Political Instincts: A Novel of Amazing Thailand
Smashwords edition
Text by
F. Scott Sinclair
eISBN 978-616-222-055-5
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Text Copyright© F. Scott Sinclair
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Chapter 1
English Contest Judge: Mr. Surachai
I could hear the contestants murmuring to themselves in the hallway of Thammasat University. Each contestant in the English Speaking Contest must undergo a thorough interview about themselves and their speech. Having interviewed twenty contestants already, I was becoming exhausted at the continual questioning.
I could see contestant number twenty-one’s silhouette pacing back and forth in front of the half-frosted glass and teakwood office door. His name according to the fact sheet before me is Somchai. As a winner of three contests already with his speech, I took a minute to review it.
I heard a knock at the door. As I looked up, I saw the outline of a blackened fist that gently tapped the door once more. I said in Thai, “Yes, come in.”
A polite appearing contestant in a white shirt and pleated slacks opened the door, and says, “My name is Somchai.’
I said, “Just have a seat Somchai, I’ll be with you in a moment. I was just reading your file.”
He nodded his head as the other five judges filed into the room. The lanky boy didn’t budge. He didn’t appear afraid or intimidated. That amazed me. After reading the speech, I couldn’t believe my eyes. The boy before me didn’t seem at all like the person who wrote this contentious speech.
As my fellow judges reviewed Somchai’s case file, I asked, “Did you write this speech yourself?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why?”
“I don’t understand the question.”
“Pardon me, I shouldn’t have been so blunt... I meant to say, what caused you to choose the subject you did: The IMF Virus?” I straightened my tie and leaned back in my chair. The other judges did likewise out of curiosity.
Without much thought, Somchai says, “Because the people of Thailand watch, read, and listen to the news about their country’s economic and political problems each and every day.”
Looking down at a copy of the speech, I said, raising my head, “As the title implies, you think the IMF is the cause of our country’s economic and political problems?”
With alert eyes, Somchai straightened upright, and says, “Not just Thailand, but all East Asian countries.”
Judge Chawan abruptly interrupted, and says with his jowls flapping, “You must be kidding?!”
Unflappable, Somchai shot back, “No, sir. I’m not kidding. I’m deadly serious.”
After regaining his composure, trying to keep his irritation hidden, Judge Chawan says, “Are you saying that the IMF is the problem and not the cure of our country’s problems?”
“If you’ve read the speech, that’s exactly what I’m saying.”
I eyed each of my cohorts with a skeptical expression. Our eyes melted into one. This kid is for real. I asked, “In what way?”
“The IMF guidelines have become rules. And these rules have now become laws. These new rules go beyond protecting IMF funds, but go so far as to dictate both economic and political policy in favor of the Western World’s business communities.”
“How did you become so involved and learn so much at such a tender age?” I asked, awed at the depth of this boy’s insights into his country’s problems.
“My father has been my mentor and guiding light. My brother died for Thailand’s right to be free. He loved the principle of democracy. As I held my brother in my arms after he’d been shot in the chest by a Thai soldier during the Black May protests, I promised my brother I would continue the fight for freedom and democracy in Thailand.”
Sharply, Judge Amnuay says, “And it appears that you are doing exactly that, keeping your promise by the look of this speech. Who do you think is behind the IMF conspiracy?”
Without blinking an eyelid, Somchai counters, “I never said there is a conspiracy, sir.”
I answered, “You’ve implied as much, don’t you think?”
Grasping the sides of his chair, Somchai swiveled just noticeably in his chair, then says, “The IMF is a way for foreigners to invade my country economically and politically without firing a shot. Kind of like when the Japanese lost the battle, but won the war with the United States by bombing it with cars rather than bombs.”
All of us lowered our heads, pondering those words. I couldn’t contain myself, I scribbled some meaningless notes on the yellow legal pad before me, and said, “The United States isn’t bombing us. That’s absurd!”
“To you, maybe. But to me, they are bombing us...!”
“How...?!”
The boy stood his ground.
I couldn’t listen to this child any longer. After pausing a moment, I leaned forward with my elbows on the grained table, and said, “I believe we all need to take a break. If you wouldn’t mind, we’d like to continue your interview later this afternoon. Is that agreeable with you, Somchai?”
He looked each one of us in the eyes, unflinchingly, and says, “This afternoon will be fine.”
“Thank you, Somchai. That will be all for now.” He got up from his chair and walked confidently out the door. As the door closed, I said, “That’s the last we’re going to see of him until he reads his speech publicly in the next couple of days. Is that understood?”
Nobody dared say a word to the contrary. They knew that the IMF was the umbilical cord to money necessary to keep Thailand alive and us as well. Money is God...! Or at least, that’s the way my Thai and Chinese ancestors thought. It must be in my blood. Without any objections, my colleagues must have the same kind of ancestral bloodline.
“You may show the next contestant in,” I said, pausing to catch my breath. I excused myself momentarily, and went outside to make a very private long distance phone call at the furthermost end of the marbled hallway. I turned to make sure I wasn’t being overheard by anyone.
Chapter 2
Publisher: Mr. Naak
Bangkok was hot and humid. I felt droplets of perspiration trickling down my neck. Despite the human odors that floated in the stagnant air, I was delighted to sit next to my favorite nephew, Sanan. His only remaining son was competing in an English speaking contest being held at Thammasat University. Pride in his accomplishment made me beam inside and out. My nephew has always tried to instill knowledge and understanding in his sons.
But the by-product of his children’s enlightenment has led to only one result: death. His older son, Anan, died during the 1992 Black May pro-democracy demonstrations, somewhere between May 17th and the 20th. So tragic... The same fate that Sanan’s older brother, Thongchai, received at the hands of the authorities: death...by a chaotic firing squad.
Those two deaths have changed my loving nephew’s psyche forever. Yes, the October 14th, 1973 student uprising, and the 1992 Black May pro-democracy demonstrations are indelibly etched in the innermost recesses of his mind, I’m sure... Too much grief to expect one man to carry around with him.
Neither one of us has been able to mention a word about my other beloved nephew, and his only brother. Not a single word has exchanged our lips in almost a quarter of a century...and never would. The pain is too unbearable. Thongchai was a man’s man. A Thai Hemingway if there’s ever been one. God bless his soul forever...!
As I felt and perceived the excess baggage that Sanan carried with him on life’s uncertain voyage, I watched his flattened nostrils pulsate nervously as he saw his son Somchai amble to the podium. As his son turned to face the audience and judges, he smiled affectionately in our direction.
Somchai says, “This year we are celebrating His Majesty the King’s Birthday. To commemorate this momentous occasion and the joy it brings to the hearts of every citizen of Thailand, I would like to dedicate the following speech to our King: The Father of Our Country. My speech is entitled: The IMF Virus.”
My heart sank when I heard those words. The shock on my nephew’s face made me place my arm around his shoulder. I squeezed, and said, “My God, I hope this isn’t a repeat performance.”
My forced whisper instilled fear in my only remaining nephew’s eyes. With glassy eyes, he leaned in my direction, and says in hushed tones, “My only remaining, son. What have I done? I can’t lose him...”
I said, mindful of his dedication to democracy, “It’s God’s will. Your son, who died for democracy, is living his life through his brother from beyond. Can’t you see that?”
Silence enveloped the space between us as we touched foreheads. He understood. With a grin and a nod, Sanan turned to face and listen to the words falling from heaven; hoping to catch a glimpse of his dead son’s heart and soul.
With all eyes focused on his only son, we listened.
Somchai stood straight and proper, and says, “Often times I see my Mom staring out of the window. She seems so sad. Today, she suddenly shutoff the television and slumped over on the sofa.”
“What’s wrong, Mom?”
“The riots in the streets in Indonesia. I hope it never happens here. It’s like a virus...and it’s going to kill us all! I can’t bear it. Everything I love and care about is lost...” She wiped away the moistness around her eyes.
“I sat down beside her, frightened. I asked, ‘How can I help?’”
“Nobody can stop this virus that’s killing East Asia...”
“I thought of my Dad, who seems to be getting more anxious and depressed with each passing day. He walks slowly, but thoughtfully. But there’s a gloomy appearance on his weather-beaten face. Both of my parents are slowly dying. Not of any known disease, but of a new virus that has devastated East Asia economically.
“It attacks at will... Next to the AIDS virus, it’s second best. But when you see beautiful girls, policemen, and once proud businessmen jumping from buildings to an uncertain future onto the streets below, you realize that it’s a deadly virus. In my mind’s-eye, I can see my Mom gazing out of the window, or my Dad walking slowly to who knows where. Could they be next...? I must do something. Please help me, Lord! The only words I can hear pounding in my head, and ringing in my ears are, ‘You must help yourself...’”
Seeing my nephew’s lip quiver was overwhelming. I nudged him and he gazed into my stare of disbelief. Our mutual expressions of astonishment were written all over our faces. I said almost inaudibly, “I hope he hasn’t signed his own death warrant.” He turned away to keep me from seeing his emotions trembling from within.
As he forcefully contained his tears, my nephew and I saw a very special boy pouring his heart out to the world.
As we continued listening, Somchai spoke gallantly to the judges and audience, “No matter where you live in East Asia, being a teenager is difficult enough. But having to face an uncertain future is unbearable.
Will any of us have a job after we graduate from high school, or the university? So many unanswered questions... And no answers on the horizon.”
“As I stared at the ceiling fan turning above my bed, I thought about this economic virus. Am I helpless against the mighty virus? I don think so.... The IMF vaccine, developed out of money, has succeeded in some countries to relieve the financial disasters, but at what price? Our freedom--both economically and politically--has suffered. Has the vaccine of money purchased bondage to the inventors of the vaccine? Will we be forever in their grasp, so that our debts can never be repaid and our freedom can never be regained? Is the price for a cure: the money—worth the price?
“I don’t think East Asia thinks so...
“I’m a fighter. And so is my country. Thais and all East Asians are resilient and are able to adapt to almost every form of tragedy. In this case, tyranny... When the Japanese occupied Thailand, and other East Asian countries during World War II, our grandparents learned to cope with the Japanese presence.
“Then why can’t we, as teenagers, and the next generation of leaders of our respective countries...cope with this virus?
“Because we thought the vaccine of money would kill the virus, but like all viruses, this virus has changed its structure: purpose. The vaccine of money has now become the altered virus, which threatens to strangle any country that doesn’t abide by its rules. Those who have strong immune systems don’t want the vaccine of money, but the television scenes of riots on the streets of Indonesia shows how the altered virus retaliates. Those who buy the vaccine don’t have riots; but instead, receive a slow and painful death through strangulation: lacking freedom and independence. The vaccine breeds only dependence. Servitude. You become the slave, and the altered vaccine...now, a virus--becomes the master. A malignant tumor is the end result. A never-ending process, its cells dividing and multiplying until you die: both economically and politically.
“Our generation must fight back peacefully by becoming honest, hardworking, caring, loving, serious, better educated, and the best we can be...! We must be willing to sacrifice whatever it takes to rid our countries of this devastating virus known as: the IMF. We must cooperate with each other by finding friendlier vaccines of money. We need to help each other and the region. Why? So we together, can eradicate East Asia of the virus that threatens us, now...and our generation’s future.
“The IMF virus is a selfish and greedy virus that deserves to die, like the AIDS virus. Only our generation can save Thailand and its neighbors. Let’s take up the torch of eternal happiness, and make the Orient the romantic, burning candle of freedom it has always been. At least, for as long as I can remember...
“Instead of watching people throwing themselves off the top of buildings, we should catch them in our arms and hold them tightly...comforting and encouraging them.
“By changing ourselves, we can change our own countries, and destroy the plague that’s devastating East Asia, choking the life out of it. So, let’s join hands and hearts to save East Asia from this dreaded virus. Let us all become our own vaccine and cure that finally defeats the IMF virus!
“In conclusion, I’d like you to know that I can visualize His Majesty the King, standing by his bedroom window shedding a tear of grief for his beloved subjects. To me, that says it all. Thank you and good day.”
The applause was thunderous. My ears were deafened by the momentous occasion. Somchai stood so proud before the judges and audience. Television cameras and flashes from newspaper cameras highlighted the scene. The heartfelt ovation gave my nephew a great sense of relief. I, too, felt better.
Overcome by emotion, my nephew rushed to the stage and ran up the steps two at a time. Just as he was about to embrace his only son to share the moment of triumph, a shot rang out.
The shouting stopped.
His only remaining son, Somchai, was slammed by the impact of the bullet into the stage wall behind him. Somchai’s chest cavity was just that: a cavity of sorts. His body slid down and slumped over on its side in a blood bath.
My heart leaped and sputtered at the sight of my nephew cradling what was left of his son against his chest. As he sobbed, so did I: uncontrollably. No amount of education can prepare someone for this kind of event.
Being nearly 70 years of age, I was paralyzed. Throngs of crying guests, friends, associates, judges, and the media swarmed around my nephew and his dying son.
I was helpless.
I could only catch a glimpse of someone placing a white shirt into the remaining chest cavity of Somchai. But to no avail... By the time the paramedics had arrived, the sweet child had been pronounced dead by a physician in attendance. Nothing could save this courageous young child’s life.
Several policemen had tackled the assassin and wrestled with him on the floor of the auditorium. Many bystanders tried to kick and maul the assailant. Two of the policemen were nearly killed themselves. But they finally managed to drag the assassin bodily out of the auditorium to an awaiting squad car.
Other policemen pushed the crowd off the stage. The Master of Ceremonies grabbed the microphone and pleaded for everyone to return to their seats. Those in the audience reluctantly obeyed.
As the last of the mob left the stage, I was finally able to walk up the stage steps to console my nephew. My heart pounded with grief.
I knelt down and placed my arm on my nephew’s shoulder, and said, “I’m so sorry, Sanan.”
With a pleading glance, Sanan says, “To hell with democracy...! It isn’t goddamn worth it, is it?!”
In my most soothing whisper, I said, “Your children have not died in vain. Trust me...”
With an almost childlike expression, he nodded, saying, “I hope you’re right. Because if you aren’t, then there’s going to be hell to pay!”
I was mortified. With policemen and reporters surrounding us, I was afraid of what else my nephew might say. I said, “Let’s talk about this in private...”
He was shaking with such intensity, I thought the blood vessel in his neck was about ready to explode, as he cries, “Why the hell do they want to teach our children to think, anyway? So they can kill them?! Is that what the Thai educational system is trying to do? Is it?”
I had no answer for his perceptive questions.
Sanan screamed at me, “Is this what democracy is all about? Democracy for the rich and powerful--and death to those who believe in true democracy...and not corrupt democracy. Is that it, Uncle Naak? Is it?!”
My whole aged body nearly collapsed. Reporters were frantically taking notes, and others shoved cassette recorders in our faces. I took my nephew’s hand, and said, “No, it’s not. Come with me, and I promise to make Thailand a true democracy for all.”
Two emergency personnel removed Somchai’s body from the grasp of my shattered nephew. My bodyguards helped him to his feet. Before his son’s body was removed, he kissed his beloved son, Somchai, for the last time. Then tearfully, we both left the auditorium shocked and grief stricken.
As we reached the Volvo outside, I faced my nephew, and promised once more, “I will fight back with all the strength that remains in this ancient body of mine--I swear!”
He placed his head on my shoulder, and murmurs, “You have just sworn on my son’s grave to avenge his killers, and return Thailand to the People. Thank you...so much.”
A promise is a bond in Thailand. There will be hell to pay...! True democracy, here we come! I told myself. The future of Thailand is at stake.
We departed to prepare a burial for a hero, Somchai.
*****
Inside the back seat of the four-door Thai Police black and white pickup, the officer sitting next to the assassin jabbed his nightstick into the man’s side. The assassin collapsed face down into the lap of the Thai cop, his arms handcuffed behind him.
The driver asked in Thai,”What’s the problem?”
“Nothing,” the other officer said, slipping a capsule into the assassin’s mouth, meeting resistance every step of the way. Frustrated, the Thai cop crammed the capsule down the bad guy’s throat with his index finger. His pure gold ring caught on the prisoner’s remaining front tooth. But after a moment of trying to avoid being bitten by the assailant, he struggled and managed to dislodge the ring. He immediately placed his hand over the man’s mouth to muffle his protests. Desperate convulsive movements made by the prisoner were subdued by the Thai cop’s overpowering leverage. Moments later, the assassin relaxed.
Chapter 3
Publisher: Mr. Naak
The following morning, I sat in my bookstore office with my customary first cup of Nescafe and my two favorite newspapers: The Bangkok Post and The Nation. Curious about what the news media had on the assassination, I turned to the front page.
To my surprise, the headlines read: Thammasat University Student Murdered During an English Speaking Contest. The Assassin Dies in Police Custody.
Why? An extra-judicial killing? Not likely. Or not the typical variety, best I can figure. After reading the article in the Bangkok Post, I learned that the assassin ingested a potassium cyanide capsule. I couldn’t believe my eyes. Could it be that the American renegade law enforcement society has decided to invade Thailand? Doesn’t make any sense. How could a small country like Thailand threaten American law enforcement? The speech was about the IMF, not drugs and the Burma Triangle. Does the IMF feel intimidated? They practically own us. Don’t think so... Our country is in jeopardy, not the IMF. Or is it? Maybe the backers of the IMF want to snuff out any potential seeds of discontent. It’s a thought. Who are the backers of the IMF? America, and the European community? I can’t figure it. If the Thai Mafia is behind the hit, are they being copycats by using potassium cyanide to mask their tracks?
What sin did my nephew’s son perpetrate to be dealt such a harsh punishment? Death. Surely the Thai political establishment wouldn’t go to such extremes just to silence a college student. Somchai was popular, but he wasn’t a threat in anyway, shape, or form. He only wanted to be heard. To convey his innermost feelings, and to celebrate our beloved King’s Birthday. Nothing more...
Then why has he died, and for what?
My secretary, Ms. Mukda, came into my office, and asked, “Is there anything I can do for you? Somchai’s murder is taking its toll on you, sir.”
I couldn’t argue with that observation. The affair was definitely taking its toll on me. I’m an intellectual, but some things can’t be intellectualized. For anyone to take another person’s life is reprehensible; especially, when it’s a relative of mine.
I took another sip of coffee to clear my brain. As I placed the cup on the saucer, I pointed to the headlines, and said, “I have promised revenge. If Somchai’s speech was so earthshaking and threatening, I shall make the establishment pay. Give that writer, Jake Jacobs, a call and ask him to come over here to see me as quickly as he can. And while you’re at it, draw up a contract with liberal terms. I want to present Mr. Jake Jacobs with a contract he can’t refuse.”
My secretary’s eyes bulged out, knowing I was probably up to no good. But she only said, “Yes, sir. I’ll telephone him and draw up the contract, right away.”
With my eyes peeping at her from above the rim of my reading glasses, I simply said, “Thanks. I know you think I’m on another one of my bizarre dreams again. But you know better, I’m sure...”
Her raised brow and tight smile told me she understood. As she left to begin the task at hand, I became reflective. At seventy years of age, I can’t turn my back on my country or my family. So I just slipped back in my chair with my fingers interlaced beneath my chin, and pondered my options. Some people, including myself, think I’m a dreamer. They’re right. But when provoked, I’m a fox in sheep’s clothing. The powers that be had best watch out!
With a sly grin, I asked myself: Is the pen mightier than the sword? It damn sure is... And I’m going to prove it! I believe those profound words with all my heart and soul! When Jake gets done with their asses, they’ll wish they’d never heard of Mr. Naak and his stable of writers—and that’s a fact.
Chapter 4
That evening I had my chauffeur drive me to my nephew’s condominium. I reluctantly got out when my chauffeur opened the Mercedes door, and said, “Thanks. I’ll be fine. You don’t need to escort me.”
Adisorn, my longtime chauffeur, winks and says, “Anything you say boss. But I’ll keep an eye out down here.”
“Good idea. Come get me in a couple of hours.”
“Chay, khap,” he said, agreeing in Thai.
Moments later, I found myself with my hand about to knock on Sanan’s door. Just then I heard Sanan’s voice down at the other end of the hallway.
“Uncle Naak, I almost missed you.”
I gazed a bit startled at the sound of his voice. I turned towards his silhouette, which was backlighted by the hall lamps. I asked tentatively, “Sanan...?”
“Khap (Yes). Your driver Adisorn saw me as I was about to do some errands. He said you came to see me.”
Morose at the thought of Somchai’s death, I placed my hand on Sanan’s shoulder as he approached me. “I just wanted to say--”
Wrapping his right arm around my shoulder, he says, “Needn’t say anything. Just knowing you care is enough... Let’s go inside and talk. Anyway, I’ve got something to show you.”
“What’s that...?”
He turned the key in the lock, and ushers me inside. “Have a seat. I’ll get it.”
What was he going to get?
I waited patiently while Sanan went into the bedroom to get whatever it was he wanted me to see. The floral brocade sofa sat near the main living room window. As I leaned forward, I saw the Olympic sized swimming pool that stretched the full length of the condo. Adults lounged and children swam briskly about the pool.
“Care for your favorite?”
“French wine...?”
“Your favorite. I always keep a bottle in storage.”
“Why...? My beliefs that I’ve pawned off on you since your childhood have only caused you grief,” I said, with guilt written all over my face.
He didn’t reply. Like a gentleman, he got up to pour me a wine glass full of my favorite French wine, along with an antique gold porcelain plate lined with tender morsels of my preferred Stilton cheese. A mouth-watering combination if you ask me. How thoughtful my nephew is... Before getting up, he’d placed a videotape on the smoked glass coffee table. His polite silence made it difficult for me to know how to console him, or to bring up the circumstances surrounding Somchai’s death. Most of all, I couldn’t bring myself to ask him about the funeral arrangements.
As he placed the wineglass and cheese in front of me, he says, “I want you to see this videotape. I taped it a few months ago at another English speaking contest.”
He wandered over to the VCR and placed the tape inside. Using the remote, he turned the TV on and returned to my side.
As the picture came on, I asked, “Are you sure you can handle this?”
His whole body collapsed back on the sofa. Seeing his head tilted upward towards the ceiling of mosaic tile, he spoke with a trembling voice, “I’ve seen it three times. It’s killing me, Uncle Naak...”
“Maybe we shouldn’t--”
He stopped me by placing his hand on my forearm, and says as he squeezed, “I loved him so much. Beyond ordinary words... Words can never adequately communicate my true emotions that I feel in my gut.
But this video expresses our love for each other so beautifully. It is my only link to my beloved son. Without this video, I don’t know if I could go on...”
With the flick of his thumb, the VCR engaged the play mode. We both watched the television screen, mesmerized.
In the darkness of the living room, Somchai’s image reflected off our faces. Somchai says, “This year we are again celebrating His Majesty the King’s birthday. To commemorate this momentous occasion and the joy it brings to the hearts of every citizen of Thailand, I would like to dedicate the following speech to our King—The Father of our country...and pay tribute to my own Father. I hope you like it...as much as I love him, and my beloved King. It is entitled: Why I Love My Father So Much...!”
I noticed my nephew straighten up like a proud father would after hearing those marvelous words; especially, from one’s own deceased son. My heart felt his joy and pain simultaneously. His eyes glistened in the darkness illuminated only by the rays of light emitted from the screen before us. As he and I both looked on in anticipation of his lost child’s precious words; it appeared as though he’d never heard or seen this speech before. Oh, how his anguish must be tormenting his mind. His memory seemed so distant and transient--damaged forever.
We watched as Somchai says, “Sometimes I have tears in my eyes, and a frog in my throat. Why is that? Someday my Father is going to die, or I’ll die before him.”
Those words hit us both smack dab in the middle of our solar plexus. Was this a premonition Somchai had while composing this speech? It’s as if he knew and wanted to let his father know how he really felt about him.
Somchai seemed to be searching the audience from his perch on the podium, and says, “I feel the loss of his company and love already. Today, and every day. He’s my Father, whom I love so dearly that my stomach aches when he’s gone from me--even for a short while.”
Tears welled up in Sanan’s eyes. His quivering lips said what words couldn’t. As he slowly turned his head in my direction, he placed his head on my shoulder. As he wept, I tried to console him by hugging and patting his bony back.
As his son spoke, he raised his head with pride and listened. Somchai’s words echoed throughout the condo, “But why? Maybe it’s because I’m his flesh and blood? No... That’s not it. Everybody has a Father. My Father is special to me. It’s more like I have a lifelong friend than a Father. He plays soccer with me. My Dad talks to me about things that I do not feel comfortable talking about with anyone else. I can trust him to keep a secret. When I’ve done something bad, my Dad may punish me or scold me, but his eyes are teary. That lets me know he still cares and loves me, no matter what I’ve done wrong. When I do something that makes him proud of me, we share the joys by a hug and a pat on the back.”
Sanan took a deep breath, lowering his head above his bent knees; whereupon, his elbows rested on his thighs. His curved back sloped downward to the cushions which were as depressed as he was. As his child uttered words of love, Sanan’s head tilted upright.
As though he was staring directly at us, his eyes pierced ours collectively. Somchai says, “Just before I close my eyes for a night’s sleep, my Father comforts me by saying, ‘That’s my boy, the most wonderful son a guy could ask for...’ I almost purr like a cat when he says that. He cares about me, I say to myself.”
I could visualize my nephew saying that to his son. He’s such a loving person. Why do good people have to hurt so much? Why...?!
As Somchai’s image and voice haunted the darkness, he says, “When I have a problem I can’t solve, he’s always there for me. He sits me on his lap, and we discuss the problem--man to man. His advice and strength gives me the power to study, play sports, make friends, but most of all: I love and want to please him. He gave me life, and he shows me that the life created means something to him by the wonderful way he treats me. He doesn’t spoil me. But he gives me what I need most: love, understanding, and companionship. He’s a model that I will always try to copy.”
The image of Somchai’s body cascading downward as the assassin’s bullet tore throw his chest cavity, ran chills down my spine. I helped mold his father, and that’s the thanks the good Lord has chosen to bestow on us. Another sip of French wine swished about my mouth, soothing my taste buds. As the sound of the wineglass touched the smoked glass, I placed my elbows on my thighs.
With my senses numbed somewhat, I heard those haunting words of Somchai’s, “I love him so much because he wants me to have a good life. He wants me to become the best I can be. He wants me to have a college education at Thammasat University. But most of all, even if I decided to become a common laborer, and not a doctor, he’d still love me. So that’s why I love my Father so much... His love is unconditional! He loves me for me; and likewise, I love him because he’s my, everything. He’s my Father.”
As he said that, the crowd in the auditorium at a regional secondary school in Northern Thailand cheered thunderously. His departing words were drowned out. Sanan was so proud and smiled with a joyous love in his heart, as I did.
With my wineglass raised to my lips, I savored the glory of the moment. As the soothing taste of fermented grapes sloshed gently in my mouth, the stem of my glass shattered before my eyes. The crystal base landed on the pile rug between my legs. Before I could comprehend the gravity of the situation, Sanan slumped over and his head fell upon my lap. Blood oozed from his neck. Before I could react, Sanan’s thumb trembled and depressed the remotes off button. I was engulfed in complete darkness. Terrified, I quickly moved aside to allow my nephew to rest on the couch.
I crouched down on the floor, moving away from the balcony doors that were cracked open slightly. The sound of another bullet crashing through the panes of glass, meant the killer wasn’t after Sanan, but he’s after me!
I pulled my cellular phone from my belt, and frantically dialed my chauffeur. After what seemed like an eternity, the phone crushing my ear in anticipation, Adisorn at last answered, “Hello.”
“Adisorn, get your butt up here! My nephew’s been shot and somebody’s trying to kill me!”
“Mr. Naak...?!” That you?”
“No, it’s Mother Teresa. Yes, it’s me. Did you hear any shots?”
Sounding guilty, Adisorn says, “Some flashes. But this is not the time to talk, boss. Hang on. I’ll be there in a second.”
“Christ, hurry!”
“Khrap.” Yes, sir.
At what seemed like hours, I finally heard somebody kick the door in. Immediately the lights went on, and I saw Adisorn rushing in my direction.
He says, “Have you been hit, boss?”
As my elbow leaned on the thick pile rug, I said, “No. But I can’t say as much for my nephew.”
The blood from his neck matched the color of the carpeting. Seeing the position of the hole where the bullet entered reminded me of my youth. We used to slaughter chickens by shooting them with arrows in almost the same exact place. Sanan’s limp and bent neck was an exact replica of my less than human urge to kill. I flinched at those words: human being. It’s a crock ... Apes dressed in sheep’s clothing. Killer’s by nature’s design is a better description of the so-called human race.
“The police are on their way. All the lights in the condominium have been turned on, so the killer’s probably escaped,” Adisorn said, helping me to my feet.
We stayed away from the glass doors and windows just in case the assassin was still about. Not being Buddhist sometimes makes me feel like an alien in my own country. But I won’t change my religion for political or other considerations. There will be a private dual funeral for Sanan and Somchai. That’s what they would have wanted.
After the police arrived, I explained the circumstances and gave them the videotape. Knowing about the assassination of Somchai and now his father, the police knew the connection. When I mentioned that several other rounds were scattered around the condo, they knew I was in danger. So the police escorted me home, and placed around the clock security and surveillance on my home and bookstore. Maybe the bullet that hit Sanan was really intended for me. My life did pass before my eyes. A good life it has been, filled with love and adventure. And I will complete my life’s work before departing planet earth for places unknown.
That is my dream, and my promise to Sanan and Somchai!
Chapter 5
Director of Central Intelligence: James Rodgers
I was sitting in my Langley, Virginia office scanning various intelligence reports in front of me. My eyes became fixated on one particular report. “Christ, this can’t be happening!” I shouted.
Suddenly, the door to my office burst open.
“What’s the matter, sir?” my secretary, Jennifer Collins asked.
Her mouth was dangling from its hinges. My eyes bulged with apprehension, as I said, “Same old shit, just a different damned day.”
“Excuse me...?”
“You heard me. Get Marvin Cooke for me. Tell him it’s urgent.”
“Yes, sir. Is that it?” Jennifer asked as if there was still more to be said.
Showing an expression of irritation at her uncalled for remark, I said curtly, “Should there be...?”
“Sorry. What I meant was...”
“I know what you meant. Just do as I ask, okay?”
She’d gotten the point. Clandestine information. Hear no evil, see no evil, and for God’s sake--speak no evil; especially, to our fellow Americans who work for us, not the other way around.
“Okay, sir.”
After she redeemed herself, I waited impatiently for my friend, Marvin Cooke, the intelligence expert. He’s the only guy I can trust with this matter.
Moments later, Jennifer ushered Marvin into a plush leather chair in front of me. We smiled wearily at one another. My elbows were entrenched on the desk sized writing pad before me. If my nerves were any tauter, I’d have split my guts open. Even the oak desktop appeared burdened by the intense pressure my elbows were forcing upon it.
Without a word, our eyes met. Marvin says, “I know that look, sir. Your silence has told me everything. Care to enlighten me?”
Knowing that my career may be on the line, as well as, Marvin’s, I said, “America’s in deep shit, my friend.”
“Isn’t it always?”
“I mean, it’s really in the deep do-do this time.” I glanced at the report in front of me, and said, “America’s future as the world’s Superpower and leader of democracy in the free world is at stake. Look at this report.’
I handed him the report. He took his spectacles and wrapped them around his ears. After a moment or two, he removed his glasses, and says, “Participatory democracy in Thailand? You’ve got to be putting me on. The land of copying, corruption, political chaos, civil disobedience, extra-judicial killings and traffic jams, wants Participatory democracy? C’mon...”
“Doesn’t make any sense, does it? The rich and powerful politicians certainly won’t allow it, is my best guess. But the facts are before your eyes. Our sources tell us that if the Thai people ever latch onto a political system that allows them to govern themselves, they’d accept it readily.”
Marvin says, leaning forward in his chair, “Like they accepted Western style capitalism? The taste of the good life before their eyes on television, has become a reality.”
I said, despondently, with my fingers outstretched on my desk, “And that’s not all. It may become reality here, also.
“You’re shittin’ me? How?”
“The same damn way it originally gained popularity here in the United States...”
“How’s that...?” he said, gazing at me with uncertainty.
“A fucking ghost, that’s how...” I said, taking notice of his whimsical stare.
“C’mon, a ghost?”
“You’ve got it. A ghost we thought we had terminated through mutual friends in the underworld who shall remain nameless. If you haven’t guessed, it’s that son-of-a-bitch of an idealist: Professor Harlan Watt.”
“The bastard’s dead, isn’t he?”
Oh, how I wanted to chuckle audibly from strained nerves, but only said, “He is, but his dream isn’t.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning, somebody has pissed off that publisher, Mr. Naak. Seems his nephew’s son was assassinated a couple of weeks ago, and his nephew a couple of days later. Our confidential source says that that author, Jake Jacobs, who nearly toppled the United States government legally, is taking up the void Professor Watt left.”
“What the hell do you mean by, nearly? Christ, they’re initiative petitions still circulating all over the country. Your trumped-up conspiracy charges against those tax protester and survivalist groups only curtailed about half of the petitions. That goddamn former Supreme Court justice--”
I snickered as I interrupted, “Oh, you mean, Theodore Marsh?”
“That’s the asshole...”
“Never mind about him, we’ll deal with him later. My concern is focused on that author, Jake Jacobs. He’s carrying forward the banner and dream of Participatory democracy by writing another novel dedicated to our deceased friend, Professor Harlan Watt. And that Thai publisher is backing his ass,” I said as I reached forward to retrieve a cigar. As I opened the ornate pewter cigar box, I offered a Havana cigar to my friend.
In a stupor, Marvin says, “Thanks.”
As we lit our cigars, I said curiously, “You seem a bit distant...”
He shook his head, as if trying to get his mind back on track, and says, “It’s nothing. But I’m worried that if a new form of democracy takes hold in Thailand, it will spread like wildfire to the States.”
I took a puff of my Havana cigar, and exhaled. The distinctive aroma floated aloft, as I said, “And as you’ve said, the brush fires of scattered initiative petitions are still smoldering. The foothold that jerk, Professor Watt, got in America by trying to eliminate the Federal government legally is haunting us. The initiative and referendum process could be the straw that broke the Camel’s back. If those smoldering ashes are rekindled into flames for freedom and States rights again by the success of Participatory democracy in Thailand, then there’s no telling what will happen. We can kiss our collective butts goodbye, for sure.”
Shaking his head, he raised his eyes from the threads of the rug beneath our feet, to eye level, and he said, “We want democracy for the privileged, rich and powerful. Not for a bunch of malcontents and average citizens. Only those of us in the bureaucracy know how to run a country, not the morons we govern.”
I couldn’t pass on the thought that dangled from the tip of my tongue. “Does the term ‘Tea Baggers’ ring any bells?”
The remark made him cough nervously. With a slow drawn-out smirk, he wiped his mouth with a handkerchief, and replies, “You might say that, sir.”
That I couldn’t argue with. So, I said, “What’s your suggestion?”
“Can’t use the Mafia or the renegades any longer.”
“How about busting them out of the slammer?”
I laid back in my high-backed chair rubbing my chin, and said, “You’ve got an excellent point, but I’ve already thought of that. Too risky. Any involvement by us domestically could create political havoc for the Company.”
“Well, then...?”
“What are you doing tonight?”
He pondered the implications of the seemingly innocent gesture.
“Nothing. Why do you ask?”
“A little filleted Halibut sounds inviting. What do you say?”
He squirmed, and then says, “How about midnight at our favorite watering hole?”
With a long overdue grin, I said, “Good choice. We’ll discuss the Company and America’s future gazing at the solitude of the surroundings. Trees don’t talk. Only men.”
“I hear you. Between us only.”
“That’s my boy. Next to man’s best friend, you’re a damn fine friend to have.”
Shyly, he says, “I don’t know quite how to take that?”
“As a compliment, my friend.”
“I hope you feel the same way after this is all over.”
We could only laugh at the truth of his words.
“See you tonight,” I said as we shook hands conspiratorially. After a few drinks, we’d think up a scheme to neutralize Mr. Naak and Jake Jacobs. That we would... Just wait and see, Mr. Naak, it’s all over but the shooting. Jake Jacobs, you can kiss your American butt goodbye!
Chapter 6
Novelist: Jake Jacobs
I felt the icy water flowing from the rusty showerhead careen down the curves of my sweaty nakedness. As the welcomed mist of the phony waterfall washed away the stench of last night’s misdeeds, I heard the phone ring. My wife, Virginia, still not fully recovered from the life-threatening wounds inflicted upon her in America--answered the phone.
As I stepped out of the shower, she handed me the cordless phone. With the beige phone in one hand and a terrycloth towel in the other, I said, “Jake, speaking.”
A husky Thai voice at the other end of the line says, “This is Mr. Naak’s secretary. He’d like you to meet him at the bookstore as quickly as possible. Can you come right over? I should have called you yesterday because--doesn’t make any difference now, anyway.”
“What doesn’t make any difference now?”
“I’ll let Mr. Naak fill you in. Okay?”
“Something the matter?”
“Please, could you hurry over right away. You’ll learn soon enough.”
Her voice trembled for an instant, so I said, “Just keep the coffee hot.”
“Will do. But I don’t think it’s a good idea to bring the Mrs. along. Agreed?”
“I hear you. I’ll be there solo...”
As I said goodbye, I couldn’t help wondering what the hell’s going on?! Christ, you’d think I was back working for the government again.
*****
The street in front of Mr. Naak’s bookstore was crowded with cars and people as usual. As the green taxi came to a screeching halt, I slapped two hundred baht into the driver’s hand. I said, “Keep the change, pal...”
When I didn’t wait for change, I guess he must have gotten the hint. Anyway, he wished me good luck in Thai (choke dee). I held my latest manuscript tightly under my arm. When you’re lucky enough to have a publisher call you, it’s best to take advantage of the situation.
I climbed the three steps to the main entrance and opened the door. To my amazement, a local television crew was interviewing, Mr. Naak. He seemed a bit flushed in the face and disgruntled for some reason. Our eyes met as he proceeded with the interview. I turned facing the counter and saw a half-dozen wine goblets sitting on a silver tray. He must be preparing to stifle any dissent, and warm over any tarnished feathers. A real diplomat, that he is.
As I turned back towards the camera, Mr. Naak was missing.
“Care for a glass of wine, my friend? You may need it...”
His approach startled me, but I grinned and accepted the offer. He asked me to join him in his office. As we strolled with our glistening wineglasses in tow, I asked, “What’s the mystery?”
“Mystery?” he asked, sheepishly.
“Yeah... The cloak and dagger, shit. How about clueing me in on what’s going on!”
“Settle down, Jake. Have a seat and take a load off your mind. Care for some snacks?”
“Let’s cut to the heart of the matter, okay?”
He chuckled, and says, “What do you have there?”
“My latest manuscript.”
“The one my new editor told me about?”
“Well, since you wouldn’t read it... Yeah, that’s right. Care to take a look yourself?”
He nodded, then took a sip of wine, and says, “Believe it or not, I’ve read it. Jake, it’s exactly what I’m looking for.”
He gently tossed me something across his desk. “What’s this...?”
“Pick it up and read it. If you agree with the terms and conditions, sign it and we’re in business.”
I couldn’t believe the lucrative terms and conditions. A writer’s dream! After a moments reflection, I asked, “An offer I can’t refuse, is that it?”
“Better than a horse’s head, wouldn’t you say?”
“Got that right, sir. But why are you being so nice to me all of a sudden?”
His silver locks followed his gaze at the shelves of books and magazines encircling him from behind the desk. “I’m a businessman, Jake. This isn’t business; it’s personal.”
“Based on the advance, royalties, and the whole nine yards, I wish you’d throw more personal business my way.”
I could tell he enjoyed toying with me. We have a mutual love and respect for each other. He knows I don’t write for money, but he likes to reward me once in a while for a job well done. If I thrive, he thrives. But if he keeps me a little hungry and eager to get published, he does us both a favor. Egos must be massaged, loyalty rewarded, and gratitude acknowledged. The two of us are a mutual admiration society. He gave me my start, and I’ll be damned if I’ll jump ship no matter how much anybody offers me. I may not be as loyal as a dog, but I’m the next best thing to one. And Mr. Naak knows that.
His lips had a discerning pucker to them. With elbows upon his desk, his index fingers and thumbs forming a triangle, he says, “My nephew and his son have been assassinated.”
“What?”
“I know this is a shock to you and comes as a surprise. You should read newspapers more often.”
“We’ve been over that territory before, haven’t we?”
“Your illness, PTSD. Yeah, I know. But this time, I’ve got your illness. It’s communicable, isn’t it?”
We saw through each other’s pain. I said sadly, “Perhaps, it is...”
“No cure, like the common cold?”
“The common cold goes away in a week, or so. PTSD (Post-traumatic stress disorder) never goes away. It eats away at you like a vulture.”
He leaned forward, his eyes glued to mine. “I know... I’m dying inside every single day. Blaming myself for their deaths. But as you know, I’m a fighter. That’s why I’ve summoned you here today.”
“Summoned? Getting a little legalistic, aren’t we?”
With a twinkle in his eye, he says, “Your book’s at the printer as we speak. I’m planning to produce five hundred thousand copies of the book. Not all at once, mind you, but that’s the plan over time.”
“Christ almighty, that’ll bankrupt you! Don’t do it!”
“It’s a done deal, my friend. I don’t give a damn if I’ve got to give the son-of-a-bitches away, Jake. I made a promise to my nephew to make Thailand live up to its name: Free land. And I keep my promises, don’t I?”
He promised to publish anything I wrote. And he has lived up to his promise. God bless, Mr. Naak! They threw away the mold after he was born. There’ll never be another like him. How lucky I am.
I raised my head tearfully, and said, “Yes, sir. You damn sure keep your promises.”
His eyes became inflamed with passion, as he spoke through gritting teeth, “Your sharp tongue and powerful style will change Thailand forever. Most importantly, you will have fulfilled a promise to the most humane of humans: Sanan and Somchai. A father and son, whose dream it was to have absolute freedom and true democracy for all in their beloved homeland. Only you, Jake, can make that dream come true!”
I had a lump in my throat, and choked out the words, “Your dream is my dream, sir. Nothing is going to interfere with that dream! Do you believe me?”
He turned in his chair and removed my first book from the bookshelf, and says, “After I published your first book, I knew I could believe anything you wrote. Why? Because you’re a dreamer just like me. And dreamers are believers. Maybe different beliefs, but believers just the same.”
I bent down with a pen in hand and signed the contract, the bond between us. We shook hands and departed company as friends with a mutual dream: A free and truly democratic Thailand...for all.
Chapter 7
Thai IMF Operative: Mr. Johnson
Christ, what a hell of mess! Corpses, everywhere in Thailand. What the hell have I done?! Maybe a better word would be--unleashed. My thoughts were scattering in every direction, so I must get on the horn before things get out of hand.
I dialed a secure and private line to a high official within the IMF. Who this joker’s true identity was, I’ll never know. And I damn well don’t want to know. The less I know the better for all concerned. That goes for my identity as well...
A soft voice came on the line, “This is the IMF, Jennifer speaking. How may I direct your call?”
I said, “This is Mr. Johnson.”
Sounding relieved, the operator answers, “Oh yes, Mr. Johnson, we’ve been expecting your call.”
“You have...?”
“Don’t worry. Things have been happening so fast. You know how it is...”
“No, I don’t know how it is. Enlighten me,” I said, disturbed by the possibility of a breach in security.
With a calm reply, she says, “Our man is on the line, go ahead, Mr. Doe.”
Shit, I thought, as I said, “Boy, that’s a creative code name.”
The IMF official named, John Doe, says, “Next to your generic name, Mr. Johnson, I thought it was quite untraceable. What do you think?”
“Maybe you’re right...”
“But I don’t think you called me to discuss the weather, or in this case--code names and the merits of each. Am I correct?”
I swallowed and cleared my throat, and said, “Perhaps you’ve got a point. Actually, I’m calling to get some direction. Things have gotten a bit out of control here in Thailand.”
“Might say that,” the IMF official said. “We’ve been expecting your call.”
“Gathered that from what your receptionist had to say.”
“Don’t be alarmed. She has a Top Secret Crypto clearance and beyond, my friend.”
I said, “Speaking of friends, I hope she remains on your side.”
“Why my side?”
“Because she knows who you are, but even you don’t know who I am....”
He says rather cockily, “You sure about that...?”
“Positive, pal. And it’s going to remain that way. Don’t mess up on your end. Got that?”
His tone changed instantly. “Right... Anyway, what can I do to help?”
“For starters, you can deposit the sum of two million dollars in my Swiss bank account.”
“We made the untraceable IMF transfer yesterday.”
“Why a day early?”
“Because of the splendid job you’re doing screwing up Thailand’s economy, that’s why. With bodies strewn all over Thailand, the fear you’ve instilled in the new Thai government will keep their butts dependent on our purse strings. Keep up the good work.”
“That’s why I’m calling. Don’t you think the havoc I’ve managed to conjure up is getting out of control?”
“Hell, no...! Give them the business. Those corrupt bastards are going to come begging for more loans. And we’ll be standing by to dole out some more bread. If Thai sources of funds dry up, those greedy politicians will have no choice but to borrow more money from Santa Claus.”
“The IMF...?” I asked, knowingly.
“Right on. Our biggest client is across the pond. Mother Liberty herself. We’ve got to protect their interests first.”
“Do you mean that by causing dissention with Thailand’s neighbors and its trading partners, that’ll keep the East Asians from forming their own IMF?”
The IMF official’s excitement could be felt electronically, as he states, “BINGO...! You’ve got the picture. But with the potential of tourism to pull the Thais out of this crisis of our making, you’ve got to continue to enlist those fake monks from Burma to carry on their terrorist acts at airports, train stations, and bus stations all over Thailand.”
I said, feeling exuberant, “Don’t forget those five star hotels. You haven’t heard anything, yet. I’ll have the friggin’ Thai baht pushing fifty to the damned dollar in no time. Then it’ll be sixty baht, here we come--again!”
With a noticeable chuckle on the other end of the line, he says, “Uncle Sam and the international business community will be forever in your debt. We’ll take over Thailand without ever firing a shot. Just like when we paid off that so-called money speculator who caused the original financial crisis back in 1997.”
Stunned, I asked, “Do you mean the United States and the European community are conspiring to destroy Thailand?”
“I’ll go one step further, I’d say that the CIA conspired on its own to destroy Thailand.”
Trying to grapple with the significance of that last statement, I asked, “And you’re using me to finish the job?”
“Who recruited you, huh?”
“The Company.”
“There’s your answer. And be proud of what you’ve managed to accomplish for Uncle Sam and the business community.”
“Like stealing secrets and intercepting sealed contract bids for jobs in Europe by using the Echelon satellite?” I injected.
“You’re good at drawing pictures. Your conclusions certainly won’t see the light of day; but they’re accurate. And by using military spy satellites for commercial purposes, it isn’t hurting anybody physically.”
I reacted instantly. “Meaning, what I’m doing is?”
“Is doing what?”
“Hurting people, that’s what!”