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  The gift, which Ratana had wrapped, was a long, flat, solid object.

  “You can open it,” said Calvino. “I’ll let the General know you thought that it was necessary to spoil the wrapping.”

  The cop stared at Calvino for a long moment. Then he pushed the gift back into Calvino’s hands.

  “Go!” he said, waving him through with a look as if he’d just scraped dog shit off his shoe.

  On the other side of the checkpoint, a young female officer waited for Calvino.

  “You’re Khun Vincent Calvino?” she asked.

  He could see that she had a printout of an old photo and was trying to match the image to him. He nodded. She requested that Calvino follow her.

  “Expecting someone younger?” he asked.

  He saw the lieutenant insignia on her uniform.

  “Follow me, sir.”

  She was all business.

  “Lieutenant, do you have a name?”

  “Pim.”

  She was the quiet type, the kind who might answer with a single noun when a verb or a few more words might have disclosed a hint of personality hiding inside the uniform.

  He followed Pim up a flight of stairs and down a long corridor with rows of office desks on both sides. Behind most of the desks were women officers looking at computer screens. Halfway along the corridor Calvino blinked twice as he saw a folded bedroll under one of the unoccupied desks. He looked closely and saw more bedding rolled up and stuffed underneath other desks. Bedding looked strangely out of place in the police department. Most of the bedrolls were positioned in such a way that they would normally go unnoticed, but once Calvino had spotted one, he couldn’t help notice they were as common as computer screens.

  One of the bedrolls had unfolded, and the edge of the blue and gray fabric had caught on the wheel of an office chair. He stopped, leaned down and untangled it. The young, attractive woman cop in the chair blushed and flashed an electric smile. Pim looked slightly embarrassed as she watched him stand back up with an amused expression.

  “When’s nap time?” he asked Lieutenant Pim.

  She ignored his question.

  “The General is waiting,” she said.

  The corridor was chilly from overactive air-conditioning.

  “I’m going to ask Pratt to show me his bedroll,” Calvino said. “Does a general get to choose firm or soft? Or are they standard issue?”

  “Feel free to ask General Prachai any questions,” Pim said.

  “I’ll do that,” he said.

  Pim seemed ready to jump out of her own skin. She gave the impression that depositing him at Pratt’s office couldn’t happen soon enough. She would certainly avoid being dragged into a discussion of sleeping gear. As they continued, Calvino counted several more bedrolls.

  “That makes eight,” he said. “It’s like fleas. You find one, and you know they come in colonies.”

  She pretended not to understand him. For some reason, there wasn’t just one cold cop with a comforter but a whole dormitory of mainly young female cops who kept camping gear under their desks.

  He tried a different tack.

  “How long have you been a cop, Lieutenant Pim?”

  “Eight years.”

  He looked at her. The number eight had appeared twice in a row. It was time to buy a lottery ticket, he thought.

  “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-seven in two months and three days.”

  “I’ll remember to send you a birthday present. Maybe some fresh sheets.”

  Finally she delivered Calvino to Pratt’s door, where she lightly knocked. General Pratt had a private, enclosed office. Like a big shot, he sat behind a door that closed off the rest of the world. And he had a young, attractive woman cop to screen his guests and escort them to his door. What more could he want? Again, the Lieutenant softly tapped her knuckles on the door. Calvino heard Pratt’s command voice, muffled by the door, granting permission to enter. She opened the door and gestured for Calvino to walk inside. She remained outside and quietly closed the door behind him, slipping away before Calvino could thank her.

  “As McPhail might say, eye candy wrapped in a tight-fitting uniform plucks the rebellion out of a man.”

  “She’s single and looking for a husband.”

  “I’m single and looking to stay that way, so that leaves me off Lieutenant Pim’s short list.”

  “You got her name.”

  “She’s not much of a talker, your Pim.”

  “She’s not used to a farang coming to my office.”

  He gestured for Calvino to sit in the chair in front of his desk. Pratt’s eyes danced over the Shakespearean wrapping paper.

  “You shouldn’t judge a gift by its wrapping,” said Calvino. “But in this case, make an exception.”

  The banter finished, Calvino placed the present on Pratt’s desk. The General leaned back in his executive chair, his fingers touching in a bridge, admiring the paper.

  “Ratana wrapped it,” said Calvino.

  “Of course.”

  Pratt wore the brown uniform: the star on the left epaulet and colored bars across the pocket on the left side. A black nametag with his name in white Thai lettering rested above his right pocket. The official Pratt was packaged for his new position as a police general and smiling for a photo op.

  “We had pictures taken this morning,” said Pratt.

  “No Shakespeare quote?”

  Calvino handed the gift to Pratt.

  “What is it?”

  “Open it.”

  General Pratt used a letter opener to slice through the tape and dozens of images of Shakespeare. He peeled back the wrapping paper and read the words on a plaque:

  The robbed that smiles steals something from the thief;

  He robs himself that spends a bootless grief.

  — William Shakespeare, Othello.

  “Shakespeare on your desk,” said Calvino, watching Pratt’s reaction. “He’s always been your partner.”

  “Indeed he has.”

  The General studied the fine black lettering in New Times Roman font and, turning the plaque around, set it on the desk facing Calvino. Pratt folded his two hands in a wai. A smile emerged on his lips, and he leaned back in his chair.

  “There’s been a problem with your friend Ballard,” said Pratt.

  “Is he in trouble?”

  Pratt drummed his fingers on the Shakespeare wrapping paper.

  “He’s dead.”

  Calvino realized his summoning to Pratt’s office hadn’t been a social invitation after all. Bringing a gift was now making them both feel awkward.

  “That’s terrible.”

  He’d been blindsided. Ballard found dead? A numb feeling began to set in. Pratt had had time to adjust to the idea.

  “For him, yes. But for you, the trouble fuse has been lit, and it’s burning.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Ballard worked undercover for the DEA.”

  “Selling and buying ships?”

  “That was his cover. In the drug business you want to get in close to the logistical side of the operation.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “Two nights ago.”

  “I was supposed to have dinner with Ballard two nights ago. He didn’t show up. I’ve been asking myself why he didn’t bother to take time to email or phone me. I was pissed off, to tell you the truth.”

  “Now you know why he stood you up.”

  “You remember Ballard from the jazz festival in Bali, right?”

  Pratt nodded.

  “I remember him. It occurred to me then that he might have had an agenda other than music. You can profile people who love jazz. He didn’t fit the profile.”

  “What happened to him?”

  Calvino started to sweat. He loosened his shirt collar and necktie. His heart raced as he waited for Pratt to answer.

  “His body was found in the Chao Phraya River, a hundred meters downriv
er from a French restaurant called Ruea Farang-set. He’d booked a table overlooking the river for two people. A police boat fished his body out from five meters of water, his head bashed in, throat cut. He was badly mutilated. You said something about meeting Ballard for dinner?”

  Calvino brushed a line of sweat from his brow. The location of the restaurant was not far from the Klong Toey ferry pier.

  “ ‘Meet me at Ruea Farang-set,’ he said. I walked around for half an hour waiting for him. When he didn’t show, I left.”

  Pratt picked up the plaque that Calvino had brought and studied it for a moment.

  “The American embassy has already gone through his personal effects. They found your name in his diary, and your dinner appointment. They also read a note in the diary about his stay at your condo.”

  “They think I killed Ballard?”

  “They are diplomats. At least some of them are. No, they say you are a person of interest. The embassy has followed up with the department, with the usual request to keep them informed of our murder investigation. They have offered the services of the FBI, the DEA, the CIA and the rest of their alphabet. Of course, we declined. It’s a sensitive time. The Americans don’t approve of the coup. They weren’t expecting we’d be jumping at their offer.”

  He went quiet for a moment and put down the plaque on his desk.

  “Vincent, I have to ask you...”

  “I didn’t kill Ballard. Why would I?”

  “Someone from the embassy is likely to contact you. You should be prepared for that. If that does happen, let me know. They shouldn’t be meddling, but they have a right to talk to their own nationals. We can’t stop them.”

  “Their intelligence officers stationed at the embassy read Ballard’s diary and decided I had something to do with his murder? That’s crazy.”

  “If you were in their shoes, what would you think?”

  “You’re right. I’d want a conversation with me.”

  Pratt leaned back in his chair, studying Calvino. He pulled a wad of tissue from his box and stretched his arm out.

  “You don’t want to walk out of my office with sweat rolling down your face.”

  “You’re sure Ballard was murdered?”

  “It doesn’t look like suicide. Think, Vincent, did Ballard say anything before he left about having a problem with someone?”

  Calvino ran the tissue over his face, wadded it into a ball and put it on Pratt’s desk. He stood up from the chair and paced, running his hand through his hair.

  “Nothing like that. Well, there was this escort, Christina Tangier, that he met in London, who took some pictures of him sleeping nude with a teddy bear. She got famous by destroying his career and that of twenty-eight other johns.”

  “He was involved with a prostitute?”

  “He told me that he was working on a case, and that she was connected to a big-time operator in Colombia. Maybe that guy killed him. Or maybe the investment banker in New York killed him, the one that bought Tangier’s portrait of him.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “To increase the value of the painting of Elite John Number 22.”

  “Was that Ballard’s code name?” asked Pratt.

  “This Christina gave all of the johns she photographed a number. It so happened that Ballard was number twenty-two. Her painted photo of Ballard helped establish her reputation as a conceptual artist.”

  “Slow down, Vincent. Teddy bear. Conceptual artist. Escort. London. New York investment banker. A woman named Tangier.”

  He looked up from his notepad and put down his pen to hold his fingers together in a bridge. He studied Calvino.

  “She photographed him sleeping in the nude with a teddy bear in a top hat cocked to the right side. Google the name Christina Tangier and Elite John Number 22. See for yourself. It’s Ballard. Or kind of looks like him. After she painted him in the style of Lucian Freud, the face looked like a lot of people. But you study it long enough and you know it’s him.”

  “Some Cupid kills with arrows, some with traps.”

  General Pratt quoted Much Ado About Nothing as he scribbled on a notepad.

  “There was no Cupid. This English art student used him. If anything, he was the one with a grudge. He said this hooker artist had ruined his life.”

  “How do you spell her name?”

  Calvino obliged.

  “It’s not her real name. But it doesn’t matter. She’s famous. She’s been on TV and in the newspapers.”

  “Never heard of her.”

  Pratt looked at the name and seemed a little disappointed. A celebrity in London didn’t sound like much of a lead in a Bangkok murder case. But an effort still had to be made to verify her connection with Ballard.

  “Anything else that Ballard said that seemed strange or unusual during the time he stayed at your condo?”

  “You hung out with him in Bali. Everything about Ballard stood out as strange and unusual. I thought those covert guys worked in the shadows. Ballard appeared to live under a spotlight.”

  “Sometimes the best place to hide something is in plain sight.”

  Pratt shook his head in frustration. Calvino was right; Ballard had more stories than an Irish alcoholic trying to settle his bar bill on charm and flights of imagination.

  “There is one thing, Pratt. I had lunch with McPhail. We walked into a dive called the Happy Bar. And who’s waiting for me? Ballard. Ratana had told him I’d be there, and he got there before me. That got me thinking. He had some special training. He told me he’d moved to a suite at the Oriental Hotel and invited me to dinner. Later that evening, after returning to the condo, I checked the guestroom. Ballard had left a copy of The Quiet American, the Graham Greene novel, on the bed. It had a note inside.”

  “What did the note say?”

  “The name of the restaurant and a line about the novel. I can’t remember it for sure, but it was something like, ‘It’s not the quiet American you have to watch out for, it’s the Fowlers who get the woman at the end.’ ”

  “What does that mean?” asked Pratt.

  “I never got a chance to ask him. Does that mean I’m in trouble, and I need a patron to vouch for me?”

  “I’m not your patron, Vincent. But I am your friend.”

  “Same, same,” said Calvino.

  Pratt watched Calvino sit back down in the chair. Pratt’s expression showed he disagreed.

  “A patron protects you from your mistakes, while a friend helps you face up to them.”

  “What’s my mistake, Pratt? Having a houseguest who left a cryptic note in an old novel?”

  His response came across more heated than he’d wanted.

  “In Thai culture we share a hatred of criticism. A patron doesn’t care about his luk nong’s run-in with the police. The nature of a luk nong’s transgression is irrelevant. If someone makes a big deal out of it, you know what we think?”

  “Someone powerful has a grudge.”

  “Right. It exposes an enemy. Only an enemy would use the mistake of a luk nong to strike at the patron.”

  “Maybe someone wants to embarrass you or test where you stand? You’re a newly minted general who may have jumped over some other candidates. Someone might be jealous. Or maybe it’s revenge. Think how it looks from their point of view. What will Calvino’s patron do? Cut him lose or protect him? Either way you lose.”

  Pratt had taken the American embassy’s inquiry personally.

  “I’m not worried,” Pratt said. “I can handle it.”

  “And you have. But things are different now.”

  “It’s always different. But one thing stays the same. A patron is the one with the most to lose. That’s why there’s always so much at stake in Thailand.”

  “Ballard’s murder is giving someone an opportunity,” said Calvino. “They’ll have dug a bit and found you knew him too. So you can’t be impartial. You’ve got colleagues and maybe people working out of the embassy looking at how you handle
yourself. What are you going to put in the report you kick back to them? I’d report what I told you. They aren’t looking for the truth. It will only confuse them.”

  “I have the full support of the department.”

  “You don’t believe that. No one in your department has full support. Everyone’s watching their back. There’s nothing else I can give you to pass along, Pratt. Ballard mentioned someone in Phuket wanting to buy a luxury yacht, and he was looking for a commission on the sale. Who knows if that was bullshit? He didn’t show me his agency ID. Maybe he was unlucky and caused a hoodlum to lose face, and a few of the hoodlum’s friends jumped him. Which agency do you think was on his badge?”

  The tone of Pratt’s voice bore a hint of weariness.

  “DEA, but I saw an intelligence report that indicated his real boss was DARPA. Let’s say his true affiliation is a bit of a mystery.”

  The Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency funded all kinds of technologies that had possible military use. It reported on scientific and technological developments directly to the senior officials in the Department of Defense.

  “Given what happened in London, his own agency had a reason to get rid of him,” said Calvino.

  “The thought crossed my mind. Are you certain he said nothing about seeing someone? Maybe the buyer of the boat or another American?”

  Calvino shook his head.

  “If I’m in his diary, wouldn’t he write the buyer’s name in the diary? He didn’t tell me and I didn’t ask. He’d banked a big commission on a Cambodian ship deal. You’d think he’d be on top of the world. But the photo exhibition in London and later in New York followed him. He couldn’t shake it. It was plastered all over the Internet. Send the embassy links to the photos. Of course, they already know about that. It should tell you something that they didn’t share it with you.”