The Windup Girl(123)

Up ahead, people are shouting about white shirts and the death of their Queen's protector. Angry voices, ready for a riot. The storm is brewing. The battle pieces are being aligned. A little girl hurries past, pressing whisper sheets into each of their hands before dashing on. The political parties are already at work. Soon the godfather of the slum will have his own people down in the alleys inciting violence.

Hock Seng and his men make their way out of the squeezeways and pour out into the street. Nothing is moving. Even the freelance rickshaw men have gone to ground. A group of shopkeepers huddle around a hand-crank radio. Hock Seng waves at his men to wait, goes over to the listeners. "What news?"

A woman looks up. "National Radio says the Protector…"

"Yes, I know that. What else does it say?"

"Minister Akkarat has denounced General Pracha."

It's happening even faster than he expected. Hock Seng straightens and calls to Laughing Chan and the others. "Come on. We're going to run out of time if we don't hurry."

As he calls to them, a huge truck comes around the corner, engine revving. It is astonishingly noisy. Exhaust trails behind it like an illegal dung fire. Dozens of hard-faced troops stare out from the back as it roars by. Hock Seng and his men duck back into the alley, coughing. Laughing Chan peers out, following the truck's progress. "Its running on coal diesel," he says wonderingly. "It's the army."

Hock Seng wonders if it is December 12 loyalists, some component of the Northeastern generals coming to aid General Pracha and retake the National Radio Tower. Or perhaps they are Akkarat's allies, rushing to secure the sea locks or the docks or the anchor pads. Or perhaps they are simply opportunists, getting ready to take advantage of the coming chaos. Hock Seng watches as they disappear around a corner. Harbingers of the storm, regardless.

The last pedestrians are disappearing into their homes. Shop keepers are barring their storefronts from within. The clank and rattle of locks fills the street. The city knows what is going to happen.

Memories peck and swirl at Hock Seng. Alleys running thick with blood. The scent of green bamboo, smoking and burning. He reaches for the reassurance of his spring gun and machete. The city may be a jungle full of tigers, but this time he is not some little deer, running from Malaya. At last, he has learned. It is possible to prepare for chaos.

He motions to his men. "Come. This is our time."

35

"It was not Pracha! He's not involved in this!"

Kanya shouts into the crank phone, but she might as well be raving through the bars of a jail cell for all the impact it makes. Narong hardly seems to be listening. The line crackles with jumbled voices and the hum of machinery, and Narong, apparently, speaking to someone nearby, his words unintelligible.

Suddenly Narong's voice crackles loud, blotting out the background sounds. "I'm sorry, we have our own information."

Kanya scowls at the whisper sheets on her desk, the ones that Pai brought in with a grim smile. Some speak of the fallen Somdet Chaopraya, others of General Pracha. They all talk of the assassin windup girl. Fast-copies of Sawatdee Krung Thep! are already pouring into the city. Kanya scans the words. It's full of impassioned complaints against the white shirts who shut down harbors and anchor pads but cannot protect the Somdet Chaopraya from a single invasive.

"These whisper sheets are yours then?" she asks.

Narong's silence is answer enough.

"Why did you even ask me to investigate?" She can't keep the bitterness from her voice. "You were already moving."

Narong's cold voice crackles on the line. "It's not your place to question."

His tone brings her up short. "Did Akkarat do it?" she whispers fearfully. "Was he the one responsible? Pracha says that Akkarat was involved somehow. Did he do it?"

Another pause. Is it a thoughtful one? She can't tell. Finally Narong says, "No. I swear this. We are not the ones responsible."

"So you guess it must be Pracha then?" She shuffles through the licenses and permits on her desk. "I'm telling you he is not the one! I have all the windup's records here. Pracha himself wanted me to investigate. To find every trace of her. I have her arrival papers with the Mishimoto people. I have disposal papers. I have visas. Everything."

"Who signed the disposal papers?"

She fights her frustration. "I can't read the signature. I need more time to cross-reference who was on duty around that time."

"And by the time you do, they will inevitably be dead."

"Then why did Pracha set me to the task of finding this information? It doesn't make sense! I talked to the officers who took the bribes at that bar. They were nothing but silly boys, making a little extra money."

"He's clever then. He's covered his tracks."

"Why do you hate Pracha so much?"

"Why do you love him? Did he not order your village razed?"

"Not from malice."

"No? Did he not sell the fish farming permits to another village the next season? Sell them and line his pockets with the profits?"

She falls silent. Narong moderates his tone. "I'm sorry, Kanya. There's nothing we can do. We are certain of his crime. We have authorization from the palace to resolve this."

"With riots?" She shoves the whisper sheets off her desk. "With a burning of the city? Please. I can stop this. It's not necessary. I can find the proof that we need. I can prove that the windup is not Pracha's. I can prove it."