The Burma Legacy

by Geoffrey Archer

  ‘No.’

  ‘We’re not married.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You don’t have any long-term plan for us, so far as I know.’

  ‘Well, I …’

  ‘I mean you can’t have, can you? The life you lead.’

  She looked up at him, damp-eyed.

  ‘It won’t always …’

  ‘Yes it will, Sam. It’s the way you are. The way most men are …’

  ‘Including Jack?’

  ‘Bugger Jack!’ She let out a long, exasperated sigh. ‘There’s nothing there, Sam. Can’t you get it? He’s just someone I happen to have spent a few evenings with for reasons I’m not prepared to explain at this point in time, and I’m simply not going to talk about it.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘The person I want to be with is you. Can’t you understand that?’

  He felt wretched. But relieved too. Her sincerity seemed beyond doubt, but he was on the spot again. The onus on him to tell her when they could live together instead of just having visiting rights. He approached the edge of the bed and squeezed the back of her neck.

  ‘I’m a jealous idiot,’ he muttered, trying to glide over the issue. She reached behind her neck and pressed a hand onto his.

  ‘Where are we headed, Sam?’

  He ran his tongue round the inside of his mouth.

  ‘I was going to ask you to think again about coming out to Singapore. There are some great schools …’

  ‘You know I can’t do that. Liam’s settled where he is.’

  He swallowed hard. That little plan hadn’t got far.

  ‘Then I’ll try and get a posting back here. The dust should’ve settled.’

  ‘Is that what you really want?’

  ‘To be with you? Of course it is.’

  She squeezed his hand.

  ‘I wish I was certain you meant that,’ she whispered.

  He kissed the top of her wet head and wrapped his arms around her.

  ‘Let me … let me just finish what I’m doing in there. Then I can concentrate on you. On us.’

  Back in the living room, he felt in need of a breathing space before ringing Waddell again, so he reconnected to the Internet. There was new mail from the IT men. More responses to Harrison’s postings. And two of them talked about Khin Thein.

  The man had trained as a lawyer, it transpired, then become a part-time official of Aung San Suu Kyi’s National League for Democracy. Arrested three years ago, charged with speaking ill of the regime – and with illegally owning a modem. A ten-year sentence. He was forty-five.

  But why did Harrison care about Khin Thein?

  He had an idea. Grabbing hold of A Jungle Path to Hell, he turned to the section on Harrison’s life in Burma in the ’50s and ’60s, looking for names. Flicking through the pages he found very few that were Burmese and none of them was Khin Thein. Disappointed, he put the book down again.

  Julie poked her head round the door. ‘I picked up some lamb chops on the way home. Suit you?’

  ‘Great. I’ll open some wine in a minute.’

  But he wasn’t done with the book. Another thought had come to him. After a short search he found what he was looking for.

  George, Peregrine Harrison’s first child with Tin Su, had been born in 1955.

  Khin Thein was forty-five. Born the same year.

  It fitted. The pieces were clicking into place.

  He disconnected from the net and phoned his controller.

  ‘It’s Myanmar,’ he told him.

  ‘Explain.’

  Sam did.

  ‘I could get on a plane tonight.’

  For a few moments Waddell stayed silent. Sam imagined cogs turning.

  ‘We need harder evidence than this, Sam. Remember, we checked all the flight manifests. Harrison wasn’t listed heading in that direction.’

  ‘He could have travelled under another name.’

  ‘False passport? He’s an old man for Christ’s sake, not a character out of Day of the Jackal. No. Let’s see what happens tonight. In a few hours time the burglars will be in. With a bit of luck …’

  ‘Instinct tells me we’ll need more than luck if we’re to stop him, Duncan. A hell of a lot more.’

  ‘Changed your tune, haven’t you? No longer the doubting Thomas? You actually believe he’s going to do it?’

  Sam hesitated, but only for a moment.

  ‘Yes. Unfortunately I do.’

  Bordhill Manor

  Around midnight

  Melissa Dennis listened to the nocturnal noises of the long, red-brick house known as Mandalay Lodge, which stood about 50 metres behind the manor. She was biding her time.

  She heard a cough from the room next door – the walls separating the spartan single bedrooms were of thin plasterboard. Her neighbour had a cold. She worried it might keep the woman awake. The last thing she wanted was for anyone to hear when she stepped into the corridor in a short while from now.

  Melissa was already well acquainted with every loose floorboard on the way to the stairs, having learned to avoid them when returning late from being with Perry. Despite his years, he’d been extraordinarily fit two years ago when he’d asked her to become his new personal assistant. Not an ounce of excess flesh and still doing regular 10-mile walks. She’d known his reputation, known exactly what the role was likely to involve and had been more than ready for it. When he’d failed to make the expected advances, however, she’d been disappointed, and so, she’d sensed, had he, having to acknowledge that age was finally catching up with him.

  Melissa looked at the luminous clock glowing on her bedside table. How long should she wait? One o’clock? Two? That, she’d heard, was the hour when most people were in their deepest sleep. Yet if she waited too long she risked nodding off herself.

  She heard the distant clock on Sidgefield church tower chime once. Half past midnight. She’d give it another thirty minutes.

  Three hundred metres away, down the lane heading out of Sidgefield, a dark Vauxhall Astra turned off the tarmac into the muddy entrance to a field. The two men inside wore black trousers and trainers and thick black pullovers. As they prepared to leave the car they donned balaclavas and tied thick waterproof canvas bags over their shoes.

  They’d checked out the area earlier in the day, investigating a footpath running along the side fence of the Bordhill estate. Easy access to the grounds. Soon they’d be lifting the sash at the back of the house, whose security lock they’d disabled that afternoon.

  The phone company had been as good as gold, disconnecting the lines so they could bowl up in a telecoms van to look for the fault. A short-circuit they’d said. Often hard to find. They’d insisted on checking every extension. Even those in the private quarters of the community’s absent founder. The Madsen woman had watched them like a hawk as they’d done their business there, but they’d already got what they needed – the combination she’d used to open the door.

  The ground crunched gently under foot, a sharp frost having encrusted the damp soil with ice. They moved steadily forward, relying on starlight to see the path. Both men had excellent night vision.

  In a few minutes they were at the back of the house, crouching and listening. From some far away copse an owl hooted. Behind them the residential block was in darkness – the Bordhill Community was at rest.

  They removed the black bags from their feet and stuffed them into pockets, then pulled on thin latex gloves. Finally, with a flick of a screwdriver the bottom sash was lifted. One after the other they rolled over the sill and dropped soft-footed and clean-shoed onto the floor inside.

  Impatience got the better of Melissa. There had to be something in the apartment – some scrap of information that would reveal Perry’s intentions, and she was desperate to find it.

  As she swung her legs to the floor the bed springs twanged. Cocking her head she listened for anyone else stirring. Nothing. Even her neighbour’s coughing had stopped.

  She stood up and p
ut on the fur-lined boots and long, quilted coat left ready at the end of the bed, then edged towards the door. The starlight was just enough for her to see by. She’d left the curtains open deliberately. The handle turned easily – none of the rooms was ever locked. And in fact several were empty, the result of the community going through a lean patch with recruits. Holding her breath she crept along to the staircase and a few seconds later was outside in the cold night air.

  A door slammed somewhere causing her to jump. Not in her own block, nor the main house. The sound had come from the stables area where Ingrid lived in style amongst a handful of old farm cottages used mostly by couples.

  She heard a distant cough – a man’s. Her mind took off. There’d been gossip that one of the couples was on the verge of breaking up. Perhaps they’d had a row and the chap had gone outside to cool off. She decided to stay put for a few moments in case he took it into his head to go wandering about. Hugging herself in the doorway, she was glad of her coat. The moon was up, its light illuminating her breath.

  The combination lock had clicked softly when the men tapped in the numbers. Once inside, they turned on narrow-beamed torches. The layout they knew from before. A self-contained flat with a small kitchen and bathroom. Comfortable. Pleasantly furnished. The bedroom had a kingsize and a bookcase holding works on Buddhism and Hinduism – and a copy of the Kama Sutra, one of them had noticed that afternoon. Next to the books was a TV with built-in VCR.

  Their instructions were clear. The visit was to be undetected. In the far corner of the living room stood a small table with a computer. One man made a beeline for it, swinging the small rucksack from his back and placing it next to the keyboard. He turned the PC to get at the connections. After unplugging the printer cable, he extracted a portable hard-drive and a small scanner from his rucksack and connected them up.

  While the computer specialist loaded software, the other man shone his torch looking for papers. Finding none, he set to work on the filing cabinet beside the computer desk.

  Melissa hurried towards the south wing of the manor where the kitchens were, her fingers gripping the mortise lock key in the pocket of her coat. There was a white dusting of frost on the path. Her instinct was to run, but with her luck she knew she would fall on her face.

  The key turned easily in the lock. Inside, the kitchen smelled of fried onions, a warm, comforting odour. The cooks did a good job at Bordhill and she would miss them when she’d gone. And she had made up her mind that evening. When she left here in two days’ time she would never be coming back.

  Moonlight filtered through the high windows of the great hallway. She turned towards the grand staircase. Some of the treads creaked but it didn’t matter because there’d be no one else in the house. At the top she paused, listening. There’d been a noise outside. A fox perhaps. There was a plague of them locally. She still hadn’t got over the sight of that poor goat kid a few days ago, its belly ripped from one end to the other.

  She walked past Ingrid’s darkened office towards the wing which had been Perry’s domain. She touched her forefinger on the number pad. Typical of Perry to have sealed his private world with a combination lock. Enhancing the mystique which had drawn so many young women to him over the years. She remembered the feeling when given the code for this secret portal. That she was becoming a part of his exclusiveness. But they were just his tricks and she’d seen through them eventually. Seen that at the bottom of it all he was just a man, one who was making the most of his charisma and his still relatively youthful looks. And that would be the theme of her book. Not a debunking of Perry Harrison. Far from it. There was no one she admired more. A portrait, warts and all. But unless she could find him and share his last days, the book might never be written.

  She tapped in the number.

  Inside the room the burglars heard it. A rattle like a mouse gnawing at a loose piece of wood.

  The man at the computer was halfway through copying the hard-drive. He switched off the screen and waved his companion to the bedroom, then crouched behind the desk, heart thudding like a road drill.

  The second man pressed his back against the bedroom wall. The apartment door opened, then closed again. The sound of breathing. Female. Laboured, like someone overweight. He heard feet pass, moving towards the living room. Then they stopped as the woman held her breath. She’d seen or heard something. Nothing for it. He reached into a pocket and closed his fingers round a small plastic tube.

  Melissa knew something was wrong, but not what. There seemed to be a noise from the computer and it shouldn’t have been on. She stared into the corner where she knew the machine to be, but the screen was dark. And the rest of the living room too. Surprisingly dark. No moonlight coming through, the curtains tightly drawn, and they weren’t normally. A shiver ran up her spine. Was it … could it be possible that the man she admired most in the world had come back?

  ‘Perry?’

  She fumbled for the torch in her pocket. Then, right behind her, a floorboard creaked.

  ‘Ingrid?’ she squeaked, beginning to turn.

  Suddenly a hand clasped her mouth and nose, jerking her head back. She tasted latex. Then another hand hooked round her front, tugging at the buttons of her coat.

  She tried to scream, but her voice wouldn’t work.

  The hand wrenched open the quilting and began probing her nether regions. She groaned inwardly. She was to be raped. Her first sexual experience with a man and it would be an act of violence

  She began to struggle, but too late. Something pricked the top of her thigh. She felt a sharp, stabbing pain, followed by a burning inside her leg. A second pair of hands was grappling with her now, pulling her off balance, tumbling her to the floor. She lay prone, feeling a heavy weight pressing on her knees. She wanted to kick but couldn’t. A slow wooziness came over her, like a sudden onset of drunkenness. Then a creeping numbness. A steady loss of feeling throughout her body.

  Then nothing. Absolutely nothing.

  The man who’d administered the injection pushed fingers against the artery in her neck. When he was sure her pulse was steady he breathed a sigh of relief.

  ‘Okay,’ he whispered. ‘Let’s get this fucking job over with.’

  Fourteen

  West London

  The next day, Tuesday, 11 January, 7.30 a.m.

  Sam stood by the living-room window looking into the street as Julie made her way to the tube. She was wrapped in a dark overcoat, collar up against the stiff breeze. They’d made it up last night. Agreed that all big decisions should be put on hold. She’d even withdrawn her ultimatum, admitting it had never really been serious anyway.

  He retreated to the kitchen to make toast and fresh coffee. For now it was the job he had to concentrate on. Late last night Waddell had rung with a phone number for Robert Wetherby. It had been too late to call it then and it was still too early this morning. Not too early though for a report back on what the burglars had found at Bordhill Manor.

  Sam was just finishing shaving when the call came from his controller.

  ‘There was a problem,’ Waddell began. ‘The team were disturbed.’

  ‘By whom?’

  ‘They don’t know. Some woman. They gave her a shot to knock her out.’

  ‘But who was it?’

  ‘Someone from the commune, they assumed. Aged about thirty. Rather overweight, with wiry hair.’

  ‘Oh God … Melissa probably. Harrison’s PA. She’d have had access to his flat. What did your psychos hit her with?’

  ‘A cocktail including rohypnol. So with a bit of luck she won’t remember anything about it.’

  ‘Hope they didn’t kill her.’

  ‘Don’t … What I’d like to know is what she was doing there.’

  ‘Same as us probably. Looking for evidence. I told her about Harrison’s letter to The Times and it shook her rigid. What did our guys get?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Sod all of any use.
Copied his computer hard-drive only to find the thing had been spring cleaned. The disk had been formatted then reinstalled with just the basic programmes on it like it was a new machine. No document files or email software anywhere. Same with the stuff in his filing cabinet – they scanned a whole bunch of pages on the off-chance, but there was nothing of interest.’

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘Harrison was thorough,’ Waddell declared mournfully. ‘Extraordinarily thorough. And his disappearance clearly wasn’t a spur of the moment affair. But where he’s gone is as much a mystery as ever.’

  ‘It’s Myanmar,’ Sam declared. ‘Burma.’

  Waddell grunted. ‘Find me proof and we’ll get you on your way.’

  Sam waited until nine, then rang the number in Suffolk. It was answered by a dithering female voice. The woman, sounding elderly and a little confused, said her husband had taken an early train to London. Something going on at the Imperial War Museum. Burma veterans, but more than that she couldn’t remember.

  He rang the Museum’s press office, claiming to be a stringer for the Straits Times. They told him of a reception at midday to mark the opening of an exhibition of war paintings.

  He homed in on the green cupola and colonnaded portico of the Imperial War Museum at a quarter to twelve. The last time he’d come here was as a child with his submariner father. He remembered climbing on the 15-inch naval guns on the paved forecourt.

  Inside, the building had been refurbished. An airy atrium held the hardware of conflict, ancient tanks vying for space with an omnibus used by troops in the First World War. Far above, fighter planes hung from wires beneath a glass roof. Sam made his way to the stairwell and pressed the button for a lift.

  The glass-fronted art galleries were on the second floor. Above one of them a banner bore the words The Jungle War. Beyond the glass he could see caterers putting finishing touches to a drinks table in the centre of the room. The walls were hung with pencil drawings and watercolours. A poster told him they’d been done from sketches made during the Burma war.

  Sam moved away and leaned against a balcony to wait for the guests to arrive. Before long two men emerged from the lifts, their dark blazers glittering with regimental badges. Guided by a museum assistant, they walked with the aid of sticks. Each looked about eighty. Harrison’s age.