The 38 Million Dollar Smile - Stevenson Richard - Страница 52

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but Bill was just some annoying Bushophile Gary put up with

for business and peace-in-the-family reasons.”

“Plus,” I said, “the appeal of Buddhism for Griswold is its

adherence to nonviolence. He hates militarism and talks up

peaceful solutions. Is that a guy who arranges to have his

former sister-in-law fed to the sharks?”

“It’s not a particularly Buddhist type of offering.”

We were approaching Khlong Toei, the Bangkok waterfront

area with its docks and warehouses and light industry. The sun

was setting and the light was splashing flame all over everything: ships, fishing boats, docks, cranes, us. Everyone was on deck

now and alert. Pugh had arranged for us to be picked up in

three cars and driven to a house not far from Griswold’s condo

owned by a sometime client of Pugh’s in Sathorn. Timmy and I

were about to come full circle in our five-day Gulf of Thailand

odyssey.

Griswold was feeling better now, and he was sitting on a

bamboo mat under a canopy with Mango, Egg and Nitrate

watching Khlong Toei glide by. Griswold didn’t seem to be

232 Richard Stevenson

mad at Mango anymore, maybe because these days he had so

much else on his mind.

Pugh and I had decided not to confront Griswold with the

Duane Hubbard revelation until we had him safely locked away.

In case my knowing more about them could turn out to be

useful, I had phoned Bob Chicarelli in Albany — it was six a.m.

there — and left a message asking him to track down Duane

Hubbard and Matthew Mertz, who presumably were living in

the Albany area. Or at least had been living there six months

earlier when Griswold wired two million dollars to Hubbard’s

Albany account. I asked Bob not to spook the two in any way

but to find out what they were up to lately, and did they appear to be living off the fat of the land? I was beginning to wonder, in fact, if bozos such as these two might not be acting as agents for someone else, and Hubbard’s bank account was merely a

conduit.

Pugh had been on the phone up in the wheelhouse, and

when we pulled up to a dock just as the last flecks of gold faded from the soot black Bangkok night, he said, “Mr. Don, we’re

going to dine this evening with a celebrity. Do you have a streak of star-fuckery in you, or will you be unimpressed if I tell you that soothsayer Pongsak has agreed to grant us an audience?”

“Audience? I thought these Bangkok seer guys were humble

Buddhists.”

Pugh laughed. “Sure. Like Jimmy Swaggart was a humble

Christian.”

The three cars carrying our group of renegades each took

different routes to Sathorn. I rode with Pugh, Egg, Ek,

Griswold and a physician, a woman named Sukchaiboworn,

who had examined Griswold on the boat when we landed and

pronounced him fit enough not to be rehospitalized. Griswold

said, in fact, that his headache was gone and he was eager to get to a phone and a computer to work on his business transaction

— i.e., the takeover of Algonquin Steel.

The safe house Pugh had arranged for was on Soi Nantha,

not far from Griswold’s condo and only a few hundred yards

from Paradisio. The place had a high wall around it draped with

THE 38 MILLION DOLLAR SMILE 233

pink bougainvillea and a lighted pool in the back. We got

Griswold inside the house and locked into an upstairs room

with Ek on the small balcony outside it and Egg guarding the

door. Griswold had his computer and phones now, and he at

least feigned being satisfied. He promised us he would not try

to bolt.

Miss Nongnat went to her room to redo her toenails, while

Kawee and Mango decided to drop in at Paradisio and relax

there for a few hours. Mango said there was a Bulgarian

diplomat who often showed up on Wednesdays, and he hoped

to run into him and perhaps add to the Chonburi house fund.

Two of Pugh’s crew had gone out to bring food back for the

household, and while they were gone, Pugh and I went up to

Griswold’s room to lay out a plan we had come up with during

a confab out by the pool.

Pugh was seated at a teak desk with a PC in the middle of it,

and he had phones on either side of him. A Buddha figure

rested on a nearby shelf, and Griswold had lit nine candles just below it.

“Khun Gary,” Pugh said to him, “we are attempting to

sketch out a program for keeping you alive until General

Yodying has been relieved of his duties or even his present life

— we’re not sure what your associates have in mind for him. At

the rate events are hurtling forward, however, we fear we might

not be able to last another eleven days, short of getting you out of Thailand. Maybe to Sihanoukville or even darkest Rangoon.

Would you be able to conduct your business from either of

those two locations?”

“Of course not. I absolutely must be on top of things here.”

“Why is that? You can operate by computer or phone from

just about anywhere nowadays.”

“I must have access to funds. Not all of my funds are in

banks.”

“Oh?”

Griswold shrugged. “I have twelve million dollars in sacks

under the spirit house platform in my condo. There are people I

234 Richard Stevenson

am dealing with who — for reasons that will be obvious to any

Thai — will conduct transactions only in cash. Former Prime

Minister Thaksin is believed to have left the country with tens

of millions of dollars and euros stuffed into a dozen pieces of

luggage. I appreciate that all the untaxed money floating around Thailand represents an economic injustice for the ordinary Thai.

But as I have pointed out, there are larger and more profound

issues involved here.”

I said, “Griswold, you are so full of it.”

“Am I? That’s a rather sweeping statement about a situation

that is financially, socially and morally quite complex.”

“You’re in bed with crooks. There’s nothing overly

complicated about that.”

“Oh, is former Finance Minister Anant na Ayudhaya a

crook?”

Pugh said, “Khun Gary, being a crook is in the finance

minister’s job description in Thailand. For goodness’ sake,

haven’t you read it?”

Griswold sighed and said, “Look, I have already admitted

that this deal is morally complicated.”

“Anyway,” I said, “if this guy Anant is dealing in cash, how

do you know you can trust him? If he’s the chief Thai backer

for the Sayadaw U Buddhism center, what makes you think he

won’t pocket your cash for the project and have it shipped to

Singapore? Or to his old pal Thaksin in the UK?”

This got Griswold’s attention. “I can’t imagine that a

genuine Buddhist would do such a thing.”

Pugh looked at him sadly and said, “Oh, Mr. Gary.”

“Here’s the test,” I said. “You get Anant to speed up

preparations for the coup or whatever it is that’s supposed to

happen on April twenty-seventh. Instead of the end of the

month, they do it the day after tomorrow, the eighteenth,

another auspicious date. And you tell Anant, too, that the

money for the project — and the controlling shares in

Algonquin Steel — will be turned over to his group only after

General Yodying is out of commission and all the transactions THE 38 MILLION DOLLAR SMILE 235

go through the Bangkok Bank, with you as one of two

signatories on any disbursements on the Sayadaw U project.”

Griswold shook his head. “No chance. Khun Anant would

never agree to any of that. He is a proud man, I can assure you.

And a bit of an egomaniac, I think.”

Pugh said, “What if Khun Anant’s very own soothsayer,

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