Black Tiger (21 page)

Pao Lee might meet with an accident later. For now, it was the servant girl’s turn. To kill her here would leave him with the tiresome problem of disposal. He smiled as the perfect solution occurred to him.

‘You are a good girl. It was right to tell me that Miss Lee has discovered that her grandmother and I are…friends, and that Master Pao has been of some use to us. Let us drink to the downfall of traitors,’ he said. He poured a generous portion of liquor into the glass and held it out. Seeing the doubt in her eyes, he smiled reassuringly. He towered over her, a powerful, affable, irresistible presence. He raised his own glass and touched hers, and, obediently, as if mesmerised, she drank.

She was unaccustomed to strong liquor, but to her relief it didn’t taste nearly as bad as she’d feared, and in a few moments she drained the glass. The effects were dramatic. She felt the floor lift and sway and buck, and she was too dizzy to protest when he filled the glass again. He leaned toward her.

‘Nee,’ he growled softly, his deep voice making her temples throb, setting up a buzzing echo in her brain. ‘Nee, little one, mouse, do you know your letters? Can the little mouse read and write?’ His face was very close now, blocking everything out, enormous. It was smooth and hairless; the shaven skull was smooth and clean and streamlined. He loomed in her vision like a great golden idol. In his face she read infinite wisdom and a godlike kindliness. His eyes were lazy yet calculating. What was he asking, whether she could read letters? Those meaningless pothooks and squiggles and whorls, like ferns or flying birds? Who did he take her for? Some rich Miss who had been to school? Perhaps he was offering to teach her, to help her rise in the world, to open up for her the treasure house of riches that education would bring. Slowly she shook her head from side to side, gazing at him in wonder and anticipation. He held her head in his hands, which looked soft but were strong as a bear’s paws, and she knew now what he wanted. It would be an honour, so long as his love did not consume her in his divine fire.

She only began to struggle when he thrust his hand into her mouth and seized her tongue. Pulling it out between her teeth, he reached for the knife and plunged. To his annoyance he found a human tongue was so much larger than one expected. Before he had finished plunging and sawing, they were both drenched in blood.

He left the mutilated girl slumped unconscious across the blood-spattered sofa, washed his hands, and lifted the telephone receiver. Without announcing his name, he said, ‘I have a plump young bird for you, one whose squawking will not disturb your rest.’

‘How much?’

‘Consider it a gift. For services rendered.’

‘Young and voiceless. A valuable bird indeed,’ replied the Mama-san. ‘I shall remember your generosity. Someone will collect the precious fowl.’

‘Tonight,’ he said, adding, ‘I know you will remember.’ He opened the slatted door and walked down the dingy teak stairway into the night, whistling softly between his teeth.

Across town, Prince Prem Premsakul was having the most serious conversation he had ever had with his only son. Neither of them was enjoying the experience.

The prince liked to keep busy, but his plans rarely included his children. His son Toom had requested a father-and-son chat about his future plans. After pointing out the inconvenience, the prince had summoned the young man to the spacious dressing room of the Premsakul mansion on the outskirts of Bangkok while he dressed for dinner. He had dismissed his valet with a wave of the hand and was now standing before his cheval glass, studying himself in profile, turning this way and that, and sucking in his spreading gut. Toom, still in his awe of his parent, hovered hesitantly in the doorway. As he outlined his future plans, he realised his hateful stammer had come back. Silently he cursed it, flushed with anger at his own inadequacy.

‘Half-baked poppycock!’ snapped the prince, pausing in his assessment of the three ties he was holding to glare at his son. ‘Not another word!’ He wagged his spherical head from side to side. ‘Do you imagine that is why I sent you to Cambridge? To strike out on your own with these maverick johnnies? Scholarship boys, pack of ne’er-do-wells, Reds! All fancying yourselves Madame Curie!’

‘But Honourable Father!’ Prince Toom blurted out, then stopped, biting his lip. His soft dark hair flopped into his eyes, slipping under his glasses. He flicked it impatiently.

Prince Toom realised he must present a sorry spectacle. He had forgotten how easily his father could reduce him to the knock-kneed, short-sighted, asthmatic little boy he had once been, a boy who stuttered and snivelled, and frequently wet the bed. As he stood before his father in the attitude of a penitent, the bitter thought struck him that his Cambridge friends would not recognise him in this pathetic weakling. He had been the Prince of Cool to them, a nickname becoming for him. In his Cambridge laboratory Toom was skilled and decisive. With his friends and fellow scientists he was lighthearted and relaxed. His tutors, who had at first found his deferential manner cloying, had come to appreciate his dedication. Once success reinforced his self-confidence, they openly acknowledged his brilliance. It had come as a surprise to nobody at Cambridge when Toom and his colleague Jim Tompkins, a ‘scholarship boy’ who, moreover, had won additional research sponsorship from a minor but forward-looking pharmaceutical company, had made their great breakthrough. Naïvely, Toom had looked forward to this moment, when he would announce the marvellous news to his father. He had been convinced the prince would be delighted and proud, and, most importantly, supportive.

That morning he had shared his triumph with his sister, Pim, who had received it with delight, kissing him warmly. ‘That’s splendid, Toom! I’m so proud of you!’

‘I’m going to tell
Khun Paw
now. Tonight, before we go out!’ He grinned happily.

To his surprise, her face clouded. ‘I don’t know how he’ll react, Toom. This discovery of yours could have all sorts of implications, commercial and political. Father’s got a finger in lots of pies. Far more than we know.’

He stared at her. ‘How do you mean?’

‘Just tread carefully. Father may not be as overjoyed at your news as you hope.’

‘That’s crazy!’ he’d cried, incredulous. ‘You know how important this could be, Pim!’

‘Yes. I do.’ She’d stroked his cheek, gazing up at him with worried dark eyes.

‘So how do I persuade Father? I want him to be proud of me. I want that, even more than I want—and need—his support!’

She’d gripped his hands, shaking them gently. ‘Just take control, Toom. Let him see you as a rational, mature person. If he is discouraging, stand up for yourself. Be assertive, but keep calm. Don’t let him upset you.’ That was what Pim always tried to do, what both of Prince Premsakul’s children strove to do, but they did not often succeed. Despite his suave exterior, their father was a determined man with a ruthless streak.

Now Toom focused on speaking slowly and clearly, fighting for control. ‘Do you understand what I am telling you, Honourable Father? Jim and I have done it! We have found a cure, not only for hepatitis B, but potentially for a whole range of new lentiviruses, diseases we’ve just begun to research; it’s a broad-spectrum drug and one that can be produced cheaply!’

‘Most interesting, I am sure. Why exactly are you telling me this?’ his father drawled with casual arrogance, raising his eyebrows.

‘We need funding. This is a humanitarian project, not just another profit-making venture, extorting money from the desperate! The effects will be unimaginable!’ In his excitement, overactive saliva glands caused a fine spray to start out of Toom’s mouth. His father’s brow contracted fastidiously, but Toom continued, his voice rising. ‘I must go back to Cambridge as soon as possible! We think we’ve made a revolutionary discovery—another sexually transmitted condition that suppresses the immune system. It is potentially more virulent than anything we know!’

‘I always supposed…’ Prince Prem gazed into the distance, raising his eyebrows, his tone musing, ‘…that scientists dealt in hard facts, not sensationalism!’

‘We have hard facts!’ Toom countered, his words spilling over one another in his enthusiasm. He continued recklessly: ‘There’s been a death in St Louis, a black teenager. Jim’s in contact with the path lab there, and they’ve analysed frozen tissue samples from the body. They’ve found something extraordinary, possibly a retrovirus, transmitted through zoonotic transfer. It may have been deliberately created, a biological weapon aimed against specific sectors of the community.’

‘My dear boy! What are these ravings? Have you become a lunatic? Who on Earth would do such a thing?’

‘The CIA, for example.’

‘Oh, pishtush! To destroy whom?’ The prince’s tone was scornful

Toom spread his hands wide and shrugged. His glasses trembled on his nose.

‘I don’t know!’ he said impatiently. ‘Blacks, for instance. Never mind—if we’re right, this condition suggests what we call a “starburst phylogeny”—it undergoes rapid genetic variation. The implications are…’ He struggled for control. ‘It could assume pandemic proportions in next to no time. We’re talking about the future of the world!’

His father studied him coolly, then considered again the ties still gripped in his plump hand. ‘Let me explain something to you, Toom, my dear old chap.’ He smoothed exasperation out of his voice. ‘In your eyes I may not, perhaps, qualify as a humanitarian. But I am a realist. His Majesty King Rama is dead. There is, it is true, His Royal Highness the Crown Prince. But he is only fifteen. A child. And you, Toom, are his cousin. Older, more intelligent, with an unblemished record.’

Toom stared at his father. ‘What do you mean?’

Prince Premsakul sighed, as if dealing with a wilfully obtuse servant. ‘In such cases, elections are not unheard of. You are a Prince of the Blood, you are personable, you could be popular if you exerted yourself. Your prospects are spectacular.’

‘I don’t care!’

His father dropped two rejected ties on the floor for the valet to retrieve. He turned to face his son, stung by the young man’s lack of respect. He spoke sharply. ‘Don’t give yourself airs, boy! Such elevation appears unlikely in the extreme, given your present behaviour! Spouting nonsense, prating on about “wonder drugs” to save the lives of worthless addicts, gutter dregs! It was a gross error of judgment, permitting you to study science. Science, pah! Stinks and alchemy and a lot of mumbo-jumbo; it’s overheated your brain. I should have packed you off to do an MBA in the States.’

‘I’m to take that as a no, then?’ Toom asked dejectedly.

‘I should put the whole thing right out of your mind, dear boy.’ Prince Premsakul made a sweeping movement with his hand. His smooth, smiling face belied the forcefulness of the gesture. ‘In any event, your student days are over. You will not be returning to Cambridge.’ He glanced at his son’s stunned expression and continued blandly, ‘Your destiny lies here, in your own country. One cannot argue with destiny. To do so is presumptuous.’

Toom stared at him, uncomprehending. ‘But, Father…the lives we could save!’

‘My dear boy,’ the prince interposed, ‘one must retain one’s sense of proportion. There are certain afflictions to which those who lead a base life are prey—unfortunate, perhaps, but it is so. Survival of the fittest, weakest go to the wall, isn’t that the scientific view?’

‘Th-that is bl-blatant cynicism!’ Toom slammed his hand against the doorjamb in frustration, both with his father and with his own unshakeable stutter.

When he was a child, his father had him whipped when he stuttered, considering the speech impediment a sign of weak-mindedness. By the time he was five years old, Toom had come to share this negative view of himself. He had struggled to overcome both his low self-esteem and the stammer, which now ambushed him only rarely, in heated moments such as this, when he felt he was being deliberately misunderstood.

Prince Prem frowned. ‘All is preordained by fate, my son. Those who lead a blameless life will have no fear.’

He raised his hands in smug fatalism, and turned away in dismissal. He sat down heavily in the silk-covered armchair, humming a little tune. His son stared at him, then shook his head, the big glasses dwarfing his slender face. Suddenly aware that his own chin was, disrespectfully, higher than his father’s head, he squatted like a coolie on the Oriental rug before the prince’s chair, and gazed up, his dark eyes burning in his pale face, pleading. His father patted his shoulder.

‘You’re a clever chap, Toom, old son. Jolly clever, in your way. Unfortunately, you have little understanding of political realities. Now go and dress yourself, or we shall be late. Punctuality is the politeness of princes,’ he added virtuously, although he himself was often more than three hours late for his engagements, and both of them knew it.

Toom rose, threw up his arms in despair and left the room. His stomach was taut, his shoulders tense. ‘I won’t!’ he muttered to himself furiously. ‘I won’t give it all up!’

When the sound of his son’s departing footsteps died away, Prince Premsakul padded over to the door on his stockinged feet and locked it securely. Then he returned to the armchair, his face thoughtful. He lifted the telephone.

General Blaze van Hooten

When I put the phone down, my dignity and repose, as well as my digestion, had been demolished by a jackhammer. Prince Prem had hinted over the secure line at problems. I did not need problems. Clearly, we needed to thrash it out face to face. He had suggested we meet in a lunchtime dive favoured by local businessmen, off Rajdamnern Avenue. I felt the prince had to shoulder some of the blame for this tiresome boy of his. Giving a kid a chemistry set to play with is asking for trouble. Any growing boy is better off with a gun licence. Purges them of cockamamie notions like inventing cut-price cures for social diseases. Although, I mused, with three hundred American military personnel arriving in Bangkok every day for a five-day R&R break from Nam, and a hundred thousand hospitable ladies, social disease needed factoring in. We addressed it with sergeants’ pep talks and the issuing of high-quality prophylactics. Everything was done to ensure that the men’s visit was culturally enriching and educational.