Death Trip (13 page)

The men skulked around like beaten dogs as Saw continued to sit by the fire and drink alone after the Burmese commander had left. Jake wondered who would dare approach him first. Toad moped around the edge of the fire. Handsome came nowhere near. He was busy; he had resumed pestering the female porters. But Weasel was most in need of reassurance from his leader and he was too stupid to know better. Jake watched him approach Saw. As soon as he was within range, Saw lashed out at him. He stood and caught Weasel by the throat and, although he was shorter than Weasel, he was at least a third heavier and broader and he picked Weasel up by the throat and threw him across the fire. Handsome stopped to watch as Weasel rolled away from the hot embers and lay panting, a wheezing noise coming from his chest, a look of consternation on his face as he waited to see what more would come his way. Saw bounded across to him and, for a moment, Jake thought he was going to finish Weasel; and he could see that Weasel thought it too and suddenly looked as if he might fight back.
His body stiffened and he raised himself on his elbows, but his instincts told him it would be the last strike he ever made. Handsome started laughing. He drank from his rum bottle and he laughed at Weasel, smouldering, covered in ash. Handsome knew he was the only one who could come close to stepping into Saw’s shoes. He was like Saw in so many ways: clever, ruthless and evil. But Saw was still the dominant male in the pack. Handsome would have to wait a bit longer before he could oust Saw.

Saw stood for a few minutes, swaying on unstable feet but his eyes held a look of triumph as he grinned at Weasel and then at Handsome. He lifted his rum bottle towards him as a salute and Handsome returned it. They howled to the rafters and bats flew. Saw’s eyes filled with menace. He strode over towards the porters and picked up the youngest of the female porters by the arm and he tore open her top and exposed her small breasts. She clutched desperately at her clothes and tried to cover herself. Scrabbling across the ground the other women screamed and moved as far away as they could. Saw’s men gathered around. Here was what they had been waiting for—a return of the master they knew. As the young woman tried to get away from Saw he pulled her skirt off and pushed her to the ground. She crawled on all fours as he tore off her underwear. Saw’s men gathered round, chanting and jeering at the waiting porters. Their faces were lit with madness and lechery. Jake and Thomas moved closer to the girls and tried to hide them from the men’s view. The young porter crawled naked around the platform, like a spider
with half its legs pulled off. She couldn’t escape. She couldn’t get past Saw’s men. Saw began throwing objects at her to make her move as she crawled around the platform, pleading for her life. An old pot broke as it bounced from her back onto the floor. She collapsed momentarily with the impact of it and lay for a few seconds, bleeding. In that instant Saw seemed to lose interest in her. He stopped, his chest rising and falling, the veins standing out on his neck muscles, the sweat gleaming on his body—and he looked across at Anna.

Alfie ducked into the doorway of the Prostitute Information Centre. He looked inside; Magda was showing a group of tourists around. She was doing the usual: ‘Here is the bed…here is where we wash the penis…’

Magda waved at him, obviously confused as to why Alfie was hiding in her doorway. She went to call to him, but he tucked himself further in the doorway and shook his head and made a face as if to say ‘not now’. Magda shrugged and went on with her tour, then she realised what Alfie was doing there—it must have to do with Katrien walking past minutes earlier. Magda had heard her heels all the way down the street. Her nose in the air. Her vampire makeup. She had been all smiles when Magda first met her; now she pretended she didn’t even know who Magda was.

Alfie stayed there a few more minutes before he ducked to the other side of the street and moved close to the walls of the Auld Church. Belle, the brass statue memorial to prostitutes everywhere, still had a bike chained
to her. Alfie knew that would be what Magda wanted to tell him—she wanted to tell him to get the bike removed. She was a stickler for the rules and she felt she owed it to the prostitutes to make sure they weren’t forgotten. Alfie would do something about it later but, for now, he had to keep after Katrien who was walking past Casa Roso. Just when Alfie thought she would turn into one of the side roads, he saw her turn instead into the entrance to the Erotic Museum. He walked across the canal bridge and watched from a doorway as she walked straight in to the groundfloor shop and then disappeared right. Alfie waited a minute then followed her. He peered in. The shop looked empty. There was no one along its two congested aisles crammed with chocolate willies and flavoured condoms. The attendant wasn’t there. Nothing unusual in that, thought Alfie. He knew the woman who ran it. She was on her own most days and had probably been caught short and was out the back. He passed the mannequin on a bike hovering over a penis-shaped saddle and modelling tacky red fishnets and suspenders and came level with the stairs up to the museum itself.

He heard the sound of voices as he stepped over the rope that acted as the gate to the museum. He crept silently up. The stairs swung sharply back on themselves in the typically Dutch tall, thin canal-house style. On the walls were beautiful drawings done by John Lennon—intimate portraits of Yoko.

Alfie heard a man and a woman, arguing. He recognised Katrien’s voice, but not what she was saying; she
was speaking in another language, but he could hear by the tone that it wasn’t friendly.

Alfie stood on one of the ancient worn floorboards and it creaked. The voices abruptly stopped. Alfie turned and ran, straight into two English lads who were about to climb the stairs to the museum. He deftly stepped aside and the lads walked on up, straight into the wrath of Katrien and her friend. Alfie heard the shouting. Alfie’d been lucky. He crossed over the bridge nearby and went inside the Banana Bar opposite and watched through the window. The bar was one of the few left in Amsterdam that the Eastern Bloc mafia hadn’t been able to muscle in and take over. They did a great line in intimidation. They were responsible for the imminent demise of De Wallen with all their brutality in humanity and pimping. He ordered a coffee and sat watching. First to emerge, looking flustered, it amused Alfie to see, was Katrien. Then came her companion. Alfie didn’t recognise him. He was a short, dark-skinned man, well dressed, Asian. Alfie slipped out of the Banana Bar and followed her friend. He was crossing over the bridge to Alfie’s side of the canal and then headed down towards Central Station. Alfie followed.

Katrien walked quickly away in the direction of the New Church and the Jordaan. She looked behind her and caught a glimpse of Alfie’s blond curls, his leather jacket. Now she knew who was behind the hidden camera. She headed home to pack. She was going to have to leave sooner than she planned.

Alfie followed the man to a bar just near Central Station and sat drinking a beer as he watched him having what looked like a business meeting with a local. Alfie made sure he got close enough to take some good photos with his phone and then he sent the photos to the station to be put through the computer files. Alfie left them to it. They looked like they weren’t moving and Alfie wanted to get the most out of the day. He had things to do. Firstly, he wanted to head back and check on Magda. He was nervous since the burglary. It had been a personal attack on Magda.

He had got as far as Belle when he saw the two men—smart, expensive coats, business suits. He stared hard. They had separated slightly. They were coming at him from both sides. They glanced around but always their eyes came back to stare at Alfie and they were headed straight for him. They looked familiar. Alfie kept walking forward, his mind whirring, matching faces in his memory. His mind spun him back to the night that Mann had arrived, when he was throwing a joint over the balcony. He looked down to see two men, one helping
the other up from the ground. These were the same men. The men who had followed Magda and who very probably were responsible for breaking into the flat.

Alfie kept walking and his eyes instinctively flicked over to Magda’s window to make sure she was safe. He could see her talking to customers in the PIC. She looked up at that second and saw by Alfie’s expression that something was very wrong. Her eyes went to the two men approaching him; they had passed her now and she was staring at their backs. They were reaching inside their coats and Magda watched Alfie’s expression and she saw the flash of a knife. She saw Alfie stop dead and go to turn and run and she saw the blade in the air as the man’s arm drew back and lunged forward at Alfie.

In that instant Magda did what all the window prostitutes would have done in De Wallen. The one thing that would get everyone running onto the streets and to her aid. Magda pressed the panic button.

Late in the afternoon, Mann walked into King’s bar. The place was empty except for the barman—a happy chap named Eric—an Indian with a predisposition for Americans and classic rock. The smell of garlic and ginger being fried wafted in from the kitchen at the back and there was a good degree of chilli in the air that burnt the eyes. Mann ordered a large vodka and a bottle of mineral water. He didn’t trust the ice. Eric was all smiles. He looked like he loved his work. He marched up and down behind the bar and tinkered away as he hummed along to Bruce Springsteen singing about being born in the USA.

‘Something to eat, sir?’

He handed Mann a well-thumbed menu—it looked like it doubled as a plate when necessary. There was a massive selection of faded photos of curries of the same colour and looked like washed-out cowpats.

Whilst Mann took his time considering which photo did it for him, the place filled with a bunch of freshly showered volunteer workers all chatting about their day: how much salted fish had arrived, how many more
stacks of muslin were needed. Cutting his way through them, a lone tourist came shuffling in, a young lad with a backpack so big it got momentarily wedged in the door frame. Mann watched him sidle up to the bar. Eric homed in on him and negotiations began. It seemed the lad was looking for something that Eric just happened to have.

‘No problem, my friend.’ Eric was trying to look nonchalant whilst keeping his voice low. ‘This I can do for you…for a very small fee. I can arrange for it to happen tonight. No need to wait. I make a phone call to my friend and he will take you to get your visa renewed tonight, no problem.’

The backpacker thanked Eric. Eric was on a roll. He could do this for the lad and that for him. But the backpacker wasn’t able to hear so well over Bryan Adams and Eric had to shout louder than he really wanted to. He started to look like he was trying to hurry the deal along. ‘Listen, let me tell you, visa renewal very dangerous at the moment. Cost normally five, six thousand baht. But, for you…I make deal, get it cheap—three thousand, my friend, very good deal.’

‘Okay—I’ll have that one.’ Mann beckoned Eric over and pointed to a green pile on the middle page whilst he asked, ‘Is Riley around?’ He looked up from the menu.

Eric paused, rolled his eyes skyward, and smiled. ‘Mr Riley? He will be here any minute now.’

Mann picked up his drink and went to sit at a table. When the curry arrived ten minutes later, it was surprisingly good. He was halfway through it, watching Eric still working his magic on the young backpacker, when
a group of what Mann thought must be medics came in; they were still discussing the day’s casualties as they made their way through the door. There were three of them: one woman and two men. The two men were olive skinned, dark haired, possibly European or South American, thought Mann. The woman was Caucasian, in her late thirties, Mann guessed. She was the one doing most of the talking. She had long blonde hair that she had tied in a thick rope plait and kept back from her face with a small, red-spotted kerchief, like the kind old bikers wore. She was the most animated of the bunch; her hands skipped in the air as she talked. The men listened and nodded but Mann could see they were on a mission to get to the bar and to switch off for the day.

Eric leaned across to her and nodded Mann’s way. As the two men picked up their drinks and decided where to sit, she left them and approached Mann’s table.

‘You asked for Riley?’

‘I did and, to be honest, you’re better looking than I thought you’d be.’

She smiled. ‘I’m Sue. I work with Riley.’

She reached across and shook Mann’s hand. Her hands were long and thin—piano-playing hands, strong with long fingers. He looked into her eyes as they said hello. She must have been a beautiful child, thought Mann, with big blue eyes and blonde curls. Now she had grown into a very attractive woman with laughter lines and eyes that sparkled with confidence and something devilish. She sat down opposite.

Eric appeared beside them. ‘This lady will help you
find Mr Riley,’ he said, grinning, his head bobbing like a Bollywood dancer, obviously pleased with himself.

‘Thank you, Eric, good job.’ Mann kept a smile on his face as he waited for him to leave before he turned back to Sue.

She sat back in her chair and her eyes sparkled with intrigue as she eyed Mann.

‘Let me guess. You are an arms dealer who needs to find a guide through to Burma and the supply chain?’ She waited for a reaction and got nothing from Mann but a smile. ‘No? Okay then…’ She scrutinised Mann for a few seconds more. ‘You sure as hell aren’t a missionary—too sane looking. You don’t smell like a medic and, although you have a few scars, you’re too well dressed to be a mercenary. That leaves us with a misfit and we have plenty of them here. By the look of you, I’d say you are part Chinese. The main business with the Chinese in these parts is drugs. Most of them own the methamphetamine and the opium businesses around here. Okay then…I guess you’re having trouble getting to your refineries and you need to find a new way in and out?’

Her eyes hardened. Mann sat back in his chair, took a drink and smiled at her. Bon Jovi began singing about living on a prayer.

‘Good…very good.’ Mann smiled. ‘But it’s not right.’

Mann jerked his head in the direction of the backpacker who was unloading his heavy pack. ‘What is the lad buying, a visa?’

‘He is probably
extending
his visa. The kids come
here all the time to do it. Anyone here for more than six weeks needs to get out and get stamped back in. Burma is the easiest way.’

‘Everyone has to learn some time,’ Mann replied taking a drink.

‘What do you mean?’

‘He’s making some deal with Eric that involves him leaving his pack here and going outside to meet Eric’s cousin. I’m guessing
he’ll
take this lad’s money then set him up with his cousin who will slit his throat.’

‘No one goes near the Burmese border or Friendship Bridge, as it’s laughingly called, at night, especially with all the tension here at the moment.’

‘Then I think this lad is about to buy a death trip. Travelling is all about learning but there’s learning and there’s getting your throat cut.’

Eric caught Mann and Sue looking at him and he grinned haplessly. He looked very much as if he’d been caught out.

‘But not safe now.’ He leaned over and spoke in a stage whisper to the young backpacker and began furiously backpedalling: ‘Stay next door. Cheap room there. In the morning take this road straight to bridge and you will find it no problem.’ He held his hands up, palms to the ceiling, and wagged his head in Mann’s direction.

‘What do I owe you?’ The youth looked perplexed.

‘For you, my friend, no charge.’ He set a beer down on the bar for the lad. ‘Nobody gets cheated in King’s bar, my friend.’ Eric smiled and jiggled his head at Mann.
Mann nodded his approval and returned the back-packer’s bemused smile with a wink.

Then Mann leaned forward across the table, rested his elbows and stared into Sue’s face. She stared back, unflinching.

‘Guessed it yet?’

‘The foreign kids…that’s what you’re here about, isn’t it?’

‘Right third time.’

‘What are you—a policeman?’ Sue asked incredulously. ‘Don’t think I have ever seen one in these parts. Not a foreign one.’

‘I am helping the Dutch parents of the five missing volunteers, but I need help. You obviously care about these kids.’ Mann nodded in the direction of the backpacker sipping his beer and looking happy. Eric appeared with a curry for Sue.

‘Have you eaten?’ Sue asked.

‘Yes, thank you, I think I had what you’re having.’

She laughed. ‘There is only one meal. It’s curry and rice or curry and noodles.’ She had a strange hint of South African in her voice, a soft roundness that gave it a melodic lilt. She held his gaze. She pushed the wispy curls at the side of her face back. Her cheeks were flushed from the warmth of the bar, her eyes were shining.

‘So, an international detective, how exciting.’ She smiled mischievously. ‘Like James Bond.’

‘Exactly.’ Mann winked.

She gave a small, throaty giggle. ‘Show me your gadgets then.’

Mann reached into his pocket and produced a small red-enamelled pocket knife.

‘A Swiss army knife,’ said Sue. ‘Very impressive!’

‘
And
it’s the one with the hoofpick.’ He grinned.

‘They must have a lot of horses in Switzerland.’

‘I’ve gone there many times looking for a horse,’ said Mann. ‘When I eventually found one, it was just my luck—someone had just done their hooves.’

Sue gave a deep laugh, slightly late, as if she’d got the punchline.

‘What about you?’ Mann asked. ‘Do I detect a hint of Afrikaans?’

‘You do. I spent my first ten years in Cape Town. My parents were South African but we moved around a lot after that.’

‘How long have you been here?’

‘Over five years now. My main job is as a medic working in the hospital here. I work alongside the foreign medics who come and help. Like the two South Americans that I came in with. I am also a backpack medic.’

‘I met one of those—a guy called Louis?’

‘Louis’s a good friend. We go out into the hills, usually about eight of us. We take medical supplies to the remote villagers. We help wherever we can. Most of the injuries they suffer are from landmines, it’s the most heavily mined area in the world, after Cambodia. If the malaria doesn’t kill them, then landmines do. Our main job is to train them to treat their own. We have such a battle stopping them putting cow shit on open wounds or ripping out the placenta so they can take it to the woods to bury before it brings evil spirits to the house.’

‘Animists?’

‘You’ve done your homework. They will always cling to their ancient beliefs, which is fine, except when it’s killing them, and the Burmese don’t need any help doing that. Whenever another village is attacked across in Burma some of the villagers escape and the lucky ones find themselves here.’

‘How often does that happen?’

‘Weekly usually. It’s daily persecution at the moment.’

‘I’ve heard about the Shwit.’

‘Yes, they are merciless. It’s a grinding away of hope, a slow genocide. They just carry on doing what the Burmese junta do best. The ones who are determined to stay in their own land are the bravest but they’re slowly being wiped out. We do what we can. The backpack medic team are vital to the villagers.’

‘That must be dangerous, crossing into Burma? What about the Burmese military?’

‘The KNLA help us.’

‘Which ones?’ asked Mann. ‘I heard that some of the Karen are divided by religion. Buddhist against Christian, even within the army itself. Religion and killing, the two go together.’

‘Yes, exactly, we see it all the time…even the crucifix kills. No one knows what goes on here. Even the journalists who care, who live here, who write about it, can’t make sense of it and cannot offer a clear solution to the world. Have you been out to the Mae Klaw refugee camp yet?’

‘I intend to go tomorrow. I want to meet with Riley.’

‘Ah, Riley…’ She gave her rasping giggle again. ‘I know him very well. Come with me, I’ll pick you up. I work there once a week. I hold a clinic for the new mothers. Then you’ll see what the attack left behind. Of course, you won’t see the men’s decapitated heads and you won’t see the raped and murdered women, the butchered children; they are buried already. Let’s hope we will get in and get out safely. It’s guarded by the same guards who took the blood money six weeks ago.’

The door opened again and a new group of volunteers breezed in, dressed in baggy shirts and original seventies high-waisted jeans. Sue looked at them, smiled and waved as she said under her breath:

‘Here they come—the saviours of the human race. Their mission is to go anywhere in the world, to solve a given problem and to get out feeling much better about themselves. They don’t really care about the culture of the place, the cause, or the people.’ The group were talking noisily, oblivious to the rest of the people in the bar. ‘The NGOs play games with the refugees like they were children. They have the money allocated but they give it with so many conditions—they have to fulfil this and that criteria. The main one is that they can’t use it to fund the war. But it’s impossible when their brothers, fathers, husbands and even mothers are in the fight and the only thing they have in life is to struggle. Of course they are going to—fighting is the only job most of them have. Do the NGOs seriously think they are not going to take every last penny to continue the fight? The NGOs just play God—it’s part of the thrill for them.’

Mann studied her curiously.

‘But weren’t you all NGOs in the beginning?’

She smiled. ‘Yes, of course. We are a necessary evil.’ She grinned. ‘But some of us care more than that. For me, this is an obsession, it’s my reason for living. I found such kindness here—I’d never seen that before. I would die for these people. They have endured hell and worse.’

‘You support the KNLA?’

‘Of course.’

‘You know that the world is blaming the KNLA for the kidnap of the five?’

She stared at him, amazed.

‘How can that possibly be?’

‘The Thai government has issued a statement supporting the Burmese junta’s accusations that a group of renegade KNLA is responsible.’

‘Why would the Karen want to risk losing the only help they get—the NGOs?’

‘They are saying that it is a way of drawing attention to the conflict and getting funding. They are claiming that ransom demands have been made by a group claiming to be supported by the KNLA.’

She shook her head, despondent. ‘Sometimes I think everyone is against us and what we are trying to do here.’

‘A commander called Alak was mentioned. You know him?’ Sue nodded. ‘Could he have gone bad?’

‘Maybe.’ She looked pensive. ‘In a world like this one, everyone has a price.’