Thirty Seven
Before Mike could begin taking stock of the situation Louise was at his side. There was the usual intense clear flicker to her eyes, a deep clarity always bringing ample life to her face, though this time sharper, a streak of anger directed at him. He thought of putting up a defence, perhaps simply turning away, but knew what was coming and would bite his tongue; knew also how much would be true.
“Hell Mike, what kind of friends do you choose? Anyone else you’ve dragged around South East Asia I should know about? How many other hoodlums did you sweep off the streets of Bangkok! Did you see him handle that gun? This isn’t some tanned beach guru from Australia. This guy is dangerous! When we took you in to our trusted camp, rescued you from the jungle wilderness, we took Rusty in as your friend. We bowed to your choice and judgement because I respected that. Who knows what he was up to whilst he was with us!”
Mike allowed the words to wash through him, sullenly looking away as he took in his guilt. Sure, how could he have known about Rusty; their chance meeting in Bangkok no longer the accidental encounter he imagined. Still, the betrayal cut at him almost as much as it did Louise. The carefree conversations, the talk of moving up north to search for Louise - all of it planned. He was stopped from dwelling any further on self-regret by the presence of the new look toned Australian. Muscles previously invisible were easily apparent through the green striped T-shirt. His shadow cast a new menacing pose in the glaring heat.
“Don’t feel so glum Mike!” There was an edge of genuine conviction in Rusty’s voice. It was all he could do not to tap Mike’s back. “Everyone must work for someone. Look at you? Think you are the roaming free spirit, the carefree independent traveller? What of the suburban Pembertons, paying your lodgings and fair. Think you would be here without them? Bloody hell, you knew nothing of the Pha Bang. You were just over here to track down an ex-girlfriend, and well, you’ve found here haven’t you! This isn’t a comic adventure Mike. It never was. Something as big as that gets noticed. You have a paymaster, well so do I. They might not be so acceptable to your world of crystal ethics but mine is not like that. I have talents and experience, trades learnt in the hard graft of Australian special forces. I can’t use them in a bank so I might as well lend my services to the captain here and his fellow band of Blood Ravens. Ethics aside, they are part of the government here. Maybe a little elicit, tucked out-of-sight, but part of the system nevertheless.”
“They’re renegade Rusty, don’t delude yourself.”
It was Louise who chipped in, one arm comforting Jean, still nursing a look of bewildered shock.
There was no time to respond. Vig stood some feet away, largely ignored. His pivotal warning shot to stun Kae spared any immediate plans to stake him to a tree. He was looking over towards where the cave mouth burrowed back to the promised resting place of the Pha Bang. For perhaps the first time in many months his expression exposed a glimpse of genuine surprise.
“Who the hell?”
His question remained unanswered. The group emerging through the cave opened up with a barrage of automatic fire. Loose rock dislodged, showering their party with dusty scree as the men honed their sights on the surrounding Blood Ravens. Vig levelled his gun. This time no warning shot was given. He fired twice at the figure nearest to him. Captain Vaenkeo wasn’t even watching, his focus on reorganising his remaining troops, those not currently in full retreat over the hill. The captain’s body slumped forward as Vig’s bullets drilled their target, puncturing through Vaenkeo’s torso. His body fell heavily to the floor.
Turning away, Mike could see the stocky figure of Pin moving slowly away from the cave. He crouched low to the ground, moving with the stealth akin to a Sumo, aiming his Russian AK47 towards the few remaining Blood Ravens. Low on numbers and lacking leadership, they skulked away, their arrogance lost in the humiliation. Dan stood with the remaining Hmong, charged with un-syphoned adrenalin. They looked hungry for a fight, reluctantly standing down once Pin lowered his aim. Smoke from the skirmish shrouded the cave, concealing the entrance with a mystical veil. Perhaps this was how it should look when the early rays of sun gently stoked the morning dew, on days when strangers stayed away. A silent calm befell the plain, like a vortex collapsing the air of charged violence before a fragile normality returned, whispered conversations and sorrowful pleas.
Mike clear forgot that the Hmong search party was still in hearing distance. They were looking for a second entrance behind the mass of granite forming the upper end of the gully, a promising back way in to unveil the Pha Bang.
With the pistol from Vaenkeo clasped in his hand, a golden ticket to exit the gully, Rusty forced a thin smile. Rather than the intended amicable face he hoped to pull his attempt at a passing smile reeked of conceited guilt.
“Sorry guys, looks like my pay-cheque needs chasing. I’ll check for you in one of those open-fronted bars off the Koh San Road when I reach Bangkok. Been quite a ride!”
He backed off, slowly at first. The gun pointed safely down, still in range if the situation broke. They knew he could skilfully weald it from before. Mike tensed, hoping the Hmong would hold back. A few yards out Rusty braved one last nod, before turning his back to continue his long journey back to Vientiane. If a priceless Buddha were not taking centre stage they might still have walked out friends.
Louise went to say something; a need to unleash a final volley before Rusty slipped away forever then held back. The moment for anger was passed. He was now gone, all the harm and deceit moving with him. He would need acute and delicate bargaining to get anything from PC38, including his life. Rusty would fare better keeping away from the public gaze. The Blood Ravens were returning home minus an irate captain and without the prize Buddha. The secret walls of Vientiane might ring louder with more than the sounds of shouting.
Silently she took Mike’s cue and followed him, gingerly making her way down the steep gully towards the cave. She held Jean’s hand, guiding her down to the safety of Dan and Pin. Passing the upturned jeep prompted her to check for Vig. The gnarled Chinaman chose not to follow. He raised his arm to wish them well before disappearing, again a free agent hoping to connect with the next paying cause. If lessons were learnt he might be choosier over his next employer. From out of the long shadows two armed fugitives stepped, trailing Vig silently. Without him they would still be trapped in a bloody stand-off.
Around them lay the ugly scars of recent battle. The tarnished smell of spent gunpowder, sweetened with acrid cordite drifted through them, the burnt odour lingering long enough to cling to their clothes. At one point Mike carefully brushed a limp arm aside least Louise or Jean made contact. The owner lay partly concealed with a neat nine mm hole through the jaw bone, the sole blemish of an otherwise peaceful mien. Above the hawks and vultures gathered impatiently for rich pickings. Smaller birds scurried on the ground close by, less cautious than their hovering counterparts.
As the gully flattened out, leading to a gentle rise towards the cave, Pin’s group by the entrance no longer looked the relived victors they had moments earlier. There was a newcomer. Whether it was the drifting smoke from battle or mist rolling out from the plains, a plume of hazy vapour hung off the figure, clinging like a wizard’s winter coat.
Thirty Eight
The man appeared to come from the dark mouth of the cave. He boasted shaved head, single strand braded pig-tail and worn leather sandals with the Orange robes of Buddha protecting rounded shoulders from the harsh Laotian sun. Standing fully prone his head would barely reach Mike’s shoulder level. What he lacked in height was far surpassed by a confident aura currently rising to levels rarely seen outside religious orders or wind filled parliament assemblies.
“We wondered who might come and when.”
The monk spoke very clear and concise English, the product of an expensive urban language school in some previous life.
“Forgiv
e me for not coming forward earlier. We were required to wait for the fighting to stop. Ours is not to take sides, merely to protect. Naturally, we were hopeful you would become eventual victors.”
Pin was standing close enough to the monk to whisper in his ear, being the closest in their party to the cave, choosing instead to shout for the benefit of those now closely gathering around. He was adopting the oratory approach Mike witnessed him use so effectively back at the camp, the local chief addressing his faithful. In the fumbling confusion he sought to re-establish any remaining authority over the rapidly changing situation.
“Who are you and what is it that you protect?”
“I think you will already know the answer to the second part of your question. The reason you will be here at all, such a lonely and wild part of the great plain, will be because you have unearthed some long hidden documents. You come here hoping to seek the Pha Bang. We knew you would come, or others like you. It was all a matter of time.”
Pin took time to muster his reply. The directness and insight of the monk’s response once again took him off guard. In this clandestine game of veiled motive he was no longer used to honesty.
“You still have not answered who you are?”
The monk took time to reflect on this before answering.
“You might call us either the guardians or keepers; we have no name as such. There are just a few of us monks, aided by the Tongluong, a forest people who live simply and wish for Laos to be as it was; clean of corruption and human greed. It has been our task all of these years to protect the secret.”
“The secret resting place for the sacred Pha Bang?” Pin probed.
“No, the secret that the Pha Bang is not to be found here.”
This simple statement brought stunned silence around the closely gathered group. As the confusion cleared, the gravity of what the monk was trying to say became apparent. If not in the dark recess of the forgotten cave, where would it be and why? What about the Russian documents, hidden and unread for all of these years? Before any attempt could be made to challenge him, the monk continued, as if pre-empting a volley of hostile or incredulous questions.
“Forget what you have learnt and read. It never was here. This is what we wanted you to believe.”
The monk allowed the gravity of this to sink in and settle amongst the small gathering before continuing. He was aware that they needed everything he could give them. The group had dedicated time, money and blood in the belief that they would find the Pha Bang. Any sorrow he felt needed to be buried for the greater good.
“The Russian documents you must have translated are authentic, they were written at the time by archivists and officials who genuinely supposed that the Pha Bang was secretly moved to the Plain of Jars away from the eye of the world. We allowed and encouraged them to pass on rumours that high level decisions were being made, dark alliances struck. This was in the midst of a revolution. Reprisals, distrust, chaos - these were all everyday dilemmas. In a sense we needed the disorganisation of the revolution to protect the sacred Pha bang. Regretfully we heard of deaths, of supposed insiders, officials close to the inner core, those in touch with the pulse of the revolution. Men were pulling each other apart to learn the secrets. We expected this but could do nothing to stop the killing.”
“We allowed the rumours to spread, whispers that the Pha Bang was replaced. Some said it was in a vault under Moscow, others that it was already smelted and propping the gold reserves up in Hanoi. Some thought they knew. There were reports of a clandestine operation, one that was highly classified. Frightened witnesses spoke of Russian lorries stealing out towards the plains in the thick of the night. Conversations in the corridors hinted at distant caves. We needed this. The lie was so good it was to be believed, the legend became a myth, a great conspiracy that would live and worm its way into folklore.”
“All along the Pha Bang remained where it belonged, gracing the Royal Temple in Luang Prabang. It survived numerous raids by Chinese marauders over the centuries, it survived the revolution and it survives there today.”
“Contrary to what you believe, the golden Buddha gracing the Haw Pha Bang Palace Chapel is not copy or fake, it is the Pha Bang. It needed to be that way. If people thought it were genuine then it would by now be gone, spirited away on the back of some warlord’s donkey. By believing it to be a copy, though never officially admitting this, those in authority over the years were bound by protocol to protect it. A copy could not be priceless; a switch would always be needed, in plundering a replica what would you do to replace it? All believed that the horse had long bolted.”
“In which case, what have we got hidden away here? People would eventually come looking so they must have something to find?” Pin asked, putting the last few pieces together of his understanding.
“ A fake, quite a good one forged in Thailand at the time of the revolution. The craftsmen did their admirable best, remoulding it from a looted medieval piece keeping with the authentic antiquity. Instead of using 90% gold it is more like 10% purity, so not in itself valueless. The craftsmen even lightly scoured the surface, maintaining the feel of age and countless years of worship. I am sure they intended it to be swapped for the original. The customer never showed to collect hence we ended up acquiring the piece.”
The monk knew from the hunger in their eyes that a trip to the cave would have to happen. Their journey to reach this isolated spot was a long and bloody one. They at least deserved a glimpse of ancient gold.
“Come, you should take a look before returning on your journey. Take heart that the pure Pha Bang remains safe and well where it should be, on public display at the spiritual heart of our country.”
Closely following the monk, the group filtered into the cave. Jean stayed close to Louise, still too traumatised to comprehend what all this speak of Buddhas could be about. On reaching the smooth granite stone they found earlier they stopped, unable to push further into the tunnelling chasm. The monk bent low and quickly traced his hand to find an edge before drawing back some wax with a probing finger. Once a large enough gap appeared he was able to place both hands through the hole and pull. At first the stone remained impossibly solid. With renewed vigour the monk continued his efforts, focusing slightly lower this time. Beneath all of his hefty gulps for air the granite slab slowly slid towards them. Only a corner section of the stone swung out, revealing a dark cavity several feet high.
Patiently the group carefully stooped at the cavity, taking their turns to marvel at the texture and crafting of the exiled Pha Bang. There to greet them sat the 83cm high Buddha, his arms stretched the attitude of Abhayamudra, dispelling fear and offering protection to those who would give it honour. In creating a copy the virtuoso craftsmen caught everything. Each would speak later of the awe inspired calm and splendour, enough to send an inner chill down nerve endings through their spines. They looked on a symbol awash with the noble traditions of royalty and spiritual enlightenment.
Later the small group gathered in the failing light of evening as darkness came to the plains. It was time to move on and leave the gully far behind, sworn in secrecy to never reveal the monk’s own sacred hidden copy and his genius plans of deception. His web of deceit and decoy on an international level was a true inspiration, one which fooled the governments of Laos and the USA, plus a hardy tribe of Hmong from the western jungles. With legend and luck it would go on to keep other powerful interests from coming too close in the generations to come.
They made their way back from the plain as they had earlier come, quietly and cautiously. The silence cocooned them, each drawn into their own well of thoughts. The pace at which the sudden change of events happened threw them off course. The Hmong especially were faced with hard decisions to make. Much of their recent focus was directed on finding the Pha Bang. Now it was back once again on survival. New ideas, new directions needed to be taken. The walk home was
so often longer than the trip out.
Thirty Nine
The wake from the bow pushed a constant ripple bearing drifting wood and occasional tangled fishing net towards the shore. Along the banks young children often charged along through ferns and lilies to keep pace with the boat, waving as they lost the one sided race. Curious women stared from white sanded coves as they paddled waist high through the Mekong with their daily wash. A probing smell of wild garlic littered with sweet scented orchids caught the wind, dampening many of the pungent river odours.
The old engines pumped through their cycles, cast before the time of the revolution. Below deck dozens of travellers, hawkers and commuting farmers shared hard wooden seats, vibrating to the hum of the engines. Cracked windows poured light in from low slung sun’s rays, buzzing mosquitos competing to fly through widening cuts on the ancient netting. Above deck, sanded boards provided ample lounging space to stretch legs out on top of bundled rucksacks, cushioning tired feet under the growing sun.
Louise idly flicked a blade of dried glass towards a reading Mike. A dog-eared copy of a Latin crime novel failed to contain his interest above the distraction. Making a face, he made to turn his back on her, looking around in a charade of mocked irritability. Louise laughed and flicked her hair back, placing her head against the soft bulk of her bag. Since the long route back from the Plain of Jars she found a quiet sense of relief. The frustration in not finding the Pha Bang was tempered with a heart -felt notion that all was meant to be. The iconic Buddha was up where it was meant to be, enjoying the admiration of countless thousands each year. In the public gaze it continued to endure as the true symbol of Laotian identity, a combination of tradition, spirituality and fervent pride.
Missing Louise Page 24