The Burma Legacy

by Geoffrey Archer

  She shook her head. ‘None of that.’

  ‘And you came all this way in the hope that somehow you would manage to find him?’

  She nodded forlornly. She looked so self-conscious about it, Sam believed her.

  Melissa was quite used to seeing a look of incredulity and pity in other people’s eyes. And usually it was followed by them making their excuses and leaving. She’d trained herself to accept it with resignation, but in this case she couldn’t. She’d felt frighteningly alone a short while ago and now she didn’t. She needed him, in all sorts of ways. The idea that he might walk out of her life so soon after walking into it was unbearable.

  ‘There’s another reason I’ve come here,’ she announced, desperate to make herself more interesting.

  Sam’s expectations rose about a millimetre. ‘Tell me about it.’

  ‘I’m writing a book.’

  ‘How fascinating.’

  ‘Not got far yet. Just starting really. I’m telling you this in confidence, by the way.’

  ‘Of course. Won’t breathe a word. What’s the theme?’

  ‘Perry’s life. The things that shaped it and how much he’s meant to other people. Picking up from where Jungle Path to Hell left off. And, of course, giving the outsider’s view. Although a very inside outsider, if you see what I mean.’

  ‘Absolutely.’ Sam tried to look respectful.

  ‘I’ll be revealing something pretty sensational about his reasons for coming here.’

  ‘Will you now.’ He wondered what new game she was conjuring up.

  ‘I worked out that it was partly to see his family of course. But there’s also the little matter of Mr Kamata …’

  Her words were like a kick in the butt.

  ‘Go on.’ He leaned forward.

  Melissa feared losing control of the situation and giving away the Crown Jewels before she’d fixed her price. She looked up and saw the beers arriving. Then a second waiter came with Sam’s food. She was grateful to the boys for providing her with a breather.

  ‘Hope you enjoy it.’

  Sam didn’t touch his plate. ‘Go on,’ he repeated. ‘What about Mr Kamata?’

  ‘Eat up. You must be hungry after your long journey.’

  There was something cloying about the way she was looking at him. Like a maiden aunt who’d won custody of a child for a day. It repelled him.

  ‘Look,’ he snapped, losing patience. ‘The reason I’m here is to try to stop Perry committing a murder. If you know anything …’

  ‘Oh no,’ she protested. ‘That’s not right. I’ve been thinking a lot about it and I really can’t believe …’

  ‘You’d better believe it, Melissa. Perry hates Kamata and wants to get his own back. It’s in the book and it was implied in his letter to The Times.’

  Melissa felt her insides knotting into a ball. He was defacing her idol. ‘Look, hasn’t it occurred to you that what Perry’s actually seeking at the end of his life is reconciliation, not revenge?’

  ‘He ever tell you that?’

  ‘No. As I said, he hasn’t told me anything. But I don’t care. He’s come here to build bridges. To lay ghosts. I read a book by some other Burma veteran who did that. Worked on the Railway. Met up with his Japanese guard fifty years later and became friends.’

  ‘Perry’s different.’

  If this was what she believed, the sensational details she’d been promising were likely to be a damp squib. He picked at the food but it was greasy and cold.

  Melissa saw she was running out of time. It was pointless prevaricating any more. A busted flush, hoping she could interest him in her as a person. But she had something he wanted. One vital piece of information. And she had every reason to believe he was well equipped to pay for it.

  The music stopped. They clapped politely. Then in the silence that followed she made her pitch. It would have to be a straight trade, now. There was no other way.

  ‘I found something of Perry’s. In his private quarters at Bordhill. I think it’s the sort of thing you’d be interested in.’

  Sam stared disbelievingly at her. There was a distinctly odd look in her eyes now. Anticipation mixed with intense unease.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘It … it’s something I was going to look into tomorrow. At a library. We could do it together.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  She didn’t immediately, because the band began to play a Stones number. She knew the tune but waited to hear the words before she was sure. Then she smiled. The song was ‘Let’s spend the night together’. Yes, she thought, fate works in the most mysterious of ways.

  ‘I will tell you what I found,’ she said, leaning forward and half closing her eyes in an attempt to look seductive. ‘And I can promise you you’ll be incredibly glad that I did. But … and I know this may sound rather forward, there’s something I want in return.’

  She looked intensely vulnerable. Sam sensed that if he refused whatever she was about to ask of him, she’d be cut to the quick.

  ‘What is it?’

  Melissa took in a deep, deep breath and pressed a hand to her racing heart.

  ‘I want you to fuck me, Geoff.’

  Twenty-four

  Central Myanmar

  Friday, 14 January, late morning

  The french-built turbo-prop delivered him efficiently to the narrow landing strip at Heho. Philomena had advised him to fly with one of the country’s small independent airlines because the state-run company had lost half its fleet through accidents. The tiny, ramshackle terminal building had a cafeteria attached. There were staff in attendance but no customers.

  Outside stood an olive-skinned man in his thirties, holding a card with the name Maxwell on it. Sam raised his hand to acknowledge him.

  ‘Are you Tun Kyaw?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Philomena said good things about you.’

  The man’s polite smile didn’t disguise his nervousness. He took hold of Sam’s bag and led the way to his car, a small Suzuki off-roader that had seen better days.

  Tun Kyaw had a lean, bony face with a sculpted jaw. A thin moustache marked his upper lip like a scar and on his head he wore a dusty blue baseball cap. As they drove from the airport, two soldiers in helmets waved them through a barrier after checking who was at the wheel.

  ‘You have money for me?’ Tun shot him a sidelong glance.

  ‘Yes.’ Five hundred dollars which the embassy woman had given him that morning. By Burmese standards, a fortune. ‘I was planning to pay you when we’re finished,’ Sam said firmly.

  Tun slowed the car. ‘No. You must pay me now. Because I take the money to my home. For safety.’

  Philomena had said this man was reliable, but she’d only used him once. The last thing Sam needed was to be deprived of his money, then taken to the hills and abandoned when the going got tough. But he had little choice. Tun Kyaw was the only person likely to be his friend up here. Sam reached into his small rucksack. The driver took the envelope from him and hid it under the seat.

  They drove in silence for about fifteen minutes, then pulled up outside a rambling two-storey house on the outskirts of a small town. A peeling board above it said Good Feeling Guesthouse.

  ‘You wait please.’ Tun took the envelope and hurried into the building.

  Half a minute later he was back, carrying a coolbox and some insulated canisters of food. He stowed them in the back, then accelerated onto the road east, trailing a vortex of dust.

  ‘You run that place as a business?’ Sam asked, pointing back.

  ‘For wife and me. Many tourists come to Inle Lake. You know it?’

  ‘Yes. I know.’ Again it was Philomena who’d briefed him. The lake was famed for its beauty, and Tun’s normal income came from driving visitors around it, most of them French.

  Pausing for a moment on the edge of town to buy a bunch of jasmine blossom which he hung on the driving mirror for luck, the Burman drove on fast, hammering the horn
whenever they overtook. There was little traffic, most of it pick-ups jammed with local travellers and the occasional heavily laden truck.

  ‘How far to Mong Lai?’ Sam asked.

  ‘Two, maybe three hours.’

  ‘Philomena told you what we have to do when we get there?’

  Tun half-smiled. ‘She say you look for two old men. Japan and English. Have bad memories. Maybe they kill each other.’

  A muscle in the side of his jaw twitched.

  Sam had phoned the SIS woman at six that morning and they’d met for breakfast at the restored colonial Strand Hotel.

  ‘You look dreadful,’ she’d said. He didn’t tell her why. He had every intention of erasing last night’s episode from his mind.

  Unaware of how he’d obtained it, Philomena had taken Melissa’s magazine clipping back to the embassy, telling him that one of their Burmese staff had an encyclopaedic knowledge of his country’s geography. Ten minutes later she’d returned with the news that the memorial was at Mong Lai.

  ‘I rang the main hotels there,’ she’d announced excitedly. ‘Tetsuo Kamata is registered at the Jade Palace. And Perry Harrison, in the guise of Robert Wetherby, at the Golden Lion. They both checked in last night.’ She’d glowed with satisfaction at what she’d discovered.

  Sam had expressed a fear it might be over already. Kamata dead and Harrison under arrest.

  ‘I didn’t get that impression just now,’ she’d said. ‘No indication of anything abnormal from the people I spoke to on the phone.’

  Then she’d told him about Tun Kyaw.

  ‘I recruited him when I was doing my intensive language training at the beginning of my posting here, up in Mandalay. There’s nothing very political about him, as far as I could tell. Like with most Burmese, his main interest is survival. He’s made it his business to be friends with local Tatmadaw commanders and claims to be able to get to parts of the country normal mortals can’t reach.’

  ‘Ever put it to the test?’

  ‘A couple of times.’

  ‘So you trust him?’

  ‘Up to a point. His big ambition is to get out of the country with his wife and kids and he needs plenty of money to achieve that. So he’ll do most things if you pay enough. But I imagine he’s a bit of a whore, taking money from anyone who offers it.’

  ‘Including the military?’

  ‘Probably. I saw no evidence of that, but it’s likely he informs for MIS. So if it comes to a choice between his own survival and yours, I wouldn’t rate your chances.’

  ‘Thanks. Any chance of the loan of a satellite phone? Sounds like I could be lonely up there.’

  ‘Not on, I’m afraid. They’d stop you at the airport. Arrest you for spying. This is not a country where people trust one another. And it’d be wise for you to do likewise.’

  ‘I’ll remember that. And Mong Lai – how close is that to the Golden Triangle?’

  ‘Let me put it this way. If you try to drive east from there you won’t get far. The military and the UWSA keep foreigners out. You know the recent history of that area?’

  ‘Give it to me.’

  ‘It’s the eastern Shan State, and the Shans are one of the many groups in Myanmar wanting autonomy from Yangon rule. Last year the SPDC began muddying the waters by resettling Shan areas with Wa tribespeople from an inhospitable mountain terrain further to the north-east. We don’t know the numbers relocated, but it may be as many as 200,000. Back in their old homeland the Wa’s main harvest was opium – they claimed the land wasn’t fit for growing anything else. So to persuade them to raise more benign crops like sugar cane, the Tatmadaw resettled them in the Shan lands. Many Shan villagers lost their homes as a result. The other aim behind the move was that in exchange for letting the United Wa State Army virtually run their new domain, the Wa agreed to do battle with the Shan separatists and put them down on the SPDC’s behalf. Following this?’

  ‘Just about. So the Tatmadaw get peace in the area and a cutback in the opium trade at the same time.’

  ‘That was the idea. The SPDC told the UN it would stop all drug production in Wa areas by 2005. Only it’s not quite working out that way, because the Wa don’t seem able to kick the habit. Instead of cash crops, they’ve been planting poppies in their new lands. And not only that, they’ve built factories near the Thai border to produce speed pills by the million. Ya ba, the Thais call it. Which translates as crazy drug.’

  ‘I’ve heard about those sheds. One final question. How far advanced is this diesel factory Kamata’s building for the military?’

  ‘We know very little about it. But as far as I can tell it’s only on paper so far.’

  Time had been pressing. He’d needed to return to his hotel, to collect a bag and get to the airport, but before leaving Philomena, he’d asked her a favour.

  ‘There’s a Ms Dennis staying at the Inya Lodge Hotel. First name Melissa. In a rash moment I said I’d see her this evening. Tell her I’ve been called away, will you? Say I’ll be in touch in a day or two.’

  ‘Who is she?’

  ‘A friend of Perry Harrison. Writing a book about him. She knows me as Geoff, by the way. Just … just make sure she’s okay, will you? And … a word of warning. She’s a bit of a fantasist. If she tells you any weird stories about me, don’t believe them.’

  Because they wouldn’t be true. It had taken all his ingenuity last night to extract the cutting from her without giving in to her demands. In the end he’d resorted to claiming he’d recently been tested HIV positive.

  They reached Mong Lai after a twisting climb up a roughly tarmacked road. At a couple of points on the way they’d passed cars with bonnets up to let engines cool. The outskirts of the town reflected its former existence as a summer escape from the sweat of colonial Rangoon. Set back from the road were fine mansions, built in the style of an English resort, their verandas spattered with red from giant poinsettias. Amongst them huddled smaller ranch-style houses, wood-framed and raised on stilts. Somewhere here, Sam remembered, Perry Harrison had fallen in love with a Burmese girl.

  ‘Where you want to go, boss?’

  ‘The Jade Palace Hotel. Know where that is?’

  ‘Yes, boss.’ Tun Kyaw drove into the centre of the town. An imposing clock tower stood at a crossroads. They turned right and followed a road fringed by flower-filled gardens. It could almost have been Sussex.

  Tun Kyaw slowed.

  ‘Hotel here.’

  He indicated a large house coming up on the left which looked recently renovated. On a curving gravel drive a handful of cars were parked at the far end. Tun Kyaw was about to turn in when he suddenly swerved away again.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Police there, boss. I know the cars.’

  Sam’s heart sank. He’d arrived too late.

  ‘I need to know what’s happened.’

  ‘No boss. Anybody coming in asking questions they arrest. Specially European.’ The fear on Tun’s face was palpable. He drove on up the road, then stopped when they were well clear of the hotel. ‘You don’t know these people,’ he stressed. ‘They very bad.’

  Sam considered getting out and walking back to the Jade Palace, but Tun’s fear was getting to him. Being thrown in a Burmese jail wouldn’t help.

  ‘Where we go now?’ Tun enquired, eager to get away.

  There was one other place where he had a chance of learning something.

  ‘There’s a Japanese memorial somewhere near. From the war. You know it?’ He found the magazine cutting in his rucksack and showed it to him.

  ‘Yes boss. I take Japan man there last year.’

  Tun turned the car and drove back to the main street. They passed along its dusty length, then out into the country. Soon they were amongst fields of maize. Banana plants grew in clumps and eucalyptus trees gave shade for workers resting from their labours.

  Tun stopped to ask the way of a couple of wan-faced women wheeling bicycles. They jabbered at him, each pointing
in different directions.

  After a while Tun drove on, but Sam could see he wasn’t confident.

  ‘I thought you said you’d been to this place?’

  ‘Yes, boss. Hard to find last year too.’

  They paused for directions a couple more times before Tun drove into a field and stopped. White buffalo grazed, tethered to stakes by long ropes.

  ‘Where is it?’ Sam asked.

  There was nothing here that looked remotely like the picture in the cutting, but Tun pointed to a fence at the end of the field, beyond which a cherry tree blazed with blossom. Beneath it was a rough canopy of sun-bleached corrugated plastic supported by white-painted posts.

  They got out. Beyond the fence, beneath the canopy, was the memorial, a spike of white-painted stone little higher than a man, with Japanese script painted on it in black. The site was deserted. A table and chair stood at one end of the canopy, and on the table lay a book of remembrance. Sam opened it and turned to the page for today. There was an unsigned entry in English which chilled him to the bones.

  We said we would never forget. And we haven’t.

  Sam looked around. He peered beyond the fence but there wasn’t a soul in sight. The stillness of the place was eerie. Then the gate in the fence creaked open and an elderly woman entered the memorial ground, dabbing her nose with a handkerchief. She eyed them with deep suspicion.

  ‘You speak English?’ Sam asked.

  The woman made some angry noise which he took to be ‘no’. From her looks he guessed she was Japanese.

  ‘Tun. Ask her what happened here today.’

  The Burman began speaking to her. Her reaction was hostile but eventually he coaxed it out.

  ‘This morning Mister Kamata come here to pray. Alone. Come by taxi.’

  ‘What time?’

  ‘She say nine-thirty.’

  Sam checked his watch. Seven hours ago.

  ‘Two Englishmen already here, one as old as Mister Kamata, the other younger. They come in a big jeep with two … she call them dacoits. Have guns.’

  Two Englishmen. Had the elusive Rip finally turned up?

  ‘They take hold of Mister Kamata and drive away with him. Mister Kamata very angry. He shout to this woman to tell the police what happen. She go to Mong Lai in Mister Kamata’s taxi and say it. Then police come here. She show them this book which the Englishman write in. Then they go away again. This all she know. Very unhappy woman,’ Tun added. ‘She say Mister Kamata come here every year.’