Thai Horse (44 page)

Hatcher thought a moment. Actually it was good news to him. It resolved a problem he had in dealing with Cody’s identity in the prison camp. ‘That could explain why the Vietcong didn’t exploit him.’

‘I don’t get you,’ Sloan said.

‘Up until now it really bugged me,’ Hatcher said. ‘It didn’t make sense. If Charlie had the son of the commanding general, they were in a good position to do some hard trading, but they never did. Now we know why. He dumped them, Harry, so they wouldn’t know who he was.’

Sloan’s eyebrows rose. It was obvious that had not occurred to him. ‘You have a real knack for making things work for you,’ he said.

‘I also pinpointed that floating camp called the

Huie-kui. It was located on the Laotian side of the

Annimitique Mountains around a town called Muang.

It was a transition camp for Vietnamese quislings—’

‘Well, shit,’ Sloan snorted in disgust.

‘Let me finish!’ Hatcher whispered. ‘There were also eight or ten American POWs in this camp, a kind of permanent slave labor. I’ve got an eyewitness who thinks he saw Cody up there.’

‘Thinks?’

‘We’re talking ten, eleven years ago.’

Sloan scratched his chin with the back of one hand.

‘What happened to this camp after the war?’ he asked.

Hatcher shook his head. ‘I don’t know. But I do know the commandant was so corrupt he couldn’t go back to Hanoi. He turned rabbit and ran.’

‘So it’s conceivable that if Cody was in the camp, he could have run, too,’ Sloan said.

Hatcher nodded. ‘You got it.’

‘Where did you hear this?’

‘Chin Chin land, from a trad
e
r they call the Dutchman. That’s why I went up there. It didn’t have anything to do with Ts’e K’am.’

Sloan’s ego could be stroked. He stared across the table at Hatcher for a long time before he said, ‘It’s still all maybe and could be.’

‘Yes.’

‘So we still don’t have anything positive but Wol Pot.’

‘Right again,’ Hatcher said.

‘This is MIA shit, Hatch,’ Sloan said. ‘I’ll tell you what I don’t think
—
I don’t think there’re twenty-four hundred missing Americans doing time in Hanoi, or up there teaching the Vietnamese how to play Monopoly or any other damn thing. Maybe a handful wandering around Laos or North Vietnam. Maybe a few turncoats. The rest of them were probably tortured to death or shot or died of malnutrition or disease. Those are the ones who weren’t killed on the spot.
H
ell, a lot of good people got wasted in Nam, Hatch. Why torture the ones back home with hope. Besides, back in the real world you can get poisoned by a pill from the drugstore, get run down by some drunk on the highway. There’re worse ways to die than serving your country.’

‘Why didn’t you mention that back in Georgia when you were conning me into this trip?’

‘I never said he was alive.’

‘You implied it enough to get me over here.’

‘Well, I’ll say one thing, your attitude is a hell of a lot more positive than it was in Georgia
—
or even Hong Kong.’

‘Let’s just say we’ve elevated a wild-goose story to a premise.’

‘That’s bul
l
shit. I know you. I can tell when that nose of yours starts working. You’re on to something.’

‘That’s accurate,’ Hatcher said with a nod.

‘You think Cody’s alive?’

‘Let’s just say I think it more than I did in Hong Kong.’

‘Why?’

‘Little things. Intuition.’

‘But nothing you could take to court.’

‘Nope.’

‘Uh-huh. Okay.’

Hatcher had left out several important pieces of the puzzle. That the commandant who had escaped to Bangkok was Wol Pot. That the Dutchman thought the man who could be Cody was on drugs. He didn’t tell Sloan about the hoochgirl, Pai, and he still had not mentioned Thai Horse.
Why?
he asked himself.
Because he didn’t trust Sloan
was the answer.

‘The issue is, Is Murphy Cody alive, and if so, what’s he into?’ Sloan said. ‘That’s the issue.’

‘Back in Georgia, you told me if I found Cody there would be no questions asked,’ Hatcher said. ‘The old man just wanted to say good- bye, you said. That was the
only
issue.’

Sloan lit a cigar, tapped ash off it and watched the wind break it up and twirl it
a
way. He stared out over the river.

Both men were thinking a
b
out other times, times when they trusted and relied o
n
each other, when there was an unwritten, unspoken bond between them that went beyond duty and orders a
n
d was an almost psychic link between thought and acti
o
n. Los Boxes had struck that bond and shattered it.

Now they were skirting the issue, neither of them willing to lay it out to deal head-on with the problem. Sloan didn’t want to make a verbal commitment, he never did. In the past, he had always left the dirty words unsaid.

‘What this is really about is protecting the general’s reputation, keeping the old
m
an from being embarrassed,’ Hatcher repeated.

Sloan’s eyebrows made little half-circles. ‘There could be more to it than that.’

‘Like what’s Cody been up to for the past fifteen years?’ said Hatcher.

‘That enters into it.’

‘That wasn’t part of the deal.’

‘Christ, Hatch, you’ve been doing this kind of thing for almost twenty years. Do I have to draw pictures for you?’

‘Yeah, draw me some pictures,’ Hatcher whispered. ‘Seems pretty simple to me,’ Sloan said.

‘You’re asking me to make a very heavy judgment call here,’ Hatcher said.

‘You’ve made them before. What’s the problem? Seems to me you’re leaning over backwards to give your old school chum the benefit of the doubt.’

‘We’re not just talking about an old school chum, we’re talking about Buffalo Bill’s son.’

‘That’s the whole point,’ said Sloan.

‘Why don’t you just come right on out with it,’ Hatcher’s tortured voice asked. ‘You want me to dust Cody, don’t you?’

He’s done it again, thought
H
atcher, that slick- talking bastard has done it again.

‘I want you to find out if he’s alive, and if he is, why he hasn’t turned up,’ Sloan said slowly and distinctly. ‘And if he’s mixed up in something
—
unsavory
. .

He let the sentence fade out.

‘Unsavory? Unsavory? Aren’t we getting a little cute here,’ Hatcher snapped.

‘We never had to talk about this kind of thing before,’ said Sloan, his eyes narrowing.

The tickling sensation in Sloan’s gut turned sour. What had happened to Hatcher? he wondered.

‘Why 4on’t you just lay it out for me,’ Hatcher said. Sloan still wouldn’t commit. He stared into space, puffing on his cigar.

‘You’re telling me you want Cody hit,’ Hatcher said, and there was genuine surprise in his voice.

‘I’m telling you
,
you have options, like you always did.’

‘Well,’ growled Hatcher, ‘I don’t want the option. I didn’t come over here to kill anybody. I came to find out whether Murphy Cody is dead or alive, period. Now you’re throwing a lot of new rules at me.’

‘No rules—’ Sloan said.

‘I’m not going to make that kind of decision,’ Hatcher whispered.

‘Then call me,’ Sloan said flatly. ‘I’ll make it for you.’

‘This guy was a war hero, Harry.’

‘So was Benedict Arnold.’

‘What do you know that I don’t?’ Hatcher demanded.

‘Not one fucking thing,’ Sloan snapped back.

‘Then it seems to me you’re drawing some pretty harsh conclusions.’

‘Well, what the hell conclusion would you draw?’ Sloan appealed. ‘You sized it up yourself a minute ago. The guy is missing for fifteen years. Then he apparently turns up alive in Bangkok and doesn’t want anybody to know it, and now Windy Porter’s dead and this Wol Pot is on the run. Supposing the two Chins who wasted Porter were running interference for Wol Pot. Suppose he and Cody are in something together.’

‘Suppose, suppose, suppose,’
H
atcher said angrily. ‘Hell, we’re not even sure Cody’s alive. This Wol Pot could be pulling some kind of a scam on all of us.’

‘Hey, I buy that, okay,’ Sloan agreed. Then he said, almost offhandedly, ‘If that’s the way it is, dust the little bastard off, too.’

‘Is it really that easy for you, Harry?’ Hatcher asked. ‘Dust off Cody, dust off the Thai.’

Sloan sighed. His shoulders drooped and he suddenly seemed ten years older.

‘We’ve been fighting these shadow wars for too many years to change now,’ Sloan said wearily.

‘And if Murph’s clean?’

‘Then set up the meeting with
B
uffalo Bill. Look,’ he sighed, ‘you do what you have to do, I do what I have to do. You start looking for answers to a lot of questions, you’re gonna be dead, Hatch. That’s basic and you know it. You don’t have time for that. All we got is clicks and reflexes. You got two choices on any given day
—
do it or don’t do it. If you don’t know the options going in, if you haven’t made the decision, they’ll get you. Have I ever told you any different? Has there ever been any question in your mind about that?’

‘Not before now,’ Hatcher sa
id
without looking at Sloan.

‘Then maybe I’ve got the wrong
m
an.’

‘Maybe so.’

‘You want out?’

Hatcher thought about it. He had mixed emotions about Murph Cody. One man th
o
ught he was a hero, another thought he was a maniac. Now the mission had taken on new complexities. It was no longer a question of is he alive or isn’t he, but whether he should stay alive or not. Hatcher knew if he bowed out, Sloan would bring in someone else, someone who would do the job without thinking, some expedient butcher.

And what are you, Hatcher,
he thought to himself,
an inexpedient butcher?

In Hatcher’s mind he was the only one in a position to make that judgment call. Much as he hated it, Sloan had done it again. He had put Hatcher in the middle. To Hatcher there was only one alternative.

He nodded slowly. ‘I’m still in,’ he said. ‘If he’s alive, I’ll find him.’

‘Then what?’

‘Then I play it by ear.’

Sloan stared across the table at him for several moments, then said, ‘Fair enough.’ He slid a manila envelope across the table to Hatcher.

‘What’s this?’ Hatcher asked.

‘It’s everything the embassy had on Windy Porter, for what it’s worth. His diary has a few locations that might help you.’

‘How about police reports?’

Sloan chuckled again, as if he were enjoying heaping bad news on Hatcher. He finished his coffee and dabbed his lips with his napkin.

‘Well, uh, that’s the other bit of bad news. We’ve had a little trouble with the local cops.’

‘What kind of trouble?’

‘They’re playing hard to get. They stiffed a runny- nosed embassy errand boy, told him they’re holding all of Windy’s stuff until they complete their investigation and they won’t talk about it.’

‘They probably don’t have much anyway.’

‘You’ll be dealing with a major named Ngy. I’ll be tied up making the arrangements to get Windy back to the States. If you need me, call Flitcraft, he can always get in touch.’

‘Is this Ngy going to give me a bad time?’ Hatcher asked.

‘They don’t call him the Mongoose for nothing,’ Sloan answered.

THE MONGOOSE

When Hatcher left the Oriental, he checked out the taxis and limos in front of the hotel. It was his custom to hire a car for a week at a time so it would always be available at a good price. And he also looked for a driver who was street-smart, somebody clever who knew where to get answers.

The Mercedes and Rolls-Royce limousines were lined up first, followed by more conventional cars, Ply- mouths and Toyotas. The drivers, all smiling, held open the doors and motioned him inside. They were all too clean, too civilized and uniformed. He looked past the row of limos and cabs to a small, wiry Thai standing beside a three-wheel
tuk-tuk
near the end of the line. The little man appeared to be ex
e
rcising. He stepped back suddenly and thrashed his ar
m
s in a series of hard jabs, sparring with an imaginary o
p
ponent, then jogged forward, threw a hard kick that was shoulder-high and turned back, jogging in place. He saw Hatcher watch
in
g him and smiled.

The little man jogged past the big expensive cars to Hatcher and bowed. He was wearing cutoff jeans and a white t-shirt with ‘Harvard Drinking Team’ on the front in dark blue letters.

‘Sawat-dii,’
he said, a general greeting in Thai that could mean anything from ‘Hi’ to ‘Good-bye’ and bowed again to Hatcher.

‘Sawat-dii, khrap,’
Hatcher answered.
‘Phom maa jaak Muang Saharat.’

He was about five five and in his mid-twenties, with a f
l
at nose and a wide face. A mixture of Thai and Chinese, Hatcher thought. Like many Thai men, he wore a tattoo on his shoulder. Hatcher recognized the tattoo as Kinnari, the half-woman, half-bird goddess, a harbinger of good luck.

‘I know you are American, I sp
e
ak English,’ the lad said proudly.

‘Sabai-dii.
What’s your name?’

‘Tsi Tei Nyk. Everybody call rue Sy.’ He exhibited two ragged rows of ruined teeth. ‘You name?’

‘Hatch.’

Sy pointed back and forth between them. ‘Sy, Hatch.’

‘You got it right.’

‘Good stuff.’

‘Yeah, good stuff,’ Hatcher agreed. ‘You exercise like that a lot, do you?’ He threw a couple of playful punches to make his point.

‘I am a boxer,’ Sy said proudly, sticking out his chest in an exaggerated show of pride. ‘
I
drive
tuk-tuk
until I get money to quit.’

He jumped back and thrashed his arms in another series of jabs, threw another ha
rd
kick, and jogged in place. ‘I practice every morning at dawn for two hours. And thirty minutes each afternoon I practice my moves.’

‘You want to work for me for about a week?’

‘A week? Do what?’

‘Translate for me.’

‘Everybody here speak English. And you speak Thai,’ Sy said.

Hatcher nodded. ‘Yeah but not
Sabai-dii.
You get me around, tell me about people. Help me get things done. No problems.’

‘Ahh. No problems,’ Sy said, and suddenly he understood what he was being hired for.
‘Mai pen rai.’

‘That’s right,
mai pen rai,’
Hatcher agreed. ‘So how much?’

‘Every day. All the time?’

‘I sleep late,’ Hatcher said with a smile.

Sy chuckled and nodded slowly. ‘I gotcha. Sleep late, stay up late.’

‘That’s about it.’

Sy, his hands folded behind hi
s
back, paced back and forth in front of Hatcher, his forehead wrinkled in a frown. ‘I will have a fight tomorrow night, so I cannot work then.’

‘Okay.’

‘And I must do my moves each afternoon.’

‘I understand,’ said Hatcher.
‘W
here do you fight?’

‘Everywhere. Tomorrow at th
e
Royal Park near Wat Phat,’ he said proudly. ‘If I get good enough, someday I will become a member of the King’s guard.’

‘That’s what you want, huh, to be a King’s guard?’

‘Yes. I have asked Buddha for that gift every day for twelve years. I wear the
hai-hua
n
g
and tattoo to guide me to that job.’

He reached inside his shirt and took out a circular brass ornament on the end of a silver chain. A reclining Buddha was engraved in its
center
. The Thais were big on amulets, which they called
hai-huang,
meaning ‘worries away,’ and some had a
m
ulets for every occasion. There were stalls and shops that specialized in amulets near all of the four hundred wats in Bangkok.

‘That’s a handsome
hai-huang,’
said Hatcher. ‘Okay, I’m sure we can find thirty minutes for you to practice every day. Maybe I’ll even go to the fights with you.’

‘I will get you ticket,’ the driver said excitedly, thrusting his leg out to the side in two hard kicks.

‘Okay, so how much?’ Hatcher asked again.

Sy stopped and held out his hand, the fingers splayed out. ‘Fi’ dollars, American bucks.’

‘An hour?’ Hatcher said.

‘All day.’

‘Five dollars a day?’ Hatcher said with surprise.

‘And I eat.’

‘Right. Five dollars a day and meals.’

‘Chai,’
the little Thai said.

‘You’re worth more.’

‘More?’

‘Twenty bucks a day.’

‘A day!’ Sy said, his eyes growing twice their size. Hatcher nodded.

‘I am rich man,’ said the delighted Sy. ‘I will rent a car.’

‘Can you drive a car?’

‘Sure, okay.’

‘Okay, I’ll throw in the car,’ said Hatcher.

‘Throw in?’

‘I’ll rent the car.’

‘A jeep?’ Sy said excitedly.

‘No, something better.’

‘Jeep is good. Take bumps good.’

‘Too hard on the ass,’ Hatcher whispered. ‘And too hot.’

‘Merkedes?’ Sy said, coming down hard on the c.

‘How about a chevy?’

‘Chevy? Ah, Chevrolet?’

‘Chai,’
Hatcher answered.

‘Okay,’ Sy answered with a shrug.