The Thai Amulet

Chapter 12

What agony I have endured. I cannot find words to express the rage and self-loathing I felt at the young king’s death, emotions so strong that I thought I would die. I had betrayed my mother, my king, and indeed Ayutthaya.

My horror at what had happened was made worse by a fear about my personal situation. Terrified, I presented myself at Ratchapraditsathan Monastery where, prostrating myself before the chief abbott, I begged to be accepted for training as a monk. H, refused my request, but perhaps seeing my distress, granted me few days’ sanctuary at the temple. My fear and guilt soon manifested themselves as an illness. Racked with fever, I tossed a turned, at times delirious, I am certain.

My illness did not respond to the care and treatment of the mon and eventually the abbot came and sat with me. “Your though, are like a poison in your body,” he said. “I have seen you rack with despair. I have heard you cry out in the night. What is this poison that destroys you?”

It was several days before I was able to tell him what I had seen that night by torchlight, as the dancers performed, and what I thought it had meant. He was right, however. The next day, though still weak, I was able to take some food for the first time in many days.

The next evening the abbot led me to a room guarded by monks. In the room were four men and another priest. To my surprise, it was the priest who spoke.

“Do you know who I am?” he said.

“I do not,” I replied.

“Look more closely,” he said. “Beyond the robe and the shaved head.”

I gasped. “You are Prince Thianracha, the dead prince’s uncle, brother to his father, King Chairacha.” I prostrated myself before him.

“That is so. Please, rise. Do you know these men?” he said, gesturing to four who were with him.

“I have seen them in the palace,” I said. I was trembling in the presence of such power. My life, it seemed to me, hung in the balance.

“Do not be afraid,” the prince said. “This is Khun Phirenthbrep.” The man looked straight at me, and I had to look away. “And this is Khun Inthbrep,” the prince went on. “Mun Rachasena, and Luang Si Yot. These good men have come to tell me about the state of affairs in the royal court of Ayutthaya, and the abbot has suggested you have information that would be of use to me.”

At the prompting of the abbot, I told my story again, brought to tears with the retelling of the death of my god-king and friend.

“You see, it is as we told you,” Khun Phirenthbrep said. “Something must be done about this usurper and his deadly queen.”

“We are agreed,” the prince said. “Let us retire to Pa Kaeo Monastery to practice candle divination before an image of Lord Buddha to ascertain our chances of success in these endeavors.”

We, all of us, went to Pa Kaeo to make obeisance to the image of Lord Buddha and to light two candles, one for the prince, the other for Khun Worawongsa. For a time it looked to be that the prince’s candle would be the first to die, thus indicating that Khun Worawongsa’s cause was more just, but then, most extraordinarily, the usurper’s candle was suddenly extinguished.

“The day is yours,” the abbot said to the prince. “The candle divination is proof that you have sufficient merit that you will be successful in what you plan.”

“I accept the result, though I do not ask for it,” the prince said. “Now all will return to our posts to make plans and await an opportunity to act. Your bravery in telling us this story will not go unrewarded,” he said, turning to me. “Now go to the palace and await word.”

The first time I’d journeyed to Chiang Mai, I’d found a peace of sorts in the rhythm of the river and the tranquillity of the wats. This time I was not there to try to re-create the calm I’d felt in the temple. That had been revealed as an illusion, or at best a temporary respite from the poison that seemed to seep around everything I saw and did. I had not come back to find comfort. I had come for revenge.

The headquarters of Busakorn Shipping was just outside of town, located in what looked to be an abandoned hotel. To one side of what had once been the lobby was an empty swimming pool. To the other, a two-story white stucco structure surrounded a courtyard in which an empty fountain sat in a sea of brown grass. Dragonflies flitted about the courtyard, and the air shimmered from the heat. There was a guard right inside the door who, after looking me up and down suspiciously, agreed to call Khun Wichai’s office.

“Tell him it’s Lara McClintoch. We are acquainted through the Chaiwongs. I have something I’m sure he will be interested in,” I said.

To the guard’s surprise, and in a way to mine, I was permitted to enter. Intimidating though it was, anger and guilt carried me across the courtyard past a number of young men, all of whom watched me closely. They nodded pleasantly enough, however, and directed me through a breeze-way at the back and then on to a warehouse beyond.

The warehouse was lined with shelving on which sat terra-cotta Buddhas by the hundreds, if not thousands. Khun Wichai’s office was at the back. Before I was allowed to enter it, a young woman searched me. She was polite but thorough. Two very large men stood outside the office door. They didn’t wei, perhaps because it would have taken their hands too far away from their guns. “Come in, Ms. Lara,” Wichai said at last. “Sit down, please. Tea? Or perhaps something stronger. Whiskey?” A man who looked capable of picking me up and wringing my neck like a chicken at the smallest of provocations stood in one corner.

“No, thank you. This is not a social visit. I’m here for what I hope will be a mutually beneficial exchange of information,” I said. “I have a number of questions, or rather, I need to test some hypotheses, and I hope you can help me. I’ve brought you a gift, something I thought you might like to have. A remembrance of things past.” I handed him a large package wrapped in brown paper.

The guard stepped forward and seemed about to whip the package away, but he was stopped by an impatient gesture on the part of my host, who after a few moments’ hesitation, opened it.

“You’ll perhaps want to have it fully restored,” I said. “This was just a first effort. It will clean up very well, though, don’t you think? If you’re looking for someone to do it, I’d suggest Robert Fitzgerald. You and he have a lot in common.”

“Where did you find this?” he said. His voice was even, but I could see he was wrestling with strong emotion.

“A man named William Beauchamp bought it from the artist’s son. It came to me through a series of circumstances.”

“Do you know her name?”

“Yes, I do.”

A slight smile crossed his face. “Then perhaps you should ask your first question, test one of your hypotheses.”

“Thank you. I am trying to confirm some details of the death, perhaps I should say murder, of William Beauchamp. Did you kill him?”

The guard, who apparently understood English, stepped forward in a rather menacing way. Wichai said something in Thai, and the man left the room, obviously reluctantly.

“There. That’s better, isn’t it?” Wichai said. “You are either brave or foolhardy, I’m not yet sure which.” Actually, I was desperate, but I didn’t say so. “But, to your question: the answer is no.”

“What about Bent Rowland, his agent?”

“I realize I have something of a reputation, but again, no. Perhaps at some point in this conversation you might tell me why you think I would be responsible for these deaths.”

“William was writing a book that somebody didn’t want published, and given it reflects rather badly on the Chai-wongs, I naturally think it must be one of them, or possibly one of their friends, concerned that its publication might reflect badly on certain business interests they have in common. Bent Rowland, Beauchamp’s agent, was, I believe, being paid by the Chaiwongs to make sure the book never got published, and died for the same reason Will did.”

“I haven’t killed anyone in connection with this at all yet.” There was just the slightest emphasis on yet. “Nor do I know with any certainty who did it. I could, however, speculate.” Up to this moment he had been looking around the room, or out the window, or on a spot just above my head. But suddenly he looked right at me. He had the most extraordinary eyes, almond in both shape and color, flecked with green.

“Helen Ford,” I said.

He looked out the window for a minute before replying. “I had occasion to introduce someone I assume was representing the Chaiwong family—they spoke to me through an intermediary, you understand—to an associate of mine who would be the sort of person who would undertake such an activity. The family was in some distress about the situation, and as their friend, and as you have hinted, a business associate, one who has plans for the company, naturally I felt obliged to help them.”

“Naturally,” I said.

“Speaking as a dispassionate observer, I must say it was all rather ineptly handled. I believe in killing someone only as a last resort. I would have thought large sums of money would have been effective, and if that failed, then intimidation. How could they have thought he wouldn’t find out about the false contract?”

“I see you know a fair amount about this matter. I have obviously come to the right place. Money worked with Bent Rowland, at least it did until he either became frightened or expendable. And certainly, given the fact that Will chose to move some of his belongings, including this portrait, to a safe place would indicate he was frightened. But I have more questions. Was this intermediary you spoke of Mr. Yutai?”

“Possibly.”

“And this colleague of yours you introduced him to? Would he have a stall in the amulet market?”

“That, too, is possible.”

“And I suppose that once the connection had been made, the two men might continue their business relationship on other related projects: intimidation, a little roughing up, and so on.”

“I suppose that, too, is possible, although I have to tell you I have no direct knowledge. I am only a dispassionate observer.”

“What if I told you the book was actually about her?” I said, pointing to the portrait. Still dispassionate? I thought.

“Was it?” He seemed momentarily disconcerted. “Then I regret my involvement, no matter how peripheral.”

“Your English is impeccable,” I said.

“Thank you,” he said. “It is a skill I acquired in my very early years as a purveyor of various commodities to American troops enjoying a respite, well deserved I’m sure, from the hostilities in Vietnam. My parents both died when I was quite young, and I was forced to support myself. I found I was rather adept at it. This book: is there a copy? No, of course not. That was the point, wasn’t it?”

“That was the point, yes,” I agreed.

“If there were,” he said. “I would very much like to see it.

“I would be interested in knowing, if you’d care to share them, those plans you mentioned for Ayutthaya Trading,” I said.

He chuckled. “You Western women really are very amusing. In keeping with the rapport we seem to be establishing here—you’ll notice I have found a smattering of French useful for my interests on the other side of the border with Vietnam, or should I say Indochine?—I will tell you. I plan to take over the company. My whole life I’ve looked at the Chaiwongs and aspired to be like them, wealthy and socially acceptable. I plan to acquire that wealth and acceptance. One way or another, I might add. I had hopes for a marriage union. But so far that has not worked out. I rather liked young Chat. I would have been happy to have him as a son-in-law. But he apparently loved another. That is not your Miss Jennifer’s fault. I know that. She has nothing to fear from me. There is still Dusit, but I love my daughter, and I think he is not the sort of young man I would choose for her. He is spoiled and will never amount to anything. That leaves me the business option.”

“The marriage idea wouldn’t have been a good one, anyway. Your daughter would have been marrying her cousin.”

Several long seconds went by, a lifetime almost. I thought I heard a plane overhead, and the buzz of an insect somewhere. Outside the door, I could hear the low murmur of the guards.

“Is that right?” he said at last.

“I believe so,” I said.

“You surprise me,” he said. “I am not often surprised. I have tried to ensure I can’t be. I knew the minute I saw that painting in the living room, the one with the sword, there had to be a connection. It took me back to my childhood in a flash. I was allowed to play with it, you know. In the scabbard, of course, and never when I was alone. But I never dreamt… There was a man there, in my memory. His face is a blur. You are going to tell me he was my father.”

“Virat. Thaksin’s older brother. Your father.”

“Is that right?” he repeated. There was another long pause. “So I am the bastard son shipped off to the north and forgotten, am I?”

“I think it was for your protection,” I said. “People who actually cared about you.”

“And who might these people be?”

“Your mother and her family. Your mother felt that if Thaksin knew of your existence, you would not survive. I have no idea whether that is true or not. Perhaps if they had known, they would have killed you. On the other hand, perhaps they would have welcomed you into the family, and you would have had the life of luxury and social acceptability you wish.”

“Knowing what I do of the family, I have no doubts as to which of those two options they would have chosen,” he said. His eyes turned very dark.

“Your aunt has worried about you over the years,” I said. “She’s Robert Fitzgerald’s widow, the man who painted the portrait, and mother…” I hesitated for a second, but I’d made a promise, even if it meant depriving this man of a brother. “Mother,” I repeated, “of another Robert Fitzgerald, the one who started cleaning up the painting. If you’re interested in meeting them.”

“I will have to think about that,” he said. “And my mother?”

“Her former sister-in-law says she’s dead, that she went back to the U.S. under an assumed name.”

“Do you believe her?”

“I don’t know. Your mother would be almost eighty. I’ll have to leave that one to you.”

“Yes,” he said.

“Now to get back to your plans for Ayutthaya Trading,” I said.

“If anything, you have strengthened my resolve,” he said. “While I have not yet read this book, should I find myself with a copy, I am reasonably sure I will not be happy with what it says, enlightening though it may be.”

“You aren’t in it. It was only the portrait that put me on to you. But, as for Ayutthaya, I take it you plan to have-Busakorn Shipping take over Ayutthaya Trading,” I said.

“Exactly.”

“What do you ship, Khun Wichai?” I said.

“Whatever my customers need me to ship,” he said. “I am a mere cog in the international service industry.”

“Things like these amulets?” I said, setting a plastic bag filled with the broken shards in front of him. “Sapphires and rubies?”

He didn’t even look at them. “I am as surprised as you are, of course,” he said with the hint of a smile.

“And all those Buddhas out there in your warehouse. The blasphemous ones, with Buddha holding the world like an alms bowl. I assume that’s how one goes about identifying the, shall we say, special ones, is it? What would be in those? Rather large for sapphires and rubies. What about plastic bags filled with white powder? Heroin out of Burma by way of Chiang Mai? Or pills? Ice, for example? You could ship a lot of pills in those things.”

“As I said, I ship whatever my customers want me to. Some things I ship officially. Others I ship unofficially. You are treading on dangerous ground here, Ms. Lara.”

“And Wongvipa would be one of the latter kind of customer?” I went on, ignoring him.

“Possibly,” he said. “She has expensive tastes. I could marry the widow, I suppose—my wife died two years ago— but I would not be able to sleep for fear of my life.” He laughed at the thought. “But tell me, why would you think that?”

“Because of the book, actually. The information in it would have been embarrassing, certainly, to the family. The events in it, though, took place half a century ago. One could easily shrug them off, in a way. But the book would have been a sensation, and it would focus attention on the family and its businesses, some of which might not stand up very well to intense scrutiny.”

“I see.”

“Wongvipa was seeking my assistance in developing the North American market for whatever it is she is actually selling.”

“I expect you find that offensive,” he said.

“She also engaged the assistance of William Beauchamp. I expect when he figured it out, he was offended, too.”

“You are implying, I think, that he wrote the book as a way of trying to stop her, by focusing attention on the family and their business interests. That is possible, I suppose, but a dangerous strategy. He was perhaps out of his depth. You will forgive me, I hope, for saying that those among us with scruples are at a disadvantage in these situations. As to your discomfort with her unofficial business dealings, perhaps you had a more privileged upbringing than either she or I had.”

“You are saying that I can afford to do the right thing, and that is true,” I said. “But so now can Wongvipa.” And so, of course, could he.

“Some people never have enough,” he said. “Their childhood experiences color their lives forever. Perhaps this sounds as if I am speaking of myself. My personal code, if you are wondering, is that I deal honorably with those who deal honorably with me.”

“You are in business with Wongvipa,” I said. “You should take a good look at the financial statements.”

“I see them every month,” he replied.

“To use your terminology, there are official financial statements, and unofficial ones.”

“She’s skimming, is she?”

“Possibly,” I said.

“All the more reason to take over,” he said. “But to go back to something you mentioned a minute ago: perhaps your reference to the contents of the Buddhas, should there be any such contents, is your way of accusing me of giving young Chat the pills that killed him. I did not do that. I was less than amused to find that the young man I had in mind for my daughter did drugs. I do not, nor does anyone in my employ. If they do, they are sent into rehab. If that does not work, then they are disposed of. As I have already told you, my plans to take over the company involved either marriage or a takeover.”

“You have competition, Khun Wichai,” I said, softly. “And no, I am not accusing you of killing Chat. I know who did that. Let’s just say that someone without your scruples gave the pills to him, someone whose ambition is, if anything, greater than yours, someone whose greed is insatiable. Chat had a headache, and thought he was taking painkillers. The person who did that wants to own the company, too. Like you, he is prepared to consider marriage, in this case to Wongvipa, and if that doesn’t work, then he’ll try something else. Murder, apparently, is one option he is rather partial to.”

“Yutai!” Wichai said.

“Fatty is his daughter, by the way, by Wongvipa.”

“Ah,” he said. “The power of love. Interesting, indeed. Can you prove it? That Yutai gave Chat the pills?”

“No. But I know what I saw.”

“And about Yutai and Fatty?”

“No, but just take a good look,” I said.

“And are you saying that what Yutai has done, he did with the approval, or at least the acquiescence, of Wongvipa?”

“I am.”

“Even so far as the murder of her own child?” His voice sounded as if someone had put a rope around his neck and was slowly tightening it.

I took a deep breath before I replied. “I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe. Yes. I didn’t see her try to stop it.”

“I see. I can’t say I ever really loved my wife,” Wichai said. “But I have always loved my daughter. You are a fierce adversary, Ms. Lara. I am glad that we are not on opposite sides of this issue. I have found this conversation a most enlightening one. These are perhaps not the kind of people I would be able to do business with at all. Now I think you should go home, don’t you, to Canada? You should take Miss Jennifer with you.”

“That is exactly what I plan to do, Khun Wichai,” I said.

“Good. Thank you for the information, and for the painting,” he said, rising from his chair. “It means a very great deal to me. I remember her a little. Sometimes I still dream about her. Now I think this is good-bye. I believe you and I have reached an understanding here. I don’t anticipate we will ever have the pleasure of meeting again. One of my colleagues will see you safely back to the airport.”

“I have a couple more things,” I said. He remained standing. “It would be very helpful if this colleague of yours could be persuaded to tell someone where William Beauchamp is buried. His daughter requires a great deal of medical attention, and she and her mother would benefit from the life insurance, assuming Beauchamp is proven dead.”

“And the second thing?” he said. His voice was very quiet.

“If you look behind the painting, you’ll find a small package containing a floppy disk taped to the back. It is the only disk I know of, and my paper copy has been destroyed.”

“Good-bye, Ms. Lara,” he said with an almost imperceptible nod.

“Good-bye, Khun Wichai,” I replied. We did not shake hands.