Free Bangkok Tattoo by John Burdett Page A

with his son and a group of disciples for the sake of peace; the shrewdness to understand the political implications of Mitch Turner’s death; the naÏveté to stake everything on a five-minute assessment of my character. But there is more here.
    “Exactly how well did you know Mitch Turner?”
    Mustafa turns to his father. This is a question they anticipated. “We asked him to leave, once,” the old man says with a sigh. “Unfortunately, our visit to his apartment had the opposite effect. The Western mind is wild and unpredictable, devoid of center. He came to see me several times after that, and I offered what solace I could to an infidel. You Buddhists have your nirvana, we have Allah, even true Christians have a path of sorts, beset though it is by childish miracles. But what of these products of capitalism like Mr. Turner? Human souls locked out from God forever. One hears their screams of anguish even while they drop their bombs, these young people who have no idea who they are. They think they are killing others. They are killing themselves. I warned him of his death wish, but a good part of his identity had already been annihilated. He was a collection of cover stories.”
    A long pause. “Now I understand better,” I say. “In any investigation it will be discovered that you knew him, that he came to see you, that you were able to eavesdrop on him. You’re right, it won’t look good.”
    “Come,” Mustafa says in a voice of such urgency I think for a moment he intends to take me out of the room. “Come to Songai Kolok. We know about you. You are a complex man, but truthful. You take your Buddhism seriously. If you make your report early, exonerating us, it will be difficult for anyone to contradict later.”
    “But how can I justify a report when the case is closed?”
    Impatiently: “Your Colonel will not fool the CIA. We don’t know the details of the cover-up, exactly, but it will certainly be a pack of lies. The Americans will be sending agents very soon, and everyone knows how dishonest they are. Would people who invade sovereign countries on false pretenses stop at anything? There are many interests in the West who benefit from wars with Islam.”
    I shake my head, glance from one to the other. “So now you’ve made it my problem?”
    I may be mistaken, but I do believe I glimpsed a smile pass over the old man’s lips.

 
    11
    I ’m wearing my earphones, listening to Rod Tit FM at the same time as wondering what to do about the noble imam and his son. I’m of a mind to call Vikorn, who has flown up to his mansion in Chiang Mai for a few days. Subtext: to be with his fourth mia noi, or minor wife, a spirited young woman who doesn’t take any nonsense from the gangster—and won’t have his kids either, a revolutionary form of mutiny that Vikorn has never had to deal with before. My mind flits to Pisit, who is nattering in my ear about how superstitious we Thais still are. He is taking his rage out on a moordu, a professional seer and astrologer whom Pisit clearly despises.
    Pisit: Take the current trend to buy lottery predictions.
    Seer: Yes?
    Pisit: I mean, how pathetic. Thais are spending more on these little pamphlets that you see all over the newsstands than we spend on pornography.
    Seer: Is it your point that pornography would be a superior superstition?
    Pisit: My point is that pornography is not a superstition at all. In other countries newsstands make money from honest lust, not medieval mumbo jumbo. Do you have any input into these predictions?
    Seer: No, I’m not qualified.
    Pisit: Oh, so there’s a branch of your profession with special qualifications to predict next week’s winning lottery numbers?
    Seer: You could say that.
    Pisit: And could you tell us what is the success rate?
    Seer: It depends. Some have a high degree of accuracy—they can improve one’s luck by as much as fifty percent.
    Pisit: Just by someone like you staring into a crystal ball?
    Seer: Not exactly.