Crackdown Page 29

  He thought about Howard and Davenport, their smugness, their certainty and their relentless interrogation, as if they’d made up their minds that he’d killed Ballard.

  That morning a report in the Bangkok Post had quoted a US embassy source confirming that Ballard’s death had been a suicide. Would the source have been Howard or Davenport, he wondered, or their boss? It didn’t matter. No one from the embassy would be coming to his office to say they were sorry for the accusations and threats. No one who worked for the government ever apologized. Men like those were numb to feelings of guilt. Calvino thought of them adjusting their ties and moving on to the next case, where they would strong-arm the next person on a list that had been printed out and handed to them. If you were on the list, then they’d move on to you; if the boss took you off the list, that was the boss’s business, and they’d cross your name off and go bother the next person. Only now nothing was ever crossed out as in the old days; the name, like a stain, remained forever in the system. Complaining wasn’t an option. Complainers were put on another list. You lived with your suspect status, and you moved on, too.

  That was the grand bargain with evil. No wrong ever got righted, any more than a hangman’s rope was ever unknotted and used as a child’s swing. The true identity of the person they pulled out of the river no longer mattered. Switching DNA was child’s play. The deception meant nothing in itself. The news report went on to say that Ballard’s relatives asked that his remains be cremated and his ashes spread in the sea. No one would come to Bangkok to mourn his passing, and Ballard had been close to no one there. He’d told Calvino that he’d stopped in Bangkok to do some business and to visit him. That lie was the most far-fetched creative act of all and made Calvino smile.

  Ballard’s heartbroken email to Glover, the collapse of his business deals and his humiliation as Christina Tangier’s Number 22 all provided evidence to support a verdict of suicide. The Quiet American ending had to play out. Calvino had delivered the evidence that sealed the case for suicide. Could it be nothing but a great cover to put Ballard back into the field under another identity, one not notorious as the subject of an art photograph?

  In the end, it didn’t much matter whether it was a case of suicide, murder or disappearance. Ballard’s fate had been shaped by forces larger than him. Alden Pyle must also have suspected that it wouldn’t end well for him. He had a pipe dream of returning to the States with the beautiful Phuong, who’d ditched Fowler for a new life in America. Ballard, like Christina Tangier, had his own crazy dreams of pulling a fast one on oligarchs. It turned out she was much better at it than he was. That must have stung him.

  “But the boat in Phuket might be a good way to escape, if it comes to that,” Ballard had argued. He wasn’t brokering the deal for the yacht. He was buying it for himself and using it to disappear off the radar.

  If Ballard was alive, he was proving what every inner-city cop learned on the early morning shift, after the sound of gunfire and sirens wailing on the way to the scene. The dead guy’s story can only be told by the living. That’s the price of dying. You no longer get to tell people what happened. Your story is passed on like your car, furniture, fridge and second-hand wardrobe, told by others who will write their own script of what happened to suit their own needs. The story of Ballard’s disappearance was left to the alphabet agencies’ storytellers.

  Calvino turned away from the sunset and raised a glass to salute the ancient map on the wall, remembering how Ballard had stood at the same spot, his back turned to him. He’d watched Ballard for a minute or longer before letting him know he’d come back into the room. He’d run the same footage through his mind so many times before that he could no longer be certain what part of his memory was the original and what part had entered through his imagination. What was left, once a man doubted what he’d seen in his own living room? An ever-changing residue of images, sounds, smells and emotions, a collage of conflicting details supporting different versions of the same story.

  Ballard was Pyle, Ballard was Martins, Ballard was... He fled in a yacht, a private plane flew him out of the country, he was dead, he was alive... He still worked for the agencies, he’d cut all ties with them, he’d set up Christina Tangier, she’d set him up... Each theory was plausible, seemed probable, even, until he considered the other side and found it equally likely. A plausible story, he thought, reconciled the facts, assembled them into a convincing pattern, one that created reasonable doubt, the kind that allowed a shooter on trial for murder to walk out of a courtroom a free man. In Ballard’s case, Calvino couldn’t help but think the plausible story of suicide may have allowed one man to assume the identity of another.

  Calvino was a part of all those stories. Each story was plausible, but only one of them was true. One notable question remained: who was taking the time and trouble to hide the truth?

  THIRTY-THREE

  “All through the night, men looked at the sky and were saddened by the stars.”—Joseph Heller,

  Catch-22

  OSBORNE WAITED BY the pool, reading. A servant escorted Calvino into the garden and swimming pool secluded within a three-meter-high stone wall. Black iron spikes, heavy with ivy like a green blanket, ran along the top—a nice touch, thought Calvino, though it fell a couple of meters short of a medieval castle courtyard. He found Osborne, wearing dark glasses, stretched out on a chaise longue with yellow cushions and aquatic green pillows, his head shaded by a green umbrella. A table had been set beside a kidney-shaped swimming pool.

  Osborne wetted his finger before turning the page of The Economist. Calvino walked along the edge of the pool and stopped at the foot of the chaise longue.

  “Why does The Economist pick on Thailand? Why aren’t they writing about North Korea or Somalia? What do you want to drink, Calvino?” he asked, without looking up from his reading.

  “White wine.”

  “Let’s have some Champagne.”

  As Osborne leaned forward, his belly extended like a pinkish shelf. He wore a white cotton shirt, unbuttoned, and a pair of blue swimming trunks. He balanced his magazine on his bony knees.

  “Why Champagne?”

  “To celebrate Sky’s freedom.”

  He got up from the chaise longue and took a seat at a glass and chrome table with three settings.

  Calvino saw Fah at the far end of the pool, ankles hooked, feet touching the water, her face hidden under a large-brimmed bamboo hat with a blue band and a fresh white orchid. She lazily waved at Calvino like an exhausted film star at the end of a publicity campaign, pushing back her hat. He raised his hand to acknowledge her.

  “Sit down, Calvino. Get out of the sun.”

  Calvino sat across from Osborne. That left one setting. Fah made no gesture of joining them.

  “Isn’t Fah drinking Champagne?” he asked.

  “You must tell me how you managed to free her. Was it your friend Pratt?”

  “Pratt, the flutter of an Amazon butterfly, my charm or random, blind luck. Take your pick,” said Calvino.

  “Have some mango.”

  In the center of the table was a large plate of mango, banana and watermelon slices. A big pitcher of orange juice sweated tiny rivulets like trails left by a drunken downhill skier. Tucked in an ice bucket, a bottle of Pol Roger Sir Winston Churchill 1990 tilted to the side. Three crystal glasses, juice glasses, silverware and cloth napkins had been carefully laid out in front of two empty chairs.

  Osborne reached for the open bottle of Champagne. As he filled Calvino’s glass, he glanced over his shoulder at Fah.

  “Sky’s pissed off about the world. Apparently she can’t control it.”

  “She doesn’t look unhappy.”

  From his seat at the table Calvino watched her kick the water, her painted toenails striking the surface. In her hands she held an iPad. He could see her working the screen.

  “Every morning the army sends three or four soldiers to ask her questions. She signed a paper inviting them to come arou
nd. I said, ‘Why did you sign it if you didn’t want them to come?’ She said, ‘You can’t negotiate when someone holds a gun on you.’ Of course she’s right, but that’s life. There’s always someone with a gun pointing at your head. Get used to it. Grow up. And the officer sits down and asks her the same questions every day: How are you doing? Where have you been? Who have you seen and talked to? Are you happy? How is your term paper coming along? Have you rewritten it yet? When can I read it? The kind of questions a father asks a slow-witted six-year-old.

  “I give them wine and mango and that shuts them up. I tell her not to take them seriously. They’re doing a job. You know what they want to hear. Lie to them. They don’t expect the truth. If they thought you were truthful, they wouldn’t bother coming around. So what does Sky do? She sulks. The soldiers seem genuinely concerned about her mental health. After the wine and mango, I pour each of them a large scotch and ask them about their mothers. The Thais love talking about their mothers. After an hour they’re a little drunk. By the time they head back to whatever military camp they come from, I doubt they’re in any condition to write a report.”

  Calvino watched Fah splashing the water as Osborne spoke. He saw now that she looked bored and angry. Kicking the water appeared to relieve some of her frustration. Osborne sipped the Champagne.

  “How do you like it? You have drunk Champagne before?”

  “Do I look like a Champagne virgin?”

  “Nothing about you looks virginal, Calvino.”

  “What’s with the ‘Sir Winston Churchill’ on the label?”

  Osborne smiled, picking up the bottle and admiring the label before placing it back in the ice bucket.

  “Sir Winston loved Pol Roger. If it hadn’t been for that Champagne, we might have lost the war against the Huns. The Germans would still be sending around soldiers every morning to ask us questions, not unlike Sky’s interrogators, but for Sir Winston and Pol Roger. He fell for Odette Pol-Roger at a British embassy party in 1944. She thought him special, too. He drained five hundred cases of Pol Roger in between his eighty-first and ninety-first birthdays. My goal is to beat Sir Winston’s record.”

  “I thought you were dying.”

  Osborne’s orange hair caught a ray of sun. The effect of the light fell short of a halo and was actually more like the backlight illuminating a suspect in a police lineup.

  “We’re all dying, Calvino, some of us faster than others, that’s all. But being a bit slow in the dying racket is nothing to gloat over.”

  “You said there was something you wanted to tell me.”

  “There is. You Americans are always in such a hurry. Relax, enjoy the Champagne,” said Osborne, holding the wine up and finding a ray of sun to strike the glass. “Such purity is marvelous to behold. And yes, there is something. I wanted to say goodbye.”

  Fah toweled her ankles as she sat down in the chair across from Calvino.

  “Are you talking about me?”

  “My dear, we talk of nothing else,” said Osborne.

  “Where are you going?” asked Calvino, as Fah poured orange juice into her glass.

  “Madagascar.”

  Osborne had organized a little farewell party to celebrate their planned trip to Madagascar. Calvino was the only guest. Osborne said they had decided to get out of Thailand for a few months. He figured the daily visits from the army were themselves the real message, not just a medium for questions. The questions were an excuse. What they really wanted was for Fah to leave the country. Only then would the visits end. That suited Osborne, who longed to re-enter Madagascar’s pre-Internet world. To him the island off the coast of Africa was like a fly trapped in a fifty-million-year-old piece of amber.

  Osborne looked over the top of his eyeglasses as Fah ate an apple, her eyes focused on the screen of her iPad. The fruit crunched in her teeth.

  “Look at her,” said Osborne. “She’s not even said hello.”

  Fah looked up, crinkled her nose.

  “Hi, Khun Vincent.”

  “That’s all?”

  She shrugged and took another bite out of the apple before losing herself again in Twitter.

  “Even when she eats, she’s on the Internet. She doesn’t know what the world was like before it. People have forgotten the joy of simply eating an apple. The taste, the color, the texture of the apple meet you, and you pay attention when you eat it. Now people who eat apples can Google for information about apple planting, annual production in western Canada, GDP tables comparing apple crops in growing countries, the market price for apple futures, but they’re missing the experience of eating an apple. They know everything ever said or written about an apple but nothing about the experience of enjoying one.”

  Fah’s face lit up. She let out a squeal of joy and raised her hand in a three-finger salute.

  “Christina Tangier is about the coolest artist who ever lived,” she said, not looking up from her screen.

  “She’s added speech to the conversation. Thank you, darling,” said Osborne.

  Calvino sensed something more was going on than idle talk.

  “What’s up with Christina Tangier?” he asked.

  Fah glanced up and turned her iPad around. A teddy bear filled the screen.

  “It’s a teddy bear,” said Osborne in a derisive tone.

  “The same teddy bear she used in the famous photos?” asked Calvino.

  “She’s uploaded a new podcast. She reveals the mystery of the teddy bear. It was the Turing teddy bear. She’d been hired as an art intern at Bletchley Park to create the museum’s Turing room. A private donor who admired Turing got her the job and gave her the idea—why not switch the Turing teddy bear with a lookalike? Who would be able to tell the difference? That’s what she did. Christina used Alan Turing’s teddy bear in all of the Elite John photos.”

  “Why would someone go to such trouble? asked Osborne.

  “It’s an enigma,” said Calvino.

  Osborne shot him an amused glance.

  “Calvino, in all the years I’ve known you, that is the wittiest thing you’ve ever said. Shakespeare and monkeys typing come to mind. Still, you must come to visit us in Madagascar.”

  “Christina’s clever. She makes a brilliant revenge,” said Fah. “She does it with art. Christina knew exactly what she was doing. I love her! Wait, Christina says she gives the teddy back to the museum.”

  “She’s feeling remorse?”

  “Do you know how many people have seen this YouTube video? Over a million in forty-eight hours.”

  “We’ll invite her to Madagascar, darling,” said Osborne. “She can make videos about lemurs.”

  “As if she would ever go there.”

  “Be positive. You will love Madagascar,” said Osborne. “I am in favor of this coup. It shows the powerful people aren’t giving in. Fah and her generation are patiently waiting for us to die off, but we aren’t giving in.”

  He smiled that cunning, knowing smile.

  “Our child will be born in Madagascar. I’ve always wanted an African baby. One who grows up in the bush, searching the trees for lemurs rather than sitting in a room searching the Internet for porno and war games.”

  Fah reached over and grabbed Calvino’s phone from the table.

  “Do you mind if I use this?” she asked. “They took mine away.”

  “Who are you calling, darling?” asked Osborne.

  “Munny. He’s a friend,” she said.

  “He’s the Khao San Road tattoo guy who also made your street art,” said Calvino.

  “Lucian Freud was once a tattoo artist. So what?” she countered.

  “I told you she was clever,” said Osborne.

  “How do you know about Munny?” Fah asked Calvino.

  “Never underestimate a man with a typewriter. That’s the first rule.”

  “What’s the second rule?”

  “Secrecy is no longer an option.”

  “You think the army knows?”

  “The
third rule is the army is the last to know.”

  Calvino looked at the angle of her arm and hand. Grabbing a cell phone from a pregnant woman was never a good option. Instead he put his hand in front of the phone.

  “Before you make that call, tell your husband about Munny.”

  “Munny helped us with the graphic art. I’m worried about him. I want to tell him he can go back home. It’s over. Finished.”

  Calvino slowly withdrew his hand.

  “Were you having an affair with him?” asked Osborne.

  She laughed.

  “With Munny? Are you crazy?”

  “But you said it was over. Finished.”

  “Our protest project is shut down. I’m leaving the country. Oak is going to Cambodia. Palm is in Japan. Oak wants to meet him.” She glanced at Calvino, who’d been following the conversation, and he nodded that he understood what she wanted.

  “That leaves her to rewrite their university paper,” said Osborne. “They fled the country to avoid homework.”

  “Well, can I phone him?”

  Fah’s request seemed, on the surface, reasonable enough. Osborne and Calvino nodded their approval to make the call. Osborne couldn’t follow the phone conversation with Munny that ensued as Fah spoke Thai. Osborne tugged on Calvino’s wrist and asked him to translate.

  “Munny’s got a problem. He needs money to get himself, a one-legged man and the man’s kid to Cambodia. Fah told him that she’ll have me deliver twenty thousand baht to him.”

  “You’re not,” said Osborne to Fah the moment she handed the phone back to Calvino.

  “Not what?”

  “Giving him twenty thousand baht. And you said that you didn’t have sex with him. Why else would you give him a small fortune from my money?”