The Bangkok Asset

10

Krom and I sat next to each other on the wooden seats Vikorn kept in his office, opposite his desk, while he sat in his padded executive chair. When he took out a Churchillian cigar and lit up, the familiar ritual was accompanied by sidelong glances at Krom, as if he were engaged in an act of defiance. He blew dense gray smoke out of his mouth and waited for it to diffuse throughout his office before he spoke.

“The Americans are in a hurry,” he said. “At least Goldman is. I don’t know why, and nor do the Chinese, who are suspicious. Why the rush for a security system that will take a decade to develop after purchase? Anyway, Goldman has promised some kind of show.”

He stopped and waited for questions. Both he and I were intrigued about how much Krom knew, how networked she was with Beijing. The Chief studied her for a moment, while she obligingly offered him a three-quarter profile without engaging his eyes. She did not respond, and my guess was that she was not aware of what Vikorn was about to tell us.

“As you would expect, there’s plenty of documentation on this Asset thing, but it’s hyper-secret. Goldman claims he used influence and a lot of dough to borrow-his word-a certain proof that his Asset is the real deal.” He drew on the cigar, exhaled, stared at Krom. There was perhaps a note of anger when he asked, “Do you know anything about this?”

She shook her head. “No.”

“But it has to do with the murder in the market, doesn’t it?”

She shrugged.

Now he had my complete attention as he spoke directly to Krom. “The Market Murder has given Goldman one huge credibility problem, but the origin of the problem so far is suspicion and innuendo. The Detective here has almost nothing to go on, no way of proving anything definitive either way. No one has come up with any convincing proof that the Asset did it. On the one hand, the crime is so bizarre it is difficult to think of an alternative suspect. On the other hand, that makes an ideal setting for anyone who wanted to sabotage Goldman’s sale. Therefore, the Market Murder has forced Goldman’s hand. Does he have a game-changing product that will bring more or less total control to those governments who can afford it? Or has he spent over fifty years producing some kind of out-of-control freak who can perform a few circus acts but could never be a team player in a disciplined security service? That’s probably the issue. But why the rush? Isn’t haste suspicious in itself? What’s he afraid of?”

“Another murder like the one in the market,” I said. They both looked at me.

“Right,” Krom said with a smile.

The Chief took a long toke on the cigar and stared at Krom. “Perhaps. What I’m not sure about, and would like your input on, is why would the Chinese continue to be interested? Isn’t this the kind of product where the potential purchaser simply refuses to go ahead if there’s the slightest hint of a defect in the product? It isn’t just a question of money. The credibility of the PRC government is at stake if they buy a defective asset of this kind-don’t you agree?”

Now both the Colonel and I stared at her. She nodded as a kind of acknowledgment that she did have further thoughts. “There’s a rumor-I don’t know because it arises from Goldman’s side so it could be counterintelligence-anyway, a rumor that it’s not any extracurricular activities by the Asset that is making Goldman panic. It’s the relationship between him and his Asset. The beat on the street is that they’re no longer getting along so well. It could be just rumor, but it relates to something else, something Beijing is very interested in. As a matter of fact, something that every specialist in transhumanism is passionate about.”

The Colonel and I both raised our eyebrows. Now Krom revealed herself by standing and pacing, just as if she were the Chief. It was a curious performance, because she was wearing her regulation uniform with white shirt and shoulder boards, blue pleated skirt that reached below the knee: the essence of subjugated womanhood in a man’s world. She compensated by putting her hands in her pockets as she paced. “This thing is more important than blind military obedience. It is the essence of the project: the gold ring. If Goldman and his people have got it right, Beijing might be prepared to overlook a little recreational killing. Any government would put up with a lot to have Superman on its side-especially if there is only one such in the world. Goldman is rushed because he needs to prove this very special quality of the Asset before a whole shitload of suspicion, innuendo, and negative publicity make the purchase impossible, even for China.”

Vikorn frowned at her. “What do you have in mind, exactly?”

Krom went to the window and looked out and spoke to it, exactly as if she were the Old Man himself; as if she had taken over already. “The product is fitted out with some high-tech circuitry that improves cognitive function by more than a hundred percent. This in itself is not revolutionary. All over the world similar experiments are being conducted in secret. Goldman’s original and totally exotic approach is inspired by the British psychiatrist Christmas Bride. You see, the result of artificially introducing performance-enhancing circuitry directly into the brain has always been, without exception, crippling mental illness resulting in clinical depression, catatonia, and ultimately suicide. The problem is the personality itself-or, if you like, the psyche. That was the problem with MKUltra from the start.”

“And Goldman has found a way around that?”

“That’s his claim. That’s really what he’s selling. But he didn’t solve the problem, he didn’t have any idea how to go about it, until he teamed up with the Brit shrink.”

“Can you tell us a little more?”

“You have to bear in mind that this is just speculation-I don’t have a very high security clearance. As far as I understand it, the point is learning and adaptation. If through training from birth you can produce a mind at once robust and flexible enough to cope with the enhanced cognitive power, then you really do reach a kind of grail.”

“How so?”

“Because there is really only one way a personality can cope, and that is by riding an extraordinary learning curve. It’s a form of self-evolving AL-accelerated learning-that achieves the gold standard of infinite evolution at speeds hundreds if not thousands of times faster than anything our species has achieved so far. ALE in the jargon: accelerated learning enhancement.”

“From human to god in one generation?”

“Or to monster.” She turned from the window, smiled formally at the two of us, and resumed her seat.

The Colonel and I let a good five minutes pass. Finally Vikorn cleared his throat. “So, Beijing is sending an expert who works out of a laboratory in Shanghai: Goldman has to reveal his hand, and fast. He is insisting on airtight security. The two of you will entertain him-Sonchai, I want you to take your wife to make it look like a social event. I already cleared her with Goldman. The expert is one Professor Chu.” The Colonel allowed himself a flicker of a smile. “He has visited Bangkok before. He will show you what an evening out in Krung Thep means to him. Let him control the moment. Sooner or later, when Goldman is ready, the Professor will receive a phone call. Just follow his lead.”

Now he stood up and went to the window. Somehow he had retrieved control. “That’s all,” he said and remained with his back to us while we filed out.

–

Back at my post I check out the reports of Ruamsantiah’s men who took statements from the market vendors and others who were in the square at the time of the murder of Nong X. Our constables tend not to be of the most motivated kind, but here, perhaps out of pity for the victim, they have done their best. Instead of the usual, Witness stated he/she was not too clear about the event, could not remember anything relevant, type of report, I have more than twenty lengthy statements, which go into detail about the witnesses’ private lives, domestic disputes, religious convictions, feelings of sadness for the victim, rage fantasies of what they would do to the perp if it were up to them, conviction that some kind of negative occult force is at work in our country at this time: all useless, in other words. My phone rings.

It is young Detective Tassadorn, still working on the Klong Toey bombing. His tone turns a little strange when he says, “Detective, we found another cell phone at the bomb site. It was buried under a pile of debris, mostly lumber and trash.”

This does not strike me as strange. Everyone has cell phones, even farang down-and-outs. “What condition is it in?”

“Well, that’s the thing. It was a cheap local make and looked totally destroyed, but the forensic people took it and managed to transfer all the data to a hard disk.”

I am beginning to feel insecure here. Why doesn’t the young detective come to the point? “Yes?”

“Yes. Most of the contacts and recent calls are to known cannabis users, small-time dealers, and birdshit farang, mostly British and American.” I wait. I have heard enough of his tone now to realize he is excited and disturbed. “There were photos, too.”

My heart gives a little leap of foreboding. “Photos?”

“Yes.” He lets the moment hang. Perhaps he is not as new and naïve as I thought.

“And?”

“Three are of you.”

“Of me?”

“Yes. We’re pretty certain they were taken on Soi Cowboy.”

I stare at the phone. Ever feel your insides quake for no good reason, R? I cannot understand where I put my cool, all of a sudden. I have to let a few beats pass, then say, “I see.”

“Yes. I thought you ought to know right away.”

That is an incomplete sentence. The unstated part would be something like, Before I tell everyone else.

“Thank you, Detective. Thank you. I appreciate it. I appreciate it very much.” He is so much younger than me, it is not difficult to sound as if I have it all under control.

“What are you going to do?” he asks.

“Leave it with me,” I hear myself say in a confident tone. “I’ll get back to you.”

When I close the phone I’m shuddering. I have to stand up and take a walk before the cop at the next post sees what kind of state I am in. Outside on the street, I stride toward Sukhumvit at quite a clip until I’m out of range of the station’s psychic orbit. One anxiety a cop in Krung Thep doesn’t normally have is fear of perps. Our rules are quite strict: no matter how unpopular you might be with your colleagues, no gangster is ever going to target you, because the boys would close ranks and take him out. It’s not quite as rigid a law as gravity, but close. Now I don’t feel so protected. How much evidence does a person need before they’re entitled to own their paranoia? The bloody mirror with my name on it could have been an aberration by a psycho. An iPhone with a hundred photos of me on it is not so easily explained, but not necessarily sinister in itself (Chanya tried to cheer me up by suggesting it’s because I’m so good-looking: probably some katoey with a crush on me took the pix). It’s always the third clue that clinches it, both in madness and in law enforcement: another phone at the scene of the bombing with pictures of me in the photo gallery? And taken on Soi Cowboy, just like all the photos on the iPhone?

Naturally, I need a smoke, and, to be honest here, R, I am on the point of going home and leaving the planet on Air Cannabis for a while, when that curious blip called duty drives me in another direction. Obviously, I need to pay a second visit to Sergeant Lotus Bud at KTC. There is a detour I need to make first, though.