“You, Michael Jordan the basketball player? You crazy!”
A topless young woman waved to them from a window above a dress shop.
“Perky,” Mancini commented.
“Friendly, too.”
They turned into an alley that led to a wider street and the dark marble front of a somber, modern four-story structure. Anderson announced his name into the intercom and they were buzzed in. Two men in dark green uniforms checked them with metal detector wands, then pointed to a little elevator that took them to the top floor.
A pretty young woman in a tight white tunic and black skirt, her hair pulled back and decorated with a pink-and-yellow orchid, met them there.
Mancini whispered, “She smells nice,” as they followed her into a dark room that looked like an empty cocktail lounge. Norah Jones crooned “Come Away with Me” over the sound system. The young woman pointed her delicate arm at a tan banquette in the corner where three men in uniform sat. They bowed.
Recognizing Anderson, the man in the middle stood, smiled, and offered Crocker his hand. “Mr. Mansfield, welcome to my country.”
“Thank you, Colonel. This is my associate Mr. Mark Jones.”
“Sit down, please. What would you like to drink?”
Lieutenant Colonel Petsut of the Royal Thai Police was a little man with big ears and a scar that ran from the tip of his nose across his mouth to his chin. Short black hair greased back, mischievous dark eyes. He said something to one of his aides in Thai, and the man disappeared. Pointing to his other companion, he added, “I want you to meet my assistant, Captain Jakkri Phibulsongkram. You can call him Jack.”
“Jack, it’s a pleasure.”
A lovely young waitress arrived with a tray of drinks, including a local tom yum, which featured lime vodka with Thai chili garnish. Crocker sipped it while Petsut talked about his time as a young man studying criminal justice at the University of California, Irvine, that apparently involved a love affair with a young Southern California girl named Linda and a proposal of marriage. He said that the two had not married but remained friends. As evidence he showed them a picture of Linda, her husband, and two daughters standing with him and his family in front of a huge reclining gold Buddha known as Wat Pho. As he stuffed the photo back in his wallet, he said, “I suppose you won’t have time to visit the temple and stroll around the grounds. It always puts my spirit at peace.”
Crocker said, “We’re here on business.”
“Yes,” Petsut answered, sounding sad. He spoke about the terrorist attacks and the panic they had caused, as appetizers were set on the table—meang kum, Baan Thai spring rolls, pumpkin tod, chicken satay, crispy tofu, and chicken served with sweet sauce and crushed peanuts. All done gracefully and without interrupting the flow of conversation.
When Petsut mentioned Thailand’s Malay Muslim separatist movement, which had set off bombs that had killed and wounded more than three hundred people in the southern cities of Yala and Hat Yai, Anderson quickly pointed out that those attacks were not related to the recent car bombings in Bangkok. Those, he said, had likely been orchestrated by Iranian nationals.
“Yes, yes,” Petsut answered, “but the violence perpetrated by the Malay Muslims should also be a concern to you Americans, because they have specifically targeted civilian foreigners. They’re trying to upset the very active tourist industry in the south.”
“I’m aware of that, Colonel,” Anderson said. “But Mr. Mansfield and his men are here specifically to deal with the men who planned and orchestrated the attacks last month.”
Dinner was served with green tea, rice wine, and white Australian wine. They ate seafood curry, kaeng phet pet yang (roast duck in curry), fried rice with crabmeat, noodles stir-fried with Thai basil, deep-fried fish with sweet and tangy tamarind sauce.
Crocker dined heartily while Captain Jack explained that one of the men suspected of carrying out the attack against John Rinehart and his wife had been wounded in the face. This individual had sought medical attention at a clinic in Khlong Toei, a lower-class, crime-ridden area of the city. The injured man claimed to have been walking in the vicinity of the attack with his girlfriend. But the doctor who treated him became suspicious because he was a foreigner and had recent burn marks on his ankles that looked as if they’d been caused by a motorcycle exhaust pipe.
After several days the injured man recovered enough to take a train to Kanchanaburi. At the station there he was observed arguing with another foreigner, who then let him into his car and drove him to a small farm outside the town.
Members of the Special Operations Unit under the supervision of Captain Jack had placed the farm under surveillance. They had observed four men, all foreigners who looked Middle Eastern, coming and going, but they pretty much kept to themselves. The police also saw two motorcycles that resembled the bikes used in the bomb attacks parked in a barn. A CIA-installed listening device revealed that the men conversed in Farsi.