Simon had a different punishment in mind. It involved a tree stump and an angry elephant. Let justice be served. “I appreciate you making time on such short notice.”
Sterling waved away the thanks. “This talk of Thailand made me hungry. Decent curry shop just up the road. Fancy a bite?”
“Sure,” said Simon, hurrying to keep up. “I could eat.”
The decent curry shop turned out to be Gymkhana, one of the city’s finest. At a few minutes past twelve, they were the first to arrive. The maître d’ showed them to a table by the window. Sterling sat down with a contented sigh. He was a small man of big gestures.
The son of a tea plantation manager, Ben Sterling had grown up in Sri Lanka and Burma. In 1972, he’d joined the Royal Hong Kong Police force and stayed until Great Britain ceded the crown colony back to the People’s Republic of China twenty-five years later, on June 30, 1997. He left the force a superintendent, his career spent combatting drug trafficking, primarily the flow of heroin from the Golden Triangle—the northern provinces of Thailand, Burma, and Laos—to Hong Kong. He spoke Cantonese like a native, and fluent Mandarin, Thai, and Tamil. If there were such a thing as a “Far East Hand,” it was Ben Sterling. Scotland Yard scooped him up in a heartbeat, and he’d been in London ever since.
“Ceylon curry’s decent,” he said, studying the menu. “But mild. Pablum. Me, I like the hot stuff. Five alarm. Ten thousand on the Scoville scale. Like to challenge the chef to see if he can make me cry. Care to join me?”
Simon was nursing a sore hand in addition to his bruised shoulder. He didn’t care to add a scalded tongue. “Ceylon curry,” he said the moment the server arrived.
“Traitor,” barked Sterling.
“I’d like to be able to taste the food when I get to Thailand.”
“So,” said Sterling, rolling up his shirtsleeves and placing his elbows on the table, leaning in. “Dickie Blackmon’s got you going to Bangkok to pick up his son-in-law. Rum, you ask me.”
“Dickie’s working a deal with a Colonel Albert Tan, head of the national police. There are a few road bumps. I’m supposed to smooth them out.”
The waiter brought a basket of naan and papadum. Sterling grabbed a naan and tore it in half. “Know anything about the place?” he asked, taking a ravenous bite.
“I’ve never been.”
“Wonderful country, don’t get me wrong. Lovely people. Beautiful beaches. Fascinating history. ‘Land of Smiles.’ And the king will tan your hide if you say otherwise.” Sterling laughed, a riotous thunderclap. “In name, Thailand is still a monarchy. The Thais love their king. Not allowed to say a bad thing about him. Something called lèse-majesté. Few years back, an Australian newshound sent his friends a pic he’d gotten ahold of showing the king cavorting in a swimming pool with a karaoke girl, both of them naked, of course. Having a frolic. Pic was twenty years old. No big deal. That’s what the Aussie thought. Twenty-four hours later, he found himself on an airplane, declared persona non grata. Never allowed to return. He got off easy. King sent his wife to an ‘attitude adjustment’ camp for two years. Kids, too.”
“Sounds harsh.”
“The king is still new to the throne. He’s a fighter pilot. Smart as a whip but has a bit of an inferiority complex. His father was the most popular monarch in the country’s history. On the throne for seventy years. New one needs to make his mark.”
“But does he have real power?”
“To an extent. By law, the country is a parliamentary democracy with a constitution and everything. Problem is they keep electing one party more corrupt than the next. Every ten years the military stages a coup to set things right. Of course, they’re as bent as the day is long, too. Somehow the whole thing works. Country’s prosperous. Bangkok’s a boomtown. Two million residents when I first visited in ’75. Nearly eleven million today and growing like gangbusters. But nothing, I repeat,nothing,gets done without a tip of your hat and a wave of your hand. Grease makes the wheels go round.”
“Money.”
“Graft, honest or otherwise. There isn’t anything that can’t be bought…including, apparently, the freedom of your friend, Rafael de Bourbon. I made some calls after we spoke last night. I still have friends over there.”
“And?”
“Den of vipers.”
“Pardon me?”
“That’s what you’re stepping into. I don’t know what your chum did, whether it really was blackmail, extortion, or corporate theft, but he’s managed to make a lot of people upset. Word to the wise. Do not mess with Colonel Tan.”
“I looked him up. Career army. Paratrooper. Served as defense attaché to the Thai embassy in Rome and Istanbul. Currently, head of the Royal Thai Police.”
“You’re not going to find what you need to know about Albert Tan on the Internet. Tan is the ultimate inside man. Married to the daughter of the biggest sugar baron in the country. Worth billions. Brother’s head of the ruling party. More billions. Cousin owns Mekong Distillery, largest spirits producer in Thailand, Laos, and Vietnam. Lots more billions. Pounds, not baht. Tan is the man you go to when you want to get things done at the highest level. Whatever De Bourbon did, it must be bloody important if Tan himself flew to Ko Phi Phi to make the arrest.”
Simon took this in. “My friend worked for a company named PetroSaud. You can guess by the name it’s in the oil business, representing the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia. Offices in Geneva, Singapore, and Jeddah. But, Ben, why did the Thai police arrest him for stealing information from a Saudi company?”
“Simple. On behalf of one of the countries where the company has offices.”
“Long arms,” said Simon.
“With very sharp claws,” said Ben Sterling. “Careful, Simon. Den of vipers.”
