Range Rovers rolled into the courtyard. A gleaming pearlescent-white Rolls-Royce followed, crunching across the carefully raked gravel and sending yet a stronger shock wave rippling through the villa. Two more heavily armed Land Rovers brought up the rear of the convoy. The gates rolled closed and a foreboding silence ruled, punctuated by the heavy slamming of car doors. Samkit faced into the epicenter of the disturbance and made a wai , her hands together as if in prayer, a nod of the head, eyes closed and her face alight with a beautiful smile when General Chiang Tse-kuan walked past.
Two of the general’s secretaries scurried after him, one a short dumpy man, the other a stylishly dressed middle-aged Englishwoman. “They should be here in six minutes,” the woman told the general.
“I’ll meet them on the veranda,” the general said, his voice carrying the accent and inflection of an English public school education. He was a slender and dignified Eurasian in his mid-fifties, dressed in an expensive Savile Row linen suit. His cosmopolitan bearing made the unsuspecting think of a wealthy and sophisticated Hong Kong businessman. The male secretary spoke briefly to Samkit, telling her to make sure the veranda was clean and in good order.
Samkit gathered two of the other servant girls and ran across the lush garden, past the swimming pool and to the veranda. Samkit’s legs snapped against her tight pasin, the traditional saronglike tubular skirt that reached to her ankles. Still, the slender forty-two-year-old woman never lost the graceful bearing that pleased the general. Her practiced eyeinspected the veranda and she set the two girls to work while she arranged the table and chairs the way the general preferred. When she was satisfied that all was in order, she and the girls withdrew into an alcove to await their master and be available for whatever he might require. They would return to their normal routine after the seismic shocks upsetting the villa subsided. She used the time to make sure her jet-black hair was still in place, drawn back into a tight bun, her blouse tucked neatly into her pasin, and that her face was composed and serene. Samkit Katchikitikorn was a lithe and charming Thai who was careful to appear the loyal servant. She feared Chiang and what he would do if the truth was discovered. But her loathing of the man and all that he represented drove her on. Samkit accepted the future and her fate since both were beyond her control.
The two young girls stopped their nervous chatter when Chiang’s bodyguards walked out of the main house. Samkit could feel the girls stiffen with apprehension when Chiang appeared. But her attention was captured by the six people being escorted by four armed guards across the garden. “The old man looks like a fisherman,” one of the girls whispered.
“He is,” Samkit answered.
“Are those Americans?” the other girl asked. The three girls and two young men were a scraggly group, all wrapped in saronglike thin towels. Four of them stood quietly with their arms folded in front of them. Only the blond-haired man was handcuffed and agitated.
“Hush, child,” Samkit said. She watched as the old man went through the ritual of greeting Chiang and begging his attention.
“Why should these Americans be of any interest to me?” Chiang asked, speaking fluent Thai.
“This one,” the old man said, smiling through his yellowed teeth, “is the daughter of a U.S. senator. Very important.” He pulled Heather Courtland to the front for Chiang’s inspection. “She is very pretty.”
“There are a hundred senators in America and pretty girls are cheap in Bangkok,” Chiang said, disinterest in every word.
“But her father is the Senator Courtland who will be the next President,” the old man protested.
“You know little of American politics, old man,” Chiang answered. “Every senator believes he alone should be President.”
Samkit scrutinized the one called
Two of the general’s secretaries scurried after him, one a short dumpy man, the other a stylishly dressed middle-aged Englishwoman. “They should be here in six minutes,” the woman told the general.
“I’ll meet them on the veranda,” the general said, his voice carrying the accent and inflection of an English public school education. He was a slender and dignified Eurasian in his mid-fifties, dressed in an expensive Savile Row linen suit. His cosmopolitan bearing made the unsuspecting think of a wealthy and sophisticated Hong Kong businessman. The male secretary spoke briefly to Samkit, telling her to make sure the veranda was clean and in good order.
Samkit gathered two of the other servant girls and ran across the lush garden, past the swimming pool and to the veranda. Samkit’s legs snapped against her tight pasin, the traditional saronglike tubular skirt that reached to her ankles. Still, the slender forty-two-year-old woman never lost the graceful bearing that pleased the general. Her practiced eyeinspected the veranda and she set the two girls to work while she arranged the table and chairs the way the general preferred. When she was satisfied that all was in order, she and the girls withdrew into an alcove to await their master and be available for whatever he might require. They would return to their normal routine after the seismic shocks upsetting the villa subsided. She used the time to make sure her jet-black hair was still in place, drawn back into a tight bun, her blouse tucked neatly into her pasin, and that her face was composed and serene. Samkit Katchikitikorn was a lithe and charming Thai who was careful to appear the loyal servant. She feared Chiang and what he would do if the truth was discovered. But her loathing of the man and all that he represented drove her on. Samkit accepted the future and her fate since both were beyond her control.
The two young girls stopped their nervous chatter when Chiang’s bodyguards walked out of the main house. Samkit could feel the girls stiffen with apprehension when Chiang appeared. But her attention was captured by the six people being escorted by four armed guards across the garden. “The old man looks like a fisherman,” one of the girls whispered.
“He is,” Samkit answered.
“Are those Americans?” the other girl asked. The three girls and two young men were a scraggly group, all wrapped in saronglike thin towels. Four of them stood quietly with their arms folded in front of them. Only the blond-haired man was handcuffed and agitated.
“Hush, child,” Samkit said. She watched as the old man went through the ritual of greeting Chiang and begging his attention.
“Why should these Americans be of any interest to me?” Chiang asked, speaking fluent Thai.
“This one,” the old man said, smiling through his yellowed teeth, “is the daughter of a U.S. senator. Very important.” He pulled Heather Courtland to the front for Chiang’s inspection. “She is very pretty.”
“There are a hundred senators in America and pretty girls are cheap in Bangkok,” Chiang said, disinterest in every word.
“But her father is the Senator Courtland who will be the next President,” the old man protested.
“You know little of American politics, old man,” Chiang answered. “Every senator believes he alone should be President.”
Samkit scrutinized the one called
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