Anarchy and Old Dogs (Dr. Siri Paiboun) (17 page)

She'd been sitting contemplating for an hour when the earth moved. A piece of sod rose from the ground some thirty yards in front of her. It was a foot thick and beneath it was a head she recognized belonging to Mr. Kumhuk, the deputy section chief. He checked in all directions, obviously confused Dtui for a shadow, and threw the block of earth to one side. He pulled himself out of the ground, replaced the divot, and sprinted to the fence, where he vanished through the gap.

Dtui hurried over to where Mr. Kumhuk had emerged but she saw no obvious entrance. There were tufts of grass and rocks but no lines or handles. Then she saw it, a slight discoloration of the vegetation, a small area of deliberate landscaping. She grabbed a handful of grass and realized straightaway that it was fake, some kind of synthetic material. She pulled with all her might and was able to lift an uneven area of ground surprisingly easily. She shoved it to one side and looked down. Another black hole in the ground. Hadn't she had enough of those? She seemed to have a magnetic attraction to eerie confined spaces. Earlier in the year she'd almost died from heading blindly down a dark tunnel. Oh, well.
Que sera
sera.

She picked out the steps with her feet and lowered herself down gradually. The stairway was concrete and led deep inside the earth. She was already feeling claustrophobic by the time she saw the breaker switch at the foot of the stairs. She pushed the handle up and banks of fluorescent lights flicked on one by one across a vast concrete silo. There were tables and camp beds and hundreds--perhaps thousands--of enormous crates. Banks of artillery lined the walls as well as uniforms in neat piles. This was the home base for the Devil's Vagina insurgents; there was no doubt in her mind. There was also no doubt that the Thais had rebuilt the camp boundary wall so no prying United Nations officials would stumble across this nest of vipers inside a supposedly neutral camp. The Thais were in on it. No surprise there. The Thai military was riddled with Red paranoia. And there was enough American memorabilia around to suggest the U.S. wasn't about to lose the war gracefully either. Dtui doubted the Americans had merely forgotten to take it all with them.

There were no side rooms or annexes. This was one slab of space. An area had been set aside for planning. Chairs with hinged writing trays stood in rows facing a large blackboard, and various pin boards of maps and charts written in Lao stood on easels. She wondered what the best course of action might be. Grab as many documents as possible and make a run for it? To where? She was forty miles from the nearest point on the Lao border. How far was she likely to get? She couldn't memorize all the names and dates. She couldn't even remember how to calculate lost calories. Perhaps she should just set fire to the place and blow it all to hell. That might slow them down long enough to get word to Siri and Civilai in ...

Her discovery, her euphoria, her dreams of saving her country, her heartbeat were all interrupted by the sound of a deep male throat-clearing cough from just a few yards behind her.

Siri sat in the six-foot concrete pipe section beneath the unfinished Soviet bridge. He was looking at the crayon-and-pencil decorations that turned a lump of sewer connection into a clubhouse for two ten-year-old friends. Cracked coffee cups and glasses and little plates piled with river pebbles, a cardboard box with a hole ripped out of it in the shape of a TV screen, a string-and-sardine-tin burglar alarm he'd tripped when he arrived. These were the evidence of happy childhood fantasies, good moments that should never have been erased so suddenly.

Siri wiped away the tears again and put his hand on the amulet beneath his shirt. It seemed pleased with its beautiful new plaited string but it had nothing to tell him about Sing's disappearance that day. The boy's soul was far away, frolicking with the dolphins, but his death remained unsolved and unavenged.

Siri thought about the little fellow, playing truant from school, sitting here in his clubhouse, looking for mischief. He knew he'd be picked up by some do-gooder if he wandered the streets in his uniform. So, with no choice, he'd hung out here, nothing but a plate of river pebbles to eat, nothing but a cardboard TV to entertain him. How long could a hyperactive imp stand it? Did he get bored and go for a swim, get into trouble? Everyone in the village agreed he could outswim and outdive even the most experienced fisherman. Did he fall and hit his head and drown? There had been no evidence of head trauma or of being snagged on an underwater root or a net. Besides, none of those answers would explain the anomalies: the five-day gap between his disappearance and the discovery, the different rates of decomposition between the top and bottom halves of his body, the splinters, the insect bites.

There was no doubt this was a small thing. It wouldn't make a jot of difference to anyone beyond the village. Judge Haeng wouldn't give him a medal for solving such a case. In fact he'd drag Siri over the linoleum again for wasting his time. But this was one small thing he was determined to do well. Even if the country was crumbling around him he would solve this mystery. He willed himself into Sing's mind.

"Think trouble. Think mischief. How would I get the attention I need to bring my father back home? Just how bad would I have to be? It's midday, Wednesday. I've bored myself into a state of unprecedented naughtiness. I need something to boast about at school. 'You lot wouldn't believe what I did yesterday, I ...' Come on, young Sing, tell Grandpa Siri what you did."

The sun had burned through the midday cloud and was casting a distinct black-and-white dividing line beneath the half bridge. Siri walked out into the dazzle and shouted, "What can I do to show you all I'm a man?"

As the blinding light slowly cleared from his eyes and the blur of Pakse all around regained its rightful texture, one large shape on the far bank loomed like a challenge. It said, "I am the symbol of power and affluence. I am better than you and I am invincible."

And Siri knew where Sing had gone that Wednesday.

Brother Fred was all atwitter. The one case he'd accepted personally had grown out of all proportion to have national--nay, international--repercussions. He hadn't handled it at all well. First he'd lost the woman and then set about finding her. His inborn Catholic pessimism had convinced him she'd met the same horrible fate as her husband. He'd used the collective weight of the organization he represented to have a search conducted. He'd talked by phone for half an hour with the head of his mission in Bangkok. He'd even prayed for their safety. His Thai Christian interpreter had told him, "I admire your concern, Father. But it's looking more like an affair of the heart than a kidnapping."

"How so?" Brother Fred had asked.

"The chief of that section, Bunteuk, he's reported his wife missing, too. The rumors on that block are that the new chap had a fling with Bunteuk's wife and they ran off together."

"Oh, I say."

"Some believe the fat girl was so distraught she fled the camp, vowing to go home to Laos."

It was a story that would certainly have placated the young Irishman had the fat girl and the philandering husband not walked into his office some ten minutes after the interpreter had left. The man, bruised and cut about the face, was carrying a large box full of rolled paper and files. They closed the office door behind them, locked it, and despite being already in a refugee camp they claimed refugee status. Brother Fred was flummoxed. He'd never seen his little office as a potential island of diplomatic immunity. But international law wasn't his forte so he made tea for three and listened to what the couple had to say.

Dtui had certainly considered her number to be up when she heard the cough. She'd turned slowly, expecting at the very least to see the barrel of a gun pointed at her, at the very worst to hear it go off. But instead, standing between floor-to-ceiling stacks of white wood crates labeled TOXIC, was an exact replica of the metal cage in which she'd spent the previous night. And sitting cross-legged on its floor was Phosy. He pointed out where she might be able to find the key to his cell, and while Dtui searched frantically for it, Phosy described his meeting with Bunteuk and his henchmen.

"I have no idea why they haven't killed me," he said. "It appears someone recognized me. If they knew I was a spy, bumping me off would have been the logical move. All I can imagine is that they needed me alive to find out what we already know about their activities. But, I ask you, why not torture me straightaway and have done with it?"

"I hope you didn't make that suggestion to them," Dtui said, rummaging through cupboards and shelves. She came across a bunch of keys in a drawer in a wooden desk and smiled. "Victory."

Phosy continued as she worked through them.

"It seemed as if Bunteuk would have preferred to blow my head off there and then," Phosy continued, remarkably calmly given their predicament. "But something or someone was stopping him. He made no bones about what he thought of me."

The padlock clicked and Dtui pulled open the door.

Their embrace said everything their mouths hadn't been able to. Phosy looked over to the stairway.

"Did you pull the tunnel cover back?"

"No, I thought I'd have to get out of here in a hurry."

"Then we'd better get moving."

Despite the urgency of their circumstances, they went first to the office and information corner and looked at all the documentation.

"Where do we start?"

Everything they'd collected there now sat on the large meeting table at the back of Brother Fred's office. Dtui's faith in the young cleric was based entirely on her intuition. She'd never met an Irishman so she didn't know whether they were a trustworthy race, but there was something about his eyes that reminded her of a faithful dog she'd befriended when she was little. Phosy agreed he was the best, if not the only, option. They were deep in anticommunist territory. They weren't about to wander up to a policeman and receive any sympathy. He doubted even Brother Fred would be too distressed about a plot to oust the evil socialists from Laos. But they both knew the church had certain rules when it came to human rights. The only concern was the current Thai refusal to call the Lao "refugees." It was merely word choice but it prevented the United Nations Human Rights Commission from operating in the camp. Because of this vacuum, the definition of human rights in this case was left to the Thai government, and the Thai military would have every reason to waive the rights of Phosy and Dtui.

On their march through the camp along the busiest main thoroughfares to the Church of the Christian Brotherhood office, they'd gone through the options for Brother Fred. A

Thailand that changed its junta more often than Phosy changed his undershorts wasn't about to be embarrassed by international community reaction to a little coup attempt in Laos. The UN would issue a strong written condemnation and someone in Bangkok would light a barbeque with it. No one ever quaked in their shoes when the UN roared.

No. They could forget political channels. Their priority was to get themselves back to Laos with the information they'd gathered. To that end, they needed access to a telephone line and a car. Brother Fred had one of each, but he was a nervous wreck. While Dtui held Brother Fred's hand and calmed him, Phosy made several calls. He finally put down the phone with a large smile on his face. Dtui translated that the governor of Ubon was devastated to hear that his province was being used to launch an attack on Laos. She pointed out how much undeclared revenue Ubon was making from illegal logging deals with the Lao military in Champasak. The financial rather than the moral indignation argument made sense to the Irishman and he had no reason to doubt that the governor might want to see the evidence they'd collected for himself.

Dtui uncrossed her fingers and brought up the matter of transport. Brother Fred had no intention of handing over his mission's four-wheel drive, but he was prepared to drive them. The white Land Rover, with a logo of a benevolent Jesus surrounded by Indochinese children stenciled on the doors, went in and out of the camp twenty times a day. The gate guards at the permanently up barrier didn't stop their conversation, or cast more than a cursory glance at the vehicle. If there were two Lao in the backseat, they were meant to be there.

It was an uncongested ten-minute drive into the city. Dtui gazed out at the magical place and wondered why she couldn't have been born on this side of the Mekhong. There were public telephones in the center of town just like she'd seen in the 8 mm films of Moscow. Even the sellers of fried grasshoppers looked exotic to her. They'd just passed the teachers college when she felt Phosy squeeze her hand. At first she experienced a brief surge of joy until she recalled it was her signal.

"Oh, oh, Father," she cried in obvious distress. The young man's eyes opened wide as they stared in the mirror.

"What now?" he asked.

"I must vomit." When her pronunciation of the letter
v
proved too baffling for the priest she put her finger into her throat and mimed for him.

"No, not in the project car." He slammed his foot on the brake and skidded to the side of the road. Dtui jumped out and ran back ten yards, where she pretended to throw up several times. Brother Fred could see this in his side mirror. He also got a perfect view of her collapsing dramatically onto the ground.

"Oh, my God, man. Look!"

Phosy smiled the smile of a refugee being yelled at in a language he didn't understand. The priest pointed and shouted again, but when Phosy merely stared at the roof of the car, Brother Fred had no choice but to jump out of the idling vehicle and run back to help the poor woman. What a day it was for him. Heaven and hell had descended upon him and he knew it was a test. The Lord was putting him through it. But if it was truly a test, the last few problems were about to get a lot more complex.

He knelt beside Dtui and failed to get any response from her. He had little idea where her pulse might be or what exactly to do with it if he found it. And then his four-wheel drive left without him. It did a screeching U-turn, headed off in the opposite direction for fifty yards, then vanished down a side street. This was certainly his "Oh Lord, why hast thou forsaken me?" moment. He hadn't a clue where to turn--a dying woman, a lost car, an international incident. He recalled that before he'd left his home in County Colraine he'd told his grieving mother he'd just be off for a bit of excitement for a couple of years. Of course, he hadn't believed that. He was a clerk. If he'd really wanted a life of excitement he could have joined the IRA. He thought Thailand would be hot and dull. He'd been right about the hot.

There weren't too many people around and those that were gave a wide berth to the foreign devil in a dog collar leaning over a dead girl. He couldn't speak a word of Thai and what he needed very badly right now was to communicate. He recalled the sign in front of the teachers college. Someone there was sure to speak English. They'd have a phone, maybe even a nurse. After fleetingly considering carrying Dtui to the college, he left her where she was and sprinted off down the street.

As he was entering the college gates he looked up to see a white Land Rover with benevolent Jesus doors shoot past him. The driver waved. Instinctively, he waved back.