second ring. I told her the story so far.
“Photos of you on a cell phone?”
“At the scene of the bomb at Klong Toey.” I spoke in a slightly accusatory tone, to indicate that I thought she must know something, then added, “The Colonel personally sent me over here. Way out of our jurisdiction, of course. But then, you and I first met on a matter out of the jurisdiction, didn’t we?”
“Klong Toey?” She ignored the provocation and fell silent for a couple of beats. “That bomb was directed at
farang
—Americans, no?” I would classify her tone as wonder and surprise, rather than cynical foreknowledge.
“Correct.”
“Where are the Americans?”
“In a government hospital—concussed. Two will definitely live, the third is in critical condition. All three have head injuries. Apparently they are all old men, well over sixty.”
“And the phone is set up for English only?”
“Correct.”
Silence. “Sonchai, I don’t know anything about this.”
“Right.”
“You’re on your own here—it doesn’t fit with anything I’m working on.”
“Thanks.”
“Are you being sarcastic? You don’t believe me?”
“You could at least speculate, given all that classified knowledge you’re going to share with me sooner or later, once I’ve been properly vetted—right?”
Silence, then, “You’re smart, aren’t you? Just like they said you were. But maybe not that smart. I tell you all I can, probably more than I should. Could it be that I’m protecting you as well as myself? Do you think I’m not limited by
need to know,
just like everyone else?”
I groaned. “Just give me a hint, would you?”
“Those old Americans. They could be key, but I’m not sure. If they have connections to anywhere in Cambodia, follow up—but let me know first. That’s all I can say.” She closed the phone.
I walked around the crime scene to rejoin young Detective Tassatorn and the Sergeant. There was no point in trying to examine any more of the debris, which included a great mass of papers and photos that were soggy from the water used to douse the embers and would probably fall apart if I tried to separate them from each other. Anyway, my line of inquiry had now shifted to the victims. I hailed a cab and told the driver to take me directly to the government hospital where the three Americans were laid up.
—
They were in a secure ward: standard procedure in case of injury by explosions. You can have yourself shot by five fully automatic combat rifles and still not qualify for the secure ward; just one little homemade bomb, though, and you get the full treatment: metal detectors at the door, grim and very bored security, medical staff not happy that in addition to risking death by disease every day of their working lives they have to risk being blown up by bomb-toting terrorists and—perhaps worse—follow strict government security guidelines.
The first two beds on the ward were occupied by two Buddhist teachers who had been sent to the Islamic south to teach in government schools and within weeks became victims of the troubles down there. The Islamic resistance doesn’t like to see its territory seduced by Buddhist do-gooders, so a teaching assignment in Yala, Pattani, or any of the Islamic provinces is a dangerous posting that can amount to a death sentence. I was depressed to see their heads and eyes bandaged and remembered my uncle’s phrase,
connoisseurs of bitterness,
but strode onward to the other end of the ward where the Americans lay on their backs.
Question: how do you tell one American from another when they are all over sixty and have their heads, eyes, and half their faces covered in bandages? A male nurse came to find me while I was staring at them. In Thai script, the legend on the clipboards at the end of the bed was strange. It referred to each patient by his hospital registration number, then gave one of three possible names in English:
William J. Schwartz; Laurence Krank; Harry
“Photos of you on a cell phone?”
“At the scene of the bomb at Klong Toey.” I spoke in a slightly accusatory tone, to indicate that I thought she must know something, then added, “The Colonel personally sent me over here. Way out of our jurisdiction, of course. But then, you and I first met on a matter out of the jurisdiction, didn’t we?”
“Klong Toey?” She ignored the provocation and fell silent for a couple of beats. “That bomb was directed at
farang
—Americans, no?” I would classify her tone as wonder and surprise, rather than cynical foreknowledge.
“Correct.”
“Where are the Americans?”
“In a government hospital—concussed. Two will definitely live, the third is in critical condition. All three have head injuries. Apparently they are all old men, well over sixty.”
“And the phone is set up for English only?”
“Correct.”
Silence. “Sonchai, I don’t know anything about this.”
“Right.”
“You’re on your own here—it doesn’t fit with anything I’m working on.”
“Thanks.”
“Are you being sarcastic? You don’t believe me?”
“You could at least speculate, given all that classified knowledge you’re going to share with me sooner or later, once I’ve been properly vetted—right?”
Silence, then, “You’re smart, aren’t you? Just like they said you were. But maybe not that smart. I tell you all I can, probably more than I should. Could it be that I’m protecting you as well as myself? Do you think I’m not limited by
need to know,
just like everyone else?”
I groaned. “Just give me a hint, would you?”
“Those old Americans. They could be key, but I’m not sure. If they have connections to anywhere in Cambodia, follow up—but let me know first. That’s all I can say.” She closed the phone.
I walked around the crime scene to rejoin young Detective Tassatorn and the Sergeant. There was no point in trying to examine any more of the debris, which included a great mass of papers and photos that were soggy from the water used to douse the embers and would probably fall apart if I tried to separate them from each other. Anyway, my line of inquiry had now shifted to the victims. I hailed a cab and told the driver to take me directly to the government hospital where the three Americans were laid up.
—
They were in a secure ward: standard procedure in case of injury by explosions. You can have yourself shot by five fully automatic combat rifles and still not qualify for the secure ward; just one little homemade bomb, though, and you get the full treatment: metal detectors at the door, grim and very bored security, medical staff not happy that in addition to risking death by disease every day of their working lives they have to risk being blown up by bomb-toting terrorists and—perhaps worse—follow strict government security guidelines.
The first two beds on the ward were occupied by two Buddhist teachers who had been sent to the Islamic south to teach in government schools and within weeks became victims of the troubles down there. The Islamic resistance doesn’t like to see its territory seduced by Buddhist do-gooders, so a teaching assignment in Yala, Pattani, or any of the Islamic provinces is a dangerous posting that can amount to a death sentence. I was depressed to see their heads and eyes bandaged and remembered my uncle’s phrase,
connoisseurs of bitterness,
but strode onward to the other end of the ward where the Americans lay on their backs.
Question: how do you tell one American from another when they are all over sixty and have their heads, eyes, and half their faces covered in bandages? A male nurse came to find me while I was staring at them. In Thai script, the legend on the clipboards at the end of the bed was strange. It referred to each patient by his hospital registration number, then gave one of three possible names in English:
William J. Schwartz; Laurence Krank; Harry
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