Hungry Ghosts by John Dolan Page A

demographics.”
    “I don’t understand.”
    “When the population of Samui reaches a certain threshold, some central government budgets will be devolved to the island’s administration. We are close to that point now.”
    “I see. So when we hit about a hundred thousand people, your friends here can push through the project?”
    “Something like that. Hold a moment.”
    He pauses briefly for a side conversation, then resumes.
    “So you see, Mr . Braddock, although the port is only a small part of our plans, it is nonetheless a vital part. I need to be sure that I have confidence in our Russian partner. Your co-operation is therefore appreciated.”
    I don’t say anything.
    Rattanakorn goes on, “Please call your Muay Thai friend and tell him you’ll be happy to undertake the assignment.”
    That wasn’t a request either.
    “I’ll be sending him a big bill.”
    “They have a lot of oil and gas in Russia. I am sure your remuneration won’t be a serious obstacle. Perhaps I might be minded to reward you with a little bonus myself if the discussions go well.”
    “I ’d consider it somewhat unethical for both sides to be paying me, Mr. Rattanakorn,” I reply.
    He chuckles.
    “So English. So proper,” he says before cutting the line.
    I light a cigarette and mull this over.
    Common sense tells me I should ring Vlad and tell him I’ll do it.
    Braddock stubbornness says I shouldn’t.
    Apprehension trumps ethics.
    I call the big man and quote him my fee. He doesn’t even flinch.
    “Thank you, Braddock .” He sighs with relief. “You are good friend and good man.”
    Whatever .
    I stub out my cigarette and put the whisky bottle back in the drawer.
    Gangsters. How delightful. Probably the only thing that Philip Janus and I have in common is that we’re both up to our testicles in gangsters.
    My next appointment isn’t until mid-afternoon. I tell Jingjai I’m going to the temple, to Wat Son, for some spiritual cleansing.
    She smiles like she doesn’t believe me.

6
    Preparations
     
    “He’s losing it,” said the athletic-looking man to his companion. He indicated with a slight flick of his head the burly, older Thai standing behind him leaning over the handrail.
    “Keep your voice down, Virote, he’ll hear you,” whispered the second man.
    He was a leaner and less sculpted individual. He bore a prominent scar across his right cheek as the memento of some erstwhile episode of drug-related violence. His name was A-Wut, and like the other two he was a member of the gang known on the streets as the Jade Serpents .
    “Like I give a fuck,” Virote replied, rolling up his sleeve to reveal on his inside forearm a large tattoo of a fanged snake coiled around a sword. He took the proffered Pepsi from his colleague, chinked A-Wut’s bottle and glugged back the dark liquid.
    The three Thais were in one of the backrooms of a big, old warehouse which overlooked the meandering river in Bangkok’s impoverished district of Phra Khanong. The rusting cranes of Khlong Toei port were only a little way upstream, abutting one of the city’s most infamous slums.
    The building was being pressed into service for the manufacture of fireworks; one of a number of legitimate businesses owned by the Family. It was doubtful this was a suitable location for making products containing gunpowder, since if there was an incident the fire could spread along the wharf. Indeed the building itself had all the makings of a firetrap; part concrete, part wood, the occasional bit of brickwork, and small, dingy windows. However, nobody much seemed to care. The wages paid to the largely illiterate and elderly workers of the factory were a source of gratitude to their recipients, albeit such sums barely kept them above subsistence-level. Many factories had decamped from the City of Angels to areas of cheaper land and abundant easily-exploitable labour; and where business-start-ups were sometimes sweetened by fiscal incentives.
    A good part of