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.”
