briefcase would hold quite a lot. A mobile phone, a gun, two pairs of handcuffs, large cable ties and duct tape; a set of foldable bolt cutters with extendable handles, another wig and a suit. The suit, my size, and the wig, blond, to contrast with my dark hair. Being thoughtful Harvey would include some sandwiches and a flask of coffee, for he would be spending a long night camped in that stairwell waiting for my arrival. A dusty stairwell upon which I’d seen no recent impression of human feet, although more than a few from birds alighting from the open windows.
An accomplice would be needed for Harvey. Someone to note which courtroom I had been taken to—any of nine spread over the upper three floors. That someone should phone Harvey to tell him when I was on my way out and who would be with me. Nothing more. As soon as the guards closed the single door from the courtroom corridors, Harvey would appear from the stairwell as we waited by the lift. Harvey would have the gun in his hand. A brief conversation would ensue.
Harvey and I would then lug the trussed up and by-then peaceful guards to a stage landing of the unused stairwell. Harvey would sever my chains and I would try on my new shoes, adjust my tie and straighten my wig. Harvey and I would then take to the main stairs and walk from the courthouse steps to the roadway. Any accomplice with half a brain would be on his way to Rio so I suppose Harvey and I would have to catch a cab to the domestic airport. From there south to Hat Yai, then across to Satun and the short ferry to Langkawi Island, Malaysia.
On my five-centimetre foam mattress that night, under the condensation of these freshly baked plans, I could see nothing that might deflate this simple recipe.
With the loss of Albert of Johannesburg there was a gap to fill in our room. Building Six provided many candidates as all newcomers went there first. The worthy Thais who arrived were usually snapped up and who could blame them for not wanting to share a room full of crazy foreigners. Foreigners who either spent the night in a morbid funk or would flop about laughing at absurdities.
Among a new batch of foreigners was Sten from Sweden. While his English was perfect he was not inclined to speak of family, his youth in Uppsala or lost loves. So, having met these initial conditions for entry to room ha-sip jet (room 57), big Sten was welcome.
However, we were all eager to hear any unsentimental recollections and Sten had plenty from his last decade bumming around Asia. His first local mischief saw him running gold from Singapore to Bombay in the days when India levelled a weighty tariff on imported bullion. The pay wasn’t so golden but the flights were short and the turnaround quick. Apart from the ability to step on a plane, some skill was needed in moonwalking, for the gold was packed in the soles of large shoes. Airport metal detectors are less perturbed by non-ferrous pure gold and quite untroubled at the base of the walk-through detectors then in use. So the trick was to glide through without appearing to shuffle.
‘How the hell did anyone work that one out?’ Rick wanted to know.
‘Ah, trial and error, Mister Rick,’ replied a polite and wistful voice. ‘Trial and error. Too many times.’
That was not Sten but Bruce the Pakistani speaking. Bruce was also new to #57. Bruce knew all the India scams. His room name had been immediately christened after he had voiced his Bollywood ambitions to remake Die Hard in the Indian film capital. To be titled Dying Hardly , the all-singing, all-dancing action thriller would not star Mr Willis but a new heart-throb of the subcontinent. At that point in telling the dream, modesty would demand Bruce the Pakistani to lower his head and shyly look away. Bruce was serving seven years in KP for drugging tourists on board Thailand’s trains and had been made a foreigners’ trusty.
Sten demonstrated some gold-footed moonwalking before recounting elements of his
An accomplice would be needed for Harvey. Someone to note which courtroom I had been taken to—any of nine spread over the upper three floors. That someone should phone Harvey to tell him when I was on my way out and who would be with me. Nothing more. As soon as the guards closed the single door from the courtroom corridors, Harvey would appear from the stairwell as we waited by the lift. Harvey would have the gun in his hand. A brief conversation would ensue.
Harvey and I would then lug the trussed up and by-then peaceful guards to a stage landing of the unused stairwell. Harvey would sever my chains and I would try on my new shoes, adjust my tie and straighten my wig. Harvey and I would then take to the main stairs and walk from the courthouse steps to the roadway. Any accomplice with half a brain would be on his way to Rio so I suppose Harvey and I would have to catch a cab to the domestic airport. From there south to Hat Yai, then across to Satun and the short ferry to Langkawi Island, Malaysia.
On my five-centimetre foam mattress that night, under the condensation of these freshly baked plans, I could see nothing that might deflate this simple recipe.
With the loss of Albert of Johannesburg there was a gap to fill in our room. Building Six provided many candidates as all newcomers went there first. The worthy Thais who arrived were usually snapped up and who could blame them for not wanting to share a room full of crazy foreigners. Foreigners who either spent the night in a morbid funk or would flop about laughing at absurdities.
Among a new batch of foreigners was Sten from Sweden. While his English was perfect he was not inclined to speak of family, his youth in Uppsala or lost loves. So, having met these initial conditions for entry to room ha-sip jet (room 57), big Sten was welcome.
However, we were all eager to hear any unsentimental recollections and Sten had plenty from his last decade bumming around Asia. His first local mischief saw him running gold from Singapore to Bombay in the days when India levelled a weighty tariff on imported bullion. The pay wasn’t so golden but the flights were short and the turnaround quick. Apart from the ability to step on a plane, some skill was needed in moonwalking, for the gold was packed in the soles of large shoes. Airport metal detectors are less perturbed by non-ferrous pure gold and quite untroubled at the base of the walk-through detectors then in use. So the trick was to glide through without appearing to shuffle.
‘How the hell did anyone work that one out?’ Rick wanted to know.
‘Ah, trial and error, Mister Rick,’ replied a polite and wistful voice. ‘Trial and error. Too many times.’
That was not Sten but Bruce the Pakistani speaking. Bruce was also new to #57. Bruce knew all the India scams. His room name had been immediately christened after he had voiced his Bollywood ambitions to remake Die Hard in the Indian film capital. To be titled Dying Hardly , the all-singing, all-dancing action thriller would not star Mr Willis but a new heart-throb of the subcontinent. At that point in telling the dream, modesty would demand Bruce the Pakistani to lower his head and shyly look away. Bruce was serving seven years in KP for drugging tourists on board Thailand’s trains and had been made a foreigners’ trusty.
Sten demonstrated some gold-footed moonwalking before recounting elements of his
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