Hungry Ghosts (27 page)

Chumbol’s other son,
Nathawut, has a disinterested air about him, like he wishes he were somewhere else.

Khemkhaeng – not a Sangukhon, but one of their senior ‘people’ – completes their party. I have the impression of a man not overly concerned with scruples.
He exudes quiet capability the way Mongkut radiates resentment.

As is the custom, the dead are with us.

The table is large, and accordingly there are several empty seats for the ghosts of common acquaintance. I half-expect Claire to materialize, but as I am more focused on the living than usual she remains stubbornly absent.

Chumbol clears his throat.
His voice sounds reedy and disembodied, like a weary Lear who desires to be rid of his burdensome kingdom.

Grasping my father’s
hand, he says to his sons, “This revered gentleman is Edward Brown, the initiator of both the Sangukhon and the Lamphongchat family businesses. He is our foundation stone. If it were not for my dear friend here, none of us would be enjoying the lifestyle we do today. You have heard me talk of some of his exploits and the adventures we enjoyed together when we were both young men.”

“
Foolish young men, Chumbol,” says my father with a smile.

“You will accord to him due respect.
You will also give respect to his son.” He indicates me.

Mongkut
moves around animatedly in his chair.

“This man,” he says pointing at me in a most non-Thai gesture, “
is David
Braddock
, not David
Brown
. Furthermore I object to his presence here. Is he Mr. Brown’s bastard son?” The contempt drips from his voice.

“That is of no concern of yours,” replies Chumbol sternly.

The waves of dislike between Sangukhon Senior and his heir-apparent have taken only seconds to roar forth. I recognize the signs only too well. If Mongkut wasn’t such an obvious arsehole, I might even be able to feel sorry for him. His father evidently keeps him in the dark as much as mine does me.

Chumbol turns to regard me. “I wish also to make it clear, Mr
. Braddock, the order for our men to pick you up was given without my knowledge. My
son
acted without consulting me. Had he done so, certain unpleasantness could have been avoided.”

Mongkut is seething
but somehow manages to keep his mouth shut.

“However,” continues Chumbol, “
there is a matter we need to discuss before we go any further.” I see a flash of steel in his eyes as they bore into me.

“I understand from Mongkut that you are working with a
farang
named Philip Janus, a journalist who is conducting an investigation into our family activities. I need to hear from you about this.”

Everyone in the room looks at me. Edward Braddock says, “What the hell is
all this, David? Why haven’t you said something about it before?”

“I’m not working on any investigation into the Sangukhon family
,” I reply. “I’m only in Bangkok to find Rosie Fletcher. And that’s done now.”

“That’s another thing,” snarls Mongkut. “What do you mean by turning up at the courier exchange and causing trouble? You could have put the whole arrangement between the families in jeopardy.”

Chumbol smooths over this. “I’m not concerned with the exchange. Edward and I have spoken about it already. However, I am concerned about the Janus connection.”

“Do you deny you know Janus?” says Mongkut.

“No. I know Janus, but very slightly. We’ve only met once, when I was in Cambodia a week or so ago.”

“Who is he?” asks my father.

“He’s a colleague of Anna’s. Her agency represents him. He said he was researching a book on the drug trade, but that meant nothing to me at the time; and since then I’ve had other things on my mind. As you all well know,” I add.

“So you’re saying this is just a coincidence?” This is from Mongkut.

I shrug my shoulders. “Perhaps in the karmic scheme of things it has some significance, but I can assure you I am not working with Janus. Nor would I. I dislike the man.”

There is a brief silence, then Chumbol says, “May I ask if the Lamphongchats are aware of Janus’ activities?”

Mongkut’s stare fixes on Nathon. I’m guessing he’s a rabid conspiracy theorist. His paranoia would slot him nicely into that weirdo collective.

“I did have a report of a Western journalist in Cambodia asking questions, but I have not paid a lot of attention to it.”

“Perhaps you should,” suggests Cheepa. “Do you know where Janus is now, Mongkut?”

“He’s in Hanoi.”

“If he starts to delve into our Vietnam operation and it becomes an embarrassment, steps will have to be taken,” announces Nathon in a sombre tone.

Everyone
around the table nods apart from me. I know very well what
steps will have to be taken
means. I need to pass a warning to Janus and make the mule-headed idiot listen.

“Are you sure you are not connected to Janus other than incidentally, David?” Nathon asks.

“I am not connected to him. Nor do I have any intention of talking to him again.”
Except right after this meeting
.

Mongkut leans forward. He has a pugnacious look about him, although whether he’d rather punch me or his father is not clear.

“Mr. Braddock should not be in this meeting,” he says. “It is not appropriate that we discuss family matters in front of him. In deference to his history with us, Mr. Brown should stay, but
this man
should leave.” He nods in my direction and looks around the table for agreement. “He has no place here.”

Edward Braddock intones, “My son has said he will have no involvement with Janus and he has stated that he has had no part in any investigation. On the basis that he continues not to be so involved I require a guarantee from both families that he will not be harmed.”

Nathon says, “All the while David stays out of our business the Lamphongchats have no issue with him.”

All eyes turn to Chumbol.

He gives an almost imperceptible nod in Nathon’s direction.

“So long as you
keep away from Janus and do not interfere in our activities you will be left alone,” Chumbol says to me. Mongkut tries to interrupt but the old man continues. “However, if you prove troublesome we will treat you as an enemy. Do we have an understanding, Mr. Braddock?”

“
We do,” I reply.

“Then you may stay,” he says. I can almost see the smoke coming out of Mongkut’s ears, but he remains silent. “Let us move on to the main business of the meeting, shall we?”

A long discussion ensues which flows back and forth as grievances are exchanged and complaints about turf infractions are voiced. Some hard words and emotionally-charged phrases are batted across the table with Mongkut assuming the role of attack dog. Nathon Lamphongchat however is capable of giving as good as he gets. Chumbol occasionally chips in with an observation and my father calmly recaps and structures the discussion towards more positive outcomes. However, to the impartial observer – that is to say, to me – the process looks like one of wading through a large treacle vat in which a few mines bob just beneath the surface. Chumbol and Nathon evidently have the will to move forward, but the myriad of details and niggles presents difficulties. Mongkut produces a litany of specific events, persons involved, dates and so forth which undermine any attempt at general reconciliation. Cheepa in turn has his own list of Sangukhon transgressions which he trots out.
Tit for tat
.

While all this is going on I think about my situation and what I need. The families bicker
around ‘areas of influence’ and I think about Wayan. They talk over how to control over-enthusiastic enforcers and I think about Chaldrakun. When I’ve thought about things enough I say loudly, “You’re all going about this the wrong way.”

There is a long silence. I haven’t opened my mouth for over an hour and they had probably forgotten I was there.

Now they’ve remembered.

“I had no idea you were an expert in these matters, Mr. Braddock,” says Chumbol Sangukhon with a sly smile.

“He isn’t,” retorts my father.

I say, “I hardly think I need to be. A blind man with his fingers in his ears and prawns shoved up his nostrils could tell you what the real issue is.”

“
Really?
” says Mongkut.

“Yes, really. You people are too close to the minutiae to get a proper perspective. Your problem is
the pie problem
.” The Old Monk would be so proud of me if he could but hear. He loves incomprehensible enigmas, especially when they are presented in such a way as to make them even more incomprehensible. Why, it’s almost a Zen moment. Somewhere a tree is falling silently in a forest.

I continue.

“Here you all are scrambling around and getting hot under the collar about exactly what share of the pie each person is getting while ignoring the fact that the pie itself is shrinking rapidly.

“Tell me, Nathon, how much of your Bangkok business have you lost since The Toad started moving in aggressively on you?”

He considers. “Maybe twenty per cent.”

“And Mr
. Sangukhon, how about you?”

“Possibly around the same,” spits out Mongkut.

“More like twenty-five percent,” chimes in Chumbol.

“And that’s in a very short time,
correct? While the Lamphongchats and Sangukhons are squabbling over the crumbs, this Toad is eating the pie right in front of your eyes. In another couple of years you’ll be arguing over who has control over the last street corner in Patpong – because that’s all that will be left to you.”

“That’s all very well, David –” begins my father, but Chumbol puts his hand on my father’s wrist.

“No, Edward, let your boy speak.”

Well, it must be twenty-odd years since I was last referred to as a ‘boy’, but never mind
.

“You need to take out
the Toad. It will buy you all time.”

My father looks like he’s going to have a stroke.

“
Take out the Toad?
That might be
somebody’s
solution to dealing with a troublesome policeman, but it’s not a sane proposition here in Bangkok,” he says pointedly. “The killing of a senior policeman would bring down the heat on everyone like nothing you can imagine.”

I shake my head hoping I look like a teacher lecturing a bunch of primary school kids. If I wore glasses I would take them off and sigh
theatrically.

“I’m not talking about killing anyone.”

“Then what
are
you talking about?” asks Mongkut brusquely.

“Look, from what I understand, this is one greedy policeman we’re talking about; deeply corrupt and unpopular with his colleagues. Am I right so far?”

“Yes,” says Nathon.

“Everyone takes a degree of corruption for granted here.
I am very well aware of that fact. It oils the wheels. But if it’s too blatant it starts to make people feel uncomfortable. For any kind of civilized society to exist, it requires the exercise of a degree of personal restraint. That’s almost a pre-condition of peaceful coexistence. The Toad’s excesses could potentially poison the well for others in the Royal Thai Police.”

I’m ladling this on a bit thick, but I seem to have their attention. So long as I steer clear of quotations from dead Greek philosophers I might pull it off.

“Go on,” says Chumbol.

“Supposing his illegal activities could be put under the noses of his superiors in a way they couldn’t ignore. Supposing a situation were
to be engineered in which they would have no choice but to sideline him, to remove him from his current post; wouldn’t that be helpful to both families?”

“Undoubtedly,” says Nathon. “But do you have something specific in mind, or is this purely hypothetical?”

“And who is to say he wouldn’t be replaced with someone worse?” snorts Mongkut.

“As to the last point, I’d be happy to take my chances on
that
,” says Chumbol. “But
do
you have something specific in mind, Mr. Braddock?”

“As a matter of fact, I do.” I pour myself a glass of water, and throw in a dramatic pause before continuing.

“The Chief of Police on the island of Samui is a personal friend of mine. He is a man of profoundly frustrated ambition; one who would sell his soul – if he had one – for a promotion to Bangkok.

“If we could contrive a situation where, say, a large amount of unaccounted-for cash could be found on
the Toad, my police friend could be relied on to shop him to the appropriate people. Internal jealousies and envies, coupled with the proclivities of the Royal Thai Police to cover up while discreetly removing the guilty party, will do the rest.”