Chapter Twenty-two
The green and yellow cab lurched and weaved, the driver -- a Thai Muslim -- flailing at the gearstick and Tanaka munching handfuls of Pringles from a tube he purchased on the ground floor of the electronics complex. He hadn’t taken a decent meal since the flight over. There was no shortage of food on the streets; in fact it was everywhere. All they ever did was eat. DC was awash with Thai restaurants and they were his favorite haunts but the fare in this city was strange, pungent and totally foreign. He also picked up a local-language newspaper, an ideal thing to hide behind.
The driver slowed after half an hour and pointed to a place on the left. Tanaka indicated to the driver to keep going and he jumped out further up the road; it was busy now with the morning rush. He doubled back and walked past the place, glancing at the numbers on the piece of paper.
What to do; what to do…
The direct approach had gotten him nowhere so far. As he walked by he saw a lane with an expensive black vehicle parked. A couple more steps along the sidewalk and found a place to sit, he ordered some noodles and a Coke. Picked at the dish and waited. An hour passed.
Couldn’t eat the stuff, whatever was in it…braised alley-cat and enough chili to strip paint.
He wanted to go knock at the door but didn’t, he just sat. Someone came out, it was her alright. Tanaka dropped the chopsticks and lifted the Thai-Rath broadsheet, peering over it. He watched as she moved behind the black BMW and popped the trunk, taking something, crouching down and stuffing whatever it was into the cuff over her ankle. Was she armed? No slinky black silk today, this time camouflaged gear. Survivalist gear; up for a big day out. Or a big fight.
His eyes followed… Anna approached the group of motorcyclists wearing tunics and leapt on the back of one of them, commanding the rider to move and move quickly.
Had to be somewhere, faster than driving in her own car so she was taking no notice of her surroundings. She never saw the man with sunglasses jump on the motorcycle; by then she donned a crash helmet; only looking ahead, not behind.
Tanaka shoved a bundle of small notes at a different moto-taxi.
“Follow that one,” he said.
The cyclist gave him a blank look so he pointed in the direction the first one with Anna riding pillion. He proffered another note, a large purple one. The cyclist handed him a helmet; a plastic dish you could get arrested for wearing in many countries.
“Go!”
This time the cyclist understood perfectly.
No looking back today. The Chinese simply had to be located; everyone wanted a piece of him: the syndicate wanted him to remain under wraps, the Thai military wanted the guidance boxes and Arcana wanted him permanently out of the picture. Double the frustration, everybody had screwed up. Even her own people. The Chinaman could have been taken off the streets ages ago. He’d gone to ground; nobody had seen or heard from him. It was down to her and there wasn’t much time.
Pakdee of Phayao understood perfectly. Had to get control quickly, regain the upper hand.
Tanaka held on for dear life. The cyclist was touching seventy as he raced over the Thai-Belgian Bridge on Rama Four Road, weaving in and out of all manner of traffic -- vendors on smoky two-strokes through to twenty wheelers. Even more terrifying, the fact he kept his eyes pinned on the bike ahead, but they couldn’t quite catch up. The death defying ride continued for miles. Anna and her rider were constantly stopping, in and out of buildings, waylaying people in the streets, asking directions and information. Then they pulled a U-turn and headed west. They slowed and stopped; this time she was off the bike and paying the man. Tanaka clasped the shoulder of his cyclist and jumped off. He nodded at the fellow, handed over the helmet and ran, heart pounding as his feet pounded the sidewalk, dodging the crowds. The terrifying ride had energized him, he could see her but she could move like a ferret. Difficult for him, he tripped on things and bumped into pedestrians, now he was on foot nearly getting killed by cars a couple of times...they drove on the wrong side of the road here.
Ahead of him he could see her darting in and out of the way, she could shift. He was panting, out of shape. Never had trouble passing the annual fitness protocol but that was more to check all the bureau people weren’t tied up on leave, keep insurance costs down. This was becoming a marathon, until she darted inside some place. Enough for now. He stopped outside. This was it -- he’d have to front her.
She got the breakthrough she needed. An off-duty uniformed-cop who worked as muscle in a massage parlor near the terminus had overheard a conversation somewhere. There was a regular customer who was Chinese; he could neither speak Thai nor Teow-Jiu dialect very well but had been chatting with the service-girls in Cantonese when he was with them. The twins from Chiang Rai were gossiping, how he had told them he was bored in Bangkok and how he had owned a workshop in Klong Toei which had mothballed operations. The man had bad teeth but plenty of cash and was due to arrive that day as always.
She had been searching in Klong Toei when the moonlighting cop called her so she turned back and rode along Rama Four as far as the railway station. The general had been ringing through but she wasn’t taking his calls. She made a beeline to the lane where ‘Hi-Soh KTV’ was located and barged in the entrance. The policeman was out directing traffic. A pair of hoodlums with shoulder-length hair attempted to manhandle her until they saw the PPK. The Chinese wasn’t there yet, so the two minders said, they stuck to their story. They didn’t deny they knew him, they just wanted her out of the place…having cops there wasn’t unusual, plainclothes detectives could be a concern but a lone female in the lobby of a brothel waving a gun around...big trouble. For all they knew she could have been somebody’s wife.
Pakdee shoved through the heavy curtain out onto the street. Straight into PK Tanaka.
“Anna!!”
Pakdee arched up and her jaw dropped. She froze. “Oh, my Lord…how-”
Tanaka put up his hand. “We need to talk.” He looked up and down the street, any time expecting to be accosted; possibly he’d been tracked here too.
Pakdee squinted. “Why have you come? Not a good time.”
“Billy-Bob Hatfield’s father. He came here looking for you. He’s been hurt…”
She pushed past him out on the street then turned back. “Tanaka, you cannot be here. Not now. Go to your room. I’ll find you.”
“Anna, wait up!”
Tanaka drew a deep breath and started running after her. He was still exhausted. She can move, gotta get into shape, he thought as he huffed and puffed through the chaos of Chinatown.
In the fall of 1968 Chen Hsieh-Tsu was a Red Guard aged seventeen. One afternoon he and a group of hand-picked cadre armed and accompanied by soldiers arrived at a local elementary school and summoned the headmaster. The group stripped the accused ‘counter-revolutionary’ and frog marched him into a packed quadrangle, hurling insults at him and painting a red-lettered slogan in Mandarin upon his chest in front of an audience of jeering teenagers. When school was dismissed that day Chen and the gang bound the teacher and drove him to a quarry where they shot him. Hands strapped, head bowed, on his knees; straight in the back of the head…one shot with an SKS rifle.
Crime? Discussing something the beloved Peoples Chairman had said, in front of an assembly.
In the seventies Mister Chen had become an avionics engineer and by the late 1980s he was a shop-owner who viewed the protesting students with disinterest; Premier Deng told everybody being rich was good and Chen set to, obediently doing just that. The family electronics business in Beijing had its ups and downs until the arrival of the age of video entertainment when he amassed a fortune selling pirated games and accessories. Such wheeling and dealing progressed and it had been by accident he began designing and supplying military electronics to customers who paid. Governments paid well, terrorists paid handsomely.
He arrived in Thailand by invitatio
n and had been managing a factory set up by an associate. He hoped to migrate to a western country and he could then retire and send for his wife and family; they would benefit greatly from a fine education and they could all live happily ever after on their investments in a canal estate somewhere. Singapore, Florida; Surfers Paradise…anyplace that wanted his money.
Chen burped loudly. The kuay-thiow noodle soup was the best in that section of town. He stood on the side walk and lit up a Double Happiness once he settled the bill. As he inhaled he relaxed and thought for a moment; it was a pleasant day and he began to walk down a lane where his favorite establishment was located. He looked forward to the next two hours where he would be pampered and given a soapy massage by a pair of pale-skinned bunnies from the far north. Being unemployed irritated him but being paid for doing so by the syndicate had its perks and he was assured, things would soon be back to normal.
Didn’t register, he had been tackled…he struck the pavement hard face down, then he tried to stand but he tottered like a drunkard. He could barely see the figure sprinting down the lane as he righted himself and attempted to call out. He knew he’d been mugged, possibly an addict. His wallet and cell phone were missing, taken after the cowardly fellow had hit him from behind. Chen swore, it was mostly his pride that was hurt and at least he still had his timepiece, the most precious thing he ever carried with him.
Savages! In China, those criminals were shot after a ten-minute court appearance!
He cursed again; he would have to walk back to his room and the masseuses would have to wait. Chen hobbled toward the rail terminus. Out of nowhere a scooter stopped, blocking his path -- two westerners fronted him, speaking in some foreign language and attempting to comfort him.
Typical backpackers, like something the cat dragged in.
To Chen’s amazement the one of them had his stolen wallet and handed it to him, opening it and fingering the money inside which was untouched. This was beyond comprehension; the mugger was nowhere to be seen. When Chen accepted his wallet he removed several banknotes and more amazingly the two young people were smiling, laughing and shaking their heads; neither of them would take the cash from him. They hopped back on the scooter and it was then the lady who doubled back with his cell phone in her outstretched hand which she held briefly before reaching and delicately slipping into his trouser pocket. More smiles, more gestures, a rev of the bike and they were gone.
As Chen was counting his money he couldn’t believe his luck. He’d always regarded Westerners as untrustworthy and he was delighted that he had encountered an exception that day. His thoughts were interrupted yet again by the flip-phone in his pocket vibrating. As he reached to take the incoming call he thought he could hear somebody screaming in the distance. Toward the main road he could barely make out two figures heading toward him, maybe calling out although his eyesight was not the best at his age. Somebody was running in his direction. Still, he opened the phone and lifted it to his ear. Reflex action.
It was the sight of the foreigners astride a scooter -- maybe drifters from ‘the hippie triangle’ -- then she spotted the blonde hair. They were a distance away but they stood out; this section was not a backpacker center and she stretched for a better view. They had been talking with somebody…the Chinaman! She quickened her pace and then she saw one turn for a fleeting moment and hand something over…she got a full view of Chen’s face.
Fifty yards away and she broke into a sprint; she ran, weaving through the traffic toward them and clipped her thigh on the front of a vehicle, regained her footing and kept going. Now the cyclists were no longer visible and she charged like an athlete; the Chinese had a wallet in his right hand and as she drew closer she called out, waving her arms; frantically trying to attract his attention. Briefly his eyes met hers and then he looked away as he reached into his pocket to answer the flip phone.
The charge fired precisely with a ‘whack’ when Chen spoke into the handset. Particles expanding five times the speed of sound, straight through him. Just like a twelve gauge shotgun but sharper, faster; more piercing, less echo. A quarter-ounce curved slice of RDX on a one second delay detonated, vaporizing his hand, shattering his forearm and caving in the left side of his head leaving shards of flesh and blood on the ground and down Pakdee’s front. The Chinese collapsed to the sidewalk in a small cloud of red and gray smoke, barely an arm’s length away. His head was still there but now looked like a basketball that had been stabbed…one side pushed in.
A harsh slap and the heat upon her face then she was on the ground. Pakdee saw Tanaka’s face and screamed once, nothing came out, couldn’t hear a thing. The cop was trying to say something to her but she was deaf…ears hissing like a heat exchanger. She lunged at the American and grabbed him by the collar; she pushed back hard, then tore at the ankle-holster above her left shoe and clawed at her gun tucked in above her shoe. For a few moments after the blast Chen’s heart kept beating.
Diminishing pulses of arterial blood squirted out and pooled next to his body. An odor like chlorine. Mister Chen all over her.
A flash, like a camera bulb, Anna in front a few paces, she blocked out the full force of the explosion but Tanaka felt it, he dropped, looked up, crawled along the ground. A split second everything stopped, time stopped. He made it to her, her face was black, had spots of the victim’s blood all over her. She was up and next he knew he was pinned to a wall, she’d hit him hard. Rammed him into a wall. She had her thumb jammed into his larynx; he struggled to move. She was choking him.
Bystanders panicked and scattered. Just like Manila, only this time he’d saved her…if he hadn’t showed up; if she’d have got to Chen when the device exploded, it would be her brains all over the sidewalk as well. The whole of Chinatown was running now.
“Gotta get outta here,” gasped Tanaka.
She released her grip on his throat and brought the gun up to his face as she inched back and away.
“Don’t touch me!” snarled Pakdee. “Back!!”
He could only see the black eyes and the black muzzle, closer now to meeting his maker than ever, she only had to flinch. Instead Anna turned and staggered to the center of the road, she dropped down on her knees and let out a shrill scream then held her gun aloft and fired the whole clip out into the air. He ran out and seized her in a bear hug, she spun and he was hurled back. He tore the Walther PPK out of her hand but she could still kill him, that’s what she was good at. He watched her carefully, just in case.
“Come with me…we gotta go. Now!”
He moved forward and touched her. Slowly, ever so slowly he put his arms out and hugged her. She was shaking. Not fear; fury. She burned, her face was hot. Tanaka glanced back at the body and the pool of blood. He pulled her back to the sidewalk, mopped her, and wiped her face. He’d never touched her before. Tall as he was, but fine boned.
He mopped her hair. Wiped her, she flopped over a little still in shock but she could walk now. He pulled her gently, moved behind and kept going. Into the next street, now and Tanaka led the way, she was still in shock. An empty taxi moved by a few yards away, it beeped and stopped. Tanaka opened the door and shoved her in the back, jumped in beside. By now she could speak but the cabbie asked her to repeat, she said something and the car moved away. By the time they made it to the intersection they could see cops racing back toward Chinatown.
Rest in bits and pieces, Chen Hsieh-Tsu. Killed by somebody else’s booby-trap, a gadget he would’ve been proud of at heart.