Authors: Jennifer Kewley Draskau
The Thai monarchy had finally changed from being absolute to constitutional, after several uneasy decades following its original collapse during the revolution of 1932. There ensued various counterrevolutions, bloodless coups and the like, alternating with intermittent periods of experimental democracy. The monarchy was ultimately restored, but it was no longer absolute. Technically, constitutional monarchy means that Thailand can play at the democracy game while retaining as a useful rallying point a popular king who is no longer celestial—no longer a god—probably not a murderer, and very keen to stay out of trouble. So no more of those apocryphal stories the tourists love about royal aunts drowning in khlongs (Bangkok’s urban waterways, most of them putrid) in full view of helpless onlookers unwilling to lay hands upon a divine personage, hence obliged to stand by and watch said royal personage drown.
Notwithstanding their tumble from divinity, the royals retained atavistic quirks of absolutism. Perhaps that was inevitable with monarchs—I wouldn’t know. King Rama was the only monarch I’d been around. One of those habits appeared to be the urge to pluck some hitherto unrecognised talent from obscurity, creating unexpected favourites, presumably to ensure loyalty unto death. Mild monarchs need a Cerberus, a pitiless flesh-eating guard dog. Throughout history this tendency may be observed—the Czarina’s Rasputin springs to mind. For his personal Rasputin, King Rama had handpicked Sya Dam, a mystery man.
When I realised I did not know nearly enough about Sya Dam, the thought struck me that the sooner young Fleischer took up his post as Assistant Military Attaché at the U.S. Embassy in Bangkok, the better. There was no more devious, cold-hearted bastard than Fleischer, possibly a contributory factor to the truth that, in my experience, there was no better intelligence officer, either.
I first met up with Lieutenant Fleischer at Fort Gullick at the School of the Americas: a Spanish-language training facility set up some two decades ago, at the U.S. taxpayer’s expense, in the Panama Canal Zone. The U.S. trains more foreign military and security personnel than any other country in the world. SOA Fort Gullick was one of its most secret and efficient establishments. At the time, I was a logistics instructor at the facility, and Fleischer proved a godsend.
There are those who call the SOA the School of Assassins, claiming it’s a place where human rights exist at the point of a gun and folks use the Geneva Convention to wipe their ass. The School’s official aim was to provide ‘professional training’ for military personnel from Latin America, and to inculcate in such personnel American notions of genuine democracy. The freebies included membership to exclusive golf clubs, tickets to sporting events, and trips to Disneyland, the infrastructure of the American dream.
Our students would routinely arrive with suitcases stuffed with thousands of dollar bills, which they’d use for luxury purchases—cars and household durables—that they shipped back home. Our alumni included a few bad eggs that spat on human rights and would go down in history as the perpetrators of major atrocities—but these were statistically insignificant.
Congress wouldn’t have voted to continue supporting the SOA if all these overblown stories had been true, would they? The nurturing of terrorists, the kidnapping of homeless people for human guinea pigs and organ transplants—the usual conspiracy theories invented by bleeding-hearts liberals with more imagination than sense.
Fleischer was in his element at SOA, but he always had his sights set on greater things. He had run off to join the French Foreign Legion when he was but a boy, but he was now bona fide U.S. military. He’d made lieutenant and was, at the time we became acquainted, on loan to the SOA because, despite his Teutonic-sounding name, he had a Guatemalan mother and spoke good Spanish. His first name was Angel, pronounced the Spanish way, An-hell. Mostly, he was called Fleischer, or Lieutenant. At SOA he taught counterintelligence and the handling of sources. Much of the training material he created, including source-handling manuals, later found a place in counterintelligence instruction in Vietnam, and would later be dubbed ‘the torture manuals.’ Presently he was running some boot camp, in France, I think. He’d picked up sufficient French in the Legion to bawl orders and scare the crap out of his students, anyway—God help them.
His future appointment as Assistant Military Attaché had been broadcast on the grapevine. I need Fleischer in Bangkok, but still I felt wary. At any rate, he would not be joining us for another year. I wonder what Fleischer will make of the Black Tiger—what they will make of each other. Already I sense an affinity between them. Had Fleischer already been in place, I am sure Sya Dam would not have seemed such an insufferably enigmatic and inscrutable entity.
Inevitably, when the king began to display such marked favour toward Sya, there had been rumours, jealousy, and the usual unpleasantness. At such times, even removed from the theatre of war, the situation was volatile, like sitting on a powder keg. One never can tell what spark will set it off. Bangkok was already seething with unrest, and the king was a monarch concerned for his own and his people’s peace of mind—a man who valued a life of gentle contemplation, devoted to philosophy, music, and good works.
I am not sure whether Sya Dam still enjoys the royal favour. If he does, in the light of the attention he’s attracting, I imagine that it could be considered useful to send him off-stage for a while.
May 24, 1968
So Sya and Fleischer will not meet—in the immediate future, anyway. I am not sure whether that is an advantage or not. Sya’s absence will give Fleischer a chance to gather and collate information without interference, but, on the other hand, he always had a maverick, opportunistic way of working, which thrived on confrontation and the manipulation of incident.
I had begun speculating about how and when Fleischer would appear on the scene when his posting finally came through. He has a tiresome habit of turning up ahead of schedule, fuelling his rather sadistic enjoyment of creating alarm and astonishment by catching folks on the hop. It’s a calculated way of embellishing his legend, though I regard it as somewhat juvenile, like something out of a childish comic strip. However, it can’t be denied that in many quarters it’s had a considerable impact.
Fleischer, as AMA, would rightly expect to be wined and dined at the residence of the Director General of SEATO. These domestic arrangements would necessarily entail the involvement and cooperation of my wife, Taylor. My wife is a woman of impeccable taste and extremely high standards. I hardly imagine she and Fleischer will turn out to be soul mates. Fleischer has his uses, but he comes at a price.
I am dying for a cup of decent American coffee. I never drink coffee at home. My wife frowns upon it, saying that it produces palpitations. But there are days where palpitations are a blessed respite.
Nat Raven burst into the Trattoria twenty minutes late, cursing English rain and London traffic, but blaming nobody but himself for his tardiness. As usual, he had allowed himself to be buttonholed after his seminar by students too timid to ask questions in front of their peers, preferring to waylay their tutor as he hurled overheads and lecture notes into his battered brown leather briefcase. Raven preferred this honest artisan’s accoutrement to the costly Hermes model brought to him from Paris by the beautiful woman he lived with.
Raven paused to get his bearings and let his eyes adjust to the pink-shaded gloom designed to create instant cosiness and boost sales of indifferent Chianti. He was wearing his characteristic scowl, and lowered his head and glowered about him with the intensity of a bull released into a
plaza de toros
. A waiter danced toward him, then stopped in his tracks, abashed. Raven’s muscular intensity, the bulky shoulders pitched forward, as if poised to charge, often unnerved those encountering him for the first time. Dark and fierce as a gypsy, a throwback to his dour, grim-featured ancestors, Raven knew his battle-axe face hardly embodied the popular concept of a university don. Still sun-tanned from his summer in France, he would have looked more at home in Sicily—Don Corvo Nero, padrone. Or as the Legionnaire he had once been.
By now Raven had spotted two men, grey and unremarkable, seated in a booth against the wall. Raven recognised Professor Robin Bellwether, who was covertly watching the entrance; upon perceiving Raven, he smiled faintly. He looked relieved, Raven thought. Droplets of rain pearling off his long leather coat, Raven steamed through the tables, moving with agility for a man of his size.
By way of welcome, Professor Robin Bellwether, the Chair of Oriental Studies, dragged over a nearby stool, placed it at the end of the small wooden table, and patted its seat. ‘Ah, Raven,’ Bellwether confirmed, in his precise, faintly surprised Edinburgh voice. ‘This is Dr Raven!’ he announced, adopting the high-pitched tones of feigned astonishment, like a conjuror producing a white rabbit from a hat. His companion, whose thin grey hair and face matched his sober city suit, inclined his head formally, then offered his hand. His grasp was decisive yet cool. His eyes studied Raven. Raven found the appraisal of this entirely unexceptional middle-aged, middle-class Englishman oddly disquieting.
‘James Smith,’ the man said firmly. ‘Hello.’
‘Yes, well.’ Professor Bellwether stood up, leaning on the table, a napkin scrunched in his hand. He appeared in a hurry. Words poured from him in an unaccustomed spate. ‘Must be pushing off, I have a meeting with the dean at one thirty. The queen bee! Female deans, nowadays, the monstrous regiment, the mind boggles. Well, duty done, you two have met. Amen! Leave you to your own devices. Told Mr Smith something about you, Raven. He’ll explain, I’m sure. By the way, don’t touch the prosciutto—like litmus paper. God knows what ill-starred beast it came from. Stick to pasta and you’ll be all right, I shouldn’t wonder!’
With this he departed. Raven set the stool back where it belonged and slid himself into the seat vacated by the professor, opposite Mr James Smith, whose stare he now returned with interest. He wondered what exactly Robin Bellwether had been telling Mr James Smith, and why his august colleague should suppose Mr Smith would be interested in a fairly insignificant university lecturer. His natural impatience urged him to demand bluntly what the hell this was all about, but he curbed it, and sat in silence. Too long the prisoner of cities, Raven savoured silence. In silence he studied first the wine list that lay open on the table, and then the open bottle of Italian red, turning it in his hand, reflecting that one day he really had to learn more about vintages.
‘An interesting CV.’ Smith leaned back and studied Raven with a half smile. A waiter hovered, laden with menus. Another glass was brought, pasta was ordered, the waiter’s effusions gently but firmly curtailed. Smith spoke, musingly, without haste, as though there had been no interruption. ‘Nathaniel Dane Raven. Age thirty-four. Marital status, single. Only child. Born on the West Coast. Father a fisherman, lost at sea.’
Raven braced himself to acknowledge the obligatory expression of regret. None came. The grey man barely paused, continuing imperturbably: ‘Scholarship to Marlborough. Performed with distinction. Athletics and rugby football. Exhibition to Trinity College, Cambridge. Holds degrees in zoology, politics, and environmental science. Rowing blue. Left England abruptly after graduation to join the French Foreign Legion.’ He paused, cocked his head on one side, and asked, ‘Why? Romantic leanings, Dr Raven?’
Raven shrugged. ‘Obstinate, more like. In my cups at a family wedding, the class of function that lasts for a week and never a sober breath drawn. Proposed to my cousin. Swore I’d join the Legion if she refused—which, of course, she promptly did, sensible girl! Trying me out, probably. So I called her bluff. She should have known; cussedness runs in the family.’
Smith nodded and continued, ‘And now you two are “an item”, as they say. Ms Raven capitulated and surrendered to your importunities when you made earnest of your threats. Interesting creatures, women!’ He wiped the corner of his mouth fastidiously with the edge of his napkin, then folded it carefully. ‘You served five years, mostly in North Africa. Upon return to Britain, embarked on career in documentary filmmaking. Outstanding pieces include
Legion of the Lost
, subject self-explanatory;
Whose Apron Strings?
, Freemasonry; and
Lion’s Share in the Lion Port
, politics and economics in Singapore. Considerable critical acclaim. Most recent career moves: university associate lecturer, and collaborator in survival training school.’
‘You’re very well informed,’ Raven conceded.
‘Bear with me.’ His companion ran his finger round the base of his untouched wine glass. ‘The list of your achievements is revealing, Dr Raven: you are not easily discouraged; you possess discretion, as well as talent and determination. Your work has been controversial; as well as national awards, it has attracted death threats, to which you have proved indifferent. You’ve never collected a single award; you’ve consistently refused police protection. Why?’
Raven shrugged. ‘Mostly, with awards, you don’t win. So it’s no good setting too much store by awards. Entails too much wailing and gnashing of teeth for my taste. As for police protection—agh, the police have more important things to do than play nanny to pampered media folk.’
Smith nodded, but Raven felt he had extracted the gist instantly, and that, by the end of Raven’s speech, his attention had wandered back to what he himself would say next, and he was selecting his words with fastidious care.
‘Oh, you’re a driven man, Dr Raven. Despite this façade of
laissez-faire
, there’s a touch of the crusader. You have the urge to uncloak corruption and exploitation; moreover, Dr Raven, you are a patriot.’