Slash and Burn (16 page)
“Did you look inside?” Dtui asked.
“Yes.”
“What did you see?”
“Dr. Siri sit sitting on the bed and talking.”
“Did you see who he was talking to?”
“No.”
“Did anyone answer?”
“No.”
“Did you see anyone else in there?” Siri asked.
“No. Too dddark.”
“What did you do then?” Daeng asked.
“Come back.”
“Why didn’t you tell us you’d seen him?” asked Dtui.
“Be … cause Dr. Siri was being nnnnaughty,” he whispered. “I didn’t want to tell on him.”
“So what the hell was I doing in there?” Siri asked himself.
“And why don’t you remember?” Dtui asked.
“I should turn myself in.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Daeng told him. “You get out of breath lifting a chicken wing. You did not strangle a hundred-kilogram man to death and drag him across the room.”
“How can you be so sure?” he said. “A lot of peculiar things have been happening to me recently. I may be capable of anything.”
“Not murder, my love.”
“I’ll have to tell Phosy.”
“Yes, I think you will. But he’ll say exactly the same thing. And you really don’t need to tell the Americans.”
“I told Second Secretary Gordon I’d share everything.”
“Not this, Siri. Trust me.”
“Then I need to go and see someone.”
“Now?”
“Yes.”
*
Siri took their flashlight and walked along the corridor and around to the rear of the main building. The light attracted one of the old guards who insisted on following close behind. When he arrived at the rearmost cabin, Siri turned to the old man and said, “I’ll be all right now, thank you.”
But the guard didn’t leave. He merely took a step back and held on to a toothless smile. A faint yellow glow was seeping through the crack around the door. Siri sighed and knocked. Auntie Bpoo opened the door. To the doctor’s horror, she was wearing a flowing black negligee and high-heeled shoes.
“What kept you?” Bpoo asked.
Before walking past her and into the room, Siri looked back over his shoulder to see that the guard’s smile now occupied most of his face like a tunnel. Farewell to Yeh Ming’s reputation in the northeast. The small cabin was lit by seven red candles around the headboard of the bed.
“What do you know?” Siri asked as soon as Bpoo had closed the door.
“I know that one day Mount Aconcagua and the Himalayas will be the only land masses visible above the oceans.”
“About last night.”
“Oh, that.”
She went to sit on the bed and crossed her legs slowly. If she hadn’t been a fifty-year-old man it would have been an evocative gesture. She patted the mattress beside her. Siri put his hands on his hips.
“Given your proximity to the end of your life, I wasn’t about to let you go wandering around alone in the middle of the night.”
“You followed me?”
“Of course I did. I crouched in the shadows like a sleek black panther.”
“What did you see?”
“You were in some sort of a trance. First you climbed in the sleazy major’s window, then poor lovestruck Mr. Geung arrived and peeked in and went away, then you garrotted the American and climbed out again.”
“I…? You saw me…?”
“Only joking, sweetheart. I didn’t see any such thing. No idea what you were doing. It was all rather dull, really. You were in there for half an hour.”
“You didn’t go and take a look through the window?”
“You can’t be serious. You expect me to tramp through a turnip plot in my eighty-thousand-
kip
cocktail shoes? Be real, Dr. Siri.”
“Bpoo. I don’t remember any of it. Do you think there was some supernatural connection?”
“You’re the shaman. Not me.”
“You have contact with the spirit world.”
“They only call me when your phone’s off the hook.”
“Come on. I’m serious. What do you think happened last night? Something drew me to that room.”
“Rooms are just slabs of concrete and plaster and tacky fauxwood paneling. They have no particular life or afterlife of their own. If you were summoned it would have been by a spirit. A particularly pushy one.”
“The major’s?”
“Well, no offence to the departed, but I didn’t get the impression he had a particularly awesome aura. No, it would have been somebody else.”
“How can I find out?”
“The spirit wanted you there for a reason. Something happened in that room, something significant. I would begin my investigation there.”
“You think the room’s haunted.”
Bpoo laughed.
“Ghosts have much better things to do than haunt, Siri.”
“Like what?”
“Like going into the trainee nurses’ shower room and watching them undress. Spirits are perverts just like the rest of us. If it makes you feel better, you weren’t the only one with an interest in that room last night.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’d seen somebody else go in that room earlier. But he used the door.”
“Who?”
Siri returned to his room with the guard chuckling a few meters behind him. The doctor shone his flashlight on the bed to be sure it was Madame Daeng sleeping there then climbed beneath the covers.
“Is that perfume I smell?” she asked.
“Yes. I was in Bpoo’s room.”
“It’s nice. I’ll have to ask her where she got it.”
“Daeng.”
“Yes, my husband?”
“I think Judge Haeng might have killed Major Potter.”
“That’s just wishful thinking.”
He breathed heavily.
“I’m not so sure. Bpoo saw him go into Potter’s room earlier that night.”
It transpired that very few of the team members had managed a particularly restful night of sleep. For want of something to do, most had arrived in dribs and drabs long before the morning meal was served. They all went first to the large picture windows and looked out at a view that ended four meters beyond. A murky sky pressed down on the Friendship Hotel. A pocket of gloom was closing in on them. For those privy to the fact that the major’s death was not a suicide, the feeling permeated that an unidentifiable danger was squeezing them into a corner. The smoggy mist and a lack of oxygen gave the place the feel of an Andean mountain village. Breath was no longer taken for granted. Even those with no hereditary respiratory problems were wheezing. Headaches abounded. At breakfast there were baggy eyes and long canine yawns and heads nodding over empty place mats.
Siri and Daeng arrived just as the sausages and spicy salad left the kitchen on large trays. Before the couple could take a seat, Second Secretary Gordon called Siri over to his table where Dr. Yamaguchi and Auntie Bpoo were already seated. Siri had naturally told his wife about the autopsy but the Americans weren’t to know that and they did have an agreement to keep a lid on the findings. So Daeng sat with Mr. Geung who was deep in some impossible conversation with John Johnson.
“The embassy documents have arrived,” said Gordon.
“Already?” said Siri. “How’s that possible?”
“Army convoy in transit to Phu Bia. They traveled overnight. Dropped off the documents at the local battalion. Their courier brought them up early today. And, four armed guards arrived this morning at the behest of your judge.”
The thought of more weapons around in the hands of bush soldiers hardly put Siri’s mind at ease. But the arrival of the files was a positive and they needed an excuse for Yamaguchi and Gordon to stay at the hotel that day to go through the documents. As everything was in English, Siri and Phosy wouldn’t be much help. But they came up with a plan that would pass the inspection of Judge Haeng. The Americans would claim to be putting together the paperwork to ship Major Potter’s body back to the US. For this purpose they could commandeer Nurse Dtui for her Lao translation skills of medical terms. In actual fact, Dtui would be summarizing the findings from the files to pass on to Siri and the others when they returned.
Most of the remaining team members shared Commander Lit’s theory that the bombing of the post office was a cowardly act of terrorism, and the shooting of the senator was most likely an accident. And well, yes, he was only a senator. Potter had killed himself. So only the morgue team and those present at the autopsy were aware of the actual danger. The decision was taken, therefore, that everyone else should go to visit the site of the stones at the bend in the river—an excursion of sorts. Missing were the same characters who’d opted for room service breakfast and, as Judge Haeng was amongst the absentees, the atmosphere was more relaxed than normal. There was an unreal party mood, a general buzz of excitement as they closed in on the missing airman. The fashion statement of the day was made by Auntie Bpoo in combat boots, flak jacket and cherry red hotpants. To the con tractor’s displeasure, they only needed the one truck to go to the site. The truck dropped off the stream team one kilometer further along the potholed road than usual. With their maps and compasses, the aerial photographs, improvised face masks and plenty of water, they headed off into the smoky jungle.
They reached the stream a lot sooner than they’d expected. They’d only been trekking for half an hour and the sudden giggly sound of the icy water tickling the rocks surprised all of them. But the map indicated just the one stream and it was a good sized watercourse. The photograph Rhyme had taken gave them only a rough estimate of the distance of the stone message from Ban Hoong. They were approximately in the right place but didn’t know whether to head south or north. They decided to head upstream for an hour. If they found nothing they’d turn around and follow the stream all the way to the village. Siri noticed Bpoo nod so he felt confident they’d made the correct call. Only twenty minutes south they came to a bend in the river and a broad sandbank which disappeared into the mist.
“This looks promising,” said Rhyme, running to the head of the convoy. “Now all we need is … aha!” He was the first to spot the blurry dark gray boulders at the far side of the clearing and he jogged across to them. The team followed. Rhyme already had two of his cameras primed. He flipped open the dust caps and began to snap away at the rocks. The word BOWRY was spelled out neatly in boulders approximately the size of bicycle wheels.
“The pilot couldn’t have been hurt at all,” Civilai told his friends proudly. “Some of those boulders must weigh a hundred kilograms. They would have taken some shifting.”
“I’d need a dozen elephants and a long chain,” said Siri. “And I haven’t just fallen out of a helicopter.”
The source of the large stones was at the river’s edge where they’d been smoothed by the constant passage of water and coated with a black moss. They’d been rolled across the clearing to a point where they contrasted with the white sand and on a clear day would have been easily visible from the air. It must have taken considerable effort.
“Almost a miracle that they weren’t spotted by anyone else,” said Daeng. “The rescue flights. Trips back and forth to Spook City.”
“No more a miracle than escaping from a falling helicopter, madam,” said Civilai.
They sat beside the idyllic stream, a picture framed in fog, and drank tea from a thermos. It reminded Siri of a scene in an exotic calendar on the wall of some French matron. “Natives in the harsh jungle.”
“How do you think he survived out here?” Phosy asked.
“He was a marine,” said Daeng. “They train them for jungle warfare.”
“I doubt he’d ever come across anything like this in his training,” Siri told them.
Rhyme had almost all the pictures he needed. He called for just one more team photo, everyone lined up behind the rocks. They clambered to the far side and took up a pose like the grand explorers of the Tibetan highlands with the body of the slain yeti at their feet. The photographer stood as far back as he dared, aware that the smoke would make his pictures appear out of focus.
“I say, you,” Rhyme called out. “Would you mind standing up?”
The journalist was talking to Phosy who was on his knees reaching between the rocks. Peach translated but the distraction had already spoiled a very nice photograph. Now others were leaning over Phosy and watching as, from the narrow gap, he pulled a large plastic envelope fastened with bright yellow tape. Even Rhyme abandoned his post and went to look at the prize. Phosy didn’t wait for a consensus, he used his fake Swiss army knife to slice open the tape at the top of the envelope and tipped out the contents onto one of the rocks. It was an English language newspaper. He passed it to the American sergeant.
“It’s the
Bangkok Post
,” Johnson told them.
“What on earth’s that doing here?” Civilai asked nobody in particular. “What’s the date?”
The question was met by a low whistle from Johnson.
“Well, this is weird,” said the American. “This newspaper is dated June second, 1978. A little over two months ago.”
“Ah,” Civilai laughed. “I remember something like this in France.
Poisson d’Avril
—April Fish. I can’t recall the exact date but it’s the day you play a joke on people just for fun. Our Politburo has something similar but theirs is every day of the year. Next thing you know somebody with a camera jumps out of the bushes and shouts, ‘Surprise! April Fish!’”
“It’s August,” Daeng reminded him.
“And I don’t see anyone laughing,” added Siri. “But I’d wager somebody’s playing a trick on all of us.”
“It’s possible the newspaper isn’t related to the rocks,” Commander Lit suggested.
“You mean like some local was sitting on a boulder reading a newspaper and it started raining so he put it in a plastic bag and stuck it down beside the rocks so he could finish it once he’d learned English?” Phosy said without looking at the security man.
“Actually, I meant that someone wanted us to find the newspaper so they left it in a place they knew we’d search,” said Lit in the direction of the same bank of fog.
“As opposed to leaving it in front of the hotel?”
“And have the old guards burn it to keep themselves warm. Good idea.”
“I do wish Dtui was here,” Daeng laughed. “Men can be so predictable.”
“I’m not predictable,” said Siri.
“I knew you’d say that.”
The Americans had split up the newspaper and were going through it page by page. Peach translated.
“An Australian journalist swam to Laos in scuba gear to rescue his Lao girlfriend,” she said.
“US abolishes import quota on Thai textiles,” read Johnson.
“A beauty competition for fat women,” said Bpoo. “What a civilized country.”
“OK,” said Peach. She’d picked up the sheet Randal Rhyme had just put down. He apparently missed the reference. “Laos gets a mention here in the editorial. I think this might be relevant.”
“Rumor has it that the Communist Lao government is in bed with her old nemesis, the USA,” she read. “Despite a massive push to establish cooperatives nationwide, the People’s Democratic Republic has found itself with a shortfall of 113,000 tons of rice as a result of last year’s drought. And who should step in to find that mere nine million dollars but Uncle Sam himself. What’s nine million compared to the fifty million they were pumping in per year during the war? On Wednesday, the Senate appropriations committee, under its new chairman, Senator Walter Bowry of South Carolina, approved a budget to help out one of the poorest countries in the world. It was, as the senator told a press conference with a straight face, “for humanitarian purposes.” The good gentleman went on to add that, “despite twenty years of hostility, the US bears no personal animosity toward the Pathet Lao.” Right. We at the
Post
doubt the congressman has any ill feelings at all considering the fact the gentleman’s family amassed a sizeable fortune from exports from the region during the second Indochinese war. We doubt it would do him any harm at all if that channel was reopened through this new détente.
“‘I am pleased to be in a position to assist the country in its hour of need in an official capacity,’ he told reporters. Good on you, senator. And we hope such a magnanimous gesture doesn’t damage your political standing given the anti-communist feelings in Washington. Let’s hope that nine million oiling will grease the wheels for the Lao to agree to the demands of the powerful MIA lobby. Wouldn’t that make Senator Bowry one popular gentleman on both sides of the globe.”
The teams sat around on the rocks and lobbed views and opinions back and forth. If this editorial were factually correct—and Rhyme pointed out that the
Post
was known to make things up every now and then, particularly when attacking communism—then two aspects of it were particularly relevant. Firstly, they’d underestimated the power of Boyd’s father, now the chair of the appropriations committee. If he’d been influential in releasing the funds for Laos, he had a vested interest in making sure things went well here. Then there was the fact that the senator had connections in the region and had apparently done very well financially during the Vietnam War. But, more importantly, and most baffling, if the budget was approved back before June 2, the photographs of the downed pilot and his tailplane must have arrived after that decision was taken. And, if that was so, the senator hadn’t put pressure on his committee because his son was a downed pilot. To the Lao, that kind of nepotism would have been easy to understand. But that last point made no sense to anybody.
“It might just be that the photos arrived earlier and they held back the announcement till after the committee’s decision,” said Civilai, ever aware of the subterfuge of government.
“Not possible,” said Johnson. “The incoming mail at the embassy is time and date stamped.”
“Then we would have to assume that the photographs were sent in response to the announcement,” said Siri.
“And what would be the point of that?” asked Rhyme.
“I have no idea.”
“What I’d like to know”—Johnson shook his head—“is what the congressman was importing from here that made him so goddamned rich. And I bet you it wasn’t coconuts.”
“All right.” Phosy clapped his hands as if he were frustrated with the direction the discussion was going. “Let’s come back to whoever it was who left the newspaper here. I suggest we take a hike back to the Phuan village. See if they remember seeing anyone around who shouldn’t have been here. Any objections?” He turned specifically to Commander Lit, who merely smiled.
Before they left the sand bank, the teams combed the tree line and the rocks but found no other confusing evidence. As they walked, the debate continued. Were the boulders laid out by a young pilot hoping for a rescue, or were they a recent creation? Were the person who left the newspaper and the rock-speller one and the same? And if Boyd didn’t spell out his own name after the crash, what became of him? Was he captured by the PL? Killed? Did he succumb to the many dangers of the jungle? Die from hypothermia?
“They flew a hundred hours of search and rescue looking for him,” Johnson said. “I can’t believe in all that time nobody spotted a name written on the sand. They train the boys to leave messages. It’s what the rescue pilots look for. With all the slash and burn going on, they wouldn’t have looked twice at a burned-out stretch of ground like the dead man’s field with no visible wreckage, but something like this….”
“So what is the message?” Daeng asked. “If they left the rocks there for us, what are they telling us? That Boyd didn’t make it, or that he did?”
“Perhaps if we find the messenger we can understand the message,” said Phosy.
When they finally reached Ban Hoong, the team members were happy to take off their boots and relax in the village. Much of their march north had been along the bed of the brook, closed in on both sides by the unkempt jungle. They stretched out their damp socks on the rocks with little hope that the blurry cheese ball of a sun might dry them off. Even at midday there was a chill in the air. The sky was a dark sheet of ash. A chorus of chesty coughs rose from the riverbank like toad calls.
