Black Tiger (53 page)

‘Doubtless you will wish to return to your home now, Miss Lee,’ one of the judges suggested gently. She understood that her own supporting role in the story was now exhausted. They were impatient for her to leave the stage. But Chee Laan had unfinished business.

‘May I see my friend, Miss Salikaa?’ she asked.

The dignified old men looked at each other. Then the senior judge shrugged. ‘Why not? Just for a few minutes.’

Chee Laan found Salikaa pale but undefeated. Indeed, she appeared to have regained a little of her old hectic animation. She still wore Chee Laan’s flame-coloured evening dress. Her hair was glossy and her eyes shone. Chee Laan could not tell whether her exhilaration could be considered a favourable sign. They exchanged
wai
s, then, impulsively, embraced.

‘Chee Laan, dear, you look distraught! Your
farang bien-aimé
?’

‘I am worried about Raven,’ she admitted. ‘I’m just praying he managed to get away after his confrontation with Sya at the Rachanee. At least Sya can’t hurt him right now.’ She looked hard at Salikaa. ‘I’m worried for you as well, Salikaa. What’s going to happen to you?’

‘Nothing, of course. What should they do? Drag me out and shoot me?’ Salikaa threw her head back and laughed. ‘They’d never dare, because of the king. If I spilled the beans about our little romance it would discredit him. They can’t afford that. None of them could survive it. If Vajah topples, they all topple, like a house of cards!’ She looked at Chee Laan with the confidence of one savouring personal power. ‘Besides, Vajah would never permit it.’

‘But you’ve confessed to murder, Salikaa!’

Salikaa tossed her head impatiently. ‘Oh, I shall plead self-defence.’

Chee Laan regarded her dubiously. ‘The central government is wooing the tribes in a big way. How could they acquit a Thai wife who admits to murdering her tribal husband? If the tribes got hold of it, it would cause uproar—and Sya would manage to get the story spread, even from prison.’

‘Oh, they won’t acquit me—they’re not complete imbeciles!’ Salikaa laughed. ‘They’ll eventually “allow” me to escape and flee the country. Hopefully set me up with a nice little nest egg.’

Chee Laan studied her thoughtfully. ‘You might just disappear. The Chao Phaya River holds many secrets. And once a funeral pyre starts to smoulder, who can say to whom the bodies once belonged?’

Salikaa grinned. Without make-up, the sinews of her jaw were taut. Hers was a strong, determined face. She pressed herself briefly against Chee Laan. Chee Laan had a fleeting impression of embracing a young tamarisk tree, sturdy, flexible, and brimming with sap.

Ignoring her friend’s embarrassment, Salikaa rubbed a firm cheek against Chee Laan’s and murmured, ‘Take my advice, Chee Laan. Marry your big-nose
farang
. Breed a bushel of round-eye babies. Seek new pastures. To remain in this ungrateful country will break your heart!’

Her blue-black ponytail snapped sharply across Chee Laan’s face as she turned, like the caress of a cat o’ nine tails. Chee Laan’s nostrils caught the hot scent of musk. She pulled away from the embrace and said bitterly, ‘Didn’t you know, Salikaa? My heart is too cool to break. I’m a Jek.’ She held out her hands in a gesture of resignation.

They had forgotten the attendant, who now cleared his throat loudly. It was time to leave.

Raven

‘In our interpretation of events, Dr Raven, the State Department has reason to be grateful to you,’ the American ambassador said, putting down the phone. ‘Our distinguished visitor left the Embassy this morning.’

His relief was obvious. He pulled a book from the shelf, revealing behind it a bottle of bourbon and two glasses with ox-leather belts. The glass was dark and full of facets within the smooth surface. The ambassador ran a finger over the leather and sighed gently. ‘Italian. Venice—my last posting. Wonderful! Verdi. Michelangelo. I kind of miss that.’ He poured, and while he did so, he spoke, still in that measured tone. ‘There is a feeling, Dr Raven, that the State Department has been—I don’t say
deliberately
, I don’t say
kept in the dark
—possibly not put in the picture here. Doubtless for reasons of “need to know.” Caution in such circumstances may be understandable. But it is not complimentary.’ I replied with a grunt. I hoped it sounded both sympathetic and noncommittal. We raised the Venetian glasses to our lips at the same time and contemplated the moment with solemn reverence, as though partaking of a sacrament. Then the ambassador said, ‘Now, is there something I can do for you, Dr Raven, in return?’

‘Can you get me a couple of passes to see Colonel Sya Dam in prison?’

Chee Laan was safe, and for me, that was enough. I had no wish to tempt fate myself, but I appreciated that she had scores to settle.

‘
Two
passes?’ Ambassador Morgan frowned. He twisted his glass this way and that, swirling the liquid. Then he laughed. ‘I’ll say one thing for you, Raven. You know the value of your favours. Well, leave it with me. I’ll see what I can do. One or two folks out there owe me, too.’

Everything was different now that I knew she was unharmed. She had driven straight to the Drinkwaters to find me, or rather, to discover if I was still alive. I interpreted this as a sign that my well-being held some importance for her.

My hostess, for so lively a woman, could be discretion itself. She left us to our own devices. We did not fall weeping into each other’s arms with shrill cries of relief—we were neither of us given to histrionics. We just stood and contemplated each other for a moment or two. We felt overwhelmed by relief, certainly, and a hint of the self-congratulation experienced by those who have narrowly escaped death; and for my part there was the painful pounding of the heart that told me in no uncertain terms that losing her would have destroyed me. While I stood there like a sleepwalker, she moved closer and delicately examined my battered head with her fingers, soft and cool as petals. She pulled a wry face, grimacing up at me in sympathy.

We inspected each other’s wounds. Her wrist was bruised from the handcuffs. The palace locksmith had cut them off, she told me, laughing shakily, running her fingers lightly over my scorched hair and the black flecks that marked the skin of my face like tattoos. When she saw my charred fingertips she drew her breath in sharply and said, ‘You saved a great deal of money there, Raven. It costs a lot to have fingerprints eradicated. Yours have been burned off for free!’ She raised them one by one to her lips, the way I had once seen a mother kiss a baby’s hands.

Chee Laan’s eyes sought mine, intense as the first sparks burning in yellow paper. She told me about the confrontation at the summer palace. And then she made her request. She wanted to see Sya Dam. She was adamant.

‘It won’t be easy,’ I objected. ‘He’s under close watch. The military tribunal has found him guilty of treason and sentenced him to death by firing squad. Amazing—I never thought they’d go so far.’

‘Didn’t you?’ She released my hand and frowned. ‘Oh, I did! The moment the Prince Regent withdrew his support, Sya’s enemies were just waiting to strike.’

‘There’s certainly a lot of talk everywhere.’ Even I had heard it. ‘Talk of betrayal, corruption, ingratitude. Very high-minded.’

‘Only Prince Premsakul says what everyone really thinks.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Once an Akha, always an Akha.’ Her eyes held me. ‘I want to see him nonetheless.’

Security at the jail was tight, as I had expected. I had never imagined that Morgan’s influence would be able to eliminate every barrier to communication with the condemned prisoner, and in this I was correct. Perhaps I had not anticipated finding myself staring into the business end of an assault rifle, though, just as Chee Laan and I entered the long, low grey building.

I gently lifted the barrel and pointed it away from my heart. ‘
Sawasdi krup
!’ I said politely.

‘No foreign journalist!’ The fox-faced young captain wore his cap so far down over his nose that he needed to tilt his head back in order to meet my eyes.

‘We’re friends,’ I said winningly. I held up the box of Olde English Luxury Assortment. ‘See? Friends, bringing presents…’ The biscuit box was whisked out of my hands and conveyed into the depths of the jail. When it came back five minutes later the cellophane seal had been broken. The lid was askew. Inside, the ruffled paper cases of the biscuits were disordered. But the officer was smiling now.

‘Please!’ He ushered us into a comfortable room and invited us to sit on cretonne-covered wicker chairs. After a few minutes, Sya Dam strode in, clean-shaven, his uniform band-box fresh as usual. I think Chee Laan had half-expected—I don’t say hoped—to find him stumbling in leg-irons like other condemned criminals, but his arrogance was undimmed, and his manner was bland, charming, not in the least impressed by our presence.

He had scarcely sat down when there was a muffled knock and an officer, coughing with embarrassment, peered round the door. He bowed apologetically, but Sya laughed uproariously and leapt to his feet, holding out his arms as if in a fine Chinese tailor’s fitting room.

‘He has come to measure me for the target,’ Sya proclaimed jovially. The officer bowed low before touching Sya’s head. Sya lit a cigarette, curving his shapely lips around it. The eyes of the officer measuring him for the target and the shroud were bright with panic, but the condemned man’s yellow wolf-eyes, narrowed against the smoke, were only faintly amused. ‘Do you want to check body weight also?’ he asked, adding, ‘I understand that’s customary.’

The officer snapped to attention. He saluted smartly and replied in a breathless shout, eyes on the distant wall, ‘Beg to inform you, Colonel, sir, only customary to take body weight for hangings. Also garottings. For shooting, measurements only.’

‘I see. You need to check at what distance your so-called marksmen can be relied upon not to miss. But then, I present a pretty broad target!’ Sya chuckled. Chee Laan’s expression was blank with horror.

‘Beg to inform you, sir, measuring for painting of target mark, sir. On back of tent, sir!’

Sya drew a deep breath and tapped the ash off his cigarette into his hand. The floor of the military prison interview room was less filthy than most of the cells. He glanced around, and the officer held out his hand. Sya crumbled the ash into it.

‘So the great Thai nation is to be denied the full spectacle?’

‘Please, sir. Shooting within tent, sir!’

Sya turned to Chee Laan and myself, eyebrows raised. ‘Hardly giving them their money’s worth, is it? Are they not to be permitted to search my agonised countenance for edifying signs of repentance?’

‘No, sir. Anyway, sir…’ The officer hesitated, shuffled his feet, wrung with embarrassment.

‘Anyway what?’ Sya drawled.

‘Beg to inform you, Colonel, sir. There’s the bag. The bag, sir. They put a bag over the head…’

Sya began to laugh softly and the young officer hastily gathered up his notepad, his yard rule and tape measure, and saluted. Sya returned the salute with parade-ground precision. He turned for a moment to the small barred window, which transformed a rectangle of blazing sky into a noughts and crosses grid. The young man turned back in the doorway and looked at Sya, his eyes full of pain.

‘I’m sorry, sir. About the bag.’

Sya did not turn around. He stubbed his cigarette out on the window frame. When at last he turned to face us, he was grinning. He motioned to the biscuit tin.

‘I am in no condition to eat biscuits, my friend. I take too little exercise. However, under the circumstances I shall not need to keep my teeth sound for my old age!’ He threw back his head and guffawed, amused by Chee Laan’s expression of consternation.

‘A great loss!’ he declared. ‘What a spry old fellow I should have made, still siring sons at ninety!’

His mood changed and he leaned on the table, peering into my face.

‘Tell your people this. Whoever sent you—’ He waved my attempt at protest aside. ‘No, no, my friend: it is too late for weaving fairy tales. Whoever sent you, tell them my revolution is coming. Nothing can stop it. Who will stop it? The Americans?’

He gave a snort of contempt.

‘The Asian mind remains a mystery to the pragmatic Westerner. Some of you wallow in Eastern mysticism, yet the fundamental concepts of predestination escape you. Others despise us slant-eyed gooks, because of the way we look, or talk, or walk—but we elude them, too, because our mindset is essentially different. Western progress is linear, but Oriental progress is circular. Where these lines meet is mathematically limited. So much for any cooperation and intercultural understanding. Ask her.’ He jerked his head toward Chee Laan, who was listening intently. ‘She knows.’

‘Is murder circular?’ I asked. ‘The Americans are aware of your plan to assassinate the Secretary of State.’ I watched his face for signs of disappointment or rage, but the untroubled countenance remained smooth as a golden egg. I persisted: ‘Kissinger will be warned off—he will not use the airstrip in the Golden Triangle. The flight will be rerouted, probably via Islamabad. But Kissinger will still go to Beijing. The bid to pave the way for an international détente will not be abandoned.’

‘
Détente
! Fancy word for defeat!’ he scoffed.

But I pressed for more, some kind of acknowledgement. ‘You understand, Colonel? You will have changed nothing.’

‘Oh, but you are wrong. I have changed everything!’ Sya said. ‘You Westerners have little sense of timing, and none whatever of time itself. For you, everything must happen at once. You do not understand the convergence of destiny.’ A soldier entered, saluted, whispered discreetly to Sya. Sya rose and said in English: ‘If that aircraft does not appear on schedule, those who wait in the shadows will send word to the La-wa and the Karen that the time has come to rise. So you see, I win either way.’

He extended a hand and pronounced a little valediction, speaking, as far as I could tell, without a trace of irony.

‘My death will be the trigger. And now you will forgive me. No hard feelings, eh? We each did our duty, Dr Raven. Miss Chee Laan, I have little time left, and already I have another visitor. She is beautiful, but rather shy…’ He stretched out his hand and shook my own, gripping my elbow in a manly fashion, like a Roman gladiator. ‘Goodbye. I do not expect we shall meet again. Watch out for my television debut. Fame will find each of us, if we wait our turn.’ He wagged a finger in mischievous reproof. ‘Patience, Dr Raven. Another Eastern virtue.’ Then he swung on his heel and disappeared into the inner recesses of the building, ignoring his escorts.