He went to his mother's room. The dressing table was a pharmacy of pills and creams and ointments to combat aging. Unfortunately there was nothing there to stop death. When he had last been in that room, she was on her hands and knees rummaging under the bed. He wondered what other treasures she hid there. What he found was the last thing he expected. The small leather suitcase was back in its hiding place. She had said nothing about it when he phoned her.
Although he was sure the murder team had already dusted it for prints, John used a handkerchief to drag it out by the handle. Perhaps they hadn't bothered with the inside. He used a nail file to click open the catch and lift the lid. The contents looked largely as he remembered them, although there was something—something different. He couldn't quite put a name to what it was. And what was it doing back here? He found a large bin bag in the kitchen and put the suitcase into it. Perhaps Secret Service could do him one small favour.
Before he could leave the shrine, there was one last unpleasant duty he had to perform. He had contacted Aunt Maud the previous day and arranged for Susan to call him here. He unscrewed the larger parts of the phone and checked for listening devices. As far as he could tell, there were none. He lay back on the satin counterpane and waited. At exactly 10:00 she called.
"Okay, big bro. What's so urgent?"
He paused for a second.
"Mum."
Susan didn't respond to the word straight away. The woman had always been referred to as “mother” or worse. She knew there had to be a problem. "She got herself killed."
"Right."
"Bitch. Silly bitch. Pig-headed to the. . . ." A lump climbed her throat. The past few months had brought her to the edge. There had been too much pretending; too much holding down her feelings. She started to cry despite herself.
John heard Edward's little voice: "What mummy? What did he say? Let me talk to him." Then the boy's voice was loud in the earpiece: “Uncle John. You made my mummy cry. You're very bad. I don't like you anymore."
"I'm sorry, Eddo. She got some sad news that's all. I want you to look after your mummy for me till she feels better. Okay. . . ? Promise. . . ?"
"Okay."
"Can I talk to her again now?"
"Yes."
"Chick?"
She blew her nose loudly into the receiver.
"Ouch."
Susan giggled and was able to gain enough composure to tell her brother to carry on. They both knew it wasn’t the loss of the old lady that she cried over, rather the accumulation of everything.
John told her all he could without giving away government secrets. The temptation to tell her about their spy dad was overwhelming. He was sure he would eventually, but not over the phone.
When he finally hung up, he fell back exhausted onto the bed. He was still surprised by both their reactions to the death of Coletta: a woman they didn't particularly like. They were mourning the mother who had denied them the love they’d been due. They had found affection from some of the nannies, but it was their love for one another that had pulled them through childhood and adolescence. They had made each other well adjusted in a perverted kind of way. But emotionally they were still both peculiar.
Susan was given to excesses. She had fallen hopelessly into passion with every man that passed through her life. She'd had an uncountable number of affairs, all with totally inappropriate men. It was a miracle she'd only been pregnant once, although John had speculated that none of the relationships had lasted long enough for the men to ejaculate.
She was a surprise package. Before they unwrapped her, none of them ever suspected just how delicious she was. She didn't dress to show off her fine figure or make up her normal face to make it abnormal. Her blonde hair was usually bunched into something ugly. But on a beach or at a pool she would be the sexiest creature there.
Bruce had been different from the regular suitors. While Susan was studying classical music and out-performing her tutors, she met a man who reminded her of a malnourished, dark-haired Santa Claus. He was jolly and giving and quite balmy. He had a comical red nose whatever the temperature, and teeth that kept a polite distance from one-another.
When she found she was bearing Eddo, she naturally split up with the freak who had impregnated her, before he had a chance to desert her. There was never any question she would keep the child. She dropped out of college and went to work in a Wimpy burger bar. The manager of her branch had a political soft spot for unmarried mothers, so he allowed her to let out the uniform month by month until labour pains started.
But Bruce wasn’t one's average freak. He hadn't been told of his fatherhood, or been informed of the separation. He just turned up to see her one Friday and she'd gone. A distraught professor told him she'd resigned from the course, and a classmate told him she was pregnant. So Bruce, two months from graduation, dropped out also, and set off in search of his woman. Three months later he found her scraping grease from a hot plate in Wimbledon High Street.
Their reunion was so Barbara Cartland, Wimpy diners had a hard time keeping their burgers down. Bruce swept her off into a marriage of squats and student grants and his undying devotion.
John, on the other hand, had found the nearest thing to undying devotion in bottles. They turned supermarket cashiers getting drunk after work into Swiss nuns, and if one of those nuns had been foolish enough to follow him home—"Really? You're a policeman? Can I see your truncheon?"—he hadn't the will to stop them. Brief relationships had landed on him like pigeon droppings. He hadn't wanted them there, and after a while they just dried up and crumbled away. In Susan he had all the feminine warmth he really needed. He had to keep her alive because she was his missing soul.
22
Shirley was in Chiang Mai buying overpriced medical supplies for her clinic. After months in the camps, she appreciated hot water and electricity much more than she ever had in the USA. Boston had softened her, and she needed now to be hard. It was her last afternoon before returning to the border. If things went well at the meeting later, it could be her last afternoon in Thailand.
She sat at the large wooden table at the post office by Lamyai Market where all the tradespeople came to send money orders here and there. Northern country folk with assorted accents yelled in the long distance phone booths. Old people pushed to the front of queues. Dogs sprawled on the concrete floor out of the sunshine.
She watched the chaos for a while, then pulled the plump padded envelope from her satchel. At last she had an address to write on it. It hadn't come cheaply, but no reliable information from Burma was free.
She copied the words from her scrap of paper—“Khin Tan Aye, 321 Myo Myint Avenue, Tamwe, Yangon, Myanmar”—and put on the stamps. There was no duplicate. If this became one of the 2.8 million items of mail the Thai postal service lost every year, so be it. She couldn't afford to be found with a copy. That it was out of her and on the paper was the important thing. If it failed on the mission of intrigue she had planned for it, there were other contingencies. She had drawn up so many.
She marveled at how much terror and misery could be squeezed into a three-dollar padded parcel. That, she supposed, was progress. She watched it stickered and franked and tossed into a canvas bag to begin its journey to another era. She sighed deeply, put on her dark glasses, and walked out into the sticky Chiang Mai afternoon.
23
John sat in the leather armchair at the IIC reading the photocopy Commander Woods had given him. It was from a news article dated 1981 from the Bangkok Post. The headline read, “ENGLISHMAN’S REMAINS RETURNED.” He found the impersonal style of the article annoying:
Authorities at Khun Yuam district in Mae Hong Son province yesterday accepted the body of 41-year-old English insurance agent James Desmond from Burmese Tatmadaw military officers at the Thai-Burmese border. The Burmese military unit handed over the Englishman’s remains and passport to District Chief Sombat Choangulia at 2:00 p.m.
According to a statement from the Burmese, Desmon
d had “Ignored signs posted at the border and had trekked illegally into hostile territory.” Sombat told the Post reporter that the Burmese blamed him for the death. “They said it was clearly my responsibility to keep tourists away from the border.”
The Burmese statement went on: "The Karen rebels in this area are violent and cannibalistic. Let this be a lesson to you.” (The body had been mutilated)
A British Embassy spokesman in Bangkok said that the family of Mr. Desmond would be notified and the body shipped back to the United Kingdom.
Of course, the embassy had never contacted them. They had been too slow to block the Post article but were able to prevent the news getting back to England. He tried to imagine the situation. If his father had been working with the Karen, they certainly wouldn't have killed him. But it would have been to the Burmese military's advantage to make the world believe that's what happened.
John was alone in the room. Commander Woods had welcomed him by making it quite clear he shared his grief. John did all he could to look grieving. Sympathy, he thought, could get him somewhere with the Service people. It had already earned him a cup of coffee and a bun, which now balanced precariously on the chair's arm. Woods had given him the article and left him alone to read it. On cue he re-entered the room:
"It doesn't say much, does it? You've probably worked out that Desmond was his cover. That's all I could find that was relevant to the death."
"You don't have any files?" John took a bite of his bun. It was stale.
"John, I really do understand what you're going through. We aren't totally heartless here. I want to help you as much as I can, but the project is closed and we can't expend any resources on re-opening it."
"My father's a project now?"
The man looked down at his own cup. . . . “There is something. . . . The Southeast Asian liaison agent is retired now. But he lives in Thailand. I've talked to him. He's a very colourful character, and he was quite close to your father. . . ."
"I'm glad somebody was."
"He would be prepared to talk to you and help in any way."
"But he lives in. . . ."
The commander reached inside his jacket pocket and produced a small folder. He stood and handed it to John. It was a British Airways pouch containing an Executive-Class open return ticket to Bangkok with an ongoing connection to Chiang Mai.
"Wow. Did you win the Pools?"
"We have a small contingency fund. Of course it's entirely up to you whether you decide to go or not. But I'd appreciate it if you let me know what you find."
"Well, thank you, but . . . I'm really in no condition to travel."
"The ticket's open. You can use it whenever you like. And you do realize this is absolutely unofficial."
"And you'll deny all knowledge of me, like you did my dad."
"Yes."
The telephone by the door chirped and the commander seemed relieved to have the distraction. John noted that he was a little too sensitive for this type of work, sending men and women off to their deaths. Or perhaps John had an inappropriate idea of what spies actually got up to.
The call was one sided. Woods did all the listening, said "All right," and hung up. . . .
"Well. We have results from the fingerprints on your suitcase."
"That was fast."
"We're the government." He said it as if he believed “the government” could achieve the impossible. John began to understand the qualities one needed in order to represent the flag. He doubted whether he possessed any of them. His father certainly had. But in the cynical new millennium where would they ever be able to recruit enough people to defend the crown?
"And besides, the crime-scene boys had been over it already. There were two sets of readable prints. Of course, it doesn't discount someone with gloves handling the suitcase, but the prints do tell a story."
John waited for it as Woods organized it in his mind.
"There are, of course, your own prints on top of your mother's, presumably from when you took the case to your flat. But then again, there are also your mother's prints on top of yours. Which would suggest—"
“That the old girl took back her own suitcase."
"It would seem so. There were no other smudges or marks."
John considered this for a while. Coletta had had a spare key to his place since he moved in. But as far as he knew, she had never used it. Why would she suddenly go to his place to retrieve a suitcase she'd given him not long before?
"I don't understand it."
"Mothers are mysterious creatures," the commander offered.
"You don't need to tell me that."
*
Emma sat on the peach sofa with a big grin on her face. "I just can't imagine you on a beach with a coconut and a novel, that's all."
"I need a break, Em."
"I'm not doubting that." She was delighted John was cleaning himself up, and she didn't really want him around while he was doing it. She didn't need him and his baggage and his baggage handler jeopardizing her other cases. But she wasn't just going to kick him out. The holiday idea was perfect for all of them, but she didn't believe a word of it.
"So what's the problem?"
"You're John Jessel is the problem. You and your family are in danger. There’s no way on this earth you'd go off and take a holiday now. Do you think I'm stupid?"
"That's a tough one."
She glared.
"So you aren't going to sign my leave slip?"
"I didn't say that. Of course I'll sign it. What I'm saying is, you're not the superhero you think you are. Physically you're a mess. Whatever great adventure it is you've got planned in Thailand, you're going to need help. I'll do whatever I can for you here, but over there you're on your own. Do you think you're up to it?"
"I really hope I am, Em."
24
“It’s not safe," the smiling Karen told her. The smile was merely a temporary clasp to keep his breaking face together. The young woman, barely out of school, had openly argued with the aging doctor in front of his peers. She had not only discounted his strong advice, she had countered his warnings one by one so eloquently that he had emerged from the encounter sounding like an over-protective old fool.
She knew what she was doing to him and felt ashamed. He was a good man who had done marvelous work for his people, and she had infinite respect for him. But this was bigger than face. She had to go inside, and she needed the support of the Karen National Union to do so. They would only co-operate if they had the green light from the NHC and the Karen Refugee Committee.
“Doctor," she said finally. “I understand your concern at sending a young woman into a war-torn area. But you must agree the needs inside are far greater than here. In Thailand you have access to Medecins Sans Frontieres and a hundred other medical teams. Inside you have interns with a few months of training and no supplies. People are dying who shouldn't, because there are no qualified doctors."
The old man made one last attempt, although he knew he was fighting a losing battle. From his experiences over the last sixty years, he knew only too well what that felt like. "People are dying. They have been dying in the same way for decades, and they will continue to die. One inexperienced doctor isn't going to make any difference to that situation. Except, of course, we stand to lose an inexperienced doctor. Have you any idea what the SLORC would do to you if you were captured?" He used the acronym for the military, popular with those who hated them.
She knew what he meant better than anyone in the room. The Burmese junta gave her daily reminders of their methodology.
"I work with women every day who were used by the military, who have lost mothers or daughters to STDs or internal ruptures. I know the risk well, Doctor. I also know that I swore an oath on the day I received my qualification. I swore to do my utmost to use the skills I’d learned to the greatest good. Inside is where I can use my skills to the fullest."
The old physician slid back his chair noisily and stood. His knuckl
es rested on the table. He looked beside the insolent young girl to the Karenni nurse who raised her eyebrows in reply to his scowl.
"Then, if she wishes to kill herself, let her go. We can always find other less-foolhardy doctors for the camps, I suppose. But get somebody else to sign her obituary notice when it arrives here."
He took a cheroot from the communal pack on the table and walked outside with it. They had a no-smoking policy inside. So they all smoked in the yard.
"So I go?" she asked the others.
"You've worn down the old soldier, so I'm sure you would eventually batter all of us into submission," the nurse confessed over her notepad. There were no disagreements.
Shirley sighed her relief. "Thank you all. You won't regret this decision."
"Let's hope you don't," the Mon added.
They broke for coffee and chatted amicably about who she should meet and exactly what needed to be done inside. Once she had breached their defenses, her value as a qualified doctor on the Burmese side became apparent. She felt a surge of excitement and pride, and then shame.
Before she left, she walked into the yard where the old doctor sat in the slight shade of a papaya tree. He was still puffing angrily at the cheroot. He grunted and averted his gaze when she approached him.
"Doctor. I had no intention of insulting you. I want you to know that."
He laughed to himself. "When I was your age, I was a mule-headed fool, too. I needed someone to talk sense into me. I also believed that nobody could see through me."
She smiled.
He paused from working at his cigar and stared at her for the first time. His eyes were deep historical worlds. She was surprised at how many lives she could see in them. She compared them to her own. She imagined that when he stared back at her, he would see emptiness and silence. But she was wrong. He could see truths.
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