The Windup Girl

8

“I lost 30,000.”

“Fifty,” Otto mutters.

Lucy Nguyen stares at the ceiling. “One-Eighty Five? Six?”

“Four hundred.” Quoile Napier sets his warm glass of Sato down on the low table. “I lost four hundred thousand blue bills on Carlyle’s goddamn dirigible.”

The entire table falls silent, stunned. “Christ.” Lucy sits up, bleary with drink in the middle of the afternoon. “What were you smuggling in, cibi-resistant seedstock?”

The conversationalists sprawl on the veranda of Sir Francis Drake’s, all five together, the “Farang Phalanx” as Lucy has styled them, all of them staring out at the dry season blast furnace and drinking themselves into a stupor.

Anderson reclines with them, half-listening to their slurred complaints as he turns the problem of the ngaw’s origins over in his mind. He’s got another bag of the fruit between his feet, and he can’t help thinking that the answer to his puzzle lies close, if only he had sufficient ingenuity to suss it out. He drinks warm Khmer whiskey and ponders.

Ngaw: apparently impervious to blister rust and cibiscosis even when directly exposed; obviously resistant to Nippon genehack weevil and leafcurl, or it could never have grown. A perfect product. The fruit of access to different genetic material than AgriGen and the rest of the calorie companies use for their generipping.

Somewhere in this country a seedbank is hidden. Thousands, perhaps hundreds of thousands, of carefully preserved seeds, a treasure trove of biological diversity. Infinite chains of DNA, each with their own potential uses. And from this gold mine, the Thais are extracting answers to their knottiest challenges of survival. With access to the Thai seedbank, Des Moines could mine genetic code for generations, beat back plague mutations. Stay alive a little longer.

Anderson shifts in his seat, stifling irritation, wiping away sweat. He’s so close. Nightshades have been reborn, and now ngaw. And Gibbons is running loose in Southeast Asia. If it weren’t for that illegal windup girl he wouldn’t even know about Gibbons. The Kingdom has been singularly successful at maintaining its operational security. If he could just ascertain the seedbank’s location, a raid might even be possible… They’ve learned since Finland.

Beyond the veranda, nothing with any intelligence is moving. Tantalizing beads of sweat run down Lucy’s neck and soak her shirt as she complains about the state of the coal war with the Vietnamese. She can’t hunt for jade if the Army is busy shooting anything that moves. Quoile’s sideburns are matted. No breezes blow.

Out in the street, rickshaw men huddle in thin pools of shade. Their bones and joints protrude from bare taut skin, skeletons with flesh stretched tight on their frames. At this time of day they only sullenly emerge from shadow when they are called, and then only for double fee.

The entire ramshackle structure of the bar is scabbed to the outer wall of a wrecked Expansion tower. A hand-painted sign leans against one of the stairs up to the veranda, with the scrawled words: SIR FRANCIS DRAKE’S. The sign is a recent addition, relative to the decay and wreckage around it, painted by a handful of farang determined to name their surroundings. The fools who did the naming long ago disappeared up country, either swallowed in the jungle as blister rust rewrites swept over them, or torn apart in the tangle of war lines over coal and jade. Still, the sign remains, either because it amuses the owner, who has taken the name on as a nickname, or because no one can summon the energy to paint over it. In the meantime, it peels in the heat.

Regardless of provenance, Drake’s is perfectly placed between the seawall shipping locks and the factories. Its dilapidated wreckage faces off across from the Victory Hotel so the Farang Phalanx can drink itself stupid and watch to see if any new foreigners of interest have washed up on the shores.

There are other, lower, dives for those sailors who manage to pass Customs and quarantine and washdown, but it is here, with the snapping white tablecloths of the Victory on one side of the cobbled street, and Sir Francis’ bamboo slum on the other, where those foreigners who settle in Bangkok for any length of time eventually sink.

“What were you shipping?” Lucy asks again, prodding Quoile to explain his losses.

Quoile leans forward and lowers his voice, encouraging all of them to rouse themselves. “Saffron. From India.”

A pause, and then Cobb laughs. “Good airlift product. I should have thought of that.”

“Ideal for a dirigible. Low weight. More profitable than opium on the uplift,” Quoile says. “The Kingdom still hasn’t figured out how to crack the seedstock, and all the politicians and generals want it for their household kitchens. Lots of face, if they can get it. I had solid pre-orders. I was going to be rich. Unbelievably rich.”

“Are you ruined then?”

“Maybe not. I’m negotiating with Sri Ganesha Insurance, they might cover some.” Quoile shrugs. “Well, eighty percent. But all the bribes to get it into the country? All the payoffs to the Customs agents?” He makes a face. “That’s a complete loss. Still, I might get out with my skin.

“In a way, I got lucky. The shipment only falls under insurance guidelines because it was still on Carlyle’s dirigible. I ought to toast that damn pilot for getting himself drowned in the ocean. If they’d unloaded the cargo and the white shirts had burned it on the ground, it would have been classified contraband. Then I’d be out there on the street with the fa’ gan beggars and the yellow cards.”

Otto scowls. “That’s about the only thing to be said for Carlyle. If he wasn’t so interested in touching politics, none of this would have happened.”

Quoile shrugs. “We don’t know that.”

“It’s damn certain,” Lucy interjects. “Carlyle spends half his energy complaining about the white shirts and the other half cozying up with Akkarat. It’s a message from General Pracha to Carlyle and the Trade Ministry. We’re just the carrier pigeons.”

“Carrier pigeons are extinct.”

“You think we won’t be? General Pracha would be happy to throw every one of us into Khlong Prem prison if he thought it would send the right message to Akkarat.” Her gaze swings to Anderson. “You’re awfully quiet, Lake. You didn’t lose anything at all?”

Anderson stirs himself. “Manufacturing materials. Replacement parts for my line. Probably a hundred fifty thousand blue bills. My secretary’s still evaluating the damage.” He glances at Quoile. “Our stuff was on the ground. No insurance.”

The memory of his conversation with Hock Seng is still fresh. Hock Seng first played at denial, complaining of incompetence at the anchor pads, before finally confessing that everything was lost, and that he had failed to pay all the bribe money in the first place. An ugly confessional, almost hysterical, the old man terrified of losing his job and Anderson pressing him further and further into his fear, humiliating him and shouting at him, making the old man cower, making a point of his displeasure. Still, he can’t help wondering if the lesson has been learned, or if Hock Seng will try to be tricky again. Anderson grimaces. If the old man didn’t free up so much of Anderson’s time for more important work, he’d ship the old bastard back to the yellow card towers.

“I told you this was a stupid place to run a factory,” Lucy says.

“The Japanese do it.”

“Only because they have special arrangements with the palace.”

“The Chaozhou Chinese do just fine, too.”

Lucy makes a face. “They’ve been here for generations. Practically Thai at this point. We’re more like yellow cards than Chaozhou, if you want to make comparisons. A smart farang knows not to keep too much invested in this place. The ground’s always shifting. It’s too damn easy to lose everything in a crackdown. Or another coup.”

“We all work with the hands we’re dealt.” Anderson shrugs. “Anyway, Yates chose the site.”

“I told Yates it was stupid, too.”

Anderson recalls Yates, eyes bright with the possibilities of a new global economy. “Maybe not stupid. But definitely an idealist.” He finishes his drink. The bar owner is nowhere in sight. He waves for the waiters, who all ignore him. One of them, at least, is asleep, standing.

“You’re not worried you’ll get yanked the way Yates did?” Lucy asks.

Anderson shrugs. “Wouldn’t be the worst thing that could happen. It’s damn hot.” He touches his sunburned nose. “I’m more of a northern wastes sort.”

Nguyen and Quoile, dark-skinned both, laugh at that, but Otto just nods grimly, his own peeling nose a testament to his inability to adapt to the burn of the equatorial sun.

Lucy pulls out a pipe and pushes a couple of flies away before setting down her smoking tools and an accompanying ball of opium. The flies hobble away, but don’t take to the air. Even the bugs seem stunned by the heat. Down an alley, near the rubble of an old Expansion tower, children are playing next to a freshwater pump. Lucy watches them as she tamps her pipe. “Christ, I wish I was a kid again.”

Everyone seems to have lost the energy for conversation. Anderson pulls the sack of ngaw out from between his feet. Takes one out and peels it. Pries the translucent fruit from the ngaw’s interior and tosses the hairy hollow rind on the table. Pops the fruit into his mouth.

Otto cocks his head, curious. “What’s that you’ve got?”

Anderson digs more out of his sack, distributes them. “Not sure. Thais call them ngaw.”

Lucy stops tamping her pipe. “I’ve seen them. They’re all over the market. They don’t have blister rust?”

Anderson shakes his head. “Not so far. The lady who sold them said they were clean. Had the certificates.”

Everyone laughs, but Anderson shrugs off their cynicism. “I let them sit for a week. Nothing. They’re cleaner than U-Tex.”

The others follow his lead and eat their own fruits. Eyes widen. Smiles appear. Anderson opens the sack wide and sets it on the table. “Go ahead. I’ve been eating too many as it is.”

They all rifle the bag. A pile of rinds grows in the center of the table. Quoile chews thoughtfully. “It sort of reminds me of lychee.”

“Oh?” Anderson controls his interest. “Never heard of it.”

“Sure. I had a drink that tasted a bit like it. Last time I was in India. Kolkata. A PurCal sales rep took me to one of his restaurants, when I first started looking at shipping saffron.”

“So you think it’s this… leechee?”

“Could be. Lychee was what he called the drink. Might not have been the fruit at all.”

“If it’s a PurCal product, I don’t see how it would show up here,” Lucy says. “These should all be out on Koh Angrit, under quarantine while the Environment Ministry finds ten thousand different ways to tax the thing.” She spits the pit into her palm and tosses it off the balcony into the street. “I’m seeing these everywhere. They’ve got to be local.” She reaches into the sack and takes another. “You know who might know about them, though…” She leans back and calls into the dimness of the bar. “Hagg! You still there? You awake back in there?”

At the man’s name, the others stir and try to straighten themselves, like children caught by a strict parent. Anderson forces down an instinctive chill. “I wish you hadn’t done that,” he mutters.

Otto grimaces. “I thought he died.”

“Blister rust never gets the chosen ones, don’t you know?”

Everyone stifles a laugh as a form shambles out of the gloom. Hagg’s face is flushed, and sweat speckles his face. He surveys the Phalanx solemnly. “Hello, all.” He nods his head to Lucy. “Still trafficking with these sort, then?”

Lucy shrugs. “I make do.” She nods at a chair. “Don’t just stand there. Have a drink on us. Tell us your stories.” She lights her opium pipe and draws on it as the man pulls up the chair beside her and sags into it.

Hagg is a solid man, well-fleshed. Not for the first time, Anderson thinks how interesting it is that Grahamite priests, of all their flock, are always the ones whose waistlines overflow their niche. Hagg waves for whiskey, and surprises everyone when a waiter appears at his elbow almost immediately.

“No ice,” the waiter says on arrival.

“No, no ice. Of course not.” Hagg shakes his head emphatically. “Don’t want the damn calories spent, anyway.”

When the waiter returns, Hagg takes the drink and downs it instantly, then sends the waiter back for a second. “It’s good to be back in from the countryside,” he says. “You start missing the pleasures of civilization.” He toasts them all with his second glass and downs it as well.

“How far out were you?” Lucy asks around the pipe clamped in her teeth. She’s starting to look a little glassy from the burning tar.

“Near the old border with Burma, Three Pagodas pass.” He looks sourly at them all as if they are guilty of the sins he researches. “Looking into ivory beetle spread.”

“Not safe up there, I heard.” Otto says. “Who’s the jao por?”

“A man named Chanarong. And he was no trouble at all. Far easier to work with him than the Dung Lord or any of the small jao por in the city. Not all of the godfathers are so focused on profits and power.” Hagg looks back pointedly. “For those of us who aren’t interested in pillaging the Kingdom of coal or jade or opium, the countryside is safe enough.” He shrugs. “In any case, I was invited by Phra Kritipong to visit his monastery. To observe the changes in ivory beetle behavior.” He shakes is head. “The devastation is extraordinary. Whole forests with not a leaf on them. Kudzu, and nothing else. The entire overstory is gone, timber fallen everywhere.”

Otto looks interested. “Anything salvageable?”

Lucy gives him a look of disgust. “It’s ivory beetle, you idiot. No one around here wants that.”

Anderson asks, “You say the monastery invited you up? Even though you’re a Grahamite?”

“Phra Kritipong is enlightened enough to know that neither Jesus Christ nor the Niche Teachings are anathema to his kind. Buddhist and Grahamite values overlap in many areas. Noah and the martyr Phra Seub are entirely complementary figures.”

Anderson stifles a laugh. “If your monk saw how Grahamites operate back home, he might see it differently.”

Hagg looks offended. “I am not some preacher of field burnings. I am a scientist.”

“Didn’t mean any offense.” Anderson pulls out a ngaw, offers it to Hagg. “This might interest you. We just found them in the market.”

Hagg eyes the ngaw, surprised. “The market? Which one?”

“All over,” Lucy supplies.

“They showed up while you were gone,” Anderson says. “Try it, they’re not bad.”

Hagg takes the fruit, studying it closely. “Extraordinary.”

“You know what they are?” Otto asks.

Anderson peels another fruit for himself, but even as he does, he listens closely. He would never directly ask the question of a Grahamite, but he’s perfectly willing to let others do the work.

“Quoile thought it was a leechee,” Lucy says. “Is he right?”

“No, not a lychee. That’s for certain.” Hagg turns it in his hand. “It looks like it could be something the old texts called a rambutan.” Hagg is thoughtful. “Though, if I recall correctly, they’re somewhat related.”

“Rambootan?” Anderson keeps his expression friendly and neutral. “That’s a funny name. The Thais all call them ngaw.”

Hagg eats the fruit, spits the fat pit into his palm. Examines the black seed, wet with his saliva. “I wonder if it will breed true.”

“You could put it in a flower pot and find out.”

Hagg gives him an irritated look. “If it doesn’t come from a calorie company, it will breed. The Thais don’t make sterile generips.”

Anderson laughs. “I didn’t think the calorie companies made tropical fruits.”

“They make pineapples.”

“Right. Forgot.” Anderson waits. “How do you know so much about fruits?”

“I studied biosystems and ecology at Alabama New University.”

“That’s your Grahamite college, right? I thought all you studied was how to start a field burning.”

The others suck in their breath at the provocation, but Hagg just looks back coldly. “Don’t bait me. I’m not that sort. If we’re ever going to restore Eden, it will take the knowledge of ages to accomplish it. Before I came over, I spent a year immersed in Pre-Contraction Southeast Asian Ecosystems.” He reaches across and takes another fruit. “This must gall the calorie companies.”

Lucy fumbles for another fruit. “You think we could fill a clipper ship with these and send them back across the water? You know, play calorie company in reverse? People would pay a fortune for them, I’ll bet. New flavor and all? Sell it as a luxury.”

Otto shakes his head. “You’d have to convince them it’s not blister-rust tainted; the red skin will make people nervous.”

Hagg nods agreement. “It’s a route best not pursued.”

“But the calorie companies do it.” Lucy points out. “They ship seeds and food wherever they want. They’re global. Why shouldn’t we try the same?”

“Because it goes against all the Niche Teachings,” Hagg says gently. “The calorie companies have already earned their place in hell. There’s no reason you should be eager to join them.”

Anderson laughs. “Come on, Hagg. you can’t seriously be against a little entrepreneurial spirit. Lucy’s on to something. We could even put your face on the side of the crates.” He makes a sign of Grahamite blessing. “You know, approved by the Holy Church and all that. Safe as SoyPRO.” He grins. “What do you think of that?”

“I would never participate in such blasphemy.” Hagg scowls. “Food should come from the place of its origin, and stay there. It shouldn’t spend its time crisscrossing the globe for the sake of profit. We went down that path once, and it brought us to ruin.”

“More Niche Teachings.” Anderson peels another fruit. “There must be a niche for money somewhere in Grahamite orthodoxy. Your cardinals are fat enough.”

“The teachings are sound, even if the flock strays.” Hagg stands abruptly. “Thank you for the company.” He frowns at Anderson, but reaches across the table and grabs one more fruit before stalking away.

As soon as he’s gone, everyone relaxes. “Christ, Lucy, why’d you do that?” Otto asks. “That man creeps me out. I left the Compact so I could get away from Grahamite priests looking over my shoulder. And you have to call one over?”

Quoile nods morosely. “I heard there’s another priest here at the joint embassy now.”

“They’re everywhere. Like maggots.” Lucy waves at them. “Toss me another fruit.”

They return to their gorging. Anderson watches them, curious to see if these well-travelled creatures will have any other ideas about its provenance. The rambutan is an interesting possibility, though. Already, despite the bad news about the destroyed algae tanks and nutrient cultures, the day is turning out better than expected. Rambutan. A word to send back to Des Moines and the researchers. A route of investigation into the origins of this mysterious botanic object. Somewhere, there will be a historical record of it. He’ll have to go back to his books and see if he can find-

“Look who’s here,” Quoile mutters.

Everyone turns. Richard Carlyle, in a perfectly pressed linen suit, is climbing the stairs. He takes off his hat as he reaches the shade, fanning himself.

“I fucking hate that man,” Lucy mutters. She lights another pipe, draws hard.

“What’s he smiling about?” Otto asks.

“Hell if I know. He lost a dirigible, didn’t he?”

Carlyle pauses in the shade, scans the patrons across the room, nods at all of them. “Pretty hot one,” he calls out.

Otto stares at him, red-faced and bullet-eyed, and mutters, “If it hadn’t been for his fucking politicking, I’d be a rich man today.”

“Don’t be dramatic.” Anderson pops another ngaw into his mouth. “Lucy, give the man a puff of your pipe. I don’t feel like having Sir Francis kick us out into the heat for brawling.”

Lucy’s eyes have gone glassy with opium, but she waves the pipe in Otto’s general direction. Anderson reaches across and plucks it from her fingers and gives it to Otto, before standing and picking up his empty glass. “Anyone else want something?” Desultory shakes of the head.

Carlyle grins as he arrives at the bar. “You get poor old Otto sorted out?”

Anderson glances back. “Lucy smokes serious opium. I doubt he’ll be able to walk, let alone fight anyone.”

“Devil’s drug, that.”

Anderson toasts him with his empty glass. “That, and booze.” He peers over the edge of the bar. “Where the hell’s Sir Francis?”

“I thought you were here to answer that question.”

“I guess not,” Anderson says. “You lose much?”

“Some.”

“Really? You don’t seem bothered.” Anderson gestures back at the rest of the Phalanx. “Everyone else is pissing and moaning about how you keep interfering with politics, cozying up with Akkarat and the Trade Ministry. But here you are smiling ear to ear. You could be a Thai.”

Carlyle shrugs. Sir Francis, elegantly dressed, carefully coiffed, emerges from a back room. Carlyle asks for whiskey and Anderson holds up his own empty glass.

“No ice,” Sir Francis says. “The mulie men want more money to run the pump.”

“Pay them, then.”

Sir Francis shakes his head as he takes Anderson’s glass. “If you bargain when they squeeze your balls, they will only squeeze again. And I cannot bribe the Environment Ministry to give me access to the coal grid like you farang.”

He turns away and pulls down a bottle of Khmer whiskey, pours an immaculate shot. Anderson wonders if any of the rumors about the man are true.

Otto, now mumbling incoherently about “fugging dribigles,” claims that Sir Francis was an old Chaopraya, a high assistant to the crown, forced out of the palace in a power play. This theory has as much merit as the idea that he is former servant of the Dung Lord, retired, or that he is a Khmer prince, displaced and living incognito ever since the Thai Kingdom was enlarged to swallow the East. Everyone agrees he must have been of high rank-it’s the only thing that explains his disdain for his patrons.

“Pay now,” he says as he sets the shots on the bar.

Carlyle laughs. “You know our credit’s good.”

Sir Francis shakes his head. “You both lost plenty at the anchor pads. Everyone knows it. Pay now.”

Carlyle and Anderson shell out coins. “I thought we had a better relationship than that,” Anderson complains.

“This is politics.” Sir Francis smiles. “Maybe you are here tomorrow. Maybe you are swept away like Expansion plastic on a beach. There are whisper sheets on all the street corners, calling for Captain Jaidee to be made a chaopraya advisor to the palace. If he rises, then all you farang…” he makes a shooing motion with his hand, “all gone.” He shrugs. “General Pracha’s radio stations are calling Jaidee a tiger and hero, and the student associations have been calling for the Trade Ministry to be closed down and placed under the white shirts. The Trade Ministry lost face. Farang and Trade are close like farang and fleas.”

“Nice.”

Sir Francis shrugs. “You do smell.”

Carlyle scowls. “Everyone smells. It’s the goddamn hot season.”

Anderson intercedes. “I suppose Trade is seething, losing face like that.” He takes a sip of the warm whiskey and grimaces. He used to like room-temperature liquor, before he came here.

Sir Francis counts their coins into his cash box. “Minister Akkarat is still smiling, but the Japanese want reparations for their losses and the white shirts will never give them. So either Akkarat will pay to make up for what the Tiger of Bangkok has done, or he will lose face to the Japanese as well.”

“You think the Japanese will leave?”

Sir Francis makes a face of disgust. “The Japanese are like the calorie companies, always looking for a way in. They will never go away.” He moves to the other end of the bar, leaving them once again isolated.

Anderson pulls out a ngaw and offers it Carlyle. “Want one?”

Carlyle takes the fruit and holds it up for examination. “What the hell is this?”

“Ngaw.”

“It reminds me of cockroaches.” He makes a face. “You’re an experimental bastard. I’ll give you that.” He pushes the ngaw back across to Anderson and carefully wipes his hand on his trousers.

“Afraid?” Anderson goads.

“My wife liked eating new things, too. Couldn’t stop herself. Had the madness for flavor. Just couldn’t resist trying new foods.” Carlyle shrugs. “I’ll wait and see if you’re spitting up blood next week.”

They lean back on their stools and gaze across the dust and heat to where the Victory Hotel gleams white. Down an alley a washing woman has set out laundry in pans near the rubble of an old high-rise. Another is washing her body, carefully scrubbing under her sarong, its fabric clinging to her skin. Children run naked through the dirt, jumping over bits of broken concrete that were laid down more than a hundred years ago in the old Expansion. Far down the street the levees rise, holding back the sea.

“How much did you lose?” Carlyle finally asks.

“Plenty. Thanks to you.”

Carlyle doesn’t respond to the jab. He finishes his shot and waves for another. “Really no ice?” he asks Sir Francis. “Or is this just because you think we’ll be gone tomorrow?”

“Ask me tomorrow.”

“If I’m still here tomorrow will you have ice then?” Carlyle asks.

Sir Francis flashes a grin. “Depends how much you keep paying mulies and megodonts for unloading freight. Everyone talks about getting rich burning calories for farang… so no ice for Sir Francis.”

“But if we’re gone, no drinkers. Even if Sir Francis has got all the ice in the world.”

Sir Francis shrugs. “As you say.”

Carlyle scowls at the Thai man’s back. “Megodont unions, white shirts, Sir Francis. Everywhere you turn, there’s another open hand.”

“Price of doing business,” Anderson says. “Still, the way you were smiling when you came in, I thought you hadn’t lost anything at all.”

Carlyle takes his new whiskey. “I just like seeing all of you on the veranda looking like your dogs died from cibiscosis. Anyway, even if we’ve had losses, no one’s chained us in a Khlong Prem sweat cell. No reason not to smile about that.” He leans close. “This isn’t the last of the story. Not by a long shot. Akkarat’s still got some tricks up his sleeve.”

“If you push hard enough on the white shirts, they always bite back.” Anderson warns. “You and Akkarat made a lot of noise, talking about tariff and pollution credit changes. Windups, even. And now my assistant is telling me the same things that Sir Francis just said: all the Thai newspapers are calling our friend Jaidee a Queen’s Tiger. Celebrating him.”

“Your assistant? You mean that paranoid yellow card spider you keep in your offices?” Carlyle laughs. “That’s the problem with you. You all sit around, bitching and wishing, and meanwhile I’m changing the rules of the game. You’re all Contraction thinkers.”

“I’m not the one who lost a dirigible.”

“Cost of doing business.”

“I’d think losing a fifth of your fleet would be more than just a cost.”

Carlyle makes a face. He leans close and lowers his voice. “Come on, Anderson. This tiff with the white shirts isn’t what it seems. Some people have been waiting for them to go too far.” He pauses, making sure his words are understood. “Some of us have been working toward it, even. I’ve just come from speaking with Akkarat himself, and I can assure you the news is about to turn in our favor.”

Anderson almost laughs, but Carlyle wags an admonishing finger. “Go ahead, shake your head now, but before I’m done you’ll be kissing my ass and thanking me for the new tariff structures, and we’ll all have reparations in our bank accounts.”

“The white shirts never pay reparations. Not when they burn a farm, not when they confiscate a cargo. Never.”

Carlyle shrugs. He looks out toward the hot light of the veranda and observes, “The monsoons are coming.”

“Not likely.” Anderson gives the blazing day a sour look. “They’re already late by two months.”

“Oh, they’re coming all right. Maybe not this month. Maybe not next, but they’re coming.”

“And?”

“The Environment Ministry is expecting replacement equipment for the city’s levee pumps. Critical equipment. For seven pumps.” He pauses. “Now, where do you think that equipment is sitting?”

“Enlighten me.”

“All the way across the Indian Ocean.” Carlyle flashes a sudden shark-like smile. “In a certain Kolkata hanger that I happen to own.”

The air seems to have left the bar. Anderson glances around, making sure no one is close. “Christ, you silly bastard. Are you serious?”

It all makes sense, now. Carlyle’s bragging, his certainty. The man has always had a freebooter’s willingness to take risks. But it’s difficult to distinguish bluster from sincerity with Carlyle. If he says he has Akkarat’s ear, perhaps he only speaks with secretaries. It’s all talk. But this…

Anderson starts to speak but sees Sir Francis approaching and turns away instead, grimacing. Carlyle’s eyes sparkle with mischief. Sir Francis sets a new whiskey beside his hand, but Anderson doesn’t care about drinks anymore. As soon as Sir Francis retreats, he leans forward.

“You’re holding the city hostage?”

“The white shirts seem to have forgotten they need outsiders. We’re in the middle of a new Expansion and every string is connected to every other string, and yet they’re still thinking like a Contraction ministry. They don’t understand how dependent they’ve already become on farang.” He shrugs. “At this point, they’re just pawns on a chess board. They have no idea who moves them, and couldn’t stop us even if they tried.”

He tosses back another shot of whiskey, grimaces and slaps it down on the bar. “We should all send flowers to that Jaidee white shirt bastard. He’s done his job perfectly. With half the city’s coal pumps offline…” He shrugs. “The nice thing about dealing with the Thais is that they’re really a very sensitive people. I won’t even have to make a threat. They’ll figure it out all on their own, and make things right.”

“Quite a gamble.”

“Isn’t everything?” Carlyle favors Anderson with a cynical smile. “Maybe we’re all dead tomorrow from a blister rust rewrite. Or maybe we’re the richest men in the Kingdom. It’s all a gamble. The Thais play for keeps. So should we.”

“I’d just put a spring gun to your head and trade your brains for the pumps.”

“That’s the spirit!” Carlyle laughs. “Now you’re thinking like a Thai. But I’ve got myself covered there, too.”

“What? With the Trade Ministry?” Anderson makes a face. “Akkarat doesn’t have the muscle to protect you.”

“Better than that. He’s got generals.”

“You’re drunk. General Pracha’s friends run every part of the military. The only reason the white shirts don’t run the entire country already is because the old King stepped in before Pracha could squash Akkarat the last time.”

“Times change. Pracha’s white shirts and his payoffs have made a lot of people angry. People want a change.”

“You’re talking revolution, now?”

“Is it revolution if the palace asks for it?” Carlyle reaches nonchalantly across the bar for the bottle of whiskey and pours. He upends it and gets less than half a shot from the bottle. He raises an eyebrow to Anderson. “Ah. Now you’re paying attention.” He points to Anderson’s tumbler. “Are you going to drink that?”

“How far does this go?”

“You want in on the deal?”

“Why would you offer?”

“You have to ask?” Carlyle shrugs. “When Yates set up your factory, he tripled the Megodont Union’s fees for joules. Threw money everywhere. Hard not to notice that kind of funding.”

He nods at the other expatriates, now playing a listless game of poker and waiting for the heat of the day to abate so that they can go on with their work or their whoring or their passive wait for the next day. “Everyone else, they’re children. Little kids wearing adult clothes. You’re different.”

“You think we’re rich?”

“Oh stop the theatrics. My dirigibles haul your cargo.” Carlyle regards him. “I’ve seen where your supply shipments originate from,” he looks at Anderson significantly, “before they arrive in Kolkata.”

Anderson pretends nonchalance. “So?”

“An awful lot of material coming from Des Moines.”

“You think I’m worth talking to because I’ve got Midwestern investors? Doesn’t everyone get their investors where the money is? So what if a rich widow wants to experiment with kink-springs. You read too much into small things.”

“Do I?” Carlyle looks around the bar and leans close. “People are talking about you.”

“How so?”

“They say you’re quite interested in seeds.” He looks significantly at the rind of the ngaw between them. “We’re all genespotters, these days. But you’re the only one who pays for your intelligence. The only one who asks about white shirts and generippers. ”

Anderson smiles coldly. “You’ve been talking to Raleigh.”

Carlyle inclines his head. “If it’s any consolation, it wasn’t easy. He didn’t want to talk about you. Not at all.”

“He should have thought a little harder.”

“He can’t get his aging treatments without me.” Carlyle shrugs. “We have shipping representatives in Japan. You weren’t offering him another decade of easy living.”

Anderson forces a laugh. “Of course.” He smiles, but inside he is seething. He’ll have to deal with Raleigh. And now perhaps Carlyle as well. He’s been sloppy. He eyes the ngaw with disgust. He’s been waving his latest interest in front of everyone. Grahamites, even, and now this. It’s too easy to get comfortable. To forget all the lines of exposure. And then one day in a bar, someone slaps you in the face.

Carlyle is saying, “If I could just speak with certain people. Discuss certain propositions…” he trails off, brown eyes hunting for a sign of agreement in Anderson’s expression. “I don’t care which company you’re working for. If I understand your interests correctly, then we might find our goals lie in similar directions.”

Anderson drums his fingers on the bar, thoughtful. If Carlyle were to disappear, would it rouse any interest at all? He might even be able to blame it on overzealous white shirts…

“You think you’ve got a chance?” Anderson asks.

“It wouldn’t be the first time the Thais have reformed their government with force. The Victory Hotel wouldn’t exist if Prime Minister Surawong hadn’t lost his head and his mansion in the December 12 coup. Thai history is littered with changes in administration.”

“I’m a little concerned that if you’re talking to me, you’re talking to others. Maybe too many others.”

“Who else would I talk to?” Carlyle jerks his head toward the rest of the Farang Phalanx. “They’re nothing. Wouldn’t consider them for a second. Your people though…” Carlyle trails off, considering his words, then leans forward.

“Look, Akkarat has some experience with these matters. The white shirts have created a number of enemies. And not just farang. All our project requires is a bit of help gathering momentum.” He takes a sip of his whiskey, considers the taste for a moment before setting the glass down. “The consequences would be quite favorable for us if it succeeds.” He locks eyes with Anderson. “Quite favorable for you. For your friends in the Midwest.”

“What do you get out of it?”

“Trade, of course.” Carlyle grins. “If the Thais face outward instead of living in this absurd defensive crouch of theirs, my company expands. It’s just good business. I can’t imagine that your people enjoy cooling their heels on Koh Angrit, begging to be allowed to sell a few tons of U-Tex or SoyPRO to the Kingdom when there’s a crop failure. You could have free trade, instead of sitting out on that quarantine island. I’d think that would be attractive to you. It certainly would benefit me.”

Anderson studies Carlyle, trying to decide how much to trust the man. For two years they have drunk together, have whored occasionally, have closed shipping contracts on a handshake, but Anderson knows only a little about him. The home office has a portfolio, but it’s thin. Anderson mulls. The seedbank is out there, waiting. With a pliable government…

“Which generals are backing you?”

Carlyle laughs. “If I told you that, you’d just think I was foolish and unable to keep secrets.”

The man is all talk, Anderson decides. He’ll have to make sure Carlyle disappears, soon, quietly, before his cover gets blown. “It sounds interesting. Maybe we should meet to talk a little more about our mutual goals.”

Carlyle opens his mouth to respond then pauses, studying Anderson. He smiles and shakes his head. “Oh no. You don’t believe me.” He shrugs. “Fair enough. Just wait then. In two days time, I think you’ll be more impressed. We’ll talk then.” He looks significantly at Anderson. “And we’ll talk at a place of my choosing.” He finishes his drink.

“Why wait? What’s going to change between now and then?”

Carlyle settles his hat on his head and smiles. “Everything, my dear farang. Everything.”