The Windup Girl

23

“Goddamn General Pracha and goddamn white shirts!”

Carlyle pounds the railing of the apartment. He’s unshaven and unbathed. He hasn’t been back to the Victory in a week, thanks to the lockdown of the farang district. His clothing is beginning to show the wear of the tropics.

“They’ve got the anchor pads locked down, they’ve got the locks closed. Banned access to the piers.” He turns and comes back inside. Pours himself a drink. “Fucking white shirts.”

Anderson can’t help smiling at Carlyle’s irritation. “I warned you about poking cobras.”

Carlyle scowls. “It wasn’t me. Someone in Trade had a bright idea and went too far. Fucking Jaidee,” he fumes. “They should have known better.”

“Was it Akkarat?”

“He’s not that stupid.”

“It doesn’t matter, I suppose.” Anderson toasts him with warm scotch. “A week of lockdown, and it looks like the white shirts are just getting started.”

Carlyle glowers. “Don’t look so satisfied. I know you’re hurting, too.”

Anderson sips. “Honestly, I can’t say that I care. The factory was useful. Now it’s not.” He leans forward. “Now I want to know if Akkarat has really done as much groundwork as you claimed.” He nods toward the city. “Because it’s looking like he’s overstretched.”

“And you think that’s funny?”

“I think that if he’s isolated, he needs friends. I want you to reach out to him again. Offer him our sincere support in this crisis.”

“You’ve got a better offer than the one that had him threatening to have you trampled?”

“The price is the same. The gift is the same.” Anderson sips again. “But maybe Akkarat is willing to listen to reason now.”

Carlyle stares out at the green glow of methane lamps. Grimaces. “I’m losing money every day.”

“I thought you had leverage with your pumps.”

“Stop smirking.” Carlyle scowls. “You can’t even threaten these bastards. They won’t take messengers.”

Anderson smiles slightly. “Well, I don’t feel like waiting until the monsoons for the white shirts to come to their senses. Set up a meeting with Akkarat. We can offer him all the help he needs.”

“You think you’ll just swim out to Koh Angrit and lead a revolution back in? With what? A couple clerks and shipping captains? Maybe some junior trade rep who sits out there drinking all day and hoping the Kingdom will have a famine and drop its embargoes? Pretty threatening.”

Anderson smiles. “If we come, we’ll come from Burma. And no one will notice until its too late.” He holds Carlyle’s eyes until the man looks away.

“Same terms?” Carlyle asks. “You’re not changing anything?”

“Access to the Thai seedbank, and a man named Gibbons. That’s all.”

“And you’ll give what?”

“What does Akkarat need? Money for bribes? Gold? Diamonds? Jade?” He pauses. “Shock troops.”

“Christ. You’re serious about the Burma thing.”

Anderson waves his glass toward the night beyond. “My cover here is blown. I accept that and move forward or I pack up and head back to Des Moines with my tail between my legs. Let’s be honest. AgriGen has always played for keeps. Ever since Vincent Hu and Chitra D’Allessa started the company. We’re not afraid of a little mess.”

“Like Finland.”

Anderson smiles. “I’m hoping for a better return on investment, this time.”

Carlyle grimaces. “Christ. All right. I’ll set up the meeting. But you better remember me when this is over.”

“AgriGen always remembers its friends.”

He ushers Carlyle out the door and closes it behind him, thoughtful. It’s interesting to see what crisis brings out in a man. Carlyle, always so cocky and confident, now harried by the realization that he stands out as if he were painted blue. That the white shirts could begin interning farang or executing them at any time, and no one would mourn. Suddenly Carlyle’s confidence is stripped away like a used filter mask.

Anderson goes to the balcony and stares out at the darkness, to the waters far beyond, to the island of Koh Angrit and the powers that wait so patiently at the Kingdom’s edge.

Almost time.