The Chiang Mai Assignment

By Frank Hurst

The much-awaited second novel in The Golden Triangle trilogy: a fast-paced thriller set in London and Thailand providing a harrowing insight into the hidden world of drugs smuggling.  

When MI6 offer to help Customs trap an international drugs smuggler all is not what it seems … In his long-awaited sequel to The Postmistress of Nong Khai, Frank Hurst takes us on an exhilarating and fascinating journey through the dangerous opium jungles of the Golden Triangle and the corridors of power in London where deception and conspiracy loom large at every turn.

‘Thrilling, vividly described. If you want to know how the war on drugs was actually conducted you can’t do better than read Frank Hurst.’ Bangkok Post

‘Very authentic, packed with detail. Hurst’s style is reminiscent of old school thriller writers like Alistair Maclean.’ Bookbag UK

‘Hurst’s level of understanding and research is evident in his writing. His descriptive and scene setting is brilliant. A particular treat. Left us wanting more.’ Phuket News

‘Fans of detective fiction should love this.’ Goodreads UK

• Language: English
• Publisher: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Release date: Feb 28, 2023
• ISBN: 9781803137834

Frank Hurst

Frank Hurst, who writes under a pseudonym, spent thirty-six years as a criminal investigator for the British Government. After leaving the service of the Crown, Frank has devoted his time to writing novels. His Golden Triangle Trilogy, set in the Far East, has received wide acclaim and won literary awards.

Book preview

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Acknowledgements

Chapter One

London, December 1990

‘Good morning, Mr Rawlin,’ a cheerful voice piped as he settled into the vicelike grip of his office chair. It was eight a.m. and for once the Brighton train had been on time. He raised his head fleetingly to see the broad grin of Martha, the buxom and ever- cheerful tea lady, who was doing her rounds of the long, cream- coloured corridors.

‘Morning, Martha,’ Rawlin mumbled back without a smile.

‘Did you feel the wind yesterday, Mr Rawlin? It fair blew the cobwebs away.’

Rawlin pulled open a drawer and dug out a handful of ballpoint pens.

‘You must have felt it, Mr Rawlin—it was so hard, and cold too. Winter is here for sure.’

‘I’m sorry, Martha, what did you say?’ Rawlin stammered without looking up, as his tried to make his favourite pen scratch a few marks on a blank sheet of paper. It was stubbornly holding on to its ink and only annoying clear indentations slid across the paper.

‘I said: did you feel it last night?’

‘I don’t feel much these days, Martha, whatever it was,’ and with that he chucked the offending ballpoint into the bin and cursed under his breath. As he furiously tested another pen from his collection, the trace of a frown appeared on Martha’s ruddy face, but she said nothing. Instead, she positioned a cup of unsugared tea on his desk and shuffled soundlessly away. The truth was Mike Rawlin had felt that bitter wind and it had brought with it memories that he had long been trying to forget.

The previous morning, he had ventured out into a ravenous gale that had gusted icy blasts down the promenade to purchase his weekly copy of the Sunday Times from his local corner store. He had picked up two bottles of soda water and three lemons with the newspaper, exchanging the money silently with a shopkeeper in a black turban. By eleven o’clock, he had poured himself his first glass of rum and soda and slumped into a sagging armchair with a view, through an expansive sash window, down the esplanade towards Rottingdean in the distance. As he reminded himself wearily how heavy the broadsheets felt these days, his eyes had fallen on of a headline that read:

Drug War Intensifies—New Government under Pressure for Results.

The paper had been full of politics and he hated it. Margaret Thatcher had stood down as prime minister a few weeks earlier and there was endless analysis and comment about her replacement John Major’s new vision for Britain. But this story interested him.

Pouring himself another glass of Mount Gay he had changed the radio channel to one playing popular classical music. The leaden tones of Bach’s requiem in B flat major droned out of the wireless. He turned the volume up and read on. Apparently, there had been a huge drop in the street price of heroin and addiction rates and street crime were soaring. Theft and violence were linked to cheap drugs, the article exclaimed—it was essential that the Prime Minister did something about it. And on and on went the narrative in the same shrill style.

The kingpins must be brought to justice, not just the couriers and low-level pushers.

Rawlin had read this panic-ridden rhetoric many times before, but there seemed to be more clamour than usual and it was clear that someone had got hold of a decent set of facts and a few accurate statistics for a change. He wondered who was leaking the information to the press. Maybe he would find out the following day—it was sure to be the subject of loud discussion at the Investigation Division’s headquarters in New Fetter Lane and Rawlin had made a mental note to pay attention this time.

Rawlin’s new occupation, the labour that he had slogged over for the last twelve months, was called support by the office—a useless euphemism that meant he was a member of the back-room staff. He provided contextual briefings to the intelligence officers of Her Majesty’s Customs and Excise Investigation Division who were working in the field, a select few of whom were operating overseas in posts similar to the one he had left in disgrace two years previously. His new job was to pore over old intelligence material and case files, collect data from other government departments, keep abreast of smuggling trends and draw together reports. All of which would assist those at the sharp end, those who had much more exciting lives acquiring fresh, uncooked intelligence, tracking suspects and cultivating informants.

When the unspeakable information about Rawlin’s Bangkok love affair with his celebrated Thai informant, Lek, had first surfaced, alongside the news that his investigation’s main target, Bartholomew Vanderpool, had escaped again with the said informant in harness, he had been hauled over the coals by the Head of the ID, the Chief Investigation Officer, and he thought he might lose his job altogether, maybe even to suffer a prosecution of some kind. But the Chief was a wise old bird, a survivor, a politician who realised that firing Rawlin would just bring bad publicity to the ID and, more importantly, to him personally. So Rawlin was given a reprieve of sorts—the Chief assigned him to a job in administration, where he was instructed to oversee expense claims and personnel matters for nearly a year.

The subject of his downfall was hushed up and hardly ever mentioned again. In the early days, drunken colleagues in the pub had enquired lecherously if Rawlin had kept a photo of the femme fatale who had brought him to his knees. The sad truth was that the only photo Rawlin had of Lek had been lost in his hurry to leave Bangkok and being reminded of this fact only served to deepen the wounds. The senior management made a point never to raise the issue, although it was clear to Rawlin that they all knew the score, and he accepted they would have enjoyed hours going over the lurid details privately. The incriminating and humiliating tapes of his phone calls with Lek would be recalled behind his back in secretive meetings, no doubt supplemented by wild speculation and erotic fantasising.

After more than a year of signing off columns of fuel receipts, Rawlin had begun to feel totally crushed, but then out of the blue the Chief appeared to have a change of heart. Altruism was not the reason for his conversion, however. He woke up to the fact that Rawlin still had a wealth of experience—after all, he had been Head of Heroin Intelligence at one time, so he reassigned him to his current role in intelligence support. This, in many ways, was worse for Rawlin, as he was back within touching distance of real work but with the certain knowledge that he would never be allowed back in the field again in his whole career. The Chief had told him so face to face. He was blighted. There was no margin for doubt, and Rawlin believed it.

By nine thirty a.m. the ugly expanse of office was humming with noise. Rawlin’s desk was tucked away in a corner, hidden, in part, by rows of grim, government issue, steel-grey filing cabinets.

That was the way he liked it—as unopen-plan as he could make it. He had come in one Saturday morning when the office had been practically empty and rearranged the cabinets; the new configuration had given him a metal shield and a modicum of privacy. Peering through a slit in the leaden landscape of cupboards, he spotted Joe West, on one of his infrequent sorties into the land of intelligence support. He was chatting animatedly to one of the analysts, a pretty girl with a blond bob, an unpronounceable Polish surname and long legs called Gill. West was the Head of Drugs Intelligence and had been an influential factor in the Chief’s decision to reassign Rawlin into something more productive. Rawlin liked West; he was a fair man who had fought a rearguard action for him when the chips were at rock bottom and the evidence of his unacceptable behaviour had surfaced. He liked to think that, without West’s intervention, the Chief might have slung him out on his ear, but it was never mentioned and no doubt it was best that way. And, thought Rawlin at times, it was lucky that West did not know the whole truth of what had really happened in Bangkok and Phuket. No one did — only he and Lek knew the intimate details and if these had ever become public he doubted if he could have survived. In fact, he was sure of it.

When Rawlin squinted through the breach again ten minutes later, he was surprised to see that West and Gill were still in deep conversation and an anxious sensation settled in the pit of his stomach—his sixth sense said something was brewing. West was looking decidedly tense. Clutching a heavy bundle of buff files under his left arm, he was endlessly turning the tuft of hairs on his right eyebrow between the thumb and forefinger of his available hand. Rawlin maintained his covert vigil for the next five minutes, after which he observed Gill offer Joe another file, this time dark blue, which West slapped on the top of the weighty pile resting against his elbow. He then headed purposefully for the door, as if making an escape towards the relative sanctuary of his fifth-floor office. As he passed Rawlin’s little enclave, he glanced over at him with a cold, troubled stare—a look without a hint of affection but without malice, either. It was as if West was evaluating a set of options and Rawlin had an uneasy feeling that he might be one of the pieces of a complex equation that West was trying to solve.

Chapter Two

‘I think you will have to come up with something better than that, Joe,’ Ralph Skinner said with an impatient sigh. ‘What do the rest of you think?’

‘I agree, Chief,’ responded Neil Bingley. ‘The idea is a bit far-fetched and would need a lot of tweaking before it got my approval.’ The Chief looked pleased. He liked everyone to agree with him and this sycophantic and insipid intervention counted for support in his book.

The Investigation Division’s senior management meeting convened in the New Fetter Lane conference room every Tuesday morning and consisted of the central figures in HM Customs and Excise’s highly respected law enforcement and intelligence arm. Including the Chief, there were always seven participants at the SMM: the Deputy Chief; the four Heads of Groups— Drugs Investigation, Drugs Intelligence, Fraud Investigation and Fraud Intelligence; and Audrey, the Chief’s secretary, who took the minutes. From time to time, others were invited to present proposals or discuss particular topics of current concern and on this day, the Head of Maritime Operations had taken a seat around the table with his other more senior colleagues for the first section of the meeting. After coffee, any invitees were dispatched back to their work and the big six continued their deliberations in camera. Head of Maritime Operations (HOMO, to the childish amusement of his closest friends), Derek Hewlett, had provided a briefing earlier about the latest trends in yacht smuggling and had now departed. The business in earnest was now underway.

‘How long is it since Rawlin has been back from the East, Joe?’ Angus Buchan asked, deliberately avoiding the Chief’s question. Buchan was Head of Drugs Investigation and the only member of the SMM, apart from Joe West, who was not afraid of Skinner.

‘Nearly two and a half years, Angus. He has been with me about a year now, keeping his head down but producing some good material, all the same.’

‘Best to keep him where he is, I think,’ Bingley chipped again. ‘Best place for him after what happened.’ Neil Bingley was the new and ambitious Head of Fraud Investigation and he certainly looked the part. His angular face, neatly trimmed crop where a few flecks of blond remained amongst the white, wire-rimmed glasses, thin lips and almost invisible moustache projected a sense of humourless menace—one that demanded a full-length black leather trench coat to complete the picture. But today, Bingley was wearing a charcoal grey, double-breasted suit and a nondescript blue and white club tie. Perhaps the trench coat was lurking unobtrusively in his office waiting for his return. HMCE had a raft of taxes and duties to collect for the government, so combatting evasion was a big priority. By far the most valuable indirect tax revenue to the exchequer came from value added tax, so Bingley was, in effect, the department’s most senior VAT enforcer.

‘That’s utter nonsense. It’s time we had Rawlin back doing what he does best. He is contrite, if that’s all you’re worrying about—of that I’m sure,’ said West. ‘Two and a half years is a long time in a man’s career and now is the time to rehabilitate him back into the mainstream. After all, he was once one of our very best case builders. Hardworking and fearless, too. Those abilities should not be left to wither. I could use his expertise and knowledge where it is really needed and with all the pressure from the new cabinet to make an impact, I think he’s our man. Let’s face it: we don’t have anyone of his calibre waiting in the wings. He is the only one with any chance of immediate access, too. In my view, the only one with any possibility of unlocking this case once and for all.’

There was stillness around the table for a few seconds. Bingley chewed on his highlighter pen and looked sideways at the Chief.

Skinner broke the silence with more questions. ‘But what you are proposing, Joe, if I’m not mistaken, is not only to put Rawlin back in the field but in the black, too. Surely that could pose big risks for us. What if the Americans got wind of it? And is he ready? It’s a big ask.’

‘Frankly, if all we did was worry about the Drug Enforcement Administration we would never get anywhere,’ Buchan intervened. ‘I am with Joe on this one. The pressure on me to deliver some concrete results to the Board has never been greater, and there is no bigger fish that Bartholomew Vanderpool out there at the moment. We know he is active and we know he is not afraid of us — that’s the galling part. Joe’s idea to infiltrate Rawlin back into the region has merit; after all, it’s not the first time we have taken on such an operation and the last one, a few months ago, was in Bogota, for God’s sake, and that worked a treat. I suggest Joe and I call him in and talk him through the basics without a commitment at this stage. We can report back at the next meeting and take it from there.’

‘Larry?’ the Chief said, turning towards his Deputy, Lawrence Burgess. Burgess was thinking of his garden in Pulborough at the time and was trying to resolve a tricky problem to do with carrot flies. He looked up dreamily and said, showing surprising enthusiasm, ‘I agree. Rawlin is our man.’ Within seconds he had resumed his reverie amongst the root vegetables and potting compost. His retirement party had already been arranged—a small function in The Crown Vaults under Blackfriars Bridge, a week or so after Christmas—and this was to be the next item on the agenda. Burgess was looking forward to the discussion, particularly the items about wine selection and deciding who would make the speeches of eulogy.

Bingley shrugged his shoulders and raised his eyebrows, but said nothing. Apart from West and Buchan, the others looked reticent also. Audrey’s pen hovered over her minutes waiting for the next line to write.

Skinner ran his neatly clipped fingernails through the remaining thin strips of hair above his ears and absently rearranged the cerise silk handkerchief that protruded from his pinstripe’s top pocket.

‘Do you really think he can find this Lek person and turn her?’

‘He is the only man who can, Chief,’ said the Head of Drugs Investigation, ‘and it’s by far the best way to get a handle on Vanderpool’s current activities. It’s evidence we need now — something we can use in the bloody courts — even if it’s a Thai prosecution at the end of the day. We have most of the intelligence already; we know he is behind nearly ten percent of the heroin trade into Europe, and …’ Buchan paused and when he resumed, his voice sounded more strident. ‘… we all know we can’t take him out with intelligence alone! The DEA are telling us that he is back in the area around Chiang Mai but we have to gather hard, provable facts, conduct observations, find witnesses who are prepared to testify; we need photographs, too and taped conversations we can use — not just wiretaps. We have to have someone on the inside. We are that close to him, Chief, we must show some courage now, we need to be audacious.’ And after another staged silence he added drily, ‘Within the law, of course.’

‘I accept we need to make a move on Vanderpool,’ Skinner responded. ‘We have more pressure from Whitehall than we can manage; but your plan is to send Rawlin back out in the black and he would be within his rights to refuse. It would not surprise me if he wanted to forget all about this informant of his altogether. Worse, he could fall for her again and look where that might get us.’

‘In a way — that’s the point, Chief,’ said West. ‘If he still has feelings for her, it might play into our hands. It would provide a strong motive for him to get alongside her again and we know from the Dutch that she and Vanderpool are separated — an acrimonious split, by all accounts. She may have her own motives to get back at him. A woman scorned…’

‘Let us speak to him at least, Chief,’ said Buchan, his eyes narrowing into a scowl. ‘Just to test the water. As you say, he might refuse, but at least we would know where we were.’

‘It would give him a chance to redeem himself, too,’ added West. ‘Another motive.’

Skinner glared at the assembly. He felt outnumbered and imagined he could see the lines around Bingley’s eyes and mouth alter upwards subtly, suggesting his opinion had transformed into one of grudging acquiescence. Bingley was careful not to utter any vocal support, however. He wanted to preserve the final protection of silence — Audrey would not be able to document taciturnity in her notes, let alone spell it.

Buchan broke into the awkward stillness. ‘I will work with Joe on this one,’ he said, trying to sound even-handed. ‘I will devote as many resources as it takes. This is top priority for the Drugs Investigation Group.’

The Chief removed his glasses, pressed the palm of his right hand onto his forehead and tapped his skull three times with his middle finger. ‘OK, Joe, let’s call him in for a chat,’ he said finally. ‘But I also want you to slip the case past Ranald over at Century House.’ Ranald McDougall was the Investigation Division’s liaison officer at MI6 headquarters on the Westminster Bridge Road, overlooking the River Thames. ‘McDougall called on me the other day, actually,’ the Chief continued. ‘He says Century House would be happy to support us on the case. They know how important Vanderpool is to the ID, and according to Ranald they think they can help. As they’re offering, I believe we should use them.’

‘Never look a gift horse eh, Chief?’ West said with more than a hint of sarcasm.

‘Wrong maxim, Joe,’ Buchan cut in. ‘More appropriate would be Beware Greeks who bear gifts. More a Trojan Horse than a gift horse.’

‘What nonsense! It’s not as if they are our enemies.’ Skinner rarely saw the funny side. ‘They have an active dirty tricks section, don’t they? It’s about time they did something useful for us. Maybe they can come up with one of their little schemes to make Vanderpool more vulnerable — a destabilising operation, perhaps. We can run it in parallel alongside Rawlin’s undercover work in the field; something to spread the risk, if you like. And you never know, they might even produce something sensible for a change.’ The others guffawed. ‘And as you say Angus, you can report back next week. If we can get the spooks on board and there is a recommendation to put Rawlin back into Indochina and he is agreeable, I want to have the full proposal, including details of his cover, his support and who we think we can trust to keep the operation close. Don’t forget the costs either. This is a drugs matter so I’m happy for you and Joe to work together on it. I will go with your recommendation as long as there are no holes in the strategy — or at the very least, holes which we can manage with a workable contingency plan.’

‘I’ll speak to Rawlin,’ said West. ‘To sound him out gently.’

‘No need to let Rawlin know of the potential MI6 angle,’ said Skinner. ‘He doesn’t need to know, not at this stage, certainly—maybe never. I think it’s best if he thinks he is working alone on this one. Damage limitation.’

‘I’ll get on to Ranald this afternoon,’ Buchan said, ‘and brief him on our current material. I suggest we give the operation a name, Chief. Something we must keep strictly between those who need to know.’

‘How about Stimulus,’ Burgess chipped in unexpectedly, awaking from his cottage garden and a vision of bees pollinating next summer’s crop. ‘It means sting in Latin. Appropriate, don’t you think?’

At 12.15 p.m. Rawlin gathered his coat for the walk to Ye Olde Mitre in Holborn. His departure for lunch had become a ritual— colleagues could set their watches from the thud of the office door behind his disappearing form. The pub he preferred was not the closest by a long way. Most ID officers would tumble into one of the many others that were crammed nearby in New Fetter Lane and the adjoining thoroughfares of Fleet Street and Chancery Lane. The Printers Devil and The Cartoonist were particular favourites of the drugs teams and Rawlin made sure to avoid them. The solitary walk to Hatton Garden would take him about five minutes and each day he told himself that it would do him good, clear his head and distract him from any loitering anxieties. Whether the exercise was beneficial was doubtful but after a couple of pints and one of the establishment’s famous and vast doorstep sandwiches, he felt replete, even slightly mellow. He had begun to enjoy his private lunches. He would take a book, something to make a change from Hardy, nothing too demanding, and settle in a corner, drink his ale and munch quietly through the thick white bread. By one thirty p.m., he would sidle back, largely unnoticed, welcomed only by the characterless assortment of files and strewn documents on his desk, with a feeling of insolent self-satisfaction that comes from stealing a quarter of an hour from the Department.

On this day, the leisurely stroll to Ye Olde Mitre was uneventful. Rawlin loitered briefly outside Woolworths and gazed through the glass at the window display, now decorated with fairy lights, coloured stars and gold tinsel. A notion came into his mind that he ought to buy some Christmas presents but he soon dismissed it. He had no expectations of receiving any. This year, he thought, would follow the same pattern as the last two and the effort to reach out to his lost loved ones now seemed pointless. He resolved instead to buy himself a decent bottle of malt—maybe a sixteen- year-old Lagavulin. He was pleased to see that the pub was still quiet when he crossed the threshold and that his favourite spot, a scarred table next to the radiator, was vacant. He crossed the faded wooden floor briskly, slung his Crombie and scarf over one of the chairs to claim the territory and went to order a pint. As he stuffed the change into his pocket, he took a large swig of the amber liquid, tipping the beer hurriedly past his lips with his free hand. He reassured himself that it was not his craving that triggered the action, but a desire to prevent any unnecessary spillage on his walk back to his corner of the bar. When he raised his eyes over the rim of his glass, he noticed that someone was sitting at his table, directly opposite his discarded overcoat. His initial sensation was one of utter infuriation, but when he recognised the seated figure who was staring remorselessly back at him, a feeling of helpless dread took hold. The uninvited guest was edgily pinching the corner of his right eyebrow; it was Joe West and Rawlin realised that he must have tailed him all the way from New Fetter Lane. Despite his seniority, it was clear that West has not forgotten how to handle a routine shadowing operation. His years as a front-line investigator were long behind him, but some talents always remained etched in the psyche of ID officers.

‘Joe—what a surprise,’ Rawlin said coolly as he slid his beer onto the table. ‘Can I get you one too?’

‘I’ll have what you’re drinking; it looks a nice colour.’

Rawlin tried to look composed when he returned with the drink sixty seconds later, but he was undeniably anxious as he squeezed himself past the radiator and onto a bench that was uncomfortably close to his superior. West’s presence was not coincidental; he had a motive, of course, and there was no point in asking the obvious question, so Rawlin said nothing, took another glug from his pint and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

‘So, this is where you disappear to at lunchtimes,’ West said smoothly. ‘It’s quite a topic of debate among those who enjoy a prattle in the office.’

Rawlin chewed his lip thoughtfully, turned the pint glass in his fingers and absently inspected the bar menu. Sensing the uneasy atmosphere, West tried to lighten the mood. ‘I’m sorry if I have discovered your secret watering hole, Mike. I hope you’re not upset. You’re not aggravated, are you, Mike?’ He smiled flickeringly.

‘Why should I be? It was only a matter of time, I suppose.’

‘Before you were found out, you mean?’ West said hastily and winced almost immediately as he realised the insensitivity of his question. He tried a different tack. ‘Look, I’ve not come here to dig up the past—you know I have been in your corner as much as I could throughout this mess—and now I want you and me to put that episode behind us.’

‘Easier said—’

‘Perhaps, but the reason I have disturbed your little sanctuary this lunchtime is because I have a proposition to put to you that might get you back into the flow again. A place, I might add, where you are missed. Whatever you may think, it’s where you would be now if I had been making the decisions on my own.’

‘I’m listening, Joe.’

‘OK. I have one question to ask you before I put my cards on the table.’

‘Fire away,’ Rawlin said wearily. ‘Ask me what you want. I can’t imagine it’s one that you have not asked me before, though.’

West looked at him seriously bringing his thumb and forefinger up to his right eyebrow again. ‘It’s about your informant. I mean the one you had in Thailand — that woman, Lek.’ He paused before adding unnecessarily, ‘Vanderpool’s woman.’ Rawlin had been telling himself daily for two years, with ever increasing efficacy, that he was past caring about Lek. But the sudden mention of her name made him feel like a reformed forty a day man being offered a cigar, and it made him judder slightly. The hairs on the back of his neck stiffened against his collar. West’s unnecessary description of her as Vanderpool’s woman had been an added barb and the sudden cocktail of emotions generated a dull ache in his solar plexus, a familiar, nagging discomfort that he thought he had put behind him.

‘I want to know, Mike, if you have been in contact with her in the last two years: since you returned from Bangkok, in fact.’

Rawlin sighed expressively and looked at the crusted beams over the bar. ‘I’m not in the mood for this, Joe. Can’t I just be allowed to get on with my life now?’

‘The last thing I want is to give you a history lesson, Mike — that’s over. You may be surprised to know that what you did or didn’t do back then is hardly the hot topic it once was. People move on—and you need to as well.’

‘Well, why do you ask then? What interest is it of yours if I have been in touch with her?’

‘Because we want to trace her. We think she might be able to help us. It’s as simple as that.’

‘Well, the answer is no,’ Rawlin replied firmly, feeling his knuckles tense. ‘OK, now you know that, what was that proposition you mentioned, Joe?’

West paused before responding and sipped his beer. ‘We want you to help us find her.’ Before Rawlin could respond, he pressed on. ‘Angus Buchan and I think you could do it. The thing is, Bart Vanderpool is back on the radar. We know he is living in Thailand again, in the area around Chiang Mai, the Golden Triangle region.’

‘I know where the Golden Triangle is, Joe!’

‘Yes, of course. Look, Mike, we think that Lek holds the key to infiltrating his operation. He jilted her, left her at the altar, so to speak, but I think you know that already. At any rate, that’s our take on things and we don’t think there is any love lost between them now. Quite the opposite, in fact. She may be willing to help us. Bart is active again, that’s certain, but Paul Pryer cannot get close; all we are getting is mountains of third-party reporting from him. Nothing current, nothing we can work on.’

‘Pryer was always a tosser, an armchair detective. You knew that. Why on earth did you send him to replace me in Bangkok? What were you thinking?’

‘The Chief wanted a safe pair of hands and in the circumstances, we had little alternative. Pryer had always been keen on that particular posting and when you cocked up he was available,’ West said, looking glum.

Rawlin ignored the reference to his own shortcomings and focussed on Pryer’s instead. ‘Keen on the post? You must be bloody joking. He was fucking desperate for that job from the outset. When the Chief asked me to open the post he sulked for nearly two years, or so I was told.’

‘Well, he can be a bit resentful at times, I agree,’ West said trying to sound supportive, ‘but that’s not the point. You had really upset the apple cart and I don’t need to remind you about the bridges we had to rebuild with the Foreign and Commonwealth Office after your little episode. And if anything, it was even more difficult with the spooks. They made a play to take over our overseas intel role, said we could not be trusted. Their man, Jim Gallow, was all over us like a rash—demanding this, demanding that. We had to remind them of the skeletons in their own cupboard—you’ll remember the De Courcey incident, I’m sure—and to put it bluntly Mike, that bought us some time to repair the damage you caused.’

Rawlin had always liked Nigel De Courcey, the previous Head of Station in Bangkok and MI6’s most senior man in the region. He found himself smiling inwardly as a fleeting image of writhing bodies and tequila slammers in the Cat Suit nightclub in Pat Pong came into his mind. It was the place that had led to his former colleague’s ignominious downfall. He quickly dismissed the lurid picture and looked at West earnestly. ‘Is Jim Gallow still in post?’

‘Yes, Gallow is still the spooks’ head man in Bangkok and I can’t say he is an ally. Paul Pryer doesn’t seem to get on with him at all — nothing much changes hands between the two of them.’

‘I never liked bloody Gallow—he always reminded me of a scavenging velociraptor, all smiles and teeth.’ He took a gulp from his pint. ‘Look Joe, even if I could do this for you, what makes you think I would want to?’

‘Well, to be frank I don’t know what you want. That’s why I needed to talk to you. There is pressure on us to produce a rabbit out of the hat at the moment. Vanderpool is top priority, he is really hurting us, but this assignment will not work unless you were totally committed. I’m here to sound you out. If you want to get back into the mainstream again, right a few wrongs, restore your reputation, then this is your chance. But before you say anything else, I warn you that it will not be easy. I’ll be honest, if you agreed to do this you’d be doing it on your own; UC and in the black. Paul Pryer would not even know. Only a few in senior management, and possibly one or two in the FCO—we haven’t decided on them yet.’

‘You can’t trust the FCO to keep a secret, you know that. But anyway, what exactly do you want me to do?’

‘Simple really—we need you to find Lek and turn her. We need her to work for us against Vanderpool.’

‘A big ask, don’t you think, after all I’ve been through. And even if I could find her, and she was willing to talk to me, which I doubt, what makes you think she will want to help? The last time I saw her she wanted out big style; she was desperate for a cosy life in Europe, she’d had enough of all the plotting and scheming.’

‘There’s a lot you need to catch up on, Mike. Intelligence tells us that she would be happy to talk to you again. In fact, more than happy. Her split with Vanderpool left her bruised and we have learned that the reason she left you in the lurch was more complicated than you think.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘I mean that her hand was forced; she had no alternative, really. It’s pretty clear to us that she intended to meet you as arranged in that damn hotel lobby in Bangkok but Vanderpool intervened. He is a cunning bastard for sure. We like him now about as much as you did in those days.’

‘My view on him hasn’t changed, Joe—the man disgusts me. But how do you know all this? It’s sounds to me like you’re making it up as you go along, just to get me onside.’

‘I’ll brief you in depth once we know you’ll play ball. I can’t say fairer than that, you realise how it is.’

‘Can you tell me how long have you known all this?’

West looked uncomfortable. ‘Well, we knew she could not meet you when we sent you back to post to clear your desk. Do you think we would have let you anywhere near Bangkok again if there had been a risk of you absconding with her? We wanted to see if you were loyal to the service and would come back to us once your options had been cut. Some said