Hock Seng works the dial on the machine, listening to the divining winds of radio waves. Twirls across stations. Nothing but entertainments. Music.

Laughing Chan looks up. "What time is it?"

"Four, perhaps?" Hock Seng shrugs.

"There should be muay thai. They should be doing the opening rituals by now."

Everyone exchanges glances. Hock Seng moves through more stations. Music only. No news. Nothing… And then a voice. Filling all the stations, speaking as one voice and one station. They all crouch round, listing.

"Akkarat, I think." Hock Seng pauses. "The Somdet Chaopraya has died. Akkarat is blaming the white shirts." He looks at them all. "It is beginning."

Pak Eng and Laughing Chan and Peter all look at Hock Seng with respect. "You were right."

Hock Seng nods impatiently. "I learn."

The storm is gathering. The megodonts must do battle. It is their fate. The power sharing of the last coup could never last. The beasts must clash and one will establish final dominance. Hock Seng murmurs a prayer to his ancestors that he will come out of this maelstrom alive.

Laughing Chan stands. "I guess we'll have to earn this bodyguard money after all."

Hock Seng nods seriously. "It will not be pretty, not for anyone who is not prepared."

Pak Eng begins pumping his spring gun. "It reminds me of Penang."

"Not this time," Hock Seng says. "This time, we are ready." He waves to them. "Come. It's time we saw to whatever else we can-"

A banging on the door makes them all straighten.

"Hock Seng! Hock Seng!" A hysterical voice, more pounding from outside.

"It's Lao Gu." Hock Seng pulls open the door and Lao Gu stumbles in.

"They've taken Mr. Lake. The foreign devil and all his friends."

Hock Seng stares at the rickshaw man. "The white shirts are moving against him?"

"No. The Trade Ministry. I saw Akkarat himself do the deed."

Hock Seng frowns. "It makes no sense."

Lao Gu shoves a flier into his hands. "It's the windup. The one that he kept bringing to his flat. She's the one that killed the Somdet Chaopraya."

Hock Seng reads quickly. Nods to himself. "You're sure about this windup creature? Our foreign devil was working with an assassin?"

"I only know what it says on the whisper sheet, but that's the heechy-keechy for sure, from the way it describes her. He brought her from Ploenchit many times. Let her sleep there, even."

"Is it a problem?" Laughing Chan asks.

"No." Hock Seng shakes his head, allows himself a smile. He goes and digs a ring of keys out from under his mattress. "An opportunity. A better one than I expected." He turns to them all. "We won't be hiding here after all."

"No?"

Hock Seng grins. "There's one last place we must go before we depart the city. One last thing to collect. Something from my old offices. Gather up the weapons."

To his credit, Laughing Chan does not question. Simply nods and holsters his pistols, slings a machete across his back. The rest do the same. Together, they file out through the door. Hock Seng closes it behind him.

Hock Seng jogs down the alley after his people, the keys to the factory jingling in his hand. For the first time in a long time, fate moves in his favor. Now all he needs is a little luck and a little more time.

Up ahead, people are shouting about white shirts and the death of their Queen's protector. Angry voices, ready for a riot. The storm is brewing. The battle pieces are being aligned. A little girl hurries past, pressing whisper sheets into each of their hands before dashing on. The political parties are already at work. Soon the godfather of the slum will have his own people down in the alleys inciting violence.

Hock Seng and his men make their way out of the squeezeways and pour out into the street. Nothing is moving. Even the freelance rickshaw men have gone to ground. A group of shopkeepers huddle around a hand-crank radio. Hock Seng waves at his men to wait, goes over to the listeners. "What news?"

A woman looks up. "National Radio says the Protector…"

"Yes, I know that. What else does it say?"

"Minister Akkarat has denounced General Pracha."

It's happening even faster than he expected. Hock Seng straightens and calls to Laughing Chan and the others. "Come on. We're going to run out of time if we don't hurry."

As he calls to them, a huge truck comes around the corner, engine revving. It is astonishingly noisy. Exhaust trails behind it like an illegal dung fire. Dozens of hard-faced troops stare out from the back as it roars by. Hock Seng and his men duck back into the alley, coughing. Laughing Chan peers out, following the truck's progress. "Its running on coal diesel," he says wonderingly. "It's the army."

Hock Seng wonders if it is December 12 loyalists, some component of the Northeastern generals coming to aid General Pracha and retake the National Radio Tower. Or perhaps they are Akkarat's allies, rushing to secure the sea locks or the docks or the anchor pads. Or perhaps they are simply opportunists, getting ready to take advantage of the coming chaos. Hock Seng watches as they disappear around a corner. Harbingers of the storm, regardless.

The last pedestrians are disappearing into their homes. Shop keepers are barring their storefronts from within. The clank and rattle of locks fills the street. The city knows what is going to happen.

Memories peck and swirl at Hock Seng. Alleys running thick with blood. The scent of green bamboo, smoking and burning. He reaches for the reassurance of his spring gun and machete. The city may be a jungle full of tigers, but this time he is not some little deer, running from Malaya. At last, he has learned. It is possible to prepare for chaos.

He motions to his men. "Come. This is our time."

35

"It was not Pracha! He's not involved in this!"

Kanya shouts into the crank phone, but she might as well be raving through the bars of a jail cell for all the impact it makes. Narong hardly seems to be listening. The line crackles with jumbled voices and the hum of machinery, and Narong, apparently, speaking to someone nearby, his words unintelligible.

Suddenly Narong's voice crackles loud, blotting out the background sounds. "I'm sorry, we have our own information."

Kanya scowls at the whisper sheets on her desk, the ones that Pai brought in with a grim smile. Some speak of the fallen Somdet Chaopraya, others of General Pracha. They all talk of the assassin windup girl. Fast-copies of Sawatdee Krung Thep! are already pouring into the city. Kanya scans the words. It's full of impassioned complaints against the white shirts who shut down harbors and anchor pads but cannot protect the Somdet Chaopraya from a single invasive.

"These whisper sheets are yours then?" she asks.

Narong's silence is answer enough.

"Why did you even ask me to investigate?" She can't keep the bitterness from her voice. "You were already moving."

Narong's cold voice crackles on the line. "It's not your place to question."

His tone brings her up short. "Did Akkarat do it?" she whispers fearfully. "Was he the one responsible? Pracha says that Akkarat was involved somehow. Did he do it?"

Another pause. Is it a thoughtful one? She can't tell. Finally Narong says, "No. I swear this. We are not the ones responsible."

"So you guess it must be Pracha then?" She shuffles through the licenses and permits on her desk. "I'm telling you he is not the one! I have all the windup's records here. Pracha himself wanted me to investigate. To find every trace of her. I have her arrival papers with the Mishimoto people. I have disposal papers. I have visas. Everything."

"Who signed the disposal papers?"

She fights her frustration. "I can't read the signature. I need more time to cross-reference who was on duty around that time."