Authors: Jennifer Kewley Draskau
Laila had provided my gift, the large square English biscuit tin, adorned with garish scenes and containing wafers like pink cardboard and shortbread like Highland granite. It stood forlornly on the little glass-topped table, a discarded toy. The soldier picked the tin up and bore it ceremoniously after Colonel Sya Dam’s departing figure.
Van Hooten received Dr Pien’s diagnosis of his daughter’s condition with horror. He resolved that Genty must be removed from Bangkok at once and flown home for treatment. His wife, however, protested. Taylor van Hooten had undertaken another commission in Switzerland, and was not eager to return to the States.
For once, van Hooten imposed his will. He was accompanying a VIP, codenamed ‘Cicero’, to the northwest, there to liaise with another aircraft and transfer the precious passenger. His wife and daughter would accompany him. From Mae Sod, they would fly to Singapore and then to the States.
But at the last moment, Taylor refused to go. She stated that she had an urgent overseas commission for the Princess, and a flight booked to Switzerland. Van Hooten regarded her grimly. ‘Sometimes, Taylor, I could swear the Thai royal family mean more to you than the welfare of your own child’.
‘They certainly have more attractive manners,’ she said evenly. She turned away, indicating that the matter was closed.
Van Hooten knew better than to argue, but he felt choked with frustration and anger that she had made other plans which she had not deigned to communicate to him until the last minute, thus pushing his own schedule awry. This had latterly become her habit, since she had ‘travelled within court circles’, as he thought of it. She was no longer content with the lot of the military bride, the acquiescent camp follower, willing to up sticks when her husband’s superiors ordered moves and manoeuvres. He had never wanted her to be a doormat, merely accommodating, but she was growing tyrannical, and he resolved to have it out with her when he had dealt with the more pressing problems of their child’s health.
‘We need to hurry, Genty,’ he shouted up the stairs. ‘We need to leave right now, please!’ There was no sound from above. In the end, van Hooten had to carry his daughter out to the waiting vehicle. She lay in his arms limp as a rag.
When they reached the aircraft they were already half an hour adrift. The uniformed pilot was standing on the tarmac beside it, looking pointedly at his watch and then, shielding his eyes, at the sunny sky. Van Hooten sensed the pilot’s irritation and, with muttered apologies, hustled his daughter aboard the small aircraft. For once Genty was no trouble, numb with shock and heavily sedated. He settled her into her seat and took his own. He leaned back, breathed deeply and composed himself to await the arrival of the other passenger.
The pilot returned from a brief but necessary excursion to the neighbouring jungle, buttoning his fly. He consulted his watch yet again, with increasing concern. He resented the fact that he had to fly to some godforsaken paddy field for a rendezvous where he would have to attempt to land on a postage stamp ringed by jungle. Where was this VIP he was instructed to wait for? He shrugged, and, with a last glance at the road, climbed back into the cockpit. His co-pilot looked up and wrenched at his headset.
‘Can you beat it? Another goddamn snafu! Urgent message!’ he said.
The pilot stared at him, angry and uncomprehending.
‘Change of plans.’ The co-pilot grimaced. ‘Cicero will not be joining us after all. Just some mechanic—big dopey-looking local. Turned up while you were otherwise engaged. Truck just dumped him. No paperwork, of course. Typical! Had to show him how to fasten his fucking belt, would you believe? Just down from the trees! But these other bods still need transporting. Same destination.’
‘Control tell us how come?’
The co-pilot sighed in exasperation. ‘You know better than that. Never apologise, never explain. Probably a standard case of paranoia.’
‘Paranoia or politics. Same difference.’
‘Security double-checked the crate? They’ve had plenty of time to…’
‘Yeah. Let’s get this turkey basted. I just hope the hopheads have got the landing flares lighted.’
Van Hooten had averted his eyes discreetly when the third passenger entered and took his place in the seat behind him. He had a sense of a bulky figure, and thought ironically that Cicero had wrapped up well for the journey. He heard the seat creak, and as the little aircraft shuddered in takeoff and the engine roared, he felt a large hand coming round the edge of his seat, in line with his neck. His last thought was that Cicero was about to pat him on the shoulder, a friendly gesture; he smiled in appreciation of the great man’s camaraderie. He was still smiling when the massive fingers closed around his windpipe.
In the shadows at the edge of the airstrip, the tribesmen waited silently, standing reverently around their new toy. Their leader’s association with the Black Tiger colonel had brought many benefits, but none so amazing as this killing machine which could, they had been told, blow a great foreign thunderbird right out of the sky, or rip through a hundred police jeeps one behind the other. They tried to imagine what that would look like. The weapon could be used to devastating effect to protect their opium fields and trading routes. At first, their orders had been to shoot down a plane for Sya Dam. Now, they were merely to make a couple of corpses disappear. Sya Dam did not like loose ends, or people who knew too much.
Their keen ears caught the distant whine of the aircraft’s approach. The landing strip was lighted with flares. Now at last they saw the plane, circling high and then coming lower. For a brief moment they thought it would plunge into the jungle. They obeyed their instructions to the letter, dousing their flares so the pilot would not be able to land. The aircraft hung almost motionless, its engines screaming. A door opened—some claimed later that they had heard cries, but others said it was just the engines. Two bodies plummeted out of the dark sky and struck the earth with a dull thud. Then the plane soared up, and the next moment it was gone, its lights winking as it gained height. The jungle was silent once more.
The tribesmen lit their flares again, located the two bodies, and approached them cautiously, hoping no ghosts were hovering around in the darkness. They examined the girl curiously, touching her pale skin and yellow hair, and acquired a few souvenirs before their leader recalled them sharply to their appointed task.
‘Fetch wood!’ the headman ordered. ‘Black Tiger commanded us to destroy every trace!’
‘The Black Tiger is wise!’ they murmured approvingly. They brought the wood, cut and stacked in readiness, and the can of petrol from the palm-roofed storage hut, and improvised a funeral pyre. It billowed scarlet and orange, gorgeous as a poppy dream. Hot air and fumes licked their faces raw. They glimpsed each other’s gleaming tobacco-coloured cheeks, and their eyes glistened like the jade eyes of idols. When the flames died down at last they wandered, singing, back to the village.
On the way, they passed a shrine, and the more devout bowed before the resident spirit, and placed in offering upon its carved table some metal buttons emblazoned with eagles, torn from the uniform of the general.
Those who had removed Genty’s silver chains and her star sapphire rings, however, kept them as payment for the village beauties.
His Serene Highness Prince Premsakul was more agitated than Field Marshal Praphan had ever seen him. Against all the rules of decorum, he greeted the general at his door in person, and hurried him up the carved wooden staircase into the house, glancing anxiously toward the compound gate, which the gardener had shut behind the general’s Mercedes with a swift thud.
‘Welcome to my unworthy home!’ he muttered automatically, with none of his usual bonhomie. Field Marshal Praphan himself was so preoccupied he almost forgot to remove his shoes at the prince’s threshold. He had that morning endured a most unsettling interview with the American ambassador, who had learned that an aircraft had been unable to land upcountry as arranged, the landing flares having been mysteriously extinguished at the last minute. More importantly, upon returning to base, other discoveries were made: the stewardess had been strangled, and General van Hooten and his daughter had disappeared. So had the extra passenger—an unknown mechanic. He was described as an enormous man; in keeping with this description, he appeared to have wrestled open an emergency exit and made his escape while the plane was still taxiing to its position on the military runway. Special Forces had been immediately dispatched to the area, and a search of the Mae Sod airstrip resulted in the retrieval of certain objects identified as belonging to the missing persons.
Two Americans had been murdered. Now Ambassador Morgan wanted to know what the Thai authorities proposed to do about it.
The two powerful men, both heavy of heart and of physique, sat opposite one another on the gold brocade sofas. They stared at each other with expressions dark with foreboding. Praphan was the first to break the ominous silence.
‘He’s behind it, of course,’ he spluttered. ‘That damned Sya. Now we’ve got the Yanks breathing down our necks! He’s a loose cannon. Never trusted him! Even in gaol, we can’t control him! We’ll have to go through with it.’
Premsakul nodded thoughtfully, caressing his chin. ‘Of course, originally the arrangement was that the wretched chap’s execution was to be cancelled at the last moment.’
Praphan nodded, nervously glancing around to make sure no servant was eavesdropping. He had the military man’s innate distrust of security arrangements made by people other than himself. ‘Eleventh-hour reprieve, courtesy of the intervention of a higher authority.’
‘No,’ Premsakul said slowly. He licked his lips. ‘We cannot possibly stand by him now, General. He has gone too far!’
‘He’s a mad dog!’ Praphan declared vehemently, striking his fist on the arm of his chair. ‘He’s got to be stopped!’
‘I think, perhaps,’ Premsakul said slowly, ‘all that wild talk about Sya fomenting rebellion could be just what the doctor ordered.’
‘You mean,’ Praphan demanded, reluctant to relinquish a chance to assert their old rivalry and cause some discomfort to his ally, ‘the wild talk started by that charming young thing who was engaged to your late son, Prince Toom?’
Prince Premsakul’s smooth brow contracted briefly at the question. ‘Precisely so. I thought it fanciful at the time, I confess, but possibly there was something in it after all. No smoke without fire, eh?’
‘So you feel the moment has come to…’ Praphan left the thought unfinished.
‘To withdraw with discretion. Disassociate ourselves.’ Prince Premsakul smiled with satisfaction and clasped his pudgy hands comfortably about his paunch. ‘Sever all connections. Just the ticket!’
‘Precisely!’ Praphan smiled as well.
‘I’ll explain to His Highness the Prince Regent that a reprieve will not be necessary, after all. Sensible fellow, the Prince Regent. He’ll understand. He knows when it is politic to understand matters which are carefully explained to him. Care for a drink, old man?’ Prince Premsakul clapped his hands for the servant. ‘I’d say we more than deserve one.’
Raven
I glanced through the newspaper article once more. It was written in Thai, but I could make out the gist of it at least.
Sya Gets Death
A horrified nation will witness today the well-deserved punishment of the notorious Akha tribesman known as Sya Dam (‘the Black Tiger’, Ed.), condemned to death by firing squad. A tribunal spokesman said: ‘We hope this will act as a deterrent to all other would-be traitors.’
Sya Dam, a former colonel with the Border Patrol Police, was found guilty of provoking rebellion among the tribes, taking shameful advantage of the position of trust he enjoyed among the country’s leaders. The man who once moved in the City of Angels’ most exalted circles will die before millions of TV viewers.
Viewing figures forecasts predict a record audience for this unique event. Already, sponsors are vying for the privilege of presenting to an eager nation Thailand’s first televised execution.
Thought for today:
‘The wary avoid death; the reckless are as good as dead already.’
–
The Lord Buddha
Bangkok Herald, January 2, 1972
For me, mission accomplished. Smith’s orders had been unequivocal: I was to get out of Thailand without delay. That decision met with my full approval. I was a man with his own missions now—I would debrief with Smith and meet with Nancy. I would resolve these two situations. I would do some hard thinking about what I had to offer a millionairess. Then, if I dared, I would return and claim Chee Laan Lee. On a snowy charger, we would ride off into the sunset. The stuff of foolish dreams—but dreams I clung to as I stepped out of Chee Laan’s car and onto the airport sidewalk.
All flights were fully booked. I settled for standby. Silently, together but not clinging, we waited in the airport restaurant among noisy sprawling family parties.
An old woman had slipped into the lounge past the airport officials to peddle her jasmine leis. Chee Laan dropped a coin on her tray. She lifted a wreath of chained petals and draped it carefully about my neck. ‘Bon voyage,’ she whispered close to my ear.
She smelled better than the jasmine, of petals and lemons. I wanted to crush her to me and never let go. I reached out to her but she moved out of reach. She leaned away from me, studying my face, her expression suddenly like flint. For a moment, it seemed as though Sunii Lee, her grandmother, looked out of her eyes. Her next words sounded like an accusation: ‘You are running away. What are you so afraid of, Raven?’
‘You know damned well. I have to—get rid of baggage.’
‘Don’t bullshit me, Raven!’ For a second, the Westernized Chee Laan was there. I reached out to this other Chee Laan, as though she could mediate for me with the new Chee Laan, the terrifying doppelgänger of Sunii Lee.