. He had an American passport. And yes, Chekhov was really pissed at me. There was more, much more, and he gave it all up very eagerly. The irresistible force coursing in his veins was doing its job.

‘It figures that Chekhov knows you're still alive,' said Karl, directing the comment at Sami before he forked a mouthful of something extremely tasty into his mouth.

‘Yeah, but he doesn't know where I am,' Sami replied.

It was midnight and we had finished with the Jamaican mafiosa. He was being dumped, still alive but slightly amnesiac, outside a hospital in Bang Sue as we ate.

‘Chekhov doesn't know a lot about me, including the existence of this place,' Sami replied. ‘No one knows but my inner circle and now you guys.' He paused with a fork loaded with noodles hovering in front of his mouth. ‘Damn. That means I'll have to shift or kill you both,' he added without even the hint of a smile.

‘We knew,' said Karl as he picked up a prawn and started peeling it. ‘You bought the whole ten acres in 1997, flattened just about everything on it but for the jungle fringe and built this place. Took almost two and a half years. You moved in in July 2000.' The CIA man grinned at Sami from across the table. ‘Satellite mainly, Sami.'

‘Okay, you guys knew, but that doesn't mean the mad Russian does,' Sami replied. Karl and I made eye contact. Sami saw it and shrugged. ‘Okay, maybe he does, but I've got thirty people here with enough hardware to start a serious war. What do you suggest?'

‘We go up to Ayutthaya and collect the arsehole's singed scalp with all due prejudice,' Karl replied. ‘We've been fucked about for years. It's just that we didn't know Chekhov was the man behind a lot of what's happened until just a few months ago. He laid a lot of the action off through people we didn't know he actually controlled. Now that we do know we can put a whole lot of grief at his feet. He's been officially sanctioned, and that comes right from the top.' The CIA agent slapped the table and grinned. ‘Let's go get the fucker!'

‘Okay,' I said, ‘and there's something else you should know.' I'd made the decision to tell Karl about Sir Bernard. I laid it all out for him and he sat there expressionless until I had finished. Then he gave me that smile of his.

‘I wondered when you were going to tell me.'

‘You knew?' I stammered.

‘That he was a traitorous old queer. We've known about him and Chekhov for years,' the CIA man replied. ‘Years!'

‘Why the fuck didn't you tell me?'

‘Fuck,' Karl snapped back. ‘I figured you knew.'

‘Oh shit,' I muttered. I was getting so sick of being a secret squirrel, especially as everyone else seemed to know the secrets I didn't. ‘Do you know how long ago Bernard told Chekhov I was the man who fried him and killed his wife?' I asked. ‘And if he's known for years, why didn't he come after me back in the UK?'

‘Dunno,' replied the CIA man. ‘Maybe he was just busy. He'd been carving up the local rackets big time and perhaps he didn't need the distraction until he was ready. Maybe he was waiting for you to return to Thailand or maybe Bernie boy just kept him as an ace up his sleeve until this fucking black box shit came along. Ask your boss before you kill him,' he added in a tone that suggested he really meant it! To kill Sir Bernard, that is.

‘Whatever,' Karl continued. ‘In the last year, Pizza Face started raising his ugly profile. Your arrival and that fucking thing you had out there in the bloody Andaman lit the psycho's fuse for real.'

‘I'd be pissed off at the man who turned me into a Freddie Kruger clone and killed my woman,' said Sami, joining in the speculation. ‘But as far as hitting Chekhov where it really hurts,' he paused, ‘wheels are in motion as we speak. Now I think it's time for some sleep. I think we all need it. Karl, will you be staying?'

‘Meeting in the morning,' the big CIA agent said. ‘We run on meetings,' he added rather ruefully. I imagine he would have liked to have been able to enjoy Sami's brand of hospitality for the night. ‘Keep me in the loop.'

‘We most definitely will,' replied Sami as he walked Karl to the door. I had absolutely no idea what Sami had going on, but I appreciated he had included me. I tried to stifle a yawn. It didn't work.

29

There was breakfast for two on a table that could have seated twenty comfortably. I had forsaken my Indian disguise for new underwear, faded new Levis that were exactly my size and a black polo shirt. My outfit was completed by a pair of new Nike trainers which, of course, fitted perfectly. Because my kit was still in the embassy Sami, as always, had come to the rescue.

The breakfast spread was lavish. I went for the mixed grill with a vengeance; after a diet of embassy sandwiches this was pure heaven. Sami, as always, showed more restraint and went the route of fruit and rice porridge. We both did full justice to the excellent coffee. At one point Jo came in. He and I shook hands and did the bear hug thing. Jo Darakam, a former Thai Special Forces captain, and Sami had been inseparable in the years gone by. Given my association with Sami that meant we were often musketeers three, generally on the wrong side of some border or other.

Greetings over, Jo put my mobile phone on the table beside me. Like Sami, his English was devoid of any accent. ‘A built-in locator beacon and a bug. Beacon is active whenever the power is on and the bug picks up and rebroadcasts every call,' he explained. ‘Very clever because it looks normal, except to an expert.'

‘That's why Bernard was paranoid about me keeping it charged,' I replied. ‘He wanted me with a permanent bull's-eye on my back for the satellite.'

‘Let's get Chekhov and then figure how to use that and circumstances to get Bernard,' said Sami, folding his napkin and dropping it onto the table. ‘Daniel, I'd like for you to come with me on a run down the Gulf. It'll be educational,' he concluded with a chuckle. I agreed, wondering what I was in for. Whatever Sami had in mind, it would no doubt help make the day go a little faster.

Forty minutes later Sami and I were on board one of his low, mean-looking cruisers, nudging our way down side canals towards the river. The boat, like most of the ones in Sami's fleet, had a pair of huge Mercury outboards on the back. I guessed he must have done a deal to buy the big black motors in bulk, and I also guessed that black was the official Somsak corporate colour because as well as the motors, the entire boat was also black, including the racing seats we were perched in. I had no doubt that the cruiser was as fast as it looked and felt. I was impressed.

Out on the Chao Phraya, the sound of the big motors got louder and the bow raised a little, but Sami didn't give the boat its head. ‘Speed limit. Don't want to attract too much attention,' he said in reply to my silent question. I had to chuckle. Here we were, cruising down one of the most heavily populated rivers in the world in the nautical equivalent of a Formula One racing car, and Sami didn't want to attract attention.

It was a pleasant run. The day was overcast and humid; a typical Bangkok day for my money. On the river, however, the breeze we stirred up as we moved was refreshing. I allowed myself to be a tourist for once. Luxury hotels and temples, barges, long tails, speedboats, freighters and rafts of water hyacinth all slid past as we glided down the brown waters towards the Gulf. As we moved on, our speed gradually increased, then we broke away from the river mouth.

‘Now we do it,' Sami said with a broad grin as he slammed the twin throttles forward and adjusted the trim tabs. The water was calm and we started flying effortlessly, blasting past the slow-moving vessels in the harbour. I still had no idea where we were going. All I knew was that we were going there fast. We ran south for just over an hour, with the digital speedometer showing a steady seventy miles per hour. We raced past vessels of all shapes and sizes as if they were standing still.

‘That's where we're going,' Sami yelled at me, pointing beyond a fleet of shrimp boats to a matchbox shape that sat on the near horizon. ‘I was here when Chekhov hit the warehouse.'

I'd seen the big mineral suction dredges many times, but from the air or the shore. We'd passed two of them working the ocean floor for tin on our way from the river mouth, but they'd been a few miles away from us. Now it appeared we were about to pay one a visit. I didn't try to second-guess Sami. I had learned that was almost impossible, particularly after the happenings of the past week or so. I didn't mean it was the oriental mind at work, rather it was just that The Onion Man was as devious a person as I'd ever met in my so far very eventful life.

At a steady rate of knots, we surged on towards the dredge. It grew with every passing second. We were maybe half a mile away when the sheer size of the thing hit me. This monster in the Gulf of Thailand was enormous. It was basically a huge barge the size of a football field. Most of it was enclosed in a giant tin shed which had the dimensions of an aircraft hangar. A huge triangular-shaped boom hung over what was the bow. Suspended from this was a segmented pipe made from metal and heavy rubber. This pipe was a yard across. Effectively it was the suction tube for a giant vacuum cleaner. The bag was somewhere in the shed and the exhaust was at the rear, pumping waste into the water behind the barge and turning it the colour of shit as it created its very own ecological disaster, choking every living thing in the water around it. Nice!

The noise was incredible as we came alongside. The iron shed acted like a giant drum, amplifying the sound of the working machinery inside. Despite the racket, our arrival had been anticipated. Two guys carrying AKs were standing watching us as Sami nosed us into the buffers that edged a small floating landing attached to the dredge's flank. Because the vessel probably had a top speed of half a knot and was basically a floating island, why not tag a jetty onto it?

Another man appeared. Unlike the other pair who were dressed in denims, the guy who trotted down the gangway towards us was dressed in a dark suit, complete with white shirt and tie. He looked like a slick Thai banker. Whatever his role, he grabbed the line I threw to him and fastened the bow to the pontoon. I took the stern line with me as I stepped up and tied the blunt end of the boat to the dock while Mr Suit greeted Sami. The greeting was definitely one of servant to master, and Sami wasn't the one touching his forelock.

‘This is Mr Nuampara, Daniel. He is the assistant manager of this noble establishment,' said Sami without a hint of anything in his voice. Nuampara and I greeted each other in Thai, and the formalities were over in two seconds. I fell in behind Sami and the three of us went up on deck, Nuampara leading the way. I was dying to ask my host what in the hell was going on, but I bit back the urge. I had no doubt that all—or as much of the all that Sami was prepared to divulge—would be revealed in good time. In Sami time.

Sami took his mobile phone from his jacket and turned it off. ‘No mobiles to be used here, Daniel, and no smoking. That was why I couldn't call you sooner. We have a very volatile process going on. One rogue discharge of electricity could blow this whole place into orbit. Mr Nuampara, please lead on.'

Nuampara did just that. He took us to a door in the otherwise blank tin wall that towered above us. I wasn't really surprised when he produced a swipe card and ran it down a scanner slot. The door looked as if it was made of plate steel. It hissed to one side and we entered. I'd expected a monstrous cavern filled with roaring machinery, not the silence that enveloped us the moment the door closed behind us. We weren't in any cavern. We were in a long, well-lit corridor. The floor was carpeted. The walls were covered in an off-white vinyl-coated material. There were doors along the length of the corridor, but none of those that I could see were open. I didn't attempt to hide the surprise from my face. Sami had been expecting that. He grinned.

‘Nothing is what it seems, Daniel,' he said as he reached for the handle on the door nearest us and opened it. He beckoned me forward and stepped to one side so I could get a clear view of what lay beyond. There was a second inner door, completely glass, that remained closed.

The room beyond was at least a hundred feet long and possibly thirty feet wide. It was filled with tables covered in paraphernalia—drug-processing paraphernalia. Several figures in white coats were moving about or working at stations. They all wore hair covers, paper shoes and filtration masks. I stood shaking my head in wonder, entirely lost for words. ‘The perfect cover,' Sami explained. ‘Right out in the open for all to see. As you have no doubt guessed this dredge doesn't dredge. We simply pick up a little mud, pump it through and out again to give a little cover. The heavy machinery noises are broadcast from hidden speakers. It's a very big sound system,' he added with a grin. ‘Most of the interior of this place is devoted to the product. We have a crew of thirty. Some are seamen and engineers, some are guards, the rest work on this.'

‘Jesus,' I whispered, still trying to find words. This guy just kept on flooring me at every turn.

‘Come work with me, Daniel,' he said with a smile, ‘just as soon as we have sorted out our current problems. Come and make yourself rich. Five years and you can retire anywhere in the world and live any life you want.' Standing there listening to Sami Somsak, it all made sense, incredible sense. Sure, I hated drugs and junkies. Many, if not most, of the people I had ever had that conversation with agreed. But for an amoral person in a world that had few morals, why the hell couldn't I just say screw it and throw my hat in the ring? At that moment it would have been easy, but something in me was fighting back. Was I was growing a conscience?