Berg.
In other words, nobody knew who was who. They were all in comas of various degrees of depth.
“It’s not unusual, especially with the old, for people to remain in a coma after traumatic shock for days, even weeks, then recover totally,” the nurse explained. “These two,” he added, pointing, “have no damage to the skull at all, only the skin. They will recover soon. This one, though,” he said, pointing at the last bed, “we’re not sure. He was blown back by the blast and hit his head on something hard. There’s quite a lot of swelling. If it gets worse we might have to break open the skull to release the pressure.” Now he came to the punch line and I understood why he was being so helpful. “That’s a long, expensive operation, because after we release the pressure we have to use plates to screw the pieces of skull back together again.”
I stared at the implacable mummies lying on the bed. A sentimental fantasy crossed my mind as I looked at them.
No
—I half smiled at myself—
coincidences like that don’t happen in real life.
On the other hand, a cynical but inevitable thought slipped past the internal defenders of the soul:
If one of them is
him,
I sure hope it’s not the one with the brain damage.
Then a third thought came flying out of left field:
Could that be why the anonymous gray men pulling all our strings are interested in me? Because of him? But why? And if so, which him? And who, actually, is calling the shots?
“What shall I say to the Registrar?” the nurse was asking. “There are funds for the operation or not?”
I stared at the old man in the bed and allowed that thought to resurface:
Supposing, just supposing…After all, one of those guys had taken more than a hundred shots of me on Soi Cowboy, hadn’t they? Or had they?
Now was the time to test Vikorn, force him to reveal his hand just a tad.
I fished out my cell phone to call him. I told him of a patient/victim who might need extensive brain surgery and suggested he might like to help out with the expenses. That he even hesitated told me that he somehow knew more about the bomb at Klong Toey than anyone else I’d talked to that day. He said, “Okay, I’ll have Manny deal with it.”
“What about the other two—they’re not thought to be in serious danger, but I guess you’d want to keep them all together?”
A normal reaction would have been for him to say,
No, what the hell for?
“Sure,” he said, “have all three moved to the international hospital at Hua Lamphong. They do a lot of brain stuff there.”
“Yes,” I told the nurse, “there are funds—but are you equipped for such an operation? Should we think of moving him somewhere else?”
The nurse smiled with relief. “Oh, yes, that is good news. One of the big international hospitals will have all the machines and the expertise. We don’t have any specialist brain surgeons here.”
I decided to try to clear up one part of the puzzle. “How did you know their names?” I asked.
“They arrived with a money belt containing three passports. We’re waiting for the Cambodian embassy to provide more identification, so we can tell who is who.”
“Cambodian? But they’re all Americans.”
“Yes, that’s what the passports say: Americans with Cambodian citizenship. I’ll show you the photocopies the registration staff took of the passports.”
I followed him out of the ward and down to the registration area. He entered an office and quickly returned with three bundles of photocopies.
Khmer script looks quite a lot like Thai, unless you’re Thai, when it appears as a collection of tantalizing squiggles and curls—pretty much the way Thai would appear to you, R. Fortunately, the Khmer was translated into English for purposes of international travel. The owners were Americans who had been naturalized as Cambodian citizens. The photographs were taken a long time ago, however, and were useless for identification. The only stamps were Thai
In other words, nobody knew who was who. They were all in comas of various degrees of depth.
“It’s not unusual, especially with the old, for people to remain in a coma after traumatic shock for days, even weeks, then recover totally,” the nurse explained. “These two,” he added, pointing, “have no damage to the skull at all, only the skin. They will recover soon. This one, though,” he said, pointing at the last bed, “we’re not sure. He was blown back by the blast and hit his head on something hard. There’s quite a lot of swelling. If it gets worse we might have to break open the skull to release the pressure.” Now he came to the punch line and I understood why he was being so helpful. “That’s a long, expensive operation, because after we release the pressure we have to use plates to screw the pieces of skull back together again.”
I stared at the implacable mummies lying on the bed. A sentimental fantasy crossed my mind as I looked at them.
No
—I half smiled at myself—
coincidences like that don’t happen in real life.
On the other hand, a cynical but inevitable thought slipped past the internal defenders of the soul:
If one of them is
him,
I sure hope it’s not the one with the brain damage.
Then a third thought came flying out of left field:
Could that be why the anonymous gray men pulling all our strings are interested in me? Because of him? But why? And if so, which him? And who, actually, is calling the shots?
“What shall I say to the Registrar?” the nurse was asking. “There are funds for the operation or not?”
I stared at the old man in the bed and allowed that thought to resurface:
Supposing, just supposing…After all, one of those guys had taken more than a hundred shots of me on Soi Cowboy, hadn’t they? Or had they?
Now was the time to test Vikorn, force him to reveal his hand just a tad.
I fished out my cell phone to call him. I told him of a patient/victim who might need extensive brain surgery and suggested he might like to help out with the expenses. That he even hesitated told me that he somehow knew more about the bomb at Klong Toey than anyone else I’d talked to that day. He said, “Okay, I’ll have Manny deal with it.”
“What about the other two—they’re not thought to be in serious danger, but I guess you’d want to keep them all together?”
A normal reaction would have been for him to say,
No, what the hell for?
“Sure,” he said, “have all three moved to the international hospital at Hua Lamphong. They do a lot of brain stuff there.”
“Yes,” I told the nurse, “there are funds—but are you equipped for such an operation? Should we think of moving him somewhere else?”
The nurse smiled with relief. “Oh, yes, that is good news. One of the big international hospitals will have all the machines and the expertise. We don’t have any specialist brain surgeons here.”
I decided to try to clear up one part of the puzzle. “How did you know their names?” I asked.
“They arrived with a money belt containing three passports. We’re waiting for the Cambodian embassy to provide more identification, so we can tell who is who.”
“Cambodian? But they’re all Americans.”
“Yes, that’s what the passports say: Americans with Cambodian citizenship. I’ll show you the photocopies the registration staff took of the passports.”
I followed him out of the ward and down to the registration area. He entered an office and quickly returned with three bundles of photocopies.
Khmer script looks quite a lot like Thai, unless you’re Thai, when it appears as a collection of tantalizing squiggles and curls—pretty much the way Thai would appear to you, R. Fortunately, the Khmer was translated into English for purposes of international travel. The owners were Americans who had been naturalized as Cambodian citizens. The photographs were taken a long time ago, however, and were useless for identification. The only stamps were Thai
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