3 Elephant Traps

30

My desk phone rings. It is Vikorn’s secretary, Manny, summoning me to his office, pronto. In a whisper she lets me know that something has gone wrong with the Tanakan case. He does not speak when I enter, merely hands me a sheet of paper, which is a printout of a photograph that has been sent by e-mail. In the picture an elephant is about to bring its trunk down on a bamboo ball in which a trussed-up, tattooed man has been imprisoned.

“Where did you get it?” Guess.

“Tanakan? Someone sent it to him?”

Turning away from the window. “This is serious stuff, Sonchai. I was working him to the limit of his tolerances. As it was, Tanakan was only a couple centimeters from having me assassinated -I had to calculate the figure pretty precisely.”

“Five dragons?”

My Colonel nods gravely. “I was keeping within my rights, but only just. Another million, and he would have felt entitled to take the risk of a hit team.” He points at the photocopy I’m holding. “Now this.”

“He thinks it comes from you?”

“Of course he does. He thinks I’m inventing a third party to protect him from so I can keep squeezing. He thinks he’s going to have to fork out a few million every year. He thinks I’m a low-rent crook who’ll just keep sucking his blood forever.” I refrain from comment. “That’s what happens when the lines start to get blurred. Honor and respect are the first casualties.”

“What d’you want to do?”

“It’s what I have to do. We’re going to see him now. We’re going down on our knees. We’re acknowledging that the situation has swung in his favor. We are even reducing our fee.” Pointing at the photograph: “We have to convince him this isn’t us.”

In back of the battered old patrol car I watch Vikorn move the assemblage point of his mind to a position of total humility. The receptionist at the bank was charmed enough on our first visit; now she’s overwhelmed at the Buddhist quality of this senior cop: so self-effacing yet at the same time firmly professional. We are whisked up to Tanakan’s suite at lightning speed by a couple of heavily built guards. As before, we wait in a conference room. This time it is the perfect secretary, not the man himself, who arrives to call us into his office. There is no offer of tea, coffee, or soft drinks, and she doesn’t look at me. Tanakan does not bother to stand up when we enter, and the secretary closes the door behind us without a word. Vikorn sinks to his knees on the carpet, at the same time showing a high wai, and I have to do the same. This does have the effect of warming the atmosphere, from maybe minus five to zero.

“Khun Tanakan,” Vikorn says, “I am aware of what Khun Tanakan must be thinking, but it is not so.” Vikorn is careful to keep his hands together at his forehead. “Your humble servant is an honest trader.”

Tanakan glowers, somewhat theatrically in my view. “I wish I could believe the Colonel. What began as an honest negotiation between men of honor seems to have – ”

“Not at my instigation, Khun Tanakan. Would Khun Tanakan take it as evidence of my sincerity that I am prepared to lower the value of the vase?”

Tanakan stands up and emerges from behind his desk.

“From now on the vase has no value, Vikorn. From now on if I hear anything in relation to the vase, I will press a certain autodial number on my cell phone. A cell phone belonging to the owner of a motorcycle and his armed assistant will ring somewhere in the city. I am sure the Colonel understands. Certainly one always prefers to play the game and avoid loss of life. When someone starts to break the rules, however, one must take one’s chances. After all, I have a position to defend, and I thought it was implicit in our discussions that you were my principal defender. You have failed, Colonel. You’re not doing your job, man.”

Vikorn has turned gray. However, he masters himself, bows his head, stands, and all of a sudden we are on our feet at the door. Tanakan calls us back for a moment, however. He reaches into his drawer to take something out and chuck it across his desk at Vikorn. It is an elephant-hair bracelet. “It came with that abominable picture,” he snaps, then turns his back to look out of the window.

In back of the car on the way to the station, Vikorn delivers one of his homilies:

“You see what happens when the work of professionals is screwed up by amateurs? Tanakan knew he’d been caught with his knickers around his ankles and was ready to cough up like a pro so long as the negotiations were courteous, discreet, and professional and the price was reasonable. Now some barbaric clown has poisoned the well. I want you to find him and give me the address. You don’t have to be there when the men make the visit, understand?”

He raises haggard eyes. I gulp and nod.

Back at my desk, the cell phone rings.

“You watched the video?”

“Yes.”

“So now you know what to do.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You can adjust the technique according to the personality of the subject. Kowlovski was very stupid. I think your subjects will be more fun.”

I’m not sure I’m really understanding. If I am, I don’t want to. “What subjects?”

“The ones I have identified with the bracelets.”

My jaw drops. “How can I interrogate them? One is a senior banker, one is an eminent lawyer, the other is a bum, and all of them have perfect alibis.”

“No, they don’t.”

“But they weren’t even in the country. They weren’t even in the same country as one another. One was in the U.S., one was in Angkor Wat, and the other was in Malaysia.”

“Isn’t that a coincidence?”

“Well, it may look suspect, but it does prove that none of them were directly involved in the” -I grope for the right word -“killing.”

“My sister said there were meetings. You know, as in major shareholders.”

“How did she know?”

“She was one of them.”

The revelation causes quite a jolt. “She attended business meetings at which her body and her death were the proposed profit center? I’m going to need evidence.”

“Confessions are always the best evidence. Is that not so?”

“You can’t get confessions like that out of free men.”

“Free men? I’m working on it.” He closes the phone.

With cynical intent to deceive I call Vikorn directly on his cell phone. “I’ve been looking into it. I’m going to raid Baker and Smith. I think one of them must be behind this elephant crap.”

“Why bother with a raid? I’ll send a motorbike.”

“No, Colonel, I’m not sure it’s one of them. I’m just sure I can find out something from them.”

“Have it your way. But I want the one who sent that photograph strung up by the balls and presented to Tanakan in a nice neat velvet package.”

“I know.”

“I think our banker might prefer a living body he can have some fun with.”

“Yes, I guess so.”

I balance my chair on its back legs, put my feet on my desk, and make a cathedral of my hands. It never works, but it does make me feel like Philip Marlowe. I am frowning. The same three suspects: Dan Baker, Tom Smith, Khun Tanakan. But suspected of what, exactly? I am not even sure if Damrong’s contract was illegal in Thailand. I am not even sure there was a contract. Perhaps no crime was committed at all, beyond manslaughter by Kowlovski? It was a crime against the heart, though-a crime against humanity, you might say-which led to others: Nok, whose butchered innocence rests heavy on my heart; the otherworldly Pi-Oon and his flamboyant lover. This surely is the monk’s message. I agree, but who to scare first, Baker or Smith? Tanakan will have to be left alone for the time being since he’s under Vikorn’s protection; I’m not at all sure how to finesse that. I guess even Marlowe didn’t get himself into these kinds of jams.