Slash and Burn

16

Toua, the manager of the Friendship Hotel, greeted the returning trucks by running down the front steps and waving his arms frantically.

“The senator. The senator,” he shouted.

“What about him?” asked Lit, jumping down from the flatbed before the truck had come to a complete stop.

“Somebody shot him,” called Siri, who was sitting at the rattan table on the veranda with what looked like a can of Budweiser beer in his hand. He was looking remarkably cool, considering. Ugly was looking even cooler in the chair opposite.

“Is he dead?” called Phosy.

“No. But he sustained an injury which might end his career.”

“Where was he shot?” asked Lit. Everyone had climbed from the truck. One group surrounded Toua, who was acting out the shooting quite dramatically, and the other stood in front of Siri.

“He lost the tip of the index finger of his right hand,” Siri told him. “He may never shake again.”

“I don’t consider it fitting to take this so lightly, Doctor,” said Judge Haeng, who ran inside with the Americans.

“Where is he?” asked Phosy.

“Dining room, basking in sympathy. I dare say he could use some more.”

“This is getting out of control.” Phosy shook his head.

“And you haven’t heard the half of it,” Siri told him. “Go do your investigating and I’ll tell you the rest when you get back.”

Civilai and Daeng opted to join Siri at his table. Ugly eyed them both and decided to let them sit there.

“I didn’t do it,” Siri told them.

“I didn’t think for a minute you did,” said Daeng patting his hand.

“I wanted to,” he confessed. “I’ve had to put up with his whining all afternoon. There’s never a gun around when you need one.”

“How’s his finger?”

“He’ll live. He bled like a geyser though. Quite impressive.”

“Do you think that was the plan?” Civilai asked. “Just to wing him?”

Siri sipped his beer and Civilai looked around for service. He could barely see the inn door. The murky sky had brought on the dusk an hour early. The generator clunked and rattled and gurgled in the distance and a small pale bulb came to life above their heads.

“I went to the Russian Circus once,” Siri said. “Saw a man shoot the tassel off a woman’s bra. She didn’t even flinch. But in the real world I can’t say I’ve ever seen a sniper good enough to pick off a joint.”

“So they were…?”

“Aiming at his heart? Quite possibly.”

“He let you treat his wound?” Daeng asked.

“Reluctantly. Yamaguchi argued that he was better at cutting them off than stitching them on.”

“Where was the hit?” Civilai asked.

“Just here,” said Siri, pointing to a scrubbed area beyond the table.

“And I assume they didn’t catch the shooter.”

“No.”

They stared out at the dark shadows that lingered between the bushes.

“So, it probably isn’t wise to be sitting here under a lamp,” said Civilai.

“Buffalo dung never lands twice on the same mushroom,” Daeng reminded him.

“Of course.”

Civilai called out for one of the hotel staff without much hope he’d be heard. But a small, rugby-ball-shaped girl in overalls ran out to the balcony. He ordered three beers.

“Did you find the bullet?” Daeng asked.

Siri leaned back and pointed to a hole in the stucco with decorative cracks.

“It’s probably in there,” he said.

“You didn’t have an urge to dig it out?” Daeng asked.

“Phosy would only sulk and ask me who the policeman was in this outfit.”

“And the senator’s finger?”

“Probably in there with the bullet.”

The evening meal, ever different, was this night a sort of grand jury with food. The tables had been pushed together and all those who hadn’t been killed or shot at and those not under the delusion that they’d be next, sat around it. On the menu was spam with local cabbage, and clam chowder out of cans with sticky rice. The liquid accompaniment was Johnny Red on the rocks and tepid Coca-Cola. Those opting for room service included the senator and Ethel Chin, General Suvan, Judge Haeng and his cousin. Also absent was Rhyme from Time who was using his bathroom as a darkroom and had to do his exposures while there was still electricity. Dr. Yamaguchi sat once more with Auntie Bpoo at a separate table. The astounded gossip about them was rampant.

Once he’d skipped lightly and incompletely over the autopsy findings, Siri was happy to give details of the communication tower explosion in Phonsavan and his theories on the slash and burn. At the post office he’d met the regional governor. The man had no idea why there were so many fires lit around the town. Like Siri, he was certain it had nothing to do with agriculture. All the planes had left the airfield so there was no danger of an attack there, and as far as he knew all the rebels were focusing their resources on the defence of the base at Phu Bia. But with the felling of the post office tower, and now the attempt on the life of Senator Vogal, Siri had become more concerned that the target might just be the Friendship Hotel itself, and more specifically, the American contingent.

“Can’t we just put them on a bus and send them somewhere outside the smoke?” Dtui asked.

“I’m afraid that’s not possible,” Commander Lit told her. He gave her a warm smile that Phosy didn’t fail to notice. “Given the current unrest, none of the roads are completely secured,” he said. “None of the truck drivers in Phonsavan would agree to drive us out of the region, no matter how much we offered them. Army convoys are the only things moving. Despite the fact that we aren’t that well protected here, the Americans will be much safer at this place than on the road. And we aren’t certain there’s really a threat.”

“What are you talking about?” Phosy asked. “Someone shot a United States senator.”

“Right,” said Lit. “But as you pointed out, the bullet turned out to be musket shot. We have two musketeers right here at the hotel. There’s a possibility that one of the old guards tripped over his own sandal and dropped his weapon. Muskets aren’t the sniper’s weapon of choice. And the explosion in Phonsavan would seem to be more an act of sabotage than an attempt on the diplomat’s life. If they’d wanted to kill Comrade Gordon they could have done so on the road into town.”

If Lit and the others were to learn that Major Potter’s death was also murder, Siri knew they’d be more inclined to believe that this was an attempt to cull the American population. Siri had briefed Phosy about the autopsy but he wasn’t at liberty to tell everyone. There was a very strong likelihood that the murderer was in their midst and Siri and Phosy knew that capture would be easier if the perpetrator believed he or she was getting away with it. There was, however, a consensus at the dinner table that security was wanting at the Friendship and they would attempt to recruit new guards, professional soldiers from the local garrison, as soon as possible the following day.

Attention turned to the successes in the field. For the benefit of those left behind that morning, Civilai gave a colorful rendition of the day’s events. Both sides agreed that there was a great deal that didn’t make sense. Secretary Gordon told the group that all the documentation related to this mission was already at the consulate in Vientiane. The pouches would be taken on a Swedish forestry helicopter via Luang Prabang to Muang Kham, thus avoiding the smog. From there they’d be put on the local bus to Phonsavan which currently traveled with an armed escort. Gordon had no idea how long this process would take but there were better than even odds that they’d arrive before the teams departed. The weather report from the capital was that the smog had shrouded a fifty kilometer radius around Phonsavan and there was no wind forecast. They could be there for a very long time. Fires were still burning and to Siri it really looked as if a thick curtain of intrigue was being deliberately pulled around the hotel.

As the whiskey took hold, the full-table discussion crumbled into smaller groupings. Phosy had taken the opportunity to continue his discussion with Sergeant Johnson. Peach acted as their translator with Dtui making up the four. At one stage during their conversation Dtui was absolutely astounded when her husband reached across the plastic tablecloth and took hold of her hand. She thought he’d mistaken it for a napkin but he kept hold of it. It happened right there in public for everyone to see. Even Commander Lit noticed. She put it down as a small miracle right up there with his remembering her birthday-which he didn’t.

“I still don’t get it,” Phosy said. “The sergeant here learned to fly with his dad in their family business. He got his license when he was seventeen. He graduated from high school with A grades in all the sciences … and the marines wouldn’t let him be a pilot?”

“That’s pretty much it,” said Peach.

“Why not?” Dtui asked Johnson directly. He laughed.

“For the same reason they wouldn’t let me be a quarterback,” said the sergeant. “Some things are reserved for white boys.”

“He couldn’t be a pilot because he was black?” Dtui asked.

“I’ve applied to the marine air corps every six months and been knocked back each time,” Johnson told the interpreter. “I guess I should think myself lucky they let me be a chief mechanic. It took me eight years to work my way up to that lofty position. When the war ended and they weren’t desperate for mechanics any longer they had me in uniform guarding a half-empty consulate in Vientiane. But it could be worse. I could be dumb and black.”

“You must be angry,” Dtui said.

“Things are getting better,” said the marine. “Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if my son makes it to copilot by the time he’s fifty.”

“How old is he now?”

“Four.”

They were disturbed by the sound of Rhyme the journalist yahooing like a cowboy as he walked in the door of the restaurant. Under his arm he had a thick folder. He grabbed the first glass he came to and quaffed it. The owner didn’t seem to mind.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “I bring you the magic of aerial photography. The wonder of journalism. The genius of man.”

He took out one large photographic print from the folder and held it up, walking around the table like the round-announcing girls at boxing matches, complete with the sexy walk and blown kisses. The Lao assumed he was drunk with whiskey but it turned out he was merely drunk with the glory of discovery. The buzz of Peach’s translation accompanied his announcement.

“It was the first day of the mission,” he said. “And our last period of visibility. As we floated over the picturesque landscape from Spook City to Ban Hoong, our fearless photojournalist leaned bravely out of the hatch behind Sergeant Johnson here and recorded our descent to the merciless terrain that had claimed our young pilot. We followed the crack carved through the thick jungle by the Ban Hoong stream. And there, no more than three miles from the village, was where the ghost of our pilot stopped to rest and clean the blood from his mouth.”

“How could you know that?” Yamaguchi asked.

“Because, respected sir, he had the foresight to tell us so.”

Rhyme dropped his first print onto the table in front of the doctor, reached into his back pocket and pulled out a large magnifying glass. This he handed to Yamaguchi.

“Perhaps you could tell our audience tonight exactly what it is you see there at the bend in the river.”

Yamaguchi squinted through the glass and pumped it back and forth in search of a focus.

“A pile of rocks on a sand bank?” he said.

“A pile of rocks. Yes, sirree. A pile of rocks. But look what happens when you zoom in to that pile of rocks.”

Rhyme dropped a second print in front of the doctor. It was a blow-up of the rocks.

“My goodness,” said Yamaguchi.

“Your goodness indeed. What is it you see there now, sir?”

“The rocks have been arranged to spell out a word.”

“And that word is…?”

“BOWRY.”

“I thank you for your cooperation, sir.”

And the journalist took a bow. Everyone left their seats to get a look at the photograph. There was no doubt. Boyd Bowry had survived the crash. Sergeant Johnson shook Civilai by the hand. Mr. Geung bounced up and down. The elation of the hunt had control of them all … all but Commander Lit.

“I’m afraid I can’t let you keep those photographs,” said Lit via Peach.

“What are you talking about?” Rhyme asked. “They’re my pictures.”

“The close-ups you can keep,” Lit told him. “But I’ll have to take all the aerial photographs. You didn’t have clearance to photograph from the air and I’m afraid there are security issues I have to take responsibility for. If I’d been on your helicopter I would have stopped you taking them.”

“He’s serious, isn’t he?” Rhyme asked.

“Sure is,” said Peach.

“Geung, are you certain it was Dr. Siri you saw climb through the window last night?” asked Madame Daeng.

She and Dtui had taken the morgue assistant back to the doctor’s room and they were sitting either side of him on the bed. Siri was on the chair opposite. He’d spent much of the day considering what Mr. Geung had told him. His friend was incapable of telling a lie. If he said he’d seen the doctor climb into Major Potter’s room, then it was true. Geung clearly didn’t sense the gravity of the situation. In fact he thought it was a splendid game.

“There’s only wuh … wuh … one Dr. Siri,” he sang to a popular Thai radio jingle.

“When was this exactly?” Dtui asked. It was not the most sensible question to a man with an abstract grasp of time.

“You asked me to to to look for the doctor in the t-toilet,” he said.

“But when you came back you said you hadn’t seen him,” said Dtui.

“You you asked if he was in the t-t-toilet.”

“You’re right. I did.”

“And I said he wasn’t.”

“That’s true. Where else did you look?”

“Everywhere.”

“And you went out the back and saw him there?” Daeng asked.

“Yes. I said, ‘Doctor! Doctor!’ but you didn’t hhhhhear me. And you got in the window.”

“Did you look inside?” Dtui asked.

“Yes.”

“What did you see?”

“Dr. Siri sit sitting on the bed and talking.”

“Did you see who he was talking to?”

“No.”

“Did anyone answer?”

“No.”

“Did you see anyone else in there?” Siri asked.

“No. Too dddark.”

“What did you do then?” Daeng asked.

“Come back.”

“Why didn’t you tell us you’d seen him?” asked Dtui.

“Be … cause Dr. Siri was being nnnnaughty,” he whispered. “I didn’t want to tell on him.”

“So what the hell was I doing in there?” Siri asked himself.

“And why don’t you remember?” Dtui asked.

“I should turn myself in.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Daeng told him. “You get out of breath lifting a chicken wing. You did not strangle a hundred-kilogram man to death and drag him across the room.”

“How can you be so sure?” he said. “A lot of peculiar things have been happening to me recently. I may be capable of anything.”

“Not murder, my love.”

“I’ll have to tell Phosy.”

“Yes, I think you will. But he’ll say exactly the same thing. And you really don’t need to tell the Americans.”

“I told Second Secretary Gordon I’d share everything.”

“Not this, Siri. Trust me.”

“Then I need to go and see someone.”

“Now?”

“Yes.”

Siri took their flashlight and walked along the corridor and around to the rear of the main building. The light attracted one of the old guards who insisted on following close behind. When he arrived at the rearmost cabin, Siri turned to the old man and said, “I’ll be all right now, thank you.”

But the guard didn’t leave. He merely took a step back and held on to a toothless smile. A faint yellow glow was seeping through the crack around the door. Siri sighed and knocked. Auntie Bpoo opened the door. To the doctor’s horror, she was wearing a flowing black negligee and high-heeled shoes.

“What kept you?” Bpoo asked.

Before walking past her and into the room, Siri looked back over his shoulder to see that the guard’s smile now occupied most of his face like a tunnel. Farewell to Yeh Ming’s reputation in the northeast. The small cabin was lit by seven red candles around the headboard of the bed.

“What do you know?” Siri asked as soon as Bpoo had closed the door.

“I know that one day Mount Aconcagua and the Himalayas will be the only land masses visible above the oceans.”

“About last night.”

“Oh, that.”

She went to sit on the bed and crossed her legs slowly. If she hadn’t been a fifty-year-old man it would have been an evocative gesture. She patted the mattress beside her. Siri put his hands on his hips.

“Given your proximity to the end of your life, I wasn’t about to let you go wandering around alone in the middle of the night.”

“You followed me?”

“Of course I did. I crouched in the shadows like a sleek black panther.”

“What did you see?”

“You were in some sort of a trance. First you climbed in the sleazy major’s window, then poor lovestruck Mr. Geung arrived and peeked in and went away, then you garrotted the American and climbed out again.”

“I…? You saw me…?”

“Only joking, sweetheart. I didn’t see any such thing. No idea what you were doing. It was all rather dull, really. You were in there for half an hour.”

“You didn’t go and take a look through the window?”

“You can’t be serious. You expect me to tramp through a turnip plot in my eighty-thousand-kip cocktail shoes? Be real, Dr. Siri.”

“Bpoo. I don’t remember any of it. Do you think there was some supernatural connection?”

“You’re the shaman. Not me.”

“You have contact with the spirit world.”

“They only call me when your phone’s off the hook.”

“Come on. I’m serious. What do you think happened last night? Something drew me to that room.”

“Rooms are just slabs of concrete and plaster and tacky fauxwood paneling. They have no particular life or afterlife of their own. If you were summoned it would have been by a spirit. A particularly pushy one.”

“The major’s?”

“Well, no offence to the departed, but I didn’t get the impression he had a particularly awesome aura. No, it would have been somebody else.”

“How can I find out?”

“The spirit wanted you there for a reason. Something happened in that room, something significant. I would begin my investigation there.”

“You think the room’s haunted.”

Bpoo laughed.

“Ghosts have much better things to do than haunt, Siri.”

“Like what?”

“Like going into the trainee nurses’ shower room and watching them undress. Spirits are perverts just like the rest of us. If it makes you feel better, you weren’t the only one with an interest in that room last night.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’d seen somebody else go in that room earlier. But he used the door.”

“Who?”

Siri returned to his room with the guard chuckling a few meters behind him. The doctor shone his flashlight on the bed to be sure it was Madame Daeng sleeping there then climbed beneath the covers.

“Is that perfume I smell?” she asked.

“Yes. I was in Bpoo’s room.”

“It’s nice. I’ll have to ask her where she got it.”

“Daeng.”

“Yes, my husband?”

“I think Judge Haeng might have killed Major Potter.”

“That’s just wishful thinking.”

He breathed heavily.

“I’m not so sure. Bpoo saw him go into Potter’s room earlier that night.”