Slash and Burn dsp-8

by Colin Cotterill

  “No more a miracle than escaping from a falling helicopter, madam,” said Civilai.

  They sat beside the idyllic stream, a picture framed in fog, and drank tea from a thermos. It reminded Siri of a scene in an exotic calendar on the wall of some French matron. “Natives in the harsh jungle.”

  “How do you think he survived out here?” Phosy asked.

  “He was a marine,” said Daeng. “They train them for jungle warfare.”

  “I doubt he’d ever come across anything like this in his training,” Siri told them.

  Rhyme had almost all the pictures he needed. He called for just one more team photo, everyone lined up behind the rocks. They clambered to the far side and took up a pose like the grand explorers of the Tibetan highlands with the body of the slain yeti at their feet. The photographer stood as far back as he dared, aware that the smoke would make his pictures appear out of focus.

  “I say, you,” Rhyme called out. “Would you mind standing up?”

  The journalist was talking to Phosy who was on his knees reaching between the rocks. Peach translated but the distraction had already spoiled a very nice photograph. Now others were leaning over Phosy and watching as, from the narrow gap, he pulled a large plastic envelope fastened with bright yellow tape. Even Rhyme abandoned his post and went to look at the prize. Phosy didn’t wait for a consensus, he used his fake Swiss army knife to slice open the tape at the top of the envelope and tipped out the contents onto one of the rocks. It was an English language newspaper. He passed it to the American sergeant.

  “It’s the Bangkok Post,” Johnson told them.

  “What on earth’s that doing here?” Civilai asked nobody in particular. “What’s the date?”

  The question was met by a low whistle from Johnson.

  “Well, this is weird,” said the American. “This newspaper is dated June second, 1978. A little over two months ago.”

  “Ah,” Civilai laughed. “I remember something like this in France. Poisson d’Avril-April Fish. I can’t recall the exact date but it’s the day you play a joke on people just for fun. Our Politburo has something similar but theirs is every day of the year. Next thing you know somebody with a camera jumps out of the bushes and shouts, ‘Surprise! April Fish!’”

  “It’s August,” Daeng reminded him.

  “And I don’t see anyone laughing,” added Siri. “But I’d wager somebody’s playing a trick on all of us.”

  “It’s possible the newspaper isn’t related to the rocks,” Commander Lit suggested.

  “You mean like some local was sitting on a boulder reading a newspaper and it started raining so he put it in a plastic bag and stuck it down beside the rocks so he could finish it once he’d learned English?” Phosy said without looking at the security man.

  “Actually, I meant that someone wanted us to find the newspaper so they left it in a place they knew we’d search,” said Lit in the direction of the same bank of fog.

  “As opposed to leaving it in front of the hotel?”

  “And have the old guards burn it to keep themselves warm. Good idea.”

  “I do wish Dtui was here,” Daeng laughed. “Men can be so predictable.”

  “I’m not predictable,” said Siri.

  “I knew you’d say that.”

  The Americans had split up the newspaper and were going through it page by page. Peach translated.

  “An Australian journalist swam to Laos in scuba gear to rescue his Lao girlfriend,” she said.

  “US abolishes import quota on Thai textiles,” read Johnson.

  “A beauty competition for fat women,” said Bpoo. “What a civilized country.”

  “OK,” said Peach. She’d picked up the sheet Randal Rhyme had just put down. He apparently missed the reference. “Laos gets a mention here in the editorial. I think this might be relevant.”

  “Rumor has it that the Communist Lao government is in bed with her old nemesis, the USA,” she read. “Despite a massive push to establish cooperatives nationwide, the People’s Democratic Republic has found itself with a shortfall of 113,000 tons of rice as a result of last year’s drought. And who should step in to find that mere nine million dollars but Uncle Sam himself. What’s nine million compared to the fifty million they were pumping in per year during the war? On Wednesday, the Senate appropriations committee, under its new chairman, Senator Walter Bowry of South Carolina, approved a budget to help out one of the poorest countries in the world. It was, as the senator told a press conference with a straight face, “for humanitarian purposes.” The good gentleman went on to add that, “despite twenty years of hostility, the US bears no personal animosity toward the Pathet Lao.” Right. We at the Post doubt the congressman has any ill feelings at all considering the fact the gentleman’s family amassed a sizeable fortune from exports from the region during the second Indochinese war. We doubt it would do him any harm at all if that channel was reopened through this new detente.

  “‘I am pleased to be in a position to assist the country in its hour of need in an official capacity,’ he told reporters. Good on you, senator. And we hope such a magnanimous gesture doesn’t damage your political standing given the anti-communist feelings in Washington. Let’s hope that nine million oiling will grease the wheels for the Lao to agree to the demands of the powerful MIA lobby. Wouldn’t that make Senator Bowry one popular gentleman on both sides of the globe.”

  The teams sat around on the rocks and lobbed views and opinions back and forth. If this editorial were factually correct-and Rhyme pointed out that the Post was known to make things up every now and then, particularly when attacking communism-then two aspects of it were particularly relevant. Firstly, they’d underestimated the power of Boyd’s father, now the chair of the appropriations committee. If he’d been influential in releasing the funds for Laos, he had a vested interest in making sure things went well here. Then there was the fact that the senator had connections in the region and had apparently done very well financially during the Vietnam War. But, more importantly, and most baffling, if the budget was approved back before June 2, the photographs of the downed pilot and his tailplane must have arrived after that decision was taken. And, if that was so, the senator hadn’t put pressure on his committee because his son was a downed pilot. To the Lao, that kind of nepotism would have been easy to understand. But that last point made no sense to anybody.

  “It might just be that the photos arrived earlier and they held back the announcement till after the committee’s decision,” said Civilai, ever aware of the subterfuge of government.

  “Not possible,” said Johnson. “The incoming mail at the embassy is time and date stamped.”

  “Then we would have to assume that the photographs were sent in response to the announcement,” said Siri.

  “And what would be the point of that?” asked Rhyme.

  “I have no idea.”

  “What I’d like to know”-Johnson shook his head-“is what the congressman was importing from here that made him so goddamned rich. And I bet you it wasn’t coconuts.”

  “All right.” Phosy clapped his hands as if he were frustrated with the direction the discussion was going. “Let’s come back to whoever it was who left the newspaper here. I suggest we take a hike back to the Phuan village. See if they remember seeing anyone around who shouldn’t have been here. Any objections?” He turned specifically to Commander Lit, who merely smiled.

  Before they left the sand bank, the teams combed the tree line and the rocks but found no other confusing evidence. As they walked, the debate continued. Were the boulders laid out by a young pilot hoping for a rescue, or were they a recent creation? Were the person who left the newspaper and the rock-speller one and the same? And if Boyd didn’t spell out his own name after the crash, what became of him? Was he captured by the PL? Killed? Did he succumb to the many dangers of the jungle? Die from hypothermia?

  “They flew a hundred hours of search and rescue looking for him,” Johnson said. “I ca
n’t believe in all that time nobody spotted a name written on the sand. They train the boys to leave messages. It’s what the rescue pilots look for. With all the slash and burn going on, they wouldn’t have looked twice at a burned-out stretch of ground like the dead man’s field with no visible wreckage, but something like this….”

  “So what is the message?” Daeng asked. “If they left the rocks there for us, what are they telling us? That Boyd didn’t make it, or that he did?”

  “Perhaps if we find the messenger we can understand the message,” said Phosy.

  When they finally reached Ban Hoong, the team members were happy to take off their boots and relax in the village. Much of their march north had been along the bed of the brook, closed in on both sides by the unkempt jungle. They stretched out their damp socks on the rocks with little hope that the blurry cheese ball of a sun might dry them off. Even at midday there was a chill in the air. The sky was a dark sheet of ash. A chorus of chesty coughs rose from the riverbank like toad calls.

  Siri and Phosy took a moment to play with Bok then sat with his father and the elders. As was customary, they drank some herbal brew and stared around appreciatively at mother nature before getting to the point.

  “How did you know when to take your dragon’s tail to Spook City?” Phosy asked. Ar acted as spokesman.

  “The sorceress told us before she died that there would be a sign,” he said.

  “Did she tell you a date? Make a map?”

  “No,” Ar and the elders laughed. “She was blind by then. She said one day the dragon’s daughter would come and ask for her father’s tail back and we’d have to return it.”

  “And she did?”

  “Two moons ago. She arrived in the village one afternoon. Just walked in out of the jungle with her bodyguards as if from nowhere. She looked like us, dressed like us, but she spoke a strange language. There was a girl here then who could speak Lao-she’s gone now, went to find work in the city-but even she had trouble understanding what the woman was saying. She was beautiful. Her face had been painted by the gods. She asked if we had any wreckage from an explosion. When we told her about the dragon’s tail she asked to see it. When we took her to the meeting hall we could see in her eyes how happy she was. We knew she was the dragon’s daughter.”

  Phosy could tell from the headman’s expression that he didn’t buy in to all this dragon hooey. He was merely keeping the old men happy.

  “Did the dragon’s daughter stay overnight?” Phosy asked.

  “No, brother.”

  “Did she have a camera?”

  “I didn’t see one.”

  “Did you ever leave her alone with the dragon’s tail?”

  “Of course. It was only right. She needed some time to honor her father. Before she left she told us that someone would come from the government. That we should tell them about the tail. But we’d promised our sorceress we’d deliver it in person. So when the cadre came by in her stiff uniform and told us about your visit, we loaded the tail onto a litter and set off for Long Cheng. We left it a bit late. We only had two weeks to get there.”

  Phosy and Siri consulted.

  “Do you know of a place upstream where there are dark rocks on a sand bank?” Phosy asked.

  “Of course.”

  “Some of the rocks form a word … a shape.”

  “The rocks move all the time. The river swells and pushes them here and there.”

  “So if someone made a shape with the rocks this year…?”

  “It would probably be moved along by the next rainy season.”

  “Comrade Ar, apart from the dragon’s daughter, do you remember seeing anyone out of place? Anyone who really shouldn’t be here?”

  Ar laughed.

  “Brother Phosy, that would be us.”

  “So, who do you think she was?” Daeng asked. “The dragon’s daughter?”

  They were all in the rear of the truck bumping along the trail back to Phonsavan. Not even five and the truck had its headlights on.

  “Well, if this was two moons ago, it could technically have been after the budget announcement and before the photos were sent to Bangkok,” Siri told her, his words arriving in an asthmatic squeak.

  “It wouldn’t surprise me if she had an instamatic stuffed down her bra,” said Civilai.

  “Takes a picture of the tailplane,” said Siri, “moves the rocks, secretes the newspaper. She’s undoubtedly the person who’s orchestrating this whole prisoner-of-war story.”

  “So you’re convinced it’s fabricated?” Daeng asked.

  “Of course it is. Who on earth would want to keep an American pilot locked up for ten years? This mystery woman would have to be someone who knew of Boyd and his connection to the senator. It would have to be someone who’d met Boyd during the war.”

  “Or it could be Boyd himself,” said Daeng.

  “Good, now you’re into the spirit of things,” said Civilai. “A pilot survives for ten years, unseen in the jungles of Laos. Then one day a copy of the newspaper drops out of the sky and he reads about his father’s good fortune. Where’s he going to find a copy of the Bangkok Post?”

  “Thailand.” Siri and Daeng said it at the same time.

  “Ha,” said Civilai. “I see it. You’re just attempting to muscle in on my Hollywood deal. Boyd abseils from a crashing helicopter then walks sixty kilometers to Thailand through hostile enemy-controlled territory.”

  “This isn’t all enemy territory,” Daeng reminded him. “He’d be just as likely to meet an ally. There were plenty of friendly villagers around who’d be happy to help out a nice young American boy.”

  “If that were so, why wouldn’t he get himself returned to his base?”

  “Embarrassment for trashing one of their choppers?” Daeng suggested.

  “Or, perhaps he didn’t want to go back,” said Siri.

  “A deserter?” said Civilai in mock horror. “I thought he was supposed to be a model soldier. No black marks.”

  “Something was troubling him that night,” said Siri. “Something made him act out of character. Perhaps he was afraid to go back.”

  “What if the crash wasn’t an accident?” said Daeng. “What if somebody wanted him dead?”

  “All right.” Civilai put up his hands. “I give up. I’ll go sixty-forty with you. No more. But I want first billing on the credits and ‘Based on an original idea by Civilai Songsawat’ somewhere up there on the screen.” They shook hands to seal the deal.

  Only Lit didn’t join in the laughter.

  “You’re all missing the obvious,” he said.

  “And what would that be?” Phosy asked.

  “That you’re all so intrigued by the fantastic you aren’t seeing the simple. If you could look beyond the dragons and their relatives and the exploding moon and blind sorceresses you’d see it too. Your sweet little Phuan village is the hub of all this intrigue. How about this? Your pilot crashes but he survives. The villagers capture him, take pictures of him and the helicopter tail, and wait for an opportunity to cash in on their good fortune.”

  “For ten years?” Phosy laughed.

  “And how exactly are they cashing in?” Daeng asked.

  “You wait, madam. I bet you a silver bangle they’ll miraculously discover his remains. The pilot’s father, in gratitude, will reward them handsomely. Or they’ll suddenly remember there’s a grave site and they’ll charge to take you there. Just you wait.”

  Everyone wanted to argue, Phosy in particular, but nobody did. Thus far, it was no less logical than any other theory.

  18

  A US REPUBLICAN SENATOR IN A LOCKED ROOM

  They’d washed off the dust of the day and were changing for dinner. Dtui noticed that her husband had been even more subdued than usual since their return to the Friendship. He’d told her about the events of their field trip but with no real enthusiasm.

  “Is something wrong?” she asked.

  “Not really.”

 
“Phosy?”

  “I … he said you were strong-willed.”

  “Who?”

  “Your security commander fellow.”

  “He did? When?”

  “When Daeng explained you were working with the Americans today.”

  “Well, that’s a compliment, isn’t it?”

  “I suppose so. If you don’t take it to mean stubborn, as in, ‘If she hadn’t been so stubborn she could have had me instead.’”

  Dtui smiled to herself.

  “Oh. But he didn’t actually utter those words?”

  “It was unstated.”

  Dtui nopped a thank you to the heavens.

  “Inspector Phosy, you’re jealous.”

  “I am not … of him? Huh. Just….”

  “What?”

  “Why didn’t you tell me it was him?”

  “What was him?”

  “That he was the one you met in Vieng Xai.”

  “It didn’t occur to me. Didn’t seem that important.”

  Phosy was doing a bold job of keeping his emotions in check. He smiled till cracks appeared in his cheeks.

  “Not important? He asked you to marry him.”

  “Oh, comrade policeman,” she giggled. “If I had to point out every man who’s ever proposed to me we’d never make it through a day. Now, shall we go?”

  She stood, opened the door and sniffed his flushed cheek as he passed her.

  The dinners which had begun four days earlier as such jolly affairs had taken on the air of refueling stops. Although still available, the Johnny Red was not flowing nearly as freely and the diners were more concerned about the quality of the air than that of the food. Officially, Civilai was still not in the inner circle of those who attended the autopsy but of course, like Madame Daeng, he had been told all about it. Siri was waiting for an opportunity to introduce them into the group without betraying the trust of the Americans. So it was decided that this evening Civilai, with Peach as his interpreter, would do what he did best. Hard as it may have been to believe, especially for those who only knew him outside the Politburo, the old man was a diplomat of the first order. He could schmooze with the best of them; dally with dictators and tango with tyrants. He could make despots in the most constricting ideological girdles take a breath. He had been granted an audience with Senator Vogal. As the senator had hardly left his room since what he was liberally calling “the assassination attempt,” it was no surprise that Ethel Chin had ordered room service. Civilai would be joining them for an after-meal tete-a-tete.