Even though he was drinking nothing but papaya juice, Geung made standing up look difficult. The flickering of the candles seemed to disorient him. His balance secured, he held up his glass and said, “I … I … am very proud.”
With that he knocked back his juice like a Glaswegian downing a dram of Scotch and they never did learn what he was proud of. Given Geung’s “situation,” Siri had expected him to take time over agreeing to accompany them north, or even to refuse to come. But Geung’s loyalty to the Mahosot morgue, a commitment which had on one occasion almost killed him, was unshakeable. He’d never been invited on a field trip before. He was always the man left behind to sweep away the cockroaches and welcome new guests into the freezer. So when they announced he’d be coming along, his face had lit up like the floodlights at the That Luang Festival. Romance was obviously a minor league activity for Mr. Geung. He’d been able to talk of nothing but the trip for two weeks and had taken that long to pack. It was astounding how a man with no possessions could fill a large suitcase as he did. The morgue seemed a lot emptier once he’d loaded up his bag. They all toasted him, upended their glasses and leaned into the circle of light for refills. Geung lowered himself back onto the mat and Siri continued the introductions.
“Beside Nurse Dtui, who you know,” he said with a wink, “is Vientiane’s one and only competent police officer, Inspector Phosy.” Phosy always looked a lot smaller than he was when compared to his large rosy wife. But he was all muscle and brawn. He received his applause with a deep, overly respectful nop.
“Next,” said Siri, “a legend in the underground resistance forces against the French, a spy of many faces, never discovered by the enemy, a woman with an intellect so high that she married me”—riding the groans—“and the maker of the best noodles on this and probably every other planet, I present you, Madame Daeng.”
After accepting her applause, Daeng reminded Siri that the candles had grown a lot shorter since he started speaking.
“Right,” he agreed. “Which fittingly brings us to the last of our team, a young lady who—”
“What do you mean, the last?” said Civilai most indignantly. “What about me?”
“What about you?”
“Don’t I deserve an introduction?”
“You always told me you’re a man who doesn’t need one, old brother.”
“That only applies to people who’ve heard of me.”
“I thought everyone had heard of you. Good and bad.”
“I’ve been out of circulation. Even the memory of the brightest star fades in the night.”
“Very well,” said Siri. “This old gentleman, this fading starlet, used to be Comrade Civilai of the Politburo. He was once fully twinkling—a somebody. He is now commander-in-chief of the larder. A politico of pies and pastries. A diplomat of the dining room table. A—”
“They get it,” said Civilai, helping himself to another cornedbeef canapé.
“And now to our guest,” said Siri. “We welcome to this informal first night meeting, Miss Peach Short. Yes, undoubtedly a spy from the far west wing, but as Judge Haeng has already discovered, a spy easy on the eye.”
After very polite thanks at being invited to join the Lao team, Peach looked seriously around the table.
“You do realize I’m underage for all this drinking, don’t you?” she giggled.
“Ha!” said Civilai. “Age is far too abstract a concept to be “under.” This is Laos. We mature much faster over here. Nurse Dtui’s daughter has already won the crèche cocktail mixing competition two months running. And this is an initiation. This is where we find out just how Lao you are. You can obviously talk the talk, but can you drink the drink?”
“He’s right,” said Daeng. “Unless you’ve made a complete fool of yourself in public at least once, you can’t really be called one of us.”
“At least once,” Civilai added.
Peach took a deep breath, threw back her drink in one gulp, and reached for the bottle. The cheer was a little over the top. With luck, the sound of the Americans yelling at each other might have drowned it out.
“Exactly how old are you?” Dtui asked.
“Seventeen and eleven months.”
“You see?” said Civilai. “If she was from the tribes she’d have four children by now. But how did the daughter of a missionary learn to drink, little daughter?”
“Mom and Dad did the remote village thing,” she told him. “They schooled my brothers and sister and me at home and let us run wild with the local kids. When we grew up they trusted us to have the common sense to know what was right. But by then our right was more the village’s right than theirs. We did stuff we still haven’t gotten around to telling the folks about. Best they don’t know, I say. I guess it’s what you deserve for naming all your kids after fruit.”
“Boys too?” Civilai asked.
“Melon and Mango.”
“Poor lads.”
“And where’s your family now?” Daeng asked.
“They were asked politely by the local cadre if they wouldn’t mind leaving the country. Most of the independent missionaries were thrown out when the PL took over. They were too poor, I guess. Your authorities only turned a blind eye to the religious groups with enough money to invest in development projects.”
Siri smiled. She was fearless. If ever Haeng stopped drooling for five minutes to listen to what she was saying, he’d hate her.
“Why didn’t you go with them?” Phosy asked.
“Where to? Indiana? No way. I wouldn’t know what to do there. I don’t know those people. This is my home. I applied for a teaching job on local rates and got it. Not enough to live on but these little junkets sustain me when they come along. Mom and Dad are pissed at the communists. They’re fund-raising right now to support the insurgency. How Christian is that?”
“I don’t think you should be telling us,” said Dtui.
“What can I say? You can’t choose your father.”
“A father’s goodness is as big as a mountain,” said Daeng, who had a Lao saying for most occasions.
“I had my own ears and eyes, auntie,” Peach replied. “First you hear it, so you must see it. Once you’ve seen it, so you must make a judgement with your heart. This is my judgement. I’m staying here.”
A counter Lao saying.
“Very well,” Siri said. “As Madame Daeng quite rightly points out, candles are not forever. So, before we are forced into our bunks, probably to be blown to kingdom come if any of us walks in our sleep, I’ve asked Peach to tell us what she’s learned from the American contingent about the mission we’re here for.”
“At last,” said Comrade Lit.
“I’m glad somebody knows,” said Civilai.
“All right,” said Peach. “Your Judge Haeng was supposed to pass all this on but he’s not in the mood, for some reason. He asked me if I’d do it. This is what I’ve learned. Or, at least, what they told me at the briefing. We are here to find one Captain Boyd Bowry or his remains. When he disappeared in 1968 he was twenty-four years of age, which would make him thirty-four if he’s still alive. He was a helicopter pilot attached to the Air America program out of Udon Thani in Thailand. I assume you all know about Air America?”
“Perhaps you could give us a quick overview so we know how the Americans see it,” Siri suggested.
“OK,” Peach went on, “I hope I can remember it all. Briefly, Air America was—still is, for all I know—an airline funded and operated by the CIA. They flew what they called “aid” missions inside Laos after the Geneva accord banned foreign military personnel. Of course the CIA continued to recruit military people, mostly marine pilots like Bowry. They took them out of uniform and maintained that they were civilian pilots working for a private company. They carried a lot more than rice, mind you. Captain Bowry was flying helicopter missions in and out of Laos for two years. As I’m sure you know, not a hundred kilometers from here were two CIA bases. One was at Sam Thong where
there was a refugee camp for displaced hill tribe families. The other was at Long Cheng, the home of the CIA’s secret army. It’s where General Vang Pao and his Hmong troops were based. It’s where the CIA trained them up to fight you guys. At one stage, Long Cheng, with all its troops and US advisors and pilots, was the second most populated city in the country after Vientiane. There were so many spies there it collected the name Spook Heaven or Spook City. But that’s the big picture. We’re all here for the little picture. Captain Bowry.”
“Why him?” Phosy asked. “I mean, of all the airmen they claim are missing, why is this man at the top of Washington’s list?”
“Good question.” Peach nodded. “And as far as I can see, it pretty much comes down to influence and pressure.”
“And money,” said Civilai. “It always comes down to money.”
“You might be right, sir,” Peach agreed. “Captain Bowry is or was the son of Senator Walter Bowry from South Carolina. It appears he’s had people searching for his son for ten years. He sits on a couple of important committees and has a lot of clout in foreign policy. It’s probably due to his cronies there that money was freed up from the aid budget to offer funding to Laos. There was a lot of opposition to it. “Why should we be feeding the enemy?” That kind of thing. It really flew in the face of anti-communist feeling. So you can be sure he had some kind of pull.”
“Why this burst of excitement after ten years?” Daeng asked.
“On June tenth, someone sent the congressman photos purportedly taken inside Laos,” Peach told her. “They showed a Caucasian peering out of a bamboo cell. In one of the pictures he seems to have a briefcase or something with him which might be relevant. He could have been in his thirties. He was bearded, suntanned and a lot thinner than the father remembered, but he believed it was his son. The picture quality wasn’t that clear and other relatives weren’t so certain but the congressman was positive.”
“But he wasn’t standing beside a road sign,” Civilai said. “Wasn’t holding a copy of the national newspaper?”
Peach shook her head.
“Just him in a hut, as far as I know,” she said.
“Then there’s absolutely no way to tell where or when the photos were taken,” Civilai went on. “A hut is a hut is a hut. Could be at a theme park in Hong Kong for all they know. Am I right?”
“You’re always right,” said Siri. “But the important thing is that the photographs caused a reaction—money was made available and through just a little diplomatic extortion, this mission was instigated. And here we are, an ace team selected on merit on the basis of all the solid investigative work we’ve done in the past. The Party couldn’t have chosen a finer band of professionals to find young Boyd and bring a little peace of mind to his family.”
They toasted to this testimonial.
“What do we know as fact?” Lit asked.
“About the disappearance?” said Peach, flipping open her notepad. She paused to take a long sip of her drink then ran her finger down the page.
“It was the night of August eighth, 1968. Bowry and his Filipino flight mechanic, Nino Sebastian, had been drinking excessively at the forward air controller canteen at the Long Cheng base. They were with a pilot called Mike Wolff. He was with the FAC, the forward air control, also known as Ravens. It appears that they got hold of some LSD from somewhere and went out of their minds. At one stage, Bowry and Sebastian climbed into a cage with the mascot, a black bear, who was fortunately already sleeping off the effects of a heavy night of beer. Then, about two or three in the morning, Bowry announced he was going for a joyride in his chopper. Sebastian tried to talk him out of it but was too wasted to go after him. That wasn’t the way it was written up in the official Air America report, by the way. Officially there was engine trouble and the helicopter went down in the mountains. Our version is from interviews with eyewitnesses; the FAC pilot he’d been drinking with in the canteen and the mechanic. That was the way they recalled it. Boyd Bowry headed off into the night sky and half an hour later they heard an explosion. They sent out search and rescue teams at first light but as they had no idea what direction he’d gone in, and there’d been no mayday signal, and there was no sign of wreckage, they abandoned the search after five days.”
“If they heard the explosion he couldn’t have gone very far,” said Lit.
“And nothing else until the photos turned up?” asked Dtui. “No sightings? Reports?”
“Not a thing.”
“Any ideas who sent the photos?” Phosy asked.
“They arrived at the US embassy in Bangkok in a sealed manila envelope care of the military attaché. No stamp. No frank mark. It was just there in the box along with the regular mail. The words “Laos, 78” were written on the back of the photos.”
“In English characters?” Commander Lit asked.
“Yes. No identification of the sender.”
“So, it wasn’t from a bounty hunter hoping to get a reward,” Civilai remarked casually. “It’s usually about the money, you know.”
“So you’ve said,” Siri smiled. “How did the embassy identify the airman?”
“From one of the pictures,” Peach told him. “It showed the tail section broken off the helicopter. It had the registration number H32. That was Bowry’s.”
“Does the American delegation have the photos with them?” asked Madame Daeng.
“I could ask.”
“It might help to identify the area,” Phosy put in. “Vegetation.”
“Different plants growing at different elevations,” added Commander Lit.
“If there are any locals in the pictures we might be able to identify their clothing,” said Daeng. “At least we’d know what ethnic group we’re looking for.”
“Even the pilot himself,” Siri added. “After all these years he’d be wearing the clothes they provided. That could give us a clue.”
“The weave of a sarong,” said Daeng.
“Just the style of putting together the bamboo hut,” Phosy suggested. “Unique to different regions.”
“Really,” Commander Lit agreed, “there’s a lot to be picked up from photographs if you know what you’re looking for.”
The group was suddenly aware of their American guest staring wide-eyed at the interaction and smiling warmly.
“Have you had a thought?” Siri asked.
“No.”
“Then…. ?”
“You guys. You’re….”
“What?”
“Capable.”
“Be careful now,” laughed Civilai. “Such lavish praise might go to our heads.”
“No, I’m serious. There I was thinking Dr. Siri put this guest list together so his friends and family could have an all-expenses-paid trip to the mountains. Nepotism, you know? That wouldn’t have surprised me at all. But, you guys….”
“Yes?”
“You’re the real thing. You actually know what you’re doing.’
‘Too kind,” said Daeng. “This calls for another round.”
“I’m serious,” said Peach.
“As am I,” said Daeng. “And it wouldn’t surprise me if you saw one or two other flashes of brilliance from us before the week’s out. Hold on to your hat.”
Siri smiled at this interaction, impressed at how Peach slotted so naturally into a Lao setting. She seemed mature and wise beyond her years.
Corned beef and crackers turned out to be a very appropriate complement to Xiang Khouang rice whiskey, especially with a good dollop of mustard. They refilled and re-drank and the conversation meandered around a myriad of subjects and drunkenness arrived with the night mist. Before they staggered off on their separate ways, they vowed not to rest until they found their young airman. Siri reminded them to use the signposted latrines rather than hopping over the back fence. Prostheses, said Civilai, after several stabs at the word, had come a long way since the peg but were still very poor substitutes for actual legs. The only people not to head off in search
of their rooms that night were Siri and Daeng. Siri had tried to leave but Daeng reminded him that they had hosted the meeting in their own room. To be honest, she only remembered that at the last moment when she saw her corduroy working trousers hanging from the curtain rod. As the guests had taken one candle each to see their ways home, only two stunted candles remained on the grass mat. The room was a salon of slow dancing shadows.
“It’s cold up here,” said Daeng.
“We should huddle together for warmth,” Siri suggested.
Siri’s attempts at blowing out the candle flames left him coughing and wheezing.
“That’s not a very promising sign for huddling,” said Daeng.
“I’ll be fine. It only happens when I exhale violently. I’m rather good at inhaling.”
He licked his fingers, pinched, and the last flame died. The room could have been draped in black velvet, so rich was the darkness. They skirted the island of bottles and glasses and made their way to the bed. As was his habit, Siri took the window side. The bed was covered with a quilt so thick that he almost needed a tire lever to lift it and insert himself underneath. He reached for his wife.
“My goodness, you aren’t cold at all,” he said.
“Patience. I’ll be with you in a few seconds,” she replied.
To his surprise, her voice had come not from the bed but from several meters away.
“Oh dear.”
Siri extricated himself from the quilt as quickly as he was able.
“What’s wrong?” Daeng asked.
“Do we have a flashlight in the bags?”
“Of course.”
“Then we should turn it on. I think I may have just been unfaithful to you.”
After a good deal of searching Daeng unearthed the lamp and shone the beam on a lump in the bed covers.
“Who on earth…?” asked Daeng.
“Well, I tell you it certainly isn’t one of the men.”
He heaved off the quilt and there, sleeping like the dead, was Peach Short.
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