Slash and Burn dsp-8

by Colin Cotterill

  “In a country without a railway?”

  “It was a fantasy, old man. In a fantasy you can construct whatever damned engineering infrastructure you please.”

  “Ear-fingering was no less dramatic. And for that I thank you.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “Now, is there any way I can return the favor?”

  “No.”

  “Not even if you told me what’s wrong with your health?”

  She glared at the doctor with eyes wide as melon slices.

  “What makes you think there’s something wrong with my health?”

  “I can see the future.”

  “Don’t make me laugh. You can barely see the present.”

  “Conceded. But I am rather good with the past, and I recall seeing you together with Dr. Yamaguchi at every opportunity.”

  “He’s a passionate man drawn to glamor. What can I say?”

  “He’s also a very fine researcher.”

  “The helicopter’s late.”

  “I’ve been through his CV. Oncology.”

  “I think I’ll complain to the airline. Get my money back.”

  “You’ve been asking him how long you have left.”

  “Do you ever stop being annoying-and wrong?”

  “So, tell me.”

  Auntie Bpoo searched the sky for the return of Sergeant Johnson.

  “I’m a fortune-teller,” she said. “I don’t need to ask when. I can give you a date and an exact time. I could sell admission tickets.”

  “So?”

  “So annoying.”

  “Bpoo?”

  “So, I want to know-”

  “If it’s preventable.”

  “Stop it, will you? I detest it when people finish sentences for you. It’s very-”

  “Frustrating.”

  Siri was smiling. Bpoo had to laugh.

  “If I thought there were any way it could be cured I’d talk to a surgeon,” Bpoo said softly. “Not a coroner. Yamaguchi’s a pathologist. A doctor of the dead bits. I wanted to understand what it looked like. I mean, after it kills you. After it’s done its evil work. Does it gloat? Does it swell up and boast of its ominous power, ‘Look what I’ve done’? Or is it exhausted, embarrassed, full of remorse?”

  “I doubt Yamaguchi’s ever had to face questions like that before.”

  “I don’t have the technical vocabulary. I could only ask in emotional, human terms like that. You see? I can live these last few months better if I don’t hate it. If I don’t take it personally. I want to love my tumor. I want us to go together, each playing his or her part. Partners walking hand in hand over a steep cliff.”

  “Hm. What did he say?”

  “He ignored the question and counseled.”

  “Good for him. Was coming up here to save my life part of all this?”

  “In a way.”

  “Do you want to explain why?”

  “You’re the only person I know who sees the dead.”

  “And?”

  “If you were dead too you’d be completely useless to me.”

  “If I…? Oh, my word.”

  “See?”

  “Please tell me you aren’t planning to haunt me.”

  “Guide, Siri. Ghosts haunt. Spirits guide. I’ll never be forgotten in your mind. We’ll be together always.”

  She started to sing. It was the Thai version of “Auld Lang Syne.” Siri put his fingers in his ears and hummed.

  “That won’t help you any more,” she shouted.

  Siri removed his fingers and took her hand. She let him.

  “I could really use a poem right now,” he told her.

  “No. Not in the mood.”

  25

  THE CIVILIAN MEDAL FOR AN OUTSTANDING CONTRIBUTION TO THE SECURITY AND DEVELOPMENT OF THE PEOPLE’S DEMOCRATIC REPUBLIC OF LAOS: SECOND TIER

  The ceremony was scheduled to commence at 2:00 P.M. It was three fifteen. According to the Americans present, the minister was late. According to the Lao, if he got the day right it was a good sign. Apart from Major Potter and Ethel Chin, back in the States now and probably in the ground, and Senator Vogal who was still a little scattered, all the guests from the Friendship Hotel were in attendance. Gordon had spent a week in Bangkok writing reports and explaining things to committees. But he had returned for this special day. He confirmed that Senator Bowry had been arrested and that the CIA had solemnly sworn to conduct a full inquiry into the manufacture and use of this mysterious super napalm and other illegal activities during the last few years of the war. Dr. Yamaguchi had delayed his return flight in order to have a holiday and to attend today’s splendid affair. Rhyme had stayed on because he needed these photographs to complete his Pulitzer piece.

  The award would be presented on the small stage in the corner of the canteen at the Ministry of Education. Under normal circumstances, the Civilian Medal for an Outstanding Contribution to the Security and Development of the People’s Democratic Republic of Laos: Second Tier, would be handed over by a member of the Politburo in the public gallery at government house. But given the short notice and the “delicacy of the matter,” none was available to preside. The ministers of Justice and Information and Culture had refused point-blank and only the Vice-Minister of Education had wisdom enough to see value in the exercise. But even though he’d agreed to present the medal he had insisted on no more than two photographs. Neither was to appear in a publication available inside Laos.

  John Johnson and General Suvan were in full military dress uniform. Of the two, the American looked less like a postal worker. Siri and Daeng, Phosy and Dtui, Civilai and his wife Mrs. Noy were in a cluster. Each held but did not drink from non-matching glasses with tissue paper jackets. The vessels contained some unlikely glow-in-the-dark Agent Orange concoction. Auntie Bpoo, dressed like a respectable lady undertaker, joked with Dr. Yamaguchi. Also in uniform was Commander Lit who, Dtui pointed out to her husband, looked particularly dashing. He’d done something to his hair to make it slick back and he’d left his glasses in his top pocket, which might have explained why he was constantly bumping into everyone.

  “He looks a lot like Payao Poontarat today,” Dtui said.

  “The bath water salesman?”

  “Olympic boxer. Very elegant.”

  “You’re right. He does have that beaten and bruised look about him.”

  “I don’t see Peach around anywhere,” said Dtui, scanning the room. Out of the corner of her eye she noticed Siri and Civilai exchange a glance. It was enough to make her aware that, not for the first time, she was trailing behind the herd.

  “What? What happened to her?” Dtui asked.

  “Ooh, nothing, I expect,” said Siri.

  “Probably sealing insurgency donation envelopes with Mummy and Daddy in Indiana,” said Civilai.

  “In Indiana? She’s gone back?”

  “Yes,” Siri nodded.

  Dtui was bemused. “But she hated America.”

  “Probably not quite as much as she had us believe,” Siri said.

  “All right.” Dtui put up her hands. “Let’s not do the subtle, Inspector Migraine explanation of events. Just tell me what I’ve missed.”

  “She was denied the continuation of her visa,” said Siri. “And it’s Maigret.”

  “Did they give her a reason?”

  “They told her she needed a university degree to work in the education sector. But that was only to cover up the actual reason.”

  “Which was?”

  “Spying.”

  Dtui coughed. “Spying? Who for?”

  “The CIA.”

  Dtui laughed.

  “The CIA’s recruiting seventeen-year-old daughters of missionaries?”

  “No.”

  “Peach is under eighteen.”

  “Peach is under eighteen,” Siri agreed. “But the girl who came with us to Phonsavan was a completely different fruit.”

  “Banana?”

  “Cherry.”

&nbs
p; “I don’t get it.”

  “The fruit family in Luang Prabang had four children,” Siri explained. “Peach was the youngest. Cherry the oldest. Two boys in between. Cherry left Laos when she was fourteen to continue her education in the States. She went to university. Before she graduated, she was recruited by a CIA desperate for smart people with Asian languages. She also had the good fortune of looking younger than her age.”

  “Not unlike me,” said Civilai.

  “That would only be true if you were actually 130,” said Siri, and continued. “When the fruit family was asked to leave, the consulate orchestrated an audacious switch. When they passed through Vientiane, unbeknownst to the family, the consular office issued a second passport to Cherry under the name and age of Peach. Thus, as nobody knew the girls in Vientiane, Cherry became her little sister. She claimed that she didn’t want to go to America. Wanted to stay to help the new regime. She tore up her air ticket in a display of national loyalty and was allowed to teach small classes at the lycee. When the mission came around, the Americans requested this new Peach as their interpreter.”

  “Which explains why, despite all the available bilingual half-breeds with decades of experience under their belts, they opted for a slip of a girl,” said Civilai. “The evil CIA very badly wanted one of their own on this mission and they assumed we’d be sure to approve an innocent teenager with anti-American leanings.”

  “Amazing,” said Dtui.

  “And it worked,” said Daeng.

  “It worked until the good doctor here asked for an investigation into the whereabouts of the older sister,” said Civilai.

  “How could you have known?” Dtui asked.

  “Didn’t know, exactly,” said Siri. “More an instinct. Henry James said that in the case of a young American woman, poise comes from good breeding and a solid education. I didn’t see Peach’s abilities coming from home-schooling in a remote village in the north of Laos.”

  “Not even from missionary parents?”

  “Especially not from missionary parents. She was too fluent in central Lao dialect. Too worldly. Too diplomatic. I felt certain she’d studied overseas.”

  “What a mind. When did you bust her?” Dtui asked.

  “Shortly after they approved my team selection,” Siri told her.

  “But that was before we left.”

  “A week before.”

  “So why wasn’t she kicked off the mission?”

  “Aha, enter the intelligence division,” said Civilai. “More commonly known as the limited intelligence division. After a lengthy meeting in a secret location, the LID decided it would be of huge national interest to allow her along and feed her with false information which she would pass on to her superiors. And who better to be entrusted with this duty than Comrade False Information himself, Judge Haeng? Assuming she was now completely full of both the judge and the information, they let her go. It’s being hailed as a huge espionage coup at the LID. I went by there yesterday. They were having a party to celebrate.”

  “How did you know where to go?” Daeng asked.

  “What?”

  “If they meet at secret locations….”

  “There’s a wooden sign in front.”

  “Not surprised.”

  And talking, as they were, of the devil, Siri noticed Judge Haeng at the table of inedible snacks. He excused himself from the group.

  “Be kind,” said Madame Daeng.

  “Ah, Siri,” said Haeng when the doctor arrived beside him. “I was about to come and talk to you. You’ll be pleased to hear I’ve solved that little problem you told me about. I explained to the air force command that, given the circumstances of that last day in Phonsavan, it would be only fair to overlook your disregard for regulations by smuggling a live animal onto an official government flight. I suspect none of them could imagine that … dog being of domestic value. I’ve torn up the report the pilot wrote.”

  “Well, Judge, that’s decent of you.”

  “Brothers, Siri. You and me. If there’s anything….”

  “Actually there is one more small thing.”

  “Oh.”

  “Nothing a man of your stature couldn’t deal with. My wife and I are being blackmailed.”

  “What? Blackmailed? That’s terrible.”

  “A petty criminal came by the noodle shop a few days ago when I was out and threatened to tell the police that I have a library of foreign language books in my back bedroom.”

  “The police would never believe such a blatant lie.”

  Siri looked around for something recognizable to eat.

  “It is a blatant lie, isn’t it, Siri?”

  “No.”

  “You have a library?”

  “Back bedroom. Several hundred books. French.”

  Judge Haeng was a dark-skinned man so when he blanched he turned a shade of gray.

  “I … well, I … I suppose as long as they aren’t being distributed to the people they aren’t doing any harm.”

  “That’s the way I look at it. Madame Daeng gave the blackmailer your telephone number and told him to call you. Then she hit him over the head with a skillet. He might get in touch.”

  “I’ll … I’ll take care of it.”

  “You’re so kind.”

  “You’re welcome, Doctor.”

  They shook hands warmly. Siri stood and watched the little judge walk away. Anyone overhearing their conversation, anyone who knew of the stormy history between the two men, might assume Judge Haeng had sustained permanent nerve damage as a result of the marijuana. But those nosy parkers who shouldn’t have been eavesdropping in the first place wouldn’t have known about that last manila envelope in Siri’s secret under-floorboard hiding place. And they wouldn’t have any idea that inside that envelope was a letter applying for political defection to the United States written by one Judge Haeng. It had been handed to the head of the USMIA mission on the night of Potter’s death. Unfortunate that it should go astray, considering what was written in it. The letter claimed that Judge Haeng was being persecuted by members of the supreme council as a result of his fearless diatribes against communism. As a result of threats, he now feared for his life. He claimed to have in his possession a number of top secret documents that the CIA would find particularly interesting. If the American consulate would consider smuggling him out of the country he could make those documents available as well as his personal experience as a ranking member of the Party. At the end of the letter was the flowery and pretentious signature which nobody would ever be able to fake. Like a good coward, by running away Haeng would have his revenge on all those who had bullied him.

  Major Potter had obviously thought the offer interesting enough to secrete the envelope in his whiskey crate before drinking the coffee that would render him unconscious. People like Judge Haeng seemed to have an innate knack for bad timing. He probably confessed to Peach, not passing on any false information at all. Saw her as a potential ally in his escape to capitalism. As long as Siri had that document, he knew the judge would be a much more pleasant person and infinitely useful. Siri would enjoy this relationship for a while but deep down he knew he’d be returning the letter. How dull would retirement be without Judge Haeng snapping at his heels?

  At exactly 3:25 the vice-minister hurried in the door with a secretary beside him, apparently briefing him on why he was there and what he had to do. He recognized and shook hands with General Suvan, Judge Haeng and Comrade Vinai. He recognized and ignored Siri and Civilai, whom he looked over his glasses at, causing him to trip over the step to the stage.

  “Don’t tell me you’ve offended that one too.” Daeng shook her head.

  “Have we offended that one?” Siri asked.

  “Don’t recall,” said Civilai. “Wait. Isn’t he the one whose limousine we filled up with ducks?”

  “No. That was the Vice-Minister of Agriculture.”

  “Of course it was. So, no, madam. I can honestly say we haven’t yet offended
this man.”

  The vice-minister blew into the microphone and his breath bellowed from speakers at the four corners of the canteen. Siri noted that the microphone was no more necessary than the volume control permanently set on “uncomfortably loud.”

  “Is the man who’s getting the medal in the room?” the minister asked.

  “He’s here,” called Siri.

  “Very well.” The vice-minister squinted as he searched for the name hidden in the text. “I would like to invite Mr. Geung Watajak to come up to the stage.” He was surprised to see everyone bow deeply like Japanese courtiers, but it was only in order to put their glasses on the floor and have both hands free for an ovation fit for a king. Mr. Geung was looking every bit the hero in his Mahosot Hospital blazer, white shirt and a black tie borrowed from Civilai. To his left, looking equally ravishing in her khaki hospital shirt and a navy blue phasin skirt, was Tukda. Whereas her smile flashed around the room collecting others, Geung held his jaw square and his lips compressed. He’d been to the Soviet parade earlier in the year and decided that the military slow march would be appropriate for such an important ceremony as this. His foot hovered in the air before each step.

  “He should get to the stage by November,” Civilai whispered.

  “Can you walk a bit faster, son?” came the vice-minister’s voice from four directions. But the morgue assistant would not be hurried.

  Of course, Mr. Geung’s heroic act at the Friendship Hotel could not be written up in the commendation exactly as it had happened. A man could hardly receive a medal for banging a middle-school-band tambourine. Not even if that tambourine was possessed by an evil spirit. But everyone apart from Siri and Bpoo had been in a shamanic trance at the time. So nobody actually knew the details of what really happened that afternoon. As Mr. Geung was a stickler for the truth, he’d refused to let the doctor tell anyone he’d charged at the dangerous thugs with a machete and hacked them to death. It had taken several rewrites of the statement before he was satisfied.

  “Geung Watajak,” read the vice-minister, who couldn’t wait for Geung’s arrival on stage, “in the face of overwhelming odds, you did fearlessly attack five armed men in the dining room of the Friendship Hotel in Phonsavan. This was made all the more remarkable by the fact that you were carrying only a stick.” (He did have a stick to beat the tambourine, so, technically, not a lie.) “In the confusion resulting from your heroic charge, you and your colleagues were able to overwhelm the terrorists and disarm them, thus saving the lives of several high-ranking dignitaries and foreign experts. For your bravery I am pleased to award you our nation’s top civilian honour, the Civilian Medal for an Outstanding Contribution to the Security and Development of the People’s Democratic Republic of Laos: Second Tier.”