CHANGE OF TUNE
Makanathan had been distracted from her tireless work through the night by her husband’s heart attack. She was preoccupied with supervising by phone his emergency transportation to hospital as soon as the Express reached Singapore. She then wasted no time in reporting the events of the night by email to the local police, who would rely entirely on her confidential findings.
‘This night provided enough work for a dozen coroners and investigators,’ she complained to Huloton at the door to the infirmary, ‘but I did not even have time to take sufficient notes. It has been the most dreadful and intense time in my entire career!’
‘With respect, Madame,’ he said, ‘you should look after your husband first. The dead are dead. There is no hope for them.’
‘You are right, and I am. I have run out of time.’ The train stuttered as it began to slow down ten kilometres from Singapore station. ‘I tell you confidentially, I have a sense of failure for the first time in my career. I have been thwarted before, yes, by governments. But I have always solved the crime.’ She began to light a cigarette. Huloton stopped her.
‘Only in the observation car,’ he said. ‘Sorry, Madame.’
Makanathan began to weep. Huloton put his arm around her shoulder.
‘There, there,’ he said, ‘it is not a failure. You will have time later …’
‘No, no. I cannot reconstruct events. Ninety per cent of the passengers will have disappeared in a day or two.’
‘May I say, Madame,’ Huloton said, ‘you could look at the whole affair from a different perspective.’ He paused to glance both ways along the corridor. ‘Someone has done the world a great service.’
‘What?’
Huloton tilted his head and pouted. ‘I am told the deceased Jose Cortez has killed many people,’ he said, dropping his voice. ‘He was an extraordinary assassin working for a drug cartel.’
‘Who told you that?’
‘It was in total confidence, Madame.’
‘You must tell me more.’
‘With respect, I cannot. But there is public knowledge about him. The Americans have been wanting to eliminate him for some time.’
‘The Americans? Does that mean our lost wheelchair passenger could have had a motive?’
Huloton raised his eyebrows and nodded slightly.
‘Food for thought,’ he said, ‘and worth investigating perhaps, when you have a clear head and time?’
*
Melody Smith, forewarned by Cavalier of the bullion, had already put in an official US Government claim for the gold, which she branded ‘contraband’ from the proceeds of drugs, prostitution and people trafficking. Smith also wanted the Mexican bodyguards arrested and extradited to the US.
Rodriguez planned to put in a demand for the gold, claiming that the proceeds were the legitimate result of business by his newly acquired company, Golden Eagle Constructions. He also would say he did not have control of when or how the bullion was generated. In the end, the Singapore courts, and even an international court after that, were expected to decide the gold’s ownership and the fate of the Mexicans, who in the meantime were expected to be sent to a local detention centre.
Rodriguez had a lingering dilemma over the remainder of his inherited squad of killers. He decided, with some reluctance, to fund the legal effort to stop the remaining Mexicans being extradited to the US.
Huloton had successfully pleaded with all parties that the happenings on the Bangkok Express be kept secret from the press and public. Every passenger signed a legal agreement not to mention the events in exchange for a complete trip refund and a further payout of a hundred thousand US dollars per person. The press, however, were bound to hear rumours.
‘How long do you think the bribe to passengers will last?’ Cavalier asked Huloton as he eased from his cabin, his backpack over his shoulder.
‘You will not think of blackmail, I trust, Monsieur, as one Frenchman to another?’
‘Never!’
‘My hope, my prayer, for my company’s sake is that our story will last until the whole affair appears like a rumour,’ he replied. ‘We will even put out photographs of the burnt-out observation car for the media, along with a plausible explanation of the fire to cover for the more dramatic events.’
‘And the deceased Mexicans?’
‘What Mexicans, Monsieur? The press will not learn of our kitchen morgue. At least, I pray to God not.’
‘But Dr Makanathan will not hide her investigation, will she?’
‘She will submit any report to a senior government official, which we and the Thai junta will not want made public. You see, it would all be very bad for tourism.’
‘I see.’
‘We are taking the high ground, like a good battle commander.’
‘Hmm,’ Cavalier said, ‘I do hope so. Of course many of the passengers would have heard the gunfire.’
‘Muffled, Monsieur, muffled.’
‘The bomb explosions?’
‘Some passengers thought that it was thunder. At least that is what they hoped it was. They were locked in their cabins, in darkness. Only that Australian who was with Jacinta Cin Lai at the locomotive front witnessed anything.’
Cavalier was pleased that Huloton did not seem to know that he (Cavalier) had been in the locomotive.
‘I have offered him a hundred thousand dollars on top of the hundred thousand to keep quiet. He refused the extra gratuity, even at first denying that he had been firing from the locomotive. He told me he did not wish to be exposed for his activity at the front.’
*
The injured Bangkok Express nosed into Singapore’s art deco station at noon on the morning of 27 April. At the end of the train, a sixty-strong contingent of Singapore police, all in riot gear, surrounded the Mexicans and Azelaporn as they emerged from carriages 30 and 31. An intense discussion ensued between, on the one side, Huloton, Azelaporn and suited lawyers on behalf of the Mexicans; and on the other side, the local police chief, Melody Smith and twenty DEA agents, all in telltale suits and dark glasses. Makanathan was not among them. She was busy making sure her husband would be taken to hospital.
Eight hundred metres away, two ambulances were waiting near the exit barrier where at least a hundred passengers were lined up, eager to enter Singapore. Very few were speaking. Some were dishevelled; others were fatigued. Most had not slept much. The shock of the attacks on the train during the night had left them dispirited and confused, although none expressed anger. They were thankful they had survived, with the promise of good recompense. Huloton had his staff and security people spread the rumour that ‘criminals had been active in a village near where the train had stopped in a siding to let other trains through’. The further claim was that this ‘gang of armed thugs had tried to board the train to escape police, but had been forced away’.
*
Janet Hinkley was in the line, comforting Cowboy, who was distressed. He had learnt that the American in the wheelchair had disappeared and was possibly dead. Cowboy flapped his arms and kicked the ground.
‘It’s okay, Cowboy,’ Hinkley said, attempting to comfort him, ‘he may be in heaven. Or perhaps he escaped. You know darling, that nice Dr Makanathan thinks you may have been right. The American could have committed the murder. She thinks there is a possibility he may have been pretending to be disabled.’
Cowboy was not appeased. He opened his mouth wide, made a strange clicking noise with his tongue and rolled his eyes. Then he shook his head.
‘You don’t think the American did it?’ Hinkley asked.
Cowboy shook his head in such a vigorous fashion that Hinkley was confused. Was he agreeing or disagreeing with her question?
At that moment Cavalier walked by alongside Pon as she was stretchered to an ambulance. Cowboy jumped and banged his foot on the ground in further agitation.
‘Monsieur,’ Hinkley said to Cavalier, ‘thank you for whatever you did on the train.’
He stopped. ‘It is Jacinta you should thank.’
Cowboy made some strange noises, which registered further disquiet.
‘He is concerned about the American,’ Hinkley said.
‘We all are,’ Cavalier said, wishing to catch up with Pon.
He looked at Cowboy. ‘Don’t worry, he probably escaped the train during the … er … incidents. I am sure he will be okay.’
Cowboy smiled briefly and looked away.
‘Thank you,’ Hinkley said, ‘he will feel better now.’
Cavalier nodded and hurried off to join Pon, who was heavily sedated.
‘Do you know her?’ Hinkley called, pointing to Pon on the stretcher. Cavalier pretended not to hear and merely waved, just as Melody Smith hurried forward, phone to her ear. She directed DEA agents to escort Cavalier, Pon and Jacinta to an ambulance.
Meanwhile, Makanathan was by her husband’s side at one of the ambulances about thirty metres from the first. He was on another mobile stretcher that was about to be slid into the vehicle. She was suddenly alert to him clutching his chest and complaining of further pain. She helped paramedics ease him into the vehicle without looking up to see the first ambulance speeding away, sirens blaring. Her husband was short of breath. He was having a second attack. The paramedics gave him oxygen.
*
Cavalier, a semi-conscious Pon and Jacinta drove a few kilometres to Tengah airfield in Singapore’s south-west with a convoy of DEA vehicles, led by Smith. She had arranged a chartered 16-seater plane to fly to Bangkok. Pon, on her stretcher, lay in the aisle. Cavalier was in the cockpit with the pilot.
Smith sat in the cabin next to Jacinta and attempted to quiz her.
‘What’s his relationship with the woman?’ she asked, indicating Pon, who had fallen asleep.
‘She’s his daughter.’
‘Oh, that explains a few things,’ Smith said, eyebrows raised. ‘And you? How do you know Vic?’
Jacinta considered Smith for a few seconds before answering evasively, ‘I wish to help his daughter receive proper medical attention.’
‘You are acquaintances?’
‘Can you tell me what happened on the train?’
‘I think you should ask him.’
‘Did he have an accomplice?’ Smith asked, in almost a whisper.
‘What?’
‘In the elimination of Cortez.’
‘I have no idea. And I have no idea who dealt with the Mexican.’
Once in Bangkok, Jacinta organised that Pon be taken to the drug rehabilitation unit at Bumrungrad International Hospital—reputedly the best in South East Asia for this work. Pon was expected to remain there for at least a week before being flown to Chiang Rai in Thailand’s north. There she would be under the care of her mother, subject to Pin’s agreement, at the drug rehabilitation facility in that city.
Cavalier rang Pin to tell her the news that her long-lost daughter was alive.
At first Pin did not believe him. She gripped the phone and cried. After several minutes, and Cavalier’s continual reassurance, she managed to speak. ‘Serena was right, but you never believed her.’
‘Who?’
‘My third daughter.’
The name came rushing back down a darker tunnel of his memory. That bloody doll!
‘Oh, yes, Serena,’ he said, without cynicism. ‘I’d forgotten about her. Forgive me.’
‘I remember we both agreed that Pon had died. Serena never believed that.’
Cavalier vaguely recalled Pin speaking of Serena’s ‘beliefs’. It seemed like more irrational doll ‘commentary’ that he had put out of his mind.
‘She sits with me right now,’ Pin said. ‘She is smiling. She always said Pon was alive. Serena is my good luck charm!’
‘Have you spoken to your—our—other real daughter, Far?’
‘Oh, her! She never calls. Occasionally says something on Facebook.’
‘I keep in touch. Why not ask her to come home and nurse her sister?’ Cavalier said.
Pin began to cry again.
‘I am … so happy …’ she managed to say, ‘please tell me this is true … I am not dreaming. My beautiful Pon is alive!’
*
He booked in at Bangkok’s Phachara Suites, a hotel on Soi 6 off Sukhumvit, using his Laurent Blanc French passport. As far as he was concerned, the document in the name of Claude Garriaud had to be retired, forever. On the night of 29 April and not having to assume a false identity, he was met in his room by Smith. He handed over the KK pack. They sauntered down to Hemingway’s restaurant, in a garden setting on Soi 14. The evening was warm and humid after a very hot forty-six degrees during the day.
‘I have never experienced heat like this,’ Smith said to Cavalier, who was always more laconic than normal in her presence. ‘By midafternoon, it was so bad that Bangkok’s streets seemed almost empty.’
‘I don’t know,’ Cavalier said, ‘I saw several Englishman taking their mad dogs for a walk.’
‘Really? You’re kidding, aren’t you?’
‘I can’t function when it’s like this,’ Smith went on. ‘It makes me feel, you know …’
‘Inelegant?’
‘What?’
‘The English novelist Jane Austen once wrote to a friend saying the heat kept her in a constant state of inelegance.’
‘That’s cute! It makes me feel lethargic.’
‘Oscar Wilde once said, “Conversation about the weather is the last refuge of the unimaginative”. In your case, I am sure it is to open chat about climate change, no?’
Smith smiled, uncertain of what he meant or if he was being cynical, a trait that was beyond her realm of serious endeavour. They were distracted by two women on a motorcycle roaring along Sukhumvit. The young driver was on the phone. Her mini-skirted female passenger was riding side-saddle and putting on make-up.
‘Jeez!’ Smith observed. ‘That is an accident waiting to happen!’
‘Nothing out of the ordinary here,’ Cavalier said.
‘We are a hundred per cent satisfied the corpse was Cortez,’ she told him over dinner. ‘We did our own verification once we viewed the body. But thank you for the extra confirmation you provided. You have no idea how many agency people are celebrating over his demise. More so even than Bin Laden. It’s personal for quite a few of his victims’ friends and family. We are most grateful.’ She smiled properly at him for the first time since they had initially met in Chiang Mai. ‘So much so that you will find a nice surprise in your bank account tomorrow morning.’
‘Much appreciated, thank you.’
‘No, thank you! Tell me, Dr Makanathan claims that the most likely killer was an American named …’ she paused to find her electronic phone notes, ‘Edward Blenkiron.
‘I don’t know anyone by that name. I certainly did not meet him. As you know, I do not work with accomplices.’
‘We have already run a check. There is someone of that name, age and description from his passport photo, who is recorded as living somewhere in Asia. Apart from that, nothing.’
‘What a coincidence.’
‘He was wheelchair-bound,’ Smith said with an enigmatic smile.
‘Poor fellow.’
‘Makanathan believes it’s possible that this Blenkiron guy faked his disability, murdered Cortez and jumped the train.’
‘Perhaps we should applaud him.’
‘She also mentioned some autistic passenger with a sort of sixth sense, who also reckoned Blenkiron may have done it.’
‘That’s the most credible comment yet. I wouldn’t call it a sixth sense. More like a capacity that is real and needs to be explored.’
‘The good DNA doctor did not mention you as a passenger.’ ‘I hope you didn’t say anything about me?’
‘No, of course not. I gave her nothing. She was confused and disheartened. I don’t think she has failed to nail a killer yet; or at least know who the assailant was and how she did it.’
‘She?’
‘Makanathan referred to the murderer that way. I’d be careful with her. She’s not only brilliant, she’s determined; more dangerous than a hungry raptor.’ Smith paused and let Cavalier pour her a beer. ‘Her husband had a relapse. She thinks he’ll recover. I know she cares very much for him, yet his illness frustrated her investigation. I had the impression from our brief conversation that she was more concerned about identifying Cortez’s killer.’
‘That’s her job.’
‘Are you going to give me even a clue how you did it?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘No, I guess not. I’ve been mulling over it myself. Just suppose you were masquerading as this Blenkiron guy. We know you left your Chiang Mai condo with his wheelchair. You carry out your mission, and make it look as if he has jumped the train, and then pose as someone else.’
Cavalier did not respond.
‘What I can’t figure is the logistics on the train,’ Smith said, frowning. ‘I can only suggest you somehow moved on the outside or top of the train—’
‘I don’t want to discuss it further,’ Cavalier butted in. ‘I can tell you one thing: I’m not Spiderman.’
Smith gave him a knowing look, and then beamed. ‘I want to let you know that the DEA wants to give you a citation.’
‘For what?’
Smith did not answer at first. Her attitude had changed. She seemed almost schoolgirlish in her admiration for Cavalier. ‘We want to arrange something for your intrepid journalism,’ she said.
‘I am most honoured and grateful, but no. It would draw attention to me and I wish to remain in the background.’
‘I know you have refused our brother agency’s overtures,’ she said, scrutinising him, ‘but would you be open to other assignments?’
‘I can always say “no”.’
*
Gregory phoned Cavalier and congratulated him on his successful mission.
‘Lovely Melody has changed her tune about you,’ he said. ‘She was gushing about your “achievement”. Did you … er … with her?’
‘I promised not to tell,’ Cavalier said, ‘but the answer is no, I didn’t.’
‘Perhaps you should have. Her kudos within the DEA has been given an enormous lift by Cortez’s liquidation. There is talk in Washington of her becoming the first female director of the DEA, or even the CIA.’
‘She’s efficient and smart. She’d be very good.’
‘I concur. I want to hear detail about your sightseeing trip on the Express.’
‘When we meet for those beers we owe each other.’
‘You know, Vic, after your train escapade you remind me of John Le Carre’s description of his wonderful fictional character, George Smiley: “He travels without labels in the guard’s van of life’s social express”.’ ‘What now for you?’
‘I have some personal matters to clear up,’ Cavalier replied without elaboration.
‘By the way, the Malaysian police have those two Indonesians. We have asked for extradition. Not sure they’ll agree.’
‘I can guess why.’
‘And you’d be correct. The Malaysians want to make examples of them. They and the other terrorists are likely to be executed.’