The Rat Catchers' Olympics

by Colin Cotterill

  Khamon the walker looked at his three captors and smiled.

  “If I promise not to overpower the three of you, do you think I could get my wrists untied and enjoy a last beer?” he said. “I doubt there’ll be a lot of booze where I’m going.”

  Daeng and Siri had no objection. Once he was untied he downed half the glass in one go.

  “To answer that question,” he said, “I have to take you to the beginning. Do I have time for that?”

  They nodded.

  “I told you about my father,” he said, “my father the walker. He was what you might call a part-time father. The only reason I joined him on his walks was because I knew he’d be gone again. He brought me books and presents but I wanted a father. When he was away I’d put in hours of practice for the next time he came so I’d be able to keep up with him. I wanted to impress him because I thought that might make him stay. But he always had urgent business somewhere else.”

  Siri had worked it out.

  “He wasn’t French, was he?” he said. “He wasn’t in the teak export business.”

  “My grandmother was French,” said Khamon. “My father grew up in France but his father was Russian. A devout Trotskyite. There was a push to spread Communism through the third world and people like my father, fluent in French and Russian, were in demand. The French occupation of Laos presented a beautiful battlefield for socialism to take on capitalism. He joined a group whose objective was to empower the poor in Southeast Asia. Through them he befriended a Lao communist who was operating covertly in the ranks of the Royal Lao Army. He, in turn, put my father in contact with Comrade Thonglai, whose family had vast contacts throughout the region. Those three worked together on a number of projects but, especially, to arm the Lao rebels in the northeast. They became as close as was possible in those circumstances. My father established a home and a family that would make him look legitimate as an exporter.

  “He taught me Russian instead of French because he insisted the French wouldn’t be around for much longer. He told me Russian was the language of the future. Of course I adored him and I would do anything he told me. I met my father’s friends and played with their children. They stayed at our house often. I liked all of them except for Manoi. He was a bully even then. As the revolution drew close I saw less and less of my father. He sent us money so we were never wanting. 1975 was the last time I saw him. I walked every day to gain strength in preparation for his return but he never returned. I had no idea where he was or what he was doing.

  “Then, five years later, I got a letter from Comrade Thonglai, the business man. He wrote very coldly that my father was dead. He went into detail about how it had happened and to my surprise he condemned his own son for killing his friend. He told me that Manoi had become a monster and if he were allowed to return to Laos as a leader it would be the end of the republic. But I heard none of this. It wasn’t the politics that brought me to Moscow. It was revenge. I’d always expected my father to come home some day. Even after my mother died I had faith that I’d see him again. Then all at once that hope was stolen from me.

  “Comrade Thonglai knew about my walking. He asked if I’d be interested in taking a trial for the Olympics. I agreed. It was all fixed, of course. I was technically sound but I could never have made the qualifying times. He arranged it all, bribed the right people, and the next thing I knew I was on a flight here. The rest, you are aware of.”

  “Except for the answer to my question,” said Siri.

  “Ah, yes. The race. At the beginning it was imperative I stay with the leaders because I wanted Manoi in front of his TV—glued. So I put everything I had into the first five kilometers. I did my best to look confident but it almost killed me. When I dropped back it wasn’t acting. I had nothing left.”

  “But that doesn’t explain why you bothered to finish the race,” said Daeng.

  “I didn’t plan to,” he said. “I’d done what I’d come for and all that remained was to return to the stadium. The quickest way back was along the river—the route of the race. Of course there were no onlookers by then. I put my race number back on because my throat was as dry as a bird’s nest and I needed a drink. But they’d taken down the refreshments tables and sweepers were cleaning up the used cups and bottles. I set off to the stadium. I race walked because I was still hoping to find a drink as a competitor. I passed a van with an official sitting in the driving seat. He looked surprised. He grabbed his clipboard, looked at my number and compared it to the numbers on the race enrolment. And there I was. I hadn’t been disqualified and I hadn’t been registered as dropped out so, according to the regulations, I was still active.

  “I suppose he radioed someone in the stadium because suddenly there was a lot of attention. The van drove along beside me and suddenly there were hurriedly erected drinks tables everywhere. They seemed embarrassed that they’d given up so quickly. I picked up my pace. People were clapping. And, as odd as it may seem, it felt right to be doing it. It was a sort of, I don’t know, homage to my father in some way. I could make him proud of me if I got to the stadium. If I didn’t give up.”

  “That’s why you finished the race?” said Daeng.

  “Unbelievable,” said Roger.

  “What are y—” Khamon began but Daeng leaned toward him.

  “Don’t!” she said.

  “What?” said Khamon.

  “You’re looking at the blade in my hand,” said Daeng, “and you’re weighing up your chances. You’re wondering what it would take to wrestle it from me.”

  “How could you know that?” said Khamon.

  Siri laughed. “Much better men than you have misjudged my wife,” he said. “She could be seven sheets to the wind and blindfolded and I still wouldn’t put money on you winning that battle, son.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  What Really Happened

  The Aeroflot pilots seemed to be swerving to avoid clouds. The passengers were being tossed left and right. Two seats in front, Civilai’s cheese and onion sandwich threw itself into the aisle.

  “Daeng,” said Siri, “am I . . . ?”

  “No,” said Daeng. “This is really happening.”

  “They do know it’s quicker to go in a straight line?”

  “Soviet customer service ended the moment we took off from Sheremetyevo,” said Daeng. “We’re back to earth now.”

  “Well, it’s lucky they turned off the efficiency. If the flight hadn’t been delayed by two hours we’d have missed it. And then where would we be?”

  “Guests of the KGB, no doubt,” said Daeng. “I still feel uncomfortable about leaving Khamon with them.”

  “We had no choice,” said Siri. “He blew up Soviet property and killed Soviet civilians. He brought Soviet justice upon himself.”

  “It’s just . . .”

  “I know. He’s your type.”

  “Not physically. Physically I couldn’t do any better than you. But . . .”

  “But you admire him.”

  “Not for his lack of respect for the lives of innocent civilians.”

  “But for his daring.”

  “You have to give him that,” said Daeng. “It was the most audacious crime I’ve ever encountered.”

  “It’s true. Nobody would have guessed it. He left us suspecting everyone else but him.”

  “Did Civilai say anything about the other alibis?”

  “He used his time at the airport wisely.”

  “He talked to the other suspects?”

  “When they found the handwritten notes in their program everyone stepped up to confess.”

  “But they didn’t do it,” said Daeng.

  “But still they were guilty of something,” said Siri. “Sompoo was keen to come forward to confess that he’d been traveling under a false name. But it hadn’t been his decision. The Soviets had said it would be best
. You see, Sompoo, alias Nokasad, really was drafted in at the last second. The shooters got the results from their final physicals just two hours before they came to Wattay for the flight. The tests had been organized by the Soviet Department of Tropical Diseases. I assume they didn’t want athletes from Third World countries infecting everyone in Russia. Major Lien had a slight irritation in his eyes when he went for the medical and mentioned it to the doctor. She did tests and discovered that Lien had the early onset of River Blindness—Roble’s Disease. Even if treated it was likely to have led to blindness. In the short term his eyesight would have deteriorated over the following three weeks to a point where he’d be unable to compete in a shooting event. He wasn’t crying when Phosy went to see him. His eyes were watering from the infection. He was going blind and he didn’t want his family to know. That’s why he didn’t tell them the truth.”

  “Poor thing.”

  “But the irony is that River Blindness isn’t endemic to Laos. The major had been with a military delegation to Ethiopia, one of our socialist allies, and he must have picked it up on a field trip. You’d have to believe the fates were against you when something like that happens.”

  “So they dragged in Sompoo.”

  “His problem was that his name wasn’t on the long list of thirty the military had submitted to the Olympic Committee two months before. Only names on that list were eligible to take part. Sompoo was a shooter who happened to be at the airport to see off the team. When Lien was pulled at short notice there wasn’t time to bring in one of the other twenty-three shooters. They decided to chance Sompoo and see what they could do about his eligibility later. He didn’t even have luggage with him. Once they arrived in Moscow it was the Soviet military that suggested he take the name of one of the missing shooters on the list. So in fact he was just helping out.”

  The announcement came over the intercom that the passengers should fasten their seatbelts as they may be experiencing some turbulence.

  “So, what have we been experiencing up till now?” Daeng asked.

  “That was basic training turbulence,” said Siri. “This is the real thing.”

  “What about the other two suspects?” said Daeng.

  “Ah, now that’s a little more delicate,” said Siri.

  “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning Civilai had to swear on his cockroach singing grandmother’s grave that he wouldn’t tell anyone.”

  “Yet he told you, which is just like telling everyone.”

  “I’m hurt.”

  “You don’t keep secrets, Siri.”

  “For that I won’t tell you.”

  “If you don’t I’ll break your arm,” said Daeng.

  “You’re such a poet. Very well. You recall that Sitti bought souvenirs for all his teammates?”

  “Twelve Marx-Lenin wristwatches, which he claimed to have bought on his way back from the stadium after the walking race.”

  “Correct. Even though, including himself, there were only seven shooters,” said Siri. “But it turns out that Colonel Fah Hai also bought souvenir watches on his way home from the stadium after the road race. He gave them to five of the Soviet officers at the barracks.”

  “Making a grand total of twelve,” said Daeng.

  “Except we know from Dtui’s astute detection that Sitti actually bought all twelve of them two days earlier.”

  “So, why would Sitti lie about being at the stadium and buying souvenirs?” asked Daeng.

  “Now, to answer that question we have to look back at the early days of the Games. You’ll recall that before the Red Guard kidnapped them and forced them to visit palaces and churches, our shooters spent the first three days at the Village.”

  “Yes.”

  “The shooters were in three suites with three rooms in each. Sitti and Colonel Fah Hai shared the third suite. The other beds were empty. Sitti and the colonel discovered a common interest.”

  “Oh, Siri.”

  “Oh, indeed.”

  “They . . . ?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “And when they were shifted to the army barracks they were separated so . . .”

  “So they couldn’t.”

  “And they set up this elaborate alibi so they could.”

  “In a tent.”

  “How adorable.”

  For an hour or so there was a lull in the turbulence. Siri took the opportunity to visit the bathroom. Daeng nodded off for no more than ten minutes. When she awoke, her husband was not beside her. It wouldn’t have been the first time. She hoped nobody had seen him disappear. But in situations like that, particularly when your husband is seventy-six, you tend to go through all the horrible possibilities in your mind. What if he’d been sucked down through the vacuum flush system? What if someone had put a cigarette in the paper tissue refuse box and there was a raging fire in the toilet?

  Just to put her mind at ease, she went to the one occupied bathroom and knocked on the door.

  “Is anybody in there?” she shouted. “Siri, are you in there?”

  The stewardess, a fashion model in a billowy low-cut blouse, stopped to see what the fuss was about. With no common language, Daeng explained in mime that her husband might be dead on the bathroom floor. The stewardess reacted calmly. She knocked loudly, listened, removed the hex key from her side pocket and opened the door. The tap was running but there was nobody inside. The stewardess was confused but Daeng was delighted. Her husband had merely disappeared.

  Dr. Siri stepped out of the bathroom and into a bank of snow. But that, as they say, is another story.