“I am Detective Sonchai Jitpleecheep,” I say, “but then you already know that.”

“Let us sit,” says the imam, elegantly descending to one of the prayer rugs and tucking in his feet. His son and I do likewise.

“Please do not be afraid,” Mustafa says.

The imam raises a hand. “Forgive my son, he is thinking of the American, Mr. Mitch Turner.” To Mustafa: “The Honorable Detective is not afraid, his intuition is too good, and anyway there are only the three of us.” To me: “We asked the others to leave us in peace. I’m afraid that too many Muslims in one room these days sends shivers down Buddhist spines. Is that not so, Detective?” I shrug. He studies me for a moment. “I give thanks that Allah has blessed us with a man tonight.” Darting eyes from his son. “Let us cut to the chase, as Americans love to say. Why are we here? Why have we invited you? Mustafa, tell the Detective everything.”

In the presence of his father, Mustafa has become self-conscious. He garbles his words. “As you know, Songai Kolok is on the border with Malaysia, where half the world’s computer components are made.” A glance at the old man. “We were eavesdropping on the American. We followed him here.”

A sigh from the old man. “It is in the nature of youth to begin at the end and work backward. The beginning, Mustafa, if you please.”

I watch Mustafa compose himself. “We knew Mitch Turner. Everyone in Songai Kolok knew him. That was his problem. Our problem too.” I half-expect the old man to interrupt again, but both are questioning me with their eyes. Do I understand? How smart am I? Smart enough to be trusted?

The old man coughs. “I think I do not need to bore a man of your discernment with irrelevant detail. Will it suffice to say that our people called my attention to his presence the minute he arrived in our town?”

“My father has organized an intelligence network,” Mustafa says proudly. “It is necessary.”

“You guessed the American’s profession,” I supply. “Perhaps not all of your fellow townspeople were hospitably inclined toward a farang spy?”

“Exactly,” from the imam in a tone of relief. “He was a source of great anxiety to me and my supporters. Can you guess the rest?”

“Word spread locally, then down into Malaysia? Perhaps as far as Indonesia?”

A profound nod from the imam. “I cannot control all the young men in Southeast Asia. We received many requests, some more polite than others, some barely disguised demands with menaces…”

“For assistance in killing him?”

“Yes. And with the escalation in violence in our part of the country-the somewhat heavy-handed way the government is dealing with it-it was becoming difficult to continue to protect him.”

“You were protecting him?”

Gloomily: “Who else? His people could not even protect their own skyscrapers.”

The harsh irony takes me by surprise. I stare at the old man. “You feared a backlash from the government if he were assassinated?”

“Let us be frank, he was CIA and looked like every young fanatic’s idea of an arrogant American predator. If he were murdered in the South, Washington would be sure to put still more pressure on Thailand. We were terrified of an Internet beheading. More pressure, more backlash, and so the vicious circle continues until we are all rounded up and placed in camps. This was my fear. When we were told yesterday that he had been murdered-you are not the only one who can bribe a receptionist, Detective-I knew I had to come to Krung Thep to assess the situation.”

My eyes flick to Mustafa: serious, intense, a young man with a mission quite free of troubling nuance. There could hardly be a greater difference between him and his subtle father. The old man reads my mind without effort.

“Oh yes, my son also is tempted by the world of black and white. Of course, everyone who enters that tunnel believes they are on the side of the white. Is that not so, Mustafa?”

“I have always obeyed you, Father.”

“Obeyed without understanding. And when I’m dead, will you remember my wisdom?”

Mustafa looks away, then back to me. Adoration of his father may be the most human trait in this stern young man. “Have you any idea how much the Muslim majority did not want the United States to make a total asshole of itself and encourage the radicals? My father’s position is very difficult.”

I say: “What d’you want me to do? I should probably take you in for questioning. After all, you seem to know a lot about the murder victim.”

A stiffening from Mustafa, but the imam is not perturbed. There is a twinkle in those old eyes: “But that would upset your Colonel’s cover-up, would it not? We understand that one of your, ah, employees was responsible.”

I nod. “I understand. You want to make sure nobody blames a Muslim?”

“Would that not be both a fair and truthful result?”

I want to play every cop’s game of I ask the questions, but there is a higher calling. I accept the old man’s challenge to look into his eyes. “Yes.”

“Then a man of your integrity would want to be sure that justice was done?”

I raise my hands in an extravagant shrug. “You must know it is not up to me.”

Mustafa shifts on his rug. “Your Colonel is well known throughout the country. He is very wily. If things go wrong with his plans, he will start blaming us for sure. He has no morality at all.”

“If he does, what can I do?”

“Warn us,” Mustafa says, “that we may prepare.”

A long silence. The imam’s concentration is unwavering as he looks at me.

“We want you to come down South to see us.” He makes a curious gesture with his right hand, as if he is caressing an invisible creature. “You see, we knew Mr. Turner quite well. He was here to spy on Muslims, of course. Now he’s dead, murdered. That in itself is sufficient for the Americans to feel justified in whisking some of my people away to unknown locations, interrogating them, perhaps torturing them, using up years of the lives of innocent men-husbands and fathers upon whom their families depend. I cannot simply wait and do nothing.” He studies me.

“I see. That’s really what you came for? You think all it takes is for you to show up in Krung Thep, call me over to your apartment, and get me on your side for the sake of a God I don’t believe in?”

The old man winces. “Not for Allah-who cares what name you call him? I see that in the language of your prophet the Buddha you are an awakening being. You cannot allow yourself to be the instrument of a serious defilement that may cost many lives. For you that would be impossible. Within your belief system, how could you even contemplate the endless lives of suffering you would have to endure? We want you to come see us in Songai Kolok-I’m sure your Colonel will agree. After all, a certain amount of background will prepare you for when the CIA arrives, will it not?”

“But what do you get out of it?”

“Your integrity. We ourselves could not hope to persuade the Americans that, far from killing Mr. Mitch Turner, we were exerting ourselves to save his life. But coming from a Buddhist policeman who has conducted an inquiry and made a written report-”

“Something to wave at the media or a judge?”

The imam surprises me with a broad grin. “Is this not the way wars are won in the modern world? And of course, look how much merit you will make.”

“You seem to know a lot about Buddhism.”

“I’m Thai. My mother was Buddhist until she converted at my father’s insistence. I am not a fanatic. Educated clerics know that Islam did not suddenly appear from nowhere. It bears many influences, some of them surely Buddhist and Brahminic. It is the youngest of the great religions, which is why we see it as the perfection of a spiritual path as old as man himself.”

Who could not be moved: this rail-thin old man who must loathe Bangkok and all it stands for, on a pilgrimage with his son and a group of disciples for the sake of peace; the shrewdness to understand the political implications of Mitch Turner’s death; the naÏveté to stake everything on a five-minute assessment of my character. But there is more here.