Hungry Ghosts by John Dolan Page B

have developed some ridiculous romantic notion about the assignment and –”
    “You mean he’s been fucking her for two or three days?”
    The voice sounds firmer now.
    “Well, not all the time, obviously, but –”
    “Are you telling me, Mr . Braddock, that your employee has been having sex with my husband since the first evening of the conference, and that the Thai whore is still keeping his bed warm even now?”
    I sigh and wait for the hurricane to hit.
    “Yes, Mrs. Tesman. I’m afraid that’s what I’m telling you. I’m sorry.”
    I close my eyes and count to three.
    There is a huge and unladylike belly laugh from the other end of the phone.
    “But Mr . Braddock, that’s absolutely priceless!”
    “ Priceless? ” I manage to stammer.
    “And so Chester.”
    “Ah.”
    “But tell me,” she goes on urgently, “you did get appropriate photographs and recordings, yes?”
    “We got all the appropriate photographs you will need, and more inappropriate recordings than you will ever need.”
    “Excellent. Well done.”
    I’m not sure what to say next, so I mutter, “Thank you.”
    “You’re not terribly good at this, Mr . Braddock, are you? Your partner, Miss Da, is much better at handling these emotional issues.”
    My partner ? What the hell has Da been telling her? That cheeky cow.
    “Ask Miss Da to call me tomorrow, would you? I’ll sort out things with her directly. But I am very pleased with the result. I’m sure there will be a bonus coming to your company. Thank you for the call.”
    She hangs up.
    I call Da and give her the news.
    “I told you everything would be fine,” she says haughtily. “You worry too much Khun David.”
    I feel a sudden and intense need for sane female company . I’m going to go downstairs and watch some dreadful Thai TV soap opera with Wayan.
    If my housekeeper goes off with Sinclair I’ll be as mad as Da within a week.
    It’s not a reassuring thought.
     

8
    What the Heart Wants
     
    Khemkhaeng adjusted his tie nervously.
    The door to the office was open and Mongut Sangukhon stood with his back to him gazing out of the window. Something about the set of the shoulders told him that his boss was not in a good mood. He was going to be in an even worse mood shortly. Khemkhaeng tapped meekly on the door and stepped inside, closing it behind him.
    “What is it?” barked Sangukhon, turning to face him.
    “We may have a problem, boss,” answered the lieutenant feeling the dryness in his mouth.
    He had worked for the family for more than a decade but he still feared the other man’s anger. Sangukhon might rely on him more than he relied on most people, but that was not saying much.
    Mongut’s hard eyes narrowed.
    “What sort of a problem?”
    “It’s our Cambodia operation. Someone is poking around up there, asking questions.”
    “Who?”
    “Some English journalist, by the name of Janus. He used to work for the BBC.”
    Mongut snorted and sat down heavily on his desk chair. He indicated for his employee to sit.
    “Go on.”
    Khemkaeng lowered himself gingerly onto one of the visitor’s chairs. He had been hoping for a short discussion. That did not now seem likely.
    “Apparently he’s been in Cambodia for a few weeks, mainly in Phnom Penh, although he has been over to Siem Reap. We’ve heard he’s writing some sort of book about the movement of merchandise over the border. He’s been talking to a lot of people.”
    “Huh.”
    Mongkut sat back in his chair and fixed the other man with a steely look.
    “And when did this come to light exactly? If this man has been around for a few weeks why am I only hearing about it now?”
    Khemkhaeng swallowed hard. This was a difficult feat to accomplish since he had no saliva in his mouth.
    “He’s been very careful. Mainly talking to people who have a grievance against our operation, but staying very low. Yesterday he spoke to the wrong person, however, and the word has got back to us from our