Thai Horse

any different? Has there ever been any question in your mind about that?’

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

‘Then maybe I’ve got the wrong man.’

‘Maybe so.’

‘You want out?’

Hatcher thought about it. He had mixed emotions about Murph Cody. One man thought 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 exercising. He stepped back suddenly and thrashed his arms in a series of hard jabs, sparring with an imaginary opponent, then jogged forward, threw a hard kick that was shoulder-high and turned back, jogging in place. He saw Hatcher watching 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 flat 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 speak 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.’