Grandad, There's A Head on the Beach

8.

Maung was the generic term the rude Thais used for Burmese. It was like calling all Australians Bruce. It was just another show of disrespect. I sat down with my task force, and the three of us went over everything we thought we knew about the Burmese fishermen. It didn't take long. We needed professional input to understand exactly what was happening out there in the deep Gulf. Ten minutes later, that information arrived. There was a knock on the door. I opened it to the gappy grin of Captain Kow. I noticed Grandad's haunches rise like a mad dog, so it would help to point out at this juncture that Grandad and the squid-boat captain weren't on speaking terms. I have no idea why. Of course, Grandad Jah could count his close friends on one finger, whereas the number of people he irritated would fill the national football stadium. So, whatever had come between them was probably his fault. Captain Kow was a very laid-back type, and most other people seemed to like him. In fact, Grandad was the only one who didn't. Having them together in a small room was going to be a challenge to my refereeing skills.

Over the next half hour, the captain proved that he was every bit as knowledgeable about maritime matters as Grandad Jah was about road transport. That didn't stop Grandad arguing and making nasty comments. But Captain Kow gave no indication of being rattled at all. He rode the interruptions like a man in a rubber dinghy and calmed us all with his soft sing-song voice. I noticed that he directed most of his attention to me, as if we were the only two in the room. He was given perhaps to unnecessary detail, but the gist of his talk was this.

The Gulf of Thailand is 350,000 square kilometers and is 80 meters at its deepest. Until the sixties it was rich in all different types of fish. The local markets were full of cheap anchovies and mackerel. Thence developed the deep-sea trawler industry…instant huge profits leading to overfishing. An average catch of 300 kilograms an hour in 1961 dropped to 50 kilograms in the eighties, 20 today. All that was left was called "trashfish," supplied to the anything-will-do factories. Most affected were crabs, sharks, rays, lobsters, and all the large fish. With the decline of these predators, the trashfish and squids and shrimps-the bottom plankton feeders-increased. Commercial squid-fishing vessels primarily used purse seines-which the captain told us were a type of fine net used to encircle the shoal-or scoop nets. Powerful lights were used to attract the squid to the surface, where they were more easily captured.

From the seventies there were various regulations introduced as to when the boats were allowed to go out, what nets they could use, and where the spawning grounds were. Anything over seven meters had to register for a license and pay an annual fee. Currently the big boats weren't allowed out for the first three months of the year, and anything over fourteen meters had to stay beyond the 3,000-meter mark for the rest of the year. But the policing of those waters was poor, and most of the bigger boats ignored the regulations.

"So, in other words, what you're saying is the bigger boats can do whatever they want," said Grandad Jah, if only because he hadn't said anything for ten minutes or so. "So, none of what you told us is helpful."

"It always helps to know what the rules are, so you can tell how far they're being bent," said Captain Kow.

There was a short Q and A on communications, crew numbers, and registration necessities, which Kow handled well. Since the squid-boat captain wasn't a member of our task force, I thanked him for his input and showed him out. On the veranda he touched my arm, smiled as much with his eyes as with his mouth, and set off into the downpour as if he hadn't noticed it was raining. I could visualize him on the deck of his boat, rocking and rolling and hauling in the nets. It was a romantic but thankfully not erotic image.

Back in the room the two old men were engaged in a hushed conversation. They looked up at me like chipmunks caught in a headlight beam. It was a bad sign. I had to rein them in.

"Whatever you're planning, stop," I said.

"It was nothing," said Grandad. "We were just agreeing that those SRM boys would have a lot to tell us if we just put a bit of pressure on them."

"You are not going to torture the rat brothers," I told him.

"It'd save us a lot of time in the end."

"No."

"So what are we supposed to do?" he asked.

"Look," I said. "We know Egg's set up this elaborate system for clearing bodies off the beaches. When he met up with the village headmen, he specified Burmese. Now, why would he do that? He's not selling spare parts. He has the body snatchers take them off to the SRM and stick them in a broom cupboard. There are no investigations. The victims remain nameless. What reason could he have other than protecting the slavers who throw their unwanted Burmese overboard? If it was an accident on a legal boat, the captains would report missing crewmen. They'd have to account for the Burmese they hire legitimately. I think you two should go talk to the Thai boat owners. I don't mean interview them. Just find out where they eat or drink or play pool and get into casual conversations with them. See if you can pick up any rumors about deep-sea vessels. Make a few-"

"You don't need to tell us how to extract information," Grandad Jah snapped.

Right. All those illegal parking interrogations fine-tuned a policeman for situations like this.

"You're right, Grandad. Sorry. I'll find out what I can from the police and take another stab at the Burmese. I think the more I can get them to trust me, the more they'll open up."

Before concluding the proceedings, I decided to tell the two old fellows everything I'd learned about the Noys. I thought all their years of experience might help solve that mystery too. They seemed far more interested in that story than in keeping a few Burmese alive. But they agreed we needed to go ahead with caution so as not to frighten off the two women. The old men grabbed their umbrellas and walked off in the direction of the truck. I gathered my wet-weather gear with a view to taking the motorcycle into Pak Nam. Grandad had reminded me that I was young and could withstand a soaking far better than they could. Pneumonia, you know. I was closing my door when, through a curtain of rain, I spotted Arny in front of his cabin. He was sitting on a deck chair flanked by the dogs.

"Hello, little bro," I said.

"You're up to something," he said.

"I'm always up to something," I reminded him.

"You and Grandad and the old policeman. You're doing something. I want to know what it is."

"Why?"

"Why?"

I jogged across to his cabin, shook my hair dry, and sat on the balcony railing. As always, Gogo turned her rump to me. I don't know what I ever did to that dog.

"Yeah, why?" I said. "Why do you want to know? If I tell you it's nothing, you'll get upset because you'll assume we're lying. If it's something, you'll get upset because…well, because it's something."

"You make me sound like some emotional disaster."

I thought it best not to respond to that.

"Is it about the grenade?" he asked.

"Indirectly."

"The head on the beach? The Burmese slaves?"

"Possibly."

"Why won't you tell me?"

I didn't know how to break it to him. Honesty had its good points, but in the wrong hands it could be cruel. I really didn't want fragile Arny involved in all this. Just by looking the way he did, he was likely to get knifed down there by the docks. I went the honesty route.

"Arny, you're a wimp."

To my horror, he burst into tears. It was awful. Even the dogs backed away in embarrassment. Surely I'd insulted him worse than that in all our sibling years together. This was about something else. I knelt down and put my arm around his thick neck.

"Arny?"

"I think…I think she's going to leave me," he said through the tears.

"Gaew?"

"Yeah."

"Don't be ridiculous. You two are great together. You're engaged, aren't you?"

I brushed away his tears with the back of my hand, sorry I didn't have a tissue for his runny nose. He'd waited thirty-two years for this first love. It was a bit late in life for a first dumping to go with it.

"It was…was so right at first," he said. "I loved her. We almost had sex so many times."

"I know you…You what? I thought you said…?"

"We did all the foreplay. She wanted to…you know…but I said no. It has to be just right. You know?"

"Of course."

"But I think…I feel she needs more from me. She wants me to be more of.. ."

"A man."

"Yes."

"She said that?"

"No, but…"

"You feel it."

"Right. She's a big Jackie Chan fan." That threw me.

"You do know he's only thirty-seven centimeters tall?" I said.

"But he's so macho."

"So you feel you need to make a statement."

"Right."

"By getting involved in our battle with the slavers."

"Is that all right?" I wasn't sure.

"You might have to-I don't know-hit people. Dodge bullets. Face danger." He paled.

"I can do that," he said with no conviction. Against my better judgment, I yielded. "All right," I said. "You're on the task force. Don't let me down."

He started to cry again. This time with happiness.

Before I could get to the motorcycle, I got a call from Sissi. "Hey, Sis."

"I'm out of the condominium."

"Well done."

"I'm in a taxi."

"I knew you could do it."

"It smells."

"That's the scent of reality."

"I just wanted to remind you that you won't be able to avail yourself of my services for a week."

"I shall survive."

There was a pause.

"Are you sure?"

"Barely. How are you feeling?"

"I'm surprisingly excited. And you can keep your eyes on the road, you pervert."

I assumed that wasn't directed at me.

"There's something you need to remember before you leave the country," I said.

"What's that?"

"You never stopped being beautiful."

There was another long pause, and I knew she was smiling.

"I'll call you from Seoul," she said.

"Bon voyage."

I sometimes wondered why they hadn't come up with a new bon. Nobody voyaged anymore. At last I made it to the motorcycle and was about to head off when Mair ran out of the shop holding some kind of deflated pink football bladder.

"Monique," she said, "where are you going?"

"Pak Nam."

"I need you to go via Lang Suan."

"Hmm, a mere thirty kilometers out of the way in the pouring rain. Why not?"

"It's an emergency," she said. "I want you to stop by Dr. Somboon's place and ask him to take a look at her."

She held her handful aloft and there it was. Something.

"What is it?"

"A puppy."

"Not again. Is it alive?"

"Do you think I'd ask you to take a cadaver to the vet?"

"Mair. We have too many dogs already."

"Child, every rule book has a final page. But the kindness bus has no terminal."

She dropped it into my poncho's detachable hood, which I'd just been about to attach. The animal was hairless and riddled with disease.

"Where on earth did you get it?"

"She came to me, darling. Like all the creatures do. Like Mohammed, she floated down the river on the bulrushes. I pulled her from the water and gave her resuscitation."

I cringed at the thought of Mair applying mouth-to-mouth to an almost-dead dog.

"And look," Mair went on, "she survived. All the sick and dying creatures of the earth will find their way to me."

I had no choice. I folded the creature into the poncho pocket, still wrapped in the hood, and left Mrs. Noah standing in the rain waiting for the giraffes to arrive. I stopped at the bridge, surprised at how quickly the humble stream had swollen to a gushing torrent. I wished then that I'd bought an iPhone when I still had an income back in Chiang Mai.

Discovery Channel paid well for home videos of natural disasters and I sensed the Gulf Bay Lovely Resort was about to become one.

"What's that moving in your pocket?" Aung asked.

"Dog," I said.

"Beer" was feisty for a dying pup. She was mad at all the shots Dr. Somboon had speared her with and the pills he'd forced down her throat. I couldn't blame her. I'd named her Beer because the vet was drinking a can of Singha when I arrived. I think he'd had a few. It was just a stop-gap name. I couldn't imagine her surviving the night. Not in this weather. To his credit, Aung didn't ask me why I had a dog in my pocket. He wasn't shirtless today, but he was soaked to the skin and his T-shirt stuck to his muscles like paint. I fought back my urge to rip it off him with my teeth.

"Aung," I said. "I know you don't trust me."

Throw that line at a Thai and he'd be on his knees denying it. Aung's expression said, "Yeah. You got me."

"But here's what I think," I continued. "I think Burmese are being kidnapped and ferried out to deep-sea vessels, where they're enslaved, ill treated, and killed if they make too much trouble. I think the head that arrived on our beach was just one example. I think you and your community know about this, but you feel helpless because you aren't able to do anything about it. I think you all live in fear that one day it'll be you or your wife whisked away."

A long silence followed.

"So?" he said.

"That's all I get? A 'so'?"

"Look. Even if you know. Even if you have proof. Even if you're out there on the big boats taking photographs. What do you think you could achieve? What Thai prosecutor really wants to go to the trouble of prosecuting Thais for crimes against the Maung? We're dispensable."

"Well, that's one thing we can achieve. Make you less dispensable. Put names and faces and family backgrounds to the slaves. Talk to loved ones. Show that-"

"Nobody would give you a name."

"OK. So I'd make it up. Photoshop a loved one. Hell, who's going to rush down here to prove me a liar? Aung, this is Thailand. We manipulate public opinion all the time. The masses feel what Channel Nine tells them to feel. If I couldn't splash up a wave of sympathy for the poor country boys chained to the oars of a galley, I wouldn't be much of a journalist, would I now?"

"Who do you work for?"

Damn, the man just refused to get caught up in the splendor of the rhetoric. And he'd hit another nerve.

"I'm freelance. That means I can work for anybody."

"Or nobody."

I was starting to see why we hated the Burmese.

"All right. Here's the deal. My family and I are going to fight this. We had a grenade thrown at us because we refused to give in to bullies. If you aren't into human rights, fair enough. Somehow we'll get evidence and somehow I'll write about all this and somehow it'll make the eyes of the world. And I do this with you or I do it without."

Clint would have put some background music in there.

Violins rising to a cello and kettledrum crescendo is my guess. All I had for emphasis was the belch of a tugboat horn. I hoped it would be enough for Aung to sense my sincerity.

"Good luck."

"That's it?"

"You'll need it. You don't know what you're up against."

"So I can't count on any help from you?"

"I didn't say that. I'll give you information when I can. As long as it's off the record."

"That's big of you. All right. Information. Give me some now. Explain how your people are lifted from the street in broad daylight without anyone seeing."

"Are you serious?"

"Sometimes."

"Then why do you think nobody sees?"

"Thais down here may be stubborn, proud to a fault, but they have a sense of justice. If they saw someone being bundled into a truck, they'd do something about it."

"Not if that truck was brown and cream with a flashing police light on top."

"What's that in your pocket?"

"Dog."

"You don't say. How does it breathe in there?"

"I lift the flap from time to time."

"If it's a shih-tzu, I'll take it off you."

"You like shih-tzus?"

"Who doesn't? Those broken little Chinese noses. Those pus-filled squinty eyes. And they do so attract the boys. 'Ooh, what a lovely little doggie.' "

I was having lunch with Chompu at Pak Nam's famous chicken and rice restaurant, called The Chicken and Rice Restaurant. The chicken and rice were average, but the sauce-passed down through Yunnan dynasties-was what brought in the customers. They traveled from as far away as Lang Suan to eat there. The place was never empty.

"Even so, it appears to be quite agitated," Chompu observed.

"Look, will you stop whining about the dog? It's a survivor. I'm asking about the Pak Nam constabulary picking up Burmese off the street."

"Happens all the time."

"Ha. You admit it."

"Hard to deny. Random ID checks. Work cards. It's policy."

"To harass?"

"You know? With the right interior decorator, they could really make something of this place. I'd go Japanese. Bamboo on the wall. Short-legged tables with-"

"Chom!"

"Perhaps we harass a tad. But nicely."

"Why?"

"Well, those without work permits hand over a fine."

"Which is signed for, paid into the police fund, and sent to the police ministry in Bangkok, naturally."

"Which goes directly into the wallet of the harassing officer to be spent on base desires such as karaoke."

"And you think that's OK?"

"We aren't paid very much, you know? And it's better for them than going to jail. Paying the fine is the penalty they opt for when they decide not to go through legal channels. They know the risk."

"I have witness statements that Burmese were stopped on the street and bundled into police vehicles, never to be seen again."

"Uh-oh. Hold the Pulitzer. That isn't exactly a secret either. It happens every day, darling. After our random stops, if the migrants don't have work permits and don't want to contribute to our pleasure fund, they're invited into the truck and whisked off to immigration in Ranong. We have to keep up our quota. We'd look suspicious if we didn't have any illegals at all, wouldn't we now?"

"How many?"

"Six to a dozen a week."

"So what would you say if I could prove these vanishing Burmese had work permits and sponsors?"

"I'd say, 'Bring me the witnesses.' And you'd say, 'Ooh, they aren't comfortable speaking to the police.' And I'd say, 'Mm, I'm not surprised, considering they're all figments of your imagination.' "

"Don't you be so sure."

"Oh I'm sure. If they were Thais, they'd have no idea whether the Burmese we picked up were illegal or not. So that leaves only the Burmese themselves. And the only way one of them would step up and accuse the Royal Thai Police of kidnapping a fellow countryman is if he was certifiably insane. In which case his statement would be inadmissible. Ta-daa! I rest my case."

"All right, so-and this is hypothetical-if I could prove a legal Burmese was kidnapped by the police and sent to the deep-sea vessels, would you file the report?"

"Let me see now. You're asking whether a smart, virile young police officer, a-k-a me, who carries a burden of sexuality that makes his tenure in the police force tenuous if not feeble, would pursue a criminal case against his friends and colleagues in order to bring justice to the citizens of a country none of us particularly likes?"

"Yes."

"Having thus outlined the negative aspects of such foolishness, all that remains is to inquire as to what, if any, the positives might be."

I told him about the pride that could be felt by adhering to moral and professional standards, and when that didn't work, I told him he'd get Egg out of his office and his ferns back.

"With no career, I wouldn't have much need for an office, would I now?" he reminded me. "And do you have this hypothetical witness?"

"Not yet."

"Then I don't have to hypothetically commit my career to the garbage pail, do I now? Get back to me when reality steps boldly from the shadows."

"You don't think I can do this, do you?"

"I don't think you should."

"Why not?"

"Just a hunch. But if we're talking about slavery and murder and decapitation, I doubt this is a sideline of the local embroidery society. Your foes have already tossed a grenade into your midst."

"Do you want to make my life safer?"

"How could I do that?"

"I'm planning to break into Lieutenant Egg's files. I'd bet he has a metal filing cabinet right there beside his desk."

"With a lock."

"OK. So I sneak in there and find all his files relevant to missing Burmese. And I steal them."

"And what would I have to do to make your life safer?"

"Break into it yourself."

He squealed a little and the customers looked around. "There is no way," he said. "He's a beast. He'd beat me to death."

"Chom. You're supposed to be in that office. He'd never know. Any policeman worth his stuff could open one of those files with a bobby pin."

"Heavens. I haven't worn a bobby pin since the good old days."

"I'll lend you one of Mair's. You can find a time when he's out of the office. Take the files down to the copy room. And replace the originals before he gets back. Nobody would need to know you were involved."

"He never announces where he's going or for how long. He could walk in any minute."

"Then I'll distract him."

"Just how would you go about that?"

"Sissi?"

"This is she."

"Are you still in the country?"

"Yes. But I'm considering applying for political asylum in Korea."

"Why? What's happened?"

"Do you remember telling me there wouldn't be any middle-aged ladies with expensive perms marching out to the airport to throw themselves down in front of my jumbo?"

"Yes."

"Well, I wouldn't recommend fortune-telling as your next career move."

"No way."

"I'm at Suvarnabhumi. They're everywhere: retired pilots, middle-aged women in bulging sweatpants, tropical-fish-shop owners. It would appear your yellow-shirted yuppies are in the process of laying claim to our national airport. Bangkok's middle classes are on the rampage. A fearsome mob. There's a backgammon game going on as I speak."

"Are they stopping any flights?"

"Not yet. Seoul is still up there on the departure board. But my faith is dwindling. I'm having a karma attack."

"They wouldn't. I mean, they aren't going to. Don't worry. How did they get in?"

"Same way they got into Government House. They whispered sweet nothings into the ears of the heavily armed police on the barricade. Told them who was funding the invasion, I wouldn't wonder. Reminded them of the oaths they swore at school and strolled right on through the lines. Your average policeman is overcome with guilt when aiming his gun at a terrorist who looks and sounds exactly like his primary-school teacher-and probably was."

"How long before your flight?"

"Somewhere between forty minutes and infinity."

"Do you want something to take your mind off it all?"

"Anything."

"Can you get online?"

"Of course. I'm traveling first class. They'd fly in Bill Gates if I asked."

"You obviously haven't flown first class for a while. But do you think you'll have time to do me one quick favor?"

"Probably more than enough."

"Do you think you could access Bpook's class lists for the duration of her course at Georgetown?"

"That's all?"

"Yes."

"I could probably do that on my iPhone with my eyes closed."

"Big head."

"How do you think that would help?"

"I don't know. I'm wondering if there was some relationship issue. What if she had a boyfriend studying with her, someone who was taking advantage of her?"

"Isn't that the role of boyfriends anyway? I doubt there'd be a cross-reference of relationships in the public domain."

"No, but we can see what names come up often in her classes. She said she was a rental, dented and dumped and used."

"You want me to check call-girl agencies around D.C.?"

"You don't think…?"

"She wouldn't have been the first."

"Well, OK. But I doubt she'd have used her real name."

"The Web sites post photos of their girls these days. Prostitution's come a long way."

"She said, 'The monitor lizard knew nothing.' "

Sissi laughed. I knew why. The Thai word for monitor lizard is heea, and, oddly, it's the dirtiest word we've got in our language.

"Male or female?"

"She said it in English so there was no gender. But somebody's really upset her. If it was the call-girl thing, it might be a friend or relative that got her involved. Could have been a boyfriend pimping her out. But I don't know. She doesn't seem the type. She's got the looks, but she's missing the tough edge. She seems so innocent."

"They pay extra for that."

"I know."

I knocked on the door of the office that was formerly that of Lieutenant Chompu.

"Come in" came a gruff voice that clearly wasn't his.

I entered and found Lieutenant Egg sitting at Chompu's old desk, the one with the bullethole decals across the front. Chompu was at a sort of card table off to one side, working through a pile of files. The annoying short-wave radio was on, the volume too loud.

"I'm looking for Lieutenant Egg," I said.

"That's me," he said.

I've never understood how men with bad toupees can be unaware of exactly how ridiculous they look. I wonder if they gaze lovingly at themselves in the mirror and visu-alize their heads twenty years earlier before the bald bugs started gnawing at their roots. Lieutenant Egg really looked as if some flock of small birds had built a nest on top of him. But the rest of him was all brawn, so I doubted anyone dared make fun of him. He was a rough-looking man, not to be reckoned with.

"My name is Jim Juree," I said. "I'm a journalist doing a piece for Thai Rat about the police and their relations with the Burmese."

"Why come to me?" he asked.

"Major Mana said you were responsible for Burmese matters."

"So?"

He looked pointedly at Chompu, who hadn't yet emerged from his paperwork burrow.

"So I'll be looking at officials at every level, from village headmen, through medical and emergency personnel. I need to know what the attitude of the police is."

"I don't think-"

"The major believes it would be valuable for his station to have this story told. He said it might dispel some widely held myths that there's any anti-Burmese sentiment in the police force."

"The major said that?"

He probably would have done if he'd been here and not off selling herbal hair conditioner out of the back of his Pajero.

"Yes."

"All right. No names to be printed. I haven't got much time. Grab that chair and bring it-"

"I'd rather do this just the two of us."

"That's all right. Loo-ten-ant Chompu can skip out and pick daisies somewhere. Isn't that right, Loo-loo? Got some embroidery to do?"

Chompu blushed.

"Ah, the major had me set up my recording device in your meeting room," I said. "There are refreshments there as well."

Lieutenant Egg slapped his palms on the desk.

"This better not take long," he grunted.

"Ten minutes. Fifteen at the most," I said.

The lieutenant slammed shut the file he was working on, picked up his radio receiver, and stamped past me and out the door. I raised my eyebrows to Chom.

"Fifteen minutes at the most," I mouthed and tossed him a pack of bobby pins before following the lieutenant along the corridor.

After taking a long time to settle down and test the recorder, which was being temperamental, I finally asked Egg what his role was when dealing with the Burmese community. I wanted to ask him to turn off his short wave, but I didn't want to antagonize him. He summed up his duties in about four sentences and leaned on the desk, ready to stand.

"Is that all?" he asked.

I couldn't think of any more questions, but I knew he'd walk if I didn't say something.

"Why you?" I asked.

"What?"

"Why did they make you the representative for the Burmese? There are a lot of officers of the same rank. Why you?"

"I'm an expert," he said.

"On…?"

"Burmese issues. I'm fluent in their language. I know more about their history and culture than most of the uneducated peasants you meet over here. I'm a sort of ambassador, I suppose you might say."

As opposed to a diplomat. He was distracted by movement in my rain cape, which hung from the door.

"What is that?" he asked.

"Dog," I said.

I got the feeling he thought I was lying.

"So you were also liaising with the Burmese when you were stationed in Pattani?" I asked.

He glared at me.

"How do you-"

"Major Mana."

"Yeah, I was organizing cross-cultural events. Awareness training for new arrivals. That kind of thing."

"Well, that's just wonderful. I admire men who care about ethnic problems."

"Right. Other officers-they don't care so much. But I'm very sensitive to the problems the Maung face."

Ten minutes and counting.

"And fluent in Burmese. Wow. Where did you learn that? I've looked at the textbooks. It seems unfathomable. I reckon you have to be some kind of genius to pick it up."

I got a brief gloat out of him.

"You know, here and there," he said. "Some people just have an ear. What can I say?"

"I hope you don't mind me saying that you seem to be a very special human being, Lieutenant. An officer of the law. A linguist. A social worker. I've a good mind to rewrite this just as a feature on you."

Mistake.

I'd gone too far too soon. I could see him shut down. He stood and went to the door.

"None of that," he said.

"I don't have to use your photo."

"Nor name. Nor the story."

"Why not?"

He was already halfway out the door.

"I like to keep my altruistic side private. Modest that way, I am."

"Couldn't you…?"

But he was gone. I looked at the time on my phone. Twelve minutes. Depending on how long it had taken Chompu to open the cabinet, sprint downstairs, make copies of all the relevant files, sprint back up and replace them, then return the cabinet to its original state and rearrange his hair, I thought twelve minutes would be just about enough. That was if everything went according to plan.

I walked along the corridor to their office, where I found Egg standing with his hands on his hips, staring down at his filing cabinet where a nylon police-issue jacket, the type Chompu had been wearing to lunch, was hanging by one corner, wedged in the top drawer of the metal cabinet. Chompu sat at his desk wearing a smile that had seen better days.