A couple of days down time in Vientiane gave them enough time to arrange hastily bought tickets for one of the passenger trips up the Mekong. The oversubscribed boat took them down river to Luang Prabang over a leisurely two days. A lengthy stopover at the Pak Ou Caves provided plentiful time to kip out under a breezy shade for a few hours after taking in the impressive subterranean pools reached through granite tunnels. Now all Louise wanted to do was get to the world heritage site and run up through the narrow streets overlooked by wooden colonial houses, their slatted shutters opening onto chic bars, skirting the hawkers and artists until she came to the revered Royal Palace. There she hoped to step back into a regal past and marvel at the stunning throne room for the Pha Bang. Then amongst the photo snapping tourists she might wonder at how she was part of the chequered history of this ancient icon.
The slow punctuation of a weathered Canadian voice distracted her.
“Reckon they must be preparing to cross the border by now.”
Dan was referring to hastily made plans made by Pin and the remaining Hmong choosing to seek a new life in his company. A few elected to seek out friends or relatives in the sparse Laotian countryside, hoping to merge anonymously into a rural village life. The bulk chose to pitch their luck in with Pin, trusting him with their immediate destiny. Returning to the camp for more than a few days was full of risk, despite being buried deep in the jungle foliage. For all the Blood Ravens knew, the Hmong now held the original Pha Bang, possibly locked away within their reclusive retreat. With a sore head, squeezed tighter when their captain was shot, they would have thrown everything into finding the Hmongs jungle home. Helicopters and thermal imaging could well be chalked on the script. Their rage might even stretch as far as agent-orange. The only course of action for Pin and his followers was to flee over the porous Thai border. Tens of thousands of Hmong already resided in the north, largely under the protection and watchful eye of the Thai authorities. A border run would ensure an element of obscurity; more importantly once clear it would give them a protective law enforcer to fend off snatch squads. There were networks and friends patiently lying in wait to help them settle.
Louise had taken the time to talk at length with Pin before their tearful departure. He seemed remarkably upbeat considering they came away from the plain without the Pha Bang, though with the comforting knowledge that there were protective guardians holding and keeping Laos’s greatest secret.
“Pin has close ties with a Hmong network on the eastern seaboard of the US.” They have a pot of money they can call on in some Bangkok accounts,” Louise said, absently scratching an old mosquito bight as she spoke, products of the water and heat. “For quite a time they ran a lucrative bye-line in grade A horticulture. I’m sure that a large portion of those profits can be channelled into getting them across the Atlantic. Whether they do it legally, or simply get authentic green cards couriered out, I’m sure that with Pin at the helm they’ll touch down somewhere west of New York within the year.”
“It will all be for the best. Not finding that Buddha could well turn out to be their making,” Dan replied, relaxing back to watching the shoreline gently wash by. For the first time in a long while he was free from worries of covert operations and secretive quests for priceless icons. All he need concern him now were the thoughts of a newly found errant daughter, whose passion for West Country football he might never understand.
Mike looked up and simply nodded. His mind was already skipping beyond their special sightseeing expedition in Luang Prabang. Stepping out from a high octane journey such as theirs needed timeout and a good deal of adjustment. He was already thinking Vietnam. They deserved a new route before going home, one without quite as much excitement. Before any border crossings though there was one more important duty to attend to - a rather awkward call to the Pembertons.
Forty
Dr Kessler viewed himself as a highly skilled domestic assistant. Years of study, a small fortune in fees and a growing reputation for delicate attention to detail ensured he was a highly paid one.
The course of his duties took him around the world, desirable places he had previously only read about in folded copies of National Geographical or The Times travel supplements. Fresh from assignment to the curious and much revered clay figures of Bhutan, he now found his work taking him hot off a plane to the world heritage city of Luang Prabang. Nestled between the lapping waters of the rivers Mekong and Namkhani, the city drew its popularity from the steep pagodas crowning the temples and palaces below.
Temporarily closed from the prying eyes of the public, he made his way up a pleasant walkway bordered by sweet scented orchids, shaded by tall palms, to the Haw Pha Bang, the rebuilt temple housing the precious Pha Bang. The flight of steps through the entrance took him past a hissing serpent, its long tail pointing the way into the lofty sanctum.
Once inside, the summer heat was met by a welcome draft generated by the domed ceiling. He placed a tray on the cooling stone floor and prepared a mixture of fine grade extra virgin olive oil and baking soda. There were many pungent chemical formulas but he preferred a more traditional approach, the resulting paste soothing rather than clashing against the ancient surface.
It was a struggle now to allow his feet to run up the marble steps leading to the Pha Bang, his hands opened as a sign of welcoming and peace. Naturally the files emailed with the assignment provided detailed insight into much of the history, plus a great deal of technical data on composition, dry weight and other essentials. Delving further into the notes he learnt that the Buddha dated from the early middle ages, though some speculated that the statue was sculpted a thousand years before this.
Moving up to the Pha Bang he carefully lit the four large candles surrounding it. These helped cast a delicate light, slipping across the contours he was about to gently clean. He selected a soft artist’s brush and set about his work. Using long sweeping strokes, he started from the head. Working the paste in first he applied a thin coat before polishing off with a cotton cloth. It was a process he would repeat many times, careful always to leave the paste soaking the precious gold for a little over two minutes.
Whilst working on the head he took a closer look at one of the many diamonds glistening under the candlelight. The weight would surely carry many carrots. He took out a small magnified loupe. Close up the diamond looked smaller than he might have imagined, set in such a way as to enhance the overall mass if the gem. He could clearly view the lines shaping the cut diamond. Taking a while longer he traced the ridge of one edge. Catching his breath he looked again, his eye borrowing more intently through the lens of the loupe. It looked a very clean incision; too perfect. A cut so straight had to be crafted by a laser. He shook his head in confusion. Industrial lasers were not available until the latter part of the twentieth century. A shout broke his attention. Chester, his technical assistant was calling out. There was something about a call from New York, a curator needing advice on an Aztec figurine. He wiped the remaining paste away and made his way back down the steps. He must try and remember to note down his finding.
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