Saving Fish From Drowning (54 page)

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Saskia, they stood and began their work, moving forward in a widening arc, their noses twitching like bumblebees in flight.

“We’ll soon have our answer,” Harry said with confidence and swelling hope.

An hour and a half later, a grim-faced Harry called off the search.

There would be no fetch today.

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HOW THEY MADE

THE NEWS

Harry’s disappointment did not last long. The next morning,

soon after he ordered a large American breakfast from his

suite at the Golden Pagoda Hotel, he heard two quick raps.

Room service? That was certainly fast. He threw on a bathrobe. But when he opened the door, he saw a man in an unstylish longyi, wearing the white cap of the bellhops but not the crisp white jacket and gloves. The man presented him with a small package wrapped in plain white cloth. Unbeknownst to Harry, this package had come via the same network of people who had helped Black Spot pass along the “Second Life” potency plants. Harry tipped the out-of-uniform bellhop with the first bill he grabbed from his wallet—he never could calculate the equivalent dollar amount, but whatever it was, the recipient seemed highly pleased.

Attached to the package was a small note, folded in half. The out

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side of the note was addressed, in crudely printed letters, to “Mr.

Hary BAily.” Inside, the note said: “Special for you. Please see quick.” The wrapped object was light and as small as a matchbox, and in fact when Harry laid open the cloth, he saw that it
was
a matchbox, decorated with a picture of two natives leading an elephant. On the sides were elegant squiggles of Burmese writing. Who would give him matches? He didn’t smoke. He shook it. Ah, something was inside—a camcorder tape. Its label said in neat script:

“Trip to China/Myanmar.” On the other side was written: “Tape #1: 12/16/00.”

Harry saw no interesting significance in these words. He guessed that the tape contained material that the reporter wanted him to review before the next day’s shoot. In the late afternoon they would leave Mandalay for Rangoon, where, according to three other eyewitness reports, Moff and the children had been seen wandering in a daze in the jade market. Terribly thoughtful that the Burmese TV

station provided him with background material, but why the devil didn’t they include something with which to watch the bloody thing?

He was accustomed to having the production of
his
TV shows run in an efficient manner, with the underlings thinking ahead for what his needs and preferences might be. Best go find a camcorder, so he could study the contents while having his breakfast. He put on a freshly pressed white shirt and tan shorts fastened with a crocodile belt that matched his loafers, which he wore sockless. When you’re a TV personality, you have to look the part twenty-four hours a day. He slipped the tape into his shirt pocket and headed down to the lobby to search for a suitably equipped tourist. They certainly worked him hard, and without paying him a cent. But it was worth it, anything to keep his friends in the public eye.

Surprisingly enough, there were a fair number of guests, whereas only the previous week all the hotels had been nearly empty in the wake of panic over the missing tourists. Harry reasoned that his re3 9 0

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ports might have encouraged people to return—astonishing, really, how one person can make a difference in the world. All the tourists had rushed out of the country when the news of the disappearance was known, couldn’t pack their bags fast enough. Now, after his first report, from Bagan, and the Mandalay episode just yesterday, the hotel lobby was packed with tourists. What would the place be like after his third episode? Not that he wanted to help bring in the tourists, but the numbers meant something—it was the power he had to change people’s perception. This was visible proof. He breezed through the lobby and saw that none of these travelers had any decent video equipment, only those outmoded models that took the larger cassettes. And those horrible clothes they had on—the tour operators must have slashed the price for coming here, to have attracted such an obviously lower class of tourist. He continued past the double glass doors that led to the pool.

The air temperature was pleasantly warm. He gazed upon the

Olympic-sized pool, its waters unmolested by any of the slicked-up sunbathers lying on deck chairs draped with monogrammed hotel towels. On the far side was a tent-shaped cabana with mahogany flourishes that gave it the romantic aura of an old colonial backwater.

Ah, there, on the table by that woman with a hat, a silvery object standing upright, that
had
to be a camcorder. He sped toward it, and then saw its young bikinied owner turn and look at his approach.

Even with the oversized hat and dark glasses obscuring her peepers, she was fetching. As he drew closer, she tilted back her sunglasses, and he reassessed the bronzed princess with long chocolatey hair to have a shaggability rating of eight plus—not that he was in the game, but there was nothing wrong with keeping his analytical skills sharp.

Across from her was a boyish-looking woman consulting a guidebook. He reckoned she was in her late thirties, what he once considered close to the end of shelf life, but that was before he met Marlena. To his tastes, this woman had never made the shelf. She 3 9 1

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had a spiky hairdo and a no-nonsense face. She was toned, on the extreme side, an anatomical model of pectorals, deltoids, and biceps hardened through much disciplined exercise. Harry had found that women who loved to exercise usually suffered from frigidity. For this reason, athletic women were not his type. Besides, this one had a certain Sapphic quality, that hirsute area above the lip a deliberate Frida Kahlo statement.

It was not by coincidence that Harry had run into these two

women. They were both reporters for Global News Network. Since the story of the missing tourists broke, a dozen news bureaus had sent teams disguised as tourists to flesh it out. The networks could do only so many interviews with the missing travelers’ families, friends, neighbors, co-workers, former teachers, former colleagues, former spouses, ex-girlfriends, stepchildren, and ex-stepchildren.

One reporter had gone so far as to interview Marlena’s housekeeper.

The TV networks had not had a human interest story this riveting since that baby girl fell into a well in Texas more than a dozen years before. As in the baby’s case, the hour-by-hour updates on the missing tourists trumped news on wars and bombings, AIDS and unrest in Angola. New advertisers came on board—dog food companies, manufacturers of anti-anxiety medications—and bought thirty-second spots. But now, if they were going to take advantage of the public’s hunger for more, the networks needed more leads, more angles, and, if possible, a juicy scoop to distinguish themselves from other networks in close competition.

Late-night meetings were called among the news producers. Proposals flew, and this one emerged: How about sending a team of reporters disguised as ordinary, bumbling tourists to get the real story?

We’ll equip them with what appear to be outdated and cheap video recorders, and they’ll wear Hawaiian shirts, and socks with their sandals. They’ll fumble with maps and guidebooks. Well, hop to it!

So that was what Harry saw when he strolled through the lobby of 3 9 2

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the Golden Pagoda: a dozen or so journalists, all secretly congratulating themselves for blending in with the real tourists. They were wearing loud Hawaiian shirts and toting repulsively outdated video equipment that no bona fide journalist would ever be caught with, unless as camouflage. Of course, the inner workings had been retrofitted to record film-quality images.

As you might guess, the mandate of every network was an exclusive interview with Harry Bailley. GNN told its journalists to tape Harry secretly. The man was just too savvy about saying the right thing, which was far less interesting than the off-camera truth. Wasn’t it illegal to record someone without permission? Not to worry, in Myanmar, the question wasn’t “Is it legal?” but “Is it lethal?” Everybody, watch your step.

To help coax Harry into baring his soul, GNN sent Belinda

Merkin, its most strategically equipped reporter, a green-eyed, big-haired brunette and former figure skater, who also had been a Fulbright scholar in China and was a graduate of Columbia’s School of Journalism. Accompanying her was Zilpha Wexlar, a sound engineer who had a superb digital recording device, and the critical ears to match it. The device was attached to the inside of her well-worn backpack, its microphone peering out of a frayed, bullet-sized hole.

This duo had been lurking for nearly two days, searching the bars that Harry might frequent. Their original plan was to appear befuddled and ask him for recommendations on places to visit and things to do. And where are you going next, they’d inquire, with Belinda sprinkling enough flirtatious hints to get him to suggest that they tag along. As their researchers had told them, given Harry’s reputation and his eye for attractive young women, they’d probably have no trouble getting the invitation.

“Pardon me, miss,” Harry now said to the long-haired reporter.

“You probably have no idea who I am. . . .” He paused, waiting for her to recognize him.

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“Of course I do,” Belinda said brightly. “Doesn’t everybody?

You’re Harry Bailley. I’m so honored to meet you.” She extended her hand. What irony, she chortled to herself.
He
was pursuing her.

When the researchers said he’d be easy, they underestimated how much so.

“You’ve seen me?” Harry appeared to be both astonished and flattered. “On the telly here or in the States?”

“Both,” she said. “Back home, everyone is watching you. I’ve always been a fan of
The Fido Files
—I have a naughty papillon. And this ‘Mystery in Myanmar’ series is the best reality show around.

Everybody says so.”

“Actually,” Harry said, with a twitch of his head, “the program that I do here isn’t a reality show, it’s more of an investigative documentary.”

“That’s what I meant,” she graciously amended.

Harry returned an amiable grin. “And who are you who means

so much?”

“Belinda Merkin.”

“Merkin. Interesting name. May I call you Ms. Merkin . . . Mrs.

Merkin . . . ?”

“Just Belinda is fine.”

“Lovely. Well, Just Belinda, I wonder if I might bother you to let me use your camcorder for a short while? Of course, if you’re in a hurry to go off and do some sightseeing . . .”

“No hurry. My sister and I haven’t even figured out where we want to go.”

“Forgive me,” Harry said to the bogus, more boyish sister, “we haven’t formally met.”

“Zilpha.” She gave Harry a slight smile and a firm, businesslike handshake.

“Please to meet you, Sylvia,” Harry said.

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Belinda picked up the camcorder. “Do you need me to show you how to use it?”

Although Harry knew perfectly well how the camcorder operated, he said, already full of gratitude, “Oh, would you?”

As Belinda took out her tape and loaded the camcorder with his, he said nonchalantly, “It’s just some material I have to review before my next segment. You’re welcome to watch, if you like.” He knew it was a tantalizing offer.

And just as expected, she replied: “Really? That would be so exciting.” She scooted over, and Harry slid in and mumbled apologies about needing to be as much out of the sun as possible to better view the tape. His scratchy bare thigh rested against her recently waxed one. Belinda resisted laughing aloud at this obvious and adolescent ploy. She held the camcorder between them, and Harry squinted, choosing not to put on the reading glasses tucked in his shirt pocket.

An image appeared on the tiny screen, and they were jarred by the sudden blare of shouts and hoots, road noise, and engine drone as the camera’s eye took in the scenery from a speeding vehicle. “Hey, everybody,” a female voice yelled above the racket, “look this way.”

Belinda set the camcorder on its side to adjust the volume until it was barely audible. “Much better,” Harry said. By the time they resumed watching, they had passed the section showing the smiling faces of the tourists on the bus.

Even without his reading glasses, Harry could tell this was not a professionally shot backgrounder. It was hardly better than what a tourist might video-record of a temple-a-day package tour. Why did TV Myanmar International think this would be informative? Look at this crap: An airport terminal. A cluster of tiny figures bunched up for the requisite group shot. Distant buildings in some typically rustic village. The footage was pathetic. It displayed all the faults of home movies: camera shakes, two feet of empty space above each 3 9 5

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person’s head, and too many panoramas that were probably breathtaking when viewed in real life but dully one-dimensional on video.