“You see what I mean?” Mustafa says. “It is more arrogance than stupidity. They might as well have ‘CIA’ stamped on their jackets, but they cannot believe we’re smart enough to work out what they are.”

Maybe he has a point, but we’ll have to abort our examination of the apartment. Not at all sure what to do next, we stroll a little closer to the building and find a café with a view of the street. I order a 7-Up, and Mustafa orders water. We’re both wondering how two farang in business suits are going to negotiate their way past the concierge.

Not easily, it seems. Within minutes they’re leaving the building with frowns on their faces. Worried frowns, it seems to me. Mustafa looks at me with a touch of insolence: Okay, cop, now what d’you want to do?

“Watch,” I say. I go to the door of the café and call out in English, “Can I help you?” as the two men pass. They stop in their tracks, a little surprised but pleased to find a fluent English speaker in this remote town.

“You guys look a little lost,” I say, using the kind of smile that’s supposed to go with words like that. (I can’t decide on my accent-I can do British or American. Generally one uses Brit when talking to an American and vice versa: the two cultures seem to intimidate each other quite well. On instinct, though, I use American with Enthusiastic Immigrant coloring, and in a flash they decide I have Green Card written all over me; obviously, I’m the best they can hope for down here.)

They start to talk. Now we are all doing Sympathetic American Abroad, a specialized genre in which the superiority of farang culture, the stupidity of the native population, and the poor health standards and the appalling state of the plumbing are all expressed subliminally, without a single politically incorrect word passing anyone’s lips. Using basic cues, I give the impression of a native son-Buddhist, not Muslim-who has returned from the United States on vacation and despises his hometown. Mustafa has retreated into a psychological shadow and throws me hostile glances from time to time.

While we’re talking banalities, I take in the two Americans. The older is in his mid-fifties, slim and wiry, a military fitness about him, a short spiky haircut, and intelligence of the ruthless variety about those thin lips. And something else that I cannot put my finger on. Something not quite American. Or human. Does it surprise you, farang, that a good ten percent of the entities you see walking around in human form are not human at all? It’s been going on for a few hundred years now: immigrants from the Outer Limits, with their own agendas. Call them Special Forces from the Other Side. The final conflict won’t be long now.

The other is young, perhaps not as young as he looks. To a tropical type like me, that blond hair and simplified Nordic face-you’ve seen that jawline in cartoons-looks maybe seventeen, but I suppose he must be mid- to late twenties.

All of a sudden I am key in the Americans’ pursuit of happiness. Big smiles and an obscene parody of Oriental humility and deference as they introduce themselves properly, shake hands, enter the café, and sit down at the table. Well, at least they’re smart enough to be polite.

“Like I say”-I still have that smile plastered all over my face-“I’m just here on a discover-my-roots trip. I was born here, but Mom and Dad escaped stateside when I was still a kid, thank God.”

Unable to resist this patriotic call, the younger one gives a sincere smile, while the older one simply nods.

They order Cokes. Their body language indicates they’re quite ready to lose Mustafa, who remains silent as if enveloped in an invisible chador and clearly makes them nervous.

Making it up as I go: “I’m thinking of doing a trip down south myself, planning to take that jungle train the books talk about. Supposed to be quite something.”

“Is that right?” Politely, but sharing glances with each other.

“Yeah. What are you two guys doing here? Going south yourselves, or have you just come up from there?”

Sharing that glance again: “Oh, well, we’re here on business, actually.”

“You are? In a town like this? Well, I’m not going to ask, but I can’t imagine what kind of business an American could have here. Hell, it’s all Muslim, you know. Except at night when it’s all sex, ha-ha.”

Sheepish grins. “Yes, well, we only got here last night. Took the plane to Hat Yai from Bangkok, then a four-hour taxi ride. We didn’t really know what to expect. Neither of us has been here before. Actually, we’re looking for a colleague of ours.”

“Oh yeah? An American?”

“That’s right. I wonder if we could, ahm…” The hint is for Mustafa to lose himself, but he doesn’t take it. One more glance, and a nod is exchanged. “Look-ah, frankly we’re a little worried about our friend. We haven’t heard from him in a week now, and well, to look at he’s pretty obviously an American, and this is a very Islamic town.”

“Oh, that’s too bad.” I give them a big worried shake of the head. “How awful.”

“Yes, well, we don’t know if it’s awful or not, but we were wondering…” It seems it’s hard for them to say exactly what they were wondering with Mustafa sitting at the table.

“Would I be right in thinking your colleague lives in that apartment building over there? The one I just saw you come out of?”

“Correct. That’s what we were wondering, if there might be an informal way of taking a look at the apartment, without necessarily getting the police involved, just to check that there’s been no foul play.”

“Informal?” I’m frowning with my head to one side.

Coughs. “Yes, look, we’re not all that familiar with your country, and the last thing we want to do is to cause offense, but if there were some way in which a person of influence could talk with that concierge… You’re from around here, you speak the language. Maybe he has a key? We just want to make sure our friend’s okay.”

I’m still frowning uncomprehendingly, but I’ve added that special gleam of Third World Greed.

“Oh, we’d be willing to pay for your time, wouldn’t we?”

“More than willing. A quick glance into that apartment would be worth quite a lot to us, I’d say.” I raise my eyebrows. “Oh, we’d make it worth your while.”

“Keep your money,” I say with a smile. “Let’s just wander over and see what we can do, shall we?” I frown in concentration. “But just in case the authorities get involved, I ought to know exactly who you are. Do you have your passports with you?”

“Passports? Sure.”

“Could I take just a quick peek at your visas?”

Two blue passports with eagles on the front appear. I see they are both holding business visas. The older one is named Hudson, and the young blond is Bright. I hand the passports back. “What is your business? Are you working in Thailand?”

Their command of their mutual cover story is really quite smooth. It seems they are executives in the telecommunications industry, more on the infrastructure side than marketing. Mitch Turner is stationed down here to get a general impression of the political situation right on the border. Nobody wants to invest in heavy engineering costs only to find that civil strife or terrorism has ruined the project.

“So he’s a kind of industrial spy?” I ask.

The word does not faze them at all. No, not a spy, that would be overstating it, let’s say the advance guard of a feasibility study.

“I see,” I say. “And you think our local Muslims might have taken a dislike to him?”

Deep frowns. I seem to have hit a nerve. “That would be the worst case. It could be anything. He could be in his bed right now suffering some kind of seizure. He could have gotten hit by a truck. Until we get inside his apartment, it’s going to be hard even to hypothesize.”

The four of us cross the street together. Mustafa finds a way of guiding me into the concierge’s office, then out again triumphantly holding the key. “Money talks around here,” I explain.