control the first Isaan prime minister.”
“Why would he go for it?” Kosit asks with his mouth full. “He could get elected without them.”
“I’ll make a few guesses,” Arthit says. “They tell him he won’t get assassinated during the campaign, for one thing. They say he won’t have to worry about a coup if he gets elected and that they can make everything a lot easier for him once he’s in office. Cooperation from the legislature. No pesky investigation every time he slips a million baht into his pocket.”
Rafferty says, “And I was, to use a business term, due diligence. They set me up to see whether the man could really get elected.”
“Meaning what?” Kosit says.
Rafferty takes another mouthful of water. “Ton wanted to know whether I could discover the monstrosity in Pan’s past, the thing that would make it impossible for him to get elected. I think they saw the same blank space Arthit talked about at the very beginning, the link missing in Pan’s story, the link between Pan the pimp and Pan the great industrialist. They wanted to see whether I could find out what it was. If Pan runs for national office, how likely is it that the fire at the factory will come out? If it did, it’d be fatal. People will put up with a lot from a candidate, as American politics prove over and over again, but it’s hard to put a positive spin on mass murder. Ton figures only a very small number of people know about it, and they’re all on his side. So he set me loose to see whether I’d find it. He gave me clues, put me in touch with some of the right people, because after Pan goes public as a candidate, he’ll be investigated by the best, and they won’t miss anything obvious. I was his way of knowing whether the campaign could survive the attention of the press.”
“And he doesn’t know you’ve figured it out,” Kosit says. “That’s why the announcement on Monday.”
“I don’t actually understand that,” Rafferty says.
Arthit pushes his chair back and says, “Neither do I.”
Kosit picks up his bowl in both hands and drains the broth without apparent injury. “Why not?”
“Because I’m on the loose,” Rafferty says. “Because Arthit’s on the loose. Because there’s no way he can know what we’ve learned or what we’re up to, so why not just wait until we’re under control? What’s so special about Monday? They could announce any time in the next few weeks, but no, it’s Monday, and here
Arthit says, “Maybe Ton’s not in charge.”
Rafferty is about to fill his mouth with water again, but he puts the glass back down. “Right. What’s happening right now? Porthip’s dying. Porthip might be the only person who actually knows firsthand what happened at the factory. Everybody else just has hearsay.” A thought strikes him. “Except maybe Wichat. Wichat was working for the same crook Pan was, back when it happened. Maybe that’s why Pan tried to hand him the kids, because he can’t piss Wichat off.”
“Could be,” Arthit says, nodding. “Keep going.”
“So with Porthip about to vanish from the scene, Pan wants to redefine the relationship. He tells Ton he’s going to announce-”
“And Ton says no,” Arthit says. “And Pan doesn’t like to be told no. So let’s say he decides to announce anyway. The announcement is a demonstration that he’s going to be more independent now, that it’s going to be a collaboration or nothing.”
Rafferty says, “Works for me.”
“One thing I can tell you,” Arthit says. “This is bigger than Ton. He’s rich and nice-looking and he married well, but he’s not in charge of anything this big. There’s someone else, someone up in the nosebleed echelons of society. Military or conservative for a dozen generations. And what that means…” He looks at Kosit, who’s been shifting eagerly on his chair, practically raising his hand to speak. “What does that mean?”
“That Ton’s on the spot,” Kosit says. “He’s sitting on a burner.”
For the first time, Arthit looks like himself. He leans over and swats Kosit lightly on the head. “That’s exactly right.”
Rafferty says, “Hold on,” and opens his phone. “What?”
“Pan and the little guy,” Boo says on the other end of the line. “Dr. something, the one with the big nose and the slacks with all those pleats?”
“Another player on the move,” Rafferty says to Arthit. To Boo he says, “What are they doing?”
“They pulled out of Pan’s right after I talked to you, about ten minutes ago. Big black car, not the gold one. They’re heading away from town, on some nowhere road.”
“What direction? Where are you?”
“North, sort of. Out toward Chatuchak. Bunch of factories.”
Rafferty says, “Factories.”
“The guy with the nose is driving,” Boo says. “Pan’s in the back.”
“How far behind are you?”
“A few blocks. We’re on three motos, no lights. You’re going to have to pay these guys extra for that.”
“Who’s ‘we’?” Rafferty realizes he’s standing, and a sudden stab of pain tells him that he’s tried to reach into his trouser pocket with the bandaged hand, looking for small bills to pay for their meal. Kosit gets up and drops a few fifty-baht notes on the table.
“Just kids,” Boo says.
“Which kids?”
“Nobody you know.”
Something in his tone rings wrong, but Rafferty dismisses it, since there’s nothing he can do about it anyway. “Stay far back. I’m pretty sure we know where he’s going. We’re way the hell on the other side of town, but we’ll be there as soon as we can. And listen to me. When they stop, you call to tell us where it is. And that’s
“You worry too much,” Boo says. He disconnects.
“I worry too much,” Rafferty says to no one.
“We’ll be where?” Arthit asks. Kosit is already out on the street, hailing a cab.
“The famous factory. Dr. Ravi’s taking Pan out there as we speak.” A taxi flashes its headlights and cuts through traffic at an acute angle to reach them. “And I think the time has come to get their attention.” Rafferty climbs into the back, beside Arthit, as Kosit slips into the front seat and pushes his badge at the startled driver.
“Right now,” Kosit says, “it is impossible for you to drive too fast.”
47
Boo waves the motorcycle taxis past the gate that Dr. Ravi’s car pulled through. The gate is high and rusted, twisted as though someone drove straight through it, and it sags disconsolately to the right, like it’s hoping for something to lean on. There are no lights visible on the other side, just tall, spiky weeds and the looming hulk of a building.
Not until the bikes are almost a quarter of a mile down the road, with the gate behind them, does Boo wave the convoy to a stop. The road is just heavily oiled dirt, spotted with patches of asphalt to fill in holes. On either side, vertical screens of foliage climb chain-link fences to mask the squat industrial buildings they surround. Razor wire spirals its silver teeth along the tops of some of the fences. Except for a weak wash of moonlight diffused through ragged, gauzy clouds and a single spotlight shining uselessly on an empty parking lot across the street, the area is dark. Two feral-looking older boys climb off the bike behind Boo’s, but when the person on the third bike begins to dismount, Boo waves her to stay put.
“You’re going back to the shack,” he says.
