Missing Louise

by Nicholas Frankcom

  “Very good! I was certain that you could be trusted to bring in the result. I have long admired your methods and knew that one day you could be of valuable service. Ensure that he keeps tabs until they find the girl. I can see that she is very close. At that point he must contact you. On no account must he intervene. There is much that we have to put in place. I’ll have men ready.”

  Outside a small group of demonstrators were becoming increasing vocal. Their paper had recently been closed, a small student publication promoting minority rights and free thinking. Kae had ignored the collective shouts for justice when he took the table, but sensed from the increased volume that they were approaching the Patuxai Monument. Such demonstrations were still a rarity, participants often faced brutal baton charges and jail terms if vows to silence were ignored. As the noise drew closer, his guest became slightly rattled. It was not so much agitation, more annoyance; perhaps at the protesters for being so blatant in their demonstration, or perhaps because it was now no longer safe for him to remain. There would now be many young prying eyes to witness him leaving.

  The plump guest rose as the whistle went; a signal for police anti-dispersal activity. The response would be heavy. The authorities needed to clampdown on vocal opposition. There was the regime’s reputation to maintain, otherwise a whole host of other demonstrations could burst out around the capital. Kae showed little surprise as he heard the battle cry of riot police charging the thin line of protesters. The clash would soon be over, prompting his guest to hasten further. It would be wisest to vacate the cafe whilst all attention focused on the defeated students on the street. A discreet side-door was pushed open in readiness to usher him through. Before making his exit, he turned once more.

  “Keep me full posted. I expect results within a day or so. Good-day!”

  Without waiting for a response, the colonel edged out onto the street. It was said that he ran PC38, the infamous secret police, with a rod of fiery steel. Opponents chose to bury their dissent and ally or risk disappearing into rat infested windowless cells. Rumours quietly circulated that those who died during interrogation were the lucky ones. A life led rotting beyond official vision caused greater suffering come the end. Kae was in no doubt that this stretched beyond whispers and speculation. He had just been looking into the eyes of the man who took life affecting decisions with the chilling clinical dispatch executives might apply to a business deal. It would take either a fool or a brave mastermind to betray him. Kae felt he possessed all of qualities for a mastermind.

  Thirteen

  “DOWN, DOWN!”

  Rusty’s shout sounded distant. A further window went, raked by automatic fire. Mike’s chin was pushed close onto his knees. It would be hard for him to get any further down. Closing his eyes he prayed it would soon end. The noise alone caused his stomach to clench up. It wasn’t just the breaking glass and booming automatic fire. As each bullet penetrated the bus it produced a high pitched whistle. So many cut through the interior that it was hard to pinpoint where they hit. He was aware of Jean only through her grip. Her nails were pushing through his jeans, almost drawing blood. As the bus mounted another bump his nose smashed into the back of the seat. Pain exploded. Rusty was still shouting. The words no longer made sense as the bus slid. Jarring vibrations increased as it lurched sideways, weaving to a standstill as the wheels ploughed through deepening ruts up a steep verge.

  Then the screams started. They came as a piercing bombardment of sheer panic. The enormity of the situation was hitting home. Many were crouching in the aisle. Others climbed over seats, anxious to find a new haven from the bullets, somewhere else to hide. All around people fought back hysteria with the fearful knowledge that the bus was under attack. Dulled miscomprehension was turning to conscious terror.

  “Mike, we’ve got to get out of here. Grab Jean. Get to the other side of the bus. They’ll be less shit flying around. We’ve got to bust a window and jump. Just do it Mike.”

  Rusty’s words were measured and calm. He was holding his nerve in a sea of chaos. The quiet authority in his voice helped Mike steady himself. It poured strength into him, provided a firm anchor to grasp. He had to keep focused on Rusty. In an instant he might lose it, surrender to the fear deep within the pit of his stomach. He knew that he must move and keep moving; otherwise it would be too easy to crawl further under the seat in front. As another bullet deflected up from a discarded trolley, Mike firmly took hold of Jean’s arm and pulled towards the far side. By now must people falling over themselves to crawl along the floor, that or sliding stiff windows back, preparing to jump rather than stay as sitting targets. Ducks in a fairground alley, Mike was thinking. It kept his mind off things. Plastic ducks didn’t bleed.

  “Keep going Mike. I’ve got Jean as well!” Rusty continued to reassure from behind.

  They edged past the woman previously munching on her tobacco. She was no longer preoccupied with her cancerous crop. Her eyes fixed on the chaos and broken wind shield to the front of the bus. It was as if she were willing herself to move, but felt a greater horror in joining the scrum of people desperately competing for a passage to the door. Jean’s feet pushed into her back as they made their way around her prone body. There was no reaction from either Jean or the terror stricken woman. Rusty’s firm hand guided the rest of Jean’s leg towards the previously vacant corner seat. Mike had now taken up the seat, carefully pulling the rest of her so that she was nestled close against the window. She was still beyond speech, clearly not fully comprehending the gravity of their situation. Hijacking was something that happened in Yemen, perhaps even South Africa. This part of Laos was supposedly safe. Its veiled borders were now openly welcoming the backpacking fraternity in growing numbers. Whatever else the dangers and annoyances section in the guidebook covered, bus hijacking did not get a mention. Her conscious wasn’t taking this in.

  A fresh volley of shots brought further screams and splinters of glass. A gargled shout close by caused Mike to look around. He wished he hadn’t. The tobacco chewing woman sat unmoved. A deflected bullet had found its way into the sagging flesh below her cancerous mouth. It had passed straight through, burying into the upholstery behind. Mike watched as blood poured through her lips and nose. Her head snapped back, causing a last gurgle, her dying plea to the world. Thick green mucus mingled with the blood as it stained her cotton vest. Horrified as he was, Mike continued to watch. Until recently the only dead body he had seen was four years earlier, his Grandmother laid out on her bed in floral gown. His exposure to death was rapidly changing. An innocence he wished to keep was lost. On this trip to date he had been required to stare into the lifeless eyes of an unlucky backpacking girl, dragged from the murky river at Trat. The events unfolding here were taking things one stage further. He was witnessing was the death of someone, a person two feet from where he sat, gunned down and murdered. It took Rusty’s voice to bring his focus back.

  “Hell Mike, come on, we must get out of here! She was all but dead before the bullet. It put her out of her cancerous misery. We’ll talk about it later, for now we need to save our asses. If we stay here we’ll strike it unlucky with a piece of stray lead as well. We’ve got to get this window done, now come on!”

  Galvanised back into action, Mike took his place next to Rusty and feverishly helped try to prize it back. The window was very stiff, the old variety that slid back to open. Largely immersed in the task, he was barely aware of a knocking sound coming from the roof. Someone was pulling themselves up, their boots clunking on the cheap tin above.

  “Fuck! There’s somebody up there! What can they be doing? Why the fuck are they on the roof?”

  Mike wasn’t one to string out obvious comments, but having someone on roof was adding a new dimension. His fear was hitting greater heights. With new impetuous, he and Rusty pulled back the window. The warm air blowing from outside brought them very welcome relief. Still running on adrenalin, they were ea
sily able to position Jean and lower her down through the window. Like a dazed mummy, she stumbled forward towards the grass. Clearly shock was cocooning her from the horrors around. Above them Mike could hear footsteps on the roof. There were now at least two gun wielding maniacs up there. He could make out a watering sound - surely they weren’t taking a piss? Perhaps it was an act of final indignity. Just when he was going to relay this illogical insight to Rusty, their two roof walkers jumped in tandem. Immediately following their hastened departure, a loud roar went up, like a giant blow torch.

  “They’re fucking cooking us! The bastards have torched the bus!” Rusty yelled out.

  Mike’s nose could clearly smell the petrol. He wished it were piss instead, anything but the potent fumes warning of the furnace to come. They were aiming to turn the Vang Vieng bound bus into an oven.

  “No loitering now Mike! I think that this is our stop. Come on, it’s time to jump ship.”

  The humour was lost on Mike. He bailed out in parachute style. The jolting fall winded him. Lying on his side he saw the two boots belonging to Rusty land inches away. The blonde Australian rolled over, keeping his head low. Smoke was now bellowing out from the bus roof, much of it black, the paint-work melting with the intense heat. Confused silence within the bus as to what crazy stuff was going on above them rapidly gave way to screams as the realisation hit home. A fresh volley of shots raked the opposite side, puncturing holes throughout the panelling. Many of the occupants were now pushing open windows, squeezing past each other in a bid for freedom. The temperature inside would soon reach cooking point. Most would rather risk a wall of bullets than remain inside a tin coffin. A few less lucky passengers took their chance jumping through the windows facing their attackers. Blind with fear, most were cut down before they scrambled to their feet. One poor soul caught the flames with his jacket as he exited. In seconds he was engulfed as the fire took control. Flapping his arms like an ungainly bird did little, other than fan the flames further. Several shots brought his agony to a merciful end.

  Mike took in the scene with sickening horror. It was one of ugly chaos. The flames were eating into the paintwork, pouring out dark smoke. Figures were now becoming hazy silhouettes as people desperately sought escape. As he took a breath, he inhaled the pungent fumes. He coughed violently, rasping his throat. Doubling over he heard a shout, far off, then closer. Rusty was calling him.

  “Mike, Mike! Where’s Jean? Listen, keep your head down. We’re going to grab Jean and get the hell out of this mess.”

  Mike looked to where Jean should be standing. She was no longer there. He squinted his eyes, trying to peer through the growing smoke. All around there were people, but no Jean. He felt a remorseful tug; he should have been keeping a better lookout for her. A firm but reassuring pat on his shoulder brought him to his feet.

  “She can’t be far Mike. Let’s grab her and run for some cover. We can then sit tight and hope the Laos cavalry get here bloody quick. Something as big as this is sure to be picked up in no time at all. Let’s hope that they charge in with gun blazing. They’re going to need to with this fucking mess.”

  As if on cue, fresh shots landed in their direction. A wiry man took a shot in the shoulder, not five feet from where they were now crouched. Other bullets were burying themselves in the ground around them. Whoever was out there must have just noticed them and were now paying a keen interest. They stood out. Being a farang they might make a good sporting trophy. It depended on the warped message the perpetrators wished to broadcast to the world through their actions here. Mike could feel his bowels move as a fresh flurry landed close by. Staying here they were sitting ducks. Rusty roughly grabbed Mike’s arm and they ran, keeping low. As they distanced themselves from the coach, the smoke thinned. Slowing, Mike was able to risk a quick look. He figured that they still might be within firing range, but from what he saw earlier hoped that the general accuracy fell short of the mark. He tried to pick out the familiar figure of Jean. All around people were running around, desperate to escape, blind panic driving them on like a stampede of cattle. It took Rusty’s steady arm to pinpoint Jean’s whereabouts.

  “Over there Mike. She’s making a break for the road, trying to get to safety behind those nutters. She’s got someone with her. Looks like he’s helping her, he’s taken her arm to lead her by the way things seem to me. Thank fuck for that! She’s probably in a better way than we are.”

  They thought about running through open scrublands towards where Jean was heading with her supporting aide, then went against it. Menacing shadows with Kalashnikovs were emerging from the smoke and mayhem. They looked to be coming in their direction.

  “The trees Mike! We’ll head for those trees. We have to lose those gun wielding fuckheads first before we hitch up with Jean. At least if they come for us they’ll forget about her. Let’s look upon ourselves as the necessary decoy. Once we’re in the jungle proper we’ll disappear and wind back towards our girl.”

  Fourteen

  John’s head felt like someone had carefully been pushing cotton wool in through his nose all night. In his mind they might not have been doing it so carefully. It felt full, slightly remote and lethargic. The reason wasn’t too hard to work out. He had been smoking a lot of bazooka grade grass lately, the last night being particularly heavy. Many of the others enjoyed am evening smoke, though John was more partial to the herbal vapours than the average camp guest. Self-control was never a virtue many would link with him. He simply couldn’t help himself. The environment he found himself in demanded it. The stuff was growing in clearings and fields all around. John figured that there must be a strong commercial reason behind it all, given the huge numbers involved. There was no way these smoking herbs were wild. They looked too big and healthy for starters. Somebody was out there taking care of the little cuties, working a small horticultural miracle in the process, given the size and smell of the stuff. Whether his current hosts had anything to do with the crop was not known by John, questions weren’t encouraged, but as a betting man he would say it was a dead cert. They were certainly pretty hard-core, and to run any type of operation involving this number of plants, you would need to be serious about your reputation. This image reinforced the one he earlier made, soon after he had first been introduced to his new hosts. He was definitely lounging in the company of some very serious guys. They were heavy and as long as he kept from pissing them off too much the Kalashnikov crew could be counted on for hauling his ass out of danger.

  Lying in his shaded hammock, he nearly missed the rustling that signified the appearance of his leading host. His current subdued state dulled the edges to some of his senses, though the chorus of singing insects muffled many softer sounds. In truth he felt no danger, far from it with his new gun totting acquaintances, so he often switched off, usually by dozing until around lunchtime. Today was no exception. He was idly scratching his nose before being aware of the imposing figure standing above him. He remembered well the time so recently when Pin was out driving with him. How could he ever forget a day like that. They had been chased and intercepted by the armed crazy dudes in the pickup truck. Shit scared and unable to think straight he had pissed himself. His one clear memory was how he marvelled at Pin, the way he kept so cool and mowed every last one of the bastards down. No one was that good, not outside of the films. It still blew John away each time he thought of it. He owed Pin for his life, though had still to get around to a formal acknowledgment or thanks. This was John’s way. He simply didn’t know how to, though his general arrogance would have stopped him even if he were more up on his etiquette skills.

  From the little that he now knew about Pin, he was aware that the veteran campaigner was a proud member of the Hmong, a hill tribe from Northern Laos. Originally from China, they had always been treated as outsiders within Laos. During the Vietnam War, they had grouped together under the corrupt leadership of General Vang Pao and fought with covert Ame
rican forces against the communist Pathet Lao and North Vietnamese Army. Naturally enough, when the war came to a close and the Pathet Lao pitched up as eventual winners, they were none too happy with the Hmong. In a bid to escape reprisals, many hopped over the border to Thailand and found themselves housed in huge refugee camps. Certain authorities there admired the Hmong’s anti-Communist stance and were carefully using choice battle gained skills in border incursions. The lucky ones with contacts and money were able to board one-way flights to America, clutching essential belongings and dreams. Those now remaining in Laos largely did so in hiding, fearful of being found and trampled on. Although government initiatives promised reconciliation and friendship, distrust dictated the way things were. Pin and his colleagues lived in virtual seclusion, hidden away in the vast jungles.

  John also knew that Pin and his impressive band of followers were into something, a search for something hugely valuable and important to them. It was such a guarded and sensitive secret that conversations were carried out in hushed tones, huddled groups peering into the jungle as if on CCTV. He sensed they were getting close.

  “Good morning John. I hope that you slept well?”

  His host was always so formal and polite, no matter what state John found himself in. He could lay back with his pants on backwards and expect the same morning greeting.

  “Thanks Pin. Just enjoying the morning here! You guys are so lucky, I mean having all of this to yourselves. It really is beautiful here.”

  “Lucky is not a word that I would use, but yes, things could be worse. Here we still have our lives and independence.” Pin looked out at the Hmong camp as he spoke.

  The politics were lost on John. He still marvelled at how good Pin’s English could be. He knew that in times past he had worked closely with the Americans, which went someway to explaining the slight accent. He could see that the Hmong warrior was preparing to tell him something, perhaps important. The fact that he was being included in anything serious surprised John. He was generally kept well out of the loop. It did not occur to him that it could be to do with manpower issues or a need to keep him occupied whilst the important stuff went on.