An Autumn Hunting

Chapter 37

I returned to the conference room, the table now hidden by an extravagant display of Thai food, most of the dishes unknown to me. Quang was already seated at the head of the table.

‘I trust your massage was satisfactory, Mr Borubaev?’ he asked, his face absolutely straight. I wondered if Quang had set me up with the kathoey to see my reaction.

‘I can honestly say it was a completely new and unique experience for me,’ I replied, with previously unknown diplomacy.

‘I devote an hour every day to a massage, even with my schedule. It’s so important to keep the body and spirit in harmony, don’t you think, denying the senses nothing, experiencing new sensations to prevent one’s psychological palate becoming jaded.’

I wasn’t sure what any of that meant, or if it meant anything at all, so I simply smiled and nodded. No point in falling out when there were millions at stake.

‘I feel relaxed in a way I never have before, and any repetition would only dilute the pleasure I felt,’ I said, trying to make the point it wasn’t going to happen again.

‘Very wise,’ Quang said. ‘You have something of the Confucian philosopher in you. Many foreigners quite misunderstand the place of kathoeys like Achura in Thai culture.’

I nodded, knowing I would go down in Quang’s estimation if he decided I was simply an ignorant farang.

‘Many foreign people assume the third gender is merely a vehicle for sex, for breaking taboos that exist in their country. Of course, sex can play a role in their life – doesn’t it in everyone’s? But they can be charming, artistic, highly talented, the chosen companions of many influential and respected people. I hope you will learn our culture is an ancient one, whose secrets aren’t always open and on the surface.’

Quang smiled, gestured towards the table.

‘But excuse my manners, talking away while you must be hungry. Please, join me at the table.’

We ate for the next hour, tastes and textures that I’d never encountered before, all exquisitely presented. Fresh spicy shrimp noodle salad (‘Flown from my private farm near Chiang Mai’), green eggplant curry (‘The lemongrass adds a certain piquancy that highlights and contrasts the sweetness of the vegetables, don’t you think?’), steamed fish with lime and garlic (‘Barramundi, line-caught naturally’) and dozens more, most of which I couldn’t identify.

Finally, my mouth scorched as if a miniature blowtorch had been at my tongue, we moved away from the table and sat down.

‘You said before lunch that the traditional injecting addict population is unstable? And you have a means of recruiting a younger market?’

‘You have obviously heard of spice, Khun Quang?’

Quang nodded. ‘Synthetic cannabis. Expensive and difficult for us to produce here.’

‘Exactly. Thailand is essentially an agricultural nation, and to synthesise spice in the volume to make it financially viable requires skilled chemists, high-tech labs and a regular reliable supply of ingredients.’

Quang frowned. ‘But my understanding is that there is virtually no quality control over the spice sold in European and American markets. Tea leaves or grass cuttings, natural ingredients but coated in synthetic chemicals to create hallucinogens. But the problem is no one knows the strength of the spice they’re buying, whether it will get them high or kill them. Lots of possible side-effects – paranoia, psychosis and so on. That’s why it’s known as the zombie drug.’

‘Which is where we come in,’ I said. ‘We can ensure you get a regular, ingredient-approved product that will appeal to the young demographic in Thailand. People who want to get high but who don’t want to find themselves in a psychiatric ward or a morgue drawer. Safe spice, in other words; a weekend in another galaxy and a relaxed return to earth.’

Quang took another sip of tea. His face gave nothing away, no anger, no interest, no disbelief. We Kyrgyz pride ourselves on being stony-faced but Quang was in an entirely different league.

‘How do you propose to do that?’

I paused; this was where the whole plan might fall apart, and I’d be lucky to get back to Bishkek.

‘Yours is a primarily agricultural economy, and you’ve got a relatively large population in a relatively small space. I don’t just mean Bangkok, but the country as a whole. Setting up spice labs, hiring chemists, getting reliable ingredients; it all takes time and money, and there’s always the danger the local police show too great an interest, then you’ve lost your investment and your credibility on the street.’

The elderly man was awake now, listening intently to what I said.

‘Go on,’ Quang said, his face impassive, but I sensed he was sniffing the bait, inspecting the hook.

‘Central Asia is vast, as you know, and so is Russia. There are eleven different time zones in Russia alone. So you can manufacture spice a long, long way from anywhere that might attract attention. As a whole, Russia is barely populated, about nine people per square kilometre. Which means there are vast tracts of land where you can travel for hours and not see a soul. Ideal for a spice factory.’

I took a sip of water, cleared my suddenly dry throat.

‘There’s no problem getting the necessary chemicals, either through the porous borders to the east or the industrial ports and entry points to the west. Highly trained chemists happy to work for something less than the pittance paid by the state.’

I watched Quang nod his understanding.

‘Spice sells for a lot more per gram than heroin. No use trying to sell it in Russia. People are making their own krokodil because they can’t afford anything else. But Thailand has a more affluent population, as well as a huge number of foreign tourists. The way things are at the moment, we can’t sell it, and you can’t get it.’

Quang gestured around the room, at the museum-quality works of art.

‘What makes you think I need any more money, Mr Borubaev? You’ll agree this is hardly the home of a poor man.’

‘It’s not about wealth, it’s about business, about dominating a market opportunity. If you don’t supply spice, eventually someone else will. And every baht, dollar or euro that goes into their pockets is one less to go into yours. Eventually they’ll buy the influence and power you currently have, turn it against you, and sooner or later, the walls of your villa won’t be high enough to protect you. If you don’t lead the market, your competitors will steamroller you.’

I paused, wondering if I’d said too much, gone too far. I didn’t think Quang would take offence at my blunt speaking, but I hoped I’d presented my case without causing him to lose face.

‘Yours is a very interesting analysis, not without merits,’ Quang said, ‘but you still haven’t told me exactly what it is you propose between our two organisations.’

‘Think of it as a trade agreement. You leave the heroin business in Russia to us, a monopoly so we can control supply, prices, quality. In return, we’ll manufacture spice for you, to an agreed volume and quality, then ship it to Thailand, all at a major discount, a price you couldn’t possibly match if you were to manufacture it yourself. We take the risk, we do the hard work, the manufacture and the transport, and you have a superior product that gives you much more profit per gram.’

Quang was silent for several moments, his only movement to raise his cup to his lips, taking minute sips.

‘There is one other issue,’ I said. ‘Yaa baa. Methamphetamine. We know it’s used a great deal here in Thailand, to give people energy, the ability to work harder and longer. It’s extremely profitable for you. But that income may be coming to an end.’

‘How so?’ Quang asked, looking puzzled.

‘We know your government is seriously considering legalising yaa baa, controlling the quality, guaranteeing purity. And that’s a huge slice of your business gone at the stamp of a government seal.’

‘You’re very well informed,’ Quang said. ‘You are in contact with your colleague?’

I noticed Quang had demoted Aliyev from the status of superior to that of colleague: perhaps he had decided dealing with me would be preferable. Or that by rejecting the proposal, perhaps even killing me, he would be sending a message to Aliyev to stay clear.

‘Obviously, I want to discuss this matter with my advisors,’ Quang continued. ‘They will have questions to ask regarding their particular roles. And naturally, we need to know the mechanics of the operation, how you bring the spice into the country, for example.’

‘Whoever heard of anyone smuggling drugs into Thailand?’ I said. ‘We’re used to moving quantities across borders, but you will, of course, appreciate that the exact specifics are our concern. The more people know our methods, the easier it is to get caught.’

For the first time, Quang smiled, and his normally austere face took on a sudden charm. ‘If you wish to keep a secret, tell it to only one other person, then kill them?’

‘Something like that,’ I agreed. ‘Even better if you don’t tell anyone.’

‘How long do you intend to stay in Bangkok, Mr Borubaev?’

‘Only a few days, until I hear of your decision,’ I said.

‘And then? Back to Kyrgyzstan? My understanding is you would not be welcomed with open arms by your former colleagues.’

Quang knew about me being on the run. It made me easier to manipulate. He must have known a cell or a bullet were all that would be waiting for me back home.

‘You might find Bangkok a congenial place to settle, somewhere to base your part in the operation. Unless you have a passion for snow and ice, that is.’

I knew Quang was thinking of me as a potential hostage, someone to punish and make an example of if things went wrong. He overestimated my importance to Aliyev and the Circle of Brothers. A cell in Bishkek would come courtesy of my former colleagues, a bullet courtesy of my new ones.

‘I gather you’ve already enjoyed some of the pleasures my city has to offer,’ Quang said. ‘Apparently you have excellent taste.’

I smiled as if to suggest a liking for commitment-free paid-for sex. I thought of Saltanat, wondered where she was, if I would be able to contact her. A familiar sense of hope for our future together was, as usual, replaced by the despair of knowing it would never happen.

‘I hope to take further samples,’ I said. ‘My country is considerably more conservative in such matters.’

‘Please make yourself comfortable while I organise your transport to your hotel. More tea?’

I shook my head, and Quang left the room. I wandered over to the far wall, where one sculpture had caught my eye when I first arrived. A sandstone bas-relief, an elaborately clothed slender and beautiful woman was shown in a highly stylised dance position, the grace and sinuous poise of her figure captured in a moment of ecstasy. The surface of the stone was weathered although the details of the sculpture were still clear, and I imagined it had once been part of a temple. I couldn’t hazard a guess at its age, but it was a thing of beauty.

‘You have such things in your country?’

I turned round; the elderly man was standing staring at me, amused at my interest in the bas-relief. His accent was so strong, I wondered if I had misheard, then shook my head, wondering how to explain that a nomadic people didn’t have the skills or interest to spend time carving stone.

‘Twelfth century, Cambodian, from the temple complex at Angkor Wat. An apsara, a celestial dancer, a female spirit of the clouds and water, you like it?’

I nodded, raising one hand to stroke the dancer’s cheek.

‘I brought it here myself, many years ago, just as the Khmer Rouge were being driven out. I had to kill four men to do it. One with a rope around his throat. Two with a dagger. And the last one, I used my hands. And the apsara has danced here for me ever since.’

I looked down at the old man’s hands with a new respect. They were large, raw-knuckled, capable of inflicting immense pain. I had the feeling he may have lost some of his speed but none of his power and ruthlessness. Quang’s father, perhaps? I didn’t think we would ever have enough trust to confide personal matters to each other.

The elderly man cracked his knuckles with the sound of snapping chopsticks, gave a gap-toothed smile, settled back down in his chair. He folded his hands across his huge belly, appearing to go back into a deep sleep.

Suddenly the room felt more like a prison or a dungeon than an elegant home of taste and luxury. The celestial dancer had been courted and won with blood, and everything else in the room was tainted by the hopeless misery and addiction that had paid for it. I felt the food I’d eaten rise in my throat, wondered if I was about to vomit. Suddenly I hated everything I had become, everything Chinara would have despised.

‘You’re pale; are you feeling faint?’

Quang had returned, was standing by my side, looking solicitous.

‘It’s nothing. The long flight, very little sleep last night, and, as you say, the climate is very different to the one I’m used to.’

‘I hope our lunch hasn’t disagreed with you. Just simple peasant food, I’m afraid, not what you’re used to.’

I thought of the bowls of rice greasy with mutton fat I’d been served in yurts all over Kyrgyzstan, and decided Quang had no idea what simple peasant food was.

‘It was delicious,’ I assured him, watching his superior smile.

‘Your driver is waiting for you outside the main gate. You’ll forgive me if I don’t walk out with you. Spy drones, satellite cameras looking down, perhaps even a sniper waiting to pin his cross-hairs to my forehead. I rarely leave here; last night was an exception I made for you. I’m sure you agree, caution adds years to your life. All the same, I do sometimes feel as if I’m in a prison.’

Not like any prison I’ve ever been in, I thought, and shook his hand. Something about him had reminded me of Aliyev for quite some time, and I finally realised what it was. Neither man seemed capable of understanding the suffering of others, of realising their involvement in its cause. I had to leave before my face betrayed me. Some of the most evil people I’ve encountered in my work – and I use the word ‘evil’ very carefully indeed – have been almost telepathically sensitive to the moods and thoughts of other people, as if their senses were finely tuned to pick up the merest hint of betrayal. Of course, there are also the things of which they seem completely unaware, like pity, compassion and, of course, love.

And some of us are aware of the dead who watch us from the shadows, hoping to see how we avenge them so they can sleep.

Dead is dead.

Except when it’s not.