The Bangkok Asset: A novel (22 page)

Krom is in her black tailored boiler suit. I’m not sure if it represents the latest in tomwear, or a signal that she is on some kind of special duty. The emergence of two Chinese with a high-tech video camera does nothing to dispel the ambiguity. Her van has stopped about fifty yards away from what must be the arena and sits in darkness once the driver has switched the lights off. Chu, the
katoeys,
Goldman, and Sakagorn fall silent and strain their eyes in Krom’s direction. Chu blinks at the two Chinese cameramen. I am not sure if it is the same two who were at the Heaven’s Gate Tower, nor if they are the same as the team at the river that day. Do we have a total of six, four, or two video specialists in the plot? Three ministries, or two or one? Chu, his face flat as a mahjong tile, watches the team silently carry their camera and tripod across the waste ground and focus it. There can be no doubt, now, where the fight will take place. Goldman’s van, Rungkom’s four-by-four, and Sakagorn’s Rolls mark three points on the circumference of a circle. Krom and I have seen each other, but she didn’t wave and neither did I. Right now I have no idea what side she’s on. These are fast-moving times. Two days ago we were close, now we are alienated. I’m already feeling strange enough when the door to the police van slides open again and a woman emerges. I recognize the striped red-and-gold leggings, the white Spanish leather belt, the pearl blouse, and the long earrings, because I paid for them. Chanya doesn’t acknowledge me either. When Krom and I finally make eye contact, hers are cold as ice. No time or opportunity to make a scene, though. Something heavier than a troubled heart is at issue this night.

Now Goldman has switched his attention from Chu to the cameramen. It seems he was waiting for something that hasn’t happened, so he strides over to them. He speaks to them in Mandarin; one nods, the other shakes his head. Both of them return to the police van to bring back a second camera and tripod that they plant at the opposite end of the arena to the first one. Now the team is split between the two machines, one man each. Goldman wants a professional two-camera video, not a functional evidence-gathering exercise. Once the cameras are in place the show can go on. He nods at Sakagorn, his sidekick. The Senior Counsel nods back.

“Okay,” the giant says in English, facing one of the cameras. “These are the rules. Rounds will last one minute. To compensate for unfair advantage, my Asset will not respond aggressively in any way during the first round. That means he will conduct a purely defensive fight for that round. He will not punch or kick. During all subsequent rounds, he will have right of reply with fists only, while Khun Rungkom can use fists, feet, shins, head—what the hell he likes. Breaks last thirty seconds. Okay?”

The question seems directed at me. I deflect it by looking at Rungkom, who nods. Goldman doesn’t ask the Asset if he’s happy to be a punch ball for sixty seconds at the mercy of a world-champion kickboxer. The Asset rouses himself, though, and begins a few warm-up exercises that include stretching his arms laterally and making small circles with his hands while he runs gently on the spot. I try to decipher the body language between these two men. There isn’t any. My impression is of a marriage on the rocks.

Sakagorn takes a whistle and a stopwatch out of a pocket of his dinner jacket while Goldman guides the two fighters to the circle of open ground between the three vehicles. Sakagorn is about to blow his whistle, but someone yells
stop,
first in Thai, then in English. It is Krom, holding her smart phone. She strides over to Goldman and looks up at him. “Someone else is expected.”

Goldman stares down at her. “Listen, lady, if that’s what you are, this is my party, okay? No one else is expected.”

“It’s classified, that’s why it’s last-minute. I received a message.” She holds up her phone. So far she has spoken in Thai. Now she adds in English, “You will wait.”

Goldman looks as if he is about to explode, then calms down. Perhaps he has guessed who the mysterious guest may be. He shrugs. “Whoever it is gets five minutes, no more. We don’t need unnecessary exposure.”

A minute later the lights of another vehicle appear from the road, then bounce around as the car hits the uneven ground. I seem to recognize the old battered red Mitsubishi. It stops near the imaginary circle of the boxing ring, the lights die, and Sergeant Ruamsantiah emerges from the driver’s side, Colonel Vikorn from the other. I might have guessed. Both of those Isaan boys are fanatical Muay Thai fans and were passionate about Rungkom in his day. The Sergeant earned himself a lot of street cred at the station by claiming he was a personal friend of the famous fighter. Both men are dressed in the same outfits they have worn to boxing tournaments since they were kids: worn T-shirts and jeans. The Colonel also sports a cloth cap. He scans the scene, absorbing its essence in a blink, while the Sergeant walks over to Rungkom and
wais
him with deep humility. I cannot make out the words, but by the gestures and the expression of extreme concern on the Sergeant’s face, it is not difficult to guess. Rungkom responds also with a
wai
and a gracious smile. He is expressing compassion for Sergeant Ruamsantiah, who is reduced almost to tears.
Don’t worry,
the fighter seems to be saying,
this is my choice, my karma, thank you for your kind concern.

The Sergeant leaves him, shaking his head. Meanwhile the Colonel has summoned Krom and spoken to her. Whatever he said seems to have impressed her. She walks back to Goldman. “The Colonel bets ten million baht on Khun Rungkom.”

“This isn’t—” Goldman stops himself in midsentence. Perhaps he has remembered how important Vikorn’s agency is to his project. He starts again. “We’re not taking bets. We’re not set up for it.”

“In that case, if Khun Rungkom loses, the ten million will go to his family.” She has spoken loudly enough for the fighter to hear. Rungkom walks over to Vikorn, gives him the high
wai,
and thanks him. He returns to his corner. Goldman nods at Sakagorn again, who blows his whistle.

Now the fight has officially begun. In Muay Thai, however, there are protocols to be observed. Rungkom first kneels and
wais
to make homage to the master who taught him to box and the spirits who have helped him so far in his career. Now he nods at Sakagorn, who has returned to his Rolls-Royce and wound all the windows down. The unmistakable notes of a Thai oboe, called a
pi chawa,
emerge from the limo’s first-class sound system and Rungkom begins his warrior’s dance, which lasts only a few minutes. The Asset continues his mild limbering-up exercises.

The open area of ground is quite small and the fighters have to remain under the lamps in order to work. A second blow on the whistle means they can start the action. Now they face off.

The Asset hardly pays any attention to Rungkom, who begins to dance around him, feinting with both fists and feet in order to make a full professional inventory of his opponent’s strengths and weaknesses. Rungkom is puzzled because the American makes no effort to evade kicks that come within a millimeter of his face. It is as if he can measure distance down to nano level and guess the feints by some kind of telepathy. Then when the Thai finally lets loose with a head kick from an unexpected direction, the Asset simply isn’t there. He dodged at exactly the right moment, leaving only a split-second margin to avoid a blow that would have broken his cheekbone.

So it went on and I began to feel despondent. It’s true there were two strikes from the champion that left the Asset shaking his head and bleeding from cuts above and below his eyes, but those were blows that should have ended the fight, and the Asset merely staggered. Sergeant Ruamsantiah has covered his face with his hands. I want to yell,
Run, Rungkom, run for your life.
But I see from his face that he has reached a very personal conclusion. Perhaps he isn’t so fond of his HiSo lifestyle as the media claims. Perhaps he is somewhat disillusioned with success and feels a certain nostalgia for the early days when he was the hottest kid in Muay Thai and every fight was a personal statement of his quest for freedom and glory. He really is a champion, for already he has understood that he cannot win, that he might not leave this wasteland alive, but Sakagorn will have to give his family the agreed price and pay off the loan sharks, or someone will come for Sakagorn one fine night when he is least expecting it. And of course, there will be ten million from Vikorn, who always honors his debts. As for the fight, the best he can hope for is to damage the Asset so badly that he will be crippled for the next round.

The Asset is tiring, too, though, there’s no doubt about that. Rungkom sees it and delivers a full power kick that was designed for the Asset’s jaw but—even better—lands on his Adam’s apple. Even a fully trained CIA zombie needs air, and for a moment the Asset doubles over coughing violently, as if he is about to fall. Rungkom sees it and comes in for the kill. But this is where training tells. The Asset not only manages to recover with astonishing speed; he has also prepared his posture so that when Rungkom delivers what he had every right to believe would be the killer kick, the Asset is able to twist around so that the force of the blow is lost on the muscles of his shoulder, and Rungkom now is close to exhaustion. A blow as heavy as that drains the fighter who lands it. I cannot describe the brief look that came over the Asset’s face when Rungkom hurt him; a snippet of conversation with Dr. Bride flashed across my mind:

You’re talking about the devil?

Aren’t you?

Sakagorn blows his whistle. That was a very long minute. Now I am muttering out loud, “Run, Rungkom, run for your life.”

Thirty seconds have passed and Sakagorn blows the whistle again. Rungkom doesn’t care so much for his life, that much is clear now. I think he has decided that a damp and desolate piece of wasteland by the river would make an appropriate place to die and he is looking forward to fighting all the way to the end. He is especially clever at dodging the Asset’s punches—at first. It only takes one body blow under the heart to hurt him, though. I cannot doubt that a few ribs broke when that elegant fist landed with sickening force. Now the Thai moves awkwardly, favoring his right side, all too obviously trying to protect the left. Then, crunch: the Asset lands another punch in exactly the same spot under the heart and Rungkom can hardly believe the pain. It is only twenty seconds into the second round, but it’s all over for the Thai. Now I can’t help it. I yell at the top of my voice, “Get the hell out, Khun Rungkom, for Buddha’s sake, it’s not worth dying for.”

Rungkom is a warrior, though, and knows different. He must have considered many times how it might be to die at the top of his game, under blazing lamps, in the ring of honor. Sakagorn must have promised a fortune to his family or he would never have accepted the challenge.

The Asset stops fighting, turns to Goldman with a sneer on his face, as if he, too, thinks it bad form to have set him against a mere human. Goldman, with an ugly look, gives the thumbs-down. The Asset turns from Goldman to Rungkom with a kind of curiosity. He is like a tiger making a decision as to the most elegant way to destroy his prey. He walks up to Rungkom in a casual way, easily dodges the champion’s last sad kick, and puts the full force of his extraordinary body behind an open-palm blow to the center of the fighter’s forehead. Rungkom collapses like a sack of cement. As he lies stretched out in the dirt, it is obvious to me that he is dead. I feel only disgust and sickness. Of course, it is impossible not to hate Goldman and his Asset.
That was just a tiny little taste of what we can do,
the expression on the agent’s face says.

I watch, stunned, while Rungkom’s people carry him to their truck. Two have to enter the vehicle and pull while the others hold him up. Not a chore that can be done with elegance, but they try.

I am sad as hell and pretty much obsessed with what I have just witnessed when I feel a gentle hand on my arm. “Let’s go home,” Chanya says.

Startled for a moment, I stare at her. “Did you have sex with Krom?” I ask. She takes out her phone to call for a taxi.

“I
can only have sex with a man,” Chanya says in the back of the cab. “But that’s not the most important thing I learned tonight.” I raise my sad eyes. She lays a hand over one of mine. “Krom’s been enhanced, Sonchai. She’s one of them.”

An invisible spider crawls up my spine. “Huh?”

“Not like that monster tonight, that Asset—but down that road. Her body is incredibly strong. Not like a woman’s at all.” I stare at her. She looks away, out of the window, at the silent street. “It’s like something has been going on, maybe for decades, behind the backs of ordinary people. While we’ve been amusing ourselves with our little human issues that have to do with love, sex, and freedom, and the quality of life and democracy and pollution and stewardship of the earth—little minor things like that, which will turn out to be mere distractions—something else has been happening. Something that is about to change everything suddenly and forever—and despite myself I can’t wait.” For a second a convulsion shakes her body and she emits something between a laugh and a shout. “It all really is going to be over, all of it.” She waves a hand to include the world. She seems genuinely relieved.

“What are you talking about?”

She raises her arms dramatically, then lets them drop. “Whatever it is, it’s out of control. Forget about human rights, that illusion is about to be squashed by something too big to care—or even notice.” She sees the look on my face, squeezes my hand. “Don’t be jealous, Sonchai. What is one woman going to fuck another woman with, an inanimate object? How would that satisfy me, given who I am and what I’ve done? I’m not scared of men and I don’t hate them, I spent a career manipulating the hell out of them. I adore the poor weak cuddly things.” She lets go of my hand. “She wanted intimacy, let’s put it like that. It was fun, for a moment, to be charmed by such a…person. She’s very funny when she wants to be. Incredibly versatile. She seemed to spill her guts a bit, just like a man would—but now I’m not sure about that. I think there was a lot she told me that she expects me to pass on to you. Stuff she wouldn’t tell you directly. I’m a kind of firewall. Coming through me everything is deniable, especially since we were supposed to be having sex at the time.”

“What kind of things did she tell you?”

“Well, this Christmas Bride you visited with, she knows a lot more about him than she let on that time she came round to see us. She holds him in awe.”

“Krom, in awe?”

“Yes. And she hinted that they’re mainly interested in you because of your father.”

“They?”

“She didn’t go into detail. That’s the word she used. It’s like she belongs to some splinter group that lives off crumbs that the main group throws them. It seems at that camp you visited, in its heyday, well, there was an awful lot of sex and no contraception. Your putative father was particularly active, a real alpha male. A lot of the enhanced kids were from his stock. They didn’t know how to bring up freaks. Most died—this Asset survived. That makes them interested in you.”

“For my genes?”

“Maybe. Or maybe something else. Maybe for who you are. You see, I saw it tonight with Krom, and I’m sure I’m right about this. They have a problem with their product. Those creatures can switch their programming at the drop of a hat. It’s impossible for them to have any lasting allegiance to anything. That’s the weakness in the program. They’re too smart and accomplished to take ordinary humans seriously, including the ones who created them. And after a certain tipping point they evolve much quicker than us.” She shuddered again. “I know they’re taking over, I can sense it.”

“So how can I help them?”

“They think that with your genetic and emotional connection to your father, and since you’re a mature man…”

“They want to enhance me?”

“I don’t know. That was my first reaction. Krom can be subtle, she dropped little hints and left me to put it all together. After tonight and what you witnessed before on the river, we know that there exists a technology arising out of the LSD experiments fifty years ago that actually works.”

“So it seems.”

“Think about it for a moment. You insert such people into key positions, just like secret services use moles. But these people rise to the top in everything they do, whether commercial, industrial, military—they
have
to, because they really do leave the rest of us behind by a very long stretch, which gets longer with every breakthrough.”

“So you end up with a whole world controlled by talented psychos—where’s the change in that?”

“The talent—it’s just monumental. Wasn’t that the point of the fight tonight? A world-class Muay Thai fighter swatted like a fly?” She lets a few beats pass. “She said something else, I’m half-afraid to tell you because you just won’t believe it.”

“That’s one hell of a tease, Chanya. What did she say?”

“That certain world leaders were already enhanced—not like the Asset, but in minor ways, using spin-offs from the new technology.”

“And?”

“Well, one of them lives very north and very west of here in a country that has a history of similar experimentation.”

“Why so coy about it?”

“That’s how she put it. She wanted you to know that, I’m sure.”

“So we’re talking north?”

“Northwest. Very far.”

“Russia?”

“She wouldn’t specify.”

I’m watching the night go by out of the cab window, trying to take it all in. “You think Krom is a product of the Chinese version of the experiment?”

“Maybe in a mild way, yes, that’s my guess. While I was with her she had to answer a call. She speaks fluent Mandarin, Sonchai—she was just pretending to be at intermediate level that evening with Chu, so as not to make you suspicious. Why would a Thai cop be fluent in Chinese?”

“So she finally admitted outright that the Chinese have foisted her on Vikorn—muscled him to take her on, a spy in his camp?”

“Sort of. Like I said, she used deniable hints, avoided specifics.”

“But why is Goldman so keen to sell his product to the Chinese? Shouldn’t he be all secret about it, like in a nice old-fashioned arms race?”

“Not race. Think arms
sale.
When my enemy needs to buy my technology to fight a third party, he becomes my friend—but don’t tell anyone. Think maybe the Chinese already have a product of their own, but perhaps not so advanced. So the U.S. has a super-smooth version that can just about go to cocktail parties and run multinationals and attend Republican conventions without eating people’s livers for hors d’oeuvres. Better they sell that to the Chinese than have the Chinese continue with their own R&D—or buy from someone else.”

“The Russians?”

She shrugs. “Krom made it clear the PRC is in a hurry. It has to do with the U.S. dollar. It’s a mathematical certainty that it will collapse within the decade—the inevitable consequence of a planet-wide Indian rope trick called quantitative easing: those are her words. There will be riots and chaos worldwide. And China controls a quarter of the world’s population. In the West the tightening has already started, even today there’s a greater sense of personal freedom in a third-world shantytown than a modern first-world state—sooner or later people will start to notice. The captured elephant doesn’t freak until it feels the chain.”

“But still…”

She inhales deeply. “It’s like I said, something big is about to go down. I have no idea what, except it will include a lockdown on individual freedom. She hinted that oligarchs and world bankers are on the committees that run these programs.” She paused. “You know, there must be something extra they do to their assets, some form of higher consciousness, like they’ve learned how to steal a measure of enlightenment.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Krom. When I made it clear I couldn’t do sex with her, I thought she was going to explode. I actually feared for my life. I suppose she thought that by going back to her flat I was consenting.”

“What flat? Where?”

“That’s another mystery. She owns a one-bedroom apartment on Sukhumvit at On Nut, but it was clear she doesn’t live there. Probably just uses it for pickups.”

“So where does she really live?”

“She didn’t say. Pretended not to hear the question. Anyway, as I was saying, she had to make a huge effort to control herself. I really thought I was finished. Instead she went into a kind of trance and started to talk.” Chanya smirked. “Know what? She started to sound like you.”

“How?”

“This is what she said. She said the human being is the only creature aware of death, which is another way of saying our consciousness in its true form is a product of the tension between the two, life and death. If you can’t go down to the wire with your own annihilation, then you’re never fully human. That used to be what religions were for. The hidden purpose of modernism is to offer a cop-out that turns us into manipulable dolls. No one grows up anymore. Everyone is immortal. When the entire species is stuck at the mental age of thirteen and a half with heads full of noise and football, that’s when
they
take over. Not long to go. Pretty much there already. That’s what she said.”

“What else?”

She shrugs again. “She kept referring to that
batch
—she used that word. They have fierce, childish emotions. According to her, it wasn’t Goldman but the Asset himself who ordered the bombing of those old men. The Asset doesn’t like it that your mutual father left the camp. To him it’s like a violation of some sentimental value, some idealized childhood that probably never happened—they just programmed him that way, not realizing what the consequences might be. To him your father has to be some old tough jungle guy from out of a Stallone movie, not a small-time dope hustler. The Asset chose a moment when he thought those old men would be out at the market to have those kids plant the bomb. He wants the oldies back in the camp.”

The cab was turning into our street, and I leaned forward to tell the driver to stop outside our hovel. I was reaching for my wallet to pay him when Chanya came out with her last bombshell.

“Do you know the name Roberto da Silva? She said you’d mentioned him in a text message. She said it’s not true that he died. She said he’s here in Bangkok, owns a bar on Pat Pong.”

I freeze for a moment. It’s not the information that has thrown me so much as the incongruity. “Why did she suddenly start talking about that?”

“I don’t know. She went into yet another personality. She became very serious and confidential—maybe a last attempt to get me into bed. Or another ploy to reach you. As I said—these creatures, they’re shape changers like you wouldn’t believe.”

If Chanya’s ploy was to share confidences as a way of reestablishing intimacy, it worked. By the time we reached home both of us were experiencing the same sense of relief: we belonged together, we would protect each other faithfully from the big scary new
out there;
it was very childish and almost thrilling. Then, just when we were in a deep forgiving embrace that would certainly evolve into the kind of wholesome, tender, unselfish, fantasy-free, loving coupling that, if it exists, rarely survives prolonged cohabitation despite being monotonously recommended by marriage counselors of the old school (I can’t recall our ever trying it ourselves), my phone rang.