consulted the stars. It was Fate that he’d been given the cyanide, and it was Fate that she’d taken it so soon. Up to that point, fortune had been on his side. The assassin had never known failure; so when his bullets flew over Siri’s head that night, it was the first indication that Fate had gone against him. Siri had been given a second chance. Kham looked for another way.
He had Khen Nahlee set up a suicide. One murder of an insignificant girl and it could be all over. It was no scandal for a powerful man to be adored by his mistress. It would be no surprise that she’d killed her rival and taken her own life. The police were satisfied. He gave a tearful statement to the press. It was all over.
Then Siri came back and screwed it all up again. There really was only one way to challenge Fate. All the logic on the earth dictated that Siri couldn’t escape a second assassination attempt. Nothing human could keep him alive.
But now the senior comrade sat in his empty house mid-afternoon, drunk. He’d walked out of the Assembly in the middle of the ceremony for heroes of the revolution, ignored all questions. He’d shooed away the driver and driven the limousine home himself. He’d gone four nights without sleep; the journey home had been a blur.
He could compete with men. He’d shown that time and time again. But here he was up against something far beyond anything he’d ever known. His enemy was spiritual. Mrs Nitnoy wasn’t going to let him forget what he’d done to her. She was in his nightmares, and she was at Siri’s back, protecting him. Something told him he would never spend a restful night again, and he couldn’t bear the thought of that.
Kham turned the radio up to its loudest and tuned it to Thailand. An expert in genealogy was discussing the reasons why Lao communists were so physically unattractive. He listened to find out why he was ugly, and when the music rose at the end of the programme, he shot himself in the head.
? The Coroner’s Lunch ?
22
Thrice Dead
Khen Nahlee hadn’t failed. Not yet. Although his nemesis was blessed with astoundingly good fortune, it didn’t necessarily mean he’d failed. The boss had told him to go back north. Give it up. But his mission was unfinished. Not failed: just delayed.
He sat in the bare room meticulously oiling his pistol and cleaning the silencer. He went through the plan in his mind. This was the evening of the That Luang Festival. The hospital would maintain a skeleton staff, if they could persuade anyone at all to stay on. The nurses would be made up like porcelain dolls with blood-red lipstick. They’d be parading themselves in front of the boys at the fair. Perhaps he’d go and help himself to one when it was all over.
The Security Section had withdrawn its guards, so Siri should be alone. No luck, no coincidences, could possibly keep him alive a third time.
On his old motorcycle heading down the hill from the Great Stupa, he seemed to be fighting against the current. There were no left and right lanes to the crowds on their way to the festival. They travelled on foot, on bicycles, pushing motorcycles, in one huge colourful herd. He put his scarf around his face and leaned on his horn all the way down to the arch. People laughed and called out names to the strange man who was going the wrong way.
The ride was slow until he reached Lan Xang Avenue, where the police had kept a lane free for Party members returning from the remembrance ceremony. Once he was away from the main roads he saw no one. He parked his bike near the Department of Education and walked down to the concrete gate posts of Mahosot. There wasn’t even a guard on duty.
The sun had recently set and many of the buildings were in darkness. There were distant strip lights in the public ward, and a single bulb glowed in the nurses’ quarters. He entered the building that housed the private rooms and kicked off his shoes inside the door. There was a long corridor running down the centre, with rooms on either side. The hallway itself was dark. The only lights shone through the glass windows above two of the doors. The other rooms all appeared empty.
Room 2E was halfway down. He stopped outside the door and listened. There was no sound. He turned the knob gently and the door opened without a squeak. He peeked inside. Siri lay on the bed, asleep beneath a white sheet. The oxygen mask was over his mouth. The light came from a bedside lamp that was covered with a red cloth.
Khen Nahlee looked back along the deserted corridor before stepping inside the room. He closed the door behind him. He took the gun from the holster inside the top of his tracksuit and screwed on the silencer. But on a night like this he could have used a cannon and there would have been nobody to hear.
He stepped to the end of the bed, aimed at the coroner’s heart, and fired. Six times he fired. Professional. No conversations. No confessions or last–minute explanations. Once the chamber was empty, he sighed with relief. At last the man’s luck had run out.
He waited for the pleasing sight of blood slowly seeping through the white sheet, but it didn’t come. Immediately, he knew that something had gone wrong. He stepped forward, grabbed the bottom corner of the sheet, and yanked it from the bed.
Three pillows – one assassinated – lay along the centre of the mattress. At their summit, beneath the oxygen mask, was a mask of a different kind. As a special tribute to the new regime, they were selling papier-mache masks of the prime minister at the That Luang festival. With a few white chicken feathers added here and there, it bore a remarkable resemblance to Dr Siri.
Khen Nahlee’s stomach turned. He reached into his pocket for another clip, but he instinctively knew there’d be no time to use it. The door crashed open, and Phosy and two other burly police officers charged into the room with their pistols drawn. They were expecting a fight, but they didn’t get one. Khen Nahlee dropped his gun, looked up at the ceiling, and laughed. It was a humourless, defeated laugh.
They handcuffed him, searched his pockets, and told him to keep his mouth shut unless he was asked a question. As the Constitution had been abolished, there were no rights to be read. That was just as well, as they didn’t intend to give him any.
Phosy put his nose close to the prisoner’s. “I’ve been looking for you. You know that, don’t you? I suppose I must have had too much respect for you. If I’d known you were this hopeless at your job, I would have found you a lot sooner.” Khen Nahlee glared blankly at Phosy’s forehead. He wasn’t one to be riled easily. “How about saying hello to Dr Siri before we take you to your new home?”
They led him to another room along the corridor where another Dr Siri, surrounded by an odd collection of visitors, lay propped up on his pillow, smiling. The police stood Khen Nahlee at the end of the bed. He looked at Siri and shook his head slowly.
“Well, Mr Ketkaew. Nice to see you again. You’re such a disappointment. I was hoping to offload Miss Vong on you. Now I’m stuck with her.” Khen Nahlee smiled. “Oh, but your name probably isn’t Ketkaew, is it? I have to hand it to you: you do play the fool very well. You were a most convincing chicken counter. I’m sorry I spoiled everything for you, but you were up against forces that are not of this earth. Don’t berate yourself.”
Khen Nahlee had nothing to say. He had no questions, and he no longer needed to act. He looked around at the assembly; Dtui, Mr Geung, Judge Haeng, Civilai, Dr Pornsawan, and Mai’s sister. How had he fallen to such an army of misfits? He turned to Phosy and gestured that he wanted to go.
“I wouldn’t be in a hurry to go where you’re going,” Phosy told him.
Two more officers came in from outside. They gathered around Khen Nahlee and marched him out to the van. His future promised to be very short.
? The Coroner’s Lunch ?
23
The Dead Coroner’s Lunch
A week had passed since Siri’s third coming. Civilai was starting to believe his friend really was immortal. So, as Siri didn’t want to be deprived of the pleasure, he announced that lunch this Friday
