Down And Out In The Big Mango

A PARTNER IN CRIME

"This one arrived this morning, O’Brian said, holding up a photograph. It’s the seventh. He sends one every year on the anniversary of his disappearance; all are posted from some obscure place. This one came from a town called Leeds, in England." He flicked the snap across the desk, and Dave Bonner picked it up. It showed a handsome, well built blond man in a black tee-shirt, his arm around the shoulders of an Oriental girl. In middle age, the man looked fit and athletic while the girl was young; in her twenties it appeared, shapely and very beautiful. Both wore sun glasses and offered generous smiles to the camera. They were on a white sand beach, in the surf of a turquoise blue ocean. A beached fishing boat lay in the distance behind them.

O’Brian tossed five more photographs onto the desk; Bonner examined them. All were taken in tropic locales; the man sitting in the cockpit of a sailboat, hand on a wooden steering wheel, emerging from the sea in snorkeling attire, and sitting at a beach bar, cocktail in hand. He likes the warm climes, Bonner said.

So it would seem, O’Brian said, flipping across another photo. But he’s not averse to the cold. Bonner picked up the print. It showed the man in a well cut, expensive looking ski suit, standing by a ski-lift, poles in hand, the same Oriental woman by his side, both smiling, an alpine resort in the background.

A man for all seasons, Bonner grinned. Tell me about him, Eddie.

O’Brian drank water from a glass. He’s Francis Peter Sainsbury; a stockbroker. He ran an investment brokerage in San Francisco; an old family firm founded by his grandfather. It was well respected, conservative, and had a solid reputation. It was exclusive to the super rich. If you had less than fifty million to play with; forget about it. Then, Sainsbury secretly turned it into nothing less than a Ponzi scheme and defrauded his clients of several billion bucks. Finally, just before he would have been exposed, it collapsed leaving a ten billion dollar hole. And Sainsbury left town with a piss-pot full. We know he fled to France, passing through Paris’ Charles De Gaulle Airport. But then he disappeared along with the money. That was seven years ago. We don’t know where he is. But every year he taunts us with these snaps.

And he’s Most Wanted.

That’s right. And Dave, O’Brian grinned. the bounty for bringing him in is posted at one million bucks, if you’re interested.

That’s a significant bounty for the Bureau?

What we offer is just one hundred thousand. The rest, nine hundred grand, is made up by some of his most wealthy and irate victims; they want his ass.

Bonner chuckled. A million dollars is a nice piece of change. It would see me out of the business. He picked up the photographs. He’s in the tropics, obviously. I’ll bet he’s in South East Asia. I’d guess Thailand or the Philippines.

O’Brian laughed. Thailand has been tried. Larry Jones tried it as did Sam Worsley. Jones spent over six months in Thailand; he scoured the place. Bill May checked out the Philippines for a long time; not even a squeak.

Can I have these prints?

Of course.

Bonner picked up the folder and the photographs and stood up. Thanks, Eddie, he said. I’ll be in touch. He left FBI Washington Headquarters and flagged down a cab.

In his Georgetown hotel room, Bonner fixed himself a Jack Daniels whiskey, dropped in an ice cube, opened the folder and ran through the FBI’s profile on the fugitive, Francis Peter Sainsbury. Born into wealth, he’d enjoyed a privileged life; private tutors, expensive international schools. He had a Masters Degree in Economics and Business Administration from Yale. He noted that the guy had been a fine polo player, enjoyed boats and was an accomplished blue water sailor, a sea kayaker, a keen scuba diver and game fisherman. He had no tattoos, but did carry an identifying mark; a three inch long U shaped scar just above his right wrist, courtesy of a marlin fish hook. Bonner read it through twice then closed the file. He had no doubt but that Sainsbury would be languishing in some nice tropical paradise enjoying the fruits of his crime but where? He thought about the million bucks. A million dollars would really turn his life around.

Bonner was tired. Thirty five years tired; twenty five in the FBI and ten hunting fugitives for the bounty. And he had little to show for it at fifty eight years of age other than a condominium in Baltimore, an FBI pension and a small bank account.

The following morning he would be heading back to Baltimore by Greyhound. Tonight he’d find a decent bar, but first a good restaurant; he was feeling famished. He finished his drink and went out.

On the street, close by the hotel, he came across a square of up-market shops and boutiques that also had several fine looking eateries and a few well packed bars. One place, da Steffano’s, advertized great traditional pizza cooked in wood fired ovens. He liked pizza and was heading for it when he noted the restaurant adjacent; A Taste of Thai it offered. He also enjoyed Thai food but hadn’t eaten any for a long while. He pulled out a quarter and flipped it: heads it’s pizza, tails it’s…. tails took it. He went inside A Taste of Thai.

An attractive Thai woman of around thirty greeted him with a smile and a wai, took him to a table and handed him a menu. Bonner ordered a Jack Daniels on the rocks and a Singha beer. When she returned with the drinks, he ordered tom yum kung soup and khao phat gai.

Apart from a young couple at a corner table, he was the only patron. Looking around, he could see that the dining room was beautifully finished and decorated with sepia photos of early Thai rural scenes. Traditional Thai music played softly completing the ambience. He also noticed the place had a bar at the far end.

When he’d finished his meal, he went over to the bar. It was a simple bamboo set up with a grass roof, the kind of bar one finds at beach resorts in the tropics. Four old teak barstools sat in front. The lady who had greeted him came behind the bar. He sat down and ordered another Jack Daniels.

Did you enjoy your meal? she asked.

Yes, it was excellent.

Thank you. You like Thai food? she delivered his drink.

Yes, I do, he said.

You have been to Thailand?

Once, on a package tour nine years ago. What is your name?

Kwan.

Khun Kwan, he smiled. I’m Dave. He drank a little whisky. You’re from Bangkok?

No. I’m from Chiang Rai.

That’s in the far North, right?

Yes, it is.

And this is your restaurant?

Yes. It was my husband’s idea.

Was it a good idea? Bonner smiled. By that I mean do you make good business?

Yes, we do. It is quiet tonight, but we are usually quite busy.

That’s pleasing. I can see you’ve put a lot into it. Your husband is Thai?

No, he’s American. We met in Thailand.

You have children?

Yes, we have two; one boy four years and one girl two years.

I’m happy for you, Kwan Bonner smiled and took a long sip on his whiskey.

Are you married?

He shook his head. Divorced, long ago.

And children?

I had three; grown up and gone. I’m alone.

You are lonely then.

He grinned. Sometimes.

"How old are you?

Bonner’s grin broadened. I’m fifty eight.

You are tall and good looking, you have nice hair. You should go to Thailand and find nice young lady. A Thai lady will perhaps make you happy.

Bonner laughed. I shall think about that, Kwan. On impulse, he withdrew the photo of Sainsbury with the woman on the beach from his pocket and handed it to her. She examined it. Thailand, she said with a smile. She pointed to the man. Not you?

No, he’s a friend. How do you know it’s Thailand?

She laughed softly. Well, the lady is definitely Thai. She examined the picture closely. Then she placed it on the bar. One moment, please, she said and slipped away through a bead curtain. Within a minute, she was back with a magnifying glass. She peered at the image through the glass. Ah, yes, she murmured, smiling.

What is it? Bonner’s curiosity whetted.

She held it up. Kho Chang, she said, then seeing his bewilderment she laughed lightly. Kho is Thai word for island. Kho Chang is an island. She pulled out a map of Thailand from under the bar and unfolded it. There, she pointed it out. It was in the Gulf of Thailand, south east of Bangkok, close to Cambodia.

How do you know this? he gave her a doubtful smile.

The boat; it’s on the boat.

He picked up the print. She handed him the magnifying glass and pointed out some hardly visible letters on the sun bleached prow of the fishing boat. It’s Thai script, she said. Through the lens, he could see the scrolling characters, but, of course, they meant nothing to him. She wrote them down on a pad in Thai and then transcribed them into English. She handed him the paper. It read: Supannika Resort and Spa, Kho Chang.

Bonner’s pulse quickened; what a break. He had a sudden urge to hug and kiss the woman. He slugged back his drink in a single gulp.

Thank you very much, Kwan, he said, with a wide smile. I’ll have another whiskey, please.

Flying bored the hell out of Bonner, and long haul flights had the additional problem of jet-lag. And the Thai Air A340 flight from New York to Bangkok would take nearly eighteen hours. But, Bonner had the answer. He’d taken a window seat and, after take-off when the seatbelt sign went out, and drinks were being served, he ordered a large scotch and soda. He downed it with a sleeping pill and went out like a candle in the wind. The next thing he knew he was being woken by a gentle shake from a flight attendant to see passengers lining the aisle and extracting their bags from the overhead bins. Bangkok, she said with a polite smile.

Feeling sharp and clear headed, Bonner unpacked in his room at the Landmark Hotel. He took a shower, put on shorts, a light tennis shirt and sandals. With his laptop, he went down to The Huntsman Bar and ordered a beer. After ten minutes, finding the bar’s intense air-conditioning too intense to take, he went out the hotel’s front doors and onto the patio. It was just after four o’clock, and hot. He took a table and ordered a Jack Daniels over ice and a large bottle of beer. Behind him, an array of big fans blew a cold water mist across the patio, tempering the afternoon heat. He selected a cigar from a leather case and lit it with a match and watched people passing by on the avenue below him, his mind on his plans to find and reel in Francis Peter Sainsbury. His drinks arrived, and the waiter poured his beer. He took a long sip of whiskey and opened his laptop; best get familiar with the territory. He logged into Google and began reading about the island of Kho Chang.

Bonner stepped off the Kho Chang ferry amid a bunch of young Russian backpackers and climbed up to the small wharf. It felt hot after the cool ride from the mainland and crowded with people leaving and arriving. He picked up a can of cold beer in a nearby 7/11 store and went over to a songthiew that was full. Supannika Resort? he asked the driver, received a nod and squeezed in. They rolled off the wharf and headed out at a leisurely pace, stopping and unloading at all the beach areas and resorts. They were well south, and Bonner was the last remaining passenger when the driver pulled in at a road junction: Supannika, he called out. Bonner got out, paid the man and crossed the road where a sign on a tree directed him to a narrow track. He followed it to a small car park. Above him, covering the flanks and summit of a low hill was the Supannika Resort, its many buildings partly hidden by trees and dense vegetation.

The first thing he noted was a delightful fragrance; a rich combination of honeysuckle, eucalyptus and frangipani drifted down with the wind. He crossed the car park to a small sign and entered a tunnel of rich foliage filled with the aroma of lemon, orange and other essences.

He came to a short stair and passed through the portals of the main building, a vast structure, built of big diameter logs, probably teak, he guessed. It was pleasingly cool inside. And judging by the number of people milling around, the resort was doing good business, and at three hundred dollars US a night for the cheapest room, it was making good money. At the desk, he gave his name, was quickly booked in, given a key and whisked with his bags to a room on the third floor. The room was small but well appointed and beautifully furnished in fine wood. He showered and changed and went back downstairs to the reception, dropped his key at the desk, picked up a resort map and headed in the general direction of the ocean.

The resort’s main restaurant overlooked a bay. It had several bars, one a nicely shaded bamboo hut, sat on the beach itself serviced by a pretty Thai girl barkeep; he chose that. He smiled and nodded to the three other patrons, took a stool and ordered a cold beer. A two-masted, sailboat rode at anchor a few hundred yards from the surf. Around a dozen or so sea kayaks were lined up beneath an awning. But it was the long-prow fishing boat beached in the surf that assured him this was the place. He finished his beer and went barefoot down to the water. He held up the picture of Sainsbury and the girl and lined up the boat. This is it; he concluded; this is where they stood. Gotcha, he murmured with a grin. He went back to the bar and ordered another beer.

Of course, it may not mean too much he told himself, tempering his elation. It only meant Sainsbury had been here once. But he could also be a regular. From his profile, it was the perfect place for him; exclusive, with no riff-raff and it had all the toys plus the seclusion. Tonight he’d relax and dine here by the beach and watch the sunset. Tomorrow he’d make a few discrete enquiries.

Bonner was up with the dawn. After a breakfast of eggs Benedict and fruit washed down with good coffee, he went down to the surf and set up his camera on a tripod and took photographs of the sailboat. Since boyhood, Bonner had dreamed of sailing on such a boat, but for various reasons, mainly financial, he never had. And this one was a beauty. He raised binoculars and studied her. Big, superbly built of fine polished wood, aluminum masts and expensive gear, she lay pointed seaward and rolled easily at her mooring.

Back at the Lodge, a crowd jostled at the front-desk booking trips and spa treatment. He took out the pictures of Sainsbury and joined the fray. He’d show the staff the photos and see if they could