It is not fighting that he fears; it is not death; it is the waiting and uncertainty, and it breaks Jaidee's heart that Niwat knows nothing of the waiting terrors, and that the waiting terrors are all around them now. So many things can only be fought by waiting. Jaidee is a man of action. He fought in the ring. He wore his Seub luck amulets blessed by Ajahn Nopadon himself in the White Temple, and went forth. He carried only his black baton and quelled the nam riots of Katchanaburi single-handed by striding into the crowd.

And yet the only battles that matter are the waiting battles: when his father and mother succumbed to cibiscosis and coughed the meat of their lungs out between their teeth; when his sister and Chaya's sister both saw their hands thicken and crack with the cauliflower growths of fa' gan before the ministry stole the genetic map from the Chinese and manufactured a partial cure. They prayed every day to Buddha and practiced non-attachment and hoped that their two sisters would find a better rebirth than this one that turned their fingers to clubs and chewed away at their joints. They prayed. And waited.

It breaks Jaidee's heart that Niwat knows no fear, and that Surat trains him so. It breaks his heart that he cannot make himself intervene, and he curses himself for it. Why must he destroy childhood illusions of invincibility? Why him? He resents this role.

Instead, he lets his children tackle him and roars, "Ahh, you are a tiger's sons! Too fierce! Too fierce by half!" And they are pleased and laugh and tackle him again, and he lets them win, and shows them tricks that he has learned since the ring, the tricks a fighter in the streets must know, where no combat is ritualized and where even a champion has things to learn. He teaches them how to fight, because it is all he knows. And the other thing-the waiting thing-is something he could never prepare them for, anyway.

These are his thoughts as he turns over Pracha's card, as his own heart closes in on itself, like a block of stone falling inward, as though the center of himself is plunging down a well, dragging all his innards with him, leaving him hollow.

Chaya.

Curled against a wall, blindfolded, hands behind her back, ankles tied before her. On the wall, "All Respect to the Environment Ministry" is scrawled in brown letters that must be blood. There is a bruise on Chaya's cheek. She wears the same blue pha sin that she had on when she made him a breakfast of gaeng kiew wan and sent him on his way this morning with a laugh.

He stares dumbly at the photo.

His sons are fighters, but they do not know this warfare. He himself does not know how to skirmish like this. A faceless foe who reaches out to touch him on the throat, who strokes a demon claw along his jaw and whispers I can hurt you without ever showing its face, without ever presenting itself as an opponent at all.

At first, Jaidee's voice doesn't work. Finally, he manages to croak, "Is she alive?"

Pracha sighs. "We don't know."

"Who did this?"

"I don't know."

"You must!"

"If we knew, we would already have her safe in hand!" Pracha rubs his face angrily, then glares at Jaidee. "We've received so many complaints about you, from so many quarters, that we just don't know! It could be anyone."

A new terror seizes Jaidee. "What about my sons?" He leaps to his feet. "I have to-"

"Sit down!" Pracha lunges across the desk and grabs him. "We've sent men to their school. Your own men. Loyal to you only. The only ones we could trust. They're fine. They're being brought to the Ministry. You need to have a cool heart and consider your position. You want to keep this quiet. We don't want anyone to make sudden decisions. We want Chaya to come back to us whole and alive. Too much noise and someone will lose face and then her body will surely arrive in bloody pieces."

Jaidee stares at the photograph still lying on the desk. He stands and starts to pace. "It has to be Trade." His thinks back to the night at the anchor pads, the man, watching him and his white shirts from across the landing fields. Casual. Contemptuous. Spitting a stream of betel like blood and slipping into the darkness. "It was Trade."

"It could have been farang, or the Dung Lord-he never liked that you wouldn't fix fights. It could have been some other godfather, some jao por who lost money on a smuggling operation."

"None of them would stoop so low. It was Trade. There is a man-"

"Stop!" Pracha slams his hand on his desk. "Everyone would like to stoop so low! You've made a lot of enemies very quickly. I've even had a chaopraya peer from the palace complaining. It could be anyone."

"You blame me for this?"

Pracha sighs. "There's no point in assigning blame. It's done now. You made enemies; I allowed you." He puts his head in his hands. "We need you to make a public apology. Something to appease them."

"I won't."

"Won't?" Pracha laughs bitterly. "Put away that foolish pride of yours." He fingers the picture of Chaya. "What do you think their next move will be? We haven't had heeya like this since the last Expansion. Money at any cost. Wealth at any price." He makes a face. "Right now, we may still be able to get her back. But if you continue?" He shakes his head. "They will surely slaughter her. They are animals.

"You will make a public apology for your actions at the anchor pads and you will be demoted. You will be transferred, probably to the south to process yellow cards and handle internments down there." He sighs and studies the picture again. "And if we are very very careful, and very lucky, perhaps you will get Chaya back.

"Don't look at me that way, Jaidee. If you were still in the muay thai ring, I would place every baht I own on you. But this is a different sort of fight." Pracha leans forward, nearly begging. "Please. Do what I say. Bow before these winds."

12

How was Hock Seng to know that the tamade anchor pads would be shut down? How was he to know that all his bribes would be wasted by the Tiger of Bangkok?

Hock Seng grimaces at the memory of his meeting with Mr. Lake. Of crouching before that pale monster as though he were some sort of god, kowtowing obeisance while the creature shouted and swore and rained newspapers down on his head, all of them with Jaidee Rojjanasukchai on their front pages. The Tiger of Bangkok, a curse in his own right, as bad as one of the Thais' demons.

"Khun-" Hock Seng tried to protest, but Mr. Lake cut him off.

"You told me you had everything arranged!" he shouted. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't fire you!"

Hock Seng huddled under the assault, forcing himself not to fight back. Tried to be reasonable. "Khun, everyone lost material. This is the doing of Carlyle & Sons. Mr. Carlyle is too close to Trade Minister Akkarat. He is always goading the white shirts. Always insulting them-"

"Don't change the subject! The algae tanks should have cleared Customs last week. You told me you paid the bribes. And now I find out you were keeping money back. This wasn't Carlyle, this was you. Your fault."

"Khun, it was the Tiger of Bangkok. He is a natural disaster. An earthquake, a tsunami. You cannot blame me for not knowing-"

"I'm tired of being lied to. You think because I'm farang that I'm stupid? That I don't see how you work the books? How you manipulate and lie and sneak-"

"I do not lie-"

"I don't care about your explanations and excuses! Your words are shit! I don't care what you say. I don't care what you think, what you feel, what you say. All I care about is results. Bring the line up to forty percent reliability within the month, or go back to the yellow card towers. That's your choice. You have a month before I fire your ass and find another manager."