Carter
Thrall of the Naga.
Vincent Kapoor was first referred to as the Bikini Killer after a twenty-three-year-old Californian—Marianne Smith—was discovered by a Thai fisherman floating face down in a bikini off Pattaya Beach.
Later, however, he came to be dubbed “the Naga” for his uncanny and almost mythical ability to slither out of danger and assume new skins—new identities—much like the mythical, shapeshifting Thai naga.
A creature with more than one face, or head.
A monster that hides its true form beneath a human facade, and stands at thresholds between two worlds; i.e.
, life and death, truth and lies, innocence and corruption.
This chameleon skill enabled him to brazenly trick law enforcement, and to slip out of seemingly inescapable prisons from Greece to Afghanistan and Iran, only to reappear in another country under another daring guise.
His legend was eventually spread so wide that a folk song about him was sung by children on the streets in India, as one might sing ballads of Robin Hood, or Dick Turpin the highwayman, or Ned Kelly the Australian bushranger, or Jesse James, Billy the Kid, Pancho Villa . . .
Beneath the words is a painting of an undulating dragon with fangs and fins and iridescent green and gold scales. The creature is twisted into a circle, consuming its own tail. Excitement mushrooms through Carter.
He feels as though he’s once more slipped through a looking glass into a magical world, the glow of the lamp cocooning him in golden light, the ship creaking as wind whips the windows and the Black Orchid begins to roll.
He’s Darwin drawing specimens aboard the Beagle.
He’s Odysseus leaving Troy. He’s Jason on the Argo in quest of the Golden Fleece.
He’s Joseph Banks scribbling notes by the swaying halo of his lamp aboard Captain James Cook’s Endeavour.
Before he reads further, unable to contain his curiosity, Carter reaches for the folder of news cuttings and photos. He slides the contents out. On top of the pile is a copy of the photo of the glamorous couple with the little monkey.
Carter has previously only glimpsed this image from a distance on Gramps’s crime board.
Now he studies it in intimate detail: the woman’s skinny face, her thick, wavy brown hair.
Her big, intense eyes behind seventies-style sunglasses with a graded tint; the man all muscle and sinew and martial-arts lean.
Carter reckons he’d be a terrifying guy to run across in a dark alley.
But he’s more intrigued by the monkey and piles of money and passports spread out on the table in front of the pair.
It really does resemble a heist-movie scene.
On the back of the image, his grandfather has scrawled the words:
Vincent Kapoor and Aline-Claire Lavoie. Thailand circa 1975. Photo sent to Vincent’s mother, Mai, in Paris.
Carter runs a fingertip over the image, imagining them existing in this other era.
He turns his attention to another photo of the couple, this time posing with the very dark-skinned young man.
Carter peers at him. His eyes look coal black and his shoulder-length hair is thick and wavy and shiny, and also very black.
He’s a bit like a magical prince from a sinister fairy tale, thinks Carter.
He flips the photo over. On the back are the words:
Sanjay Lohar with Aline-Claire and Vincent. Bangkok circa 1975.
He shuffles through the rest of the pile, and another photo sharply snares his attention: an older man with glasses and an expensive-looking coat.
He wears a red scarf around his neck, and he stands on a bridge over a canal.
Bicycles are chained to the railing beside him.
Along the canal runs a row of very narrow and colorful multistoried gabled buildings.
There are no leaves on the tree branches. It looks cold.
It strikes Carter like a mallet. His head begins to buzz—he recognizes the man. He’s seen him. Right here. On the Black Orchid. Excitement explodes through him and fizzes into his veins.
He flips the photo over.
Vincent. Amsterdam. Dec. 15, 2018.
2018? That’s just last year. Winter—given the leafless branches and big coat and scarf.
Hands trembling, Carter grabs his phone and snaps his own photos of the images.