The Secret Agent (37 page)

O
liver Krane bent to study the placard that described the enormous terra-cotta vase—a central piece in the museum’s current exhibition,
Two Thousand Years of Southeast Asian Art.
This was the show’s opening day, and the crowds that flowed and parted the length of the exhibit hall were staggering.

“‘Dated 1000 BC,’” Oliver murmured, “‘discovered at a hearth site in Ban Chiang, near the Laotian border-meticulously restored from the merest shards.’ Hmmm. And exactly who did the restoring, I wonder? A man named Khuang, late of the Thieves Market?”

The faintest smile curled the corners of his mouth. It faded, however, when he caught sight of the woman standing three yards from the display, her eyes fixed on his face. Her expression was forbidding; but at least, Oliver decided, she had consented to come.

He had tried and failed to catch her attention repeatedly since his return from Bangkok. For three weeks he
had employed his usual methods: opera tickets delivered by a famous tenor; an exquisite meal composed by a sought-after chef in her very own kitchen; her portrait freshly painted by the
artiste du jour.
She had ignored them all, and with each failure the zest had dwindled from Oliver’s life.

But this morning, when Stefani Fogg opened her door to retrieve the morning paper—there was the white cockatoo waiting in its six-foot cage, with a pass to the Met show tethered to one claw.

“Ms. Fogg, is it? You
have
made yourself scarce.” He peered at her mockingly over his glasses.

Stefani offered no word of reply.

Afraid she might turn and run, he walked toward her. “I owe you an apology. I deceived you, my dearest Stefani, from first to last of this sordid little tale; and although I had my reasons, they cannot be considered excuses. The threats to your person were shocking. The possible consequences, unthinkable. I am seared with remorse, and humbly beg forgiveness.”

“You would have killed me if necessary,” she returned, in a voice so low he strained to hear it.

Oliver shook his head. “Remember, ducks, how strenuously I resisted Sompong’s representations in that hut. At no point did I admit to having employed you to work against him. When he placed that rifle in my hands I dropped it rather than fire. I confess that I had no further notion of how to effect our rescue—but happily your embassy chums rendered that moot.”

“In other words,” she retorted, “you got lucky. But too many people died for your little game, Oliver. You and Sompong, with the
Risk
board wedged between you.”

“The man had his boot on my neck. He’d murdered my old friend Harry. I went hat in hand to the FBI, and
they treated me as a father would a son.
Oliver, old boy,
they said,
do your best to entrap the cunning little sod and we’ll back you to the end.
And so I laid my plans.”

“Max Roderick was convenient. I was convenient. You used us both.”

“And I
abase
myself, for all my sins. As a gesture of good faith and apology, heart, I’ve brought you this.” He held out a small pouch made of Thai silk, bound with a braided tassel.

“No more gifts, Oliver.”

“But this already belongs to you! Part of your inheritance. Dickie Spencer found it, inside a massive limestone head of the Buddha. He was packing it for shipment to New York, and the thing fell out in his hands.”

“Spencer—that
bastard.
He owes me a hell of a lot more than this—”

“As he knows. He asked that I send this on, with his thanks for windmills tilted.”

“He should be on his knees praising God he’s not in a Thai prison. I could have had him arrested. Accessory to kidnapping.”

“But you didn’t?”

She gave him a long look. “I might need his … gratitude. When I come into my inheritance.”

Oliver smiled and nodded. “A patron-client relationship. How very Thai of you, Ms. Fogg.”

She unwound the tassel. Inside the silk pouch was an envelope, penned in a difficult hand.
To be opened in the event of my death.

“This is some sort of document. It’s been notarized.”

“There was a marvelous old gemstone stored with it,” Oliver told her. “A cabochon ruby. But that’s been returned to its niche in the Buddha—you’ll find
him
a few
yards farther on. Won’t you stroll with me through the exhibit, my dear? It’s time we discussed your future.”

“My future?”

“You
must
have thought about your next post. Where would you like to go? Argentina? Istanbul? St. Petersburg?”

“You can’t be serious. I didn’t come here today for a job. I came for the
truth.
I want to know exactly how Max died.”

“Ah,” Oliver said mournfully. “Poor Max. I was forced to put him
hors de combat,
as it were, to placate Sompong. But Jeffrey Knetsch, God rest his soul, was an immense pain in the ass. He fiddled with his friend’s skis. Max wasn’t supposed to die without my help.”

“Help?”

“His position obviously required some sort of assistance. He was in the gravest danger, heart. From my conversations with Sompong, I knew that the minister was determined to make an end of Max’s life. He had ordered poor Knetsch to do his worst. I informed Max that he would never be safe from Sompong Suwannathat—or his chums—until he was officially dead.”

“Informed him—”

“You’re being very obtuse.” Oliver shrugged. “All Max had to do was head out alone to the cliff edge that night. Send Knetsch back for something at a calculated moment. I was waiting nearby to shove the chair off the ridge and help Max down the mountain via the tramline, before anyone discovered the suicide. Max had achieved enough strength in his legs by that time to walk with assistance. We got safely on our way to Moutiers while Knetsch was still summoning the alpine rescue johnnies.

“The only thing that troubled Max, really, was how much danger his apparent death placed
you
in. But he
could tell from your letters that you’d grown in confidence over the previous few months. And I assured him I’d keep an eye on you. Neither of us expected Sompong to take you as seriously as he did. We never dreamed you’d become such a target.”

Stefani gripped Oliver’s arm so fiercely he winced. “Are you saying Max is alive?”

Oliver turned, and let his gaze fall on a massive stone head of a reclining Buddha that rested, like a meteor fallen from the sky, at the far end of the room.

“I understand that was one of Jack Roderick’s favorite pieces,” he murmured.

But she was already fighting her way through the crowds that jostled the length of the exhibition, toward the serene gaze of the limestone deity and the blond-haired man who stood by it, waiting for her.

In October 1999, I flew to Thailand with my husband, Mark Mathews, in search of a legend.

I had long been fascinated by the life of Jim Thompson, who settled in Bangkok after 1945, revived the moribund Thai silk industry, founded a company that thrives to this day, served as the first chief of U.S. intelligence in Bangkok and disappeared without a trace in the Cameron Highlands of Malaysia on Easter Sunday, 1967.

I began my search for Thompson at the Oriental Hotel, the gracious and evocative Bangkok institution that dominates the banks of the Chao Phraya. Thompson had lived for over a year at the Oriental in the late 1940s and had briefly served as part owner before founding his Thai Silk Company. The Oriental Hotel remains, for me, the epitome of Bangkok experiences. In the book-lined Authors Lounge, I was offered tea and chocolate cake by one of the most beautiful women in
Bangkok, the elegant and charming Ankana Gilwee, who first joined the hotel’s staff as a young girl and remembered the days when Thompson had lived there. Ankana graciously shared her memories of the man and the postwar period, and I am indebted for her welcome and her kindness.

She should, in no way, be confused with the character of Ankana Lee-Harris, who shares merely a part of her name.

I owe thanks to Dean Barrett, a fellow writer who suggested I speak with Harold Stephens, one of the last great adventurers and writers of Southeast Asia. Steve, as he is known, had worked as a reporter for the
Bangkok Post
at the time of Thompson’s disappearance in 1967, and took part in the search for the Legendary American in the Cameron Highlands. He was purposefully reticent regarding Jim Thompson and the mystery of his death, and offered my most cherished bit of advice:
Don’t write this story. People have died because of it.

It was my acquaintance with Harold Stephens that proved vital in securing seats on a Royal Thai Air Force C130 transport plane out of Hué, Vietnam, where we were trapped together for five days in November 1999, during the worst flooding to hit central Vietnam in a century. While waiting for the waters to recede, my husband and I played endless rounds of cards with Steve, Joseph McInerney, the Chief Executive Officer of the Pacific-American Travel Association, and Dr. Craig Hedges, an American doctor donating his services to the hospital in Hué. Sunathee Isvarphornchai, Director of Public Relations for Thai Airways International, agreed to airlift us out of Hué in company with her delegation and press corps; without her extraordinary assistance, we might be swimming home still. We owe a deep debt of gratitude to all.

I would also like to thank Chase McQuade and his wife, Marilyn, for their generosity with family history and their support for this book. Mr. McQuade is Jim Thompson’s great-nephew, and shares his famous relative’s fascination with Asia. He related what family memories of Thompson he could, as well as discussing the aftermath of Thompson’s disappearance; at every turn, he expressed his enthusiasm for the novel in progress.

Stefani Fogg and Jeff Knetsch donated their names to principal characters in this story for charitable purposes, and I appreciate their willingness to be dragged through a complex tale, cast into danger, manipulated without their consent, and in one instance, killed. Neither has profited from their association with the story, but the charities they supported are deeply grateful. They should never be confused with the characters their names represent.

My thanks go out to those members of the Central Intelligence Agency’s Publication Review Board who read this manuscript prior to publication; and the remarkable Kate Miciak, Vice President and Executive Editor at Bantam Dell Publishing Group, without whom my work would be much impoverished. Kate’s patience, vision and intelligence inform every project I pursue.

The Secret Agent,
while inspired by the story of the Legendary American, as Thompson is still known, diverges from strict biography in numerous ways. Although married and divorced immediately after the war, Jim Thompson never had a son, and the extent of his espionage activity after 1948 remains in fierce dispute. Most of the Thai characters are fabrications, with the exception of King Ananda, Prime Minister Pridi Banomyong and Field Marshal Pibul, three men who dominated Thai history in the post Second World War period.
Similarly, the character of Alec McQueen is clearly based upon Thompson’s OSS field-mate and
Bangkok Post
founder Alexander MacDonald; but my character should never be confused for a portrait of that distinguished journalist.

My solution to the mystery of Thompson’s death—or Jack Roderick, as he is known in these pages—should not be read as anything but fiction.

For those readers who wish to consult a biography of Thompson, I would suggest William Warren’s
The Legendary American: The Remarkable Career and Strange Disappearance of Jim Thompson
(Boston: Houghton Mifflin Company, 1970). And no trip to Bangkok is complete without a visit to Jim Thompson’s House—that remarkable museum on the banks of the khlong.

Francine Mathews
Golden, Colorado
June 2001

THE SECRET AGENT
A Bantam Book

Published by Bantam Dell
A Division of Random House, Inc.
New York, New York

All rights reserved
Copyright © 2002 by Francine Mathews

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2002018273

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law. For information address: Bantam Books, New York, New York.

eISBN: 978-0-307-56819-9

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